“Of course he cannot be at home now as much as he was down in the country, when he was living in the same house,” said Mrs. Grantly, whose business it was to take Lord Lufton’s part at the present moment. “He must be at his club, and at the House of Lords, and in twenty places.”
“He is very fond of going to parties, and he dances beautifully.”
“I am sure he does. I have seen as much as that myself, and I think I know some one with whom he likes to dance.” And the mother gave the daughter a loving little squeeze.
“Do you mean me, mamma?”
“Yes, I do mean you, my dear. And is it not true? Lady Lufton says that he likes dancing with you better than with any one else in London.”
“I don’t know,” said Griselda, looking down upon the ground.
Mrs. Grantly thought that this upon the whole was rather a good opening. It might have been better. Some point of interest more serious in its nature than that of a waltz might have been found on which to connect her daughter’s sympathies with those of her future husband. But any point of interest was better than none; and it is so difficult to find points of interest in persons who by their nature are not impulsive.
“Lady Lufton says so, at any rate,” continued Mrs. Grantly, ever so cautiously. “She thinks that Lord Lufton likes no partner better. What do you think yourself, Griselda?”
“I don’t know, mamma.”
“But young ladies must think of such things, must they not?”
“Must they, mamma?”
“I suppose they do, don’t they? The truth is, Griselda, that Lady Lufton thinks that if— Can you guess what it is she thinks?”
“No, mamma.” But that was a fib on Griselda’s part.
“She thinks that my Griselda would make the best possible wife in the world for her son: and I think so too. I think that her son will be a very fortunate man if he can get such a wife. And now what do you think, Griselda?”
“I don’t think anything, mamma.”
But that would not do. It was absolutely necessary that she should think, and absolutely necessary that her mother should tell her so. Such a degree of unimpulsiveness as this would lead to—Heaven knows what results! Lufton-Grantly treaties and Hartletop interests would be all thrown away upon a young lady who would not think anything of a noble suitor sighing for her smiles. Besides, it was not natural. Griselda, as her mother knew, had never been a girl of headlong feeling; but still she had had her likes and her dislikes. In that matter of the bishopric she was keen enough; and no one could evince a deeper interest in the subject of a well-made new dress than Griselda Grantly. It was not possible that she should be indifferent as to her future prospects, and she must know that those prospects depended mainly on her marriage. Her mother was almost angry with her, but nevertheless she went on very gently: “You don’t think anything! But, my darling, you must think. You must make up your mind what would be your answer if Lord Lufton were to propose to you. That is what Lady Lufton wishes him to do.”
“But he never will, mamma.”
“And if he did?”
“But I’m sure he never will. He doesn’t think of such a thing at all—and—and—”
“And what, my dear?”
“I don’t know, mamma.”
“Surely you can speak out to me, dearest! All I care about is your happiness. Both Lady Lufton and I think that it would be a happy marriage if you both cared for each other enough. She thinks that he is fond of you. But if he were ten times Lord Lufton I would not tease you about it if I thought that you could not learn to care about him. What was it you were going to say, my dear?”
“Lord Lufton thinks a great deal more of Lucy Robarts than he does of—of—of any one else, I believe,” said Griselda, showing now some little animation by her manner, “dumpy little black thing that she is.”
“Lucy Robarts!” said Mrs. Grantly, taken by surprise at finding that her daughter was moved by such a passion as jealousy, and feeling also perfectly assured that there could not be any possible ground for jealousy in such a direction as that. “Lucy Robarts, my dear! I don’t suppose Lord Lufton ever thought of speaking to her, except in the way of civility.”
“Yes, he did, mamma! Don’t you remember at Framley?”
Mrs. Grantly began to look back in her mind, and she thought she did remember having once observed Lord Lufton talking in rather a confidential manner with the parson’s sister. But she was sure that there was nothing in it. If that was the reason why Griselda was so cold to her proposed lover, it would be a thousand pities that it should not be removed.
“Now you mention her, I do remember the young lady,” said Mrs. Grantly, “a dark girl, very low, and without much figure. She seemed to me to keep very much in the background.”
“I don’t know much about that, mamma.”
“As far as I saw her, she did. But, my dear Griselda, you should not allow yourself to think of such a thing. Lord Lufton, of course, is bound to be civil to any young lady in his mother’s house, and I am quite sure that he has no other idea whatever with regard to Miss Robarts. I certainly cannot speak as to her intellect, for I do not think she opened her mouth in my presence; but—”
“Oh! she has plenty to say for herself, when she pleases. She’s a sly little thing.”
“But, at any rate, my dear, she has no personal attractions whatever, and I do not at all think that Lord Lufton is a man to be taken by—by—by anything that Miss Robarts might do or say.”
As those words “personal attractions” were uttered, Griselda managed so to turn her neck as to catch a side view of herself in one of the mirrors on the wall, and then she bridled herself up, and made a little play with her eyes, and looked, as her mother thought, very well. “It is all nothing to me, mamma, of course,” she said.
“Well, my dear, perhaps not. I don’t say that it is. I do not wish to put the slightest constraint upon your feelings. If I did not have the most thorough dependence on your good sense and high principles, I should not speak to you in this way. But as I have, I thought it best to tell you that both Lady Lufton and I should be well pleased if we thought that you and Lord Lufton were fond of each other.”
“I am sure he never thinks of such a thing, mamma.”
“And as for Lucy Robarts, pray get that idea out of your head; if not for your sake, then for his. You should give him credit for better taste.”
But it was not so easy to take anything out of Griselda’s head that she had once taken into it. “As for tastes, mamma, there is no accounting for them,” she said; and then the colloquy on that subject was over. The result of it on Mrs. Grantly’s mind was a feeling amounting almost to a conviction in favour of the Dumbello interest.
CHAPTER XXVI
Impulsive
I trust my readers will all remember how Puck the pony was beaten during that drive to Hogglestock. It may be presumed that Puck himself on that occasion did not suffer much. His skin was not so soft as Mrs. Robarts’s heart. The little beast was full of oats and all the good things of this world, and therefore, when the whip touched him, he would dance about and shake his little ears, and run on at a tremendous pace for twenty yards, making his mistress think that he had endured terrible things. But, in truth, during those whippings Puck was not the chief sufferer.
Lucy had been forced to declare—forced by the strength of her own feelings, and by the impossibility of assenting to the propriety of a marriage between Lord Lufton and Miss Grantly—, she had been forced to declare that she did care about Lord Lufton as much as though he were her brother. She had said all this to herself—nay, much more than this—very often. But now she had said it out loud to her sister-in-law; and she knew that what she had said was remembered, considered, and had, to a certain extent, become the cause of altered conduct. Fanny alluded very seldom to the Luftons in casual conversation, and never spoke about Lord Lufton, unless when her husband made it impossible that she should not speak of him. Lucy had attempted on more than one occasion to remedy this, by talking about the young lord in a laughing and, perhaps, half-jeering way; she had been sarcastic as to his hunting and shooting, and had boldly attempted to say a word in joke about his love for Griselda. But she felt that she had failed; that she had failed altogether as regarded Fanny; and that as to her brother, she would more probably be the means of opening his eyes, than have any effect in keeping them closed. So she gave up her efforts and spoke no further word about Lord Lufton. Her secret had been told, and she knew that it had been told.
At this time the two ladies were left a great deal alone together in the drawing-room at the parsonage; more, perhaps, than had ever yet been the case since Lucy had been there. Lady Lufton was away, and therefore the almost daily visit to Framley Court was not made; and Mark in these days was a great deal at Barchester, having, no doubt, very onerous duties to perform before he could be admitted as one of that chapter. He went into, what he was pleased to call residence, almost at once. That is, he took his month of preaching, aiding also, in some slight and very dignified way, in the general Sunday morning services. He did not exactly live at Barchester, because the house was not ready. That at least was the assumed reason. The chattels of Dr. Stanhope, the late prebendary, had not been as yet removed, and there was likely to be some little delay, creditors asserting their right to them. This might have been very inconvenient to a gentleman anxiously expecting the excellent house which the liberality of past ages had provided for his use; but it was not so felt by Mr. Robarts. If Dr. Stanhope’s family or creditors would keep the house for the next twelve months, he would be well pleased. And by this arrangement he was enabled to get through his first month of absence from the church of Framley without any notice from Lady Lufton, seeing that Lady Lufton was in London all the time. This also was convenient, and taught our young prebendary to look on his new preferment more favourably than he had hitherto done.
Fanny and Lucy were thus left much alone: and as out of the full head the mouth speaks, so is the full heart more prone to speak at such periods of confidence as these. Lucy, when she first thought of her own state, determined to endow herself with a powerful gift of reticence. She would never tell her love, certainly; but neither would she let concealment feed on her damask cheek, nor would she ever be found for a moment sitting like Patience on a monument. She would fight her own fight bravely within her own bosom, and conquer her enemy altogether. She would either preach, or starve, or weary her love into subjection, and no one should be a bit the wiser. She would teach herself to shake hands with Lord Lufton without a quiver, and would be prepared to like his wife amazingly—unless indeed that wife should be Griselda Grantly. Such were her resolutions; but at the end of the first week they were broken into shivers and scattered to the winds.
They had been sitting in the house together the whole of one wet day; and as Mark was to dine in Barchester with the dean, they had had dinner early, eating with the children almost in their laps. It is so that ladies do, when their husbands leave them to themselves. It was getting dusk towards evening, and they were still sitting in the drawing-room, the children now having retired, when Mrs. Robarts for the fifth time since her visit to Hogglestock began to express her wish that she could do some good to the Crawleys—to Grace Crawley in particular, who, standing up there at her father’s elbow, learning Greek irregular verbs, had appeared to Mrs. Robarts to be an especial object of pity.
“I don’t know how to set about it,” said Mrs. Robarts.
Now any allusion to that visit to Hogglestock always drove Lucy’s mind back to the consideration of the subject which had most occupied it at the time. She at such moments remembered how she had beaten Puck, and how in her half-bantering but still too serious manner she had apologized for doing so, and had explained the reason. And therefore she could not interest herself about Grace Crawley as vividly as she should have done.
“No; one never does,” she said.
“I was thinking about it all that day as I drove home,” said Fanny. “The difficulty is this: What can we do with her?”
“Exactly,” said Lucy, remembering the very point of the road at which she had declared that she did like Lord Lufton very much.
“If we could have her here for a month or so and then send her to school—but I know Mr. Crawley would not allow us to pay for her schooling.”
“I don’t think he would,” said Lucy, with her thoughts far removed from Mr. Crawley and his daughter Grace.
“And then we should not know what to do with her; should we?”
“No; you would not.”
“It would never do to have the poor girl about the house here with no one to teach her anything. Mark would not teach her Greek verbs, you know.”
“I suppose not.”
“Lucy, you are not attending to a word I say to you, and I don’t think you have for the last hour. I don’t believe you know what I am talking about.”
“Oh, yes, I do—Grace Crawley; I’ll try and teach her if you like, only I don’t know anything myself.”
“That’s not what I mean at all, and you know I would not ask you to take such a task as that on yourself. But I do think you might talk it over with me.”
“Might I? very well; I will. What is it? Oh, Grace Crawley—you want to know who is to teach her the irregular Greek verbs. Oh, dear, Fanny, my head does ache so: pray don’t be angry with me.” And then Lucy, throwing herself back on the sofa, put one hand up painfully to her forehead, and altogether gave up the battle.
Mrs. Robarts was by her side in a moment. “Dearest Lucy, what is it makes your head ache so often now? you used not to have those headaches.”
“It’s because I’m growing stupid: never mind. We will go on about poor Grace. It would not do to have a governess, would it?”
“I can see that you are not well, Lucy,” said Mrs. Robarts, with a look of deep concern. “What is it, dearest? I can see that something is the matter.”
“Something the matter! No, there’s not; nothing worth talking of. Sometimes I think I’ll go back to Devonshire and live there. I could stay with Blanche for a time, and then get a lodging in Exeter.”
“Go back to Devonshire!” and Mrs. Robarts looked as though she thought that her sister-in-law was going mad. “Why do you want to go away from us? This is to be your own, own home, always now.”
“Is it? Then I am in a bad way. Oh dear, oh dear, what a fool I am! What an idiot I’ve been! Fanny, I don’t think I can stay here; and I do so wish I’d never come. I do—I do—I do, though you look at me so horribly,” and jumping up she threw herself into her sister-in-law’s arms and began kissing her violently. “Don’t pretend to be wounded, for you know that I love you. You know that I could live with you all my life, and think you were perfect—as you are; but—”
“Has Mark said anything?”
“Not a word—not a ghost of a syllable. It is not Mark; oh, Fanny!”
“I am afraid I know what you mean,” said Mrs. Robarts in a low tremulous voice, and with deep sorrow painted on her face.
“Of course you do; of course you know; you have known it all along; since that day in the pony-carriage. I knew that you knew it. You do not dare to mention his name; would not that tell me that you know it? And I, I am hypocrite enough for Mark; but my hypocrisy won’t pass muster before you. And, now, had I not better go to Devonshire?”
“Dearest, dearest Lucy.”
“Was I not right about that labelling? O heavens! what idiots we girls are! That a dozen soft words should have bowled me over like a ninepin, and left me without an inch of ground to call my own. And I was so proud of my own strength; so sure that I should never be missish, and spoony, and sentimental! I was so determined to like him as Mark does, or you—”
“I shall not like him at all if he has spoken words to you that he should not have spoken.”
“But he has not.” And then she stopped a moment to consider. “No, he has not. He never said a word to me that would make you angry with him if you knew of it. Except, perhaps, that he called me Lucy; and that was my fault, not his.”
“Because you talked of soft words.”
“Fanny, you have no idea what an absolute fool I am, what an unutterable ass. The soft words of which I tell you were of the kind which he speaks to you when he asks you how the cow gets on which he sent you from Ireland, or to Mark about Ponto’s shoulder. He told me that he knew papa, and that he was at school with Mark, and that as he was such good friends with you here at the parsonage, he must be good friends with me too. No; it has not been his fault. The soft words which did the mischief were such as those. But how well his mother understood the world! In order to have been safe, I should not have dared to look at him.”
“But, dearest Lucy—”
“I know what you are going to say, and I admit it all. He is no hero. There is nothing on earth wonderful about him. I never heard him say a single word of wisdom, or utter a thought that was akin to poetry. He devotes all his energies to riding after a fox or killing poor birds, and I never heard of his doing a single great action in my life. And yet—”
Fanny was so astounded by the way her sister-in-law went on, that she hardly knew how to speak. “He is an excellent son, I believe,” at last she said.
“Except when he goes to Gatherum Castle. I’ll tell you what he has: he has fine straight legs, and a smooth forehead, and a good-humoured eye, and white teeth. Was it possible to see such a catalogue of perfections, and not fall down, stricken to the very bone? But it was not that that did it all, Fanny. I could have stood against that. I think I could at least. It was his title that killed me. I had never spoken to a lord before. Oh, me! what a fool, what a beast I have been!” And then she burst out into tears.
Mrs. Robarts, to tell the truth, could hardly understand poor Lucy’s ailment. It was evident enough that her misery was real; but yet she spoke of herself and her sufferings with so much irony, with so near an approach to joking, that it was very hard to tell how far she was in earnest. Lucy, too, was so much given to a species of badinage which Mrs. Robarts did not always quite understand, that the latter was afraid sometimes to speak out what came uppermost to her tongue. But now that Lucy was absolutely in tears, and was almost breathless with excitement, she could not remain silent any longer. “Dearest Lucy, pray do not speak in that way; it will all come right. Things always do come right when no one has acted wrongly.”
“Yes, when nobody has done wrongly. That’s what papa used to call begging the question. But I’ll tell you what, Fanny; I will not be beaten. I will either kill myself or get through it. I am so heartily self-ashamed that I owe it to myself to fight the battle out.”
“To fight what battle, dearest?”
“This battle. Here, now, at the present moment I could not meet Lord Lufton. I should have to run like a scared fowl if he were to show himself within the gate; and I should not dare to go out of the house, if I knew that he was in the parish.”
“I don’t see that, for I am sure you have not betrayed yourself.”
“Well, no; as for myself, I believe I have done the lying and the hypocrisy pretty well. But, dearest Fanny, you don’t know half; and you cannot and must not know.”
“But I thought you said there had been nothing whatever between you.”
“Did I? Well, to you I have not said a word that was not true. I said that he had spoken nothing that it was wrong for him to say. It could not be wrong— But never mind. I’ll tell you what I mean to do. I have been thinking of it for the last week—only I shall have to tell Mark.”
“If I were you I would tell him all.”
“What, Mark! If you do, Fanny, I’ll never, never, never speak to you again. Would you—when I have given you all my heart in true sisterly love?”
Mrs. Robarts had to explain that she had not proposed to tell anything to Mark herself, and was persuaded, moreover, to give a solemn promise that she would not tell anything to him unless specially authorized to do so.
“I’ll go into a home, I think,” continued Lucy. “You know what those homes are?” Mrs. Robarts assured her that she knew very well, and then Lucy went on: “A year ago I should have said that I was the last girl in England to think of such a life, but I do believe now that it would be the best thing for me. And then I’ll starve myself, and flog myself, and in that way I’ll get back my own mind and my own soul.”
“Your own soul, Lucy!” said Mrs. Robarts, in a tone of horror.
“Well, my own heart, if you like it better; but I hate to hear myself talking about hearts. I don’t care for my heart. I’d let it go—with this young popinjay lord or any one else, so that I could read, and talk, and walk, and sleep, and eat, without always feeling that I was wrong here—here—here—” and she pressed her hand vehemently against her side. “What is it that I feel, Fanny? Why am I so weak in body that I cannot take exercise? Why cannot I keep my mind on a book for one moment? Why can I not write two sentences together? Why should every mouthful that I eat stick in my throat? Oh, Fanny, is it his legs, think you, or is it his title?”