would be so terrible for all of us who belong to the Church.â
âI do not see that at all,â said John. âMr Crawley is not more than any other man just because heâs a clergyman. I hate all that kind of clap-trap. There are a lot of people here in Silverbridge who think the matter shouldnât be followed up, just because the man is in a position which makes the crime more criminal in him than it would be in another.â
âBut I feel sure that Mr Crawley has committed no crime at all,â said Mary.
âMy dear,â said Mrs Walker, âI have just said that I would rather you would not talk about it. Papa will be in directly.â
âI wonât, mamma â only ââ
âOnly! yes; just only!â said John. âSheâd go on till dinner if anyone would stay to hear her.â
âYouâve said twice as much as I have, John.â But John had left the room before his sisterâs last words could reach him.
âYou know, mamma, it is quite impossible not to help thinking of it,â said Mary.
âI daresay it is, my dear.â
âAnd when one knows the people it does make it so dreadful.â
âBut do you know them? I never spoke to Mr Crawley in my life, and I do not think I ever saw her.â
âI knew Grace very well â when she used to come first to Miss Prettymanâs school.â
âPoor girl. I pity her.â
âPity her! Pity is no word for it, mamma. My heart bleeds for them. And yet I do not believe for a moment that he stole the cheque. How can it be possible? For though he may have been in debt because they have been so very, very poor; yet we all know that he has been an excellent clergyman. When the Robartses were dining here last, I heard Mrs Robarts say that for piety and devotion to his duties she had hardly ever seen anyone to equal him. And the Robartses know more of them than anybody.â
âThey say that the dean is his great friend.â
âWhat a pity it is that the Arabins should be away just now when he is in such trouble.â And in this way the mother and daughter went on discussing the question of the clergymanâs guilt in spite of Mrs Walkerâs previously expressed desire that nothing more might be said about it. But Mrs Walker, like many other mothers, was apt to be more free in converse with her daughter than she was with her son. While they were thus talking the father came in from his office, and then the subject was dropped. He was a man between fifty and sixty years of age, with grey hair, rather short, and somewhat corpulent, but still gifted with that amount of personal comeliness which comfortable position and the respect of others will generally seem to give. A man rarely carries himself meanly, whom the world holds high in esteem.
âI am very tired, my dear,â said Mr Walker.
âYou look tired. Come and sit down for a few minutes before you dress. Mary, get your fatherâs slippers.â Mary instantly ran to the door.
âThanks, my darling,â said the father. And then he whispered to his wife, as soon as Mary was out of hearing, âI fear that unfortunate man is guilty. I fear he is! I fear he is!â
âOh, heavens! what will become of them?â
âWhat indeed? She has been with me to-day.â
âHas she? And what could you say to her?â
âI told her at first that I could not see her, and begged her not to speak to me about it. I tried to make her understand that she should go to someone else. But it was of no use.â
âAnd how did it end?â
âI asked her to go in to you, but she declined. She said you could do nothing for her.â
âAnd does she think her husband guilty?â
âNo, indeed. She think him guilty! Nothing on earth â or from heaven either, as I take it, would make her suppose it to be possible. She came to me simply to tell me how good he