Late on the following afternoon who should drive up to the parsonage door but Mr. Forrest, the bank manager from Barchester—Mr. Forrest, to whom Sowerby had always pointed as the
Deus ex machina
who, if duly invoked, could relieve them all from their present troubles, and dismiss the whole Tozer family—not howling into the wilderness, as one would have wished to do with that brood of Tozers, but so gorged with prey that from them no further annoyance need be dreaded? All this Mr. Forrest could do; nay, more, most willingly would do! Only let Mark Robarts put himself into the banker’s hand, and blandly sign what documents the banker might desire.
“This is a very unpleasant affair,” said Mr. Forrest as soon as they were closeted together in Mark’s book-room. In answer to which observation the parson acknowledged that it was a very unpleasant affair.
“Mr. Sowerby has managed to put you into the hands of about the worst set of rogues now existing in their line of business in London.”
“So I suppose; Curling told me the same.” Curling was the Barchester attorney whose aid he had lately invoked.
“Curling has threatened them that he will expose their whole trade; but one of them who was down here, a man named Tozer, replied, that you had much more to lose by exposure than he had. He went further, and declared that he would defy any jury in England to refuse him his money. He swore that he discounted both bills in the regular way of business; and, though this is of course false, I fear that it will be impossible to prove it so. He well knows that you are a clergyman, and that, therefore, he has a stronger hold on you than on other men.”
“The disgrace shall fall on Sowerby,” said Robarts, hardly actuated at the moment by any strong feeling of Christian forgiveness.
“I fear, Mr. Robarts, that he is somewhat in the condition of the Tozers. He will not feel it as you will do.”
“I must bear it, Mr. Forrest, as best I may.”
“Will you allow me, Mr. Robarts, to give you my advice? Perhaps I ought to apologize for intruding it upon you; but as the bills have been presented and dishonoured across my counter, I have, of necessity, become acquainted with the circumstances.”
“I am sure I am very much obliged to you,” said Mark.
“You must pay this money, at any rate, the most considerable portion of it—the whole of it, indeed, with such deduction as a lawyer may be able to induce these hawks to make on the sight of the ready money. Perhaps £750 or £800 may see you clear of the whole affair.”
“But I have not a quarter of that sum lying by me.”
“No, I suppose not; but what I would recommend is this: that you should borrow the money from the bank, on your own responsibility—with the joint security of some friend who may be willing to assist you with his name. Lord Lufton probably would do it.”
“No, Mr. Forrest—”
“Listen to me first, before you make up your mind. If you took this step, of course you would do so with the fixed intention of paying the money yourself—without any further reliance on Sowerby or on any one else.”
“I shall not rely on Mr. Sowerby again; you may be sure of that.”
“What I mean is that you must teach yourself to recognize the debt as your own. If you can do that, with your income you can surely pay it, with interest, in two years. If Lord Lufton will assist you with his name, I will so arrange the bills that the payments shall be made to fall equally over that period. In that way the world will know nothing about it, and in two years’ time you will once more be a free man. Many men, Mr. Robarts, have bought their experience much dearer than that, I can assure you.”
“Mr. Forrest, it is quite out of the question.”
“You mean that Lord Lufton will not give you his name.”
“I certainly shall not ask him; but that is not all. In the first place, my income will not be what you think it, for I shall probably give up the prebend at Barchester.”
“Give up the prebend! give up six hundred a year!”
“And, beyond this, I think I may say that nothing shall tempt me to put my name to another bill. I have learned a lesson which I hope I may never forget.”
“Then what do you intend to do?”
“Nothing!”
“Then those men will sell every stick of furniture about the place. They know that your property here is enough to secure all that they claim.”
“If they have the power, they must sell it.”
“And all the world will know the facts.”
“So it must be. Of the faults which a man commits he must bear the punishment. If it were only myself!”
“That’s where it is, Mr. Robarts. Think what your wife will have to suffer in going through such misery as that! You had better take my advice. Lord Lufton, I am sure—”
But the very name of Lord Lufton, his sister’s lover, again gave him courage. He thought, too, of the accusations which Lord Lufton had brought against him on that night, when he had come to him in the coffee-room of the hotel, and he felt that it was impossible that he should apply to him for such aid. It would be better to tell all to Lady Lufton! That she would relieve him, let the cost to herself be what it might, he was very sure. Only this—that in looking to her for assistance he would be forced to bite the dust in very deed.
“Thank you, Mr. Forrest, but I have made up my mind. Do not think that I am the less obliged to you for your disinterested kindness—for I know that it is disinterested; but this I think I may confidently say, that not even to avert so terrible a calamity will I again put my name to any bill. Even if you could take my own promise to pay without the addition of any second name, I would not do it.”
There was nothing for Mr. Forrest to do under such circumstances but simply to drive back to Barchester. He had done the best for the young clergyman according to his lights, and perhaps, in a worldly view, his advice had not been bad. But Mark dreaded the very name of a bill. He was as a dog that had been terribly scorched, and nothing should again induce him to go near the fire.
“Was not that the man from the bank?” said Fanny, coming into the room when the sound of the wheels had died away.
“Yes; Mr. Forrest.”
“Well, dearest?”
“We must prepare ourselves for the worst.”
“You will not sign any more papers, eh, Mark?”
“No; I have just now positively refused to do so.”
“Then I can bear anything. But, dearest, dearest Mark, will you not let me tell Lady Lufton?”
Let them look at the matter in any way the punishment was very heavy.
CHAPTER XLIII
Is She Not Insignificant?
And now a month went by at Framley without any increase of comfort to our friends there, and also without any absolute development of the ruin which had been daily expected at the parsonage. Sundry letters had reached Mr. Robarts from various personages acting in the Tozer interest, all of which he referred to Mr. Curling, of Barchester. Some of these letters contained prayers for the money, pointing out how an innocent widow lady had been induced to invest her all on the faith of Mr. Robarts’s name, and was now starving in a garret, with her three children, because Mr. Robarts would not make good his own undertakings. But the majority of them were filled with threats—only two days longer would be allowed, and then the sheriff’s officers would be enjoined to do their work; then one day of grace would be added, at the expiration of which the dogs of war would be unloosed. These, as fast as they came, were sent to Mr. Curling, who took no notice of them individually, but continued his endeavour to prevent the evil day. The second bill Mr. Robarts would take up—such was Mr. Curling’s proposition; and would pay by two instalments of £250 each, the first in two months, and the second in four. If this were acceptable to the Tozer interest—well; if it were not, the sheriff’s officers must do their worst and the Tozer interest must look for what it could get. The Tozer interest would not declare itself satisfied with these terms, and so the matter went on. During which the roses faded from day to day on the cheeks of Mrs. Robarts, as under such circumstances may easily be conceived.
In the meantime Lucy still remained at Hogglestock, and had there become absolute mistress of the house. Poor Mrs. Crawley had been at death’s door; for some days she was delirious, and afterwards remained so weak as to be almost unconscious; but now the worst was over, and Mr. Crawley had been informed, that as far as human judgement might pronounce, his children would not become orphans nor would he become a widower. During these weeks Lucy had not once been home nor had she seen any of the Framley people. “Why should she incur the risk of conveying infection for so small an object?” as she herself argued, writing by letters, which were duly fumigated before they were opened at the parsonage. So she remained at Hogglestock, and the Crawley children, now admitted to all the honours of the nursery, were kept at Framley. They were kept at Framley, although it was expected from day to day that the beds on which they lay would be seized for the payment of Mr. Sowerby’s debts.
Lucy, as I have said, became mistress of the house at Hogglestock, and made herself absolutely ascendant over Mr. Crawley. Jellies, and broth, and fruit, and even butter, came from Framley Court, which she displayed on the table, absolutely on the cloth before him, and yet he bore it. I cannot say that he partook of these delicacies with any freedom himself, but he did drink his tea when it was given to him although it contained Framley cream—and, had he known it, Bohea itself from the Framley chest. In truth, in these days, he had given himself over to the dominion of this stranger; and he said nothing beyond, “Well, well,” with two uplifted hands, when he came upon her as she was sewing the buttons on to his own shirts—sewing on the buttons and perhaps occasionally applying her needle elsewhere—not without utility.
He said to her at this period very little in the way of thanks. Some protracted conversations they did have, now and again, during the long evenings; but even in these he did not utter many words as to their present state of life. It was on religion chiefly that he spoke, not lecturing her individually, but laying down his ideas as to what the life of a Christian should be, and especially what should be the life of a minister. “But though I can see this, Miss Robarts,” he said, “I am bound to say that no one has fallen off so frequently as myself. I have renounced the devil and all his works; but it is by word of mouth only—by word of mouth only. How shall a man crucify the old Adam that is within him, unless he throw himself prostrate in the dust and acknowledge that all his strength is weaker than water?” To this, often as it might be repeated, she would listen patiently, comforting him by such words as her theology would supply; but then, when this was over, she would again resume her command and enforce from him a close obedience to her domestic behests.
At the end of the month Lord Lufton came back to Framley Court. His arrival there was quite unexpected; though, as he pointed out when his mother expressed some surprise, he had returned exactly at the time named by him before he started.
“I need not say, Ludovic, how glad I am to have you,” said she, looking to his face and pressing his arm; “the more so, indeed, seeing that I hardly expected it.”
He said nothing to his mother about Lucy the first evening, although there was some conversation respecting the Robarts family.
“I am afraid Mr. Robarts has embarrassed himself,” said Lady Lufton, looking very seriously. “Rumours reach me which are most distressing. I have said nothing to anybody as yet—not even to Fanny; but I can see in her face, and hear in the tones of her voice, that she is suffering some great sorrow.”
“I know all about it,” said Lord Lufton.
“You know all about it, Ludovic?”
“Yes; it is through that precious friend of mine, Mr. Sowerby, of Chaldicotes. He has accepted bills for Sowerby; indeed, he told me so.”
“What business had he at Chaldicotes? What had he to do with such friends as that? I do not know how I am to forgive him.”
“It was through me that he became acquainted with Sowerby. You must remember that, mother.”
“I do not see that that is any excuse. Is he to consider that all your acquaintances must necessarily be his friends also? It is reasonable to suppose that you in your position must live occasionally with a great many people who are altogether unfit companions for him as a parish clergyman. He will not remember this, and he must be taught it. What business had he to go to Gatherum Castle?”
“He got his stall at Barchester by going there.”
“He would be much better without his stall, and Fanny has the sense to know this. What does he want with two houses? Prebendal stalls are for older men than he—for men who have earned them, and who at the end of their lives want some ease. I wish with all my heart that he had never taken it.”
“Six hundred a year has its charms all the same,” said Lufton, getting up and strolling out of the room.
“If Mark really be in any difficulty,” he said, later in the evening, “we must put him on his legs.”
“You mean, pay his debts?”
“Yes; he has no debts except these acceptances of Sowerby’s.”
“How much will it be, Ludovic?”
“A thousand pounds, perhaps, more or less. I’ll find the money, mother; only I shan’t be able to pay you quite as soon as I intended.” Whereupon his mother got up, and throwing her arms round his neck declared that she would never forgive him if he ever said a word more about her little present to him. I suppose there is no pleasure a mother can have more attractive than giving away her money to an only son.
Lucy’s name was first mentioned at breakfast the next morning. Lord Lufton had made up his mind to attack his mother on the subject early in the morning—before he went up to the parsonage; but as matters turned out, Miss Robarts’s doings were necessarily brought under discussion without reference to Lord Lufton’s special aspirations regarding her. The fact of Mrs. Crawley’s illness had been mentioned, and Lady Lufton had stated how it had come to pass that all the Crawleys’ children were at the parsonage.
“I must say that Fanny has behaved excellently,” said Lady Lufton. “It was just what might have been expected from her. And indeed,” she added, speaking in an embarrassed tone, “so has Miss Robarts. Miss Robarts has remained at Hogglestock and nursed Mrs. Crawley through the whole.”
“Remained at Hogglestock—through the fever!” exclaimed his lordship.
“Yes, indeed,” said Lady Lufton.
“And is she there now?”
“Oh, yes; I am not aware that she thinks of leaving just yet.”
“Then I say that it is a great shame—a scandalous shame!”
“But, Ludovic, it was her own doing.”
“Oh, yes; I understand. But why should she be sacrificed? Were there no nurses in the country to be hired, but that she must go and remain there for a month at the bedside of a pestilent fever? There is no justice in it.”
“Justice, Ludovic? I don’t know about justice, but there was great Christian charity. Mrs. Crawley has probably owed her life to Miss Robarts.”
“Has she been ill? Is she ill? I insist upon knowing whether she is ill. I shall go over to Hogglestock myself immediately after breakfast.”
To this Lady Lufton made no reply. If Lord Lufton chose to go to Hogglestock she could not prevent him. She thought, however, that it would be much better that he should stay away. He would be quite as open to the infection as Lucy Robarts and, moreover, Mrs. Crawley’s bedside would be as inconvenient a place as might be selected for any interview between two lovers. Lady Lufton felt at the present moment that she was cruelly treated by circumstances with reference to Miss Robarts. Of course it would have been her part to lessen, if she could do so without injustice, that high idea which her son entertained of the beauty and worth of the young lady; but, unfortunately, she had been compelled to praise her and to load her name with all manner of eulogy. Lady Lufton was essentially a true woman, and not even with the object of carrying out her own views in so important a matter would she be guilty of such deception as she might have practised by simply holding her tongue; but nevertheless she could hardly reconcile herself to the necessity of singing Lucy’s praises.
After breakfast Lady Lufton got up from her chair, but hung about the room without making any show of leaving. In accordance with her usual custom she would have asked her son what he was going to do; but she did not dare so to inquire now. Had he not declared, only a few minutes since, whither he would go? “I suppose I shall see you at lunch?” at last she said.
“At lunch? Well, I don’t know. Look here, mother. What am I to say to Miss Robarts when I see her?” and he leaned with his back against the chimney-piece as he interrogated his mother.
“What are you to say to her, Ludovic?”
“Yes, what am I to say—as coming from you? Am I to tell her that you will receive her as your daughter-in-law?”
“Ludovic, I have explained all that to Miss Robarts herself.”
“Explained what?”
“I have told her that I did not think that such a marriage would make either you or her happy.”
“And why have you told her so? Why have you taken upon yourself to judge for me in such a matter, as though I were a child? Mother, you must unsay what you have said.”
Lord Lufton, as he spoke, looked full into his mother’s face; and he did so, not as though he were begging from her a favour, but issuing to her a command. She stood near him, with one hand on the breakfast-table, gazing at him almost furtively, not quite daring to meet the full view of his eye. There was only one thing on earth which Lady Lufton feared, and that was her son’s displeasure. The sun of her earthly heaven shone upon her through the medium of his existence. If she were driven to quarrel with him, as some ladies of her acquaintance were driven to quarrel with their sons, the world to her would be over. Not but what facts might be so strong as to make it absolutely necessary that she should do this. As some people resolve that, under certain circumstances, they will commit suicide, so she could see that, under certain circumstances, she must consent even to be separated from him. She would not do wrong—not that which she knew to be wrong—even for his sake. If it were necessary that all her happiness should collapse and be crushed in ruin around her, she must endure it, and wait God’s time to relieve her from so dark a world. The light of the sun was very dear to her, but even that might be purchased at too dear a cost.
“I told you before, mother, that my choice was made, and I asked you then to give your consent; you have now had time to think about it, and therefore I have come to ask you again. I have reason to know that there will be no impediment to my marriage if you will frankly hold out your hand to Lucy.”
The matter was altogether in Lady Lufton’s hands, but, fond as she was of power, she absolutely wished that it were not so. Had her son married without asking her, and then brought Lucy home as his wife, she would undoubtedly have forgiven him; and much as she might have disliked the match, she would, ultimately, have embraced the bride. But now she was compelled to exercise her judgement. If he married imprudently, it would be her doing. How was she to give her expressed consent to that which she believed to be wrong?
“Do you know anything against her; any reason why she should not be my wife?” continued he.
“If you mean as regards her moral conduct, certainly not,” said Lady Lufton. “But I could say as much as that in favour of a great many young ladies whom I should regard as very ill suited for such a marriage.”
“Yes; some might be vulgar, some might be ill-tempered, some might be ugly; others might be burdened with disagreeable connexions. I can understand that you should object to a daughter-in-law under any of these circumstances. But none of these things can be said of Miss Robarts. I defy you to say that she is not in all respects what a lady should be.”
But her father was a doctor of medicine, she is the sister of the parish clergyman, she is only five feet two in height, and is so uncommonly brown! Had Lady Lufton dared to give a catalogue of her objections, such would have been its extent and nature. But she did not dare to do this.
“I cannot say, Ludovic, that she is possessed of all that you should seek in a wife.” Such was her answer.
“Do you mean that she has not got money?”
“No, not that; I should be very sorry to see you making money your chief object, or indeed any essential object. If it chanced that your wife did have money, no doubt you would find it a convenience. But pray understand me, Ludovic; I would not for a moment advise you to subject your happiness to such a necessity as that. It is not because she is without fortune—”