The Last Chronicle of Barset

Speaking to them then in God’s house he told them that. He was to be tried by a jury, and all he could do was to tell the jury the same. He would not expect the jury to believe him. The jury would, of course, believe only that which was proved to them. But he did expect his old friends at Hogglestock, who had known him so long, to take his word as true. That there was no sufficient excuse for his conduct, even in his own sight, this, his voluntary resignation of his parish, was, he said, sufficient evidence. Then he explained to them, as clearly as he was able, what the bishop had done, what the commission had done, and what he had done himself. That he spoke no word of Mrs. Proudie to that audience need hardly be mentioned here. “And now, dearest friends, I leave you,” he said, with that weighty solemnity which was so peculiar to the man, and which he was able to make singularly impressive even on such a congregation as that of Hogglestock, “and I trust that the heavy but pleasing burden of the charge which I have had over you may fall into hands better fitted than mine have been for such work. I have always known my own unfitness, by reason of the worldly cares with which I have been laden. Poverty makes the spirit poor, and the hands weak, and the heart sore⁠—and too often makes the conscience dull. May the latter never be the case with any of you.” Then he uttered another short prayer, and, stepping down from the pulpit, walked out of the church, with his weeping wife hanging on his arm, and his daughter following them, almost dissolved in tears. He never again entered that church as the pastor of the congregation.

There was an old lame man from Hoggle End leaning on his stick near the door as Mr. Crawley went out, and with him was his old lame wife. “He’ll pull through yet,” said the old man to his wife; “you’ll see else. He’ll pull through because he’s so dogged. It’s dogged as does it.”

On that night the position of the members of Mr. Crawley’s household seemed to have been changed. There was something almost of elation in his mode of speaking, and he said soft loving words, striving to comfort his wife. She, on the other hand, could say nothing to comfort him. She had been averse to the step he was taking, but had been unable to press her objection in opposition to his great argument as to duty. Since he had spoken to her in that strain which he had used with Robarts, she also had felt that she must be silent. But she could not even feign to feel the pride which comes from the performance of a duty. “What will he do when he comes out?” she said to her daughter. The coming out spoken of by her was the coming out of prison. It was natural enough that she should feel no elation.

The breakfast on Sunday morning was to her, perhaps, the saddest scene of her life. They sat down, the three together, at the usual hour⁠—nine o’clock⁠—but the morning had not been passed as was customary on Sundays. It had been Mr. Crawley’s practice to go into the school from eight to nine; but on this Sunday he felt, as he told his wife, that his presence would be an intrusion there. But he requested Jane to go and perform her usual task. “If Mr. Thumble should come,” he said to her, “be submissive to him in all things.” Then he stood at his door, watching to see at what hour Mr. Thumble would reach the school. But Mr. Thumble did not attend the school on that morning. “And yet he was very express to me in his desire that I would not myself meddle with the duties,” said Mr. Crawley to his wife as he stood at the door⁠—“unnecessarily urgent, as I must say I thought at the time.” If Mrs. Crawley could have spoken out her thoughts about Mr. Thumble at that moment, her words would, I think, have surprised her husband.

At breakfast there was hardly a word spoken. Mr. Crawley took his crust and eat it mournfully⁠—almost ostentatiously. Jane tried and failed, and tried to hide her failure, failing in that also. Mrs. Crawley made no attempt. She sat behind her old teapot, with her hands clasped and her eyes fixed. It was as though some last day had come upon her⁠—this, the first Sunday of her husband’s degradation. “Mary,” he said to her, “why do you not eat?”

“I cannot,” she replied, speaking not in a whisper, but in words which would hardly get themselves articulated. “I cannot. Do not ask me.”

“For the honour of the Lord you will want the strength which bread alone can give you,” he said, intimating to her that he wished her to attend the service.

“Do not ask me to be there, Josiah. I cannot. It is too much for me.”

“Nay; I will not press it,” he said. “I can go alone.” He uttered no word expressive of a wish that his daughter should attend the church; but when the moment came, Jane accompanied him.

“What shall I do, mamma,” she said, “if I find I cannot bear it?”

“Try to bear it,” the mother said. “Try, for his sake. You are stronger now than I am.”

The tinkle of the church bell was heard at the usual time, and Mr. Crawley, hat in hand, stood ready to go forth. He had heard nothing of Mr. Thumble, but had made up his mind that Mr. Thumble would not trouble him. He had taken the precaution to request his churchwarden to be early at the church, so that Mr. Thumble might encounter no difficulty. The church was very near to the house, and any vehicle arriving might have been seen had Mr. Crawley