<p><SPAN name="c84" id="c84"></SPAN> </p>
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<h3>CHAPTER LXXXIV.</h3>
<h4>CONCLUSION.<br/> </h4>
<p>It now only remains for me to gather together a few loose strings,
and tie them together in a knot, so that my work may not become
untwisted. Early in July, Henry Grantly and Grace Crawley were
married in the parish church of Plumstead,—a great impropriety, as
to which neither Archdeacon Grantly nor Mr. Crawley could be got to
assent for a long time, but which was at last carried, not simply by
a union of Mrs. Grantly and Mrs. Crawley, nor even by the assistance of
Mrs. Arabin, but by the strong intervention of old Lady Lufton
herself. "Of course Miss Crawley ought to be married from St. Ewolds
vicarage; but when the furniture has only half been got in, how is it
possible?" When Lady Lufton thus spoke, the archdeacon gave way, and
Mr. Crawley hadn't a leg to stand upon. Henry Grantly had not an
opinion upon the matter. He told his father that he expected that
they would marry him among them, and that that would be enough for
him. As for Grace, nobody even thought of asking her; and I doubt
whether she would have heard anything about the contest, had not some
tidings of it reached her from her lover. Married they were at
Plumstead,—and the breakfast was given with all that luxuriance of
plenty which was so dear to the archdeacon's mind. Mr. Crawley was the
officiating priest. With his hands dropping before him, folded
humbly, he told the archdeacon,—when that Plumstead question had
been finally settled in opposition to his wishes,—that he would fain
himself perform the ceremony by which his dearest daughter would be
bound to her marriage duties. "And who else should?" said the
archdeacon. Mr. Crawley muttered that he had not known how far his
reverend brother might have been willing to waive his rights. But the
archdeacon, who was in high good humour,—having just bestowed a
little pony carriage on his new daughter-in-law,—only laughed at
him; and, if the rumour which was handed about the families be true,
the archdeacon, before the interview was over, had poked Mr. Crawley
in the ribs. Mr. Crawley married them; but the archdeacon
assisted,—and the dean gave away the bride. The Rev. Charles Grantly
was there also; and as there was, as a matter of course, a cloud of
curates floating in the distance, Henry Grantly was perhaps to be
excused for declaring to his wife, when the pair had escaped, that
surely no couple had ever been so tightly buckled since marriage had
first become a Church ceremony.</p>
<p>Soon after that, Mr. and Mrs. Crawley became quiet at St. Ewolds, and,
as I think, contented. Her happiness began very quickly. Though she
had been greatly broken by her troubles, the first sight she had of
her husband in his new long frock-coat went far to restore her, and
while he was declaring himself to be a cock so daubed with mud as to
be incapable of crowing, she was congratulating herself on seeing her
husband once more clothed as became his position. And they were
lucky, too, as regarded the squire's house; for Mr. Thorne was old,
and quiet, and old-fashioned; and Miss Thorne was older, and though
she was not exactly quiet, she was very old-fashioned indeed. So that
there grew to be a pleasant friendship between Miss Thorne and Mrs.
Crawley.</p>
<p>Johnny Eames, when last I heard of him, was still a bachelor, and, as
I think, likely to remain so. At last he had utterly thrown over Sir
Raffle Buffle, declaring to his friends that the special duties of
private secretaryship were not exactly to his taste. "You get so sick
at the thirteenth private note," he said, "that you find yourself
unable to carry on the humbug any farther." But he did not leave his
office. "I'm the head of a room, you know," he told Lady Julia De
Guest; "and there's nothing to trouble me,—and a fellow, you know,
ought to have something to do." Lady Julia told him, with a great
deal of energy, that she would never forgive him if he gave up his
office. After that eventful night when he escaped ignominiously from
the house of Lady Demolines under the protection of the policeman's
lantern, he did hear more than once from Porchester Terrace, and from
allies employed by the enemy who was there resident. "My cousin, the
serjeant," proved to be a myth. Johnny found out all about that
Serjeant Runter, who was distantly connected, indeed, with the late
husband of Lady Demolines, but had always persistently declined to
have any intercourse whatever with her ladyship. For the serjeant was
a rising man, and Lady Demolines was not exactly progressing in the
world. Johnny heard nothing from the serjeant; but from Madalina he
got letter after letter. In the first she asked him not to think too
much of the little joke that had occurred. In her second she
described the vehemence of her love. In her third the bitterness of
her wrath. Her fourth she simply invited him to come and dine in
Porchester Terrace. Her fifth was the outpouring of injured
innocence. And then came letters from an attorney. Johnny answered
not a word to any of them, and gradually the letters were
discontinued. Within six months of the receipt of the last, he was
delighted by reading among the marriages in the newspapers a notice
that Peter Bangles, Esq, of the firm of Burton and Bangles, wine
merchants, of Hook Court, had been united to Madalina, daughter of
the late Sir Confucius Demolines, at the church of Peter the Martyr.
"Most appropriate," said Johnny, as he read the notice to Conway
Dalrymple, who was then back from his wedding tour; "for most
assuredly there will be now another Peter the Martyr."</p>
<p>"I'm not so sure of that," said Conway, who had heard something of Mr.
Peter Bangles. "There are men who have strong wills of their own, and
strong hands of their own."</p>
<p>"Poor Madalina!" said Johnny. "If he does beat her, I hope he will do
it tenderly. It may be that a little of it will suit her fevered
temperament."</p>
<p>Before the summer was over Conway Dalrymple had been married to Clara
Van Siever, and by a singular arrangement of circumstances had
married her with the full approval of old Mrs. Van. Mr.
Musselboro,—whose name I hope has not been altogether forgotten,
though the part played by him has been subordinate,—had opposed
Dalrymple in the efforts made by the artist to get something out of
Broughton's estate for the benefit of the widow. From circumstances
of which Dalrymple learned the particulars with the aid of an
attorney, it seemed to him that certain facts were wilfully kept in
the dark by Musselboro, and he went with his complaint to Mrs. Van
Siever, declaring that he would bring the whole affair into court,
unless all the workings of the firm were made clear to him. Mrs. Van
was very insolent to him,—and even turned him out of the house. But,
nevertheless, she did not allow Mr. Musselboro to escape. Whoever was
to be left in the dark she did not wish to be there herself;—and it
began to dawn upon her that her dear Musselboro was deceiving her.
Then she sent for Dalrymple, and without a word of apology for her
former conduct, put him upon the right track. As he was pushing his
inquiries, and working heaven and earth for the unfortunate
widow,—as to whom he swore daily that when this matter was settled
he would never see her again, so terrible was she to him with her
mock affection and pretended hysterics, and false moralities,—he was
told one day that she had gone off with Mr. Musselboro! Mr. Musselboro,
finding that this was the surest plan of obtaining for himself the
little business in Hook Court, married the widow of his late partner,
and is at this moment probably carrying on a law-suit with Mrs. Van.
For the law-suit Conway Dalrymple cared nothing. When the quarrel had
become hot between Mrs. Van and her late myrmidon, Clara fell into
Conway's hands without opposition; and, let the law-suit go as it
may, there will be enough left of Mrs. Van's money to make the house
of Mr. and Mrs. Conway Dalrymple very comfortable. The picture of Jael
and Sisera was stitched up without any difficulty, and I daresay most
of my readers will remember it hanging on the walls of the
exhibition.</p>
<p>Before I take my leave of the diocese of Barchester for ever, which I
purpose to do in the succeeding paragraph, I desire to be allowed to
say one word of apology for myself, in answer to those who have
accused me,—always without bitterness, and generally with
tenderness,—of having forgotten, in writing of clergymen, the first
and most prominent characteristic of the ordinary English clergyman's
life. I have described many clergymen, they say, but have spoken of
them all as though their professional duties, their high calling,
their daily workings for the good of those around them, were matters
of no moment, either to me, or, in my opinion, to themselves. I would
plead, in answer to this, that my object has been to paint the social
and not the professional lives of clergymen; and that I have been led
to do so, firstly, by a feeling that as no men affect more strongly,
by their own character, the society of those around than do country
clergymen, so, therefore, their social habits have been worth the
labour necessary for painting them; and secondly, by a feeling that
though I, as a novelist, may feel myself entitled to write of
clergymen out of their pulpits, as I may also write of lawyers and
doctors, I have no such liberty to write of them in their pulpits.
When I have done so, if I have done so, I have so far transgressed.
There are those who have told me that I have made all my clergymen
bad, and none good. I must venture to hint to such judges that they
have taught their eyes to love a colouring higher than nature
justifies. We are, most of us, apt to love Raphael's madonnas better
than Rembrandt's matrons. But, though we do so, we know that
Rembrandt's matrons existed; but we have a strong belief that no such
woman as Raphael painted ever did exist. In that he painted, as he
may be surmised to have done, for pious purposes,—at least for
Church purposes,—Raphael was justified; but had he painted so for
family portraiture he would have been false. Had I written an epic
about clergymen, I would have taken St. Paul for my model; but
describing, as I have endeavoured to do, such clergymen as I see
around me, I could not venture to be transcendental. For myself I can
only say that I shall always be happy to sit, when allowed to do so,
at the table of Archdeacon Grantly, to walk through the High Street
of Barchester arm in arm with Mr. Robarts of Framley, and to stand
alone and shed a tear beneath the modest black stone in the north
transept of the cathedral on which is inscribed the name of Septimus
Harding.</p>
<p>And now, if the reader will allow me to seize him affectionately by
the arm, we will together take our last farewell of Barset and of the
towers of Barchester. I may not venture to say to him that, in this
country, he and I together have wandered often through the country
lanes, and have ridden together over the too-well wooded fields, or
have stood together in the cathedral nave listening to the peals of
the organ, or have together sat at good men's tables, or have
confronted together the angry pride of men who were not good. I may
not boast that any beside myself have so realized the place, and the
people, and the facts, as to make such reminiscences possible as
those which I should attempt to evoke by an appeal to perfect
fellowship. But to me Barset has been a real county, and its city a
real city, and the spires and towers have been before my eyes, and
the voices of the people are known to my ears, and the pavement of
the city ways are familiar to my footsteps. To them all I now say
farewell. That I have been induced to wander among them too long by
my love of old friendships, and by the sweetness of old faces, is a
fault for which I may perhaps be more readily forgiven, when I
repeat, with some solemnity of assurance, the promise made in my title,
that this shall be the last chronicle of Barset.</p>
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