the man pronounces itself more clearly. I take it that that is it. Had Mrs. Proudie lived to be a hundred and fifty, she would have spoken spiteful lies on her deathbed." Then Mrs. Grantly told herself that her husband, should he live to be a hundred and fifty, would still be expressing his horror of Mrs. Proudie,—even on his deathbed.
As soon as the letter from Mrs. Arabin had reached Plumstead, the archdeacon and his wife arranged that they would both go together to the deanery. There were the double tidings to be told,—those of Mr. Crawley's assured innocence, and those also of Mrs. Arabin's instant return. And as they went together various ideas were passing through their minds in reference to the marriage of their son with Grace Crawley. They were both now reconciled to it. Mrs. Grantly had long ceased to feel any opposition to it, even though she had not seen Grace; and the archdeacon was prepared to give way. Had he not promised that in a certain case he would give way, and had not that case now come to pass? He had no wish to go back from his word. But he had a difficulty in this,—that he liked to make all the affairs of his life matter for enjoyment, almost for triumph; but how was he to be triumphant over this marriage, or how even was he to enjoy it, seeing that he had opposed it so bitterly? Those posters, though they were now pulled down, had been up on all barn ends and walls, patent—alas, too patent—to all the world of Barsetshire! "What will Mr. Crawley do now, do you suppose?" said Mrs. Grantly.
"What will he do?"
"Yes; must he go on at Hogglestock?"
"What else?" said the archdeacon.
"It is a pity something could not be done for him after all he has undergone. How on earth can he be expected to live there with a wife and family, and no private means?" To this the archdeacon made no answer. Mrs. Grantly had spoken almost immediately upon their quitting Plumstead, and the silence was continued till the carriage had entered the suburbs of the city. Then Mrs. Grantly spoke again, asking a question, with some internal trepidation, which, however, she managed to hide from her husband. "When poor papa does go, what shall you do about St. Ewold's?" Now, St. Ewold's was a rural parish lying about two miles out of Barchester, the living of which was in the gift of the archdeacon, and to which the archdeacon had presented his father-in-law, under certain circumstances, which need not be repeated in this last chronicle of Barsetshire. Have they not been written in other chronicles? "When poor papa does go, what will you do about St. Ewold's?" said Mrs. Grantly, trembling inwardly. A
