Dr. Tempest had been looking at him during this speech, and could see by his shoes and trousers that he had walked from Hogglestock to Silverbridge. “Mr. Crawley, will you not sit down?” said he, and then he rang his bell. Mr. Crawley sat down, not on the chair indicated, but on one further removed and at the other side of the table. When the servant came—the objectionable butler in black clothes that were so much smarter than Mr. Crawley’s own—his master’s orders were communicated without any audible word, and the man returned with a decanter and wineglasses.
“After your walk, Mr. Crawley,” said Dr. Tempest, getting up from his seat to pour out the wine.
“None, I thank you.”
“Pray let me persuade you. I know the length of the miles so well.”
“I will take none if you please, sir,” said Mr. Crawley.
“Now, Mr. Crawley,” said Dr. Tempest, “do let me speak to you as a friend. You have walked eight miles, and are going to talk to me on a subject which is of vital importance to yourself. I won’t discuss it unless you’ll take a glass of wine and a biscuit.”
“Dr. Tempest!”
“I’m quite in earnest. I won’t. If you do as I ask you, you shall talk to me till dinnertime, if you like it. There. Now you may begin.”
Mr. Crawley did eat the biscuit and did drink the wine, and as he did so, he acknowledged to himself that Dr. Tempest was right. He felt that the wine made him stronger to speak. “I hardly know why you have preferred today to next Monday,” said Dr. Tempest; “but if anything can be done by your presence here today, your time shall not be thrown away.”
“I have preferred today to Monday,” said Crawley, “partly because I would sooner talk to one man than to five.”
“There is something in that, certainly,” said Dr. Tempest.
“And as I have made up my mind as to the course of action which it is my duty to take in the matter to which your letter of the 9th of this month refers, there can be no reason why I should postpone the declaration of my purpose. Dr. Tempest, I have determined to resign my preferment at Hogglestock, and shall write today to the Dean of Barchester, who is the patron, acquainting him of my purpose.”
“You mean in the event—in the event—”
“I mean, sir, to do this without reference to any event that is future. The bishop, Dr. Tempest, when I shall have been proved to be a thief, shall have no trouble either in causing my suspension or my deprivation. The name and fame of a parish clergyman should be unstained. Mine have become foul with infamy. I will not wait to be deprived by any court, by any bishop, or by any commission. I will bow my head to that public opinion which has reached me, and I will deprive myself.”
He had got up from his chair, and was standing as he pronounced the final sentence against himself. Dr. Tempest still remained seated in his chair, looking at him, and for a few moments there was silence. “You must not do that, Mr. Crawley,” Dr. Tempest said at last.
“But I shall do it.”
“Then the dean must not take your resignation. Speaking to you frankly, I tell you that there is no prevailing opinion as to the verdict which the jury may give.”
“My decision has nothing to do with the jury’s verdict. My decision—”
“Stop a moment, Mr. Crawley. It is possible that you might say that which should not be said.”
“There is nothing to be said—nothing which I could say, which I would not say at the town cross if it were possible. As to this money, I do not know whether I stole it or whether I did not.”
“That is just what I have thought.”
“It is so.”
“Then you did not steal it. There can be no doubt about that.”
“Thank you, Dr. Tempest. I thank you heartily for saying so much. But, sir, you are not the jury. Nor, if you were, could you whitewash me from the infamy which has been cast on me. Against the opinion expressed at the beginning of these proceedings by the bishop of the diocese—or rather against that expressed by his wife—I did venture to make a stand. Neither the opinion which came from the palace, nor the vehicle by which it was expressed, commanded my respect. Since that, others have spoken to whom I feel myself bound to yield;—yourself not the least among them, Dr. Tempest;—and to them I shall yield. You may tell the Bishop of Barchester that I shall at once resign the perpetual curacy of Hogglestock into the hands of the Dean of Barchester, by whom I was appointed.”
“No, Mr. Crawley; I shall not do that. I cannot control you, but thinking you to be wrong, I shall not make that communication to the bishop.”
“Then I shall do so myself.”
“And your wife, Mr. Crawley, and your children?”
At that moment Mr. Crawley called to mind the advice of his friend Giles Hoggett. “It’s dogged as does it.” He certainly wanted something very strong to sustain him in his difficulty. He found that this reference to his wife and children required him to be dogged in a very marked manner. “I can only trust that the wind may be tempered to them,” he said. “They will, indeed, be shorn lambs.”
Dr. Tempest got up from his chair, and took a couple of turns about
