“I shall ask her for nothing for myself now,” said Grantly. “It would be ungenerous. But hereafter—in a few days—when she shall be more at ease, may I then use your permission—?”
“Major Grantly,” said Mr. Crawley, solemnly, “I respect you so highly, and esteem you so thoroughly, that I give willingly that which you ask. If my daughter can bring herself to regard you, as a woman should regard her husband, with the love that can worship and cling and be constant, she will, I think, have a fair promise of worldly happiness. And for you, sir, in giving you to my girl—if so it be that she is given to you—I shall bestow upon you a great treasure.” Had Grace been a king’s daughter, with a queen’s dowry, the permission to address her could not have been imparted to her lover with a more thorough appreciation of the value of the privilege conferred.
“He is a rum ’un,” said Mr. Toogood, as they got into the carriage together; “but they say he’s a very good ’un to go.”
After their departure Jane was sent for, that she might hear the family news; and when she expressed some feeling not altogether in favour of Mr. Toogood, Mr. Crawley thus strove to correct her views. “He is a man, my dear, who conceals a warm heart, and an active spirit, and healthy sympathies, under an affected jocularity of manner, and almost with a touch of assumed vulgarity. But when the jewel itself is good, any fault in the casket may be forgiven.”
“Then, papa, the next time I see him I’ll like him—if I can,” said Jane.
The village of Framley lies slightly off the road from Hogglestock to Barchester—so much so as to add perhaps a mile to the journey if the traveller goes by the parsonage gate. On their route to Hogglestock our two travellers had passed Framley without visiting the village, but on the return journey the major asked Mr. Toogood’s permission to make the deviation. “I’m not in a hurry,” said Toogood. “I never was more comfortable in my life. I’ll just light a cigar while you go in and see your friends.” Toogood lit his cigar, and the major, getting down from the carriage, entered the parsonage. It was his fortune to find Grace alone. Robarts was in Barchester, and Mrs. Robarts was across the road, at Lufton Court. “Miss Crawley was certainly in,” the servant told him, and he soon found himself in Miss Crawley’s presence.
“I have only called to tell you the news about your father,” said he.
“What news?”
“We have just come from Hogglestock—your cousin, Mr. Toogood, that is, and myself. They have found out all about the cheque. My aunt, Mrs. Arabin, the dean’s wife, you know—she gave it to your father.”
“Oh, Major Grantly!”
“It seems so easily settled, does it not?”
“And is it settled?”
“Yes; everything. Everything about that.” Now he had hold of her hand as if he were going. “Goodbye. I told your father that I would just call and tell you.”
“It seems almost more than I can believe.”
“You may believe it; indeed you may.” He still held her hand. “You will write to your mother I daresay tonight. Tell her I was here. Goodbye now.”
“Goodbye,” she said. Her hand was still in his, as she looked up into his face.
“Dear, dear, dearest Grace! My darling Grace!” Then he took her into his arms and kissed her, and went his way without another word, feeling that he had kept his word to her father like a gentleman. Grace, when she was left alone, thought that she was the happiest girl in Christendom. If she could only get to her mother, and tell everything, and be told everything! She had no idea of any promise that her lover might have made to her father, nor did she make inquiry of her own thoughts as to his reasons for staying with her so short a time; but looking back at it all she thought his conduct had been perfect.
In the meantime the major, with Mr. Toogood, was driven home to dinner at Plumstead.
LXXV
Madalina’s Heart Is Bleeding
John Eames, as soon as he had left Mrs. Arabin at the hotel and had taken his travelling-bag to his own lodgings, started off for his uncle Toogood’s house. There he found Mrs. Toogood, not in the most serene state of mind as to her husband’s absence. Mr. Toogood had now been at Barchester for the best part of a week—spending a good deal of money at the inn. Mrs. Toogood was quite sure that he must be doing that. Indeed, how could he help himself? Johnny remarked that he did not see how in such circumstances his uncle was to help himself. And then Mr. Toogood had only written one short scrap of a letter—just three words, and they were written in triumph. “Crawley is all right, and I think I’ve got the real Simon Pure by the heels.”
“It’s all very well, John,” Mrs. Toogood said; “and of course it would be a terrible thing to the family if anybody connected with it were made out to be a thief.”
“It would be quite dreadful,” said Johnny. “Not that I ever looked upon the Crawleys as connections of ours. But, however, let that pass. I’m sure I’m very glad that your uncle should have been able to be of service to them. But there’s reason in the roasting of eggs, and I can tell you that money is not so plenty in this house, that your uncle can afford to throw it into the Barchester gutters. Think what twelve children are, John. It might be all very well if Toogood were a bachelor, and if some lord had left him a fortune.”
John Eames did not stay very long in Tavistock Square. His cousins Polly and Lucy were gone to the play with Mr. Summerkin, and his aunt was not in one
