After that there was silence among them, and for a while it seemed as though there could be no approach to the subject on which Grantly had come thither to express himself. Mrs. Crawley, in her despair, said something about the weather; and the major, trying to draw near the special subject, became bold enough to remark “that he had had the pleasure of seeing Miss Crawley at Framley.”
“Mrs. Robarts has been very kind,” said Mrs. Crawley, “very kind indeed. You can understand, Major Grantly, that this must be a very sad house for any young person.”
“I don’t think it is at all sad,” said Jane, still standing in the corner by the upright desk.
Then Major Grantly rose from his seat and walked across to the girl and took her hand. “You are so like your sister,” said he. “Your sister is a great friend of mine. She has often spoken to me of you. I hope we shall be friends some day.” But Jane could make no answer to this, though she had been able to vindicate the general character of the house while she was left in her corner by herself. “I wonder whether you would be angry with me,” continued the major, “if I told you that I wanted to speak a word to your father and mother alone?” To this Jane made no reply, but was out of the room almost before the words had reached the ears of her father and mother. Though she was only sixteen, and had as yet read nothing but Latin and Greek—unless we are to count the twelve books of Euclid and Wood’s Algebra, and sundry smaller exercises of the same description—she understood, as well as anyone then present, the reason why her absence was required.
As she closed the door the major paused for a moment, expecting, or perhaps hoping, that the father or the mother would say a word. But neither of them had a word to say. They sat silent, and as though conscience-stricken. Here was a rich man come, of whom they had heard that he might probably wish to wed their daughter. It was manifest enough to both of them that no man could marry into their family without subjecting himself to a heavy portion of that reproach and disgrace which was attached to them. But how was it possible that they should not care more for their daughter—for their own flesh and blood, than for the incidental welfare of this rich man? As regarded the man himself they had heard everything that was good. Such a marriage was like the opening of paradise to their child. “Nil conscire sibi,” said the father to himself, as he buckled on his armour for the fight.
When he had waited for a moment or two the major began. “Mrs. Crawley,” he said, addressing himself to the mother, “I do not quite know how far you may be aware that I—that I have for some time been—been acquainted with your eldest daughter.”
“I have heard from her that she is acquainted with you,” said Mrs. Crawley, almost panting with anxiety.
“I may as well make a clean breast of it at once,” said the major, smiling, “and say outright that I have come here to request your permission and her father’s to ask her to be my wife.” Then he was silent, and for a few moments neither Mr. nor Mrs. Crawley replied to him. She looked at her husband, and he gazed at the fire, and the smile died away from the major’s face, as he watched the solemnity of them both. There was something almost forbidding in the peculiar gravity of Mr. Crawley’s countenance when, as at present, something operated within him to cause him to express dissent from any proposition that was made to him. “I do not know how far this may be altogether new to you, Mrs. Crawley,” said the major, waiting for a reply.
“It is not new to us,” said Mrs. Crawley.
“May I hope, then, that you will not disapprove?”
“Sir,” said Mr. Crawley, “I am so placed by the untoward circumstances of my life that I can hardly claim to exercise over my own daughter that authority which should belong to a parent.”
“My dear, do not say that,” exclaimed Mrs. Crawley.
“But I do say it. Within three weeks of this time I may be a prisoner, subject to the criminal laws of my country. At this moment I am without the power of earning bread for myself, or for my wife, or for my children. Major Grantly, you have even now seen the departure of the gentleman who has been sent here to take my place in this parish. I am, as it were, an outlaw here, and entitled neither to obedience nor respect from those who under other circumstances would be bound to give me both.”
“Major Grantly,” said the poor woman, “no husband or father in the county is more closely obeyed or more thoroughly respected and loved.”
“I am sure of it,” said the major.
“All this, however, matters nothing,” continued Mr. Crawley, “and all speech on such homely matters would amount to an impertinence before you, sir, were it not that you have hinted at a purpose of connecting yourself at some future time with this unfortunate family.”
“I meant to be plainspoken, Mr. Crawley.”
“I did not mean to insinuate, sir, that there was aught of reticence in your words, so contrived that you might fall back upon the vagueness of your expression for protection, should you hereafter see fit to change your purpose. I should have wronged you much by such a suggestion. I rather was minded to make known to you that I—or, I should rather say, we,” and Mr. Crawley pointed to his
