Over and over again did he think of those words of Mr. Crawley, and
now as he walked up and down the path, crumpling Mr. Sowerby's letter
in his hand, he thought of them again--"It is a terrible falling off;
terrible in the fall, but doubly terrible through that difficulty
of returning." Yes; that is a difficulty which multiplies itself
in a fearful ratio as one goes on pleasantly running down the
path--whitherward? Had it come to that with him that he could not
return--that he could never again hold up his head with a safe
conscience as the pastor of his parish? It was Sowerby who had led
him into this misery, who had brought on him this ruin? But then
had not Sowerby paid him? Had not that stall which he now held in
Barchester been Sowerby's gift? He was a poor man now--a distressed,
poverty-stricken man; but nevertheless he wished with all his
heart that he had never become a sharer in the good things of the
Barchester chapter. "I shall resign the stall," he said to his wife
that night. "I think I may say that I have made up my mind as to
that."
"But, Mark, will not people say that it is odd?"
"I cannot help it--they must say it. Fanny, I fear that we shall have
to bear the saying of harder words than that."
"Nobody can ever say that you have done anything that is unjust or
dishonourable.
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