'Nor had I intended when I came over her to call on my old friend, Lady Lufton, to come up to this house. But as I knew that you were here, Miss Crawley, I thought that upon the whole it would be better that I should see you.' Then he paused as though he expected that Grace would say something; but Grace had nothing to say. 'Of course you must understand, Miss Crawley, that I should not venture to speak to you on this subject unless I myself were very closely interested in it.' He had not yet said what was the subject, and it was not probable that Grace should give him any assistance by affecting to understand this without direct explanation from him. She sat quite motionless, and did not even aid him by showing by her altered colour that she understood his purpose. 'My son has told me,' said he, 'that he has professed an attachment for you, Miss Crawley.'
Then there was another pause, and Grace felt that she was compelled to say something. 'Major Grantly has been very good to me,' she said, and then she hated herself for having uttered words which were so tame and unwomanly in their spirit. Of course her lover's father would despise her for having so spoken. After all it did not much signify. If he would only despise her and go away, it would perhaps be for the best.
'I do not know about being good,' said the archdeacon. 'I think he is good. I think he means to be good.'
'I am sure he is good,' said Grace warmly.
'You know he has a daughter, Miss Crawley?'
'Oh, yes; I know Edith well.'
'Of course his first duty is to her. Is it not? and he owes much to his family. Do you not feel that?'
'Of course I feel it, sir.' The poor girl had always heard Dr Grantly spoken of as the archdeacon, but she did not in the least know what she ought to call him.
'Now, Miss Crawley, pray listen to me; I will speak to you very openly.
I must speak to you openly, because it is my duty on my son's behalf--but I will endeavour to speak to you kindly also. Of yourself Ihave heard nothing but what is favourable, and there is no reason as yet why I should not respect and esteem you.' Grace told herself that she would do nothing which ought to forfeit his respect and esteem, but that she did not care two straws whether his respect and esteem were bestowed on her or not. She was striving after something very different from that. 'If my son were to marry you, he would greatly injure himself, and would very greatly injure his child.' Again he paused. He had told her to listen, and she was resolved that she would listen--unless he would say something which might make a word from her necessary at the moment.
'I do not know whether there does at present exist any engagement between you.'
'There is no engagement, sir.'
'I am glad of that--very glad of it. I do not know whether you are aware that my son is dependent upon me for the greater part of his income. It is so, and as I am so circumstanced with my son, of course, Ifeel the closest possible concern in his future prospects.' The archdeacon did not know how to explain clearly why the fact of his ****** his son an annual allowance should give him a warmer interest in his son's affairs than he might have had had the major been altogether independent of him; but he trusted that Grace would understand this by her own natural lights. 'Now, Miss Crawley, of course I cannot wish to say a word that will hurt your feelings. But there are reasons--'
'I know,' said she, interrupting him. 'Papa is accused of stealing money. He did not steal it, but people think he did. And then we are so very poor.'
'You do understand me then--and I feel grateful; I do indeed.'
'I don't think our being poor ought to signify a bit,' said Grace. 'Papa is a gentleman, and a clergyman, and mamma is a lady.'
'But, my dear--'
'I know I ought not to be your son's wife as long as people think that papa stole the money. If he had stolen it, I ought never to be Major Grantly's wife--or anybody else's. I know that very well. And as for Edith--I would sooner die than do anything that would be bad to her.'
The archdeacon had now left the rug, and advanced till he was almost close to the chair on which Grace was sitting. 'My dear,' he said,' what you say does you very much honour--very much honour indeed.' Now that he was close to her, he could look into her eyes, and he could see the exact form of her features, and could understand--could not help understanding--the character of her countenance. It was a noble face, having in it nothing that was poor, nothing that was mean, nothing that was shapeless. It was a face that promised infinite beauty, with a promise that was on the very verge of fulfilment. There was a play about her mouth as she spoke and a curl in her nostrils as the eager words came from her, which almost made the selfish father give way. Why had they not told him that she was such a one as this? Why had not Henry himself spoken of the speciality of her beauty? No man in England knew better than the archdeacon the difference between beauty of one kind and beauty of another kind in a woman's face--the one beauty, which comes from health and youth and animal spirits, and which belongs to the miller's daughter, and the other beauty, which shows itself in fine lines and a noble spirit--the beauty which comes from breeding. 'What you say does you very much honour indeed,' said the archdeacon.
'I should not mind at all about being poor,' said Grace.
'No; no; no,' said the archdeacon.
'Poor as we are--and no clergyman, I think, was ever so poor--I should have done as your son asked me at once, if it had been only that--because I love him.'
'If you love him you will not wish to injure him.'
'I will not injure him. Sir, there is my promise.' And now as she spoke she rose from her chair, and standing close to the archdeacon, laid her hand very lightly on the sleeve of his coat. 'There is my promise. As long as people say that papa stole the money, I will never marry your son. There.'