'Let him tell me so; let him tell me that my power of living at Cosby Lodge does not depend on my marriage--that my income will be continued to me whether I marry or no, and I'll arrange matters with the auctioneer tomorrow. You can't suppose that I should prefer to live in France.'
'Henry, you are too hard on your father.'
'I think, mother, he has been too hard on me.'
'It is you who are to blame now. I tell you plainly that that is my opinion. If evil comes of it, it will be your own fault.'
'If evil comes of it, I must bear it.'
'A son ought to give up something to his father;--especially to a father as indulgent as yours.'
But it was of no use. And Mrs Grantly when she went to bed could only lament in her own mind over what, in discussing the matter afterwards with her sister, she called the cross-grainedness of men. 'They are as alike each other as two peas,' she said, 'and though each of them wished to be generous, neither of them would condescend to be just.' Early on the following morning there was, no doubt, much said on the subject between the archdeacon and his wife before they met their son at breakfast; but neither at breakfast nor afterwards was there a word said between the father and the son that had the slightest reference to the subject in dispute between them. The archdeacon made no more speeches in favour of land, nor did he revert to the foxes. He was very civil to his son;--too civil by half, as Mrs Grantly continued to say to herself. And then the major drove himself away in his cart, going through Barchester, so that he might see his grandfather. When he wished his father good-bye, the archdeacon shook hands with him, and said something about the chance of rain. Had he not better take the big umbrella? The major thanked him courteously, and said that he did not think it would rain.
Then he was gone. 'Upon his own head be it,' said the archdeacon when his son's step was heard in the passage to the backyard. Then Mrs Grantly got up quietly and followed her son. She found him settling himself in his dog-cart, while the servant who was to accompany him was still at the horse's head. She went up close to him, and, standing by the wheel of the gig, whispered a word or two into his ear. 'If you love me, Henry, you will postpone the sale. Do it for my sake.' There came across his face a look of great pain, but he answered her not a word.
The archdeacon was walking about the room striking one hand open with the other closed, clearly in a tumult of anger, when his wife returned to him. 'I have done all that I can,' he said--'all that I can; more, indeed, than was becoming of me. Upon his own head be it. Upon his own head be it.'
'What is it you fear?' she asked.
'I fear nothing. But if he chooses to sell his things at Cosby Lodge he must abide the consequences. They shall not be replaced with my money.'
'What will it matter if he does sell them?'
'Matter! Do you think there is a single person in the county who will not know that his doing is a sign that he has quarrelled with me?'
'But he has not quarrelled with you.'
'I can tell you, then, that in that case, I shall have quarrelled with him! I have not been a hard father, but there are some things which a man cannot bear. Of course you take his part.'
'I am taking no part. I only want peace between you.'
'Peace!--yes; peace indeed. I am to yield in everything. I am to be nobody. Look here;--as sure as ever an auctioneer's hammer is raised at Cosby Lodge, I will alter the settlement of the property. Every acre shall go to Charles. There is my word for it.' The poor woman had nothing more to say at that moment. She thought that at the present conjuncture her husband was less in the wrong than her son, but she could not tell him so lest she should strengthen him in his wrath.
Henry Grantly found his grandfather in bed, with Posy seated on the bed beside him. 'My father told me that you were not quite well, and Ithought I had better look in,' said the major.
'Thank you, my dear;--it is very good of you. There is not much the matter with me, but I am not quite so strong as I was once.' And the old man smiled as he held his grandson's hand.
'And how is cousin Posy?' said the major.
'Posy is quite well;--isn't she, my darling?' said the old man.
'Grandpa doesn't go to the cathedral now,' said Posy; 'so I come in to talk to him. Don't I, grandpa?'
'And to play cat's-cradle;--only we have not had any cat's-cradle this morning, because it is cold for grandpa to sit up in bed,' said Posy.
When the major had been there about twenty minutes he was preparing to take his leave--but Mr Harding, bidding Posy go out of the room, told his grandson that he had a word to say to him. 'I don't like to interfere, Henry,' he said, 'but I am afraid things are not quite smooth at Plumstead.'
'There is nothing wrong between me and my mother,' said the major.
'God forbid that there should be; but, my dear boy, don't let there be anything wrong between you and your father. He is a good man, and the time will come when you will be proud of his memory.'
'I am proud of him now.'
'Then be gentle with him--and submit yourself. I am an old man now--very fast going away from all those I love here. But I am happy in leaving my children because they have ever been gentle with me and kind.
If I am permitted to remember them whither I am going, my thoughts of them all will be pleasant. Should it not be much to them that they have made by death-bed happy?'
The major could not but tell himself that Mr Harding had been a man easy to please, easy to satisfy, and, in that respect, very different from his father. But of course he said nothing of this. 'I will do my best,' he replied.
'Do, my boy. Honour thy father--that thy days may be long in the land.'
It seemed to the major as he drove away from Barchester that everybody was against him; and yet he was sure that he himself was right. He could not give up Grace Crawley; and unless he were to do so he could not live at Cosby Lodge.