LITMIR.BIZ

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had stolen a cheque for twenty pounds! It might probably be necessary to keep Mr. Crawley at a distance, and therefore she had remained in the background. But Mr. Crawley seemed to be disposed to keep himself in the background, and therefore she could speak. “I hope your wife and children are well, Mr. Crawley,” she said.

      “Thank you, madam, my children are well, and Mrs. Crawley suffers no special ailment at present.”

      “That is much to be thankful for, Mr. Crawley.” Whether he were or were not thankful for such mercies as these was no business of the bishop or of the bishop’s wife. That was between him and his God. So he would not even bow to this civility, but sat with his head erect, and with a great frown on his heavy brow.

      Then the bishop rose from his chair to speak, intending to take up a position on the rug. But as he did so Mr. Crawley, who had seated himself on an intimation that he was expected to sit down, rose also, and the bishop found that he would thus lose his expected vantage. “Will you not be seated, Mr. Crawley?” said the bishop. Mr. Crawley smiled, but stood his ground. Then the bishop returned to his arm-chair, and Mr. Crawley also sat down again. “Mr. Crawley,” began the bishop, “this matter which came the other day before the magistrates at Silverbridge has been a most unfortunate affair. It has given me, I can assure you, the most sincere pain.”

      Mr. Crawley had made up his mind how far the bishop should be allowed to go without a rebuke. He had told himself that it would only be natural, and would not be unbecoming, that the bishop should allude to the meeting of the magistrates and to the alleged theft, and that therefore such allusion should be endured with patient humility. And, moreover, the more rope he gave the bishop, the more likely the bishop would be to entangle himself. It certainly was Mr. Crawley’s wish that the bishop should entangle himself. He, therefore, replied very meekly, “It has been most unfortunate, my lord.”

      “I have felt for Mrs. Crawley very deeply,” said Mrs. Proudie. Mr. Crawley had now made up his mind that as long as it was possible he would ignore the presence of Mrs. Proudie altogether; and, therefore, he made no sign that he had heard the latter remark.

      “It has been most unfortunate,” continued the bishop. “I have never before had a clergyman in my diocese placed in so distressing a position.”

      “That is a matter of opinion, my lord,” said Mr. Crawley, who at that moment thought of a crisis which had come in the life of another clergyman in the diocese of Barchester, with the circumstances of which he had by chance been made acquainted.

      “Exactly,” said the bishop. “And I am expressing my opinion.” Mr. Crawley, who understood fighting, did not think that the time had yet come for striking a blow, so he simply bowed again. “A most unfortunate position, Mr. Crawley,” continued the bishop. “Far be it from me to express an opinion upon the matter, which will have to come before a jury of your countrymen. It is enough for me to know that the magistrates assembled at Silverbridge, gentlemen to whom no doubt you must be known, as most of them live in your neighbourhood, have heard evidence upon the subject—”

      “Most convincing evidence,” said Mrs. Proudie, interrupting her husband. Mr. Crawley’s black brow became a little blacker as he heard the word, but still he ignored the woman. He not only did not speak, but did not turn his eye upon her.

      “They have heard the evidence on the subject,” continued the bishop, “and they have thought it proper to refer the decision as to your innocence or your guilt to a jury of your countrymen.”

      “And they were right,” said Mr. Crawley.

      “Very possibly. I don’t deny it. Probably,” said the bishop, whose eloquence was somewhat disturbed by Mr. Crawley’s ready acquiescence.

      “Of course they were right,” said Mrs. Proudie.

      “At any rate it is so,” said the bishop. “You are in the position of a man amenable to the criminal laws of the land.”

      “There are no criminal laws, my lord,” said Mr. Crawley; “but to such laws as there are we are all amenable,—your lordship and I alike.”

      “But you are so in a very particular way. I do not wish to remind you what might be your condition now, but for the interposition of private friends.”

      “I should be in the condition of a man not guilty before the law;—guiltless, as far as the law goes,—but kept in durance, not for faults of his own, but because otherwise, by reason of laches in the police, his presence at the assizes might not be ensured. In such a position a man’s reputation is made to hang for awhile on the trust which some friends or neighbours may have in it. I do not say that the test is a good one.”

      “You would have been put in prison, Mr. Crawley, because the magistrates were of opinion that you had taken Mr. Soames’s cheque,” said Mrs. Proudie. On this occasion he did look at her. He turned one glance upon her from under his eyebrows, but he did not speak.

      “With all that I have nothing to do,” said the bishop.

      “Nothing whatever, my lord,” said Mr. Crawley.

      “But, bishop, I think that you have,” said Mrs. Proudie. “The judgment formed by the magistrates as to the conduct of one of your clergymen makes it imperative upon you to act in the matter.”

      “Yes, my dear, yes; I am coming to that. What Mrs. Proudie says is perfectly true. I have been constrained most unwillingly to take action in this matter. It is undoubtedly the fact that you must at the next assizes surrender yourself at the court-house yonder, to be tried for this offence against the laws.”

      “That is true. If I be alive, my lord, and have strength sufficient, I shall be there.”

      “You must be there,” said Mrs. Proudie. “The police will look to that, Mr. Crawley.” She was becoming very angry in that the man would not answer her a word. On this occasion again he did not even look at her.

      “Yes; you will be there,” said the bishop. “Now that is, to say the least of it, an unseemly position for a beneficed clergyman.”

      “You said before, my lord, that it was an unfortunate position, and the word, methinks, was better chosen.”

      “It is very unseemly, very unseemly indeed,” said Mrs. Proudie; “nothing could possibly be more unseemly. The bishop might very properly have used a much stronger word.”

      “Under these circumstances,” continued the bishop, “looking to the welfare of your parish, to the welfare of the diocese, and allow me to say, Mr. Crawley, to the welfare of yourself also—”

      “And especially to the souls of the people,” said Mrs. Proudie.

      The bishop shook his head. It is hard to be impressively eloquent when one is interrupted at every best turned period, even by a supporting voice. “Yes;—and looking of course to the religious interests of your people, Mr. Crawley, I came to the conclusion that it would be expedient that you should cease your ministrations for awhile.” The bishop paused, and Mr. Crawley bowed his head. “I, therefore, sent over to you a gentleman with whom I am well acquainted, Mr. Thumble, with a letter from myself, in which I endeavoured to impress upon you, without the use of any severe language, what my convictions were.”

      “Severe words are often the best mercy,” said Mrs. Proudie. Mr. Crawley had raised his hand, with his finger out, preparatory to answering the bishop. But as Mrs. Proudie had spoken he dropped his finger and was silent.

      “Mr. Thumble brought me back your written reply,” continued the bishop, “by which I was grieved to find that you were not willing to submit yourself to my counsel in the matter.”

      “I was most unwilling, my lord. Submission to authority is at times a duty;—and at times opposition to authority is a duty also.”

      “Opposition to just authority cannot be a duty, Mr. Crawley.”

      “Opposition to usurped authority is an imperative duty,” said Mr. Crawley.

      “And who is to be the

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