It has already been told how things went on between the Tozers, Mr Curling, and Mark Robarts during that month. Mr Forrest had drifted out of the business altogether, as also had Mr Sowerby, as far as any active participation in it went. Letters came frequently from Mr Curling to the parsonage, and at last came a message by special mission to say that the evil day was at hand. As far as Mr Curling’s professional experience would enable him to anticipate or foretell the proceedings of such a man as Tom Tozer he thought that the sheriff’s officers would be at Framley parsonage on the following morning. Mr Curling’s experience did not mislead him in this respect. ‘And what will you do, Mark?’ said Fanny, speaking through her tears, after she had read the letter which her husband handed to her.

‘Nothing. What can I do? They must come.’

‘Lord Lufton came today. Will you go to him?’

‘No. If I were to do so it would be the same thing as asking him for the money.’

‘Why not borrow it of him, dearest? Surely it would not be so much for him to lend?’

‘I could not do it. Think of Lucy, and how she stands with him. Besides, I have already had words with Lufton about Sowerby and his money matters. He thinks that I am to blame, and he would tell me so; and then there would sharp things said between us. He would advance me the money if I pressed him for it, but he would do so in a way that would make it impossible that I should take it.’

There was nothing more, then, to be said. If she had had her own way, Mrs Robarts would have gone at once to Lady Lufton, but she could not induce her husband to sanction such a proceeding. The objection to seeking assistance from her ladyship was as strong as that which prevailed as to her son. There had already been some little beginning of ill-feeling, and under such circumstances it was impossible to ask for pecuniary assistance. Fanny, however, had a prophetic assurance that assistance out of these difficulties must in the end come to them from that quarter, or not at all; and she would fain, had she been allowed, make everything known at the big house. On the following morning they breakfasted at the usual hour, but in great sadness. A maid-servant whom Mrs Robarts had brought with her when she married, told that a rumour of what was to happen had reached the kitchen. Stubbs, the groom, had been in Barchester on the preceding day, and, according to his account — so said Mary — everybody in the city was talking about it. ‘Never mind, Mary,’ said Mrs Robarts, and Mary replied, ‘Oh, no, of course not, ma’am.’ In these days Mrs Robarts was ordinarily very busy, seeing that there were six children in the house, four of whom had come to her but ill supplied with infantine belongings; and now, as usual, she went about her work immediately after breakfast. But she moved about the house very slowly, and was almost unable to give her orders to the servants, and spoke sadly to the children who hung about her wondering what was the matter. Her husband at the same time took himself to his book-room, but when there did not attempt any employment. He thrust his hands into his pockets, and, leaning against the fire-place, fixed his eyes upon the table before him without looking at anything that was on it; it was impossible for him to betake himself to his work. Remember what is the ordinary labour of a clergyman in his study, and think how fit he must have been for such employment! What would have been the nature of a sermon composed at such a moment, and with what satisfaction could he have used the sacred volume in referring to it for arguments? He, in this respect, was worse off than his wife; she did employ herself, but he stood there without moving, doing nothing, with fixed eyes thinking of what men would say of him. Luckily for him, this state of suspense was not long, for within half an hour of his leaving the breakfast-table, the footman knocked at his door — that footman with whom, at the beginning of his difficulties, he had made up his mind to dispense, but who had been kept on because of the Barchester prebend.

‘If it please you reverence, there are two men outside,’ said the footman. Two men! Mark knew well enough what men they were, but he could hardly take the coming of two such men to his quiet country parsonage quite as a matter of course.

‘Who are they, John?’ said he, not wishing any answer, but because the question was forced upon him.

‘I’m afeard they’re — bailiffs, sir.’

‘Very well, John; that will do; of course they must do what they please about the place.’ And then when the servant left him, he still stood without moving, exactly as he stood before. There he remained for ten minutes, but the time went by very slowly. When about noon some circumstances told him what was the hour, he was astonished to find that the day had not nearly passed away. And then another tap was struck on the door — a sound which he well recognized — and his wife crept silently into the room. She came close up to him before she spoke, and put her arm within his.’

‘Mark,’ she said, ‘the men are here; they are in the yard.’

‘I know it,’ he answered gruffly.

‘Will it be better that you should see them, dearest?’

‘See them; no; what good can I do by seeing them? But I shall see them soon enough; they will be here, I suppose, in a few minutes.’

‘They are taking an inventory, cook says; they are in the stable now.’

‘Very well; they must do as they please; I cannot help them.’

‘Cook says that if they are allowed their meals and some beer, and if nobody takes anything away, they will be quite civil.’

‘Civil! But what does it matter! Let them eat and drink what they please, as long as the food lasts. I don’t suppose the butcher will send you more.’

‘But, Mark, there’s nothing due to the butcher,— only the regular monthly bill.’

‘Very well; you’ll see.’

‘Oh, Mark, don’t look at me in that way. Do not turn away from me. What is to comfort us if we do not cling to each other now?’

‘Comfort us! God help you! I wonder, Fanny, that you can bear to stay in the room with me.’

‘Mark, dearest Mark, my own dear, dearest husband! Who is to be true to you, if I am not? You shall not turn from me. How can anything like this make a difference between you and me?’ And then she threw her arms round his neck and embraced him. It was a terrible morning to him, and one of which every incident will dwell in his memory to the last day of his life. He had been so proud in his position — had assumed to himself so prominent a standing — had contrived, by some trick which he had acquired, to carry his head so high above the heads of neighbouring parsons. It was this that had taken him among great people, had introduced him to the Duke of Omnium, had procured for him the stall at Barchester. But how was he to carry his head now? What would the Arabins and Grantlys say? How would the bishop sneer at him, and Mrs Proudie and her daughters tell of him in all their quarters? How would Crawley look at him — Crawley, who had already once had him on the hip? The stern severity of Crawley’s face loomed upon him now. Crawley, with his children half naked, and his wife a drudge, and himself half starved, had never had a bailiff in his house at Hogglestock. And then his own curate, Evans, whom he had patronized, and treated almost as a dependant — how was he to look at his curate in the face and arrange with him for the sacred duties of the next Sunday? His wife still stood by him, gazing into his face; and as he looked at her and thought of her misery, he could not control his heart with reference to the wrongs which Sowerby had heaped on him. It was Sowerby’s falsehood and Sowerby’s fraud which had brought upon him and his wife this terrible anguish.

‘If there be justice on earth he will suffer for it yet,’ he said at last, not speaking intentionally to his wife, but unable to repress his feelings.

‘Do not wish him evil, Mark; you may be sure he has his own sorrows.’

‘His own sorrows! No; he is callous to such misery as this. He has become so hardened by dishonesty that all this is mirth to him. If there be punishment in heaven for falsehood —’

‘Oh, Mark, do not curse him!’

‘How am I to keep myself from cursing when I see what he has brought upon you?’

‘“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,”’ answered the young wife, not with solemn, preaching accent, as though bent on reproof, but with the softest whisper into his ear. ‘Leave that to Him, Mark; and for us, let us pray that He may soften the hearts of us all;— of him who has caused us to suffer, and of our own.’ Mark was not called upon to reply to this, for he was again disturbed by a servant at the door. It was the cook this time herself, who had come with a message from the men of the law. And she had come, be it remembered, not from any necessity that she as cook should do this line of work; for the footman, or Mrs Robarts’s maid, might have come as well as she. But when things are out of course servants are always out of course also. As a rule, nothing will induce a butler to go into a stable, or persuade a housemaid to put her hand to a frying-pan. But now that this new excitement had come upon the household — seeing that the bailiffs were in possession, and that the chattels were being entered into a catalogue, everybody was willing to do everything — everything but his or her own work. The gardener was looking after the dear children; the nurse was doing the rooms before the bailiffs could reach them; the groom had gone into the kitchen to get their lunch ready for them; and the cook was walking about with an inkstand, obeying all the orders of the great potentates. As far as the servants were concerned, it may be a question whether the coming of the bailiffs had not hitherto been regarded as a treat.

‘If you please, ma’am,’ said Jemima cook, ‘they wishes to know in which room you’d be pleased to have the inmin-tory took fust. ‘Cause ma’am, they wouldn’t disturb you nor master more than can be avoided. For their line of life, ma’am, they is very civil — very civil indeed.’

‘I suppose they may go into the drawing-room,’ said Mrs Robarts, in a sad low voice. All nice women are proud of their drawing-rooms, and she was very proud of hers. It had been furnished when money was plenty with them, immediately after their marriage, and everything in it was pretty, good, and dear to her. O, ladies, who have drawing-rooms in which the things are pretty, good, and dear to you, think of what it would be to have two bailiffs rummaging among them with pen and ink-horn, making a catalogue preparatory to a sheriff’s auction; and all without fault or extravagance of your own! There were things there that had been given to her by Lady Lufton, by Lady Meredith, and other friends, and the idea did occur to her that it might be possible to save them from contamination; but she would not say a word, lest by so saying she might add to Mark’s misery.

‘And then the dining-room,’ said Jemima cook, in a tone almost of elation.

‘Yes; if they please.’

‘And then master’s book-room here; or perhaps the bedrooms, if you and master be still here.’

‘Any way they please, cook; it does not much signify,’ said Mrs Robarts. But for some days after that Jemima was by no means a favourite with her.

The cook was hardly out of the room before a quick footstep was heard on the gravel before the window, and the hall door was immediately opened.

‘Where is your master?’ said the well-known voice of Lord Lufton; and then in half a minute he also was in the book-room.

‘Mark, my dear fellow, what’s all this?’ said he, in a cheery tone and with a pleasant face. ‘Did you not know that I was here? I came down yesterday; landed from Hamburg only yesterday morning. How do you do, Mrs Robarts? This is a terrible bore, isn’t it?’ Robarts, at the first moment, hardly knew how to speak to his old friend. He was struck dumb by the disgrace of his position; the more so as his misfortune was one which ............