“As we is sworn to do, so please your lordship,” said the other.
“And is wery sorry to be unconwenient, my lord, to any gen’leman or lady as is a gen’leman or lady. But accidents will happen, and then what can the likes of us do?” said the first.
“Because we is sworn, my lord,” said the second. But, nevertheless, in spite of their oaths, and in spite also of the stern necessity which they pleaded, they ceased their operations at the instance of the peer. For the name of a lord is still great in England.
“And now leave this, and let Mrs. Robarts go into her drawing-room.”
“And, please your lordship, what is we to do? Who is we to look to?”
In satisfying them absolutely on this point Lord Lufton had to use more than his influence as a peer. It was necessary that he should have pen and paper. But with pen and paper he did satisfy them—satisfy them so far that they agreed to return to Stubbs’s room, the former hospital, due stipulation having been made for the meals and beer, and there await the order to evacuate the premises which would no doubt, under his lordship’s influence, reach them on the following day. The meaning of all which was that Lord Lufton had undertaken to bear upon his own shoulder the whole debt due by Mr. Robarts.
And then he returned to the book-room where Mark was still standing almost on the spot in which he had placed himself immediately after breakfast. Mrs. Robarts did not return, but went up among the children to counter-order such directions as she had given for the preparation of the nursery for the Philistines. “Mark,” he said, “do not trouble yourself about this more than you can help. The men have ceased doing anything, and they shall leave the place to-morrow morning.”
“And how will the money—be paid?” said the poor clergyman.
“Do not bother yourself about that at present. It shall so be managed that the burden shall fall ultimately on yourself—not on any one else. But I am sure it must be a comfort to you to know that your wife need not be driven out of her drawing-room.”
“But, Lufton, I cannot allow you—after what has passed—and at the present moment—”
“My dear fellow, I know all about it, and I am coming to that just now. You have employed Curling, and he shall settle it; and upon my word, Mark, you shall pay the bill. But, for the present emergency, the money is at my banker’s.”
“But, Lufton—”
“And to deal honestly, about Curling’s bill I mean, it ought to be as much my affair as your own. It was I that brought you into this mess with Sowerby, and I know now how unjust about it I was to you up in London. But the truth is that Sowerby’s treachery had nearly driven me wild. It has done the same to you since, I have no doubt.”
“He has ruined me,” said Robarts.
“No, he has not done that. No thanks to him though; he would not have scrupled to do it had it come in his way. The fact is, Mark, that you and I cannot conceive the depth of fraud in such a man as that. He is always looking for money; I believe that in all his hours of most friendly intercourse—when he is sitting with you over your wine, and riding beside you in the field—he is still thinking how he can make use of you to tide him over some difficulty. He has lived in that way till he has a pleasure in cheating, and has become so clever in his line of life that if you or I were with him again to-morrow he would again get the better of us. He is a man that must be absolutely avoided; I, at any rate, have learned to know so much.”
In the expression of which opinion Lord Lufton was too hard upon poor Sowerby; as indeed we are all apt to be too hard in forming an opinion upon the rogues of the world. That Mr. Sowerby had been a rogue, I cannot deny. It is roguish to lie, and he had been a great liar. It is roguish to make promises which the promiser knows he cannot perform, and such had been Mr. Sowerby’s daily practice. It is roguish to live on other men’s money, and Mr. Sowerby had long been doing so. It is roguish, at least so I would hold it, to deal willingly with rogues; and Mr. Sowerby had been constant in such dealings. I do not know whether he had not at times fallen even into more palpable roguery than is proved by such practices as those enumerated. Though I have for him some tender feeling, knowing that there was still a touch of gentle bearing round his heart, an abiding taste for better things within him, I cannot acquit him from the great accusation. But, for all that, in spite of his acknowledged roguery, Lord Lufton was too hard upon him in his judgement. There was yet within him the means of repentance, could a
locus penitentiæ
have been supplied to him. He grieved bitterly over his own ill-doings, and knew well what changes gentlehood would have demanded from him. Whether or no he had gone too far for all changes—whether the
locus penitentiæ
was for him still a possibility—that was between him and a higher power.
“I have no one to blame but myself,” said Mark, still speaking in the same heart-broken tone and with his face averted from his friend.
The debt would now be paid, and the bailiffs would be expelled; but that would not set him right before the world. It would be known to all men—to all clergymen in the diocese, that the sheriff’s officers had been in charge of Framley parsonage, and he could never again hold up his head in the close of Barchester.
“My dear fellow, if we were all to make ourselves miserable for such a trifle as this—” said Lord Lufton, putting his arm affectionately on his friend’s shoulder.
“But we are not all clergymen,” said Mark, and as he spoke he turned away to the window and Lord Lufton know that the tears were on his cheek.
Nothing was then said between them for some moments, after which Lord Lufton again spoke—”Mark, my dear fellow!”
“Well,” said Mark, with his face still turned towards the window.
“You must remember one thing; in helping you over this stile, which will be really a matter of no inconvenience to me, I have a better right than that even of an old friend; I look upon you now as my brother-in-law.”
Mark turned slowly round, plainly showing the tears upon his face.
“Do you mean,” said he, “that anything more has taken place?”
“I mean to make your sister my wife; she sent me word by you to say that she loved me, and I am not going to stand upon any nonsense after that, If she and I are both willing no one alive has a right to stand between us, and, by heavens, no one shall. I will do nothing secretly, so I tell you that, exactly as I have told her ladyship.”
“But what does she say?
“She says nothing; but it cannot go on like that. My mother and I cannot live here together if she opposes me in this way. I do not want to frighten your sister by going over to her at Hogglestock, but I expect you to tell her so much as I now tell you, as coming from me; otherwise she will think that I have forgotten her.”
“She will not think that.”
“She need not; good-bye, old fellow. I’ll make it all right between you and her ladyship about this affair of Sowerby’s.”
And then he took his leave and walked off to settle about the payment of the money.
“Mother,” said he to Lady Lufton that evening, “you must not bring this affair of the bailiffs up against Robarts. It has been more my fault than his.”
Hitherto not a word had been spoken between Lady Lufton and her son on the subject. She had heard with terrible dismay of what had happened, and had heard also that Lord Lufton had immediately gone to the parsonage. It was impossible, therefore, that she should now interfere. That the necessary money would be forthcoming she was aware, but that would not wipe out the terrible disgrace attached to an execution in a clergyman’s house. And then, too, he was her clergyman—her own clergyman, selected and appointed, and brought to Framley by herself, endowed with a wife of her own choosing, filled with good things by her own hand! It was a terrible misadventure, and she began to repent that she had ever heard the name of Robarts. She would not, however, have been slow to put forth the hand to lessen the evil by giving her own money, had this been either necessary or possible. But how could she interfere between Robarts and her son, especially when she remembered the proposed connexion between Lucy and Lord Lufton?
“Your fault, Ludovic?”
“Yes, mother. It was I who introduced him to Mr. Sowerby; and, to tell the truth, I do not think he would ever have been intimate with Sowerby if I had not given him some sort of a commission with reference to money matters then pending between Mr. Sowerby and me. They are all over now—thanks to you, indeed.”
“Mr. Robarts’s character as a clergyman should have kept him from such troubles, if no other feeling did so.”
“At any rate, mother, oblige me by letting it pass by.”
“Oh, I shall say nothing to him.”
“You had better say something to her, or otherwise it will be strange; and even to him I would say a word or two—a word in kindness, as you so well know how. It will be easier to him in that way, than if you were to be altogether silent.”
No further conversation took place between them at the time, but later in the evening she brushed her hand across her son’s forehead, sweeping the long silken hairs into their place, as she was wont to do when moved by any special feeling of love. “Ludovic,” she said, “no one, I think, has so good a heart as you. I will do exactly as you would have me about this affair of Mr. Robarts and the money.” And then there was nothing more said about it.
CHAPTER XLV
Palace Blessings
And now, at this period, terrible rumours found their way into Barchester, and flew about the cathedral towers and round the cathedral door; ay, and into the canons’ houses and the humbler sitting-rooms of the vicars choral. Whether they made their way from thence up to the bishop’s palace, or whether they descended from the palace to the close, I will not pretend to say. But they were shocking, unnatural, and no doubt grievous to all those excellent ecclesiastical hearts which cluster so thickly in those quarters.
The first of these had reference to the new prebendary, and to the disgrace which he had brought on the chapter; a disgrace, as some of them boasted, which Barchester had never known before. This, however, like most other boasts, was hardly true; for within but a very few years there had been an execution in the house of a late prebendary, old Dr. Stanhope; and on that occasion the doctor himself had been forced to fly away to Italy, starting in the night, lest he also should fall into the hands of the Philistines, as well as his chairs and tables.
“It is a scandalous shame,” said Mrs. Proudie, speaking not of the old doctor, but of the new offender; “a scandalous shame: and it would only serve him right if the gown were stripped from his back.”
“I suppose his living will be sequestrated,” said a young minor canon who attended much to the ecclesiastical injunctions of the lady of the diocese, and was deservedly held in high favour. If Framley were sequestrated, why should not he, as well as another, undertake the duty—with such stipend as the bishop might award?
“I am told that he is over head and ears in debt,” said the future Mrs. Tickler, “and chiefly for horses which he has bought and not paid for.”
“I see him riding very splendid animals when he comes over for the cathedral duties,” said the minor canon.
“The sheriff’s officers are in the house at present, I am told,” said Mrs. Proudie.
“And is not he in jail?” said Mrs. Tickler.
“If not, he ought to be,” said Mrs. Tickler’s mother.
“And no doubt soon will be,” said the minor canon; “for I hear that he is linked up with a most discreditable gang of persons.”
This was what was said in the palace on that heading; and though, no doubt, more spirit and poetry was displayed there than in the houses of the less gifted clergy, this shows the manner in which the misfortune of Mr. Robarts was generally discussed. Nor, indeed, had he deserved any better treatment at their hands. But his name did not run the gauntlet for the usual nine days; nor, indeed, did his fame endure at its height for more than two. This sudden fall was occasioned by other tidings of a still more distressing nature; by a rumour which so affected Mrs. Proudie that it caused, as she said, her blood to creep. And she was very careful that the blood of others should creep also, if the blood of others was equally sensitive. It was said that Lord Dumbello had jilted Miss Grantly.
From what adverse spot in the world these cruel tidings fell upon Barchester I have never been able to discover. We know how quickly rumour flies, making herself common through all the cities. That Mrs. Proudie should have known more of the facts connected with the Hartletop family than any one else in Barchester was not surprising, seeing that she was so much more conversant with the great world in which such people lived. She knew, and was therefore correct enough in declaring, that Lord Dumbello had already jilted one other young lady—the Lady Julia Mac Mull, to whom he had been engaged three seasons back, and that therefore his character in such matters was not to be trusted. That Lady Julia had been a terrible flirt and greatly given to waltzing with a certain German count, with whom she had since gone off—that, I suppose, Mrs. Proudie did not know, much as she was conversant with the great world—seeing that she said nothing about it to any of her ecclesiastical listeners on the present occasion.
“It will be a terrible warning, Mrs. Quiverful, to us all; a most useful warning to us—not to trust to the things of this world. I fear they made no inquiry about this young nobleman before they agreed that his name should be linked with that of their daughter.” This she said to the wife of the present warden of Hiram’s Hospital, a lady who had received favours from her, and was therefore bound to listen attentively to her voice.
“But I hope it may not be true,” said Mrs. Quiverful, who, in spite of the allegiance due by her to Mrs. Proudie, had reasons of her own for wishing well to the Grantly family.
“I hope so, indeed,” said Mrs. Proudie, with a slight tinge of anger in her voice; “but I fear that there is no doubt. And I must confess that it is no more than we had a right to expect. I hope that it may be taken by all of us as a lesson, and an ensample, and a teaching of the Lord’s mercy. And I wish you would request your husband—from me, Mrs. Quiverful—to dwell on this subject in morning and evening lecture at the hospital on Sabbath next, showing how false is the trust which we put in the good things of this world;” which behest, to a certain extent, Mr. Quiverful did obey, feeling that a quiet life in Barchester was of great value to him; but he did not go so far as to caution his hearers, who consisted of the aged bedesmen of the hospital, against matrimonial projects of an ambitious nature.
In this case, as in all others of the kind, the report was known to all the chapter before it had been heard by the archdeacon or his wife. The dean heard it, and disregarded it; as did also the dean’s wife—at first; and those who generally sided with the Grantlys in the diocesan battles pooh-poohed the tidings, saying to each other that both the archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly were very well able to take care of their own affairs. But dripping water hollows a stone; and at last it was admitted on all sides that there was ground for fear—on all sides, except at Plumstead.
“I am sure there is nothing in it; I really am sure of it,” said Mrs. Arabin, whispering to her sister; “but after turning it over in my mind, I thought it right to tell you. And yet I don’t know now but I am wrong.”
“Quite right, dearest Eleanor,” said Mrs. Grantly. “And I am much obliged to you. But we understand it, you know. It comes, of course, like all other Christian blessings, from the palace.” And then there was nothing more said about it between Mrs. Grantly and her sister.
But on the following morning there arrived a letter by post, addressed to Mrs. Grantly, bearing the postmark of Littlebath. The letter ran—
MADAM,
It is known to the writer that Lord Dumbello has arranged with certain friends how he may escape from his present engagement. I think, therefore, that it is my duty as a Christian to warn you of this.
Yours truly,
A WELLWISHER.
Now it had happened that the embryo Mrs. Tickler’s most intimate bosom friend and confidante was known at Plumstead to live at Littlebath, and it had also happened—most unfortunately—that the embryo Mrs. Tickler, in the warmth of her neighbourly regard, had written a friendly line to her friend Griselda Grantly, congratulating her with all female sincerity on her splendid nuptials with the Lord Dumbello.
“It is not her natural hand,” said Mrs. Grantly, talking the matter over with her husband, “but you may be sure it has come from her. It is a part of the new Christianity which we learn day by day from the palace teaching.”
But these things had some effect on the archdeacon’s mind. He had learned lately the story of Lady Julia Mac Mull, and was not sure that his son-in-law—as ought to be about to be—had been entirely blameless in that matter. And then in these days Lord Dumbello made no great sign. Immediately on Griselda’s return to Plumstead he had sent her a magnificent present of emeralds, which, however, had come to her direct from the jewellers, and might have been—and probably was—ordered by his man of business. Since that he had neither come, nor sent, nor written. Griselda did not seem to be in any way annoyed by this absence of the usual sign of love, and went on steadily with her great duties. “Nothing,” as she told her mother, “had been said about writing, and, therefore, she did not expect it.” But the archdeacon was not quite at his ease. “Keep Dumbello up to his p’s and q’s, you know,” a friend of his had whispered to him at his club. By heavens, yes. The archdeacon was not a man to bear with indifference a wrong in such a quarter. In spite of his clerical profession, few men were more inclined to fight against personal wrongs—and few men more able.
“Can there be anything wrong, I wonder?” said he to his wife. “Is it worth while that I should go up to London?” But Mrs. Grantly attributed it all to the palace doctrine. What could be more natural, looking at all the circumstances of the Tickler engagement? She therefore gave her voice against any steps being taken by the archdeacon.
A day or two after that Mrs. Proudie met Mrs. Arabin in the close and condoled with her openly on the termination of the marriage treaty—quite openly, for Mrs. Tickler—as she was to be—was with her mother, and Mrs. Arabin was accompanied by her sister-in-law, Mary Bold.
“It must be very grievous to Mrs. Grantly, very grievous indeed,” said Mrs. Proudie, “and I sincerely feel for her. But, Mrs. Arabin, all these lessons are sent to us for our eternal welfare.”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Arabin. “But as to this special lesson, I am inclined to doubt that it—”
“Ah-h! I fear it is too true. I fear there is no room for doubt. Of course you are aware that Lord Dumbello is off for the Continent.”
Mrs. Arabin was not aware of it, and she was obliged to admit as much.
“He started four days ago, by way of Boulogne,” said Mrs. Tickler, who seemed to be very well up in the whole affair. “I am so sorry for poor dear Griselda. I am told she has got all her things. It is such a pity, you know.”
“But why should not Lord Dumbello come back from the Continent?” said Miss Bold, very quietly.
“Why not, indeed? I’m sure I hope he may,” said Mrs. Proudie. “And no doubt he will, some day. But if he be such a man as they say he is, it is really well for Griselda that she should be relieved from such a marriage. For, after all, Mrs. Arabin, what are the things of this world?—dust beneath our feet, ashes between our teeth, grass cut for the oven, vanity, vexation, and nothing more!”—well pleased with which variety of Christian metaphors Mrs. Proudie walked on, still muttering, however, something about worms and grubs, by which she intended to signify her own species and the Dumbello and Grantly sects of it in particular.
This now had gone so far that Mrs. Arabin conceived herself bound in duty to see her sister, and it was then settled in consultation at Plumstead that the archdeacon should call officially at the palace and beg that the rumour might be contradicted. This he did early on the next morning and was shown into the bishop’s study, in which he found both his lordship and Mrs. Proudie. The bishop rose to greet him with special civility, smiling his very sweetest on him, as though of all his clergy the archdeacon were the favourite; but Mrs. Proudie wore something of a gloomy aspect, as though she knew that such a visit at such an hour must have reference to some special business. The morning calls made by the archdeacon at the palace in the way of ordinary civility were not numerous.
On the present occasion he dashed at once into his subject. “I have called this morning, Mrs. Proudie,” said he, “because I wish to ask a favour from you.” Whereupon Mrs. Proudie bowed.
“Mrs. Proudie will be most happy, I am sure,” said the bishop.
“I find that some foolish people have been talking in Barchester about my daughter,” said the archdeacon; “and I wish to ask Mrs. Proudie—”
Most women under such circumstances would have felt the awkwardness of their situation, and would have prepared to eat their past words with wry faces. But not so Mrs. Proudie. Mrs. Grantly had had the imprudence to throw Mr. Slope in her face—there, in her own drawing-room, and she was resolved to be revenged. Mrs. Grantly, too, had ridiculed the Tickler match, and no too great niceness should now prevent Mrs. Proudie from speaking her mind about the Dumbello match.
“A great many people are talking about her, I am sorry to say,” said Mrs. Proudie; “but, poor dear, it is not her fault. It might have happened to any girl; only, perhaps, a little more care—; you’ll excuse me, Dr. Grantly.”
“I have come here to allude to a report which has been spread about in Barchester, that the match between Lord Dumbello and my daughter has been broken off; and—”
“Everybody in Barchester knows it, I believe,” said Mrs. Proudie.
“—and”, continued the archdeacon, “to request that that report may be contradicted.”
“Contradicted! Why, he has gone right away—out of the country.”
“Never mind where he has gone to, Mrs. Proudie; I beg that the report may be contradicted.”
“You’ll have to go round to every house in Barchester then,” said she.
“By no means,” replied the archdeacon. “And, perhaps, it may be right that I should explain to the bishop that I came here because—”
“The bishop knows nothing about it,” said Mrs. Proudie.
“Nothing in the world,” said his lordship. “And I am sure I hope that the young lady may not be disappointed.”
“—because the matter was so distinctly mentioned to Mrs. Arabin by yourself yesterday.”
“Distinctly mentioned! Of course it was distinctly mentioned. There are some things which can’t be kept under a bushel, Dr. Grantly; and this seems to be one of them. Your going about in this way won’t make Lord Dumbello marry the young lady.”
That was true; nor would it make Mrs. Proudie hold her tongue. Perhaps the archdeacon was wrong in his present errand, and so he now began to bethink himself. “At any rate,” said he, “when I tell you that there is no ground whatever for such a report you will do me the kindness to say that, as far as you are concerned, it shall go no further. I think, my lord, I am not asking too much in asking that.”
“The bishop knows nothing about it,” said Mrs. Proudie again.
“Nothing at all,” said the bishop.
“And as I must protest that I believe the information which has reached me on this head,” said Mrs. Proudie, “I do not see how it is possible that I should contradict it. I can easily understand your feelings, Dr. Grantly. Considering your daughter’s position the match was, as regards earthly wealth, a very great one. I do not wonder that you should be grieved at its being broken off; but I trust that this sorrow may eventuate in a blessing to you and to Miss Griselda. These worldly disappointments are precious balms, and I trust you know how to accept them as such.”