'But, Josiah, think of the parish--of the people who respect you --for their sakes let it not be said that you were taken away by policemen.'
'Was St Paul not bound in prison? Did he think of what the people might see?'
'If it were necessary, I would encourage you to bear it without a murmur.'
'It is necessary, whether you murmur, or do not murmur. Murmur indeed!
Why does not your voice ascend to heaven with one loud wail against the cruelty of man?' Then he went forth from the room into an empty chamber on the other side of the passage; and his wife, when she followed him there after a few minutes, found him on his knees, with his forehead against the floor, and with his hands clutching at the scanty hairs of his head. Often before had she seen him so, on the same spot, half grovelling, half prostrate in prayer, reviling in his agony all things around him--nay, nearly all things above him--and yet striving to reconcile himself to his Creator by the humiliation of his confession.
It might be better for him now, if only he could bring himself to some softness of heart. Softly she closed the door, and placing the candle on the mantle-shelf, softly she knelt beside him, and softly touched his hand with hers. He did not stir nor utter a single word, but seemed to clutch at his thin locks more violently than before. Then she kneeling there, aloud, but with a low voice, with her thin hands clasped, uttered a prayer in which she asked her God to remove from her husband the bitterness of that hour. He listened till she had finished, and then rose slowly to his feet. 'It is in vain,' said he, 'it is all in vain.
It is all in vain.' Then he returned back to the parlour, and seating himself again in the arm-chair, remained there without speaking till past midnight. At last, when she told him that she herself was very cold, and reminded him that for the last hour there had been no fire, still speechless, he went up with her to their bed.
Early on the following morning she contrived to let him know that she was about to send a neighbour's son over with a note to Mr Walker, fearing to urge him further to change his mind; but hoping that he might express his purpose of doing so when he heard that the letter was to be sent; but he took no notice whatever of her words. At this moment he was reading Greek with his daughter, or rather rebuking her because she could not be induced to read her Greek.
'Oh, papa,' the poor girl said, 'don't scold me now. I am so unhappy because of all of this.'
'And am I not unhappy?' he said, as he closed the book. 'My God, what have I done against thee, that my lines should be cast in such terrible places?'
The letter was sent to Mr Walker. 'He knows himself to be innocent,' said the poor wife, writing what best excuse she how to make, 'and thinks that he should take no step himself in such a matter. He will not employ a lawyer, and he says that he should prefer that he be sent for, if the law requires his presence at Silverbridge on Thursday.' All this she wrote, as though she felt that she ought to employ a high tone in defending her husband's purpose; but she broke down altogether in a few words of the postscript. 'Indeed, indeed I have done what I could!' Mr Walker understood it all, both the high tone and the subsequent fall.
On the Thursday morning, at about ten o'clock, a fly stopped at the gate at Hogglestock Parsonage, and out of it came two men. One was dressed in ordinary black clothes, and seemed from his bearing to be a respectable man of the middle class of life. He was, however, the superintendent of police for the Silverbridge district. The other man was a policeman, pure and simple, with the helmet-looking hat which has lately become common, and all the ordinary half-military and wholly disagreeable outward adjuncts of the profession. 'Wilkins,' said the superintendent, 'likely enough I shall want you, for they tell me the gent is uncommon strange. But if I don't call you when I come out, just open the door like a servant and mount up on the box when we're in. And don't speak nor say nothing.' then the senior policeman entered the house.
He found Mrs Crawley sitting in the parlour with her bonnet and shawl on, and Mr Crawley in the arm-chair, leaning over the fire. 'I suppose we had better go with you,' said Mrs Crawley directly the door was opened; for of course she had seen the arrival of the fly from the window.
'The gentleman had better come with us if he'll be so kind,' said Thompson. 'I've brought a carriage for him.'
'But I may go with him?' said the wife, with frightened voice. 'I may accompany my husband. He is not well, sir, and wants assistance.'
Thompson thought about it for a moment before he spoke. There was room in the fly for only two, or if for three, still he knew his place better than to thrust himself inside together with his prisoner and his prisoner's wife. He had been specially asked by Mr Walker to be very civil. Only one could sit on the box with the driver, and if the request was conceded the poor policeman must walk back. The walk, however would not kill the policeman. 'All right, ma'am,' said Thompson;--'that is, if the gentleman will just pass his word not to get out till I ask him.'
'He will not! He will not!' said Mrs Crawley.
'I will pass my word for nothing,' said Mr Crawley.
Upon hearing this, Thompson assumed a very long face, and shook his head as he turned his eyes first towards the husband and then towards the wife, and shrugged his shoulders, and compressing his lips, blew out his breath, as though in this way he might blow off some of the mingled sorrow and indignation with which the gentleman's words afflicted him.
Mrs Crawley rose and came close to him. 'You may take my word for it he will not stir. You may indeed. He thinks it incumbent on him not to give any undertaking himself, because he feels himself so harshly used.'
'I don't know about harshness,' said Thompson, brindling up. 'A close carriage brought and--'
'I will walk. If I am to go, I will walk,' shouted Mr Crawley.
