except by the voices of all qualified judges in the
university, he, Mr Crawley, had been acknowledged the
riper scholar. And now the Mr Arabin of those
days was Dean of Barchester—travelling
abroad luxuriously at the 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.
THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER IS CRUSHED
Who inquires why it is that a little greased flour
rubbed in among the hair on a footman’s head—just
one dab here and another there—gives such
a tone of high life to the family? And seeing
that the thing is so easily done, why do not more
people attempt it? The tax on hair powder is
but thirteen shillings a year. It may, indeed,
be that the slightest dab in the world justifies the
wearer in demanding hot meat three times a day, and
wine at any rate on Sundays. I think, however,
that a bishop’s wife may enjoy the privilege
without such heavy attendant expense; otherwise the
man who opened the bishop’s door to Mr Crawley
would hardly have been so ornamental.
The man asked for a card. ‘My name is
Mr Crawley,’ said our friend. ’The
bishop desired me to come to him at this hour.
Will you be pleased to tell him that I am here.’
The man again asked for a card. ’I am not
bound to carry with me my name printed on a ticket,’
said Mr Crawley. ’If you cannot remember
it, give me a pencil and paper, and I will write it.’
The servant, somewhat awed by the stranger’s
manner, brought pen and paper, and Mr Crawley wrote
his name:—
’The Rev Joshua Crawley,
M.A.,
Perpetual Curate of Hogglestock’
He was then ushered into a waiting-room, but, to his
disappointment, was not kept there waiting long.
Within three minutes he was ushered into the bishop’s
study, and into the presence of the two great luminaries
of the diocese. He was at first somewhat disconcerted
by finding Mrs Proudie in the room. In the imaginary
conversation with the bishop which he had been preparing
on the road, he had conceived that the bishop would
be attended by a chaplain, and he had suited his words
to the joint discomfiture of the bishop and of the
lower clergyman;—but now the line of his
battle must be altered. This was no doubt an injury,
but he trusted to his courage and readiness to enable
him to surmount it. He had left his hat behind
him in the waiting room, but he kept his old short
cloak still upon his shoulders; and when he entered
the bishop’s room his hands and arms were hid
beneath it. There was something lowly in this
constrained gait. It showed at least that he had
no idea of being asked to shake hands with the august
