"About what, Mr. Crawley?"
"Whether you think that I may be allowed, without scandal, to visit the sick,—and to give instruction in the school."
"Surely;—surely, Mr. Crawley. Why not?"
"Mr. Thumble gave me to understand that the bishop was very urgent that I should interfere in no way in the ministrations of the parish. Twice did he enjoin on me that I should not interfere,—unnecessarily, as it seemed to me."
"Quite unnecessary," said Mr. Snapper. "And the bishop will be obliged to you, Mr. Crawley, if you'll just see that the things go on all straight."
"I wish it were possible to know with accuracy what his idea of straightness is," said Mr. Crawley to his wife. "It may be that things are straight to him when they are buried as it were out of sight, and put away without trouble. I hope it be not so with the bishop." When he went into his school and remembered,—as he did remember through every minute of his teaching—that he was to receive no portion of the poor stipend which was allotted for the clerical duties of the parish, he told himself that there was gross injustice in the way in which things were being made straight at Hogglestock.
But we must go back to the major and to the archdeacon at Plumstead,—in which comfortable parish things were generally made straight more easily than at Hogglestock. Henry Grantly went over from Barchester to Plumstead in a gig from the "Dragon," and made his way at once into his father's study. The archdeacon was seated there with sundry manuscripts before him, and with one half-finished manuscript,—as was his wont on every Saturday morning. "Halloo, Harry," he said. "I didn't expect you in the least." It was barely an hour since he had told Mrs. Grantly that his complaint against his son was that he wouldn't come and make himself comfortable at the rectory.
"Father," said he, giving the archdeacon his hand, "you have heard nothing yet about Mr. Crawley?"
"No," said the archdeacon jumping up; "nothing new;—what is it?" Many ideas about Mr. Crawley at that moment flitted across the archdeacon's mind. Could it be that the unfortunate man had committed suicide, overcome by his troubles?
"It has all come out. He got the cheque from my aunt."
"From your aunt Eleanor?"
"Yes; from my aunt Eleanor. She has telegraphed over from Venice to say that she gave the identical cheque to Crawley. That is
