Tommy Wilkins and the Black Smilies (The Elysium Trilogy Book 1)

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When he started, the marchioness had not yet come downstairs; but at eleven she breakfasted, and at twelve she also was taken away. The tidings which she brought home with her to her husband were very grievous. The magistrates would sit on the next Thursday — it was then Friday — and Mr Crawley had better appear before them to answer the charge made by Mr Soames. He would be served with a summons, which he would obey of his own accord. There had been many points very closely discussed between Walker and Mrs Crawley, as to which there had been great difficulty in the choice of words which should be tender enough to convey to her the very facts as they stood.

Would Mr Crawley come, or must a policeman be sent to fetch him? The magistrate had already issued a warrant for his apprehension. Could Mrs Crawley undertake to say that he would appear? Mrs Crawley did undertake either that her husband should appear on the Thursday, or else that she would send over in the early part of the week and declare her inability to ensure his appearance. In that case it was understood the policeman must come.

Then Mr Walker had suggested that Mr Crawley had better employ a lawyer. He was of course obliged to explain that he was already employed on the other side.

Mr Soames had secured his services, and though he was willing to do all in his power to mitigate the sufferings of the family, he could not abandon the duty he had undertaken. Mrs Crawley would not allow herself to be driven up to the garden gate before her own house, but had left the carriage some three hundred yards off down the road and from thence she walked home.

It was now quite dark. It was nearly six in the evening on a wet December night, and although cloaks and shawls had been supplied to her, she was wet and cold when she reached her home. But at such a moment, anxious as she was to prevent the additional evil which would come to them from illness to herself she could not pass through to her room till she had spoken to her husband. He was sitting in the one sitting-room on the left side of the passage as the house was entered, and with him was their daughter Jane, a girl now nearly sixteen years of age.

There was no light in the room, and hardly more than a spark of fire showed in the grate. The father was sitting on one side of the hearth, in an old arm-chair, and there he had sat for the last hour without speaking. His daughter had been in and out of the room, and had endeavoured to gain his attention now and again by a word, but he had never answered her, and had not even noticed her presence.

She had tried to get her hand into his, but he had either been unaware of the attempt, or rejected it. Get a light out of the kitchen, Jane, and I will go upstairs in two minutes. Mr Walker is the attorney, I believe. Josiah, let us do the best we can in this trouble. We have had others as heavy before.

Well; what am I to do? Am I to go to prison — tonight? It was a wretched, poverty-stricken room. By degrees the carpet had disappeared, which had been laid down some nine or ten years since, when they had first come to Hogglestock, and which even then had not been new. Now nothing but a poor fragment of it remained in front of the fire-place.

In the middle of the room there was a table which had once been large; but one flap of it was gone altogether, and the other flap sloped grievously towards the floor, the weakness of old age having fallen into its legs. There were two or three smaller tables about, but they stood propped against walls, thence obtaining a security which their own strength would not give them. The man who had made it, some time in the last century, had intended it to be a locked guardian for domestic documents, and the receptacle for all that was most private in the house of some paterfamilias.

There were there two odd volumes of Euripides, a Greek Testament, an Odyssey, a duodecimo Pindar, and a miniature Anacreon. There was half a Horace — the two first books of the Odes at the beginning and the De Arte Poetica at the end having disappeared. All these were piled upon the secretary, with many others — odd volumes of sermons and the like; but the Greek and Latin lay at the top, and showed signs of frequent use. There was one arm-chair in the room — a Windsor chair, as such used to be called, made soft by an old cushion in the back, in which Mr Crawley sat when both he and his wife were in the room, and Mrs Crawley when he was absent.

And there was an old horsehair sofa — now almost denuded of its horsehair — but that, like the tables required the assistance of a friendly wall. Then there was a half a dozen of other chairs — all of different sorts — and they completed the furniture of the room. It was not such a room as one would wish to see inhabited by an beneficed clergyman of the Church of England; but they who know what money will do and what it will not, will understand how easily a man with a family, and with a hundred and thirty pounds a year, may be brought to the need of inhabiting such a chamber.

When it is remembered that three pounds of meat a day, at ninepence a pound, will cost over forty pounds a year, there need be no difficulty in understanding that it may be so. Bread for such a family must cost at least twenty-five pounds. Clothes for five persons of whom one must at any rate wear the raiment of a gentleman, can hardly be found for less than ten pounds a year a head.

Then there remains fifteen pounds for tea, sugar, beer, wages, education, amusements and the like.

In such circumstances a gentleman can hardly pay much for the renewal of furniture! I will be there in two minutes, when I have had a word with your papa. You will do that? Only you must promise that you will be there. I have promised for you. You will go; will you not? Mr Walker has promised that he will send over his phaeton. He sent me home in it today. If I go I will walk. If it were ten times the distance, and though I had not a shoe left to my feet I would walk.

If I go there at all, of my own accord, I will walk there. What matters who sees me now? I cannot be degraded as worse than I am. I see it in their eyes. The children know of it, and I hear whispers in the school. If I am wanted let them take me as they would another. I shall be here for them — unless I am dead. At this moment Jane appeared, pressing her mother to take off her wet clothes, and Mrs Crawley went with her daughter to the kitchen.

The one red-armed young girl who was their only servant was sent away, and then the mother and the child discussed how best they might prevail on the head of the family. He has made great mistakes, it is hard to make people understand that he has not intentionally spoken untruths. He is ever thinking of other things, about the school, and his sermons, and he does not remember. He said that he had got this money from Mr Soames, and of course he thought it was so. I should have said that I had seen every shilling that came into the house; but I know nothing of this cheque — whence it came.

The dean told me he would give him fifty pounds, and the fifty pounds came. I had them in my own hands. And he was written to say that it was so. To this Mrs Crawley made no reply. Mr Soames was confident that he had dropped the pocket-book at the parsonage. Mrs Crawley had always disliked Mr Soames, thinking him to be hard, cruel and vulgar. But she could not do so. She was driven to make excuses for him which, valid as they might be with herself, could not be valid with others.

He had said that Soames had paid the cheque to him. That was clearly a mistake. He had said that the cheque had been given to him by the dean. That was clearly another mistake. She knew, or thought she knew, that he, being such as he was, might make blunders such as these, and yet be true. But having such a conviction she was driven to believe also that almost anything might be possible. Soames may have been right, or he might have dropped, not the book, but the cheque. She had no difficulty in presuming Soames to be wrong in any detail, if by so supposing she could make the exculpation of her husband easier to herself.

If villainy on the part of Soames was needful to her theory, Soames would become to her a villain at once — of the blackest die. And if it were so, would it be possible to make others so believe? It seemed to her that she would be compelled to have him proved to be either a thief or a madman.

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And yet she knew that he was neither. That he was not a thief was as clear to her as the sun at noonday. The whole mind of the man was, as she told herself, within her grasp. He might have taken the twenty pounds; he might have taken it and spent it, though it was not his own; but yet he was no thief.

Nor was he a madman. No man more sane in preaching the gospel of his Lord, in making intelligible to the ignorant the promises of his Saviour, ever got into a parish pulpit, or taught in a parish school. The intellect of the man was as clear as running water in all things not appertaining to his daily life, and its difficulties. He could be logical with a vengeance — so logical as to cause infinite trouble to his wife, who, with all her good sense, was not logical. And even to this day he would sometimes recite to them English poetry, lines after lines, stanzas upon stanzas, in a sweet low melancholy voice, on long winter evenings when occasionally the burden of his troubles would be lighter to him than was usual.

Books in Latin and in French he read with as much ease as in English, and took delight in such as came to him, when he would condescend to accept such loans from the deanery. And there was at times a lightness of heart about the man. In the course of the last winter he had translated into Greek irregular verse the very noble ballad of Lord Bateman, maintaining the rhythm and the rhyme, and had repeated it with uncouth glee till his daughter knew it all by heart. His wife knew well that he was not mad; but yet she knew that there were dark moments with him, in which his mind was so much astray that he could not justly be called to account as to what he might remember and what he might forget.

How would it be possible to explain all this to a judge and jury, so that they might neither say that he was dishonest, nor yet that he was mad? Perhaps it was so, but she might not as yet admit as much even to her child. Of one thing we at least may be sure; that your papa has not wilfully done anything wrong.

Mrs Crawley had many troubles during the next four or five days, of which the worst, perhaps, had reference to the services of the Sunday which intervened between the day of her visit to Silverbridge and the sitting of the magistrates. On the Saturday it was necessary that he should prepare his sermons, of which he preached two every Sunday, though his congregation consisted only of farmers, brickmakers, and agricultural labourers, who would willingly have dispensed with the second. Mrs Crawley proposed to send over to Mr Robarts, a neighbouring clergyman, for the loan of a curate.

Mr Robarts was a warm friend to the Crawleys, and in such an emergency would probably have come himself; but Mr Crawley would not hear of it. And on the Sunday morning he went into his school before the hour of the church service, as had been his wont, and taught there as though everything with him was as usual.

The poor bairns came creeping in, for he was a man who by his manners had been able to secure their obedience in spite of his poverty. And he preached to the people of his parish on that Sunday, as he had always preached; eagerly, clearly, and with an eloquence fitted for the hearts of such an audience.

No one would have guessed from his tones and gestures and appearance on that occasion, that there was aught wrong with him — unless there had been some observer keen enough to perceive that the greater care which he used, and the special eagerness of his words, denoted a special frame of mind. After that, after those church services were over, he sank again and never roused himself till the dreaded day had come.

Opinion at Silverbridge, at Barchester, and throughout the county, was very much divided as to the guilt or innocence of Mr Crawley. To give Mr Soames his due he had be no means been anxious to press the matter against the clergyman; but he had been forced to go on with it. While the first cheque was missing, Lord Lufton had sent him a second cheque for the money, and the loss had thus fallen upon his lordship. When that gentleman declared that he had received it from Mr Soames, Mr Soames had been forced to contradict and to resent such assertion.

He had done so with as much silence as the nature of the work admitted. All Hogglestock believed their parson to be innocent; but then all Hogglestock believed him to be mad. At Silverbridge the tradesmen with whom he had dealt, and to whom he had owed, and still owed, money, all declared him to be innocent.

They knew something of the man personally, and could not believe him to be a thief. All the ladies at Silverbridge, too, were sure of his innocence. It was to them impossible that such a man should have stolen twenty pounds. Therefore you should not trouble yourself. But the gentlemen in Silverbridge were made of sterner stuff, and believed the man to be guilty, clergyman and gentleman though he was. Had Mr Walker believed him to be innocent, his tongue would have been ready enough. People did not think much of Mr Winthrop, excepting certain unmarried ladies; for Mr Winthrop was a bachelor, and had plenty of money.

People did not think much of Mr Winthrop; but still on this subject he might know something, and when he shook his head he manifestly intended to indicate guilt. And Dr Tempest, the rector of Silverbridge, did not hesitate to declare his belief in the guilt of the incumbent of Hogglestock. No man reverences a clergyman, as a clergyman, so slightly as a brother clergyman. To Dr Tempest it appeared to be neither very strange nor very terrible that Mr Crawley should have stolen twenty pounds. He should not have married on such a preferment as that.

The elder lady had lived much among clergymen, and could hardly, I think, by any means have been brought to believe in the guilt of any man who had taken upon himself the orders of the Church of England.

She had also known Mr Crawley personally for some years, and was one of those who could not admit to herself that anyone was vile who had been near to herself. She believed intensely in the wickedness of the outside world, of the world which was far away from herself, and of which she never saw anything; but they who were near to her, and who had even become dear to her, or who even had been respected by her, were made, as it were, saints in her imagination. They were brought into the inner circle, and could hardly be expelled.

She did know Mr Soames also; and thus there was a mystery for the unravelling of which she was very anxious. And the young Lady Lufton was equally sure, and perhaps with better reason for such certainty. She had, in truth, known more of Mr Crawley personally, than anyone in the county, unless it was the dean. No evidence would make me believe it. This took place in the morning, but in the evening the affair was again discussed at Framley Hall. Indeed, for some days, there was hardly any other subject held to be worthy of discussion in the county.

Mr Robarts, the clergyman of the parish and the brother of the younger Lady Lufton, was dining at the hall with his wife, and the three ladies had together expressed their perfect conviction of the falseness of the accusation. But when Lord Lufton and Mr Robarts were together after the ladies had left them, there was much less certainty of this expressed. I wish with all my heart that Soames had said nothing about it, and that the cheque had passed without remark. We send him to prison for making the mistake. It is one of those cases in which everyone concerned would wish to drop it if it were only possible.

But it is not possible. On the evidence, as one sees it at present, one is bound to say that it is a case for the jury. You do, I think? At that time the waters had nearly closed over his head and Mr Crawley had given him some assistance. When the gentlemen had again found the ladies, they kept their own doubts to themselves; for at Framley Hall, as at present tenanted, female voices and female influences predominated over those which came from the other sex.

At Barchester, the cathedral city of the county in which the Crawleys lived, opinion was violently against Mr Crawley. She hated old Lady Lufton with all her heart, and old Lady Lufton hated her as warmly. Mrs Proudie would say frequently that Lady Lufton was a conceited old idiot, and Lady Lufton would declare as frequently that Mrs Proudie was a vulgar virago. It was known at the palace in Barchester that kindness had been shown to the Crawleys by the family at Framley Hall, and this alone would have been sufficient to make Mrs Proudie believe that Mr Crawley could be guilty of any crime.

And as Mrs Proudie believed, so did the bishop believe. And you must be firm. Is it not true that he has been disgracefully involved in debt ever since he has been there; that you have been pestered by letters from unfortunate tradesmen who cannot get their money from him? He cannot come to the palace as all clergymen should do, because he has got no clothes to come in. I saw him once about the lanes, and I never set my eyes on such an object in all my life!

I would not believe that the man was a clergyman till John told me. He is a disgrace to the diocese, and he must be got rid of. I feel sure of his guilt, and I hope he will be convicted. One is bound to hope that a guilty man should be convicted. But if he escapes conviction, you must sequestrate the living because of the debts.

The income is enough to get an excellent curate. It would just do for Thumble. He knew that he could not do exactly what his wife required of him; but if it should so turn out that poor Crawley was found to be guilty, then the matter would be comparatively easy. We have already heard what was said on the subject at the house of Archdeacon Grantly. Dr Grantly had been a very successful man in the world, and on all ordinary occasions had been able to show that bold front with which success endows a man. But he still had his moments of weakness, and feared greatly lest anything of misfortune should touch him and mar the comely roundness of his prosperity.

He was very wealthy. The wife of his bosom had been to him all that a wife should be. His reputation in the clerical world stood very high. His two sons had hitherto done well in the world, not only as regarded their happiness, but as to marriage also, and as to social standing. But how great would be the fall if his son should at last marry the daughter of a convicted thief! How would the Proudies rejoice over him — the Proudies who had been crushed to the ground by the success of the Hartletop alliance; and how would the low-church curates, who swarmed in Barsetshire, gather together and scream in delight over his dismay!

He had told his father that he had made an offer of marriage to Grace Crawley, and he had told the truth. But there are perhaps few men who make such offers in direct terms without having already said and done that which makes such offers simply necessary as the final closing of an accepted bargain. It was so at any rate between Major Grantly and Miss Crawley, and Major Grantly acknowledged to himself that it was so. He acknowledged also to himself that as regarded Grace herself he had no wish to go back from his implied intentions.

Nothing that either his father or mother might say would shake him in that. But could it be his duty to bind himself to the family of a convicted thief? Could it be right that he should disgrace his father and his mother and his sister and his one child by such a connexion? But he shrank from the contamination of a prison.

Two more benignant ladies than the Miss Prettymans never presided over such an establishment. The younger was fat, and fresh, and fair, and seemed to be always running over with the milk of human kindness. The other was very thin and very small, and somewhat afflicted with bad health — was weak, too, in the eyes, and subject to racking headaches, so that it was considered generally that she was unable to take much active part in the education of the pupils.

But it was considered as generally that she did all the thinking, that she knew more than any other woman in Barsetshire, and that all the Prettyman schemes for education emanated from her mind. This was Miss Annabella Prettyman, the elder; and perhaps it may be inferred that some portion of her great character for virtue may have been due to the fact that nobody ever saw her out of her own house. She could not even go to church, because the open air brought on neuralgia.

She was therefore perhaps taken to be magnificent, partly because she was unknown. Miss Anne Prettyman, the younger, went about frequently to tea-parties — would go, indeed, to any party to which she might be invited; and was known to have a pleasant taste for poundcake and sweetmeats. Being seen so much in the outer world, she became common, and her character did not stand so high as did that of her sister. Some people were ill-natured enough to say that she wanted to marry Mr Winthrop; but of what maiden lady that goes out in the world are not such stories told?

And all such stories in Silverbridge were told with special reference to Mr Winthrop. Miss Crawley, at present, lived with the Miss Prettymans, and assisted them in the school. This arrangement had been going on for the last twelve months, since the time in which Grace would have left the school in the natural course of things. There had been no bargain made, and no intention that Grace should stay. She had been invited to fill the place of an absent superintendent, first, for one month, then for another, and then for two more months; and when the assistant came back, the Miss Prettymans thought there were reasons why Grace should be asked to remain a little longer.

But they took great care to let the fashionable world of Silverbridge know that Grace Crawley was a visitor with them, and not a teacher. And you should make yourself nice, you know, for his sake. All the gentlemen like it. Nevertheless, I think she did make herself as nice as she knew how to do. It was not that she thought that Mr Crawley was guilty, but she knew enough of the world to be aware that suspicion of such guilt might compel such a man as Major Grantly to change his mind. He would never have gone back from his word.

It is a terrible word. There had come to Silverbridge some few months since, on a visit to Mrs Walker, a young lady from Allington, in the neighbouring county, between whom and Grace Crawley there had grown up from circumstances a warm friendship. Grace Crawley had met the young lady at Silverbridge, and words had been spoken about the cousin; and though the young lady from Allington was some years older than Grace, there had grown up to be a friendship, and, as is not uncommon between young ladies, there had been an agreement that they would correspond.

At the present moment Miss Dale was at home with her mother at Allington, and Grace Crawley in her terrible sorrow wrote to her friend, pouring out her whole heart. But perhaps you will have heard it already, as everybody is talking about it here. It has got into the newspapers, and therefore it cannot be kept secret. Not that I should keep anything from you; only this is so very dreadful that I hardly know how to write it.

Somebody says — a Mr Soames, I believe it is — that papa has taken some money that does not belong to him, and he is to be brought before the magistrates and tried. Of course papa has done nothing wrong. I do think he would be the last man in the world to take a penny that did not belong to him. You know how poor he is; what a life he has had! But I think he would almost sooner see mamma starving; — I am sure he would rather be starved himself, then even borrow a shilling which he could not pay.

But, somehow, the circumstances have been made to look bad against him, and they say that he must come over here to the magistrates.

I often think that of all men in the world papa is the most unfortunate. Everything seems to go against him, and yet he is so good! Poor mamma has been over here, and she is distracted. I never saw her so wretched before.

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She has been to your friend Mr Walker, and came to me afterwards for a minute. Mr Walker has got something to do with it, though mamma says she thinks he is quite friendly to papa. I wonder whether you could find out, through Mr Walker, what he thinks about it. Of course, mamma knows that papa has done nothing wrong; but she says that the whole thing is so mysterious, and that she does not know how to account for the money.

Papa, you know, is not like other people. He forgets things; and is always thinking, thinking, thinking of his great misfortunes. My heart bleeds so when I remember all his sorrows, that I hate myself for thinking about myself. She asked me why, and I said I would not disgrace her house by staying in it. She got up and took me in her arms, and there came a tear out of both her dear old eyes, and she said that if anything evil came to papa — which she would not believe, as she knew him to be a good man — there should be a home in her house not only for me, but for mamma and Jane.

When I think of her, I sometimes think that she must be an angel already. Then she became very serious — for just before, through her tears she had tried to smile — and she told me to remember that all people could not be like her, who had nobody to look to but herself and her sister; and that at present I must task myself not to think of that which I had been thinking of before. I said nothing in answer to her, for I could not speak. She was holding my hand, and I took hers up and kissed it, to show her, if I could, that I knew that she was right; but I could not have spoken about it for all the world.

It was not ten days since that she herself, with all her prudence, told me that she thought I ought to make up my mind what answer I would give him. And then I did not say anything; but of course she knew. And after that Miss Anne spoke quite freely about it, so that I had to beg her to be silent even before the girls. You know how imprudent she is. But it is all over now.

Of course Miss Annabella is right. He has got a great many people to think of; his father and mother, and his darling little Edith, whom he brought here twice, and left her with us once for two days, so that she got to know me quite well; and I took such a love for her, that I could not bear to part with her. But I think sometimes that all our family are born to be unfortunate, and then I tell myself that I will never hope for anything again.

I feel as though nothing on earth could comfort me, and yet I shall like to have your letter. Dear, dear Lily, I am not even yet so wretched but what I shall rejoice to be told good news of you. If it only could be as John wishes it! And why should it not? It seems to me that nobody has a right or a reason to by unhappy except us.

I think I should be doing the school harm if I were to stay here. If it can at all comfort you to know that mamma and I sympathise with you altogether, in that you may at any rate be sure. But in such troubles nothing will give comfort. They must be borne, till the fire of misfortune burns itself out. Our clergyman, Mr Boyce, told us of it. Of course we all know that the charge must be altogether unfounded, and mamma says that the truth will be sure to show itself at last.

But that conviction does not cure the evil, and I can well understand that your father should suffer grievously; and I pity your mother quite as much as I do him. I am sure that it ought to make none. Whether it should not make a difference in you is another question. I think it should; and I think your answer to him should be that you could not even consider any such proposition while your father was in so great trouble. I am so much older than you, and seem to have so much experience, that I do not scruple, as you will see, to come down upon you with all the weight of my wisdom.

I have known your cousin all my life almost; and I regard no one more kindly than I do him. When I think of my friends, he is always the one of the dearest. But when one thinks of going beyond friendship, even if one tries to do so, there are so many barriers! I can well understand your feeling; but as your sister is with your mother, surely you had better come to us — I mean quite at once.

I will not scruple to tell you what mamma says, because I know your good sense. She says that as the interest of the school may possibly be concerned, and as you have no regular engagement, she thinks you ought to leave Silverbridge; but she says that it will be better that you come to us than that you should go home. If you went home, people might say that had left in some sort of disgrace.

Come to us, and when all this is put right, then you go back to Silverbridge; and then, if a certain person speaks again, you can make a different answer. Mamma quite understands that you are to come; so you have only to ask your own mamma, and come at once.

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This letter, the reader will understand, did not reach Grace Crawley till after the all-important Thursday; but before that day had come round, Grace had told Miss Prettyman — had told both the Miss Prettymans — that she was resolved to leave them. She had done this without consulting her mother, driven to it by various motives.

She felt, too, that she could not hold up her head in Silverbridge in these days, as it would become her to do if she retained her position. She did struggle gallantly, and succeeded much more nearly than she was herself aware. She was all but able to carry herself as though no terrible accusation was being made against her father.

Of the struggle, however, she was not herself the less conscious, and she told herself that on that account also she must go. And then she must go because of Major Grantly. Whether he was minded to come and speak to her that one other needed word, or whether he was not so minded, it would be better that she should be away from Silverbridge. If he spoke it she could only answer him by the negative; she should leave herself the power of thinking that his silence had been caused by her absence, and not by his coldness or indifference.

The elder Miss Prettyman never came into the school herself till twelve, but was in the habit of having interviews with the young ladies — which were sometimes very awful in their nature — for the two previous hours. During these interviews an immense amount of business was done, and the fortunes in life of some girls were said to have been made or marred; as when, for instance, Miss Crimpton had been advised to stay at home with her uncle in England, instead of going out with her sisters to India, both of which sisters were married within three months of their landing in Bombay.

The way in which she gave her counsel on such occasions was very efficacious. No one knew better than Miss Prettyman that a cock can crow most effectively in his own farmyard, and therefore all crowing intended to be effective was done by her within the shrine of her own peculiar room. And there was, too, a stool of repentance, out against the wall, very uncomfortable indeed for young ladies who had not behaved themselves so prettily as young ladies generally do. Grace seated herself, and then began her speech very quickly.

Did I not tell you that you should have a home here? And she assumed nothing of the majestical awe from any adornment or studied amplification of the outward woman by means of impressive trappings. The possessor of an unobservant eye might have called her a mean-looking, little old woman. And certainly there would have been nothing awful in her to anyone who came across her otherwise than as a lady having authority in her own school.

But within her own precincts, she did know how to surround herself with a dignity which all felt who approached her there. She already stood rebuked for having proposed a plan so ungracious, so unnecessary, and so unwise. Of course your mother would like to have you always; unless you should be married — but then there are reasons why this should not be so.

Then Grace sat silent for a moment, gathering her courage, and collecting her words; and after that she spoke. I beg your pardon, Miss Prettyman; I do indeed, but I want to say this before you go on. I must go home, and I know I ought. I know papa has done nothing wrong; but nevertheless we are disgraced. The police are to bring him in here on Thursday, and everybody in Silverbridge will know it. I know all your reasons, and I tell you that in my opinion you ought to remain where you are, and not go away. The very reasons which to you are reasons for your going, to me are reasons for your remaining here.

I am determined to go. Then Miss Prettyman paused awhile, thinking of what words of wisdom would be most appropriate in the present conjuncture. But words of wisdom did not seem to come easily to her, having for the moment been banished by a tenderness of heart. Do you not know that I love you dearly? No one in the house, you know, has the slightest suspicion that your father has done anything that is in the least dishonourable. I have some old papers that want copying and settlings, and you shall sit here and do that just for an employment.

And then, at that moment, there came a tap on the door, gentle but yet not humble, a tap which acknowledged, on the part of the tapper, the supremacy in that room of the lady who was sitting there, but which still claimed admittance almost as a right. The tap was well known by both of them to be the tap of Miss Anne. Grace immediately jumped up, and Miss Prettyman settled herself in her chair with a motion which almost seemed to indicate some feeling of shame as to her late position. But, in truth, she was simply collecting the wisdom and dignity which had been somewhat dissipated by her tenderness.

Then Grace prepared to go. But as she was going, Miss Anne, upon whose brow a heavy burden of thought was lying, stopped her suddenly. Miss Anne paused for a moment, and then answered — unwillingly, as though driven to make a reply which she knew to be indiscreet. And Grace went to her room, never turning an eye down towards the hall. Major Grantly, when threatened by his father with pecuniary punishment, should he demean himself by such a marriage as that he had proposed to himself, had declared that he would offer his hand to Miss Crawley on the next morning.

This, however, he had not done. Henry Grantly acknowledged, as he drove himself home on the morning after his dinner at the rectory, that in this matter of his marriage he did owe much to his family. Should he marry at all, he owed it to them to marry a lady. And Grace Crawley — so he told himself — was a lady. And he owed it to them to bring among them as his wife a woman who should not disgrace him or them by her education, manners, or even by her personal appearance. In all these respects Grace Crawley was, in his judgment, quite as good as they had a right to expect her to be, and in some respects a great deal superior to that type of womanhood with which they had been most generally conversant.

It must be acknowledged, therefore, that he was really in love with Grace Crawley; and he declared to himself over and over again, that his family had no right to demand that he should marry a woman with money. How could he, having come forth as a bird fledged from such a nest as the rectory at Plumstead Episcopi? Before he had been brought by his better nature and true judgment to see that Grace Crawley was the greater woman of the two, he had nearly submitted himself to the twenty thousand pounds of Miss Emily Dunstable — to that, and her good-humour and rosy freshness combined.

But he regarded himself as the well-to-do son of a very rich father. His only child was amply provided for; and he felt that, as regarded money, he had a right to do as he pleased. But he had no right to make a marriage by which his family would be disgraced. Whether he was right or wrong in supposing that he would disgrace his family were he to marry the daughter of a convicted thief, it is hardly necessary to discuss here. He told himself that it would be so — telling himself also that, by the stern laws of the world, the son and the daughter must pay for the offence of the father and mother.

Even among the poor, who would willingly marry the child of a man who had been hanged? But he carried the argument beyond this, thinking much of the matter, and endeavouring to think of it not only justly but generously. I do not know that his argument was good, or that his mind was logical on the matter. If he were to be debarred from asking for her hand by his feelings for her father and mother, he should hardly have trusted to his own skill in ascertaining the real truth as to the alleged theft.

But he was not logical, and thus, meaning to be generous, he became unjust. He found that among those in Silverbridge whom he presumed to be best informed on such matters, there was a growing opinion that Mr Crawley had stolen the money. The ladies of Silverbridge, including the Miss Prettymans, were aware that Mr Walker had been very kind both to Mr and Mrs Crawley, and argued from this that Mr Walker must think the man innocent.

In plain words no question was asked between them, and in plain words no opinion was expressed. Then he went to Barchester; not open-mouthed with inquiry, but rather with open ears, and it seemed to him that all men in Barchester were of one mind. There was a county-club in Barchester, and at this county-club nine men out of ten were talking about Mr Crawley.

It was by no means necessary that a man should ask questions on the subject. Opinion was expressed so freely that no such asking was required; and opinion in Barchester — at any rate in the county-club — seemed now to be all of one mind. There had been every disposition at first to believe Mr Crawley to be innocent. He had been believed to be innocent even after he had said wrongly that the cheque had been paid to him by Mr Soames; but he had since stated that he had received it from Dean Arabin, and that statement was also shown to be false.

A man who has a cheque changed on his own behalf is bound at least to show where he got the cheque. Mr Crawley had not only failed to do this, but had given two false excuses. Henry Grantly, as he drove home to Silverbridge on the Sunday afternoon, summed up all the evidence in his own mind, and brought in a verdict of Guilty against the father of the girl whom he loved.

As he went along his heart was warmer towards Grace than it had ever been before. But he knew also, that he had said that which, though it did not bind him to Miss Crawley, gave her a right to expect that he would so bind himself. And Miss Prettyman could not but be aware of what his intention had been, and could not but expect that he should not be explicit. Had he been a wise man altogether, he would probably have abstained from saying anything at the present moment — a wise man, that is, in the ways and feelings of the world in such matters.

But, as there are men who will allow themselves all imaginable latitude in their treatment of women, believing that the world will condone any amount of fault of that nature, so there are other men, and a class of men which on the whole is the more numerous of the two, who are tremblingly alive to the danger of censure on this head — and to the danger of censure not only from others but from themselves also.

Major Grantly had done that which made him think it imperative upon him to do something further, and do that something at once. Therefore he started off on the Monday morning after breakfast and walked into Silverbridge, and as he walked he built various castles in the air.

Why should he not throw over his own people altogether, money, position, society, and all, and give himself up to love? Were he to do so, men might say that he was foolish, but no one could hint that he was dishonourable. His spirit was high enough to teach him to think that such conduct on his part would have in it something of magnificence; but, yet, such was not his purpose. In going to Miss Prettyman it was his intention to apologise for not doing this magnificent thing.

His mind was quite made up. Nevertheless he built castles in the air. It so happened that he encountered the younger Miss Prettyman in the hall. It would not at all have suited him to reveal to her the purport of his visit, or ask her to assist his suit or receive his apologies. Miss Anne Prettyman was too common a personage in the Silverbridge world to be fit for such employment.

Miss Anne Prettyman was, indeed, herself submissive to him, and treated him with the courtesy which is due to a superior being. He therefore simply asked her whether he could be allowed to see her sister. It is a little early, but I think she can receive you. I am sure she will see you on business; she will only be too proud. If you will be kind enough to step in here for two minutes. But I suppose he can have only one thing to say after all that has come and gone. He can only have come with one object. Would you mind telling him?

Of shall I ring the bell? We need not make more fuss than necessary, with the servants, you know. Major Grantly was as intimately acquainted with Miss Anne Prettyman as a man under thirty may well be with a lady nearer fifty than forty, who is not specially connected with him by any family tie; but of Miss Prettyman he knew personally very much less. Miss Prettyman, as has before been said, did not go out, and was therefore not common to the eyes of the Silverbridgians. He might have spoken, perhaps a dozen words to her in his life. He had now more than a dozen to speak to her, but he hardly knew how to commence them.

She had got up and curtseyed, and had then taken his hand and asked him to sit down. I want to speak to you about a matter that troubles me very much — very much indeed. I know that you are very good, or I should not have ventured to come and see you. I know very well what a great friend you are to Miss Crawley. But Miss Prettyman seemed to think quite differently, and he was obliged to go on. Major as he was, he blushed as he sat before the woman, trying to tell his story, but not knowing how to tell it.

I feel sure of it. What; a clergyman of the Church of England, a pious, hard-working country gentleman, whom we have known among us by his good works for years, suddenly turn thief, and pilfer a few pounds! It is not possible, Major Grantly. And the father of such a daughter, too! It is not possible. It may do for men of business to think so, lawyers and such like, who are obliged to think in accordance with the evidence, as they call it; but to my mind the idea is monstrous.

Whoever heard of anybody becoming so base as that all at once? The major was startled by her eloquence, and by the indignant tone of voice in which it was expressed. It seemed to tell him that she would give him no sympathy in that which he had come to say to her, and to upbraid him already in that he was not prepared to do the magnificent thing of which he had thought when he had been building his castles in the air. Why should he not do the magnificent thing?

I do not think I can ask you to see her today. It is a great trial for her. Do you wish me to give her any message, Major Grantly? The moment had now come in which he must say that which he had come to say. The little woman waited for an answer, and as he was there, within her power as it were, he must speak. I fear that what he said will not be approved by any strong-minded person. I fear that our lover will henceforth be considered by such a one as being a weak, wishy-washy man, who had hardly any mind of his own to speak of — that he was a man of no account, as the poor people say.

I do love her with all my heart; — I do, indeed. A fortnight ago I was only thinking whether she would accept me, and whether she would mind having Edith to take care of. Why should he not do the magnificent thing after all? It is for you to think whether you should entrust so great a charge to one so young.

We have known Grace well, thoroughly, and are quite sure that she will do her duty in that state of life to which it may please God to call her. The major was aware when this was said to him that he had not come to Miss Prettyman for a character of the girl he loved; and yet he was not angry at receiving it. He was neither angry, nor even indifferent. He accepted the character most gratefully, though he felt that he was being led away from his purpose.

He consoled himself for this however, by remembering that the path which Miss Prettyman was now leading him, led to the magnificent, and to those pleasant castles in the air which he had been building as he walked into Silverbridge. I have such trust in her judgment that I should leave her altogether to her own discretion. The magnificent thing must be done, and the major made up his mind accordingly. Something of regret came over his spirit as he thought of a father-in-law disgraced and degraded, and of his own father broken-hearted.

But now there was hardly any alternative left to him. And was it not the manly thing for him to do? He had loved the girl before this trouble had come upon her, and was he not bound to accept the burden which his love had brought with it? But I must see her alone. Then Miss Prettyman paused. She had descended to artifice on behalf of the girl whom she loved, admired, and pitied.

In doing this she had been actuated by friendship rather than by abstract principle. But now, when the moment had come in which she must decide upon some action, she paused. Was it right, for the sake of either of them, that an offer of marriage should be made at such a moment as this? It might be very well, in regard to some future time, that the major should have so committed himself.

But — but, this could be no proper time for love-making. She would refuse him, and then the man would be free; — free to change his mind if he saw fit. Considering all these things, craftily in the exercise of her friendship, too cunningly, I fear, to satisfy the claims of a high morality, she resolved that the major had better not see Miss Crawley at the present moment. Miss Prettyman paused before she replied, and, when she did speak, Major Grantly had risen from his chair and was standing with his back to the fire.

You shall, however, see her if you please.

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The major allowed himself a moment for thought; and as he thought he sighed. Grace Crawley had become more beautiful in his eyes than ever, was endowed by these words from Miss Prettyman with new charms and brighter virtues than he had seen before. Let come what might he would ask her to be his wife on some future day; if he did not ask her now. For the present, perhaps, he had better be guided by Miss Prettyman.

I do not see how a woman could have a happier lot in life. She will understand what that means without any word of love. For myself I feel no doubt that the mystery will be cleared up at last; and then, if you will come here, we shall be so glad to see you. Then the major went, and Miss Prettyman herself actually descended with him into the hall, and bade him farewell most affectionately before her sister and two of the maids who came out to open the door.

Miss Anne Prettyman, when she saw the great friendship with which the major was dismissed, could not contain herself, but asked most impudent questions, in a whisper indeed, but in such a whisper that any sharp-eared maid-servant could hear and understand them. She simply looked, and said nothing, but passed on.

When she had regained her room she rang the bell, and desired to ask the servant to ask Miss Crawley to be good enough to step to her. After that Miss Prettyman and Miss Crawley were closeted together for about an hour. What passed between them need not be repeated here word for word; but it may be understood that Miss Prettyman said no more than she ought to have said, and that Grace understood all that she ought to have understood.

Then Grace went away, and Miss Prettyman sat awhile in thought, considering what she had done, not without some stings of conscience. The story appears to reveal itself as he reads. He cannot simply skip to the end to see how it all ends. The book is a real-time account of what is happening in the present, both in Candyland and on Earth. Increasingly Tommy sees how he and his family figure in the story. Queen Lilith invades Candyland and takes over. Tommy learns that he is in fact a member of a family that has a long history of defending Candyland.

He learns that it was the forces of evil—Queen Lilith and her ilk— who killed his Grandfather and kidnapped his mother. Tommy also learns that Queen Lilith is not content with simply invading Candyland. She hates children and plots to poison all of the children on earth.

Her scheme can only be stopped with the anti-evil elixir, Elysium. Ampoules of Elysium have been secretly lodged on Earth. All but one have been found and destroyed by the Shadowlanders. However, grey-suited Shadowlanders are on to them, trying to get the Ampoule and kill Tommy. An extended chase sequence takes place.

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Our heroes must survive: All this builds to the climax in the Museum where our heroes must ward off their pursuers while trying to establish a cosmic alignment that will activate the Elysium. We see the start of the global giveaway of the poisoned sweets. Children and adults begin to turn grey and flop to the ground. Just in time, our heroes manage to complete their task. An energy ray of sorts spreads all over the world and restores the fallen back to life. Tommy wakes up in hospital, after having spent three days unconscious. Nobody knows just how much he has been through. And nobody knows just how important Tommy is in the cosmic scheme of things.

Tommy himself is only beginning to see his true role as that of Candyland Defender. Read more Read less.

Product description Product Description The story follows the struggles of twelve-year-old Tommy Wilkins as the fabric of his existence slowly unravels to reveal another reality underneath. Kindle Edition File Size: Stanley Eales; 1 edition 17 June Sold by:

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