MR CRAWLEY IS SUMMONED TO BARCHESTER

The scene which occurred in Hogglestock church on the Sunday after Mr Thumble’s first visit to the parish had not been described with accuracy either by the archdeacon in his letter to his son, or by Mrs Thorne.  There had been no footman from the palace in attendance on Mr Thumble, nor had there been a battle with the brickmakers; neither had Mr Thumble been put under the pump.  But Mr Thumble had gone over, taking his gown and surplice with him, on the Sunday morning, and had intimated to Mr Crawley his intention of performing the service.  Mr Crawley, in answer to this, had assured Mr Thumble that he would not be allowed to open his mouth in the church; and Mr Thumble, not seeing his way to any further successful action, had contented himself with attending the services in his surplice, making thereby a silent protest that he, and not Mr Crawley, ought to have been in the reading-desk and the pulpit.

When Mr Trumble reported himself and his failure to the palace, he strove hard to avoid seeing Mrs Proudie, but not successfully.  He knew something of the palace habits, and did manage to reach the bishop alone on the Sunday evening, justifying himself to his lordship for such an interview by the remarkable circumstances of the case and the importance of his late mission.  Mrs Proudie always went to church on Sunday evenings, making a point of hearing three services and three sermons every Sunday of her life.  On week-days she seldom heard any, having an idea that week-day services were an invention of the High Church enemy, and that they should therefore be vehemently discouraged.  Services on saints’ days she regarded as rank papacy, and had been known to accuse a clergyman’s wife to her face, of idolatry because the poor lady had dated a letter, St John’s Eve.  Mr Thumble, on this Sunday evening, was successful in finding the bishop at home, and alone, but he was not lucky enough to get away before Mrs Proudie returned.  The bishop, perhaps, thought that the story of the failure had better reach his wife’s ears from Mr Thumble’s lips than from his own.

‘Well, Mr Thumble?’ said Mrs Proudie, walking into the study, armed in her full Sunday-evening winter panoply, in which she had just descended from her carriage.  The church which Mrs Proudie attended in the evening was nearly half a mile from the palace, and the coachman and groom never got a holiday on Sunday night.  She was gorgeous in a dark brown silk dress of awful stiffness and terrible dimensions; and on her shoulders she wore a short cloak of velvet and fur, very handsome withal, but so swelling in its proportions on all sides as necessarily to create more of dismay than of admiration in the mind of any ordinary man.  And her bonnet was a monstrous helmet with the beaver up, displaying the awful face of the warrior, always ready for combat, and careless to guard itself from attack.  The large contorted bows which she bore were as a grisly crest upon her casque, beautiful doubtless, but majestic and fear-compelling.  In her hand she carried her armour all complete, a prayer-book, a Bible, and a book of hymns.  These the footman had brought for her to the study door, but she had thought it fit to enter her husband’s room with them in her own custody.