“We all know Snapper,” said the dean. “Snapper is not a bad little fellow.”
“I say nothing of his being bad, my friend, but merely mention the fact that on Sunday morning last he performed the service in our church. On the Sunday previous, one Mr. Thumble was here.”
“We all know Thumble, too,” said the dean; “or, at least, know something about him.”
“He has been a thorn in our sides,” said Mrs. Crawley, unable to restrain the expression of her dislike when Mr. Thumble’s name was mentioned.
“Nay, my dear, nay;—do not allow yourself the use of language so strong against a brother. Our flesh at that time was somewhat prone to fester, and little thorns made us very sore.”
“He is a horrible man,” said Jane, almost in a whisper; but the words were distinctly audible by the dean.
“They need not come any more,” said Arabin.
“That is where I fear we differ. I think they must come—or some others in their place—till the bishop shall have expressed his pleasure to the contrary. I have submitted myself to his lordship, and, having done so, feel that I cannot again go up into my pulpit till he shall have authorized me to do so. For a time, Arabin, I combated the bishop, believing—then and now—that he put forth his hand against me after a fashion which the law had not sanctioned. And I made bold to stand in his presence and to tell him that I would not obey him, except in things legal. But afterwards, when he proceeded formally, through the action of a commission, I submitted myself. And I regard myself still as being under submission.”
It was impossible to shake him. Arabin remained there for more than an hour, trying to pass on to another subject, but being constantly brought back by Mr. Crawley himself to the fact of his own dependent position. Nor would he condescend to supplicate the bishop. It was, he surmised, the duty of Dr. Tempest, together with the other four clergymen, to report to the bishop on the question of the alleged theft; and then doubtless the bishop, when he had duly considered the report, and—as Mr. Crawley seemed to think was essentially necessary—had sufficiently recovered from the grief at his wife’s death, would, at his leisure, communicate his decision to Mr. Crawley. Nothing could be more complete than Mr. Crawley’s humility in reference to the bishop; and he never seemed to be tired of declaring that he had submitted himself!
And then the dean, finding it to be vain to expect to be left alone with Mr. Crawley for a moment—in vain also to wait for a proper opening for that which he had to say—rushed violently at his other subject. “And now, Mrs. Crawley,” he said, “Mrs. Arabin wishes you all to come over to the deanery for a while and stay with us.”
“Mrs. Arabin is too kind,” said Mrs. Crawley, looking across at her husband.
“We should like it of all things,” said the dean, with perhaps more of good nature than of truth. “Of course you must have been knocked about a good deal.”
“Indeed we have,” said Mrs. Crawley.
“And till you are somewhat settled again, I think that the change of scene would be good for all of you. Come, Crawley, I’ll talk to you every evening about Jerusalem for as long as you please;—and then there will perhaps come back to us something of the pleasantness of old days.” As she heard this Mrs. Crawley’s eyes became full of tears, and she could not altogether hide them. What she had endured during the last four months had almost broken her spirit. The burden had at last been too heavy for her strength. “You cannot fancy, Crawley, how often I have thought of the old days and wished that they might return. I have found it very hard to get an opportunity of saying so much to you; but I will say it now.”
“It may hardly be as you say,” said Crawley, grimly.
“You mean that the old days can never be brought back?”
“Assuredly they cannot. But it was not that that I meant. It may not be that I and mine should transfer ourselves to your roof and sojourn there.”
“Why should you not?”
“The reasons are many, and on the face of things. The reason, perhaps, the most on the face is to be found in my wife’s gown, and in my coat.” This Mr. Crawley said very gravely, looking neither to the right nor to the left, nor at the face of any of them, nor at his own garment, nor at hers, but straight before him; and when he had so spoken he said not a word further—not going on to dilate on his poverty as the dean expected that he would do.
“At such a time such reasons should stand for nothing,” said the dean.
“And why not now as they always do, and always must till the power of tailors shall have waned, and the daughters of Eve shall toil and spin no more? Like to like is true, and should be held to be true, of all societies and of all compacts for cooperation and mutual living. Here, where, if I may venture to say so, you and I are like to like;—for the new gloss of your coat,”—the dean, as it happened, had on at the moment a very old coat, his oldest coat, selected perhaps with some view to this special visit—“does not obtrude itself in my household, as would the threadbare texture of mine in yours;—I can open my mouth to you and converse with you at my ease; you are now to me that Frank Arabin who has so often comforted me and so often confuted me; whom I may perhaps on an occasion have confuted—and perhaps have comforted. But were I sitting with you in your library in Barchester, my threadbare coat
