“I think, dear, you had better wait till things are a little settled. Papa is to hear again from the dean very soon. You see they are all in a great sorrow at Barchester about poor Mr. Harding’s death.”
“Grace!” said Jane, rushing into the house almost speechless, at that moment, “here he is!—on horseback.” I do not know why Jane should have talked about Major Grantly as simply “he.” There had been no conversation among the sisters to justify her in such a mode of speech. Grace had not a moment to put two and two together, so that she might realize the meaning of what her mother had said; but nevertheless, she felt at the moment that the man, coming as he had done now, had come with all commendable speed. How foolish had she been with her wretched impatience!
There he was certainly, tying his horse up to the railing. “Mamma, what am I to say to him?”
“Nay, dear; he is your own friend—of your own making. You must say what you think fit.”
“You are not going?”
“I think we had better, dear.” Then she went, and Jane with her, and Jane opened the door for Major Grantly. Mr. Crawley himself was away, at Hoggle End, and did not return till after Major Grantly had left the parsonage. Jane, as she greeted the grand gentleman, whom she had seen and no more than seen, hardly knew what to say to him. When, after a minute’s hesitation, she told him that Grace was in there—pointing to the sitting-room door, she felt that she had been very awkward. Henry Grantly, however, did not, I think, feel her awkwardness, being conscious of some small difficulties of his own. When, however, he found that Grace was alone, the task before him at once lost half its difficulties.
“Grace,” he said, “am I right to come to you now?”
“I do not know,” she said. “I cannot tell.”
“Dearest Grace, there is no reason on earth now why you should not be my wife.”
“Is there not?”
“I know of none—if you can love me. You saw my father?”
“Yes, I saw him.”
“And you heard what he said?”
“I hardly remember what he said;—but he kissed me, and I thought he was very kind.”
What little attempt Henry Grantly then made, thinking that he could not do better than follow closely the example of so excellent a father, need not be explained with minuteness. But I think that his first effort was not successful. Grace was embarrassed and retreated, and it was not till she had been compelled to give a direct answer to a direct question that she submitted to allow his arm round her waist. But when she had answered that question she was almost more humble than becomes a maiden who has just been wooed and won. A maiden who has been wooed and won, generally thinks that it is she who has conquered, and chooses to be triumphant accordingly. But Grace was even mean enough to thank her lover. “I do not know why you should be so good to me,” she said.
“Because I love you,” said he, “better than all the world.”
“But why should you be so good to me as that? Why should you love me? I am such a poor thing for a man like you to love.”
“I have had the wit to see that you are not a poor thing, Grace; and it is thus that I have earned my treasure. Some girls are poor things, and some are rich treasures.”
“If love can make me a treasure, I will be your treasure. And if love can make me rich, I will be rich for you.” After that I think he had no difficulty in following in his father’s footsteps.
After a while Mrs. Crawley came in, and there was much pleasant talking among them, while Henry Grantly sat happily with his love, as though waiting for Mr. Crawley’s return. But though he was there nearly all the morning Mr. Crawley did not return.
“I think he likes the brickmakers better than anybody in all the world, except ourselves,” said Grace. “I don’t know how he will manage to get on without his friends.” Before Grace had said this, Major Grantly had told all his story, and had produced a letter from his father, addressed to Mr. Crawley, of which the reader shall have a copy, although at this time the letter had not been opened. The letter was as follows:—
Plumstead Rectory, — May, 186‒.
My dear Sir,
You will no doubt have heard that Mr. Harding, the vicar of St. Ewolds, who was the father of my wife and of Mrs. Arabin, has been taken from us. The loss to us of so excellent and so dear a man has been very great. I have conferred with my friend the Dean of Barchester as to a new nomination, and I venture to request your acceptance of the preferment, if it should suit you to move from Hogglestock to St. Ewolds. It may be as well that I should state plainly my reasons for making this offer to a gentleman with whom I am not personally acquainted. Mr. Harding, on his deathbed, himself suggested it, moved thereto by what he had heard of the cruel and undeserved persecution to which you have lately been subjected; as also—on which point he was very urgent in what he said—by the character which you bear in the diocese for zeal and piety. I may also add, that the close connection which, as I understand, is likely to take place between your family and mine has been an additional reason for my taking this step, and the long friendship which has existed between you and my wife’s brother-in-law, the Dean of Barchester, is a third.
St. Ewolds is worth £350 per annum, besides the house, which is sufficiently commodious for a moderate family. The population is about twelve hundred, of which more than a half consists of persons dwelling in an outskirt of
