But she was at any rate right in her idea as to Mr Crawley’s immediate reply.  The palace groom who rode over to Hogglestock returned with an immediate answer.

’My lord’—­said Mr Crawley,

’I will obey your lordship’s summons, and, unless impediments should arise, I will wait upon your lordship at the hour you name tomorrow.  I will not trespass on your hospitality.  For myself, I rarely break bread in any house but my own; and as to the horse, I have none—­I have the honour to by, My lord, &c, &c,

Josiah Crawley’

‘Of course I shall go,’ he had said to his wife as soon as he had time to read the letter, and make known to her the contents.  ’I shall go if it be possible for me to get there.  I think that I am bound to comply with the bishop’s wishes in so much as that.’

‘But how will you get there, Josiah?’

‘I will walk—­with the Lord’s aid.’

Now Hogglestock was fifteen miles from Barchester, and Mr Crawley was, as his wife well knew, by no means fitted in his present state for great physical exertion.  But from the tone in which he had replied to her, she well knew that it would not avail for her to remonstrate at the moment.  He had walked more than thirty miles in a day since he had been living at Hogglestock, and she did not doubt but that it might be possible for him to do it again.  Any scheme, which she might be able to devise for saving him from so terrible a journey in the middle of winter, must be pondered over silently, and brought to bear, if not slyly, at least deftly, and without discussion.  She made no reply therefore when he declared on the following day he would walk to Barchester and back—­with the Lord’s aid; nor did she see, or ask to see the note which he sent to the bishop.  When the messenger was gone, Mr Crawley was all alert, looking forward with evident glee to his encounter with the bishop—­snorting like a racehorse at the expected triumph of the coming struggle.  And he read much Greek with Jane on that afternoon, pouring into her young ears, almost with joyous rapture, his appreciation of the glory and the pathos and the humanity also, of the awful tragedy of the story of Oedipus.  His very soul was on fire at the idea of clutching the weak bishop in his hand, and crushing him with his strong grasp.

In the afternoon Mrs Crawley slipped out to a neighbouring farmer’s wife, and returned in an hour’s time with a little story which she did not tell with any appearance of satisfaction.  She had learned well what were the little tricks necessary to the carrying of such a matter as she now had in hand.  Mr Mangle, the farmer, as it happened, was going tomorrow morning in his tax-cart as far as Framley Mill, and would be delighted if Mr Crawley would take a seat.  He must remain at Framley the best part of the afternoon, and hoped that Mr Crawley would take a seat back again.  Now Framley Mill was only a half mile off the direct