“You are going to be a great lady, Grizzy,” said he.
“Umph!” said she.
What was she to say when so addressed?
“And I hope you will be happy—and make others happy.”
“I hope I shall,” said she.
“But always think most about the latter, my dear. Think about the happiness of those around you, and your own will come without thinking. You understand that; do you not?”
“Oh, yes, I understand,” she said.
As they were speaking Mr. Harding still held her hand, but Griselda left it with him unwillingly, and therefore ungraciously, looking as though she were dragging it from him.
“And Grizzy—I believe it is quite as easy for a rich countess to be happy, as for a dairymaid—”
Griselda gave her head a little chuck which was produced by two different operations of her mind. The first was a reflection that her grandpapa was robbing her of her rank. She was to be a rich marchioness. And the second was a feeling of anger at the old man for comparing her lot to that of a dairymaid.
“Quite as easy, I believe,” continued he; “though others will tell you that it is not so. But with the countess as with the dairymaid, it must depend on the woman herself. Being a countess—that fact alone won’t make you happy.”
“Lord Dumbello at present is only a viscount,” said Griselda. “There is no earl’s title in the family.”
“Oh! I did not know,” said Mr. Harding, relinquishing his granddaughter’s hand; and, after that, he troubled her with no further advice.
Both Mrs. Proudie and the bishop had called at Plumstead since Mrs. Grantly had come back from London, and the ladies from Plumstead, of course, returned the visit. It was natural that the Grantlys and Proudies should hate each other. They were essentially Church people, and their views on all Church matters were antagonistic. They had been compelled to fight for supremacy in the diocese, and neither family had so conquered the other as to have become capable of magnanimity and good-humour. They did hate each other, and this hatred had, at one time, almost produced an absolute disseverance of even the courtesies which are so necessary between a bishop and his clergy. But the bitterness of this rancour had been overcome, and the ladies of the families had continued on visiting terms.
But now this match was almost more than Mrs. Proudie could bear. The great disappointment which, as she well knew, the Grantlys had encountered in that matter of the proposed new bishopric had for the moment mollified her. She had been able to talk of poor dear Mrs. Grantly! “She is heart-broken, you know, in this matter, and the repetition of such misfortunes is hard to bear,” she had been heard to say, with a complacency which had been quite becoming to her. But now that complacency was at an end. Olivia Proudie had just accepted a widowed preacher at a district church in Bethnal Green—a man with three children, who was dependent on pew-rents; and Griselda Grantly was engaged to the eldest son of the Marquis of Hartletop! When women are enjoined to forgive their enemies it cannot be intended that such wrongs as these should be included.
But Mrs. Proudie’s courage was nothing daunted. It may be boasted of her that nothing could daunt her courage. Soon after her return to Barchester, she and Olivia—Olivia being very unwilling—had driven over to Plumstead, and, not finding the Grantlys at home, had left their cards; and now, at a proper interval, Mrs. Grantly and Griselda returned the visit. It was the first time that Miss Grantly had been seen by the Proudie ladies since the fact of her engagement had become known.
The first bevy of compliments that passed might be likened to a crowd of flowers on a hedge rose-bush. They were beautiful to the eye, but were so closely environed by thorns that they could not be plucked without great danger. As long as the compliments were allowed to remain on the hedge—while no attempt was made to garner them and realize their fruits for enjoyment—they did no mischief; but the first finger that was put forth for such a purpose was soon drawn back, marked with spots of blood.
“Of course it is a great match for Griselda,” said Mrs. Grantly, in a whisper the meekness of which would have disarmed an enemy whose weapons were less firmly clutched than those of Mrs. Proudie; “but, independently of that, the connexion is one which is gratifying in many ways.”
“Oh, no doubt,” said Mrs. Proudie.
“Lord Dumbello is so completely his own master,” continued Mrs. Grantly, and a slight, unintended semi-tone of triumph mingled itself with the meekness of that whisper.
“And is likely to remain so, from all I hear,” said Mrs. Proudie, and the scratched hand was at once drawn back.
“Of course the estab—,” and then Mrs. Proudie, who was blandly continuing her list of congratulations, whispered her sentence close into the car of Mrs. Grantly, so that not a word of what she said might be audible by the young people.
“I never heard a word of it,” said Mrs. Grantly, gathering herself up, “and I don’t believe it.”
“Oh, I may be wrong; and I’m sure I hope so. But young men will be young men, you know—and children will take after their parents. I suppose you will see a great deal of the Duke of Omnium now.”
But Mrs. Grantly was not a woman to be knocked down and trampled on without resistance; and though she had been lacerated by the rose-bush she was not as yet placed altogether
hors de combat
. She said some word about the Duke of Omnium very tranquilly, speaking of him merely as a Barsetshire proprietor, and then, smiling with her sweetest smile, expressed a hope that she might soon have the pleasure of becoming acquainted with Mr. Tickler; and as she spoke she made a pretty little bow towards Olivia Proudie. Now Mr. Tickler was the worthy clergyman attached to the district church at Bethnal Green.
“He’ll be down here in August,” said Olivia, boldly, determined not to be shamefaced about her love affairs.
“You’ll be starring it about the Continent by that time, my dear,” said Mrs. Proudie to Griselda. “Lord Dumbello is well known at Homburg and Ems, and places of that sort; so you will find yourself quite at home.”
“We are going to Rome,” said Griselda, majestically.
“I suppose Mr. Tickler will come into the diocese soon,” said Mrs. Grantly. “I remember hearing him very favourably spoken of by Mr. Slope, who was a friend of his.”
Nothing short of a fixed resolve on the part of Mrs. Grantly that the time had now come in which she must throw away her shield and stand behind her sword, declare war to the knife, and neither give nor take quarter, could have justified such a speech as this. Any allusion to Mr. Slope acted on Mrs. Proudie as a red cloth is supposed to act on a bull; but when that allusion connected the name of Mr. Slope in a friendly bracket with that of Mrs. Proudie’s future son-in-law it might be certain that the effect would be terrific. And there was more than this: for that very Mr. Slope had once entertained audacious hopes—hopes not thought to be audacious by the young lady herself—with reference to Miss Olivia Proudie. All this Mrs. Grantly knew, and, knowing it, still dared to mention his name.
The countenance of Mrs. Proudie became darkened with black anger, and the polished smile of her company manners gave place before the outraged feelings of her nature.
“The man you speak of, Mrs. Grantly,” said she, “was never known as a friend by Mr. Tickler.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Mrs. Grantly. “Perhaps I have made a mistake. I am sure I have heard Mr. Slope mention him.”
“When Mr. Slope was running after your sister, Mrs. Grantly, and was encouraged by her as he was, you perhaps saw more of him than I did.”
“Mrs. Proudie, that was never the case.”
“I have reason to know that the archdeacon conceived it to be so, and that he was very unhappy about it.” Now this, unfortunately, was a fact which Mrs. Grantly could not deny.
“The archdeacon may have been mistaken about Mr. Slope,” she said, “as were some other people at Barchester. But it was you, I think, Mrs. Proudie, who were responsible for bringing him here.”
Mrs. Grantly, at this period of the engagement, might have inflicted a fatal wound by referring to poor Olivia’s former love affairs, but she was not destitute of generosity. Even in the extremest heat of the battle she knew how to spare the young and tender.
“When I came here, Mrs. Grantly, I little dreamed what a depth of wickedness might be found in the very close of a cathedral city,” said Mrs. Proudie.
“Then, for dear Olivia’s sake, pray do not bring poor Mr. Tickler to Barchester.”
“Mr. Tickler, Mrs. Grantly, is a man of assured morals and of a highly religious tone of thinking. I wish everyone could be so safe as regards their daughters’ future prospects as I am.”
“Yes, I know he has the advantage of being a family man,” said Mrs. Grantly, getting up. “Good morning, Mrs. Proudie; good day, Olivia.”
“A great deal better that than—” But the blow fell upon the empty air; for Mrs. Grantly had already escaped on to the staircase while Olivia was ringing the bell for the servant to attend the front-door.
Mrs. Grantly, as she got into her carriage, smiled slightly, thinking of the battle, and as she sat down she gently pressed her daughter’s hand. But Mrs. Proudie’s face was still dark as Acheron when her enemy withdrew, and with angry tone she sent her daughter to her work. “Mr. Tickler will have great reason to complain if, in your position, you indulge such habits of idleness,” she said. Therefore I conceive that I am justified in saying that in that encounter Mrs. Grantly was the conqueror.
CHAPTER XLI
Don Quixote
On the day on which Lucy had her interview with Lady Lufton the dean dined at Framley parsonage. He and Robarts had known each other since the latter had been in the diocese, and now, owing to Mark’s preferment in the chapter, had become almost intimate. The dean was greatly pleased with the manner in which poor Mr. Crawley’s children had been conveyed away from Hogglestock, and was inclined to open his heart to the whole Framley household. As he still had to ride home he could only allow himself to remain half-an-hour after dinner, but in that half-hour he said a great deal about Crawley, complimented Robarts on the manner in which he was playing the part of the Good Samaritan, and then by degrees informed him that it had come to his, the dean’s, ears, before he left Barchester, that a writ was in the hands of certain persons in the city, enabling them to seize—he did not know whether it was the person or the property of the vicar of Framley.
The fact was that these tidings had been conveyed to the dean with the express intent that he might put Robarts on his guard; but the task of speaking on such a subject to a brother clergyman had been so unpleasant to him that he had been unable to introduce it till the last five minutes before his departure.
“I hope you will not put it down as an impertinent interference,” said the dean, apologizing.
“No,” said Mark; “no, I do not think that.” He was so sad at heart that he hardly knew how to speak of it.
“I do not understand much about such matters,” said the dean; “but I think, if I were you, I should go to a lawyer. I should imagine that anything so terribly disagreeable as an arrest might be avoided.”
“It is a hard case,” said Mark, pleading his own cause. “Though these men have this claim against me I have never received a shilling either in money or money’s worth.”
“And yet your name is to the bills!” said the dean.
“Yes, my name is to the bills, certainly, but it was to oblige a friend.”
And then the dean, having given his advice, rode away. He could not understand how a clergyman, situated as was Mr. Robarts, could find himself called upon by friendship to attach his name to accommodation bills which he had not the power of liquidating when due!
On that evening they were both wretched enough at the parsonage. Hitherto Mark had hoped that perhaps, after all, no absolutely hostile steps would be taken against him with reference to these bills. Some unforeseen chance might occur in his favour, or the persons holding them might consent to take small instalments of payment from time to time; but now it seemed that the evil day was actually coming upon him at a blow. He had no longer any secrets from his wife. Should he go to a lawyer? and if so, to what lawyer? And when he had found his lawyer, what should he say to him? Mrs. Robarts at one time suggested that everything should be told to Lady Lufton. Mark, however, could not bring himself to do that. “It would seem,” he said, “as though I wanted her to lend me the money.”
On the following morning Mark did ride into Barchester, dreading, however, lest he should be arrested on his journey, and he did see a lawyer. During his absence two calls were made at the parsonage—one by a very rough-looking individual, who left a suspicious document in the hands of the servant, purporting to be an invitation—not to dinner—from one of the Judges of the land; and the other call was made by Lady Lufton in person.
Mrs. Robarts had determined to go down to Framley Court on that day. In accordance with her usual custom she would have been there within an hour or two of Lady Lufton’s return from London, but things between them were not now as they usually had been. This affair of Lucy’s must make a difference, let them both resolve to the contrary as they might. And, indeed, Mrs. Robarts had found that the closeness of her intimacy with Framley Court had been diminishing from day to day since Lucy had first begun to be on friendly terms with Lord Lufton. Since that she had been less at Framley Court than usual; she had heard from Lady Lufton less frequently by letter during her absence than she had done in former years, and was aware that she was less implicitly trusted with all the affairs of the parish. This had not made her angry, for she was in a manner conscious that it must be so. It made her unhappy, but what could she do? She could not blame Lucy, nor could she blame Lady Lufton. Lord Lufton she did blame, but she did so in the hearing of no one but her husband.
Her mind, however, was made up to go over and bear the first brunt of her ladyship’s arguments, when she was stopped by her ladyship’s arrival. If it were not for this terrible matter of Lucy’s love—a matter on which they could not now be silent when they met—there would be twenty subjects of pleasant, or, at any rate, not unpleasant conversation. But even then there would be those terrible bills hanging over her conscience, and almost crushing her by their weight. At the moment in which Lady Lufton walked up to the drawing-room window, Mrs. Robarts held in her hand that ominous invitation from the Judge. Would it not be well that she should make a clean breast of it all, disregarding what her husband had said? It might be well: only this—she had never yet done anything in opposition to her husband’s wishes. So she hid the slip within her desk, and left the matter open to consideration.
The interview commenced with an affectionate embrace, as was a matter of course. “Dear Fanny,” and “Dear Lady Lufton,” was said between them with all the usual warmth. And then the first inquiry was made about the children, and the second about the school. For a minute or two Mrs. Robarts thought that, perhaps, nothing was to be said about Lucy. If it pleased Lady Lufton to be silent, she, at least, would not commence the subject.
Then there was a word or two spoken about Mrs. Podgens’s baby, after which Lady Lufton asked whether Fanny were alone. “Yes,” said Mrs. Robarts. “Mark has gone over to Barchester.”
“I hope he will not be long before he lets me see him. Perhaps he can call to-morrow. Would you both come and dine to-morrow?”
“Not to-morrow, I think, Lady Lufton; but Mark, I am sure, will go over and call.”
“And why not come to dinner? I hope there is to be no change among us, eh, Fanny?” and Lady Lufton as she spoke looked into the other’s face in a manner which almost made Mrs. Robarts get up and throw herself on her old friend’s neck. Where was she to find a friend who would give her such constant love as she had received from Lady Lufton? And who was kinder, better, more honest than she?
“Change! no, I hope not, Lady Lufton;” and as she spoke the tears stood in her eyes.
“Ah, but I shall think there is if you will not come to me as you used to do. You always used to come and dine with me the day I came home, as a matter of course.”
What could she say, poor woman, to this?
“We were all in confusion yesterday about poor Mrs. Crawley, and the dean dined here; he had been over at Hogglestock to see his friend.”
“I have heard of her illness, and will go over and see what ought to be done. Don’t you go, do you hear, Fanny? You with your young children! I should never forgive you if you did.”
And then Mrs. Robarts explained how Lucy had gone there, had sent the four children back to Framley, and was herself now staying at Hogglestock with the object of nursing Mrs. Crawley. In telling the story she abstained from praising Lucy with all the strong language which she would have used had not Lucy’s name and character been at the present moment of peculiar import to Lady Lufton; but nevertheless she could not tell it without dwelling much on Lucy’s kindness. It would have been ungenerous to Lady Lufton to make much of Lucy’s virtue at this present moment, but unjust to Lucy to make nothing of it.
“And she is actually with Mrs. Crawley now?” asked Lady Lufton.
“Oh, yes; Mark left her there yesterday afternoon.”
“And the four children are all here in the house?”
“Not exactly in the house—that is, not as yet. We have arranged a sort of quarantine hospital over the coach-house.”
“What, where Stubbs lives?”
“Yes; Stubbs and his wife have come into the house, and the children are to remain up there till the doctor says that there is no danger of infection. I have not even seen my visitors myself as yet,” said Mrs. Robarts with a slight laugh.
“Dear me!” said Lady Lufton. “I declare you have been very prompt. And so Miss Robarts is over there! I should have thought Mr. Crawley would have made a difficulty about the children.”
“Well, he did; but they kidnapped them—that is, Lucy and Mark did. The dean gave me such an account of it. Lucy brought them out by two’s and packed them in the pony-carriage, and then Mark drove off at a gallop while Mr. Crawley stood calling to them in the road. The dean was there at the time and saw it all.”
“That Miss Lucy of yours seems to be a very determined young lady when she takes a thing into her head,” said Lady Lufton, now sitting down for the first time.
“Yes, she is,” said Mrs. Robarts, having laid aside all her pleasant animation, for the discussion which she dreaded was now at hand.
“A very determined young lady,” continued Lady Lufton. “Of course, my dear Fanny, you know all this about Ludovic and your sister-in-law?”
“Yes, she has told me about it.”
“It is very unfortunate—very.”
“I do not think Lucy has been to blame,” said Mrs. Robarts; and as she spoke the blood was already mounting to her cheeks.
“Do not be too anxious to defend her, my dear, before any one accuses her. Whenever a person does that it looks as though their cause were weak.”
“But my cause is not weak as far as Lucy is concerned; I feel quite sure that she has not been to blame.”
“I know how obstinate you can be, Fanny, when you think it necessary to dub yourself any one’s champion. Don Quixote was not a better knight-errant than you are. But is it not a pity to take up your lance and shield before an enemy is within sight or hearing? But that was ever the way with your Don Quixotes.”
“Perhaps there may be an enemy in ambush.” That was Mrs. Robarts’s thought to herself, but she did not dare to express it, so she remained silent.
“My only hope is,” continued Lady Lufton, “that when my back is turned you fight as gallantly for me.”
“Ah, you are never under a cloud, like poor Lucy.”
“Am I not? But, Fanny, you do not see all the clouds. The sun does not always shine for any of us, and the down-pouring rain and the heavy wind scatter also my fairest flowers—as they have done hers, poor girl. Dear Fanny, I hope it may be long before any cloud comes across the brightness of your heaven. Of all the creatures I know you are the one most fitted for quiet continued sunshine.”
And then Mrs. Robarts did get up and embrace her friend, thus hiding the tears which were running down her face. Continued sunshine indeed! A dark spot had already gathered on her horizon, which was likely to fall in a very waterspout of rain. What was to come of that terrible notice which was now lying in the desk under Lady Lufton’s very arm?
“But I am not come here to croak like an old raven,” continued Lady Lufton, when she had brought this embrace to an end. “It is probable that we all may have our sorrows; but I am quite sure of this—that if we endeavour to do our duties honestly, we shall all find our consolation and all have our joys also. And now, my dear, let you and I say a few words about this unfortunate affair. It would not be natural if we were to hold our tongues to each other; would it?”
“I suppose not,” said Mrs. Robarts.
“We should always be conceiving worse than the truth—each as to the other’s thoughts. Now, some time ago, when I spoke to you about your sister-in-law and Ludovic—I dare say you remember—”
“Oh, yes, I remember.”
“We both thought then that there would really be no danger. To tell you the plain truth I fancied, and indeed hoped, that his affections were engaged elsewhere; but I was altogether wrong then; wrong in thinking it, and wrong in hoping it.”
Mrs. Robarts knew well that Lady Lufton was alluding to Griselda Grantly, but she conceived that it would be discreet to say nothing herself on that subject at present. She remembered, however, Lucy’s flashing eye when the possibility of Lord Lufton making such a marriage was spoken of in the pony-carriage, and could not but feel glad that Lady Lufton had been disappointed.
“I do not at all impute any blame to Miss Robarts for what has occurred since,” continued her ladyship. “I wish you distinctly to understand that.”
“I do not see how any one could blame her. She has behaved so nobly.”
“It is of no use inquiring whether any one can. It is sufficient that I do not.”
“But I think that is hardly sufficient,” said Mrs. Robarts, pertinaciously.
“Is it not?” asked her ladyship, raising her eyebrows.
“No. Only think what Lucy has done and is doing. If she had chosen to say that she would accept your son I really do not know how you could have justly blamed her. I do not by any means say that I would have advised such a thing.”
“I am glad of that, Fanny.”
“I have not given any advice; nor is it needed. I know no one more able than Lucy to see clearly, by her own judgement, what course she ought to pursue. I should be afraid to advise one whose mind is so strong, and who, of her own nature, is so self-denying as she is. She is sacrificing herself now, because she will not be the means of bringing trouble and dissension between you and your son. If you ask me, Lady Lufton, I think you owe her a deep debt of gratitude. I do, indeed. And as for blaming her—what has she done that you possibly could blame?”
“Don Quixote on horseback!” said Lady Lufton. “Fanny, I shall always call you Don Quixote, and some day or other I will get somebody to write your adventures. But the truth is this, my dear; there has been imprudence. You may call it mine, if you will—though I really hardly see how I am to take the blame. I could not do other than ask Miss Robarts to my house, and I could not very well turn my son out of it. In point of fact, it has been the old story.”
“Exactly; the story that is as old as the world, and which will continue as long as people are born into it. It is a story of God’s own telling!”