“He is a man whose conversation is not pleasing to me,” Mr. Crawley said to his wife that night.
“Do not judge of him too quickly, Josiah,” his wife said. “There is so much of good in him! He is kind, and generous, and I think affectionate.”
“But he is of the earth, earthy. When you and the other ladies had retired, the conversation at first fell on the habits and value of—foxes. I have been informed that in these parts the fox is greatly prized, as without a fox to run before the dogs, that scampering over the country which is called hunting, and which delights by the quickness and perhaps by the peril of the exercise, is not relished by the riders. Of the wisdom or taste herein displayed by the hunters of the day I say nothing. But it seemed to me that in talking of foxes Dr. Grantly was master of his subject. Thence the topic glided to the duties of a bishop and to questions of preaching, as to which Dr. Grantly was not slow in offering his opinion. But I thought that I would rather have heard him talk about the foxes for a week together.” She said nothing more to him, knowing well how useless it was to attempt to turn him by any argument. To her thinking the kindness of the archdeacon to them personally demanded some indulgence in the expression, and even in the formation, of an opinion, respecting his clerical peculiarities.
On the next day, however, Mr. Crawley, having been summoned by the archdeacon into the library for a little private conversation, found that he got on better with him. How the archdeacon conquered him may perhaps be best described by a further narration of what Mr. Crawley said to his wife. “I told him that in regard to money matters, as he called them, I had nothing to say. I only trusted that his son was aware that my daughter had no money, and never would have any. ‘My dear Crawley,’ the archdeacon said—for of late there seems to have grown up in the world a habit of greater familiarity than that which I think did prevail when last I moved much among men;—‘my dear Crawley, I have enough for both.’ ‘I would we stood on more equal grounds,’ I said. Then as he answered me, he rose from his chair. ‘We stand,’ said he, ‘on the only perfect level on which such men can meet each other. We are both gentlemen.’ ‘Sir,’ I said, rising also, ‘from the bottom of my heart I agree with you. I could not have spoken such words; but coming from you who are rich to me who am poor, they are honourable to the one and comfortable to the other.’ ”
“And after that?”
“He took down from the shelves a volume of sermons which his father published many years ago, and presented it to me. I have it now under my arm. It hath the old bishop’s manuscript notes, which I will study carefully.” And thus the archdeacon had hit his bird on both wings.
LXXXIV
Conclusion
It now only remains for me to gather together a few loose strings, and tie them together in a knot, so that my work may not become untwisted. Early in July, Henry Grantly and Grace Crawley were married in the parish church of Plumstead—a great impropriety, as to which neither Archdeacon Grantly nor Mr. Crawley could be got to assent for a long time, but which was at last carried, not simply by a union of Mrs. Grantly and Mrs. Crawley, nor even by the assistance of Mrs. Arabin, but by the strong intervention of old Lady Lufton herself. “Of course Miss Crawley ought to be married from St. Ewolds vicarage; but when the furniture has only half been got in, how is it possible?” When Lady Lufton thus spoke, the archdeacon gave way, and Mr. Crawley hadn’t a leg to stand upon. Henry Grantly had not an opinion upon the matter. He told his father that he expected that they would marry him among them, and that that would be enough for him. As for Grace, nobody even thought of asking her; and I doubt whether she would have heard anything about the contest, had not some tidings of it reached her from her lover. Married they were at Plumstead—and the breakfast was given with all that luxuriance of plenty which was so dear to the archdeacon’s mind. Mr. Crawley was the officiating priest. With his hands dropping before him, folded humbly, he told the archdeacon—when that Plumstead question had been finally settled in opposition to his wishes—that he would fain himself perform the ceremony by which his dearest daughter would be bound to her marriage duties. “And who else should?” said the archdeacon. Mr. Crawley muttered that he had not known how far his reverend brother might have been willing to waive his rights. But the archdeacon, who was in high good humour—having just bestowed a little pony carriage on his new daughter-in-law—only laughed at him; and, if the rumour which was handed about the families be true, the archdeacon, before the interview was over, had poked Mr. Crawley in the ribs. Mr. Crawley married them; but the archdeacon assisted—and the dean gave away the bride. The Rev. Charles Grantly was there also; and as there was, as a matter of course, a cloud of curates floating in the distance, Henry Grantly was perhaps to be excused for declaring to his wife, when the pair had escaped, that surely no couple had ever been so tightly buckled since marriage had first become a Church ceremony.
Soon after that, Mr. and Mrs. Crawley became quiet at St. Ewolds, and, as I think, contented. Her happiness began very quickly. Though she had been greatly broken by her troubles, the first sight she had of her husband in his new long frock-coat went far to restore her, and while
