“Then why is it? At breakfast you were singing her praises, and saying how excellent she is.”
“If I were forced to put my objection into one word, I should say—” and then she paused, hardly daring to encounter the frown which was already gathering itself on her son’s brow.
“You would say what?” said Lord Lufton, almost roughly.
“Don’t be angry with me, Ludovic; all that I think, and all that I say on this subject, I think and say with only one object—that of your happiness. What other motive can I have for anything in this world?” And then she came close to him and kissed him.
“But tell me, mother, what is this objection; what is this terrible word that is to sum up the list of all poor Lucy’s sins, and prove that she is unfit for married life?”
“Ludovic, I did not say that. You know that I did not.”
“What is the word, mother?”
And then at last Lady Lufton spoke it out. “She is—insignificant. I believe her to be a very good girl, but she is not qualified to fill the high position to which you would exalt her.”
“Insignificant!”
“Yes, Ludovic, I think so.”
“Then, mother, you do not know her. You must permit me to say that you are talking of a girl whom you do not know. Of all the epithets of opprobrium which the English language could give you, that would be nearly the last which she would deserve.”
“I have not intended any opprobrium.”
“Insignificant!”
“Perhaps you do not quite understand me, Ludovic.”
“I know what insignificant means, mother.”
“I think that she would not worthily fill the position which your wife should take in the world.”
“I understand what you say.”
“She would not do you honour at the head of your table.”
“Ah, I understand. You want me to marry some bouncing Amazon, some pink and white giantess of fashion who would frighten the little people into their proprieties.”
“Oh, Ludovic! you are intending to laugh at me now.”
“I was never less inclined to laugh in my life—never, I can assure you. And now I am more certain than ever that your objection to Miss Robarts arises from your not knowing her. You will find, I think, when you do know her, that she is as well able to hold her own as any lady of your acquaintance—ay, and to maintain her husband’s position, too. I can assure you that I shall have no fear of her on that score.”
“I think, dearest, that perhaps you hardly—”
“I think this, mother, that in such a matter as this I must choose for myself. I have chosen; and I now ask you, as my mother, to go to her and bid her welcome. Dear mother, I will own this, that I should not be happy if I thought that you did not love my wife.” These last words he said in a tone of affection that went to his mother’s heart, and then he left the room.
Poor Lady Lufton, when she was alone, waited till she heard her son’s steps retreating through the hall, and then betook herself upstairs to her customary morning work. She sat down at last as though about so to occupy herself; but her mind was too full to allow of her taking up her pen. She had often said to herself, in days which to her were not as yet long gone by, that she would choose a bride for her son, and that then she would love the chosen one with all her heart. She would dethrone herself in favour of this new queen, sinking with joy into her dowager state, in order that her son’s wife might shine with the greater splendour. The fondest day-dreams of her life had all had reference to the time when her son should bring home a new Lady Lufton, selected by herself from the female excellence of England, and in which she might be the first to worship her new idol. But could she dethrone herself for Lucy Robarts? Could she give up her chair of state in order to place thereon the little girl from the parsonage? Could she take to her heart, and treat with absolute loving confidence, with the confidence of an almost idolatrous mother, that little chit who, a few months since, had sat awkwardly in one corner of her drawing-room, afraid to speak to any one? And yet it seemed that it must come to this—to this—or else those day-dreams of hers would in nowise come to pass.
She sat herself down, trying to think whether it were possible that Lucy might fill the throne; for she had begun to recognize it as probable that her son’s will would be too strong for her; but her thoughts would fly away to Griselda Grantly. In her first and only matured attempt to realize her day-dreams, she had chosen Griselda for her queen. She had failed there, seeing that the Fates had destined Miss Grantly for another throne; for another and a higher one, as far as the world goes. She would have made Griselda the wife of a baron, but fate was about to make that young lady the wife of a marquis. Was there cause of grief in this? Did she really regret that Miss Grantly, with all her virtues, should be made over to the house of Hartletop? Lady Lufton was a woman who did not bear disappointment lightly; but nevertheless she did almost feel herself to have been relieved from a burden when she thought of the termination of the Lufton-Grantly marriage treaty. What if she had been successful, and, after all, the prize had been other than she had expected? She was sometimes prone to think that that prize was not exactly all that she had once hoped. Griselda looked the very thing that Lady Lufton wanted for a queen; but how would a queen reign who trusted only to her looks? In that respect it was perhaps well for her that destiny had interposed. Griselda, she was driven to admit, was better suited to Lord Dumbello than to her son.
But still—such a queen as Lucy! Could it ever come to pass that the lieges of the kingdom would bow the knee in proper respect before so puny a sovereign? And then there was that feeling which, in still higher quarters, prevents the marriage of princes with the most noble of their people. Is it not a recognized rule of these realms that none of the blood royal shall raise to royal honours those of the subjects who are by birth un-royal! Lucy was a subject of the house of Lufton in that she was the sister of the parson and a resident denizen of the parsonage. Presuming that Lucy herself might do for queen—granting that she might have some faculty to reign, the crown having been duly placed on her brow—how, then, about that clerical brother near the throne? Would it not come to this, that there would no longer be a queen at Framley?
And yet she knew that she must yield. She did not say so to herself. She did not as yet acknowledge that she must put out her hand to Lucy, calling her by name as her daughter. She did not absolutely say as much to her own heart—not as yet. But she did begin to bethink herself of Lucy’s high qualities, and to declare to herself that the girl, if not fit to be a queen, was at any rate fit to be a woman. That there was a spirit within that body, insignificant though the body might be, Lady Lufton was prepared to admit. That she had acquired the power—the chief of all powers in this world—of sacrificing herself for the sake of others; that, too, was evident enough. That she was a good girl, in the usual acceptation of the word good, Lady Lufton had never doubted. She was ready-witted, too, prompt in action, gifted with a certain fire. It was that gift of fire which had won for her, so unfortunately, Lord Lufton’s love. It was quite possible for her also to love Lucy Robarts; Lady Lufton admitted that to herself; but then who could bow the knee before her, and serve her as a queen? Was it not a pity that she should be so insignificant?
But, nevertheless, we may say that as Lady Lufton sat that morning in her own room for two hours without employment, the star of Lucy Robarts was gradually rising in the firmament. After all, love was the food chiefly necessary for the nourishment of Lady Lufton—the only food absolutely necessary. She was not aware of this herself, nor probably would those who knew her best have so spoken of her. They would have declared that family pride was her daily pabulum, and she herself would have said so too, calling it, however, by some less offensive name. Her son’s honour, and the honour of her house!—of those she would have spoken as the things dearest to her in this world. And this was partly true, for had her son been dishonoured, she would have sunk with sorrow to the grave. But the one thing necessary to her daily life was the power of loving those who were near to her.
Lord Lufton, when he left the dining-room, intended at once to go up to the parsonage, but he first strolled round the garden in order that he might make up his mind what he would say there. He was angry with his mother, having not had the wit to see that she was about to give way and yield to him, and he was determined to make it understood that in this matter he would have his own way. He had learned that which it was necessary that he should know as to Lucy’s heart, and such being the case he would not conceive it possible that he should be debarred by his mother’s opposition. “There is no son in England loves his mother better than I do,” he said to himself; “but there are some things which a man cannot stand. She would have married me to that block of stone if I would have let her; and now, because she is disappointed there— Insignificant! I never in my life heard anything so absurd, so untrue, so uncharitable, so— She’d like me to bring a dragon home, I suppose. It would serve her right if I did—some creature that would make the house intolerable to her.” “She must do it though,” he said again, “or she and I will quarrel,” and then he turned off towards the gate, preparing to go to the parsonage.
“My lord, have you heard what has happened? said the gardener, coming to him at the gate. The man was out of breath and almost overwhelmed by the greatness of his own tidings.
“No; I have heard nothing. What is it?”
“The bailiffs have taken possession of everything at the parsonage.”
CHAPTER XLIV
The Philistines at the Parsonage
It has been already told how things went on between the Tozers, Mr. Curling, and Mark Robarts during that month. Mr. Forrest had drifted out of the business altogether, as also had Mr. Sowerby, as far as any active participation in it went. Letters came frequently from Mr. Curling to the parsonage, and at last came a message by special mission to say that the evil day was at hand. As far as Mr. Curling’s professional experience would enable him to anticipate or foretell the proceedings of such a man as Tom Tozer, he thought that the sheriff’s officers would be at Framley parsonage on the following morning. Mr. Curling’s experience did not mislead him in this respect.
“And what will you do, Mark?” said Fanny, speaking through her tears, after she had read the letter which her husband handed to her.
“Nothing. What can I do? They must come.”
“Lord Lufton came to-day. Will you not go to him?”
“No. If I were to do so it would be the same as asking him for the money.”
“Why not borrow it of him, dearest? Surely it would not be so much for him to lend.”
“I could not do it. Think of Lucy, and how she stands with him. Besides, I have already had words with Lufton about Sowerby and his money matters. He thinks that I am to blame, and he would tell me so; and then there would be sharp things said between us. He would advance me the money if I pressed for it, but he would do so in a way that would make it impossible that I should take it.”
There was nothing more, then, to be said. If she had had her own way Mrs. Robarts would have gone at once to Lady Lufton, but she could not induce her husband to sanction such a proceeding. The objection to seeking assistance from her ladyship was as strong as that which prevailed as to her son. There had already been some little beginning of ill-feeling, and under such circumstances it was impossible to ask for pecuniary assistance. Fanny, however, had a prophetic assurance that assistance out of these difficulties must in the end come to them from that quarter, or not come at all; and she would fain, had she been allowed, make everything known at the big house.
On the following morning they breakfasted at the usual hour, but in great sadness. A maid-servant, whom Mrs. Robarts had brought with her when she married, told her that a rumour of what was to happen had reached the kitchen. Stubbs, the groom, had been in Barchester on the preceding day, and, according to his account—so said Mary—everybody in the city was talking about it. “Never mind, Mary,” said Mrs. Robarts, and Mary replied, “Oh, no, of course not, ma’am.”
In these days Mrs. Robarts was ordinarily very busy, seeing that there were six children in the house, four of whom had come to her but ill supplied with infantine belongings; and now, as usual, she went about her work immediately after breakfast. But she moved about the house very slowly, and was almost unable to give her orders to the servants, and spoke sadly to the children who hung about her wondering what was the matter. Her husband at the same time took himself to his book-room, but when there did not attempt any employment. He thrust his hands into his pockets, and, leaning against the fireplace, fixed his eyes upon the table before him without looking at anything that was on it; it was impossible for him to betake himself to his work. Remember what is the ordinary labour of a clergyman in his study, and think how fit he must have been for such employment! What would have been the nature of a sermon composed at such a moment, and with what satisfaction could he have used the sacred volume in referring to it for his arguments? He, in this respect, was worse off than his wife; she did employ herself, but he stood there without moving, doing nothing, with fixed eyes, thinking what men would say of him.
Luckily for him this state of suspense was not long, for within half-an-hour of his leaving the breakfast-table, the footman knocked at his door—that footman with whom, at the beginning of his difficulties, he had made up his mind to dispense, but who had been kept on because of the Barchester prebend.
“If you please, your reverence, there are two men outside,” said the footman.
Two men! Mark knew well enough what men they were, but he could hardly take the coming of two such men to his quiet country parsonage quite as a matter of course.
“Who are they, John?” said he, not wishing any answer, but because the question was forced upon him.
“I’m afeard they’re—bailiffs, sir.”
“Very well, John; that will do; of course they must do what they please about the place.”
And then, when the servant left him, he still stood without moving, exactly as he had stood before. There he remained for ten minutes, but the time went by very slowly. When about noon some circumstance told him what was the hour, he was astonished to find that the day had not nearly passed away.
And then another tap was struck on the door—a sound which he well recognized—and his wife crept silently into the room. She came close up to him before she spoke, and put her arm within his: “Mark,” she said, “the men are here; they are in the yard.”
“I know it,” he answered gruffly.
“Will it be better that you should see them, dearest?”
“See them; no; what good can I do by seeing them? But I shall see them soon enough; they will be here, I suppose, in a few minutes.”
“They are taking an inventory, cook says; they are in the stable now.”
“Very well; they must do as they please; I cannot help them.”
“Cook says that if they are allowed their meals and some beer, and if nobody takes anything away, they will be quite civil.”
“Civil! But what does it matter! Let them eat and drink what they please, as long as the food lasts. I don’t suppose the butcher will send you more.”
“But, Mark, there’s nothing due to the butcher—only the regular monthly bill.”
“Very well; you’ll see.”
“Oh, Mark, don’t look at me in that way. Do not turn away from me. What is to comfort us if we do not cling to each other now?”
“Comfort us! God help you! I wonder, Fanny, that you can bear to stay in the room with me.”
“Mark, dearest Mark, my own dear, dearest husband! who is to be true to you, if I am not? You shall not turn from me. How can anything like this make a difference between you and me?” And then she threw her arms round his neck and embraced him.
It was a terrible morning to him, and one of which every incident will dwell on his memory to the last day of his life. He had been so proud in his position—had assumed to himself so prominent a standing—had contrived, by some trick which he had acquired, to carry his head so high above the heads of neighbouring parsons. It was this that had taken him among great people, had introduced him to the Duke of Omnium, had procured for him the stall at Barchester. But how was he to carry his head now? What would the Arabins and Grantlys say? How would the bishop sneer at him, and Mrs. Proudie and her daughters tell of him in all their quarters? How would Crawley look at him—Crawley, who had already once had him on the hip? The stern severity of Crawley’s face loomed upon him now. Crawley, with his children half naked, and his wife a drudge, and himself half starved, had never had a bailiff in his house at Hogglestock. And then his own curate, Jones, whom he had patronized, and treated almost as a dependant—how was he to look his curate in the face and arrange with him for the sacred duties of the next Sunday?
His wife still stood by him, gazing into his face; and as he looked at her and thought of her misery, he could not control his heart with reference to the wrongs which Sowerby had heaped on him. It was Sowerby’s falsehood and Sowerby’s fraud which had brought upon him and his wife this terrible anguish. “If there be justice on earth he will suffer for it yet,” he said at last, not speaking intentionally to his wife, but unable to repress his feelings.
“Do not wish him evil, Mark; you may be sure he has his own sorrows.”
“His own sorrows! No; he is callous to such misery as this. He has become so hardened in dishonesty that all this is mirth to him. If there be punishment in heaven for falsehood—”
“Oh, Mark, do not curse him!”
“How am I to keep myself from cursing when I see what he has brought upon you?”
“‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,’” answered the young wife, not with solemn, preaching accent, as though bent on reproof, but with the softest whisper into his ear. “Leave that to Him, Mark; and for us, let us pray that He may soften the hearts of us all—of him who has caused us to suffer, and of our own.”
Mark was not called upon to reply to this, for he was again disturbed by a servant at the door. It was the cook this time herself, who had come with a message from the men of the law. And she had come, be it remembered, not from any necessity that she as cook should do this line of work; for the footman, or Mrs. Robarts’s maid, might have come as well as she. But when things are out of course servants are always out of course also. As a rule, nothing will induce a butler to go into a stable, or persuade a house-maid to put her hand to a frying-pan. But now that this new excitement had come upon the household—seeing that the bailiffs were in possession, and that the chattels were being entered in a catalogue, everybody was willing to do everything—everything but his or her own work. The gardener was looking after the dear children; the nurse was doing the rooms before the bailiffs should reach them; the groom had gone into the kitchen to get their lunch ready for them; and the cook was walking about with an inkstand, obeying all the orders of these great potentates. As far as the servants were concerned, it may be a question whether the coming of the bailiffs had not hitherto been regarded as a treat.
“If you please, ma’am,” said Jemima cook, “they wishes to know in which room you’d be pleased to have the inmin-tory took fust. ‘Cause, ma’am, they wouldn’t disturb you nor master more than can be avoided. For their line of life, ma’am, they is very civil—very civil indeed.”
“I suppose they may go into the drawing-room,” said Mrs. Robarts, in a sad low voice. All nice women are proud of their drawing-rooms, and she was very proud of hers. It had been furnished when money was plenty with them, immediately after their marriage, and everything in it was pretty, good, and dear to her. O ladies, who have drawing-rooms in which the things are pretty, good, and dear to you, think of what it would be to have two bailiffs rummaging among them with pen and ink-horn, making a catalogue preparatory to a sheriff’s auction; and all without fault or extravagance of your own! There were things there that had been given to her by Lady Lufton, by Lady Meredith, and other friends, and the idea did occur to her that it might be possible to save them from contamination; but she would not say a word, lest by so saying she might add to Mark’s misery.
“And then the dining-room,” said Jemima cook, in a tone almost of elation.
“Yes; if they please.”
“And then master’s book-room here; or perhaps the bedrooms, if you and master be still here.”
“Any way they please, cook; it does not much signify,” said Mrs. Robarts. But for some days after that Jemima was by no means a favourite with her.
The cook was hardly out of the room before a quick footstep was heard on the gravel before the window, and the hall door was immediately opened.
“Where is your master?” said the well-known voice of Lord Lufton; and then in half a minute he also was in the book-room.
“Mark, my dear fellow, what’s all this?” said he, in a cheery tone and with a pleasant face. “Did not you know that I was here? I came down yesterday; landed from Hamburg only yesterday morning. How do you do, Mrs. Robarts? This is a terrible bore, isn’t it?”
Robarts, at the first moment, hardly knew how to speak to his old friend. He was struck dumb by the disgrace of his position; the more so as his misfortune was one which it was partly in the power of Lord Lufton to remedy. He had never yet borrowed money since he had filled a man’s position, but he had had words about money with the young peer, in which he knew that his friend had wronged him; and for this double reason he was now speechless.
“Mr. Sowerby has betrayed him,” said Mrs. Robarts, wiping the tears from her eyes. Hitherto she had said no word against Sowerby, but now it was necessary to defend her husband.
“No doubt about it. I believe he has always betrayed everyone who has ever trusted him. I told you what he was, some time since; did I not? But, Mark, why on earth have you let it go so far as this? Would not Forrest help you?”
“Mr. Forrest wanted him to sign more bills, and he would not do that,” said Mrs. Robarts, sobbing.
“Bills are like dram-drinking,” said the discreet young lord: “when one once begins, it is very hard to leave off. Is it true that the men are here now, Mark?”
“Yes, they are in the next room.”
“What, in the drawing-room?”
“They are making out a list of the things,” said Mrs. Robarts.
“We must stop that at any rate,” said his lordship, walking off towards the scene of the operations; and as he left the room Mrs. Robarts followed him, leaving her husband by himself.
“Why did you not send down to my mother?” said he, speaking hardly above a whisper, as they stood together in the hall.
“He would not let me.”
“But why not go yourself? or why not have written to me—considering how intimate we are?”
Mrs. Robarts could not explain to him that the peculiar intimacy between him and Lucy must have hindered her from doing so, even if otherwise it might have been possible; but she felt such was the case.
“Well, my men, this is bad work you’re doing here,” said he, walking into the drawing-room. Whereupon the cook curtsied low, and the bailiffs, knowing his lordship, stopped from their business and put their hands to their foreheads. “You must stop this, if you please—at once. Come, let’s go out into the kitchen, or some place outside. I don’t like to see you here with your big boots and the pen and ink among the furniture.”
“We ain’t a-done no harm, my lord, so please your lordship,” said Jemima cook.
“And we is only a-doing our bounden dooties,” said one of the bailiffs.