“You cannot be right to sneer at others for doing what you would do yourself,” said his wife. Then the archdeacon threw himself sulkily into the corner of his carriage, and nothing more was said between him and his wife about the bishop’s dinner-party.
Not a word was spoken that night at the palace about Mr. Crawley; and when that obnoxious guest from Plumstead was gone, Mrs. Proudie resumed her good-humour towards Dr. Tempest. So intent was she on conciliating him that she refrained even from abusing the archdeacon, whom she knew to have been intimate for very many years with the rector of Silverbridge. In her accustomed moods she would have broken forth in loud anger, caring nothing for old friendships; but at present she was thoughtful of the morrow, and desirous that Dr. Tempest should, if possible, meet her in a friendly humour when the great discussion as to Hogglestock should be opened between them. But Dr. Tempest understood her bearing, and as he pulled on his nightcap made certain resolutions of his own as to the morrow’s proceedings. “I don’t suppose she will dare to interfere,” he had said to his wife; “but if she does, I shall certainly tell the bishop that I cannot speak on the subject in her presence.”
At breakfast on the following morning there was no one present but the bishop, Mrs. Proudie, and Dr. Tempest. Very little was said at the meal. Mr. Crawley’s name was not mentioned, but there seemed to be a general feeling among them that there was a task hanging over them which prevented any general conversation. The eggs were eaten and the coffee was drunk, but the eggs and the coffee disappeared almost in silence. When these ceremonies had been altogether completed, and it was clearly necessary that something further should be done, the bishop spoke: “Dr. Tempest,” he said, “perhaps you will join me in my study at eleven. We can then say a few words to each other about the unfortunate matter on which I shall have to trouble you.” Dr. Tempest said he would be punctual to his appointment, and then the bishop withdrew, muttering something as to the necessity of looking at his letters. Dr. Tempest took a newspaper in his hand, which had been brought in by a servant, but Mrs. Proudie did not allow him to read it.
“Dr. Tempest,” she said, “this is a matter of most vital importance. I am quite sure that you feel that it is so.”
“What matter, madam?” said the doctor.
“This terrible affair of Mr. Crawley’s. If something be not done the whole diocese will be disgraced.” Then she waited for an answer, but receiving none she was obliged to continue. “Of the poor man’s guilt there can, I fear, be no doubt.” Then there was another pause, but still the doctor made no answer. “And if he be guilty,” said Mrs. Proudie, resolving that she would ask a question that must bring forth some reply, “can any experienced clergyman think that he can be fit to preach from the pulpit of a parish church? I am sure that you must agree with me, Dr. Tempest? Consider the souls of the people!”
“Mrs. Proudie,” said he, “I think that we had better not discuss the matter.”
“Not discuss it?”
“I think that we had better not do so. If I understand the bishop aright, he wishes that I should take some step in the matter.”
“Of course he does.”
“And therefore I must decline to make it a matter of common conversation.”
“Common conversation, Dr. Tempest! I should be the last person in the world to make it a matter of common conversation. I regard this as by no means a common conversation. God forbid that it should be a common conversation. I am speaking now very seriously with reference to the interests of the Church, which I think will be endangered by having among her active servants a man who has been guilty of so base a crime as theft. Think of it, Dr. Tempest. Theft! Stealing money! Appropriating to his own use a cheque for twenty pounds which did not belong to him! And then telling such terrible falsehoods about it! Can anything be worse, anything more scandalous, anything more dangerous? Indeed, Dr. Tempest, I do not regard this as any common conversation.” The whole of this speech was not made at once, fluently, or without a break. From stop to stop Mrs. Proudie paused, waiting for her companion’s words; but as he would not speak she was obliged to continue. “I am sure that you cannot but agree with me, Dr. Tempest?” she said.
“I am quite sure that I shall not discuss it with you,” said the doctor, very brusquely.
“And why not? Are you not here to discuss it?”
“Not with you, Mrs. Proudie. You must excuse me for saying so, but I am not here to discuss any such matter with you. Were I to do so, I should be guilty of a very great impropriety.”
“All these things are in common between me and the bishop,” said Mrs. Proudie, with an air that was intended to be dignified, but which nevertheless displayed her rising anger.
“As to that I know nothing, but they cannot be in common between you and me. It grieves me much that I should have to speak to you in such a strain, but my duty allows me no alternative. I think, if you will permit me, I will take a turn round the garden before I keep my appointment with his lordship.” And so saying he escaped from the lady without hearing her further remonstrance.
It still wanted nearly an hour to the time named by the bishop, and Dr. Tempest used it in preparing for his withdrawal from the palace as soon as his interview with the bishop should be over. After what had passed he thought that he would be justified in taking his departure without bidding adieu formally to Mrs. Proudie.
