Their various plans for the future--for the immediate future--were very startling. Grace was to go over at once to Plumstead, whither Edith had been already transferred from Cosby Lodge. That was all very well; there was nothing very startling or impracticable in that. The Framley ladies, having none of those doubts as to what was coming which had for a while perplexed Grace herself, had taken little liberties with her wardrobe, which enabled such a visit to be made without overwhelming difficulties.
But the major was equally eager--or at any rate imperious--in his requisition for a visit from Mr and Mrs Crawley themselves to Plumstead rectory. Mrs Crawley did not dare to put forward the plain unadorned reasons against it, as Mr Crawley had done when discussing the subject of a visit to the deanery. Nor could she quite venture to explain that she feared the archdeacon and her husband would hardly mix well together in society. With whom, indeed, was it possible that her husband should mix well, after his long and hardly-tried seclusion? She could only plead that both her husband and herself were so little used to going out that she feared--she feared--she feared she knew not what. 'We'll get over all that,' said the major, almost contemptuously. 'It is only the first plunge that is disagreeable.' Perhaps the major did not know how very disagreeable a first plunge may be!
At two o'clock Henry Grantly got up to go. 'I should very much like to have seen him, but I fear I cannot wait any longer. As it is, the patience of my horse has been surprising.' Then Grace walked out with him to the gate and put her hand upon his bridle as he mounted, and though how wonderful was the power of Fortune, that the goddess should have sent so gallant a gentleman to be her lord and her lover. 'Ideclare I don't quite believe it even yet,' she said, in the letter which she wrote to Lily Dale that night.
It was four before Mr Crawley returned to his house, and then he was very weary. There were many sick in these days at Hoggle End, and he had gone from cottage to cottage through the day. Giles Hoggett was almost unable to work from rheumatism, but still was of the opinion that doggedness might carry him on. 'It's been a deal o' service to you, Muster Crawley,' he said. 'We hears about it all. If you hadn't a been dogged, where'd you a been now?' With Giles Hoggett and others he had remained all the day, and now he came home weary and beaten. 'You'll tell him first,' Grace had said, 'and then I'll give him the letter.'
The wife was the first to tell him of the good fortune that was coming.
He flung himself into the old chair as soon as he entered, and asked for some bread and tea. 'Jane has already gone for it, dear,' said his wife.
'We have had a visitor here, Josiah.'
'A visitor--what visitor?'
'Grace's own friend--Henry Grantly.'
'Grace, come here, that I may kiss you and bless you,' he said very solemnly. 'It would seem that the world is going to be very good to you.'
'Papa, you must read this letter first.'
'Before I kiss my own darling?' Then she knelt at his feet. 'I see,' he said, taking the letter; 'it is from your lover's father.
Peradventure he signifies his consent, which would surely be needful before such a marriage would be seemly.'
'It isn't about me, papa, at all.'
'Not about you? If so, that would be most unpromising. But, in any case, you are my best darling.' Then he kissed her and blessed her, and slowly opened the letter. His wife had now come close to him, and was standing over him, touching him, so that she also could read the archdeacon's letter. Grace, who was still in front of him, could see the working of his face as he read it; but even she could not tell whether he was gratified, or offended, or dismayed. When he had got as far as the first offer of the presentation, he ceased reading it for a while, and looked round about the room as though lost in thought. 'Let me see what further he writes to me,' he then said; and after that he continued the letter slowly to the end. 'Nay, my child, you were in error in saying that he wrote not about you. 'Tis the writing of you that he has put some real heart into his words. He writes as though his home would be welcome to you.'
'And does he not make St Ewold's welcome to you, papa?'
'He makes me welcome to accept it--if I may use the word after the ordinary and somewhat faulty parlance of mankind.'
'And you will accept it--of course?'
'I know not that, my dear. The acceptance of a cure of souls is a thing not to be decided on in a moment--as is the colour of a garment or the shape of a toy. Nor would I condescend to take this thing from the archdeacon's hands, if I thought that he bestowed it simply that the father of his daughter-in-law might no longer be accounted poor.'
'Does he say that, papa?'
'He gives it as a collateral reason, basing his offer first on the kindly expressed judgment of one who is no more. Then he refers to the friendship of the dean. If he believed that the judgment of his late father-in-law in so weighty a matter were the best to be relied upon of all that were at his command, then he would have done well to trust to it. But in such a case he should have bolstered up a good ground for action with no collateral supports which are weak--and worse than weak.
However, it shall have my best consideration, whereunto I hope that wisdom will be given to me where only such wisdom can be had.'
'Josiah,' said his wife to him, when they were alone, 'you will not refuse it?'
'Not willingly--not if it may be accepted. Alas! you need not urge me, when the temptation is so strong!'
