“I don’t quite follow you,” said the major. “But what I want you to do is to give me your consent to visit your daughter; and I want Mrs. Crawley to write to Grace and tell her that it’s all right.” Mrs. Crawley was quite sure that it was all right, and was ready to sit down and write the letter that moment, if her husband would permit her to do so.
“I am sorry that I have not been explicit,” said Mr. Crawley, “but I will endeavour to make myself more plainly intelligible. My daughter, sir, is so circumstanced in reference to her father, that I, as her father and as a gentleman, cannot encourage any man to make a tender to her of his hand.”
“But I have made up my mind about all that.”
“And I, sir, have made up mine. I dare not tell my girl that I think she will do well to place her hand in yours. A lady, when she does that, should feel at least that her hand is clean.”
“It is the cleanest and the sweetest and the fairest hand in Barsetshire,” said the major. Mrs. Crawley could not restrain herself, but running up to him, took his hand in hers and kissed it.
“There is unfortunately a stain, which is vicarial,” began Mr. Crawley, sustaining up to that point his voice with Roman fortitude—with a fortitude which would have been Roman had it not at that moment broken down under the pressure of human feeling. He could keep it up no longer, but continued his speech with broken sobs, and with a voice altogether changed in its tone—rapid now, whereas it had before been slow—natural, whereas it had hitherto been affected—human, whereas it had hitherto been Roman. “Major Grantly,” he said, “I am sore beset; but what can I say to you? My darling is as pure as the light of day—only that she is soiled with my impurity. She is fit to grace the house of the best gentleman in England, had I not made her unfit.”
“She shall grace mine,” said the major. “By God, she shall!—tomorrow, if she’ll have me.” Mrs. Crawley, who was standing beside him, again raised his hand and kissed it.
“It may not be so. As I began by saying—or rather strove to say, for I have been overtaken by weakness, and cannot speak my mind—I cannot claim authority over my child as would another man. How can I exercise authority from between a prison’s bars?”
“She would obey your slightest wish,” said Mrs. Crawley.
“I could express no wish,” said he. “But I know my girl, and I am sure that she will not consent to take infamy with her into the house of the man who loves her.”
“There will be no infamy,” said the major. “Infamy! I tell you that I shall be proud of the connection.”
“You, sir, are generous in your prosperity. We will strive to be at least just in our adversity. My wife and children are to be pitied—because of the husband and the father.”
“No!” said Mrs. Crawley. “I will not hear that said without denying it.”
“But they must take their lot as it has been given to them,” continued he. “Such a position in life as that which you have proposed to bestow upon my child would be to her, as regards human affairs, great elevation. And from what I have heard—I may be permitted to add also from what I now learn by personal experience—such a marriage would be laden with fair promise of future happiness. But if you ask my mind, I think that my child is not free to make it. You, sir, have many relatives, who are not in love, as you are, all of whom would be affected by the stain of my disgrace. You have a daughter, to whom all your solicitude is due. No one should go to your house as your second wife who cannot feel that she will serve your child. My daughter would feel that she was bringing an injury upon the babe. I cannot bid her do this—and I will not. Nor do I believe that she would do so if I bade her.” Then he turned his chair round, and sat with his face to the wall, wiping away the tears with a tattered handkerchief.
Mrs. Crawley led the major away to the further window, and there stood looking up into his face. It need hardly be said that they also were crying. Whose eyes could have been dry after such a scene—upon hearing such words? “You had better go,” said Mrs. Crawley. “I know him so well. You had better go.”
“Mrs. Crawley,” he said, whispering to her, “if I ever desert her, may all that I love desert me! But you will help me?”
“You would want no help, were it not for this trouble.”
“But you will help me?”
Then she paused a moment. “I can do nothing,” she said, “but what he bids me.”
“You will trust me, at any rate?” said the major.
“I do trust you,” she replied. Then he went without saying a word further to Mr. Crawley. As soon as he was gone, the wife went over to her husband, and put her arm gently round his neck as he was sitting. For a while the husband took no notice of his wife’s caress, but sat motionless, with his face still turned to the wall. Then she spoke to him a word or two, telling him that their visitor was gone. “My child!” he said. “My poor child! my darling! She has found grace in this man’s sight; but even of that has her father robbed her! The Lord has visited upon the children the sins of the father, and will do so to the third and fourth generation.”
LXIV
The Tragedy
