The Last Chronicle of Barset [91]
dab in the world justifies the wearer in demanding hot meat three times a day, and wine at any rate on Sundays. I think, however, that a bishop's wife may enjoy the privilege without such heavy attendant expense; otherwise the man who opened the bishop's door to Mr Crawley would hardly have been so ornamental.
The man asked for a card. 'My name is Mr Crawley,' said our friend. 'The bishop desired me to come to him at this hour. Will you be pleased to tell him that I am here.' The man again asked for a card. 'I am not bound to carry with me my name printed on a ticket,' said Mr Crawley. 'If you cannot remember it, give me a pencil and paper, and I will write it.' The servant, somewhat awed by the stranger's manner, brought pen and paper, and Mr Crawley wrote his name:--
'THE REV JOSHUA CRAWLEY, M.A., Perpetual Curate of Hogglestock'
He was then ushered into a waiting-room, but, to his disappointment, was not kept there waiting long. Within three minutes he was ushered into the bishop's study, and into the presence of the two great luminaries of the diocese. He was at first somewhat disconcerted by finding Mrs Proudie in the room. In the imaginary conversation with the bishop which he had been preparing on the road, he had conceived that the bishop would be attended by a chaplain, and he had suited his words to the joint discomfiture of the bishop and of the lower clergyman;--but now the line of his battle must be altered. This was no doubt an injury, but he trusted to his courage and readiness to enable him to surmount it. He had left his hat behind him in the waiting room, but he kept his old short cloak still upon his shoulders; and when he entered the bishop's room his hands and arms were hid beneath it. There was something lowly in this constrained gait. It showed at least that he had no idea of being asked to shake hands with the august persons he might meet. And his head was somewhat bowed, though his great, bald, broad forehead showed itself so prominent, that neither the bishop nor Mrs Proudie could drop it from their sight during the whole interview. He was a man who when seen could hardly be forgotten. The deep angry remonstrant eyes, the shaggy eyebrows, telling tales of frequent anger--of anger frequent but generally silent--the repressed indignation of the habitual frown, the long nose and large powerful mouth, the deep furrows on the cheek, and the general look of thought and suffering, all combined to make the appearance of the man remarkable, and to describe to the beholders at once his true character. No one ever on seeing Mr Crawley took him to be a happy man, or a weak man, or an ignorant man, or a wise man.
'You are very punctual, Mr Crawley,' said the bishop. Mr Crawley simply bowed his head, still keeping his hands beneath his cloak. 'Will you not take a chair nearer to the fire?' Mr Crawley had not seated himself, but had placed himself in front of a chair at the extreme end of the room--resolved that he would not use it unless he were duly asked.
'Thank you, my lord,' he said. 'I am warm with walking, and if you please, will avoid the fire.'
'You have not walked, Mr Crawley?'
'Yes, my lord; I have been walking.'
'Not from Hogglestock!'
Now this was a matter which Mr Crawley certainly did not mean to discuss with the bishop. It might be well for the bishop to demand his presence in the palace, but it could be no part of the bishop's duty to inquire how he got there. 'That, my lord, is a matter of no moment,' said he. 'I am glad at any rate that I have been enable to obey your lordship's order in coming hither on this morning.'
Hitherto Mrs Proudie had not said a word. She stood back in the room, near the fire--more backward a good deal than she was accustomed to do when clergymen made their ordinary visits. On such occasions she would come forward and shake hands with them graciously--graciously, even if proudly; but she had felt that she must do nothing of that kind now; there must be no shaking hands with a man who had stolen a cheque for twenty pounds! It might probably
The man asked for a card. 'My name is Mr Crawley,' said our friend. 'The bishop desired me to come to him at this hour. Will you be pleased to tell him that I am here.' The man again asked for a card. 'I am not bound to carry with me my name printed on a ticket,' said Mr Crawley. 'If you cannot remember it, give me a pencil and paper, and I will write it.' The servant, somewhat awed by the stranger's manner, brought pen and paper, and Mr Crawley wrote his name:--
'THE REV JOSHUA CRAWLEY, M.A., Perpetual Curate of Hogglestock'
He was then ushered into a waiting-room, but, to his disappointment, was not kept there waiting long. Within three minutes he was ushered into the bishop's study, and into the presence of the two great luminaries of the diocese. He was at first somewhat disconcerted by finding Mrs Proudie in the room. In the imaginary conversation with the bishop which he had been preparing on the road, he had conceived that the bishop would be attended by a chaplain, and he had suited his words to the joint discomfiture of the bishop and of the lower clergyman;--but now the line of his battle must be altered. This was no doubt an injury, but he trusted to his courage and readiness to enable him to surmount it. He had left his hat behind him in the waiting room, but he kept his old short cloak still upon his shoulders; and when he entered the bishop's room his hands and arms were hid beneath it. There was something lowly in this constrained gait. It showed at least that he had no idea of being asked to shake hands with the august persons he might meet. And his head was somewhat bowed, though his great, bald, broad forehead showed itself so prominent, that neither the bishop nor Mrs Proudie could drop it from their sight during the whole interview. He was a man who when seen could hardly be forgotten. The deep angry remonstrant eyes, the shaggy eyebrows, telling tales of frequent anger--of anger frequent but generally silent--the repressed indignation of the habitual frown, the long nose and large powerful mouth, the deep furrows on the cheek, and the general look of thought and suffering, all combined to make the appearance of the man remarkable, and to describe to the beholders at once his true character. No one ever on seeing Mr Crawley took him to be a happy man, or a weak man, or an ignorant man, or a wise man.
'You are very punctual, Mr Crawley,' said the bishop. Mr Crawley simply bowed his head, still keeping his hands beneath his cloak. 'Will you not take a chair nearer to the fire?' Mr Crawley had not seated himself, but had placed himself in front of a chair at the extreme end of the room--resolved that he would not use it unless he were duly asked.
'Thank you, my lord,' he said. 'I am warm with walking, and if you please, will avoid the fire.'
'You have not walked, Mr Crawley?'
'Yes, my lord; I have been walking.'
'Not from Hogglestock!'
Now this was a matter which Mr Crawley certainly did not mean to discuss with the bishop. It might be well for the bishop to demand his presence in the palace, but it could be no part of the bishop's duty to inquire how he got there. 'That, my lord, is a matter of no moment,' said he. 'I am glad at any rate that I have been enable to obey your lordship's order in coming hither on this morning.'
Hitherto Mrs Proudie had not said a word. She stood back in the room, near the fire--more backward a good deal than she was accustomed to do when clergymen made their ordinary visits. On such occasions she would come forward and shake hands with them graciously--graciously, even if proudly; but she had felt that she must do nothing of that kind now; there must be no shaking hands with a man who had stolen a cheque for twenty pounds! It might probably