I wonder whether anyone will read these pages who has never known anything of the bitterness of a family quarrel? If so, I shall have a reader very fortunate, or else very cold-blooded. It would be wrong to say that love produces quarrels; but love does produce those intimate relations of which quarrelling is too often one of the consequences--one of the consequences which frequently seem to be so natural, and sometimes seem to be unavoidable. One brother rebukes the other--and what brothers ever lived together between whom there is no such rebuking?--then some warm word is misunderstood and hotter words follow and there is a quarrel. The husband tyrannizes, knowing that it is his duty to direct, and the wife disobeys, or only partially obeys, thinking that a little independence will become her--and so there is a quarrel.
The father, anxious only for his son's good, looks into that son's future with other eyes than those of his son himself--and so there is a quarrel. They come very easily these quarrels, but the quittance from them is sometimes terribly difficult. Much of thought is necessary before the angry man can remember that he too in part may have been wrong; and any attempt at such thinking is almost beyond the power of him who is carefully nursing his wrath, let it cool! But the nursing of such quarrelling kills all happiness. The very man who is nursing his wrath lest it cool--his wrath against one whom he loves perhaps the best of all whom it has been given to him to love--is himself wretched as long as it lasts. His anger poisons every pleasure of his life. He is sullen at his meals, and cannot understand his book as he turns the pages. His work, let it be what it may, is ill done. He is full of his quarrel--nursing it. He is telling himself how much he has loved that wicked one, and that now that wicked one is repaying him simply with wickedness! And yet the wicked one is at that very moment dearer to him than ever. If that wicked one would only be forgiven how sweet would be the world again! And yet he nurses his wrath.
So it was in these days with Archdeacon Grantly. He was very angry with his son. It is hardly too much to say that in every moment of his life, whether waking or sleeping, he was thinking of the injury his son was doing him. He had almost come to forget the fact that his anger had been first roused by the feeling that his son was about to do himself an injury--to cut his own throat. Various other considerations had now added themselves to that, and filled not only his mind but his daily conversation with his wife. How terrible would be the disgrace to Lord Hartletop, how incurable the injury to Griselda, the marchioness, should the brother-in-law of the one, and the brother of the other, marry the daughter of a convicted thief! Of himself he would say nothing. So he declared constantly, though of himself he did say a great deal. Of himself he would say nothing, though of course such a marriage would ruin him in the county. 'My dear,' said his wife, 'that is nonsense.
That is really nonsense. I feel sure there is not a single person in the county who would think of the marriage in such a light.' Then the archdeacon would have quarrelled with his wife, too, had she not been too wise to admit such a quarrel. Mrs Grantly was very wise and knew that it took two persons to make a quarrel. He told her over and over again that she was in league with her son --that she was encouraging her son to marry Grace Crawley. 'I believe that in your heart you wish it,' he once said to her. 'No, my dear, I do not wish it. I do not think it a becoming marriage. But if he does marry her, I should wish to receive his wife in my house and certainly would not quarrel with him.' 'I will never receive her,' the archdeacon had replied; 'and as for him, I can only say that in such a case I will make no provision for his family.'
It will be remembered that the archdeacon had on a former occasion instructed his wife to write to their son and tell him of his father's determination. Mrs Grantly had so manoeuvred that a little time had been gained, and that those instructions had not been insisted upon in all their bitterness. Since that time Major Grantly had renewed his assurance that he would marry Grace Crawley if Grace Crawley would accept him--writing on this occasion direct to his father--and had asked his father whether, in such a case, he was to look forward to be disinherited. 'It is essential that I should know,' the major had said, 'because in such a case I must take immediate measures for leaving this place.' His father had sent back his letter, writing a few words at the bottom of it. 'If you do as you propose above, you must expect nothing from me.' The words were written in large round handwriting, very hurriedly, and the son when he received them perfectly understood the mood of his father's mind when he wrote them.
Then there came tidings, addressed on this occasion to Mrs Grantly, that Cosby Lodge was to be given up. Lady-day had come, and the notice necessarily to be given at that period, was so given. 'I know this will grieve you,' Major Grantly had said, 'but my father has driven me to it.' This, in itself, was a cause of great sorrow, both to the archdeacon and to Mrs Grantly, as there were circumstances connected with Cosby Lodge which made them think that it was a very desirable residence for their son. 'I shall sell everything about the place and go abroad at once,' he said in a subsequent letter. 'My present idea is that, I shall settle myself at Pau, as my income will suffice for me to live there, and education for Edith will be cheap. At any rate I will not continue to live in England. I could never be happy here in circumstance so altered. Of course I should not have left my profession, unless I had understood from my father that the income arising from it would not be necessary to me. I do not, however, mean to complain, but simply to tell you that I shall go.' There were many letters between the mother and son in those days.
