“You may be sure Mr. Crawley will not get into the pulpit after his resignation, Mr. Thumble,” said he.
“His resignation means nothing,” said Thumble.
“It means a great deal,” said Snapper; “and the duties must be provided for.”
“I won’t provide for them,” said Thumble; “and so you may tell the bishop.” In these days Mr. Thumble was very angry with the bishop, for the bishop had not yet seen him since the death of Mrs. Proudie.
Mr. Snapper had no alternative but to go to the bishop. The bishop in these days was very mild to those whom he saw, given but to few words, and a little astray—as though he had had one of his limbs cut off—as Mr. Snapper expressed it to Mrs. Snapper. “I shouldn’t wonder if he felt as though all his limbs were cut off,” said Mrs. Snapper; “you must give him time, and he’ll come round by-and-by.” I am inclined to think that Mrs. Snapper’s opinion of the bishop’s feelings and condition was correct. In his difficulty respecting Hogglestock and Mr. Thumble Mr. Snapper went to the bishop, and spoke perhaps a little harshly of Mr. Thumble.
“I think, upon the whole, Snapper, that you had better go yourself,” said the bishop.
“Do you think so, my lord?” said Snapper. “It will be inconvenient.”
“Everything is inconvenient; but you’d better go. And look here, Snapper, if I were you, I wouldn’t say anything out at Hogglestock about the cheque. We don’t know what it may come to yet.” Mr. Snapper, with a heavy heart, left his patron, not at all liking the task that was before him. But his wife encouraged him to be obedient. He was the owner of a one-horse carriage, and the work was not, therefore, so hard to him as it would have been and had been to poor Mr. Thumble. And, moreover, his wife promised to go with him. Mr. Snapper and Mrs. Snapper did go over to Hogglestock, and the duty was done. Mrs. Snapper spoke a word or two to Mrs. Crawley, and Mr. Snapper spoke a word or two to Mr. Crawley; but not a word was said about the new news as to Mr. Soames’s cheque, which were now almost current in Barchester. Indeed, no whisper about it had as yet reached Hogglestock.
“One word with you, reverend sir,” said Mr. Crawley to the chaplain, as the latter was coming out of the church, “as to the parish work, sir, during the week;—I should be glad if you would favour me with your opinion.”
“About what, Mr. Crawley?”
“Whether you think that I may be allowed, without scandal, to visit the sick—and to give instruction in the school.”
“Surely;—surely, Mr. Crawley. Why not?”
“Mr. Thumble gave me to understand that the bishop was very urgent that I should interfere in no way in the ministrations of the parish. Twice did he enjoin on me that I should not interfere—unnecessarily, as it seemed to me.”
“Quite unnecessary,” said Mr. Snapper. “And the bishop will be obliged to you, Mr. Crawley, if you’ll just see that the things go on all straight.”
“I wish it were possible to know with accuracy what his idea of straightness is,” said Mr. Crawley to his wife. “It may be that things are straight to him when they are buried as it were out of sight, and put away without trouble. I hope it be not so with the bishop.” When he went into his school and remembered—as he did remember through every minute of his teaching—that he was to receive no portion of the poor stipend which was allotted for the clerical duties of the parish, he told himself that there was gross injustice in the way in which things were being made straight at Hogglestock.
But we must go back to the major and to the archdeacon at Plumstead—in which comfortable parish things were generally made straight more easily than at Hogglestock. Henry Grantly went over from Barchester to Plumstead in a gig from the “Dragon,” and made his way at once into his father’s study. The archdeacon was seated there with sundry manuscripts before him, and with one half-finished manuscript—as was his wont on every Saturday morning. “Halloo, Harry,” he said. “I didn’t expect you in the least.” It was barely an hour since he had told Mrs. Grantly that his complaint against his son was that he wouldn’t come and make himself comfortable at the rectory.
“Father,” said he, giving the archdeacon his hand, “you have heard nothing yet about Mr. Crawley?”
“No,” said the archdeacon jumping up; “nothing new;—what is it?” Many ideas about Mr. Crawley at that moment flitted across the archdeacon’s mind. Could it be that the unfortunate man had committed suicide, overcome by his troubles?
“It has all come out. He got the cheque from my aunt.”
“From your aunt Eleanor?”
“Yes; from my aunt Eleanor. She has telegraphed over from Venice to say that she gave the identical cheque to Crawley. That is all we know at present—except that she has written an account of the matter to you, and that she will be here herself as quick as she can come.”
“Who got the message, Henry?”
“Crawley’s lawyer—a fellow named Toogood, a cousin of his wife’s;—a very decent fellow,” added the major, remembering how necessary it was that he should reconcile his father to all the Crawley belongings. “He’s to be over here on Monday, and then will arrange what is to be done.”
“Done in what way, Henry?”
“There’s a great deal to be done yet. Crawley does not know himself at this moment how the cheque got into his hands. He must be told, and something must be settled about the living. They’ve taken the living away from him among them. And then the indictment must be quashed, or something of that kind done. Toogood has got hold of the scoundrel at Barchester who
