Now the archdeacon had never been a hunting man, though in his early days many a clergyman had been in the habit of hunting without losing his clerical character by doing so; but he had lived all his life among gentlemen in a hunting county, and had his own very strong ideas about the trapping of foxes. Foxes first, and pheasants afterwards, had always been the rule with him as to any land of which he himself had the management. And no man understood better than he did how to deal with keepers as to this matter of fox-preserving, or knew better that keepers will in truth obey not the words of their employers, but their sympathies. 'Wish them to have foxes, and pay them, and they will have them.' Mr Sowerby of Chaldicotes used to say, and he in his day was reckoned to be the best preserver of foxes in Barsetshire. 'Tell them to have them, and don't wish it, and pay them well, and you won't have a fox to interfere with your game. I don't care what a man says to me, Ican read it all like a book when I see his covers drawn.' That was what poor Mr Sowerby of Chaldicotes used to say, and the archdeacon had heard him say it a score of time, and had learned the lesson. But now his heart was not with the foxes--and especially not with the foxes on behalf of his son Henry. 'I can't have any meddling with Mr Thorne,' he said; 'I can't; and I won't.'
'But I don't suppose it can be Mr Thorne's order, your reverence; and Mr Henry is so particular.'
'Of course it isn't Mr Thorne's order. Mr Thorne has been a hunting man all his life.'
'But he have guv' up now, your reverence. He ain't hunted these two years.'
'I'm sure he wouldn't have the foxes trapped.'
'Not if he knowed it, he wouldn't, your reverence. A gentleman of the likes of him, who's been a hunting over fifty year, wouldn't do the likes of that; but the foxes is trapped, and Mr Henry'll be a putting it on me if I don't speak out. They is Plumstead foxes, too; and a vixen was trapped just across the field yonder, in Goshall Springs, no later than yesterday morning.' Flurry was now thoroughly in earnest; and, indeed, the trapping of a vixen in February is a serious thing.
'Goshall Springs don't belong to me,' said the archdeacon.
'No, your reverence; they're on the Ullathorne property. But a word from your reverence would do it. Mr Henry thinks more of the foxes than anything. The last word he told me was that it would break his heart if he saw the coppices drawn blank.'
'Then he must break his heart.' The words were pronounced, but the archdeacon had so much command over himself as to speak them in such a voice that the man should not hear them. But it was incumbent on him to say something that the man should hear. 'I will have no meddling in the matter, Flurry. Whether there are foxes or whether there are not, is a matter of no great moment. I will not have a word said to annoy Mr Thorne.' Then he rode away, back through the wood and out on to the road, and the horse walked with him leisurely on, whither the archdeacon hardly knew --for he was thinking, thinking, thinking. 'Well;--if that ain't the darn'dest thing that ever was,' said Flurry; 'but I'll tell the squire about Thorne's man--darned if I don't.' now, 'the squire' was young Squire Gresham, the master of the East Barsetshire hounds.
But the archdeacon went on thinking, thinking, thinking. He could have heard nothing of his son to stir him more in his favour than this strong evidence of his partiality for foxes. I do not mean it to be understood that the archdeacon regarded foxes as better than active charity, of a contented mind, or a meek spirit, or than self-denying temperance. No doubt all these virtues did hold in his mind their proper places, altogether beyond contamination of foxes. But he had prided himself on thinking that his son should be a country gentleman, and probably nothing doubting as to the major's active charity and other virtues, was delighted to receive evidence of those tastes which he had ever wished to encourage in his son's character. Or rather, such evidence would have delighted him at any other time than the present. Now it only added more gall to his cup. 'Why should he teach himself to care for such things, when he has not the spirit to enjoy them,' said the archdeacon to himself. 'He is a fool--a fool. A man that has been married once, to go crazy after a little girl, that has hardly a dress to her back, and who never was in a drawing-room in her life! Charles is the eldest, and he shall be the eldest. It was be better to keep it together. It is the way in which the country has become what it is.' He was out nearly all day, and did not see his wife till dinner-time. Her father, Mr Harding, was still with them, but had breakfasted in his own room. Not a word, therefore, was said about Henry Grantly between the father and mother on that evening.
Mrs Grantly was determined that, unless provoked, she would say nothing to him till the following morning. He should sleep upon his wrath before she spoke to him again. And he was equally unwilling to recur to the subject. Had she permitted, the next morning would have passed away, and no word would have been spoken. But this would not have suited her. She had his orders to write, and she had undertaken to obey these orders--with the delay of one day. Were she not to write at all--or in writing to send no message from the father, there would be cause for further anger. And yet this, I think, was what the archdeacon wished.
'Archdeacon,' she said, 'I shall write to Henry today.'
'Very well.'
'And what am I to say from you?'
'I told you yesterday what are my intentions.'
'I am not asking about that now. We hope there will be years and years to come, in which you may change them, and shape them as you will. What shall I tell him now from you?'
'I have nothing to say to him--nothing; not a word. He knows what he has to expect from me, for I have told him. He is acting with his eyes open, and so am I. If he married Miss Crawley, he must live on his own means. I told him that so plainly, that he can want no further intimation.' Then Mrs Grantly knew that she was absolved from the burden of yesterday's message, and she plumed herself on the prudence of her conduct. On the same morning the archdeacon wrote the following note:--'DEAR THORNE,--'My man tells me that foxes have been trapped on Darvell's farm, just outside the coppices. I know nothing of it myself, but I am sure you'll look to it.
'Yours always, 'T. GRANTLY.'
