“I’ve got rather a headache this evening, sir,” said the major.
The archdeacon drank two glasses of wine, one after another, quickly. Then he woke his father-in-law gently, and went off.
“Is there anything the matter?” asked the old man.
“Nothing particular. My father seems to be a little cross.”
“Ah! I’ve been to sleep and I oughtn’t. It’s my fault. We’ll go in and smooth him down.” But the archdeacon wouldn’t be smoothed down on that occasion. He would let his son see the difference between a father pleased, and a father displeased—or rather between a father pleasant, and a father unpleasant.
“He hasn’t said anything to you, has he?” said the archdeacon that night to his wife.
“Not a word;—as yet.”
“If he does it without the courage to tell us, I shall think him a cur,” said the archdeacon.
“But he did tell you,” said Mrs. Grantly, standing up for her favourite son; “and, for the matter of that, he has courage enough for anything. If he does it, I shall always say that he has been driven to it by your threats.”
“That’s sheer nonsense,” said the archdeacon.
“It’s not nonsense at all,” said Mrs. Grantly.
“Then I suppose I was to hold my tongue and say nothing?” said the archdeacon; and as he spoke he banged the door between his dressing-room and Mrs. Grantly’s bedroom.
On the first day of the new year Major Grantly spoke his mind to his mother. The archdeacon had gone into Barchester, having in vain attempted to induce his son to go with him. Mr. Harding was in the library reading a little and sleeping a little, and dreaming of old days and old friends, and perhaps, sometimes, of the old wine. Mrs. Grantly was alone in a small sitting-room which she frequented upstairs, when suddenly her son entered the room. “Mother,” he said, “I think it better to tell you that I am going to Allington.”
“To Allington, Henry?” She knew very well who was at Allington, and what must be the business which would take him there.
“Yes, mother. Miss Crawley is there, and there are circumstances which make it incumbent on me to see her without delay.”
“What circumstances, Henry?”
“As I intend to ask her to be my wife, I think it best to do so now. I owe it to her and to myself that she should not think that I am deterred by her father’s position.”
“But would it not be reasonable that you should be deterred by her father’s position?”
“No, I think not. I think it would be dishonest as well as ungenerous. I cannot bring myself to brook such delay. Of course I am alive to the misfortune which has fallen upon her—upon her and me, too, should she ever become my wife. But it is one of those burdens which a man should have shoulders broad enough to bear.”
“Quite so, if she were your wife, or even if you were engaged to her. Then honour would require it of you, as well as affection. As it is, your honour does not require it, and I think you should hesitate, for all our sakes, and especially for Edith’s.”
“It will do Edith no harm; and, mother, if you alone were concerned, I think you would feel that it would not hurt you.”
“I was not thinking of myself, Henry.”
“As for my father, the very threats which he has used make me conscious that I have only to measure the price. He has told me that he will stop my allowance.”
“But that may not be the worst. Think how you are situated. You are the younger son of a man who will be held to be justified in making an elder son, if he thinks fit to do so.”
“I can only hope that he will be fair to Edith. If you will tell him that from me, it is all that I will ask you to do.”
“But you will see him yourself?”
“No, mother; not till I have been to Allington. Then I will see him again or not, just as he pleases. I shall stop at Guestwick, and will write to you a line from thence. If my father decides on doing anything, let me know at once, as it will be necessary that I should get rid of the lease of my house.”
“Oh, Henry!”
“I have thought a great deal about it, mother, and I believe I am right. Whether I am right or wrong, I shall do it. I will not ask you now for any promise or pledge; but should Miss Crawley become my wife, I hope that you at least will not refuse to see her as your daughter.” Having so spoken, he kissed his mother, and was about to leave the room; but she held him by his arm, and he saw that her eyes were full of tears. “Dearest mother, if I grieve you I am sorry indeed.”
“Not me, not me, not me,” she said.
“For my father, I cannot help it. Had he not threatened me I should have told him also. As he has done so, you must tell him. But give him my kindest love.”
“Oh, Henry; you will be ruined. You will, indeed. Can you not wait? Remember how headstrong your father is, and yet how good;—and how he loves you! Think of all that he has done for you. When did he refuse you anything?”
“He has been good to me, but in this I cannot obey him. He should not ask me.”
“You are wrong. You are indeed. He has a right to expect that you will not bring disgrace upon the family.”
“Nor will I;—except such disgrace as may attend upon poverty. Goodbye, mother. I wish you could have said one kind word to me.”
“Have I not said a kind word?”
“Not as yet, mother.”
“I would not for worlds speak unkindly to you. If it were not for your father I would bid you bring whom you pleased home to me as your wife; and I would
