The Last Chronicle of Barset

take a seat back again. Now Framley Mill was only half a mile off the direct road to Barchester, and was almost halfway from Hogglestock parsonage to the city. This would, at any rate, bring the walk within a practicable distance. Mr. Crawley was instantly placed upon his guard, like an animal that sees the bait and suspects the trap. Had he been told that farmer Mangle was going all the way to Barchester, nothing would have induced him to get into the cart. He would have felt sure that farmer Mangle had been persuaded to pity him in his poverty and his strait, and he would sooner have started to walk to London than have put a foot upon the step of the cart. But this lift halfway did look to him as though it were really fortuitous. His wife could hardly have been cunning enough to persuade the farmer to go to Framley, conscious that the trap would have been suspected had the bait been made more full. But I fear⁠—I fear the dear good woman had been thus cunning⁠—had understood how far the trap might be baited, and had thus succeeded in catching her prey.

On the following morning he consented to get into farmer Mangle’s cart, and was driven as far as Framley Mill. “I wouldn’t think nowt, your reverence, of running you over into Barchester⁠—that I wouldn’t. The powny is so mortial good,” said farmer Mangle in his foolish good-nature.

“And how about your business here?” said Mr. Crawley. The farmer scratched his head, remembering all Mrs. Crawley’s injunctions, and awkwardly acknowledged that to be sure his own business with the miller was very pressing. Then Mr. Crawley descended, terribly suspicious, and went on his journey.

“Anyways, your reverence will call for me coming back?” said farmer Mangle. But Mr. Crawley would make no promise. He bade the farmer not wait for him. If they chanced to meet together on the road he might get up again. If the man really had business at Framley, how could he have offered to go on to Barchester? Were they deceiving him? The wife of his bosom had deceived him in such matters before now. But his trouble in this respect was soon dissipated by the pride of his anticipated triumph over the bishop. He took great glory from the thought that he would go before the bishop with dirty boots⁠—with boots necessarily dirty⁠—with rusty pantaloons, that he would be hot and mud-stained with his walk, hungry, and an object to be wondered at by all who should see him, because of the misfortunes which had been unworthily heaped upon his head; whereas the bishop would be sleek and clean and well-fed⁠—pretty with all the prettinesses that are becoming to a bishop’s outward man. And he, Mr. Crawley, would be humble, whereas the bishop would be very proud. And the bishop would be in his own armchair⁠—the cock in his own farmyard, while he, Mr. Crawley, would be seated afar off, in the cold extremity of the room, with nothing of outward circumstances to assist him⁠—a man called thither to undergo censure. And yet he would take the bishop in his grasp and crush him⁠—crush him⁠—crush him! As he thought of this he walked quickly through the mud, and put out his long arm and his great hand, far before him out into the air, and, there and then, he crushed the bishop in his imagination. Yes, indeed! He thought it very doubtful whether the bishop would ever send for him a second time. As all this passed through his mind, he forgot his wife’s cunning, and farmer Mangle’s sin, and for the moment he was happy.

As he turned a corner round by Lord Lufton’s park paling, who should he meet but his old friend Mr. Robarts, the parson of Framley⁠—the parson who had committed the sin of being bail for him⁠—the sin, that is, according to Mrs. Proudie’s view of the matter. He was walking with his hand still stretched out⁠—still crushing the bishop, when Mr. Robarts was close upon him.

“What, Crawley! upon my word I am very glad to see you; you are coming up to me, of course?”

“Thank you, Mr. Robarts; no, not today. The bishop has summoned me to his presence, and I am on my road to Barchester.”

“But how are you going?”

“I shall walk.”

“Walk to Barchester. Impossible!”

“I hope not quite impossible, Mr. Robarts. I trust I shall get as far before two o’clock; but to do so I must be on my road.” Then he showed signs of a desire to go on upon his way without further parley.

“But, Crawley, do let me send you over. There is the horse and gig doing nothing.”

“Thank you, Mr. Robarts; no. I should prefer the walk today.”

“And you have walked from Hogglestock?”

“No;⁠—not so. A neighbour coming hither, who happened to have business at your mill⁠—he brought me so far in his cart. The walk home will be nothing⁠—nothing. I shall enjoy it. Good morning, Mr. Robarts.”

But Mr. Robarts thought of the dirty road, and of the bishop’s presence, and of his own ideas of what would be becoming for a clergyman⁠—and persevered. “You will find the lanes so very muddy; and our bishop, you know, is apt to notice such things. Do be persuaded.”

“Notice what things?” demanded Mr. Crawley, in an indignant tone.

“He, or perhaps she rather, will say how dirty your shoes were when you came to the palace.”

“If he, or she, can find nothing unclean about me but my shoes, let them say their worst. I shall be very indifferent. I have long ceased, Mr. Robarts, to care much what any man or woman may say about my shoes. Good morning.” Then he stalked on, clutching and crushing in his hand the bishop, and the bishop’s wife, and the whole diocese⁠—and all the Church of England. Dirty shoes, indeed! Whose was the fault that there were in the church so many feet soiled by unmerited poverty, and