The Last Chronicle of Barset by Anthony Trollope Page A

neighbouring squire; but she herself was conscious of the struggle, and the fact of there being a struggle produced failure. The rector’s servants treated the daughter of the house with special awe, and the marchioness herself moved, and spoke, and ate, and drank with a cold magnificence, which I think had become a second nature with her, but which was not on that account the less oppressive. Even the archdeacon, who enjoyed something in that which was so disagreeable to his wife, felt a relief when he was left alone after dinner with his son. He felt relieved as his son got up to open the door for his mother and sister, but was aware at the same time that he had before him a most difficult and possibly a most disastrous task. His dear son Henry was not a man to be talked smoothly out of, or into, any propriety. He had a will of his own, and having hitherto been a successful man, who in youth had fallen into few youthful troubles – who had never justified his father in using stern parental authority – was not now inclined to bend his neck. ‘Henry,’ said the archdeacon, ‘what are you drinking? That’s ’34 port, but it’s not just what it should be. Shall I send for another bottle?’
    â€˜It will do for me, sir. I shall only take a glass.’
    â€˜I shall drink two or three glasses of claret. But you young fellows have become so desperately temperate.’
    â€˜We take our wine at dinner, sir.’
    â€˜By-the-by, how well Griselda is looking.’
    â€˜Yes, she is. It’s always easy for women to look well when they’re rich.’ How would Grace Crawley look, then, who was poor as poverty itself, and who should remain poor, if his son was fool enough to marry her? That was the train of thought which ran through the archdeacon’s mind. ‘I do not think much of riches,’ said he, ‘but it is always well that a gentleman’s wife or a gentleman’s daughter should have a sufficiency to maintain her position in life.’
    â€˜You may say the same, sir, of everybody’s wife and everybody’s daughter.’
    â€˜You know what I mean, Henry.’
    â€˜I am not quite sure that I do, sir.’
    â€˜Perhaps I had better speak out at once. A rumour has reached your mother and me, which we don’t believe for a moment, but which, nevertheless, makes us unhappy even as a report. They say that there is a young woman living in Silverbridge to whom you are becoming attached.’
    â€˜Is there any reason why I should not become attached to a young woman in Silverbridge? – though I hope any young woman to whom I may become attached will be worthy at any rate of being called a young lady.’
    â€˜I hope so, Henry; I hope so. I do hope so.’
    â€˜So much I will promise, sir; but I will promise nothing more.’
    The archdeacon looked across into his son’s face, and his heart sank within him. His son’s voice and his son’s eyes seemed to tell him two things. They seemed to tell him, firstly, that the rumour about Grace Crawley was true; and, secondly, that the major was resolved not to be talked out of his folly. ‘But you are not engaged to anyone, are you?’ said the archdeacon. The son did not at first make any answer, and then the father repeated the question. ‘Considering our mutual positions, Henry, I think you ought to tell me if you are engaged.’
    â€˜I am not engaged. Had I become so, I should have taken the first opportunity of telling either you or my mother.’
    â€˜Thank God. Now, my dear boy, I can speak out more plainly. Theyoung woman whose name I have heard is daughter to that Mr Crawley who is perpetual curate at Hogglestock. I knew that there could be nothing in it.’
    â€˜But there is something in it, sir.’
    â€˜What is there in it? Do not keep me in suspense, Henry. What is it you mean?’
    â€˜It is rather hard to be cross-questioned