“Is that the way you carry out your proverb of De mortuis?” said Mrs. Grantly.
“The proverb of De mortuis is founded on humbug. Humbug out of doors is necessary. It would not do for you and me to go into the High Street just now and say what we think about Mrs. Proudie; but I don’t suppose that kind of thing need be kept up in here, between you and me. She was an uncomfortable woman—so uncomfortable that I cannot believe that anyone will regret her. Dear me! Only to think that she has gone! You may as well give me my tea.”
I do not think that Mrs. Grantly’s opinion differed much from that expressed by her husband, or that she was, in truth, the least offended by the archdeacon’s plain speech. But it must be remembered that there was probably no house in the diocese in which Mrs. Proudie had been so thoroughly hated as she had been at the Plumstead rectory. There had been hatred at the deanery; but the hatred at the deanery had been mild in comparison with the hatred at Plumstead. The archdeacon was a sound friend; but he was also a sound enemy. From the very first arrival of the Proudies at Barchester, Mrs. Proudie had thrown down her gauntlet to him, and he had not been slow in picking it up. The war had been internecine, and each had given the other terrible wounds. It had been understood that there should be no quarter, and there had been none. His enemy was now dead, and the archdeacon could not bring himself to adopt before his wife the namby-pamby everyday decency of speaking well of one of whom he had ever thought ill, or of expressing regret when no regret could be felt.
“May all her sins be forgiven her,” said Mrs. Grantly.
“Amen,” said the archdeacon. There was something in the tone of his Amen which thoroughly implied that it was uttered only on the understanding that her departure from the existing world was to be regarded as an unmitigated good, and that she should, at any rate, never come back again to Barchester.
When Lady Lufton heard the tidings, she was not so bold in speaking of it as was her friend the archdeacon. “Mrs. Proudie dead!” she said to her daughter-in-law. This was some hours after the news had reached the house, and when the fact of the poor lady’s death had been fully recognized. “What will he do without her?”
“The same as other men do,” said young Lady Lufton.
“But, my dear, he is not the same as other men. He is not at all like other men. He is so weak that he cannot walk without a stick to lean upon. No doubt she was a virago, a woman who could not control her temper for a moment! No doubt she had led him a terrible life! I have often pitied him with all my heart. But, nevertheless, she was useful to him. I suppose she was useful to him. I can hardly believe that Mrs. Proudie is dead. Had he gone, it would have seemed so much more natural. Poor woman. I daresay she had her good points.” The reader will be pleased to remember that the Luftons had ever been strong partisans on the side of the Grantlys.
The news made its way even to Hogglestock on the same day. Mrs. Crawley, when she heard it, went out after her husband, who was in the school. “Dead!” said he, in answer to her whisper. “Do you tell me that the woman is dead?” Then Mrs. Crawley explained that the tidings were credible. “May God forgive her all her sins,” said Mr. Crawley. “She was a violent woman, certainly, and I think that she misunderstood her duties; but I do not say that she was a bad woman. I am inclined to think that she was earnest in her endeavours to do good.” It never occurred to Mr. Crawley that he and his affair had, in truth, been the cause of her death.
It was thus that she was spoken of for a few days; and then men and women ceased to speak much of her, and began to talk of the bishop instead. A month had not passed before it was surmised that a man so long accustomed to the comforts of married life would marry again; and even then one lady connected with low-church clergymen in and around the city was named as a probable successor to the great lady who was gone. For myself, I am inclined to think that the bishop will for the future be content to lean upon his chaplain.
The monument that was put up to our old friend’s memory in one of the side aisles of the choir of the cathedral was supposed to be designed and executed in good taste. There was a broken column, and on the column simply the words, “My beloved wife!” Then there was a slab by the column, bearing Mrs. Proudie’s name, with the date of her life and death. Beneath this was the common inscription—
Requiescat in pace
LXVIII
The Obstinacy of Mr. Crawley
Dr. Tempest, when he heard the news, sent immediately to Mr. Robarts, begging him to come over to Silverbridge. But this message was not occasioned solely by the death of Mrs. Proudie. Dr. Tempest had also heard that Mr. Crawley had submitted himself to the bishop, that instant advantage—and as Dr. Tempest thought, unfair advantage—had been taken of Mr. Crawley’s submission, and that the pernicious Thumble had been at once sent over to Hogglestock. Had these palace doings with reference to Mr. Crawley been unaccompanied by
