‘I don’t say you have made a bad job of it, my dear,’ said Mrs Grantly.  ’But it’s past eight, and you must be terribly in want of your dinner.  Had you not better go and dress?’

In the evening the plan of future campaign was arranged between them.  The archdeacon would not write to his son at all.  In passing through Barchester he had abandoned his idea of despatching a note from the hotel, feeling that such a note as would be required was not easily written in a hurry.  Mrs Grantly would now write to her son, telling him that circumstances had changed, that it would be altogether unnecessary for him to sell his furniture, and begging him to come over and see his father without a day’s delay.  She wrote her letter that night, and read to the archdeacon all that she had written—­with the exception of the postscript:—­’You may be quite sure that there will be no unpleasantness with your father.’  That was the postscript which was not communicated to the archdeacon.

On the third day after that Henry Grantly did come over to Plumstead.  His mother in her letter to him had not explained how it had come to pass that the sale of the furniture would be unnecessary.  His father had given him to understand distinctly that his income would be withdrawn from him unless he would express his intention of giving up Miss Crawley; and it had been admitted among them all that Cosby Lodge must be abandoned if this were done.  He certainly would not give up Grace Crawley.  Sooner than that, he would give up every stick in his possession, and go an live in New Zealand if it were necessary.  Not only had Grace’s conduct to him made him thus firm, but the natural bent of his own disposition had tended that way also.  His father had attempted to dictate to him, and sooner than submit to that he would sell the coat off his back.  Had his father confined his opposition to advice, and had Miss Crawley been less firm in her view of her duty, the major might have been less firm also.  But things had so gone that he was determined to be fixed as granite.  If others would not be moved from their resolves, neither would he.  Such being the state of his mind, he could not understand why he was thus summoned to Plumstead.  He had already written over to Pau about his house, and it was well that he should, at any rate, see his mother before he started.  He was willing, therefore, to go to Plumstead, but he took no steps as to the withdrawal of those auctioneer’s bills to which the archdeacon so strongly objected.  When he drove into the rectory yard, his father was standing there before him.  ‘Henry,’ he said, ’I am very glad to see you.  I am very much obliged to you for coming.’  Then Henry got out of his cart and shook hands with his father, and the archdeacon began to talk about the weather.  ’Your mother has gone into Barchester to see your grandfather,’ said the archdeacon.  ’If you are not tired, we might as well take a walk.  I want to go up as far as Flurry’s