The Last Chronicle of Barset. Anthony Trollope
to Barchester. Impossible!”
“I hope not quite impossible, Mr. Robarts. I trust I shall get as far before two o’clock; but to do so I must be on my road.” Then he showed signs of a desire to go on upon his way without further parley.
“But, Crawley, do let me send you over. There is the horse and gig doing nothing.”
“Thank you, Mr. Robarts; no. I should prefer the walk to-day.”
“And you have walked from Hogglestock?”
“No;—not so. A neighbour coming hither, who happened to have business at your mill,—he brought me so far in his cart. The walk home will be nothing,—nothing. I shall enjoy it. Good morning, Mr. Robarts.”
But Mr. Robarts thought of the dirty road, and of the bishop’s presence, and of his own ideas of what would be becoming for a clergyman,—and persevered. “You will find the lanes so very muddy; and our bishop, you know, is apt to notice such things. Do be persuaded.”
“Notice what things?” demanded Mr. Crawley, in an indignant tone.
“He, or perhaps she rather, will say how dirty your shoes were when you came to the palace.”
“If he, or she, can find nothing unclean about me but my shoes, let them say their worst. I shall be very indifferent. I have long ceased, Mr. Robarts, to care much what any man or woman may say about my shoes. Good morning.” Then he stalked on, clutching and crushing in his hand the bishop, and the bishop’s wife, and the whole diocese,—and all the Church of England. Dirty shoes, indeed! Whose was the fault that there were in the church so many feet soiled by unmerited poverty, and so many hands soiled by undeserved wealth? If the bishop did not like his shoes, let the bishop dare to tell him so! So he walked on through the thick of the mud, by no means picking his way.
He walked fast, and he found himself in the close half an hour before the time named by the bishop. But on no account would he have rung the palace bell one minute before two o’clock. So he walked up and down under the towers of the cathedral, and cooled himself, and looked up at the pleasant plate-glass in the windows of the house of his friend the dean, and told himself how, in their college days, he and the dean had been quite equal,—quite equal, except that by the voices of all qualified judges in the university, he, Mr. Crawley, had been acknowledged to be the riper scholar. And now the Mr. Arabin of those days was Dean of Barchester,—travelling abroad luxuriously at this moment for his delight, while he, Crawley, was perpetual curate at Hogglestock, and had now walked into Barchester at the command of the bishop, because he was suspected of having stolen twenty pounds! When he had fully imbued his mind with the injustice of all this, his time was up, and he walked boldly to the bishop’s gate, and boldly rang the bishop’s bell.
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