The Last Chronicle of Barset. Anthony Trollope

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СКАЧАТЬ always does that to all the family toasts on Christmas Day. Your uncle likes it.”

      “That wasn’t a family toast, and John Bates had no right to drink it.”

      After dinner they all played cards,—a round game,—and the squire put in the stakes. “Now, Grace,” said Lily, “you are the visitor and you must win, or else uncle Christopher won’t be happy. He always likes a young lady visitor to win.”

      “But I never played a game of cards in my life.”

      “Go and sit next to him and he’ll teach you. Uncle Christopher, won’t you teach Grace Crawley? She never saw a Pope Joan board in her life before.”

      “Come here, my dear, and sit next to me. Dear, dear, dear; fancy Henry Grantly having a little girl. What a handsome lad he was. And it seems only yesterday.” If it was so that Lily had said a word to her uncle about Grace and the major, the old squire had become on a sudden very sly. Be that as it may, Grace Crawley thought that he was a pleasant old man; and though, while talking to him about Edith, she persisted in not learning to play Pope Joan, so that he could not contrive that she should win, nevertheless the squire took to her very kindly, and told her to come up with Lily and see him sometimes while she was staying at the Small House. The squire in speaking of his sister-in-law’s cottage always called it the Small House.

      “Only think of my winning,” said Lady Julia, drawing together her wealth. “Well, I’m sure I want it bad enough, for I don’t at all know whether I’ve got any income of my own. It’s all John Eames’ fault, my dear, for he won’t go and make those people settle it in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.” Poor Lily, who was standing on the hearthrug, touched her mother’s arm. She knew that Johnny’s name was lugged in with reference to Lady Julia’s money altogether for her benefit. “I wonder whether she ever had a Johnny of her own,” she said to her mother, “and, if so, whether she liked it when her friends sent the town-crier round to talk about him.”

      “She means to be goodnatured,” said Mrs. Dale.

      “Of course she does. But it is such a pity when people won’t understand.”

      “My uncle didn’t bite you after all, Grace,” said Lily to her friend as they were going home at night, by the pathway which led from the garden of one house to the garden of the other.

      “I like Mr. Dale very much,” said Grace. “He was very kind to me.”

      “There is some queer-looking animal of whom they say that he is better than he looks, and I always think of that saying when I think of my uncle.”

      “For shame, Lily,” said her mother. “Your uncle, for his age, is as good a looking man as I know. And he always looks like just what he is,—an English gentleman.”

      “I didn’t mean to say a word against his dear old face and figure, mamma; but his heart, and mind, and general disposition, as they come out in experience and days of trial, are so much better than the samples of them which he puts out on the counter for men and women to judge by. He wears well, and he washes well,—if you know what I mean, Grace.”

      “Yes; I think I know what you mean.”

      “The Apollos of the world,—I don’t mean in outward looks, mamma,—but the Apollos in heart, the men,—and the women too,—who are so full of feeling, so soft-natured, so kind, who never say a cross word, who never get out of bed on the wrong side in the morning,—it so often turns out that they won’t wash.”

      Such was the expression of Miss Lily Dale’s experience.

Chapter XVII.

       Mr. Crawley Is Summoned to Barchester

       Table of Contents

      The scene which occurred in Hogglestock church on the Sunday after Mr. Thumble’s first visit to that parish had not been described with absolute accuracy either by the archdeacon in his letter to his son, or by Mrs. Thorne. There had been no footman from the palace in attendance on Mr. Thumble, nor had there been a battle with the brickmakers; neither had Mr. Thumble been put under the pump. But Mr. Thumble had gone over, taking his gown and surplice with him, on the Sunday morning, and had intimated to Mr. Crawley his intention of performing the service. Mr. Crawley, in answer to this, had assured Mr. Thumble that he would not be allowed to open his mouth in the church; and Mr. Thumble, not seeing his way to any further successful action, had contented himself with attending the services in his surplice, making thereby a silent protest that he, and not Mr. Crawley, ought to have been in the reading-desk and the pulpit.

      When Mr. Thumble reported himself and his failure at the palace, he strove hard to avoid seeing Mrs. Proudie, but not successfully. He knew something of the palace habits, and did manage to reach the bishop alone on the Sunday evening, justifying himself to his lordship for such an interview by the remarkable circumstances of the case and the importance of his late mission. Mrs. Proudie always went to church on Sunday evenings, making a point of hearing three services and three sermons every Sunday of her life. On weekdays she seldom heard any, having an idea that weekday services were an invention of the High Church enemy, and that they should therefore be vehemently discouraged. Services on saints’ days she regarded as rank papacy, and had been known to accuse a clergyman’s wife, to her face, of idolatry, because the poor lady had dated a letter, St. John’s Eve. Mr. Thumble, on this Sunday evening, was successful in finding the bishop at home, and alone, but he was not lucky enough to get away before Mrs. Proudie returned. The bishop, perhaps, thought that the story of the failure had better reach his wife’s ears from Mr. Thumble’s lips than from his own.

      “Well, Mr. Thumble?” said Mrs. Proudie, walking into the study, armed in her full Sunday-evening winter panoply, in which she had just descended from her carriage. The church which Mrs. Proudie attended in the evening was nearly half a mile from the palace, and the coachman and groom never got a holiday on Sunday night. She was gorgeous in a dark brown silk dress of awful stiffness and terrible dimensions; and on her shoulders she wore a short cloak of velvet and fur, very handsome withal, but so swelling in its proportions on all sides as necessarily to create more of dismay than of admiration in the mind of any ordinary man. And her bonnet was a monstrous helmet with the beaver up, displaying the awful face of the warrior, always ready for combat, and careless to guard itself from attack. The large contorted bows which she bore were as a grisly crest upon her casque, beautiful, doubtless, but majestic and fear-compelling. In her hand she carried her armour all complete, a prayerbook, a bible, and a book of hymns. These the footman had brought for her to the study door, but she had thought fit to enter her husband’s room with them in her own custody.

      “Well, Mr. Thumble!” she said.

      Mr. Thumble did not answer at once, thinking, probably, that the bishop might choose to explain the circumstances. But, neither did the bishop say any thing.

      “Well, Mr. Thumble?” she said again; and then she stood looking at the man who had failed so disastrously.

      “I have explained to the bishop,” said he. “Mr. Crawley has been contumacious,—very contumacious indeed.”

      “But you preached at Hogglestock?”

      “No, indeed, Mrs. Proudie. Nor would it have been possible, unless I had had the police to assist me.”

      “Then you should have had the police. I never СКАЧАТЬ