第159章

He went down among the brickmakers on the following morning, leaving the house almost without a morsel of food, and he remained at Hoggle End for the greater part of the day. There were sick persons there with whom he prayed, and then he sat talking with rough men while they ate their dinners, and he read passages from the Bible to women while they washed their husband's clothes. And for a while he sat with a little girl in his lap teaching the child her alphabet. If it were possible for him he would do his duty. He would spare himself in nothing, though he might suffer even to fainting. And on this occasion he did suffer--almost to fainting, for as he returned home in the afternoon he was forced to lean from time to time against the banks on the road-side, while the cold sweat of weakness trickled down his face, in order that he might recover strength to go on a few yards. But he would persevere. If God would but leave to him mind enough for his work, he would go on. No personal suffering should deter him. He told himself that there had been men in the world whose sufferings were sharper even than his own. Of what sort had been the life of the man who had stood for years at the top of a pillar? But then the man on the pillar had been honoured by all around him. And thus, though he had thought of the man on the pillar to encourage himself be remembering how lamentable had been that man's sufferings, he came to reflect that after all his own sufferings were perhaps keener than those of the man on the pillar.

When he reached home, he was very ill. There was no doubt about it then. He staggered to his arm-chair, and stared at his wife first, and then smiled at her with his ghastly smile. He trembled all over, and when food was brought to him he could not eat it. Early on the next morning the doctor was by his bedside, and before that evening came he was delirious. He had been at intervals in this state for nearly two days, when Mrs Crawley wrote to Grace, and though she had restrained herself telling everything, she had written with sufficient strength to bring Grace at once to her father's bedside.

He was not so ill when Grace arrived home but that he knew her, and he seemed to received some comfort from her coming. Before she had been in the house an hour she was reading Greek to him, and there was no wandering in his mind as to the due emphasis to be given to the plaints of the injured heroines, or as to the proper meaning of the choruses.

And as he lay with his head half buried in the pillows, he shouted out long passages, lines from tragic plays by the score, and for a while seemed to have all the enjoyment of a dear old pleasure placed newly within his reach. But he tired of this after a while, and then, having looked round to see that his wife was not in the room, he began to talk of himself.

'So you have been to Allington, my dear?'

'Yes, papa.'

'Is it a pretty place?'

'Yes, papa;--very pretty.'

'And they were good to you?'

'Yes, papa;--very good.'

'Had they heard anything there about--me; of this trial that is to come on?'

'Yes, papa; they had heard of it.'

'And what did they say? You need not think that you will shock me by telling me. They cannot say worse there than people have said here or think worse.'

'They don't think at all badly of you at Allington, papa.'

'But they must think badly of me if the magistrates are right.'

'They suppose that there has been a mistake;--as we all think.'

'They do not try men at the assizes for mistakes.'

'That you have been mistaken, I mean;--and the magistrates mistaken.'

'But cannot have been mistaken, Grace.'

'I don't know how to explain myself, papa; but we all know that it is very sad, and are quite sure that you have never meant for one moment to do anything that is wrong.'

'But people when they are--you know what I mean, Grace; when they are not themselves--do things that are wrong without meaning it.' Then he paused, while she remained standing by him with her hand on the back of his. She was looking at his face, which had been turned towards her while they were reading together, but which now was so far moved that she knew that his eyes could not be fixed upon hers. 'Of course if the bishop orders it, it shall be so,' he said. 'It is quite enough for me that he is a bishop.'

'What has the bishop ordered, papa?'

'Nothing at all. It is she who does it. He has given me no opinion about it. Of course not. He has none to give. It is the woman. You go and tell her from me that in such a matter I will not obey the word of any woman living. Go at once, when I tell you.'

Then she knew that her father's mind was wandering, and she knelt down by the bedside, still holding his hand.

'Grace,' he said.

'Yes, papa, I am here.'

'Why do you not do what I tell you?' And he sat upright in his bed. 'Isuppose you are afraid of the woman.'

'I should be afraid of her, dear papa.'

'I was not afraid of her. When she spoke to me, I would have nothing to say to her;--not a word;--not a word.' As he said this, he waved his hands about. 'But as for him--if it must be, it must. I know I am not fit for it. Of course I am not. Who is? But what has he ever done that he should be dean? I beat him at everything; almost at everything. He got the Newdigate, and that was about all. Upon my word I think that was all.'

'But Dr Arabin loves you truly, dear papa.'

'Love me! psha! Does he ever come here to tea, as he used to do? No!

I remember buttering toast for him down on my knees before the fire, because he liked it--and keeping all the cream for him. He should have my heart's blood if he wanted it. But now;--look at his books, Grace.

It's the outside of them he cares for. They are all gilt, but I doubt if he ever reads. As for her--I will not allow any woman to tell me my duty. No;--but my Maker; not even your mother, who is the best of women. And as for her, with her little husband dangling at her apron-strings, as a call-whistle to be blown into when she pleases--that she should dare to teach me my duty! No! The men in the jury-box may decide how they will. If they can believe a plain story, let them! If not--let them do as they please. I am ready to bear it all.'