The Last Chronicle of Barset [420]
to him in a whisper. 'I don't like to interfere,' he said; 'but might not Mr Crawley have St Ewold's?' The archdeacon took up the old man's hand and kissed it. Then he followed his wife out of the room, without making any answer to Mr Harding's question.
Three days after this Mrs Arabin reached the deanery, and the joy at her return was very great. 'My dear, I have been sick for you,' said Mr Harding.
'Oh, papa, I ought not to have gone.'
'Nay, my dear; do not say that. Would it make my happy that you should be a prisoner here for ever? It was only when I seemed to get so weak that I thought about it. I felt that it must be near when they bade me not to go to the cathedral any more.'
'If I had been here, I could have gone with you, papa.'
'It is better as it is. I know now that I was not fit for it. When your sister came to me, I never thought of remonstrating. I knew then that I had seen it for the last time.'
'We need not say that yet, papa.'
'I did think that when you came home we might crawl there together some warm morning. I did think of that for a time. But it will never be so, dear. I shall never see anything now that I do not see from here--and that not for long. Do not cry, Nelly. I have nothing to regret, nothing to make me unhappy. I know how poor and weak has been my life; but I know how rich and strong is that other life. Do not cry, Nelly--not till I am gone; and then not beyond measure. Why should anyone weep for those who go away full of years--and full of hope?'
On the day but one following the dean reached his home. The final arrangements of his tour, as well as those of his wife, had been made to depend on Mr Crawley's trial; for he also had been hurried back by John Eames's visit to Florence. 'I should have come back at once,' he said to his wife, 'when they wrote to ask me whether Crawley had taken the cheque from me, had anybody told me that he was in actual trouble; but I had no idea that they were charging him with the theft.'
'As far as I can learn, they never really suspected him until after your answer had come. They had been quite sure that your answer would be in the affirmative.'
'What he must have endured it is impossible to conceive. I shall go out to him tomorrow.'
'Would he not come to us?' said Mrs Arabin.
'I doubt it. I will ask him, of course. I will ask them all here. This about Henry and the girl may make a difference. He has resigned the living, and some of the palace people are doing the duty.'
'But he can have it again?'
'Oh, yes; he can have it again. For the matter of that, I need simply to give him back his letter. Only he is so odd--so unlike other people! And he has tried to live there, and has failed; and is now in debt. I wonder whether Grantly will give him St Ewold's?'
'I wish he would. But you must ask him. I should not dare.'
As to the matter of the cheque, the dean acknowledged to his wife at last that he had some recollection of her having told him that she had made the sum of money up to seventy pounds. 'I don't feel certain of it now; but I think you must have done so.' 'I am quite sure I could have done it without telling you,' she replied. 'At any rate you said nothing of the cheque,' pleaded the dean. 'I don't suppose I did,' said Mrs Arabin. 'I thought that cheques were like any other money; but I shall know better for the future.'
On the following morning the dean rode over to Hogglestock, and as he drew near to the house of his old friend, his spirits flagged--for to tell the truth, he dreaded the meeting. Since the day on which he had brought Mr Crawley from a curacy in Cornwall into the diocese of Barchester, his friend had been a trouble to him rather than a joy. The trouble had been a trouble of spirit altogether--not all of pocket. He would willingly have picked the Crawleys out from the pecuniary mud into which they were for ever falling, time after time, had it been possible. For, though the dean was hardly to be called a rich man, his lines had fallen to him not only in pleasant places, but
Three days after this Mrs Arabin reached the deanery, and the joy at her return was very great. 'My dear, I have been sick for you,' said Mr Harding.
'Oh, papa, I ought not to have gone.'
'Nay, my dear; do not say that. Would it make my happy that you should be a prisoner here for ever? It was only when I seemed to get so weak that I thought about it. I felt that it must be near when they bade me not to go to the cathedral any more.'
'If I had been here, I could have gone with you, papa.'
'It is better as it is. I know now that I was not fit for it. When your sister came to me, I never thought of remonstrating. I knew then that I had seen it for the last time.'
'We need not say that yet, papa.'
'I did think that when you came home we might crawl there together some warm morning. I did think of that for a time. But it will never be so, dear. I shall never see anything now that I do not see from here--and that not for long. Do not cry, Nelly. I have nothing to regret, nothing to make me unhappy. I know how poor and weak has been my life; but I know how rich and strong is that other life. Do not cry, Nelly--not till I am gone; and then not beyond measure. Why should anyone weep for those who go away full of years--and full of hope?'
On the day but one following the dean reached his home. The final arrangements of his tour, as well as those of his wife, had been made to depend on Mr Crawley's trial; for he also had been hurried back by John Eames's visit to Florence. 'I should have come back at once,' he said to his wife, 'when they wrote to ask me whether Crawley had taken the cheque from me, had anybody told me that he was in actual trouble; but I had no idea that they were charging him with the theft.'
'As far as I can learn, they never really suspected him until after your answer had come. They had been quite sure that your answer would be in the affirmative.'
'What he must have endured it is impossible to conceive. I shall go out to him tomorrow.'
'Would he not come to us?' said Mrs Arabin.
'I doubt it. I will ask him, of course. I will ask them all here. This about Henry and the girl may make a difference. He has resigned the living, and some of the palace people are doing the duty.'
'But he can have it again?'
'Oh, yes; he can have it again. For the matter of that, I need simply to give him back his letter. Only he is so odd--so unlike other people! And he has tried to live there, and has failed; and is now in debt. I wonder whether Grantly will give him St Ewold's?'
'I wish he would. But you must ask him. I should not dare.'
As to the matter of the cheque, the dean acknowledged to his wife at last that he had some recollection of her having told him that she had made the sum of money up to seventy pounds. 'I don't feel certain of it now; but I think you must have done so.' 'I am quite sure I could have done it without telling you,' she replied. 'At any rate you said nothing of the cheque,' pleaded the dean. 'I don't suppose I did,' said Mrs Arabin. 'I thought that cheques were like any other money; but I shall know better for the future.'
On the following morning the dean rode over to Hogglestock, and as he drew near to the house of his old friend, his spirits flagged--for to tell the truth, he dreaded the meeting. Since the day on which he had brought Mr Crawley from a curacy in Cornwall into the diocese of Barchester, his friend had been a trouble to him rather than a joy. The trouble had been a trouble of spirit altogether--not all of pocket. He would willingly have picked the Crawleys out from the pecuniary mud into which they were for ever falling, time after time, had it been possible. For, though the dean was hardly to be called a rich man, his lines had fallen to him not only in pleasant places, but