When the archdeacon was gone old Lady Lufton confided to young Lady Lufton her very strong opinion that many months would not be gone by before Grace Crawley would be the mistress of Cosby Lodge. “It will be great promotion,” said the old lady, with a little toss of her head.
When Grace was interrogated afterwards by Mrs. Robarts as to what had passed between her and the archdeacon she had very little to say as to the interview. “No, he did not scold me,” she replied to an inquiry from her friend.
“But he spoke about your engagement?” said Mrs. Robarts.
“There is no engagement,” said Grace.
“But I suppose you acknowledged, my dear, that a future engagement is quite possible?”
“I told him, Mrs. Robarts,” Grace answered, after hesitating for a moment, “that I would never marry his son as long as papa was suspected by anyone in the world of being a thief. And I will keep my word.” But she said nothing to Mrs. Robarts of the pledge which the archdeacon had made to her.
LVIII
The Cross-Grainedness of Men
By the time that the archdeacon reached Plumstead his enthusiasm in favour of Grace Crawley had somewhat cooled itself; and the language which from time to time he prepared for conveying his impressions to his wife, became less fervid as he approached his home. There was his pledge, and by that he would abide;—and so much he would make both his wife and his son understand. But any idea which he might have entertained for a moment of extending the promise he had given and relaxing that given to him was gone before he saw his own chimneys. Indeed, I fear he had by that time begun to feel that the only salvation now open to him must come from the jury’s verdict. If the jury should declare Mr. Crawley to be guilty, then—; he would not say even to himself that in such case all would be right, but he did feel that much as he might regret the fate of the poor Crawleys, and of the girl whom in his warmth he had declared to be almost an angel, nevertheless to him personally such a verdict would bring consolatory comfort.
“I have seen Miss Crawley,” he said to his wife, as soon as he had closed the door of his study, before he had been two minutes out of the chaise. He had determined that he would dash at the subject at once, and he thus carried his resolution into effect.
“You have seen Grace Crawley?”
“Yes; I went up to the parsonage and called upon her. Lady Lufton advised me to do so.”
“And Henry?”
“Oh, Henry has gone. He was only there one night. I suppose he saw her, but I am not sure.”
“Would not Miss Crawley tell you?”
“I forgot to ask her.” Mrs. Grantly, at hearing this, expressed her surprise by opening wide her eyes. He had gone all the way over to Framley on purpose to look after his son, and learn what were his doings, and when there he had forgotten to ask the person who could have given him better information than anyone else! “But it does not signify,” continued the archdeacon; “she said enough to me to make that of no importance.”
“And what did she say?”
“She said that she would never consent to marry Henry as long as there was any suspicion abroad as to her father’s guilt.”
“And you believe her promise?”
“Certainly I do; I do not doubt it in the least. I put implicit confidence in her. And I have promised her that if her father is acquitted—I will withdraw my opposition.”
“No!”
“But I have. And you would have done the same had you been there.”
“I doubt that, my dear. I am not so impulsive as you are.”
“You could not have helped yourself. You would have felt yourself obliged to be equally generous with her. She came up to me and she put her hand upon me—”
“Psha!” said Mrs. Grantly.
“But she did, my dear; and then she said, ‘I promise you that I will not become your son’s wife while people think that papa stole this money.’ What else could I do?”
“And is she pretty?”
“Very pretty; very beautiful.”
“And like a lady?”
“Quite like a lady. There is no mistake about that.”
“And she behaved well?”
“Admirably,” said the archdeacon, who was in a measure compelled to justify the generosity into which he had been betrayed by his feelings.
“Then she is a paragon,” said Mrs. Grantly.
“I don’t know what you may call a paragon, my dear. I say that she is a lady, and that she is extremely good-looking, and that she behaved very well. I cannot say less in her favour. I am sure you would not say less yourself, if you had been present.”
“She must be a wonderful young woman.”
“I don’t know anything about her being wonderful.”
“She must be wonderful when she has succeeded both with the son and with the father.”
“I wish you had been there instead of me,” said the archdeacon, angrily. Mrs. Grantly very probably wished so also, feeling that in that case a more serene mode of business would have been adopted. How keenly susceptible the archdeacon still was to the influences of feminine charms, no one knew better than Mrs. Grantly, and whenever she became aware that he had been in this way seduced from the wisdom of his cooler judgment she always felt something akin to indignation against the seducer. As for her husband, she probably told herself at such moments that he was an old goose. “If you had been there, and Henry with you, you would have made a great deal worse job of it than I have done,” said the archdeacon.
“I don’t say you have made a bad job of it, my dear,” said Mrs. Grantly. “But it’s
