The Last Chronicle of Barset [36]
refused to make the journey. During the whole day, however, his state was such as almost to break his wife' heart. He would do nothing. He would not go to the school, nor even stir beyond the house-door. He would not open a book. He would not eat, nor would he even sit at table or say the accustomed grace when the scanty midday meal was placed upon the table. 'Nothing is blessed to me,' he said, when his wife pressed him to say the word for their child's sake. 'Shall I say that I thank God when my heart is thankless? Shall I serve my child by a lie?' Then for hours he sat in the same position, in the old arm-chair, hanging over the fire speechless, sleepless, thinking ever, as she well knew, of the injustice of the world. She hardly dared to speak to him, so great was the bitterness of his words when she was goaded to reply. At last, late in the evening, feeling that it would be her duty to send to Mr Walker early on the following morning, she laid her hand gently on his shoulder and asked him for his promise. 'I may tell Mr Walker that you will be there on Thursday?'
'No,' he said, shouting at her. 'No. I will have no such message sent.' She started back, trembling. Not that she was accustomed to tremble at his ways, or to show that she feared him in his paroxysms, but that his voice had been louder than she had before known it. 'I will hold no intercourse with them at Silverbridge in this matter. Do you hear me, Mary?'
'I hear you, Josiah; but I must keep my word to Mr Walker. I promised that I would send to him.'
'Tell him, then, that I will not stir a foot out of this house on Thursday of my own accord. On Thursday I shall be here; and here I will remain all day--unless they take me by force.'
'But Josiah--'
'Will you obey me, or shall I walk into Silverbridge myself and tell the man that I will not come to him.' Then he arose from his chair and stretched forth his hand to his hat as though he were going forth immediately, on his way to Silverbridge. The night was now pitch dark, and the rain was falling, and abroad he would encounter all the severity of the pitiless winter. Still it might have been better that he should have gone. The exercise and the fresh air, even the wet and the mud, would have served to bring back his mind to reason. But his wife thought of the misery of the journey, of his scanty clothing, of his worn boots, of the need there was to preserve the raiment which he wore; and she remembered that he was fasting--that he had eaten nothing since the morning, and that he was not fit to be alone. She stopped him, therefore, before he could reach the door.
'Your bidding shall be done,' she said--'of course.'
'Tell them, then, that they must seek me if they want me.'
'But, Josiah, think of the parish--of the people who respect you --for their sakes let it not be said that you were taken away by policemen.'
'Was St Paul not bound in prison? Did he think of what the people might see?'
'If it were necessary, I would encourage you to bear it without a murmur.'
'It is necessary, whether you murmur, or do not murmur. Murmur indeed! Why does not your voice ascend to heaven with one loud wail against the cruelty of man?' Then he went forth from the room into an empty chamber on the other side of the passage; and his wife, when she followed him there after a few minutes, found him on his knees, with his forehead against the floor, and with his hands clutching at the scanty hairs of his head. Often before had she seen him so, on the same spot, half grovelling, half prostrate in prayer, reviling in his agony all things around him--nay, nearly all things above him--and yet striving to reconcile himself to his Creator by the humiliation of his confession.
It might be better for him now, if only he could bring himself to some softness of heart. Softly she closed the door, and placing the candle on the mantle-shelf, softly she knelt beside him, and softly touched his hand with hers. He did not stir nor utter a single word, but seemed to clutch at his thin locks more violently than
'No,' he said, shouting at her. 'No. I will have no such message sent.' She started back, trembling. Not that she was accustomed to tremble at his ways, or to show that she feared him in his paroxysms, but that his voice had been louder than she had before known it. 'I will hold no intercourse with them at Silverbridge in this matter. Do you hear me, Mary?'
'I hear you, Josiah; but I must keep my word to Mr Walker. I promised that I would send to him.'
'Tell him, then, that I will not stir a foot out of this house on Thursday of my own accord. On Thursday I shall be here; and here I will remain all day--unless they take me by force.'
'But Josiah--'
'Will you obey me, or shall I walk into Silverbridge myself and tell the man that I will not come to him.' Then he arose from his chair and stretched forth his hand to his hat as though he were going forth immediately, on his way to Silverbridge. The night was now pitch dark, and the rain was falling, and abroad he would encounter all the severity of the pitiless winter. Still it might have been better that he should have gone. The exercise and the fresh air, even the wet and the mud, would have served to bring back his mind to reason. But his wife thought of the misery of the journey, of his scanty clothing, of his worn boots, of the need there was to preserve the raiment which he wore; and she remembered that he was fasting--that he had eaten nothing since the morning, and that he was not fit to be alone. She stopped him, therefore, before he could reach the door.
'Your bidding shall be done,' she said--'of course.'
'Tell them, then, that they must seek me if they want me.'
'But, Josiah, think of the parish--of the people who respect you --for their sakes let it not be said that you were taken away by policemen.'
'Was St Paul not bound in prison? Did he think of what the people might see?'
'If it were necessary, I would encourage you to bear it without a murmur.'
'It is necessary, whether you murmur, or do not murmur. Murmur indeed! Why does not your voice ascend to heaven with one loud wail against the cruelty of man?' Then he went forth from the room into an empty chamber on the other side of the passage; and his wife, when she followed him there after a few minutes, found him on his knees, with his forehead against the floor, and with his hands clutching at the scanty hairs of his head. Often before had she seen him so, on the same spot, half grovelling, half prostrate in prayer, reviling in his agony all things around him--nay, nearly all things above him--and yet striving to reconcile himself to his Creator by the humiliation of his confession.
It might be better for him now, if only he could bring himself to some softness of heart. Softly she closed the door, and placing the candle on the mantle-shelf, softly she knelt beside him, and softly touched his hand with hers. He did not stir nor utter a single word, but seemed to clutch at his thin locks more violently than