“We have come to tell you about Mr. Crawley, papa.”
“What about him?”
“He is quite innocent.”
“I knew it, my dear. I always said so. Did I not always say so, archdeacon?”
“Indeed you did. I’ll give you that credit.”
“And is it all found out?” asked Mr. Harding.
“As far as he is concerned, everything is found out,” said Mrs. Grantly. “Eleanor gave him the cheque herself.”
“Nelly gave it to him?”
“Yes, papa. The dean meant her to give him fifty pounds. But it seems she got to be soft of heart and made it seventy. She had the cheque by her, and put it into the envelope with the notes.”
“Some of Stringer’s people seem to have stolen the cheque from Mr. Soames,” said the archdeacon.
“O dear; I hope not.”
“Somebody must have stolen it, papa.”
“I had hoped not, Susan,” said Mr. Harding. Both the archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly knew that it was useless to argue with him on such a point, and so they let that go.
Then they came to discuss Mr. Crawley’s present position, and Mr. Harding ventured to ask a question or two as to Grace’s chance of marriage. He did not often interfere in the family arrangements of his son-in-law—and never did so when those family arrangements were concerned with high matters. He had hardly opened his mouth in reference to the marriage of that august lady who was now the Marchioness of Hartletop. And of the Lady Anne, the wife of the Rev Charles Grantly, who was always prodigiously civil to him, speaking to him very loud, as though he were deaf because he was old, and bringing him cheap presents from London of which he did not take much heed—of her he rarely said a word, or of her children, to either of his daughters. But now his grandson, Henry Grantly, was going to marry a girl of whom he felt that he might speak without impropriety. “I suppose it will be a match; won’t it, my dears?”
“Not a doubt about it,” said Mrs. Grantly. Mr. Harding looked at his son-in-law, but his son-in-law said nothing. The archdeacon did not even frown—but only moved himself a little uneasily in his chair.
“Dear, dear! What a comfort that must be,” said the old man.
“I have not seen her yet,” said Mrs. Grantly; “but the archdeacon declares that she is all the graces rolled into one.”
“I never said anything half so absurd,” replied the archdeacon.
“But he really is quite in love with her, papa,” said Mrs. Grantly. “He confessed to me that he gave her a kiss, and he only saw her once for five minutes.”
“I should like to give her a kiss,” said Mr. Harding.
“So you shall, papa, and I’ll bring her here on purpose. As soon as ever the thing is settled, we mean to ask her to Plumstead.”
“Do you though? How nice! How happy Henry will be!”
“And if she comes—and of course she will—I’ll lose no time in bringing her over to you. Nelly must see her of course.”
As they were leaving the room Mr. Harding called the archdeacon back, and taking him by the hand, spoke one word to him in a whisper. “I don’t like to interfere,” he said; “but might not Mr. Crawley have St. Ewold’s?” The archdeacon took up the old man’s hand and kissed it. Then he followed his wife out of the room, without making any answer to Mr. Harding’s question.
Three days after this Mrs. Arabin reached the deanery, and the joy at her return was very great. “My dear, I have been sick for you,” said Mr. Harding.
“Oh, papa, I ought not to have gone.”
“Nay, my dear; do not say that. Would it make me happy that you should be a prisoner here forever? It was only when I seemed to get so weak that I thought about it. I felt that it must be near when they bade me not to go to the cathedral any more.”
“If I had been here, I could have gone with you, papa.”
“It is better as it is. I know now that I was not fit for it. When your sister came to me, I never thought of remonstrating. I knew then that I had seen it for the last time.”
“We need not say that yet, papa.”
“I did think that when you came home we might crawl there together some warm morning. I did think of that for a time. But it will never be so, dear. I shall never see anything now that I do not see from here—and not that for long. Do not cry, Nelly. I have nothing to regret, nothing to make me unhappy. I know how poor and weak has been my life; but I know how rich and strong is that other life. Do not cry, Nelly—not till I am gone; and then not beyond measure. Why should anyone weep for those who go away full of years—and full of hope?”
On the day but one following the dean also reached his home. The final arrangements of his tour, as well as those of his wife, had been made to depend on Mr. Crawley’s trial; for he also had been hurried back by John Eames’s visit to Florence. “I should have come at once,” he said to his wife, “when they wrote to ask me whether Crawley had taken the cheque from me, had anybody then told me that he was in actual trouble; but I had no idea then that they were charging him with theft.”
“As far as I can learn, they never really suspected him until after your answer had come. They had been quite sure that your answer would be in the affirmative.”
“What he must have endured it is impossible to conceive. I shall go out to him tomorrow.”
“Would he not come
