“I do not think much of riches,” said he, “but it is always well that a gentleman’s wife or a gentleman’s daughter should have a sufficiency to maintain her position in life.”
“You may say the same, sir, of everybody’s wife and everybody’s daughter.”
“You know what I mean, Henry.”
“I am not quite sure that I do, sir.”
“Perhaps I had better speak out at once. A rumour has reached your mother and me, which we don’t believe for a moment, but which, nevertheless, makes us unhappy even as a report. They say that there is a young woman living in Silverbridge to whom you are becoming attached.”
“Is there any reason why I should not become attached to a young woman in Silverbridge?—though I hope any young woman to whom I may become attached will be worthy at any rate of being called a young lady.”
“I hope so, Henry; I hope so. I do hope so.”
“So much I will promise, sir; but I will promise nothing more.”
The archdeacon looked across into his son’s face, and his heart sank within him. His son’s voice and his son’s eyes seemed to tell him two things. They seemed to tell him, firstly, that the rumour about Grace Crawley was true; and, secondly, that the major was resolved not to be talked out of his folly.
“But you are not engaged to anyone, are you?” said the archdeacon. The son did not at first make any answer, and then the father repeated the question. “Considering our mutual positions, Henry, I think you ought to tell me if you are engaged.”
“I am not engaged. Had I become so, I should have taken the first opportunity of telling either you or my mother.”
“Thank God. Now, my dear boy, I can speak out more plainly. The young woman whose name I have heard is daughter to that Mr. Crawley who is perpetual curate at Hogglestock. I knew that there could be nothing in it.”
“But there is something in it, sir.”
“What is there in it? Do not keep me in suspense, Henry. What is it you mean?”
“It is rather hard to be cross-questioned in this way on such a subject. When you express yourself as thankful that there is nothing in the rumour, I am forced to stop you, as otherwise it is possible that hereafter you may say that I have deceived you.”
“But you don’t mean to marry her?”
“I certainly do not mean to pledge myself not to do so.”
“Do you mean to tell me, Henry, that you are in love with Miss Crawley?” Then there was another pause, during which the archdeacon sat looking for an answer; but the major said never a word. “Am I to suppose that you intend to lower yourself by marrying a young woman who cannot possibly have enjoyed any of the advantages of a lady’s education? I say nothing of the imprudence of the thing; nothing of her own want of fortune; nothing of your having to maintain a whole family steeped in poverty; nothing of the debts and character of the father, upon whom, as I understand, at this moment there rests a very grave suspicion of—of—of—what I’m afraid I must call downright theft.”
“Downright theft, certainly, if he were guilty.”
“I say nothing of all that; but looking at the young woman herself—”
“She is simply the best educated girl whom it has ever been my lot to meet.”
“Henry, I have a right to expect that you will be honest with me.”
“I am honest with you.”
“Do you mean to ask this girl to marry you?”
“I do not think that you have any right to ask me that question, sir.”
“I have a right at any rate to tell you this, that if you so far disgrace yourself and me, I shall consider myself bound to withdraw from you all the sanction which would be conveyed by my—my—my continued assistance.”
“Do you intend me to understand that you will stop my income?”
“Certainly I should.”
“Then, sir, I think you would behave to me most cruelly. You advised me to give up my profession.”
“Not in order that you might marry Grace Crawley.”
“I claim the privilege of a man of my age to do as I please in such a matter as marriage. Miss Crawley is a lady. Her father is a clergyman, as is mine. Her father’s oldest friend is my uncle. There is nothing on earth against her except her poverty. I do not think I ever heard of such cruelty on a father’s part.”
“Very well, Henry.”
“I have endeavoured to do my duty by you, sir, always; and by my mother. You can treat me in this way, if you please, but it will not have any effect on my conduct. You can stop my allowance tomorrow, if you like it. I had not as yet made up my mind to make an offer to Miss Crawley, but I shall now do so tomorrow morning.”
This was very bad indeed, and the archdeacon was extremely unhappy. He was by no means at heart a cruel man. He loved his children dearly. If this disagreeable marriage were to take place, he would doubtless do exactly as his wife had predicted. He would not stop his son’s income for a single quarter; and, though he went on telling himself that he would stop it, he knew in his own heart that any such severity was beyond his power. He was a generous man in money matters—having a dislike for poverty which was not generous—and for his own sake could not have endured to see a son of his in want. But he was terribly anxious to exercise the power which the use of the threat might give him.
“Henry,” he said, “you are treating me badly, very badly. My anxiety has always been for the welfare of my children. Do you think that Miss Crawley would be a fitting sister-in-law for that dear girl upstairs?”
“Certainly I do, or for any other dear girl in the world; excepting that Griselda, who is
