He started in spirit of triumph to walk back on his road towards Hogglestock.  He did not think of the long distance before him for the first hour of his journey.  He had had his victory, and the remembrance of that braced his nerves and gave elasticity to his sinews, and he went stalking along to road with rapid strides, muttering to himself from time to time as he went along some word about Mrs Proudie and her distaff.  Mr Thumble would not, he thought, come to him again—­not, at any rate, till the assizes were drawing near.  And he had resolved what he would do then.  When the day of his trial was near, he would himself write to the bishop, and beg that provision might be made for his church, in the event of the verdict going against him.  His friend, Dean Arabin, was to be home before that time, and the idea had occurred to him of asking the dean to see to this; but now the other would be the more independent course, and the better.  And there was a matter as to which he was not altogether well pleased with the dean, although he was so conscious of his own peculiarities as to know that he could hardly trust himself for a judgment.  But, at any rate, he would apply to the bishop—­to the bishop whom he had just left prostrate in his palace—­ when the time of his trial should be close at hand.

Full of such thoughts as these he went along almost gaily, nor felt the fatigue of the road till he had covered the first five miles out of Barchester.  It was nearly four o’clock, and the thick gloom of the winter evening was making itself felt.  And then he began to be fatigued.  He had not as yet eaten since he had left his home in the morning, and he now pulled a crust out of his pocket and leaned against a gate as he crunched it.  There were still ten miles before him, and he knew that such an addition to the work he had already done would task him very severely.  Farmer Mangle had told him that he would not leave Framley Mill by that time.  But he had said that he would not return to Framley Mill, and he remembered his suspicion that his wife and the farmer between them had cozened him.  No; he would persevere and walk—­walk though he should drop upon the road.  He was now nearer fifty then forty years of age, and hardships as well as time had told upon him.  He knew that the last four miles in the dark would be very sad with him.  But still he persevered, endeavouring, as he went, to cherish himself with the remembrance of his triumph.

He passed the turning going down to Framley with courage, but when he came to the further turning, by which the cart would return from Framley to the Hogglestock road, he looked wistfully down the road for farmer Mangle.  But farmer Mangle was still at the Mill, waiting in expectation that Mr Crawley might come to him.  But the poor traveller paused here barely for a minute, and then went on, stumbling through the mud, striking his ill-covered feet against the rough stones in the dark, sweating in his weakness, almost tottering at times, and calculating whether his remaining strength would serve to carry him home.  He had almost forgotten the bishop and his wife before at last he grasped the wicket gate leading to his own door.