And Miss Dunstable, also, was a bridesmaid. “Oh, no” said she, when asked; “you should have them young and pretty.” But she gave way when she found that Mary did not flatter her by telling her that she was either the one or the other. “The truth is,” said Miss Dunstable, “I have always been a little in love with your Frank, and so I shall do it for his sake.” There were but four: the other two were the Gresham twins. Lady Arabella exerted herself greatly in framing hints to induce Mary to ask some of the De Courcy ladies to do her so much honour; but on this head Mary would please herself. “Rank,” said she to Beatrice, with a curl on her lip, “has its drawbacks—and must put up with them.”
And now I find that I have not one page—not half a page—for the wedding-dress. But what matters? Will it not be all found written in the columns of the
Morning Post
?
And thus Frank married money, and became a great man. Let us hope that he will be a happy man. As the time of the story has been brought down so near to the present era, it is not practicable for the novelist to tell much of his future career. When I last heard from Barsetshire, it seemed to be quite settled that he is to take the place of one of the old members at the next election; and they say, also, that there is no chance of any opposition. I have heard, too, that there have been many very private consultations between him and various gentlemen of the county, with reference to the hunt; and the general feeling is said to be that the hounds should go to Boxall Hill.
At Boxall Hill the young people established themselves on their return from the Continent. And that reminds me that one word must be said of Lady Scatcherd.
“You will always stay here with us,” said Mary to her, caressing her ladyship’s rough hand, and looking kindly into that kind face.
But Lady Scatcherd would not consent to this. “I will come and see you sometimes, and then I shall enjoy myself. Yes, I will come and see you, and my own dear boy.” The affair was ended by her taking Mrs. Opie Green’s cottage, in order that she might be near the doctor; Mrs. Opie Green having married—somebody.
And of whom else must we say a word? Patience, also, of course, got a husband—or will do so. Dear Patience! it would be a thousand pities that so good a wife should be lost to the world. Whether Miss Dunstable will ever be married, or Augusta Gresham, or Mr. Moffat, or any of the tribe of the De Courcys—except Lady Amelia—I cannot say. They have all of them still their future before them. That Bridget was married to Thomas—that I am able to assert; for I know that Janet was much put out by their joint desertion.
Lady Arabella has not yet lost her admiration for Mary, and Mary, in return, behaves admirably. Another event is expected, and her ladyship is almost as anxious about that as she was about the wedding. “A matter, you know, of such importance in the county!” she whispered to Lady de Courcy.
Nothing can be more happy than the intercourse between the squire and his son. What their exact arrangements are, we need not specially inquire; but the demon of pecuniary embarrassment has lifted his black wings from the demesne of Greshamsbury.
And now we have but one word left for the doctor. “If you don’t come and dine with me,” said the squire to him, when they found themselves both deserted, “mind, I shall come and dine with you.” And on this principle they seem to act. Dr. Thorne continues to extend his practice, to the great disgust of Dr. Fillgrave; and when Mary suggested to him that he should retire, he almost boxed her ears. He knows the way, however, to Boxall Hill as well as he ever did, and is willing to acknowledge, that the tea there is almost as good as it ever was at Greshamsbury.
THE END
Footnotes
[1] It is, I know, alleged that graces are said before dinner, because our Saviour uttered a blessing before his last supper. I cannot say that the idea of such analogy is pleasing to me.
FRAMLEY PARSONAGE
First published serially in the
Cornhill Magazine
in 1860 and in book form in 1861. This edition follows the text of the
Cornhill Magazine
.
Contents
II.
The Framley Set, and the Chaldicotes Set
III.
Chaldicotes
V.
Amantium Irae Amoris Integratio
VII.
Sunday Morning
VIII.
Gatherum Castle
XII.
The Little Bill
XIII.
Delicate Hints
XIV.
Mr. Crawley of Hogglestock
XVII.
Mrs. Proudie’s Conversazione
XVII.
The New Minister’s Patronage
XIX.
Money Dealings
XX.
Harold Smith in the Cabinet
XXI.
Why Puck, the Pony, Was Beaten
XXIII.
The Triumph of the Giants
XXIV.
Magna Est Veritas
XXV.
Non-Impulsive
XXVI.
Impulsive
XXVII.
South Audley Street
XXVIII.
Dr. Thorne
XXXII.
The Goat and Compasses
XXXIII.
Consolation
XXXIV.
Lady Lufton Is Taken by Surprise
XXXV.
The Story of King Cophetua
XXXVI.
Kidnapping at Hogglestock
XXXVII.
Mr. Sowerby without Company
XXXVIII.
Is There Cause or Just Impediment?
XXXIX.
How to Write a Love Letter
XL.
Internecine
XLI.
Don Quixote
XLII.
Touching Pitch
XLIII.
Is She Not Insignificant?
XLIV.
The Philistines at the Parsonage
XLV.
Palace Blessings
XLVII.
Nemesis
XLVIII.
How They Were All Married, Had Two Children, and Lived Happy Ever After
CHAPTER I
“Omnes Omnia Bona Dicere”
When young Mark Robarts was leaving college, his father might well declare that all men began to say all good things to him, and to extol his fortune in that he had a son blessed with so excellent a disposition.
This father was a physician living at Exeter. He was a gentleman possessed of no private means, but enjoying a lucrative practice, which had enabled him to maintain and educate a family with all the advantages which money can give in this country. Mark was his eldest son and second child; and the first page or two of this narrative must be consumed in giving a catalogue of the good things which chance and conduct together had heaped upon this young man’s head.
His first step forward in life had arisen from his having been sent, while still very young, as a private pupil to the house of a clergyman, who was an old friend and intimate friend of his father’s. This clergyman had one other, and only one other, pupil—the young Lord Lufton; and between the two boys, there had sprung up a close alliance.
While they were both so placed, Lady Lufton had visited her son, and then invited young Robarts to pass his next holidays at Framley Court. This visit was made; and it ended in Mark going back to Exeter with a letter full of praise from the widowed peeress. She had been delighted, she said, in having such a companion for her son, and expressed a hope that the boys might remain together during the course of their education. Dr. Robarts was a man who thought much of the breath of peers and peeresses, and was by no means inclined to throw away any advantage which might arise to his child from such a friendship. When, therefore, the young lord was sent to Harrow, Mark Robarts went there also.
That the lord and his friend often quarrelled, and occasionally fought—the fact even that for one period of three months they never spoke to each other—by no means interfered with the doctor’s hopes. Mark again and again stayed a fortnight at Framley Court, and Lady Lufton always wrote about him in the highest terms.
And then the lads went together to Oxford, and here Mark’s good fortune followed him, consisting rather in the highly respectable manner in which he lived, than in any wonderful career of collegiate success. His family was proud of him, and the doctor was always ready to talk of him to his patients; not because he was a prize-man, and had gotten medals and scholarships, but on account of the excellence of his general conduct. He lived with the best set—he incurred no debts—he was fond of society, but able to avoid low society—liked his glass of wine, but was never known to be drunk; and above all things, was one of the most popular men in the University.
Then came the question of a profession for this young Hyperion, and on this subject, Dr. Robarts was invited himself to go over to Framley Court to discuss the matter with Lady Lufton. Dr. Robarts returned with a very strong conception that the Church was the profession best suited to his son.
Lady Lufton had not sent for Dr. Robarts all the way from Exeter for nothing. The living of Framley was in the gift of the Lufton family, and the next presentation would be in Lady Lufton’s hands, if it should fall vacant before the young lord was twenty-five years of age, and in the young lord’s hands if it should fall afterwards. But the mother and the heir consented to give a joint promise to Dr. Robarts. Now, as the present incumbent was over seventy, and as the living was worth £900 a year, there could be no doubt as to the eligibility of the clerical profession.
And I must further say, that the dowager and the doctor were justified in their choice by the life and principles of the young man—as far as any father can be justified in choosing such a profession for his son, and as far as any lay impropriator can be justified in making such a promise. Had Lady Lufton had a second son, that second son would probably have had the living, and no one would have thought it wrong—certainly not if that second son had been such a one as Mark Robarts.
Lady Lufton herself was a woman who thought much on religious matters, and would by no means have been disposed to place anyone in a living, merely because such a one had been her son’s friend. Her tendencies were High Church, and she was enabled to perceive that those of young Mark Robarts ran in the same direction. She was very desirous that her son should make an associate of his clergyman, and by this step she would ensure, at any rate, that. She was anxious that the parish vicar should be one with whom she could herself fully co-operate, and was perhaps unconsciously wishful that he might in some measure be subject to her influence. Should she appoint an elder man, this might probably not be the case to the same extent; and should her son have the gift, it might probably not be the case at all.
And, therefore, it was resolved that the living should be given to young Robarts.
He took his degree—not with any brilliancy, but quite in the manner that his father desired; he then travelled for eight or ten months with Lord Lufton and a college don, and almost immediately after his return home was ordained.
The living of Framley is in the diocese of Barchester; and, seeing what were Mark’s hopes with reference to that diocese, it was by no means difficult to get him a curacy within it. But this curacy he was not allowed long to fill. He had not been in it above a twelvemonth, when poor old Dr. Stopford, the then vicar of Framley, was gathered to his fathers, and the full fruition of his rich hopes fell upon his shoulders.
But even yet more must be told of his good fortune before we can come to the actual incidents of our story. Lady Lufton, who, as I have said, thought much of clerical matters, did not carry her High Church principles so far as to advocate celibacy for the clergy. On the contrary, she had an idea that a man could not be a good parish parson without a wife. So, having given to her favourite a position in the world, and an income sufficient for a gentleman’s wants, she set herself to work to find him a partner in those blessings.
And here also, as in other matters, he fell in with the views of his patroness—not, however, that they were declared to him in that marked manner in which the affair of the living had been broached. Lady Lufton was much too highly gifted with woman’s craft for that. She never told the young vicar that Miss Monsell accompanied her ladyship’s married daughter to Framley Court expressly that he, Mark, might fall in love with her; but such was in truth the case.
Lady Lufton had but two children. The eldest, a daughter, had been married some four or five years to Sir George Meredith, and this Miss Monsell was a dear friend of hers. And now looms before me the novelist’s great difficulty. Miss Monsell—or, rather, Mrs. Mark Robarts—must be described. As Miss Monsell, our tale will have to take no prolonged note of her. And yet we will call her Fanny Monsell, when we declare that she was one of the pleasantest companions that could be brought near to a man, as the future partner of his home, and owner of his heart. And if high principles without asperity, female gentleness without weakness, a love of laughter without malice, and a true loving heart, can qualify a woman to be a parson’s wife, then was Fanny Monsell qualified to fill that station.
In person she was somewhat larger than common. Her face would have been beautiful but that her mouth was large. Her hair, which was copious, was of a bright brown; her eyes also were brown, and, being so, were the distinctive feature of her face, for brown eyes are not common. They were liquid, large, and full either of tenderness or of mirth. Mark Robarts still had his accustomed luck, when such a girl as this was brought to Framley for his wooing.
And he did woo her—and won her. For Mark himself was a handsome fellow. At this time the vicar was about twenty-five years of age, and the future Mrs. Robarts was two or three years younger. Nor did she come quite empty-handed to the vicarage. It cannot be said that Fanny Monsell was an heiress, but she had been left with a provision of some few thousand pounds. This was so settled, that the interest of his wife’s money paid the heavy insurance on his life which young Robarts effected, and there was left to him, over and above, sufficient to furnish his parsonage in the very best style of clerical comfort, and to start him on the road of life rejoicing.
So much did Lady Lufton do for her
protégé,
and it may well be imagined that the Devonshire physician, sitting meditative over his parlour fire, looking back, as men will look back on the upshot of their life, was well contented with that upshot, as regarded his eldest offshoot, the Rev. Mark Robarts, the vicar of Framley.
But little has as yet been said, personally, as to our hero himself, and perhaps it may not be necessary to say much. Let us hope that by degrees he may come forth upon the canvas, showing to the beholder the nature of the man inwardly and outwardly. Here it may suffice to say that he was no born heaven’s cherub, neither was he a born fallen devil’s spirit. Such as his training made him, such he was. He had large capabilities for good—and aptitudes also for evil, quite enough: quite enough to make it needful that he should repel temptation as temptation only can be repelled. Much had been done to spoil him, but in the ordinary acceptation of the word he was not spoiled. He had too much tact, too much common sense, to believe himself to be the paragon which his mother thought him. Self-conceit was not, perhaps, his greatest danger. Had he possessed more of it, he might have been a less agreeable man, but his course before him might on that account have been the safer.
In person he was manly, tall, and fair-haired, with a square forehead, denoting intelligence rather than thought, with clear white hands, filbert nails, and a power of dressing himself in such a manner that no one should ever observe of him that his clothes were either good or bad, shabby or smart.
Such was Mark Robarts when, at the age of twenty-five, or a little more, he married Fanny Monsell. The marriage was celebrated in his own church, for Miss Monsell had no home of her own, and had been staying for the last three months at Framley Court. She was given away by Sir George Meredith, and Lady Lufton herself saw that the wedding was what it should be, with almost as much care as she had bestowed on that of her own daughter. The deed of marrying, the absolute tying of the knot, was performed by the Very Reverend the Dean of Barchester, an esteemed friend of Lady Lufton’s. And Mrs. Arabin, the dean’s wife, was of the party, though the distance from Barchester to Framley is long, and the roads deep, and no railway lends its assistance. And Lord Lufton was there of course; and people protested that he would surely fall in love with one of the four beautiful bridesmaids, of whom Blanche Robarts, the vicar’s second sister, was by common acknowledgement by far the most beautiful.
And there was there another and a younger sister of Mark’s—who did not officiate at the ceremony, though she was present—and of whom no prediction was made, seeing that she was then only sixteen, but of whom mention is made here, as it will come to pass that my readers will know her hereafter. Her name was Lucy Robarts.
And then the vicar and his wife went off on their wedding tour, the old curate taking care of the Framley souls the while.
And in due time they returned; and after a further interval, in due course a child was born to them; and then another; and after that came the period at which we will begin our story. But before doing so, may I not assert that all men were right in saying all manner of good things to the Devonshire physician, and in praising his luck in having such a son?
“You were up at the house to-day, I suppose?” said Mark to his wife, as he sat stretching himself in an easy-chair in the drawing-room, before the fire, previously to his dressing for dinner. It was a November evening, and he had been out all day, and on such occasions the aptitude for delay in dressing is very powerful. A strong-minded man goes direct from the hall door to his chamber without encountering the temptation of the drawing-room fire.
“No; but Lady Lufton was down here.”
“Full of arguments in favour of Sarah Thompson?”
“Exactly so, Mark.”
“And what did you say about Sarah Thompson?”
“Very little as coming from myself: but I did hint that you thought, or that I thought that you thought, that one of the regular trained school-mistresses would be better.”
“But her ladyship did not agree?”
“Well, I won’t exactly say that—though I think that perhaps she did not.”
“I am sure she did not. When she has a point to carry, she is very fond of carrying it.”
“But then, Mark, her points are generally so good.”
“But, you see, in this affair of the school she is thinking more of her
protégée
than she does of the children.”
“Tell her that, and I am sure she will give way.”
And then again they were both silent. And the vicar having thoroughly warmed himself, as far as this might be done by facing the fire, turned round and began the operation
à tergo
.
“Come, Mark, it is twenty minutes past six. Will you go and dress?”
“I’ll tell you what, Fanny: she must have her way about Sarah Thompson. You can see her to-morrow and tell her so.”
“I am sure, Mark, I would not give way, if I thought it wrong. Nor would she expect it.”
“If I persist this time, I shall certainly have to yield the next; and then the next may probably be more important.”
“But if it’s wrong, Mark?”
“I didn’t say it was wrong. Besides, if it is wrong, wrong in some infinitesimal degree, one must put up with it. Sarah Thompson is very respectable; the only question is whether she can teach.”
The young wife, though she did not say so, had some idea that her husband was in error. It is true that one must put up with wrong, with a great deal of wrong. But no one need put up with wrong that he can remedy. Why should he, the vicar, consent to receive an incompetent teacher for the parish children, when he was able to procure one that was competent? In such a case—so thought Mrs. Robarts to herself—she would have fought the matter out with Lady Lufton.