The archdeacon was still looking down at her, and feeling the slight touch of her fingers, raised his arm a little as though to welcome the pressure. He looked into her eyes, which were turned eagerly towards his, and when doing so was quite sure that the promise would be kept. It would have been a sacrilege--he felt that it would have been a sacrilege--to doubt such a promise. He almost relented. His soft heart, which was never very well under his own control, gave way so far that he was nearly moved to tell her that, on his son's behalf, he acquitted her of the promise. What could any man's son do better than have such a woman for his wife? It would have been of no avail had he made her such offer. The pledge she had given had not been wrung from her by his influence, nor could his influence have availed aught with her towards the alteration of her purpose. It was not the archdeacon who had taught her that it would not be her duty to take disgrace into the house of the man she loved. As he looked down upon her face two tears formed themselves in his eyes, and gradually trickled down his old nose. 'My dear,' he said, 'if this cloud passes away from you, you shall come to us and be our daughter.' And thus he also pledged himself. There was a dash of generosity about the man, in spite of his selfishness, which always made him desirous of giving largely to those who gave largely to him. He would fain that his gifts should be bigger, if it were possible.
He longed at this moment to tell her that the dirty cheque should go for nothing. He would have done it, I think, but that it was impossible for him to speak in her presence of that which moved her so greatly.
He had contrived that her hand should fall from his arm into his grasp, and now for a moment he held it. 'You are a good girl,' he said--'a dear, dear, good girl. When this cloud has passed away, you shall come to us and be our daughter.'
'But it will never pass away,' said Grace.
'Let us hope that it may. Let us hope that it may.' Then he stooped over and kissed her, and leaving the room, got out into the hall and thence into the garden, and so away, without saying a word of adieu to Mrs Robarts.
As he walked across to the Court, whither he was obliged to go, because of his chaise, he was lost in surprise at what had occurred. He had gone to the parsonage hating the girl, and despising his son. Now, as he retraced his steps, his feelings were altogether changed. He admired the girl--and as for his son, even his anger was for the moment altogether gone. He would write to his son at once and implore him to stop the sale. He would tell his son all that had occurred, or rather would make Mrs Grantly do so. In respect to his son he was quite safe. He thought at that moment that he was safe. There would be no use in hurling further threats at him. If Crawley was found guilty of stealing the money, there was the girl's promise. If he were acquitted there was his own pledge. He remembered perfectly well that the girl had said more than this--that she had not confined her assurance to the verdict of the jury, that she had protested that she would not accept Major Grantly's hand as long as people thought that her father had stolen the cheque;but the archdeacon felt that it would be ignoble to hold her closely to her words. The event, according to his ideas of the compact, was to depend on the verdict of the jury. If the jury should find Mr Crawley not guilty, all objection on his part to the marriage was to be withdrawn. And he would keep his word! In such case it should be withdrawn.
When he came to the rags of the auctioneer's bill, which he had before torn down with his umbrella, he stopped a moment to consider he would act at once. In the first place he would tell his son that his threats were withdrawn, and would ask him to remain at Cosby Lodge. He would write the letter as he passed through Barchester, on his way home, so that his son might receive it on the following morning; and he would refer the major to his mother for a full explanation of the circumstances. Those odious bills must be removed from every barn-door and wall in the county. At the present moment his anger against his son was chiefly directed against his ill-judged haste in having put up those ill-omened bills. Then he paused to consider what must be his wish as to the verdict of the jury. He had pledged himself to abide by the verdict, and he could not but have a wish on the subject. Could he desire in his heart that Mr Crawley should be found guilty? He stood still for a moment thinking of this, and then he walked on, shaking his head. If it might be possible he would have no wish on the subject whatsoever.
'Well!' said Lady Lufton, stopping him in the passage--'have you seen her?'
'Yes; I have seen her.'
'Well?'
'She is a good girl--a very good girl. I am in a great hurry, and hardly know how to tell you more now.'
'You say that she is a good girl.'
'I say that she is a very good girl. An angel could not have behaved better. I will tell you some day, Lady Lufton, but I can hardly tell you now.'
When the archdeacon was gone old Lady Lufton confided to young Lady Lufton her very strong opinion that many months would not be gone before Grace Crawley would be the mistress of Cosby Lodge. 'It will be a great promotion,' said the old lady, with a little toss of her head. When Grace was interrogated afterwards by Mrs Robarts as to what had passed between her and the archdeacon she had very little to say as to the interview. 'No he did not scold me,' she replied to an inquiry from her friend. 'There is no engagement,' said Grace. 'But I suppose you acknowledged, my dear, that a future engagement is quite possible?' 'Itold him, Mrs Robarts,' Grace answered, after hesitating for a moment, 'that I would never marry his son as long as papa was suspected by any one in the world of being a thief. And I will keep my word.' but she said nothing to Mrs Robarts of the pledge which the archdeacon had made to her.