“But people when they are—you know what I mean, Grace; when they are not themselves—do things that are wrong without meaning it.” Then he paused, while she remained standing by him with her hand on the back of his. She was looking at his face, which had been turned towards her while they were reading together, but which now was so far moved that she knew that his eyes could not be fixed upon hers. “Of course if the bishop orders it, it shall be so,” he said. “It is quite enough for me that he is the bishop.”
“What has the bishop ordered, papa?”
“Nothing at all. It is she who does it. He has given no opinion about it. Of course not. He has none to give. It is the woman. You go and tell her from me that in such a matter I will not obey the word of any woman living. Go at once, when I tell you.”
Then she knew that her father’s mind was wandering, and she knelt down by the bedside, still holding his hand.
“Grace,” he said.
“Yes, papa, I am here.”
“Why do you not do what I tell you?” And he sat upright in his bed. “I suppose you are afraid of the woman?”
“I should be afraid of her, dear papa.”
“I was not afraid of her. When she spoke to me, I would have nothing to say to her;—not a word; not a word;—not a word.” As he said this he waved his hands about. “But as for him—if it must be, it must. I know I’m not fit for it. Of course I am not. Who is? But what has he ever done that he should be a dean? I beat him at everything; almost at everything. He got the Newdegate, and that was about all. Upon my word I think that was all.”
“But Dr. Arabin loves you truly, dear papa.”
“Love me! psha! Does he ever come here to tea, as he used to do? No! I remember buttering toast for him down on my knees before the fire, because he liked it—and keeping all the cream for him. He should have had my heart’s blood if he wanted it. But now;—look at his books, Grace. It’s the outside of them he cares about. They are all gilt, but I doubt if he ever reads. As for her—I will not allow any woman to tell me my duty. No;—by my Maker; not even your mother, who is the best of women. And as for her, with her little husband dangling at her apron-strings, as a call-whistle to be blown into when she pleases—that she should dare to teach me my duty! No! The men in the jury-box may decide it how they will. If they can believe a plain story, let them! If not—let them do as they please. I am ready to bear it all.”
“Dear papa, you are tired. Will you not try to sleep?”
“Tell Mrs. Proudie what I say; and as for Arabin’s money, I took it. I know I took it. What would you have had me do? Shall I—see them—all—starve?” Then he fell back upon his bed and did sleep.
The next day he was better, and insisted upon getting out of bed, and on sitting in his old armchair over the fire. And the Greek books were again had out; and Grace, not at all unwillingly, was put through her facings. “If you don’t take care, my dear,” he said, “Jane will beat you yet. She understands the force of the verbs better than you do.”
“I am very glad that she is doing so well, papa. I am sure I shall not begrudge her her superiority.”
“Ah, but you should begrudge it her!” Jane was sitting by at the time, and the two sisters were holding each other by the hand. “Always to be best;—always to be in advance of others. That should be your motto.”
“But we can’t both be best, papa,” said Jane.
“You can both strive to be best. But Grace has the better voice. I remember when I knew the whole of the Antigone by heart. You girls should see which can learn it first.”
“It would take such a long time,” said Jane.
“You are young, and what can you do better with your leisure hours? Fie, Jane! I did not expect that from you. When I was learning it I had eight or nine pupils, and read an hour a day with each of them. But I think that nobody works now as they used to work then. Where is your mamma? Tell her I think I could get out as far as Mrs. Cox’s, if she would help me to dress.” Soon after this he was in bed again, and his head was wandering; but still they knew that he was better than he had been.
“You are more of a comfort to your papa than I can be,” said Mrs. Crawley to her eldest daughter that night as they sat together, when everybody else was in bed.
“Do not say that, mamma. Papa does not think so.”
“I cannot read Greek plays to him as you can do. I can only nurse him in his illness and endeavour to do my duty. Do you know, Grace, that I am beginning to fear that he half doubts me?”
“Oh, mamma!”
“That he half doubts me, and is half afraid of me. He does not think as he used to do, that I am altogether, heart and soul, on his side. I can see it in his eye as he watches me. He thinks that I am tired of him—tired of his sufferings, tired of his poverty, tired of the evil which men say of him. I am not sure but what he thinks that I suspect him.”
“Of what, mamma?”
“Of general unfitness for the work he has to do. The feeling is not strong as yet, but I fear
