The Last Chronicle of Barset

archdeacon, with that benevolent sadness which is used habitually by fathers on such occasions; “and I like you to know what it is that I am doing. I told Charles about the London property the last time I was up,” said the archdeacon, “and there shall be no difference between him and you, if all goes well.” This was very good-natured on the archdeacon’s part, and was not strictly necessary, as Charles was the eldest son; but the major understood it perfectly. “There shall be an elysium opened to you, if only you will not do that terrible thing of which you spoke when last here.” The archdeacon uttered no such words as these, and did not even allude to Grace Crawley; but the words were as good as spoken, and had they been spoken ever so plainly the major could not have understood them more clearly. He was quite awake to the loveliness of the elysium opened before him. He had had his moment of anxiety, whether his father would or would not make an elder son of his brother Charles. The whole thing was now put before him plainly. Give up Grace Crawley, and you shall share alike with your brother. Disgrace yourself by marrying her, and your brother shall have everything. There was the choice, and it was still open to him to take which side he pleased. Were he never to go near Grace Crawley again no one would blame him, unless it were Miss Prettyman or Mrs. Thorne. “Fill your glass, Henry,” said the archdeacon. “You’d better, I tell you, for there is no more of it left.” Then the major filled his glass and sipped the wine, and swore to himself that he would go down to Allington at once. What! Did his father think to bribe him by giving him ’20 port? He would certainly go down to Allington, and he would tell his mother tomorrow morning, or certainly on the next day, what he was going to do. “Pity it should be all gone; isn’t it, sir?” said the archdeacon to his father-in-law. “It has lasted my time,” said Mr. Harding, “and I’m very much obliged to it. Dear, dear; how well I remember your father giving the order for it! There were two pipes, and somebody said it was a heady wine. ‘If the prebendaries and rectors can’t drink it,’ said your father, ‘the curates will.’ ”

“Curates indeed!” said the archdeacon. “It’s too good for a bishop, unless one of the right sort.”

“Your father used to say those things, but with him the poorer the guest the better the cheer. When he had a few clergymen round him, how he loved to make them happy!”

“Never talked shop to them⁠—did he?” said the archdeacon.

“Not after dinner, at any rate. Goodness gracious, when one thinks of it! Do you remember how we used to play cards?”

“Every night regularly;⁠—threepenny points, and sixpence on the rubber,” said the archdeacon.

“Dear, dear! How things are changed! And I remember when the clergymen did more of the dancing in Barchester than all the other young men in the city put together.”

“And a good set they were;⁠—gentlemen every one of them. It’s well that some of them don’t dance now;⁠—that is, for the girls’ sake.”

“I sometimes sit and wonder,” said Mr. Harding, “whether your father’s spirit ever comes back to the old house and sees the changes⁠—and if so whether he approves them.”

“Approves them!” said the archdeacon.

“Well;⁠—yes. I think he would, upon the whole. I’m sure of this: he would not disapprove, because the new ways are changed from his ways. He never thought himself infallible. And do you know, my dear, I am not sure that it isn’t all for the best. I sometimes think that some of us were very idle when we were young. I was, I know.”

“I worked hard enough,” said the archdeacon.

“Ah, yes; you. But most of us took it very easily. Dear, dear! When I think of it, and see how hard they work now, and remember what pleasant times we used to have⁠—I don’t feel sometimes quite sure.”

“I believe the work was done a great deal better than it is now,” said the archdeacon. “There wasn’t so much fuss, but there was more reality. And men were men, and clergymen were gentlemen.”

“Yes;⁠—they were gentlemen.”

“Such a creature as that old woman at the palace couldn’t have held his head up among us. That’s what has come from Reform. A reformed House of Commons makes Lord Brock Prime Minister, and then your Prime Minister makes Dr. Proudie a bishop! Well;⁠—it will last my time, I suppose.”

“It has lasted mine⁠—like the wine,” said Mr. Harding.

“There’s one glass more, and you shall have it, sir.” Then Mr. Harding drank the last glass of the 1820 port, and they went into the drawing-room.

On the next morning after breakfast the major went out for a walk by himself. His father had suggested to him that he should go over to shoot at Framley, and had offered him the use of everything the archdeaconry possessed in the way of horses, dogs, guns and carriages. But the major would have none of these things. He would go out and walk by himself.

“He’s not thinking of her; is he?” said the archdeacon to his wife, in a whisper.

“I don’t know. I think he is,” said Mrs. Grantly.

“It will be so much the better for Charles, if he does,” said the archdeacon grimly; and the look of his face as he spoke was by no means pleasant.

“You will do nothing unjust, archdeacon,” said his wife.

“I will do as I like with my own,” said he. And then he also went out and took a walk by himself.

That evening after dinner, there was no 1820 port, and no recollections of old days. They were rather dull, the three of them, as they sat together⁠—and dullness is always more unendurable than sadness. Old Mr. Harding went to sleep and the archdeacon was cross. “Henry,” he