“Oh; I did not know,” said the archdeacon very coldly.
It seemed to Lady Lufton, who was as innocent as an unborn babe in the matter of the projected marriage, that her old friend was in a mind to persecute the Crawleys. He had on a former occasion taken upon himself to advise that Grace Crawley should not be entertained at Framley, and now it seemed that he had come all the way from Plumstead to say something further in the same strain. Lady Lufton, if he had anything further to say of that kind, would listen to him as a matter of course. She would listen to him and reply to him without temper. But she did not approve of it. She told herself silently that she did not approve of persecution or of interference. She therefore drew herself up, and pursed her mouth, and put on something of that look of severity which she could assume very visibly, if it so pleased her.
“Yes; she is still there, and I think that her visit will do her a great deal of good,” said Lady Lufton.
“When we talk of doing good to people,” said the archdeacon, “we often make terrible mistakes. It so often happens that we don’t know when we are doing good and when we are doing harm.”
“That is true, of course, Dr. Grantly, and must be so necessarily, as our wisdom here below is so very limited. But I should think—as far as I can see, that is—that the kindness which my friend Mrs. Robarts is showing to this young lady must be beneficial. You know, archdeacon, I explained to you before that I could not quite agree with you in what you said as to leaving these people alone till after the trial. I thought that help was necessary to them at once.”
The archdeacon sighed deeply. He ought to have been somewhat renovated in spirit by the tone in which Lady Lufton spoke to him, as it conveyed to him almost an absolute conviction that his first suspicion was incorrect. But any comfort which might have come to him from this source was marred by the feeling that he must announce his own disgrace. At any rate, he must do so, unless he were contented to go back to Plumstead without having learned anything by his journey. He changed the tone of his voice, however, and asked a question—as it might be altogether on a different subject. “I heard yesterday,” he said, “that Henry was over here.”
“He was here yesterday. He came the evening before, and dined and slept here, and went home yesterday morning.”
“Was Miss Crawley with you that evening?”
“Miss Crawley? No; she would not come. She thinks it best not to go out while her father is in his present unfortunate position; and she is right.”
“She is quite right in that,” said the archdeacon; and then he paused again. He thought that it would be best for him to make a clean breast of it, and to trust to Lady Lufton’s sympathy. “Did Henry go up to the parsonage?” he asked.
But still Lady Lufton did not suspect the truth. “I think he did,” she replied, with an air of surprise. “I think I heard that he went up there to call on Mrs. Robarts after breakfast.”
“No, Lady Lufton, he did not go up there to call on Mrs. Robarts. He went up there because he is making a fool of himself about that Miss Crawley. That is the truth. Now you understand it all. I hope that Mrs. Robarts does not know it. I do hope for her own sake that Mrs. Robarts does not know it.”
The archdeacon certainly had no longer any doubt as to Lady Lufton’s innocence when he looked at her face as she heard these tidings. She had predicted that Grace Crawley would “make havoc”, and could not, therefore, be altogether surprised at the idea that some gentleman should have fallen in love with her; but she had never suspected that the havoc might be made so early in her days, or on so great a quarry. “You don’t mean to tell me that Henry Grantly is in love with Grace Crawley?” she replied.
“I mean to say that he says he is.”
“Dear, dear, dear! I’m sure, archdeacon, that you will believe me when I say that I knew nothing about it.”
“I am quite sure of that,” said the archdeacon dolefully.
“Or I certainly should not have been glad to see him here. But the house, you know, is not mine, Dr. Grantly. I could have done nothing if I had known it. But only to think—well, to be sure. She has lost no time, at any rate.”
Now this was not at all the light in which the archdeacon wished that the matter should be regarded. He had been desirous that Lady Lufton should be horror-stricken by the tidings, but it seemed to him that she regarded the iniquity almost as a good joke. What did it matter how young or how old the girl might be? She came of poor people—of people who had no friends—of disgraced people; and Lady Lufton ought to feel that such a marriage would be a terrible misfortune and a terrible crime. “I need hardly tell you, Lady Lufton,” said the archdeacon, “that I shall set my face against it as far as it is in my power to do so.”
“If they both be resolved I suppose you can hardly prevent it.”
“Of course I cannot prevent it. Of course I cannot prevent it. If he will break my heart and his mother’s—and his sister’s—of course I cannot prevent it. If he will ruin himself, he must have his own way.”
“Ruin himself, Dr. Grantly!”
“They will have enough to live upon—somewhere in Spain or France.” The scorn expressed in the archdeacon’s voice as he spoke of Pau as being “somewhere in Spain or France”, should have been heard to be understood. “No doubt they will have enough to live upon.”
“Do you mean to say that it will make a difference as to your own property, Dr. Grantly?”
“Certainly it will, Lady Lufton. I told Henry when I first heard of the thing—before he had definitely made any offer to the girl—that I should withdraw from him altogether the allowance that I now make him, if he married her. And I told him also, that if he persisted in his folly I should think it my duty to alter my will.”
“I am sorry for that, Dr. Grantly.”
“Sorry! And am I not sorry? Sorrow is no sufficient word. I am broken-hearted. Lady Lufton, it is killing me. It is indeed. I love him; I love him—I love him as you have loved your son. But what is the use? What can he be to me when he shall have married the daughter of such a man as that?”
Lady Lufton sat for a while silent, thinking of a certain episode in her own life. There had been a time when her son was desirous of making a marriage which she had thought would break her heart. She had for a time moved heaven and earth—as far as she knew how to move them—to prevent the marriage. But at last she had yielded—not from lack of power, for the circumstances had been such that at the moment of yielding she had still the power in her hand of staying the marriage—but she had yielded because she had perceived that her son was in earnest. She had yielded, and had kissed the dust; but from the moment in which her lips had so touched the ground, she had taken great joy in the new daughter whom her son had brought into the house. Since that she had learned to think that young people might perhaps be right, and that old people might perhaps be wrong. This trouble of her friend the archdeacon’s was very like her own trouble. “And he is engaged to her now?” she said, when those thoughts had passed through her mind.
“Yes—that is, no. I am not sure. I do not know how to make myself sure.”
“I am sure Major Grantly will tell you all the truth as it exists.”
“Yes; he’ll tell me the truth—as far as he knows it. I do not see that there is much anxiety to spare me in that matter. He is desirous rather of making me understand that I have no power of saving him from his own folly. Of course I have no power of saving him.”
“But is he engaged to her?”
“He says that she has refused him. But of course that means nothing.”
Again the archdeacon’s position was very like Lady Lufton’s position, as it had existed before her son’s marriage. In that case also the young lady, who was now Lady Lufton’s own daughter and dearest friend, had refused the lover who proposed to her, although the marriage was so much to her advantage—loving him, too, the while, with her whole heart, as it was natural to suppose that Grace Crawley might so love her lover. The more she thought of the similarity of the stories, the stronger were her sympathies on the side of poor Grace. Nevertheless, she would comfort her old friend if she knew how; and of course she could not but admit to herself that the match was one which must be a cause of real sorrow to him. “I don’t know why her refusal should mean nothing,” said Lady Lufton.
“Of course a girl refuses at first—a girl, I mean, in such circumstances as hers. She can’t but feel that more is offered to her than she ought to take, and that she is bound to go through the ceremony of declining. But my anger is not with her, Lady Lufton.”
“I do not see how it can be.”
“No; it is not with her. If she becomes his wife I trust that I may never see her.”
“Oh, Dr. Grantly!”
“I do; I do. How can it be otherwise with me? But I shall have no quarrel with her. With him I must quarrel.”
“I do not see why,” said Lady Lufton.
“You do not? Does he not set me at defiance?”
“At his age surely a son has a right to marry as he pleases.”
“If he took her out of the streets, then it would be the same?” said the archdeacon with bitter anger.
“No—for such a one would herself be bad.”
“Or if she were the daughter of a huckster out of the city?”
“No again—for in that case her want of education would probably unfit her for your society.”
“Her father’s disgrace, then, should be a matter of indifference to me, Lady Lufton?”
“I did not say so. In the first place, her father is not disgraced—not as yet; and we do not know whether he may ever be disgraced. You will hardly be disposed to say that persecution from the palace disgraces a clergyman in Barsetshire.”
“All the same, I believe that the man was guilty,” said the archdeacon.
“Wait and see, my friend, before you condemn him altogether. But, be that as it may, I acknowledge that the marriage is one which must naturally be distasteful to you.”
“Oh, Lady Lufton! If you only knew! If you only knew!”
“I do know; and I feel for you. But I think that your son has a right to expect that you should not show the same repugnance to such a marriage as this as you would have had a right to show had he suggested to himself such a wife as those at which you had just now hinted. Of course you can advise him, and make him understand your feelings; but I cannot think you will be justified in quarrelling with him, or in changing your views towards him as regards money, seeing that Miss Crawley is an educated lady, who has done nothing to forfeit your respect.” A heavy cloud came upon the archdeacon’s brow as he heard these words, but he did not make any immediate answer. “Of course, my friend,” continued Lady Lufton, “I should not have ventured to say so much to you, had you not come to me, as it were, for my opinion.”
“I came here because I thought Henry was here,” said the archdeacon.
“If I have said too much, I beg your pardon.”
“No; you have not said too much. It is not that. You and I are such old friends that either may say almost anything to the other.”
“Yes—just so. And therefore I have ventured to speak my mind,” said Lady Lufton.
“Of course—and I am obliged to you. But, Lady Lufton, you do not understand yet how this hits me. Everything in life that I have done, I have done for my children. I am wealthy, but I have not used my wealth for myself, because I have desired that they should be able to hold their heads high in the world. All my ambition has been for them, and all the pleasure which I have anticipated for myself in my old age is that which I have hoped to receive from their credit. As for Henry, he might have had anything he wanted from me in the way of money. He expressed a wish, a few months since, to go into Parliament, and I promised to help him as far as ever I could go. I have kept up the game altogether for him. He, the younger son of a working parish parson, has had everything that could be given to the eldest son of a country gentleman—more than is given to the eldest son of many a peer. I have hoped that he would marry again, but I have never cared that he should marry for money. I have been willing to do anything for him myself. But, Lady Lufton, a father does feel that he should have some return for all this. No one can imagine that Henry ever supposed that a bride from that wretched place at Hogglestock would be welcomed among us. He knew that he would break our hearts, and he did not care for it. That is what I feel. Of course he has the power to do as he likes—and of course I have the power to do as I like also with what is my own.”
Lady Lufton was a very good woman, devoted to her duties, affectionate and just to those about her, truly religious, and charitable from her nature; but I doubt whether the thorough worldliness of the archdeacon’s appeal struck her as it will strike the reader. People are so much more worldly in practice than they are in theory, so much keener after their own gratification in detail than they are in the abstract, that the narrative of many an adventure would shock us, though the same adventure would not shock us in the action. One girl tells another how she has changed her mind in love; and the friend sympathises with the friend, and perhaps applauds. Had the story been told in print, the friend who had listened with equanimity would have read of such vacillation with indignation. She who vacillated herself would have hated her own performance when brought before her judgment as a matter in which she had no personal interest. Very fine things are written every day about honesty and truth, and men read them with a sort of external conviction that a man, if he be anything of a man at all, is of course honest and true. But when the internal convictions are brought out between two or three who are personally interested together—between two or three who feel that their little gathering is, so to say, “tiled”—those internal convictions differ very much from the external convictions. This man, in his confidences, asserts broadly that he does not mean to be thrown over, and that man has a project for throwing over somebody else; and the intention of each is that scruples are not to stand in the way of his success. The “Ruat cœlum, fiat justitia,” was said, no doubt, from an outside balcony to a crowd, and the speaker knew that he was talking buncombe. The “Rem, si possis recte, si non, quocunque modo,” was whispered into the ear in a club smoking-room, and the whisperer intended that his words should prevail.