The Last Chronicle of Barset [380]
the sermon, preached very often before, lasting exactly half-an-hour, and then Mr Thumble's work was done. Itinerant clergymen, who preach now here and now there, as it had been the lot of Mr Thumble to do, have at any rate this relief--that they can preach their sermons often. From the communion-table Mr Thumble had stated that, in the present peculiar circumstances of the parish, there would be no second service at Hogglestock for the present; and this was all he said or did peculiar to the occasion. The moment of the service was over and he got into his gig, and was driven back to Barchester.
'Mamma,' said Jane, as they sat at dinner, 'such a sermon I am sure was never heard in Hogglestock before. Indeed, you can hardly call it a sermon. It was downright nonsense.'
'My dear,' said Mr Crawley energetically, 'keep your criticisms for matters that are profane; then, though they be childish and silly, they may at least be innocent. Be critical of Eurypides, if you must be critical.' But when Jane kissed her father after dinner, she, knowing his humour well, felt assured that her remarks had not been taken altogether in ill part.
Mr Thumble was neither seen nor heard of again in the parish during the entire week.
CHAPTER LXX
MRS ARABIN IS CAUGHT
One morning about the middle of April Mr Toogood received a telegram from Venice which caused him instantly to leave his business in Bedford Row and take the first train for Silverbridge. 'It seems to me that this job will be a deal of time and very little money,' said his partner to him, when Toogood on the spur of the moment was making arrangements for his sudden departure and uncertain period of absence. 'That's about it,' said Toogood. 'A deal of time, some expense, and no returns. It is not the kind of business a man can live upon, is it?' The partner growled, and Toogood went. But we must go with Mr Toogood down to Silverbridge, and as we cannot make the journey in this chapter, we will just indicate his departure and then go back to John Eames, who, as will be remembered, was just starting for Florence when we last saw him.
Our dear old friend Johnny had been rather proud of himself as he started from London. He had gotten an absolute victory over Sir Raffle Buffle, and that alone was gratifying to his feelings. He liked the excitement of a journey, and especially a journey to Italy; and the importance of the cause of his journey was satisfactory to him. But above all things he was delighted at having found that Lily Dale was pleased at his going. He had seen clearly that she was much pleased, and that she had made something of a hero of him because of his alacrity in the cause of his cousin. He had partially understood--and had understood in a dim sort of way--that his want of favour in Lily's eyes had come from some deficiency of his own in this respect. She had not found him to be a hero. She had known him first as a boy, with boyish belongings around him, and she had seen him from time to time as he became a man, almost with too much intimacy for the creation of that love with which he wished to fill her heart. His rival had come before her eyes for the first time with all the glories of Pall Mall heroism about him, and Lily in her weakness had been conquered by them. Since that she had learned how weak she had been--how silly, how childish, she would say to herself when she allowed her memory to go back to the details of her own story; but not the less on that account did she feel the want of something heroic in a man before she could teach herself to look upon him as more worthy of her regard than other men. She had still unconsciously hoped in regard to Crosbie, but now that hope had been dispelled as unconsciously, by simply by his appearance. There had been moments in which John Eames had almost risen to the necessary point--had almost made good his footing on the top of some moderate, but still sufficient mountain. But there had still be a succession of little tumbles --unfortunately slips for which he himself should not always have been held
'Mamma,' said Jane, as they sat at dinner, 'such a sermon I am sure was never heard in Hogglestock before. Indeed, you can hardly call it a sermon. It was downright nonsense.'
'My dear,' said Mr Crawley energetically, 'keep your criticisms for matters that are profane; then, though they be childish and silly, they may at least be innocent. Be critical of Eurypides, if you must be critical.' But when Jane kissed her father after dinner, she, knowing his humour well, felt assured that her remarks had not been taken altogether in ill part.
Mr Thumble was neither seen nor heard of again in the parish during the entire week.
CHAPTER LXX
MRS ARABIN IS CAUGHT
One morning about the middle of April Mr Toogood received a telegram from Venice which caused him instantly to leave his business in Bedford Row and take the first train for Silverbridge. 'It seems to me that this job will be a deal of time and very little money,' said his partner to him, when Toogood on the spur of the moment was making arrangements for his sudden departure and uncertain period of absence. 'That's about it,' said Toogood. 'A deal of time, some expense, and no returns. It is not the kind of business a man can live upon, is it?' The partner growled, and Toogood went. But we must go with Mr Toogood down to Silverbridge, and as we cannot make the journey in this chapter, we will just indicate his departure and then go back to John Eames, who, as will be remembered, was just starting for Florence when we last saw him.
Our dear old friend Johnny had been rather proud of himself as he started from London. He had gotten an absolute victory over Sir Raffle Buffle, and that alone was gratifying to his feelings. He liked the excitement of a journey, and especially a journey to Italy; and the importance of the cause of his journey was satisfactory to him. But above all things he was delighted at having found that Lily Dale was pleased at his going. He had seen clearly that she was much pleased, and that she had made something of a hero of him because of his alacrity in the cause of his cousin. He had partially understood--and had understood in a dim sort of way--that his want of favour in Lily's eyes had come from some deficiency of his own in this respect. She had not found him to be a hero. She had known him first as a boy, with boyish belongings around him, and she had seen him from time to time as he became a man, almost with too much intimacy for the creation of that love with which he wished to fill her heart. His rival had come before her eyes for the first time with all the glories of Pall Mall heroism about him, and Lily in her weakness had been conquered by them. Since that she had learned how weak she had been--how silly, how childish, she would say to herself when she allowed her memory to go back to the details of her own story; but not the less on that account did she feel the want of something heroic in a man before she could teach herself to look upon him as more worthy of her regard than other men. She had still unconsciously hoped in regard to Crosbie, but now that hope had been dispelled as unconsciously, by simply by his appearance. There had been moments in which John Eames had almost risen to the necessary point--had almost made good his footing on the top of some moderate, but still sufficient mountain. But there had still be a succession of little tumbles --unfortunately slips for which he himself should not always have been held