The Last Chronicle of Barset. Anthony TrollopeЧитать онлайн книгу.
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 to-day. 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 to-day.”
“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 so many hands soiled by undeserved wealth? If the bishop did not like his shoes, let the bishop dare to tell him so! So he walked on through the thick of the mud, by no means picking his way.
He walked fast, and he found himself in the close half an hour before the time named by the bishop. But on no account would he have rung the palace bell one minute before two o’clock. So he walked up and down under the towers of the cathedral, and cooled himself, and looked up at the pleasant plate-glass in the windows of the house of his friend the dean, and told himself how, in their college days, he and the dean had been quite equal,—quite equal, except that by the voices of all qualified judges in the university, he, Mr. Crawley, had been acknowledged to be the riper scholar. And now the Mr. Arabin of those days was Dean of Barchester,—travelling abroad luxuriously at this moment for his delight, while he, Crawley, was perpetual curate at Hogglestock, and had now walked into Barchester at the command of the bishop, because he was suspected of having stolen twenty pounds! When he had fully imbued his mind with the injustice of all this, his time was up, and he walked boldly to the bishop’s gate, and boldly rang the bishop’s bell.
Chapter XVIII.
The Bishop of Barchester Is Crushed.
Who inquires why it is that a little greased flour rubbed in among the hair on a footman’s head,—just one dab here and another there,—gives such a tone of high life to the family? And seeing that the thing is so easily done, why do not more people attempt it? The tax on hair-powder is but thirteen shillings a year. It may, indeed, be that the slightest dab in the world justifies the wearer in demanding hot meat three times a day, and wine at any rate on Sundays. I think, however, that a bishop’s wife may enjoy the privilege without such heavy attendant expense; otherwise the man who opened the bishop’s door to Mr. Crawley would hardly have been so ornamented.
The man asked for a card. “My name is Mr. Crawley,” said our friend. “The bishop has desired me to come to him at this hour. Will you be pleased to tell him that I am here.” The man again asked for a card. “I am not bound to carry with me my name printed on a ticket,” said Mr. Crawley. “If you cannot remember it, give me pen and paper, and I will write it.” The servant, somewhat awed by the stranger’s manner, brought the pen and paper, and Mr. Crawley wrote his name:—
The Rev. Josiah Crawley, M.A., Perpetual Curate of Hogglestock.
He was then ushered into a waiting-room, but, to his disappointment, was not kept there waiting long. Within three minutes he was ushered into the bishop’s study, and into the presence of the two great luminaries of the diocese. He was at first somewhat disconcerted by finding Mrs. Proudie in the room. In the imaginary conversation with the bishop which he had been preparing on the road, he had conceived that the bishop would be attended by a chaplain, and he had suited his words to the joint discomfiture of the bishop and of the lower clergyman;—but now the line of his battle must be altered. This was no doubt an injury, but he trusted to his courage and readiness to enable him to surmount it. He had left his hat behind him in the waiting-room, but he kept his old short cloak still upon his shoulders; and when he entered the bishop’s room his hands and arms were hid beneath it. There was something lowly in this constrained gait. It showed at least that he had no idea of being asked to shake hands with the August persons he might meet. And his head was somewhat bowed, though his great, bald, broad forehead showed itself so prominent, that neither the bishop nor Mrs. Proudie could drop it from their sight during the whole interview. He was a man who when seen could hardly be forgotten. The deep angry remonstrant eyes, the shaggy eyebrows, telling tales of frequent anger,—of anger frequent but generally silent,—the repressed indignation of the habitual frown, the long nose and large powerful mouth, the deep furrows on the cheek, and the general look of thought and suffering, all combined to make the appearance of the man remarkable, and to describe to the beholders at once his true character. No one ever on seeing Mr. Crawley took him to be a happy man, or a weak man, or an ignorant man, or a wise man.
“You are very punctual, Mr. Crawley,” said the bishop. Mr. Crawley simply bowed his head, still keeping his hands beneath his cloak. “Will you not take a chair nearer to the fire?” Mr. Crawley had not seated himself, but had placed himself in front of a chair at the extreme end of the room,—resolved that he would not use it unless he were duly asked.
“Thank you, my lord,” he said, “I am warm with walking, and, if you please, will avoid the fire.”
“You have not walked, Mr. Crawley?”
“Yes, my lord. I have been walking.”
“Not from Hogglestock!”
Now this was a matter which Mr. Crawley certainly did not mean to discuss with the bishop. It might be well for the bishop to demand his presence in the palace, but it could be no part of the bishop’s duty to inquire how he got there. “That, my lord, is a matter of no moment,” said he. “I am glad at any rate that I have been enabled to obey your lordship’s order in coming hither on this morning.”
Hitherto Mrs. Proudie had not said a word. She stood back in the room, near the fire,—more backward a good deal than she was accustomed to do when clergymen