“Under a cloud, my dear. Let us pray that it may be only a passing cloud.”
“All the world thinks that he was guilty. And then he is such a man:—so singular, so unlike anybody else! You know, papa, that I don’t think very much of money, merely as money.”
“I hope not, my dear. Money is worth thinking of, but it is not worth very much thought.”
“But it does give advantages, and the absence of such advantages must be very much felt in the education of a girl. You would hardly wish Henry to marry a young woman who, from want of money, had not been brought up among ladies. It is not Miss Crawley’s fault, but such has been her lot. We cannot ignore these deficiencies, papa.”
“Certainly not, my dear.”
“You would not, for instance, wish that Henry should marry a kitchen-maid.”
“But is Miss Crawley a kitchen-maid, Susan?”
“I don’t quite say that.”
“I am told that she has been educated infinitely better than most of the young ladies in the neighbourhood,” said Mr. Harding.
“I believe that her father has taught her Greek; and I suppose she has learned something of French at that school at Silverbridge.”
“Then the kitchen-maid theory is sufficiently disposed of,” said Mr. Harding, with mild triumph.
“You know what I mean, papa. But the fact is, that it is impossible to deal with men. They will never be reasonable. A marriage such as this would be injurious to Henry; but it will not be ruinous; and as to disinheriting him for it, that would be downright wicked.”
“I think so,” said Mr. Harding.
“But the archdeacon will look at it as though it would destroy Henry and Edith altogether, while you speak of it as though it were the best thing in the world.”
“If the young people love each other, I think it would be the best thing in the world,” said Mr. Harding.
“But, papa, you cannot but think that his father’s wish should go for something,” said Mrs. Grantly, who, desirous as she was on the one side to support her son, could not bear that her husband should, on the other side, be declared to be altogether in the wrong.
“I do not know, my dear,” said Mr. Harding; “but I do think, that if the two young people are fond of each other, and if there is anything for them to live upon, it cannot be right to keep them apart. You know, my dear, she is the daughter of a gentleman.” Mrs. Grantly upon this left her father almost brusquely, without speaking another word on the subject; for, though she was opposed to the vehement anger of her husband, she could not endure the proposition now made by her father.
Mr. Harding was at this time living all alone in the deanery. For some few years the deanery had been his home, and as his youngest daughter was the dean’s wife, there could be no more comfortable resting-place for the evening of his life. During the last month or two the days had gone tediously with him; for he had had the large house all to himself, and he was a man who did not love solitude. It is hard to conceive that the old, whose thoughts have been all thought out, should ever love to live alone. Solitude is surely for the young, who have time before them for the execution of schemes, and who can, therefore, take delight in thinking. In these days the poor old man would wander about the rooms, shambling from one chamber to another, and would feel ashamed when the servants met him ever on the move. He would make little apologies for his uneasiness, which they would accept graciously, understanding, after a fashion, why it was that he was uneasy. “He ain’t got nothing to do,” said the housemaid to the cook, “and as for reading, they say that some of the young ones can read all day sometimes, and all night too; but, bless you, when you’re nigh eighty, reading don’t go for much.” The housemaid was right as to Mr. Harding’s reading. He was not one who had read so much in his earlier days as to enable him to make reading go far with him now that he was near eighty. So he wandered about the room, and sat here for a few minutes, and there for a few minutes, and though he did not sleep much, he made the hours of the night as many as was possible. Every morning he shambled across from the deanery to the cathedral, and attended the morning service, sitting in the stall which he had occupied for fifty years. The distance was very short, not exceeding, indeed, a hundred yards from a side-door in the deanery to another side-door into the cathedral; but short as it was there had come to be a question whether he should be allowed to go alone. It had been feared that he might fall on his passage and hurt himself; for there was a step here, and a step there, and the light was not very good in the purlieus of the old cathedral. A word or two had been said once, and the offer of an arm to help him had been made; but he had rejected the proffered assistance—softly, indeed, but still firmly—and every day he tottered off by himself, hardly lifting his feet as he went, and aiding himself on his journey by a hand upon the wall when he thought that nobody was looking at him. But many did see him, and they who knew him—ladies generally of the city—would offer him a hand. Nobody was milder in his dislikings than Mr. Harding; but there were ladies in Barchester upon whose arm he would always decline to lean, bowing courteously as he did so, and saying a word
