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Title:  Framley Parsonage

Author:  Anthony Trollope

Release Date:  October, 2001  [Etext #2860]

Edition:  10

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Framley Parsonage

by Anthony Trollope




TABLE OF CONTENTS

I       'OMNES OMNIA BONA DICERE'
II      THE FRAMLEY SET, AND THE CHALDICOTE SET
III     CHALDICOTES
IV      A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE
V       AMANTIUM IRAE AMORES INTEGRATIO
VI      MR HAROLD SMITH'S LECTURE
VII     SUNDAY MORNING
VIII    GATHERUM CASTLE
IX      THE VICAR'S RETURN
X       LUCY ROBARTS
XI      GRISELDA GRANTLY
XII     THE LITTLE BILL
XIII    DELICATE HINTS
XIV     MR CRAWLEY OF HOGGLESTOCK
XV      LADY LUFTON'S AMBASSADOR
XVI     MRS PODGERS' BABY
XVII    MRS PROUDIE'S CONVERSATSIONE
XVIII   THE NEW MINISTER'S PATRONAGE
XIX     MONEY DEALING
XX      HAROLD SMITH IN CABINET
XXI     WHY PUCK THE PONY WAS BEATEN
XXII    HOGGLESTOCK PARSONAGE
XXIII   THE TRIUMPH OF THE GIANTS
XXIV    MAGNA EST VERITAS
XXV     NON-IMPULSIVE
XXVI    IMPULSIVE
XXVII   SOUTH AUDLEY STREET
XXVIII  DR THORNE
XXIX    MISS DUNSTABLE AT HOME
XXX     THE GRANTLY TRIUMPH
XXX1    SALMON FISHING IN NORWAY
XXXII   THE GOAT AND THE COMPASSES
XXXIII  CONSOLATION
XXXIV   LADY LUFTON IS TAKEN BY SURPRISE
XXXV    THE STORY OF KING COPHETUA
XXXVI   KIDNAPPING AT HOGGLESTOCK
XXXVII  MR SOWERBY WITHOUT COMPANY
XXXVIII IS THERE CAUSE OR JUST IMPEDIMENT?
XXXIX   HOW TO WRITE A LOVE LETTER
XL      INTERNECINE
XLI     DON QUIXOTE
XLII    TOUCHING PITCH
XLIII   IS SHE NOT INSIGNIFICANT?
XLIV    THE PHILISTINES AT THE PARSONAGE
XLV     PALACE BLESSINGS
XLVI    LADY LUFTON'S REQUEST
XLVII   NEMESIS
XLVIII  HOW THEY WERE ALL MARRIED, HAD TWO CHILDREN, AND
          LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER




CHAPTER I

'OMNES OMNIA BONA DICERE'

When young Mark Robarts was leaving college, his father might well
declare that all men began to say all good things to him, and to
extol his fortune in that he had a son blessed with an excellent
disposition.  This father was a physician living at Exeter.  He was
a gentleman possessed of no private means, but enjoying a lucrative
practice, which had enabled him to maintain and educate a family
with all the advantages which money can give in this country.  Mark
was his eldest son and second child; and the first page or two of
this narrative must be consumed in giving a catalogue of the good
things which chance and conduct together had heaped upon this young
man's head.

His first step forward in life had arisen from his having been
sent, while still very young, as a private pupil to the house of a
clergyman, who was an old friend and intimate friend of his father's.
This clergyman had one other, and only one other, pupil--the
young Lord Lufton; and between the two boys, there had sprung
up a close alliance.  While they were both so placed, Lady Lufton
had visited her son, and then invited young Robarts to pass
his next holidays at Framley Court.  This visit was made; and it
ended in Mark going back to Exeter with a letter full of praise
from the widowed peeress.  She had been delighted, she said, in
having such a companion for her son, and expressed a hope that the
boys might remain together during the course of their education.
Dr Robarts was a man who thought much of the breath of peers and
peeresses, and was by no means inclined to throw away any advantage
which might arise to his child from such a friendship.  When,
therefore, the young lord was sent to Harrow, Mark Robarts went
there also.

That the lord and his friend often quarrelled, and occasionally
fought,--the fact even that for a period of three months they never
spoke to each other--by no means interfered with the doctor's
hopes.  Mark again and again stayed a fortnight at Framley Court,
and Lady Lufton always wrote about him in the highest terms.  And
then the lads went together to Oxford, and here Mark's good fortune
followed him, consisting rather in the highly respectable manner in
which he lived, than in any wonderful career of collegiate
success.  His family was proud of him, and the doctor was always
ready to talk of him to his patients; not because he was a
prize-man, and had gotten a scholarship, but on account of the
excellence of his general conduct.  He lived with the best set--he
incurred no debts--he was fond of society, but able to avoid low
society--liked his glass of wine, but was never known to be drunk;
and above all things, was one of the most popular men in the
University.  Then came the question of a profession for the young
Hyperion, and on this subject Dr Robarts was invited himself to go
over to Framley Court to discuss the matter with Lady Lufton.
Dr Robarts returned with a very strong conception that the Church
was the profession best suited to his son.

Lady Lufton had not sent for Dr Robarts all the way from Exeter for
nothing.  The living of Framley was in the gift of Lady Lufton's
family, and the next presentation would be in Lady Lufton's hands,
if it should fall vacant before the young lord was twenty-five
years of age, and in the young lord's hands if it should fall
afterwards.  But the mother and the heir consented to give a joint
promise to Dr Robarts.  Now, as the present incumbent was over
seventy, and as the living was worth 900 pounds a year, there could
be no doubt as to the eligibility of the clerical profession.  And
I must further say, that the dowager and the doctor were justified
in their choice by the life and principles of the young man--as
far as any father can be justified in choosing such a profession
for his son, and as far as any lay impropriator can be justified in
making such a promise.  Had Lady Lufton had a second son, that
second son would probably have had the living, and no one would
have thought it wrong;--certainly not if that second son had been
such a one as Mark Robarts.

Lady Lufton herself was a woman who thought much on religious
matters, and would by no means have been disposed to place any one
in a living, merely because such a one had been her son's friend.
Her tendencies were High Church, and she was enabled to perceive
that those of young Mark Robarts ran in the same direction.  She
was very desirous that her son should make an associate of his
clergyman, and by this step she would ensure, at any rate, that.
She was anxious that the parish vicar should be one with whom she
could herself fully co-operate, and was perhaps unconsciously
wishful that he might in some measure be subject to her influence.
Should she appoint an elder man, this might probably not be the
case to the same extent; and should her son have the gift, it might
probably not be the case at all.  And, therefore, it was resolved
that the living should be given to young Robarts.

He took his degree--not with any brilliancy, but quite in the
manner that his father desired; he then travelled for eight or ten
months with Lord Lufton and a college don, and almost immediately
after his return home was ordained.

The living of Framley is in the diocese of Barchester; and, seeing
what were Mark's hopes with reference to that diocese, it was by no
means difficult to get him a curacy within it.  But this curacy he
was not allowed long to fill.  He had not been in it above a
twelvemonth, when poor old Dr Stopford, the then vicar of Framley,
was gathered to his fathers, and the full fruition of his rich
hopes fell upon his shoulders.

But even yet more must be told of his good fortune before we can
come to the actual incidents of our story.  Lady Lufton, who, as I
have said, thought much of clerical matters, did not carry her High
Church principles so far as to advocate celibacy for the clergy.  On
the contrary, she had an idea that a man could not be a good parish
parson without a wife.  So, having given to her favourite a
position in the world, and an income sufficient for a gentleman's
wants, she set herself to work to find him a partner in those
blessings.  And here also, as in other matters, he fell in with the
views of his patroness--not, however, that they were declared to
him in that marked manner in which the affair of the living had
been broached.  Lady Lufton was much too highly gifted with woman's
craft for that.  She never told the young vicar that Miss Monsell
accompanied her ladyship's married daughter to Framley Court
expressly that he, Mark, might fall in love with her; but such was
in truth the case.

Lady Lufton had but two children.  The eldest, a daughter, had been
married some four or five years to Sir George Meredith, and this
Miss Monsell was a dear friend of hers.  And how looms before me the
novelist's great difficulty.  Miss Monsell--or rather, Mrs Mark
Robarts--must be described.  As Miss Monsell, our tale will have to
take no prolonged note of her.  And yet we will call her Fanny
Monsell, when we declare that she was one of the most pleasant
companions that could be brought near to a man, as the future
partner of his home, and owner of his heart.  And if high
principles without asperity, female gentleness without weakness, a
love of laughter without malice, and a true loving heart, can
qualify a woman to be a parson's wife, then Fanny Monsell qualified
to fill that station.  In person she was somewhat larger than
common.  Her face would have been beautiful but that her mouth was
large.  Her hair, which was copious, was of a bright brown; her
eyes also were brown, and, being so, were the distinctive feature
of her face, for brown eyes are not common.  They were liquid,
large, and full either of tenderness or of mirth.  Mark Robarts
still had his accustomed luck, when such a girl as this was brought
to Framley for his wooing.  And he did woo her--and won her.  For
Mark himself was a handsome fellow.  At this time the vicar was about
twenty-five years of age, and the future Mrs Robarts was two or
three years younger.  Nor did she come quite empty-handed to the
vicarage.  It cannot be said that Fanny Monsell was an heiress, but
she had been left with a provision of some few thousand pounds.
This was so settled, that the interest of his wife's money paid the
heavy insurance on his life which young Robarts effected, and there
was left to him, over and above, sufficient to furnish his parsonage
in the very best style of clerical comfort, and to start him on the
road of life rejoicing.

So much did Lady Lufton do for her protege, and it may well be
imagined that the Devonshire physician, sitting meditative over his
parlour fire, looking back, as men will look back on the upshot of
their life, was well contented with that upshot, as regarded his
eldest offshoot, the Rev.  Mark Robarts, the vicar of Framley.

But little has been said, personally, as to our hero himself, and
perhaps it may not be necessary to say much.  Let us hope that by
degrees he may come forth upon the canvas, showing to the beholder
the nature of the man inwardly and outwardly.  Here it may suffice
to say that he was not born heaven's cherub, neither was he born a
fallen devil's spirit.  Such as his training made him, such he
was.  He had large capabilities for good--and aptitude also for
evil, quite enough; quite enough to make it needful that he should
repel temptations as temptation only can be repelled.  Much had
been done to spoil him, but in the ordinary acceptation of the word
he was not spoiled.  He had too much tact, too much common sense,
to believe himself to be the paragon which his mother thought him.
Self-conceit was not, perhaps, his greatest danger.  Had he
possessed more of it, he might have been a less agreeable man, but
his course before him might on that account have been the safer.  In
person he was manly tall, and fair-haired, with a square forehead,
denoting intelligence rather than thought, with clear, white hands,
filbert nails, and a power of dressing himself in such a manner
that no one should ever observe of him that his clothes were either
good or bad, shabby or smart.

Such was Mark Robarts when at the age of twenty-five, or a little
more, he married Fanny Monsell.  The marriage was celebrated in his
own church, for Miss Monsell had no home of her own, and had been
staying for the last three months at Framley Court.  She was given
away by Sir George Meredith, and Lady Lufton herself saw that the
wedding was what it should be, with almost as much care as she had
bestowed on that of her own daughter.  The deed of marrying, the
absolute tying of the knot, was performed by the Very Reverend the
Dean of Barchester, an esteemed friend of Lady Lufton's.  And Mrs
Arabin, the dean's wife, was of the party, though the distance from
Barchester to Framley is long, and the roads deep, and no railway
lends its assistance.  And Lord Lufton was there of course; and
people protested that he would surely fall in love with one of the
four beautiful bridesmaids, of whom Blanche Robarts, the vicar's
second sister, was by common acknowledgement by far the most
beautiful.  And there was there another and a younger sister of
Mark's--who did not officiate at the ceremony, though she was
present--and of whom no prediction was made, seeing that she was
then only sixteen, but of whom mention is made here, as it will come
to pass that my readers will know her hereafter.  Her name was Lucy
Robarts.  And then the vicar and his wife on their wedding tour,
the old curate taking care of the Framley souls the while.  And in
due time they returned; and after a further interval, in due course
a child was born to them; and then another; and after that came a
period at which we will begin our story.  But before doing so, may
I not assert that all men were right in saying all manner of good
things as to the Devonshire physician, and in praising his luck in
having such a son?

'You were up at the house to-day, I suppose,' said Mark to his
wife, as he sat stretching himself in an easy chair in the
drawing-room, before the fire, previously to his dressing for
dinner.  It was a November evening, and he had been out all day,
and on such occasions the aptitude for delay in dressing is very
powerful.  A strong-minded man goes direct from the hall door to
his chamber without encountering the temptation of the drawing-room
fire.

'No; but Lady Lufton was down here.'

'Full of suggestions in favour of Sarah Thompson?'

'Exactly so, Mark.'

'And what did you say about Sarah Thompson?'

'Very little as coming from myself: but I did hint that you
thought, or that I thought you thought, that one of the regular
trained schoolmistresses would be better.'

'But her ladyship did not agree?'

'Well, I won't exactly say that;--though I think that perhaps she
did not.'

'I am sure she did not.  When she has a point to carry, she is very
fond of carrying it.'

'But, you see, in this affair of the school she is thinking more of
her protege than she does of the children.'

'Tell her that, and I am sure she will give way.' And then again
they were both silent.  And the vicar having thoroughly warmed
himself, as far as this might be done by facing the fire, turned
round and began the operation a tergo.

'Come, Mark, it is twenty minutes past six.  Will you go and
dress?'

'I'll tell you what, Fanny: she must have her way about Sarah
Thompson.  You can see her to-morrow and tell her so.'

'I am sure, Mark, I would not give way, if I thought it wrong.  Nor
would she expect it.'

'If I persist this time, I shall certainly have to yield the next;
and then the next may probably be more important.'

'But if it's wrong, Mark?'

'I didn't say it was wrong.  Besides, if it is wrong, wrong in some
infinitesimal degree, one must put up with it.  Sarah Thompson is
very respectable; the only question is whether she can teach.'

The young wife, though she did not say so, had some idea her
husband was in error.  It is true that one must put up with wrong,
with a great deal of wrong.  But no one need put up with wrong that
he can remedy.  Why should he, the vicar, consent to receive an
incompetent teacher for the parish children, when he was able to
procure one that was competent? In such a case--so thought Mrs
Robarts to herself--she would have fought the matter out with Lady
Lufton.  On the next morning, however, she did as she was bid, and
signified to the dowager that all objections to Sarah Thompson
would be withdrawn.

'Ah! I was sure he would agree with me,' said her ladyship, 'when
he learned what sort of person she is.  I know I had only to
explain;'--and then she plumed her feathers, and was very gracious;
for to tell the truth, Lady Lufton did not like to be opposed in
things which concerned the parish nearly.

'And, Fanny,' said Lady Lufton, in her kindest manner, 'you are not
going anywhere on Saturday, are you?'

'No, I think not.'

'Then you must come to us.  Justinia is to be here, you know,' Lady
Meredith was named Justinia--'and you and Mr Robarts had better
stay with us till Monday.  He can have the little book-room all to
himself on Sunday.  The Merediths go on Monday; and Justinia
won't be happy if you are not with her.' It would be unjust to say
that Lady Lufton had determined not to invite the Robartses if she
were not allowed to have her own way about Sarah Thompson.  But
such would have been the result.  As it was, however, she was all
kindness; and when Mrs Robarts made some little excuse, saying that
she was afraid she must return home in the evening, because of the
children, Lady Lufton declared that there was room enough at
Framley Court for baby and nurse, and so settled the matter in her
own way, with a couple of nods and three taps of her umbrella.  This
was on a Tuesday morning, and on the same evening, before dinner,
the vicar again seated himself in the same chair before the
drawing-room fire, as soon as he had seen his horse led into the
stable.

'Mark,' said his wife, 'the Merediths are to be at Framley on
Saturday and Sunday; and I have promised that we will go up and
stay over till Monday.'

'You don't mean it! Goodness gracious, how provoking!'

'Why? I thought you wouldn't mind it.  And Justinia would think it
unkind if I were not there.'

'You can go, my dear, and of course will go.  But as for me, it's
impossible.'

'But why, love?'

'Why? Just now, at the school-house, I answered a letter that was
brought to me from Chaldicotes.  Sowerby insists on my going over
there for a week or so; and I have said that I would.'

'Go to Chaldicotes for a week, Mark?'

'I believe I have even consented to ten days.'

'And be away two Sundays?'

'No, Fanny, only one.  Don't be so censorious.'

'Don't call me censorious, Mark; you know I am not so.  But I am so
sorry.  It is just what Lady Lufton won't like.  Besides, you were
away in Scotland two Sundays last month.'

'In September, Fanny.  And that is being censorious.'

'On, but Mark, dear Mark; don't say so.  You know I don't mean it.
But Lady Lufton does not like those Chaldicotes people.  You know
Lord Lufton was with you the last time you were there; and how annoyed
she was!'

'Lord Lufton won't be there with me now, for he is still in
Scotland.  And the reason why I am going is this; Harold Smith and
his wife will be there, and I am very anxious to know more of
them.  I have no doubt that Harold Smith will be in the government
some day, and I cannot afford to neglect such a man's
acquaintance.'

'But, Mark, what do you want of any government?'

'Well, Fanny, of course I am bound to say that I want nothing;
neither in once sense do I; but, nevertheless, I shall go and meet
Harold Smith.'

'Could you not be back before Sunday?'

'I have promised to preach at Chaldicotes.  Harold Smith's going to
lecture at Barchester, about the Australasian archipelago, and I am
to preach a charity sermon on the same subject.  They want to send
out more missionaries.'

'A charity sermon at Chaldicotes!'

'And why not? The house will be quite full, you know! And I dare
say that the Arabins will be there.'

'I think not; Mrs Arabin may get on well with Mrs Harold Smith,
though I doubt that; but I'm sure she's not fond of Mr Smith's
brother.  I don't think she would stay at Chaldicotes.'

'And the bishop will probably be there for a day or two.'

'That is much more likely, Mark.  If the pleasure of meeting Mrs
Proudie is taking you to Chaldicotes, I have not a word more to
say.'

'I am not a bit more fond of Mrs Proudie than you are, Fanny,' said
the vicar, with something like vexation in the tone of his voice,
for he thought that his wife was hard upon him.  'But it is
generally thought that a parish clergyman does well to meet his
bishop now and then.  And as I was invited there, especially to
preach while all these people are staying at the place, I could not
well refuse.' And then he got up, and taking his candlestick,
escaped to his dressing-room.

'But what am I to say to Lady Lufton?' his wife said to him in the
course of the evening.

'Just write her a note, and tell her that you find I had promised
to preach at Chaldicotes next Sunday.  You'll go of course?'

'Yes; but I know she'll be annoyed.  You were away the last time
she had people there.'

'It can't be helped.  She must put it down against Sarah Thompson.
She ought not to expect to win always.'

'I should not have minded it, if she had lost, as you call it,
about Sarah Thompson.  That was a case in which you ought to have
had your own way.'

'And this other is a case, in which I shall have it.  It's a pity
that there should be such a difference; isn't it?'

Then his wife perceived that, vexed as she was, it would be better
that she should say nothing further; and before she went to bed,
she wrote the note to Lady Lufton, as her husband recommended.



CHAPTER II

THE FRAMLEY SET, AND THE CHALDICOTES SET

It will be necessary that I should say a word or two of some of the
people named in the few preceding pages, and also of the localities
in which they lived.  Of Lady Lufton herself enough, perhaps, has
been written to introduce her to my readers.  The Framley property
belonged to her son; but as Lufton Park--an ancient ramshackle
place in another county--had heretofore been the family residence
of the Lufton family, Framley Court had been apportioned to her for
her residence for life.  Lord Lufton himself was still unmarried;
and as he had no establishment at Lufton Park--which indeed had not
been inhabited since his grandfather died--he lived with his mother
when it suited him to live anywhere in that neighbourhood.  The
widow would fain have seen more of him than he allowed her to do.
He had a shooting lodge in Scotland, and apartments in London, and
a string of horses in Leicestershire--much to the disgust of the
country gentry around him, who held that their own hunting was as
good as any that England could afford.  His lordship, however, paid
his subscription to the East Barsetshire park, and then thought
himself at liberty to follow his own pleasure as to his own
amusement.

Framley itself was a pleasant country place, having about it
nothing of seigneurial dignity or grandeur, but possessing
everything necessary for the comfort of country life.  The house
was a low building of two stories, built at different periods, and
devoid of all pretensions to any style of architecture; but the
rooms, though not lofty, were warm and comfortable, and the gardens
were trim and neat beyond all others in the county.  Indeed, it was
for its gardens only that Framley Court was celebrated.  Village
there was none, properly speaking.  The high road went winding
about through the Framley paddocks, shrubberies, and wood-skirted
home fields, for a mile and a half, not two hundred yards of which
ran in a straight line; and there was a cross-road which passed
down through the domain, whereby there came to be a locality called
Framley Cross.  Here stood the 'Lufton Arms', and here at Framley
Cross, the hounds occasionally would meet; for the Framley woods
were drawn in spite of the young lord's truant disposition; and
then, at the Cross also, lived the shoemaker, who kept the
post-office.

Framley church was distant from this just a quarter of a mile, and
stood immediately opposite to the chief entrance to Framley Court.
It was but a mean, ugly building, having been erected about a
hundred years since, when all churches then built were made to be
mean and ugly; nor was it large enough for the congregation, some
of whom were thus driven to the dissenting chapels, the Sions and
Ebenezers, which had got themselves established on each side of the
parish, in putting down which Lady Lufton thought that her parson
was hardly as energetic as he might be.  It was, therefore, a
matter near to Lady Lufton's heart to see a new church built, and
she was urgent in her eloquence both with her son and with the
vicar, to have this good work commenced.

Beyond the church, but close to it, were the boy's school and
girl's school, two distinct buildings, which owed their erection to
Lady Lufton's energy; then came a neat little grocer's shop, the
neat grocer being the clerk and the sexton, and the neat grocer's
wife the pew-opener in the church.  Podgens was their name, and
they were great favourites with her ladyship, both having been
servants up at the house.  And here the road took a sudden turn to
the left, turning, as it were, away from Framley Court; and just
beyond the turn was the vicarage, so that there was a little garden
path running from the back of the vicarage grounds into the
churchyard, cutting the Podgens into an isolated corner of their
own;--from whence, to tell the truth, the vicar would have been
glad to banish them and their cabbages, could he have had the power
to do so.  For has not the small vineyard of Naboth been always an
eyesore to neighbouring potentates?

The potentate in this case had as little excuse as Ahab, for
nothing in the parsonage way could be more perfect than his
parsonage.  It had all the details requisite for the house of a
moderate gentleman with moderate means, and none of those expensive
superfluities which immoderate gentlemen demand, or which
themselves demand immoderate means.  And then the gardens and
paddocks were exactly suited to it; and everything was in good
order;--not exactly new, so as to be raw and uncovered, and
redolent of workmen; but just at that era of their existence in
which newness gives way to comfortable homeliness.

Other village at Framley there was none.  At the back of the Court,
up one of those cross-roads, there was another small shop or two,
and there was a very neat cottage residence, in which lived the
widow of a former curate, another protege of Lady Lufton's; and
there was a big, staring, brick house, in which the present curate
lived; but this was a full mile distant from the church, and
farther from Framley Court, standing on that cross-road which runs
from Framley Cross in a direction away from the mansion.  This
gentleman, the Rev Evan Jones, might from his age, have been the
vicar's father; but he had been for many years curate at Framley;
and though he was personally disliked by Lady Lufton, as being Low
Church in his principles, and unsightly in his appearance,
nevertheless, she would not urge his removal.  He had two or three
pupils in that large brick house, and, if turned out from these and
from his curacy, might find it difficult to establish himself
elsewhere.  On this account mercy was extended to the Rev E Jones,
and, in spite of his red face and awkward big feet, he was invited
to dine at Framley Court, with his plain daughter, once in every
three months.

Over and above these, there was hardly a house in the parish of
Framley, outside the bounds of Framley Court, except those of
farmers and farm labourers; and yet the parish was of large extent.

Framley is in the eastern division of the county of Barsetshire,
which, as all the world knows, is, politically speaking, as true
blue a county as any in England.  There have been backslidings even
here, it is true; but then, in what county have there not been such
backslidings? Where, in these pinchbeck days, can we hope to find
the old agricultural virtue in all its purity? But among these
backsliders, I regret to say, that men now reckon Lord Lufton.  Not
that he is a violent Whig, or perhaps that is a Whig at all.  But
he jeers and sneers at the old county doings; declares, when
solicited on the subject, that, as far as he is concerned, Mr
Bright may sit for the county, if he pleases; and alleges, that
being unfortunately a peer, he has no right ever to interest
himself in the question.  All this is deeply regretted, for, in the
old days, there was no portion of the county more decidedly true
blue than the Framley district; and, indeed, up to the present day,
the dowager is able to give an occasional helping hand.

Chaldicotes is the seat of Nathaniel Sowerby, Esq, who, at the
moment supposed to be now present, is one of the members for the
Western Division of Barsetshire.  But this Western Division can
boast none of the fine political attributes which grace its twin
brother.  It is decidedly Whig, and is almost governed in its
politics by one or two great Whig families.  It has been said that
Mark Robarts was about to pay a visit to Chaldicotes, and it has
been hinted that his wife would have been as well pleased had this
not been the case.  Such was certainly the fact; for she, dear,
prudent, excellent wife as she was, knew that Mr Sowerby was not
the most eligible friend in the world for a young clergyman, and
knew, also, that there was but one other house in the whole county
the name of which was so distasteful to Lady Lufton.  The reasons
for this were, I may say, manifold.  In the first place, Mr Sowerby
was a Whig, and was seated in Parliament mainly by that great Whig
autocrat the Duke of Omnium, whose residence was more dangerous
even than that of Mr Sowerby, and whom Lady Lufton regarded as an
impersonation of Lucifer upon earth.  Mr Sowerby, too, was
unmarried--as indeed, also, was Lord Lufton, much to his mother's
grief.  Mr Sowerby, it is true, was fifty, whereas the young lord
was as yet only twenty-five, but, nevertheless, her ladyship was
becoming anxious on the subject.  In her mind every man was bound
to marry as soon as he could maintain a wife; and she held an
idea--a quite private tenet, of which she was herself but
imperfectly conscious--that men in general were inclined to neglect
this duty for their own selfish gratifications, that the wicked
ones encouraged the more innocent in this neglect, and that many
would not marry at all, were not unseen exercised against them by
the other sex.  The Duke of Omnium was the head of all such
sinners, and Lady Lufton greatly feared that her son might be made
subject to the baneful Omnium influence, by means of Mr Sowerby and
Chaldicotes.  And then Mr Sowerby was known to be a very poor man,
with a very large estate.  He had wasted, men said, much on
electioneering, and more on gambling.  A considerable portion of
his property had gone into the hands of the duke, who, as a rule,
bought up everything around him that was to be purchased.  Indeed,
it was said of him by his enemies, that so covetous was he of
Barsetshire property, that he would lead a young neighbour on to
his ruin, that he might get his land.  What--oh! what if he should
come to be possessed in this way of any of the fair acres of
Framley Court? What if he should become possessed of them all? It
can hardly be wondered at that Lady Lufton should not like
Chaldicotes.

The Chaldicotes set, as Lady Lufton called them, were in every way
opposed to what a set should be according to her ideas.  She liked
cheerful, quiet, well-to-do peaple, who loved their Church, their
country, and their Queen, and who were not too anxious to make
noise in the world.  She desired that all the farmers round her
should be able to pay their rents without trouble, that all the old
women should have warm flannel petticoats, that the working men
should be saved from rheumatism by healthy food and dry houses,
that they should all be obedient to their pastors and masters--
temporal as well as spiritual.  That was her idea of loving her
country.  She desired also that the copses should be full of
pheasants, the stubble-field of partridges, and the gorse covers of
foxes; in that way, also, she loved her country.  She had ardently
longed, during the Crimean War, that the Russians might be
beaten--but not by the French, to the exclusion of the English, as
had seemed to her to be too much the case; and hardly by the
English under the dictatorship of Lord Palmerston.  Indeed, she had
had but little faith in that war after Lord Aberdeen had been
expelled.  If, indeed, Lord Derby could have come in! But now as
to this Chaldicotes set.  After all, there was nothing so very
dangerous about them; for it was in London, not in the country,
that Mr Sowerby indulged, if he did so indulge, his bachelor
malpractices.  Speaking of them as a set, the chief offender was Mr
Harold Smith, or perhaps his wife.  He also was a member of
Parliament, and, as many thought, a rising man.  His father had
been for many years a debater in the House, and had held high
office.  Harold, in early life, had intended himself for the
Cabinet; and if working hard at his trade could ensure success, he
ought to obtain it sooner or later.  He had already filled more
than one subordinate station, had been at the Treasury, and for a
month or two, at the Admiralty, astonishing official mankind by his
diligence.  Those last-named few months had been under Lord Aberdeen,
with whom he had been forced to retire.  He was a younger son, and
not possessed of any large fortune.  Politics, as a profession,
was, therefore, of importance to him.  He had in early life married
a sister of Mr Sowerby; and as the lady was some six or seven years
older than himself, and had brought with her but a scanty dowry,
people thought that in this matter Mr Harold Smith had not been
perspicacious.  Mr Harold Smith was not personally a popular man
with any party, though some judged him to be eminently useful.  He
was laborious, well-informed, and, on the whole, honest; but he was
conceited, long-winded, and pompous.

Mrs Harold Smith was the very opposite of her lord.  She was a
clever, bright woman, good-looking for her time of life--and she
was now over forty--with a keen sense of all the world's
pleasures.  She was neither laborious, nor well-informed, nor
perhaps altogether honest -- what woman ever understood the
necessity or recognised the advantage of political honesty? But
then she was neither dull nor pompous, and if she was conceited,
she did not show it.  She was a disappointed woman, as regards her
husband; seeing that she had married him on the speculation that he
would at once become politically important; and as yet Mr Smith had
not quite fulfilled the prophecies of his early life.

And Lady Lufton, when she spoke of the Chaldicotes set, distinctly
included, in her own mind, the Bishop of Barchester, and his wife
and daughter.  Seeing that Bishop Proudie was, of course, much a
man addicted to religion and to religious thinking, and that Mr
Sowerby himself had no particular religious sentiments whatever,
there would not at first sight appear to be ground for much
intercourse, and perhaps there was not much of such intercourse;
but Mrs Proudie and Mrs Harold Smith were firm friends of four or
five years standing--ever since the Proudies came into the diocese
for the bishop was usually taken to Chaldicotes whenever Mrs Smith
paid her brother a visit.  Now Bishop Proudie was by no means a
High Church dignitary, and Lady Lufton had never forgiven him for
coming into that diocese.  She had, instinctively, a high respect
for the episcopal office; but of Bishop Proudie himself she hardly
thought better than she did of Mr Sowerby, or of that fabricator of
evil, the Duke of Omnium.  Whenever Mr Robarts would plead that in
going anywhere he would have the benefit of meeting the bishop,
Lady Lufton would slightly curl her upper lip.  She could not say in
words that Bishop Proudie--bishop as he certainly must be
called--was no better than he ought to be; but by that curl of her
lip she did explain to those who knew her that such was the feeling
of her heart.

And then it was understood--Mark Robarts, at least, had so heard,
and the information soon reached Framley Court--that Mr Supplehouse
was to make one of the Chaldicotes party.  Now Mr Supplehouse was a
worse companion for a gentleman, young, High Church, conservative
county parson than even Harold Smith.  He also was in Parliament,
and had been extolled during the early days of the Russian War by
some portion of the metropolitan daily press, as the only man who
could save the country.  Let him be in the ministry, the Jupiter
had said, and there would be some hope of reform, some chance that
England's ancient glory would not be allowed in these perilous
times to go headlong into oblivion.  And upon this the ministry,
not anticipating much salvation from Mr Supplehouse, but willing as
they usually are, to have the Jupiter at their back, did send for
that gentleman, and gave him some footing among them.  But how can
a man to save a nation, and to lead a people, be content to fill
the chair of an under-secretary? Supplehouse was not content, and
soon gave it to be understood that his place was much higher than
any yet tendered to him.  The seals of high office, or war to the
knife, was the alternative which he offered to a much-belaboured
Head of Affairs--nothing doubting that the Head of Affairs would
recognize the claimant's value, and would have before his eyes a
wholesome fear of the Jupiter.  But the Head of Affairs, much
belaboured as he was, knew that he might swing his tomahawk.  Since
that time he had been swinging his tomahawk, but not with so much
effect as had been anticipated.  He also was very intimate with Mr
Sowerby, and was decidedly one of the Chaldecotes set.  And there
were many others included in the stigma whose sins were political
or religious than moral.  But they were gall and wormwood to Lady
Lufton, who regarded them as children of the Lost One, and grieved
with a mother's grief when she knew that her son was among them,
and felt all a patron's anger when she heard that her clerical
protege was about to seek such society.  Mrs Robarts might well say
that Lady Lufton would be annoyed.

'You won't call at the house before you go, will you?' the wife
asked on the following morning.  He was to start after lunch on
that day, driving himself in his own gig, so as to reach
Chaldicotes, some twenty-four miles distant, before dinner.

'No, I think not.  What good should it do?'

'Well, I can't explain; but I think I should call; partly, perhaps,
to show her that, as I had determined to go, I was not afraid of
telling her so.'

'Afraid! That's nonsense, Fanny.  I'm not afraid of her.  But I
don't see why I should bring down upon myself the disagreeable
things she will say.  Besides, I have not time.  I must walk up and
see Jones about his duties; and then, what with getting ready, I
shall have enough to do to get off in time.'

He paid his visit to Mr Jones, the curate, feeling no qualms of
conscience there, as he rather boasted of all the members of
Parliament he was going to meet, and of the bishop who would be
with them.  Mr Evan Jones was only his curate, and in speaking to
him on the matter he could talk as though it were quite the proper
thing for a vicar to meet his bishop at the house of a county
member.  And one would be inclined to say it was proper: only why
could he not talk of it in the same tone to Lady Lufton? And then,
having kissed his wife and children, he drove off, well pleased
with his prospect for the coming ten days, but already anticipating
some discomfort on his return.

On the three following days, Mrs Robarts did not meet her
ladyship.  She did not exactly take any steps to avoid such a
meeting, but she did not purposely go up to the big house.  She
went to her school as usual, and made one or two calls among the
farmers' wives, but put no foot within the Framley Court grounds.
She was braver than her husband, but even she did not wish to
anticipate the evil day.  On the Saturday, just before it began to
get dusk, she was thinking of preparing for the fatal plunge, her
friend, Lady Meredith, came to her.

'So, Fanny, we shall again be so unfortunate to miss Mr Robarts,'
said her ladyship.

'Yes.  Did you ever know anything so unlucky? But he had promised
Mr Sowerby before he heard you were coming.  Pray do not think that
he would have gone away had he known it.'

'We should have been sorry to keep him from so much more amusing
party.'

'Now, Justinia, you are unfair.  You intend to imply that he has
gone to Chaldicotes, because he likes it better than Framley Court;
but that is not the case.  I hope Lady Lufton does not think that
it is.'

Lady Meredith laughed at she put her arm round her friend's waist.
'Don't lose your eloquence in defending him to me,' she said.
'You'll want all that for my mother.'

'But is your mother angry?' asked Mrs Robarts, showing by her
countenance how eager she was for true tidings on the subject.

'Well, Fanny, you know her ladyship as well as I do.  She thinks so
very highly of the vicar of Framley, that she does begrudge him to
those politicians at Chaldicotes.'

'But, Justinia, the bishop will be there, you know.'

'I don't think that that consideration will reconcile my mother to
the gentleman's absence.  He ought to be very proud, I know, to find
that he is so much thought of.  But come, Fanny, I want you to walk
back with me, and you can dress at the house.  And now we'll go and
look at the children.'

After that, as they walked together to Framley Court, Mrs Robarts
made her friend promise that she would stand by her if any serious
attack were made on the absent clergyman.

'Are you going up to your room to dress?' said the vicar's wife, as
soon as they were inside the porch leading into the hall.  Lady
Meredith immediately knew what her friend meant, and decided that
the evil day should not be postponed.  'We had better go in and
have it over,' she said, 'and then we shall be comfortable for the
evening.'

So the drawing-room door was opened, and there was Lady Lufton
alone on the sofa.

'Now, mamma,' said the daughter, 'you mustn't scold Fanny much
about Mr Robarts.  He has gone to preach a charity sermon before
the bishop, and under those circumstances, perhaps, he could not
refuse.' This was a stretch on the part of Lady Meredith--put in
with much good-nature, no doubt; but still a stretch; for no one
had supposed that the bishop would remain at Chaldicotes for the
Sunday.

'How do you do, Fanny?' said Lady Lufton, getting up.  'I am not
going to scold her; and I don't know how you can talk nonsense,
Justinia.  Of course we are very sorry not to have Mr Robarts; more
especially as he was not here the last Sunday that Sir George was
with us.  I do like to see Mr Robarts in his own church, certainly;
and I don't like any other clergyman there as well.  If Fanny takes
that for scolding, why--'

'Oh! no, Lady Lufton; and it's so kind of you to say so.  But Mr
Robarts was so sorry that he had accepted this invitation to
Chaldicotes, before he heard that Sir George was coming, and--'

'Oh, I know that Chaldicotes has great attractions which we cannot
offer,' said Lady Lufton.

'Indeed, it was not that.  But he was asked to preach, you, know;
and Mr Harold Smith--' Poor Fanny was only making it worse.  Had
she been worldly wise, she would have accepted the little
compliment implied in Lady Lufton's first rebuke, and then have
held her peace.

'Oh, yes! The Harold Smiths! They are irresistible, I know.  How
could any man refuse to join a party, graced both by Mrs Harold
Smith and Mrs Proudie--even though his duty should require him to
stay away?'

'Now, mamma--'

'Well, my dear, what am I to say? You would not wish me to tell a
fib.  I don't like Mrs Harold Smith--at least, what I know of her;
for it has not been my fortune to meet her since her marriage.  It
may be conceited; but to own the truth, I think that Mr Robarts
would be better off with us at Framley than with the Harold Smiths
at Chaldicotes--even though Mrs Proudie be thrown into the
bargain.'

It was nearly dark, and therefore the rising colour in the face of
Mrs Robarts could not be seen.  She, however, was too good a wife
to hear these things said without some anger within her bosom.  She
could blame her husband in her own mind; but it was intolerable to
her that others should blame him in her hearing.

'He would undoubtedly be better off,' she said; 'but then, Lady
Lufton, people can't always go exactly where they will be best
off.  Gentlemen sometimes think--'

'Well--well, my dear, that will do.  He has not taken you, at any
rate; and so we will forgive him.' And Lady Lufton kissed her.  'As
it is,' and she affected a low whisper between the two young wives
'as it is, we must e'en put up with poor Evan Jones.  He is to be
here to-night, and we must go and dress to receive him.'

And so they went off.  Lady Lufton was quite enough at heart to
like Mrs Robarts all the better for standing up for her absent
lord.



CHAPTER III

CHALDICOTES

Chaldicotes is a house of much more pretension than Framley Court.
Indeed, if one looks at the ancient marks about it, rather than at
those of the present day, it is a place of very considerable
pretension.  There is an old forest, not altogether belonging to
the property, but attached to it, called the Chase of Chaldicotes.
A portion of this forest comes up close behind the mansion, and of
itself gives a character and celebrity to the place.  The Chase of
Chaldicotes--the greater part of it, at least--is, as all the world
knows, Crown property, and now, in these utilitarian days, is to be
deforested.  In former times it was a great forest, stretching half
across the country, almost as far as Silverbridge; and there are
bits of it, here and there, still to be seen at intervals
throughout the whole distance; but the larger remaining portion,
consisting of aged hollow oaks, centuries old, and wide-spreading
withered beeches, stands in the two parishes of Chaldicotes and
Uffley.  People still come from afar to see the oaks of Chaldicotes
and to hear their feet rustle among the thick autumn leaves.  But
they will soon come no longer.  The giants of past ages are to give
way to wheat and turnips; a ruthless Chancellor of the Exchequer,
disregarding old associations and rural beauty, requires money
returns from the lands; and the Close of Chaldicotes is to vanish
from the earth's surface.

Some part of it, however, is the private property of Mr Sowerby,
who hitherto, through all his pecuniary distresses, has managed to
save from the axe and the auction-mart that portion of his paternal
heritage.  The house of Chaldicotes is a large stone building,
probably of the time of Charles the Second.  It is approached on
both fronts by a heavy double flight of stone steps.  In the front
of the house a long, solemn, straight avenue through a double row
of lime-trees, leads away to lodge-gates, which stand in the
centre of the village of Chaldicotes; but to the rear the windows
open upon four different vistas, which run down through the forest:
four open green rides, which all converge together at a large iron
gateway, the barrier which divides the private grounds from the
Chase.  The Sowerbys, for many generations, have been rangers of
the Chase of Chaldicotes, thus having almost as wide an authority
over the Crown forest as over their own.  But now all this is to
cease for the forest will be disforested.

It was nearly dark when Mark Robarts drove up through the avenue of
lime-trees to the hall-door; but it was easy to see that the house,
which was dead and silent as the grave through nine months of the
year, was now alive in all its parts.  There were lights in many of
the windows, and a noise of voices came from the stables and
servants were moving about, and dogs barked, and the dark gravel
before the front steps was cut up with many a coach-wheel.

'Oh, is that you, sir, Mr Robarts?' said a groom, taking the
parson's horse by the head, and touching his own hat.  'I hope I
see your reverence well?'

'Quite well, Bob, thank you.  All well at Chaldicotes?'

'Pretty bobbish, Mr Robarts.  Deal of life going on here now, sir.
The bishop and his lady came this morning.'

'Oh--ah--yes! I understand they were to be here.  Any of the young
ladies?'

'One young lady.  Miss Olivia, I think they call her, your
reverence.'

'And how's Mr Sowerby?'

'Very well, your reverence.  He, and Mr Harold Smith, and Mr
Fothergill--that's the duke's man of business, you know--is getting
off their horses now in the stable-yard there.'

'Home from hunting--eh, Bob?'

'Yes, sir, just home, this minute.' And then Mr Robarts walked
into the house, his portmanteau following on a foot-boy's
shoulder.

It will be seen that our young vicar was very intimate at
Chaldicotes; so much so that the groom knew him, and talked to him
about the people in the house.  Yes; he was intimate there; much
more than he had given the Framley people to understand.  Not that
he had wilfully and overtly deceived any one; not that he had ever
spoken a false word about Chaldicotes.  But he had never boasted at
home that he and Sowerby were near allies.  Neither had he told
them how often Mr Sowerby and Lord Lufton were together in London.
Why trouble women with such matters? Why annoy so excellent a
woman as Lady Lufton? And then Mr Sowerby was one whose intimacy
few young men would wish to reject.  He was fifty, and had lived,
perhaps, not the most salutary life; but he dressed young, and
usually looked well.  He was bald, with a good forehead, and
sparkling moist eyes.  He was a clever man, and a pleasant
companion, and always good-humoured when it so suited him.  He was
a gentleman, too, of high breeding and good birth, whose ancestors
had been known in that county--longer, the farmers around would
boast, than those of any other landowner in it, unless it be the Thornes
of Ullathorne, or perhaps the Greshams of Greshambury--much longer
than the De Courcys of De Courcy Castle.  As for the Duke of
Omnium, he, comparatively speaking, was a new man.  And then he was
a member of Parliament, a friend of some men in power, and of
others who might be there; a man who could talk about the world as
one knowing the matter of which he talked.  And moreover, whatever
might be his ways of life at other times, when in the presence of a
clergyman he rarely made himself offensive to clerical tastes.  He
neither swore, nor brought his vices on the carpet, nor sneered at
the faith of the Church.  If he was no Churchman himself, he at
least knew how to live with those who were.

How was it possible that such a one as our vicar should not relish
the intimacy of Mr Sowerby? It might be very well, he would say to
himself, for a woman like Lady Lufton to turn up her nose at
him--for Lady Lufton, who spent ten months of the year at Framley
Court, and who during those ten months, and for the matter of that,
during the two months also which she spent in London, saw no one
out of her own set.  Women did not understand such things, the
vicar said to himself; even his own wife--good, and nice, and
sensible, and intelligent as she was--even she did not understand
that a man in the world must meet all sorts of men; and that in
these days it did not do for a clergyman to be a hermit.  'Twas thus
that Mark Robarts argued when he found himself called upon to
defend himself before the bar of his own conscience for going to
Chaldicotes and increasing his intimacy with Mr Sowerby.  He did
know that Mr Sowerby was a dangerous man; he was aware that he was
over head and ears in debt; and that he had already entangled young
Lord Lufton in some pecuniary embarrassment; his conscience did
tell him that it would be well for him, as one of Christ's
soldiers, to look out for companions of a different stamp.  But,
nevertheless, he went to Chaldicotes, not satisfied with himself
indeed, but repeating to himself a great many arguments why he
should be so satisfied.

He was shown into the drawing-room at once, and there he found Mrs
Harold Smith, with Mrs and Miss Proudie, and a lady whom he had
never before seen, and whose name he did not at first hear
mentioned.

'Is that Mr Robarts?' said Mrs Harold Smith, getting up to greet
him, and screening her pretended ignorance under the veil of
darkness.  'And have you really driven over four-and-twenty miles
of Barsetshire roads on such a day as this to assist us in our
little difficulties? Well, we can promise you gratitude at any
rate.' And then the vicar shook hands with Mrs Proudie, in that
deferential manner which is due from a vicar to his bishop's wife;
and Mrs Proudie returned the greeting with all that smiling
condescension which a bishop's wife should show to a vicar.  Miss
Proudie was not quite so civil.  Had Mr Robarts been still
unmarried, she also would have smiled sweetly; but she had been
exercising her smiles on clergymen too long to waste them now on a
married parish parson.

'And what are the difficulties, Mrs Smith, in which I am to assist
you?'

'We have six or seven gentlemen here, Mr Robarts, and they always
go hunting before breakfast, and they never come back--I was going
to say--till after dinner.  I wish it were so, for then we should
not have to wait for them.'

'Excepting Mr Supplehouse, you know,' said the unknown lady, in a
loud voice.

'And he is generally shut up in the library, writing articles.'

'He'd be better employed if he were trying to break his neck like
the others,' said the unknown lady.

'Only he would never succeed,' says Mrs Harold Smith.  'But
perhaps, Mr Robarts, you are as bad as the rest; perhaps you too,
will be hunting to-morrow.'

'My dear Mrs Smith!' said Mrs Proudie, in a tone denoting slight
reproach, and modified horror.

'Oh! I forgot.  No, of course, you won't be hunting, Mr Robarts;
you'll only be wishing that you could.'

'Why can't he?' said the lady with a loud voice.

'My dear Miss Dunstable! A clergyman hunt, while he is staying in
the same house with the bishop? Think of the proprieties!'

'Oh--ah!  The bishop wouldn't like it--wouldn't he? Now, do tell
me, sir, what would the bishop do to you if you did hunt?'

'It would depend on his mood at the time, madam,' said Mr Robarts.
'If that were very stern, he might perhaps have me beheaded before
the palace gates.'

Mrs Proudie drew herself up in her chair, showing that she did not
like the tone of the conversation; and Miss Proudie fixed her eyes
vehemently on her book, showing that Miss Dunstable and her
conversation were both beneath her notice.

'If these gentlemen do not mean to break their necks to-night,'
said Mrs Harold Smith, 'I wish they'd let us know it.  It's
half-past six already.' And then Mr Robarts gave them to
understand that no such catastrophe would be looked for that day,
as Mr Sowerby and the other sportsmen were within the stable-yard
when he entered the door.

'Then, ladies, we may as well dress,' said Mrs Harold Smith.  But
as she moved towards the door, it opened, and a short gentleman,
with a slow, quiet step, entered the room; but was not yet to be
distinguished through the dusk by the eyes of Mr Robarts.  'Oh!
bishop, is that you?' said Mrs Smith.  'Here is one of the
luminaries of your diocese.' And then the bishop, feeling through
the dark, made his way up to the vicar and shook him cordially by
the hand.  He was delighted to meet Mr Robarts at Chaldicotes, he
said, quite delighted.  Was he not going to preach on behalf of the
Papuan Mission next Sunday? Ah! so he was, the bishop had heard.  It
was a good work, an excellent work!' And then Dr Proudie expressed
himself as much grieved that he should not remain at Chaldicotes,
and hear the sermon.  It was plain that the bishop thought no ill
of him on account of his intimacy with Mr Sowerby.  But then he
felt in his own heart that he did not much regard the bishop's
opinion.

'Ah, Robarts, I'm delighted to see you,' said Mr Sowerby, when they
met on the drawing-room rug before dinner.  'You know Harold
Smith? Yes, of course you do.  Well, who else is there? Oh!
Supplehouse.  Mr Supplehouse, allow me to introduce to you my
friend Mr Robarts.  It is he who will extract the five-pound note
out of your pocket next Sunday for these poor Papuans whom we are
going to Christianize.  That is, if Harold Smith does not finish the
work out of hand at his Sunday lecture.  And, Robarts, you have
seen the bishop, of course:' this he said in a whisper.  'A fine
thing to be a bishop, isn't it? I wish I had half your chance.
But, my dear fellow, I've made such a mistake.  I haven't got a
bachelor parson for Miss Proudie.  You must help me out, and take
her into dinner.' And then the great gong sounded, and off they
went in pairs.

At dinner Mark found himself seated between Miss Proudie and the
lady whom he had heard named as Miss Dunstable.  Of the former he was
not very fond, and, in spite of his host's petition, was not
inclined to play bachelor parson for her benefit.  With the other
lady he would willingly have chatted during the dinner, only that
everybody else at table seemed to be intent on doing the same
thing.  She was neither young, nor beautiful, nor peculiarly
ladylike; yet she seemed to enjoy a popularity which must have
excited the envy of Mr Supplehouse, and which certainly was not
altogether to the taste of Mrs Proudie--who, however, feted her as
much as did the others.  So that our clergyman found himself unable
to obtain more than an inconsiderable share of the lady's
attention.

'Bishop,' said she, speaking across the table, 'we have missed you
all day! we have had no one on earth to say a word to us.'

'My dear Miss Dunstable, had I known that--But I really was engaged
on business of some importance.'

'I don't believe in business of importance; do you, Mrs Smith?'

'Do I not?' said Mrs Smith.  'If you were married to Mr Harold
Smith for one week, you'd believe in it.'

'Should I, now? What a pity I can't have that chance of improving
my faith! But you are a man of business also, Mr Supplehouse; do
they tell me.' And she turned to her neighbour on her right hand.

'I cannot compare myself to Mr Harold Smith,' said he.  'But
perhaps I may equal the bishop.'

'What does a man do, now, when he sits himself down to business?
How does he set about it? What are his tools? A quire of blotting
paper, I suppose, to begin with?'

'That depends, I should say, on his trade.  A shoemaker begins by
waxing his thread.'

'And Mr Harold Smith--?'

'By counting up his yesterday's figures, generally, I should say;
or else by unrolling a ball of red tape.  Well-docketed papers and
statistical facts are his forte.'

'And what does a bishop do? Can you tell me that?'

'He sends forth to his clergy either blessings or blowings-up,
according to the state of his digestive organs.  But Mrs Proudie
can explain all that to you with the greatest accuracy.'

'Can she now? I understand what you mean, but I don't believe a
word of it.  The bishop manages his own affairs himself, quite as
much as you do, or Mr Harold Smith.'

'I, Miss Dunstable?'

'Yes, you.'

'But I, unluckily, have not a wife to manage them for me.'

'Then you should not laugh at those who have, for you don't know
what you may come to yourself, when you're married.'

Mr Supplehouse began to make a pretty speech, saying that he would
be delighted to incur any danger in that respect to which he might
be subjected by the companionship of Miss Dunstable.  But before he
was half through it, she had turned her back upon him, and began a
conversation with Mark Robarts.

'Have you much work in your parish, Mr Robarts?' she asked.  Now,
Mark was not aware that she knew his name or the fact of his having
a parish, and was rather surprised by the question.  And he had not
quite liked the tone in which she had seemed to speak of the bishop
and his work.  His desire for her further acquaintance was
therefore somewhat moderated, and he was not prepared to answer her
question with much zeal.

'All parish clergymen have plenty of work, if they choose to do
it.'

'Ah, that is it; is it not, Mr Robarts? If they choose to do it? A
great many do--many that I know, do; and see what a result they
have.  But many neglect it--and see what a result they have.  I
think it ought to be the happiest life that a man can lead, that of
a parish clergyman, with a wife and family and a sufficient
income.'

'I think it is,' said Mark Robarts, asking himself whether the
contentment accruing to him from such blessings had made him
satisfied on all points.  He had all these things of which Miss
Dunstable spoke, and yet he had told his wife, the other day, that
he could not afford to neglect the acquaintance of a rising
politician like Harold Smith.

'What I find fault with is this,' continued Miss Dunstable, 'that
we expect clergymen to do their duty, and don't give them a sufficient
income--give them hardly any income at all.  Is it not a scandal
that an educated gentleman with a family should be made to work
half his life, and perhaps the whole, for a pittance of seventy
pounds a year!' Mark said that it was a scandal, and thought of Mr
Evan Jones and his daughter; and thought also of his own worth, and
his own house, and his own nine hundred a year.

'And yet clergymen are so proud--aristocratic would be a genteel
word, I know--that you won't take the money of common, ordinary
people.  You must be paid from land and endowments, from tithe and
church property.  You can't bring yourself to work for what you
earn, as lawyers and doctors do.  It is better that curates should
starve than undergo such ignominy as that.'

'It is a long subject, Miss Dunstable.'

'A very long one; and that means that I am not to talk any more
about it.'

'I did not mean that exactly.'

'Oh, but you did, though Mr Robarts.  And I can take a hint of that
kind when I get it.  You clergymen like to keep those long subjects
for your sermons, when no one can answer you.  Now if I have a
longing heart's desire for anything at all in this world, it is to
be able to get up into a pulpit, and preach a sermon.'

'You can't conceive how soon that appetite would pall upon you,
after its first indulgence.'

'That would depend upon whether I could get people to listen to
me.  It does not pall upon Mr Spurgeon, I suppose.' Then her
attention was called away by some question from Mr Sowerby, and
Mark Robarts found himself bound to address his conversation to
Miss Proudie.  Miss Proudie, however, was not thankful, and gave
him little but monosyllables for his pains.

'Of course you know Harold Smith is going to give us a lecture
about these islanders.' Mr Sowerby said to him, as they sat round
the fire over their wine after dinner.  Mark said that he had been
so informed, and should be delighted to be one of the listeners.

'You are bound to do that, as he is going to listen to you the day
afterwards--or, at any rate, to pretend to do so, which is as much
as you will do for him.  It'll be a terrible bore--the lecture, I
mean, not the sermon.' And he spoke very low in his friend's ear.
'Fancy having to drive ten miles after dusk, and ten miles back, to
hear Harold Smith talk for two hours about Borneo! One must do it,
you know.'

'I dare say it will be very interesting.'

'My dear fellow, you haven't undergone so many of these things as I
have.  But he's right to do it.  It's his line of life; and when a
man begins a thing he ought to go on with it.  Where's Lufton this
time?'

'In Scotland, when I last heard from him; but he's probably at
Melton now.'

'It's deuced shabby of him, not hunting here in his own county.  He
escapes all the bore of going to lectures, and giving feeds to the
neighbours; that's why he treats us so.  He has no idea of his
duty, has he?'

'Lady Lufton does all that, you know.'

'I wish I'd a Mrs Sowerby here to do it for me.  But then Lufton
has no constituents to look after--lucky dog! By the by, has he
spoken to you about selling that outlying bit of land of his in
Oxfordshire? It belongs to the Lufton property, and yet it
doesn't.  In my mind it gives more trouble than it's worth.' Lord
Lufton had spoken to Mark about this sale and had explained to him
that such a sacrifice was absolutely necessary, in consequence of
certain pecuniary transactions between him, Lord Lufton and Mr
Sowerby.  But it was found impracticable to complete the business
without Lady Lufton's knowledge, and her son had commissioned Mr
Robarts not only to inform her ladyship, but to talk her over and
to appease her wrath.  This commission he had not yet attempted to
exercise, and it was probable that this visit to Chaldicotes would
not do much to facilitate the business.

'They are the most magnificent islands under the sun,' said Harold
Smith to the bishop.

'Are they, indeed!' said the bishop, opening his eyes wide, and
assuming a look of intense interest.

'And the most intelligent people.'

'Dear me!' said the bishop.

'All they want is guidance, encouragement, instruction--'

'And Christianity,' suggested the bishop.

'And Christianity, of course,' said Mr Smith, remembering that he
was speaking to a dignitary of the Church.  It was well to humour
such people, Mr Smith thought.  But the Christianity was to be done
in the Sunday sermon, and was not part of his work.

'And how do you intend to begin with them?' asked Mr Supplehouse,
the business of whose life it had been to suggest difficulties.

'Begin with them--oh--why it's very easy to begin with them.  The
difficulty is to go on with them, after the money is all spent.
We'll begin by explaining to them the benefits of civilization.'

'Capital plan!' said Mr Supplehouse.  'But how do you set about it,
Smith?'

'How do we set about it? How did we set about it with Australia
and America? It is very easy to criticize; but in such matters the
great thing is to put one's shoulder to the wheel.'

'We sent our felons to Australia,' said Supplehouse, 'and they
began to work for us.  And as to America, we exterminated the
people instead of civilizing them.'

'We did not exterminate the inhabitants of India,' said Harold
Smith, angrily.

'Nor have we attempted to Christianize them, as the bishop so
properly wishes to do with your islanders.'

'Supplehouse, you are not fair,' said Mr Sowerby, 'neither to
Harold Smith nor to us--you are making him rehearse his lecture,
which is bad for him; and making us hear the rehearsal, which is
bad for us.'

'Supplehouse belongs to a clique which monopolises the wisdom of
England,' said Harold Smith, 'or, at any rate, thinks that it
does.  But the worst of them is that they are given to talk leading
articles.'

'Better that, than talk articles which are not leading,' said Mr
Supplehouse.  'Some first-class official men do that.'

'Shall I meet you at the duke's next week, Mr Robarts?' said the
bishop to him, soon after they had gone into the drawing-room.
Meet him at the duke's!---the established enemy of Barsetshire
mankind, as Lady Lufton regarded his grace! No idea of going to
the duke's had ever entered our hero's mind; nor had he been aware
that the duke was about to entertain anyone.

'No, my lord, I think not.  Indeed, I have no acquaintance with his
grace.'

'Oh--ah! I did not know.  Because Mr Sowerby is going; and so are
the Harold Smiths, and I think, Mr Supplehouse.  An excellent man
is the duke;--that is, as regards the county interests,' added the
bishop, remembering that the moral character of his bachelor grace
was not the very best in the world.  And then his lordship began to
ask some questions about the church affairs of Framley, in which a
little interest as to Framley Court was also mixed up, when he was
interrupted by a rather sharp voice, to which he instantly
attended.

'Bishop,' said the rather sharp voice; and the bishop trotted
across the room to the back of the sofa, on which his wife was
sitting.  'Miss Dunstable thinks that she will be able to come to
us for a couple of days, after we leave the duke's.'

'I shall be delighted above all things,' said the bishop, bowing
low to the dominant lady of the day.  For be it known to all men,
that Miss Dunstable was the great heiress of that name.

'Mrs Proudie is so very kind as to say that she will take me in,
with my poodle, parrot, and pet old woman.'

'I tell Miss Dunstable that we shall have quite room for any of her
suite,' said Mrs Proudie.  'And that it will give us no trouble.'

'"The labour we delight in physics pain"' said the gallant bishop,
bowing low, putting his hand upon his heart.  In the meantime Mr
Fothergill had got hold of Mark Robarts.  Mr Fothergill was a
gentleman and a magistrate of the county, but he occupied the
position of managing man on the Duke of Omnium's estate.  He was
not exactly his agent; that is to say, he did not receive his
rents; but he 'managed' for him, saw people, went about the county,
wrote letters, supported the electioneering interest, did
popularity when it was too much trouble for the duke to do it
himself, and was, in fact, invaluable.  People in West Barsetshire
would often say that they did not know what on earth the duke would
do, if it were not for Mr Fothergill.  Indeed, Mr Fothergill was
useful to the duke.

'Mr Robarts,' he said, 'I am very happy to have the pleasure of
meeting you--very happy indeed.  I have often heard of you from our
friend Sowerby.' Mark bowed, and said that he was delighted to
have the honour of making Mr Fothergill's acquaintance.  'I am
commissioned by the Duke of Omnium,' continued Mr Fothergill, 'to
say how glad he will be if you will join his grace's party at
Gatherum Castle next week.  The bishop will be there, and indeed
nearly all the whole set who are here now.  The duke would have
written when he heard that you were to be at Chaldicotes; but
things were hardly quite arranged then, so his grace has left it
for me to tell you how happy he will be to make your acquaintance
in his own house.  I have spoken to Sowerby,' continued Mr
Fothergill, 'and he very much hopes that you will be able to join
us.'

Mark felt that his face became red when this proposition was made
to him.  The party in the county to which he properly belonged--he
and his wife, and all that made him happy and respectable--looked
upon the Duke of Omnium with horror and amazement; and now he had
absolutely received an invitation to the duke's house! A
proposition was made to him that he should be numbered among the
duke's friends!

And though in one sense he was sorry that the proposition was made
to him, yet in another he was proud of it.  It is not every young
man, let his profession be what it may, who can receive overtures of
friendship from dukes without some elation.  Mark, too, had risen
in the world, as far as he had yet risen, by knowing great people;
and he certainly had an ambition to rise higher; but he undoubtedly
had a feeling that the paths most pleasant for a clergyman's feet
were those which were trodden by the great ones of the earth.
Nevertheless, at the moment he declined the duke's invitation.  He
was very much flattered, he said, but the duties of the parish
would require him to return from Chaldicotes to Framley.

'You need not give an answer to-night, you know,' said Mr
Fothergill.  'Before the week is past, we will talk it over with
Sowerby and the bishop.  It will be a thousand pities, Mr Robarts,
if you will allow me to say so, that you should neglect such an
opportunity of knowing his grace.'

When Mark went to bed, his mind was still set against going to the
duke's; but, nevertheless, he did feel that it was a pity that he
should not do so.  After all, was it necessary that he should obey
Lady Lufton in all things?



CHAPTER IV

A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE


It is no doubt very wrong to long after a naughty thing.  But
nevertheless we all do so.  One may say that hankering after
naughty things is the very essence of the evil into which we have
been precipitated by Adam's fall.  When we confess that we are all
sinners, we confess that we all long after naughty things.  And
ambition is a great vice--as Mark Antony told us a long time ago--a
reference to his own advancement, and not to the advancement of
others.  But then, how many of us are there who are not ambitious
in this vicious manner? And there is nothing viler than the desire
to know great people--people of great rank, I should say; nothing
worse than the hunting of titles and worshipping of wealth.  We all
know this, and say it every day of our lives.  But presuming that a
way into the society of Park Lane was open to us, and a way also
into that of Bedford Row, how many of us are there who would prefer
Bedford Row, because it is so vile to worship wealth and title?

I am led into these rather trite remarks by the necessity of
putting forward some sort of excuse for that frame of mind in which
the Rev Mark Robarts awoke on the morning after his arrival at
Chaldicotes.  And I trust that the fact of his being a clergyman
will not be allowed to press against him unfairly.  Clergymen are
subject to the same passions as other men; and, as far as I can
see, give way to them, in one line or another, almost as
frequently.  Every clergyman should, by canonical rule, feel a
personal disinclination to a bishopric; but yet we do not believe
that such personal disinclination is generally very strong.  Mark's
first thoughts when he woke on that morning flew back to Mr
Fothergill's invitation.  The duke had sent a special message to
say how peculiarly glad he, the duke, would be to make acquaintance
with him, the parson! How much of this message had been of Mr
Fothergill's own manufacture, that Mark Robarts did not consider.
He had obtained a living at an age when other young clergymen are
beginning to think of a curacy, and he had obtained such a living
as middle-aged parsons in their dreams regard as a possible
Paradise for their old years.  Of course he thought that all these
good things had been the results of his own peculiar merits.  Of
course he felt that he was different from other parsons--more
fitted by nature for intimacy with great persons, more urbane, more
polished, and more richly endowed with modern clerical well-to-do
aptitudes.  He was grateful to Lady Lufton for what she had done
for him; but perhaps not so grateful as he should have been.

At any rate he was not Lady Lufton's servant, nor even her
dependant.  So much he had repeated to himself on many occasions,
and had gone so far as to hint the same idea to his wife.  In his
career as parish priest he must in most things be the judge of his
own actions--and in many also it was his duty to be the judge of
those of his patroness.  The fact of Lady Lufton having placed him
in the living, could by no means make her the proper judge of his
actions.  This he often said to himself; and he said as often that
Lady Lufton certainly had a hankering after such a judgement-seat.

Of whom generally did prime ministers and official bigwigs think it
expedient to make bishops and deans? Was it not, as a rule, of
those clergymen who had shown themselves able to perform their
clerical duties efficiently, and able also to take their place with
ease in society? He was very well off certainly at Framley; but he
could never hope for anything beyond Framley, if he allowed himself
to regard Lady Lufton as a bugbear.  Putting Lady Lufton and her
prejudices out of the question, was there any reason why he ought
not to accept the duke's invitation? He could not see that there
was any such reason.  If any one could be a better judge on such a
subject than himself, it must be his bishop.  And it was clear that
the bishop wished him to go to Gatherum Castle.

The matter was still left open to him.  Mr Fothergill had
especially explained that; and therefore his ultimate decision was
as yet within his own power.  Such a visit would cost him some
money, for he knew that a man does not stay at great houses without
expense; and then, in spite of his good income, he was not very
flush of money.  He had been down this year with Lord Lufton in
Scotland.  Perhaps it might be more prudent for him to return
home.  But then an idea came to him that it behoved him as priest
to break through that Framley thralldom under which he felt that he
did to a certain extent exist.  Was it not the fact that he was
about to decline this invitation from fear of Lady Lufton? and if
so, was that a motive by which he ought to be actuated? It was
incumbent on him to rid himself of that feeling.  And in this
spirit he got up and dressed.

There was hunting again on that day; and as the hounds were to meet
near Chaldicotes, and to draw some converts lying on the verge of
the chase, the ladies were to go in carriages through the drives of
the forest, and Mr Robarts was to escort them on horseback.  Indeed
it was one of those hunting days got up rather for the ladies than
for the sport.  Great nuisances they are to steady, middle-aged
hunting men; but the young fellows like them because they have
thereby an opportunity of showing all their sporting finery, and of
doing a little flirtation on horseback.  The bishop, also, had been
minded to be of the party; so, at least, he had said on the
previous evening; and a place in one of the carriages had been set
apart for him; but since that, he and Mrs Proudie had discussed the
matter in private, and at breakfast his lordship declared that he
had changed his mind.

Mr Sowerby was one of those men who are known to be very poor--as
poor as debt can make a man--but who, nevertheless, enjoy all the
luxuries which money can give.  It was believed that he could not
live in England out of jail but for his protection as a member of
Parliament; and yet it seemed that there was no end to his horses
and carriages, his servants and retinue.  He had been at this work
for a great many years, and practice, they say, makes perfect.  Such
companions are very dangerous.  There is no cholera, no
yellow-fever, no small-pox, more contagious than debt.  If one
lives habitually among embarrassed men, one catches it to a
certainty.  No one had injured the community in this way more
fatally than Mr Sowerby.  But still he carried on the game himself;
and now, on this morning, carriages and horses thronged at his
gate, as though he were as substantially rich as his friend the
Duke of Omnium.

'Robarts, my dear fellow,' said Mr Sowerby, when they were well
under way down one of the glades of the forest,--for the place
where the hounds met was some four or five miles from the house of
Chaldicotes,--'ride on with me a moment.  I want to speak to you.
And if I stay behind we shall never get to the hounds.' So Mark,
who had come expressly to escort the ladies, rode on alongside Mr
Sowerby in his pink coat.

'My dear fellow, Fothergill tells me that you have some hesitation
about going to Gatherum Castle.'

'Well, I did decline, certainly.  You know I am not a man of
pleasure as you are.  I have some duties to attend to.'

'Gammon!' said Mr Sowerby; and as he said it, he looked with a kind
of derisive smile into the clergyman's face.

'It is easy enough to say that, Sowerby; and perhaps I have no
right to expect that you should understand me.'

'Ah, but I do understand you; and I say that it is gammon.  I would
be the last man in the world to ridicule your scruples about duty,
if this hesitation on your part arose from any such scruple.  But
answer me honestly, do you not know that such is not the case?'

'I know nothing of the kind.'

'Ah, but I think you do.  If you persist in refusing this
invitation will it not be because you are afraid of making Lady
Lufton angry? I do not know what there can be in that woman that
she is able to hold both you and Lufton in leading-strings.'
Robarts, of course denied the charge, and protested that he was not
to be taken back to his parsonage by any fear of Lady Lufton.  But
though he made such protest with warmth, he knew that he did so
ineffectually.  Sowerby only smiled, and said that the proof of the
pudding was in the eating.

'What is the good of a man keeping a curate if it be not to save
him from that sort of drudgery?' he asked.

'Drudgery! If I were a drudge how could I be here to-day?'

'Well, Robarts, look here.  I am speaking now, perhaps, with more of
the energy of an old friend than circumstances fully warrant; but I
am an older man than you, and as I have a regard for you I do not
like to see you throw up a good game when it is in your hands.'

'Oh, as far as that goes, Sowerby, I need hardly tell you that I
appreciate your kindness.'

'If you are constant,' continued the man of the world, 'to live at
Framley all your life, and to warm yourself in the sunshine of the
dowager there, why, in such case, it may perhaps be useless for you
to extend the circle of your friends; but if you have higher ideas
than those, you will be very wrong to omit the present opportunity
of going to the duke's.  I never knew the duke go so much out of
his way to be civil to a clergyman as he has done in this
instance.'

'I am sure I am very much obliged to him.'

'The fact is, that you may, if you please, make yourself popular in
the county; but you cannot do it by obeying Lady Lufton's behest.
She is a dear old woman, I am sure.'

'She is, Sowerby; and you would say so, if you knew her.'

'I don't doubt it; but it would not do for you or me to live
exactly according to her ideas.  Now, here, in this case, the
bishop of the diocese is to be one of the party, and he has, I
believe, expressed a wish that you should be another.'

'He asked me if I were going.'

'Exactly; and Archdeacon Grantly will also be there.'

'Will he?' asked Mark.  Now, that would be a great point gained,
for Archdeacon Grantly was a close friend of Lady Lufton.

'So I understand from Fothergill.  Indeed, it will be very wrong of
you not to go, and I tell you plainly; and what is more, when you
talk about your duty--you having a curate as you do have--why, it
is gammon.' These last words he spoke looking back over his
shoulder as he stood up in his stirrups, for he had caught the eye
of the huntsman, who was surrounded by his hounds, and was now
trotting on to join him.  During a great portion of the day, Mark
found himself riding by the side of Mrs Proudie, as that lady
leaned back in her carriage.  And Mrs Proudie smiled on him
graciously, though her daughter would not do so.  Mrs Proudie was
fond of having an attendant clergyman; and as it was evident that
Mr Robarts lived among nice people--titled dowagers, members of
Parliament, and people of that sort--she was quite willing to
install him as a sort of honorary chaplain pro tem.

'I'll tell you what we have settled, Mrs Harold Smith and I,' said
Mrs Proudie to him.  'This lecture at Barchester will be so late on
Saturday evening, that you had all better come and dine with us.'
Mark bowed and thanked her, and declared that he should be very
happy to make one of such a party.  Even Lady Lufton could not
object to this, although she was not especially fond of Mrs
Proudie.

'And then they are to sleep at the hotel.  It will really be too
late for ladies to think of going back so far at this time of the
year.  I told Mrs Harold Smith, and Miss Dunstable, too, that we
could manage to make room at any rate for them.  But they will not
leave the other ladies; so they go to the hotel for the
night.  But, Mr Robarts, the bishop will never allow you to stay at
the inn, so of course you will take a bed at the palace.'

It immediately occurred to Mark that as the lecture was to be given
on Saturday evening, the next morning would be Sunday; and, on that
Sunday, he would have to preach at Chaldicotes.  'I thought they
were all going to return the same night,' said he.

'Well, they did intend it; but you see Mrs Smith is afraid.'

'I should have to be back here on the Sunday morning, Mrs Proudie.'

'Ah, yes, that is bad--very bad indeed.  No one dislikes any
interference with the Sabbath any more than I do.  Indeed, if I am
particular about anything it is about that.  But some works are
works of necessity, Mr Robarts; are they not? Now you must
necessarily be back at Chaldicotes on Sunday morning!' And so the
matter was settled.  Mrs Proudie was very firm in general in the
matter of Sabbath-day observances; but when she had to deal with
such persons as Mrs Harold Smith, it was expedient that she should
give way a little.  'You can start at noon as it's daylight, you
know, if you like it, Mr Robarts,' she said.

There was not much to boast of as to the hunting, but it was a very
pleasant day for the ladies.  The men rode up and down the grass
roads through the chase, sometimes in the greatest possible hurry
as though they never could go quick enough; and then the coachmen
would drive very fast also, though they did not know why, for a
fast pace of movement is another of those contagious diseases.  And
then again the sportsmen would move at an undertaker's pace, when
the fox had traversed and the hounds would be at a loss to know
which was the hunt and which was the heel; and then the carriages
would go slowly, and the ladies would stand up and talk.  And then
the time for lunch came; and altogether the day went pleasantly
enough.

'And so that's hunting, is it?' said Miss Dunstable.

'Yes, that's hunting,' said Mr Sowerby.

'I did not see any gentlemen do anything that I could not do
myself, except there was one young man slipped off into the mud;
and I shouldn't like that.'

'But there was no breaking of bones, was there, my dear?' said Mrs
Harold Smith.

'And nobody caught any foxes,' said Miss Dunstable.  'The fact is,
Mrs Smith, that I don't think much more of their sport than I do of
their business.  I shall take to hunting a pack of hounds myself
after this.'

'Do, my dear, and I'll be your whipper-in.  I wonder whether Mrs
Proudie would join us.'

'I shall be writing to the duke to-night,' said Mr Fothergill to
Mark, as they were all riding up to the stable-yard together.  'You
will let me tell his grace that you will accept his invitation
--will you not?'

'Upon my word, the duke is very kind,' said Mark.

'He is very anxious to know you, I can assure you,' said
Fothergill.  What could a young flattered fool of a parson do, but
say that he would go? Mark did say that he would go; and in the
course of the evening his friend Mr Sowerby congratulated him, and
the bishop joked with him and said that he knew that he would not
give up good company so soon; and Miss Dunstable said she would
make him her chaplain as soon as Parliament would allow quack
doctors to have such articles--an allusion which Mark did not
understand, till he learned that Miss Dunstable was herself the
proprietress of the celebrated Oil of Lebanon, invented by her late
respected father, and patented by him with such wonderful results
in the way of accumulated fortune; and Mrs Proudie made him quite
one of their party, talking to him about all manner of Church
subjects; and then at last, even Miss Proudie smiled on him, when
she learned that he had been thought worthy of a bed at the duke's
castle.  And all the world seemed to be open to him.

But he could not make himself happy that evening.  On the next
morning he must write to his wife; and he could already see the
look of painful sorrow which would fall upon Fanny's brow when she
learned that her husband was going to be a guest at the Duke of
Omnium's.  And he must tell her to send him money, and money was
scarce.  And then, as to Lady Lufton, should he send her some
message, or should he not? In either case he must declare war
against her.  And then did he not owe everything to Lady Lufton?
And thus in spite of all his triumphs he could not get himself to
bed in a happy frame of mind.

On the next day, which was Friday, he postponed the disagreeable
task of writing.  Saturday would do well; and on Saturday morning,
before they all started for Barchester, he did write.  And his
letter ran as follows:-

'Chaldicotes, November, 185-
'DEAREST LOVE,

  'You will be astonished when I tell you how gay we all
are here, and what further dissipations are in store for
me.  The Arabins, as you supposed, are not of our party;
but the Proudies are--as you supposed also.  Your
suppositions are always right.  And what will you think
when I tell you that I am to sleep at the palace on
Saturday? You know that there is to be a lecture in
Barchester on that day.  Well; we must all go, of course,
as Harold Smith, one of our set here, is to give it.  And
now it turns out that we cannot get back to the house the
same night because there is no moon; and Mrs Bishop would
not allow that my cloth should be contaminated by an
hotel;--very kind and conscientious, is it not?

'But I have a more astounding piece of news for you than
this.  There is to be a very great party at Gatherum
Castle next week, and they have talked me over into
accepting an invitation which the duke sent expressly to
me.  I refused at first; but everybody here said that my
doing so would be so strange; and then they all wanted to
know my reason.  When I came to render it, I did not know
what reason I had to give.  The bishop is going, and he
thought it very odd that I should not go also, seeing
that I was asked.  I know that my own darling will think,
and I know that she will not be pleased, and I must put
off my defence till I return to her from this
ogre-land--if ever I get back alive.  But joking apart,
Fanny, I think that I should have been wrong to stand
out, when so much was said about it.  I should have been
seeming to take upon myself to sit in judgement upon the
duke.  I doubt if there be a single clergyman in the
diocese, under fifty years of age, who would have refused
the invitation under such circumstances--unless it be
Crawley, who is so mad on the subject that he thinks it
almost wrong to take a walk out of his own parish.  I
must stay at Gatherum Castle over Sunday week--indeed,
we only go there on Friday.  I have written to Jones
about his duties.  I can make it up to him, as I know he
wishes to go to Wales at Christmas.  My wanderings will
all be over then, and he may go for a couple of months if
he pleases.  I suppose you will take my classes in the
school on Sunday, as well as your own; but pray make them
have a good fire.  If this be too much for you, make Mrs
Podgens take the boys.  Indeed I think that will be
better.

'Of course you will tell her ladyship of my whereabouts.
Tell her from me, that as regards the bishop, as well as
regarding another great personage, the colour has been
laid on perhaps a little too thickly.  Not that Lady
Lufton would ever like him.  Make her understand that my
going to the duke's house has almost become a matter of
conscience with me.  I have not known how to make it
appear that it would be right for me to refuse, without
absolutely making a party matter of it.  I saw that it
would be said, that I, coming from Lady Lufton's parish,
could not go to the Duke of Omnium's.  This I did not
choose.

'I find that I shall want a little money before I leave
here, five or ten pounds--say ten pounds.  If you cannot
spare it, get it from Davis.  He owes me more than that,
a good deal.  And now, God bless and preserve you, my
love.  Kiss my darling bairns for papa, and give them my
blessing.
'Always and ever your own,
'M.R.'

And then there was written, on an outside scrap, which was folded
round the full-written sheet of paper.  'Make it as smooth at
Framley Court as possible.' However strong, and reasonable, and
unanswerable the body of Mark's letter may have been, all his
hesitation, weakness, doubt, and fear, were expressed in that short
postscript.



CHAPTER V

AMANTIUM IRAE AMORIS INTERGRATIO


And now, with my reader's consent, I will follow the postman with
that letter to Framley; not by its own circuitous route indeed, or
by the same mode of conveyance; for that letter went into
Barchester by the Courcy night mail-cart, which, on its road,
passed through the villages of Uffey and Chaldicotes, reaching
Barchester in time for the up-mail from London.  By that train, the
letter was sent towards the metropolis as far as the junction of
the Barset branch line, but there it was turned in its course, and
came down again by the main line as far as Silverbridge; at which
place, between six and seven in the morning, it was shouldered by
the Framley footpost messenger, and in due course delivered at the
Framley Parsonage exactly as Mrs Robarts had finished reading
prayers to the four servants.  Or, I should say rather, that such
would in its usual course have been that letter's destiny.  As it
was, however, it reached Silverbridge on Sunday, and lay there till
the Monday, as the Framley people have declined their Sunday post.
And then again, when the letter was delivered at the parsonage, on
that wet Monday morning, Mrs Robarts was not at home.  As we are
all aware, she was staying with her ladyship at Framley Court.

'Oh, but it's mortial wet,' said the shivering postman as he handed
in that and the vicar's newspaper.  The vicar was a man of the
world and took The Jupiter.

'Come in, Robin postman, and warm theeself awhile,' said Jemima the
cook, pushing a stool a little to one side, but still well in front
of the big kitchen fire.

'Well, I dudna jist know how it'll be.  The wery 'edges 'as eyes
and tells on me in Silverbridge, if I so much as steps to pick up a
blackberry.'

'There hain't no hedges her, mon, nor yet no blackberries; so sit
thee down and warm theeself.  That's better nor blackberries, I'm
thinking,' and she handed him a bowl of tea with a slice of buttered
toast.  Robin postman took the proffered tea, put his dripping hat
on the ground, and thanked Jemima cook.  'But I dudna jist know how
it'll be;' said he, 'only it do pour so tarmation heavy.' Which
among us, O my readers, could have withstood that temptation?

Such was the circuitous course of Mark's letter; but as it left
Chaldicotes on Saturday evening and reached Mrs Robarts on the
following morning, or would have done but for the intervening
Sunday, doing all peregrinations during the night, it may be held
that its course of transport was not inconveniently arranged.  We,
however, will travel by a much shorter route.  Robin, in the course
of his daily travels, passed, first the post-office at Framley,
then Framley Court back entrance, and then the vicar's house, so
that on this wet morning Jemima cook was not able to make use of
his services in transporting the letter back to her mistress; for
Robin had got another village before him, expectant of his letters.

'Why didn't thee leave it, mon, with Mr Applejohn at the Court?' Mr
Applejohn was the butler who took the letter-bag.  'Thee know'st as
how missus was there.' And then Robin, mindful of the tea and
toast, explained to her courteously how the law made it imperative
on him to bring the letter to the very house that was indicated,
let the owner of the letter be where she might; and he laid down
the law very satisfactorily with sundry long-worded quotations.  Not
to much effect, however, for the housemaid called him an oaf; and
Robin would decidedly have had the worst of it had not the gardener
come in and taken his part.  'They woman knows nothin', and
understands nothin',' said the gardener.  'Give us hold of the
letter.  I'll take it up to the house.  It's the master's fist.'
And then Robin postman went on one way, and the gardener, he went
the other.  The gardener never disliked an excuse for going to the
Court gardens, even on so wet a day as this.

Mrs Robarts was sitting over the drawing-room fire with Lady
Meredith, when her husband's letter was brought to her.  The
Framley Court letter-bag had been discussed at breakfast; but that
was now nearly an hour since, and Lady Lufton, as was her wont, was
away in her own room, writing her own letters, and looking after
her own matters: for Lady Lufton was a person who dealt in figures
herself, and understood business almost as well as Harold Smith.
And on that morning she also had received a letter which had
displeased her not a little.  Whence arose the displeasure neither
Mrs Robarts nor Lady Meredith knew; but her ladyship's brow had
grown black at breakfast time; she had bundled up an
ominous-looking epistle in her bag, without speaking of it, and had
left the room immediately that breakfast was over.

'There's something wrong,' said Sir George.

'Mamma does fret herself so much about Ludovic's money matters,'
said Lady Meredith.  Ludovic was Lord Lufton--Ludovic Lufton,
Baron Lufton of Lufton, in the county of Oxfordshire.

'And yet I don't think Lufton gets much astray,' said Sir George,
as he sauntered out of the room.  'Well, Justy; we'll put off going
then till to-morrow; but remember, it must be the first train.'
Lady Meredith said she would remember, and then they went into the
drawing-room, and there Mrs Robarts received her letter.  Fanny,
when she read it, hardly at first realised to herself the idea that
her husband, the clergyman of Framley, the family clerical friend
of Lady Lufton's establishment, was going to stay with the Duke of
Omnium.  It was so thoroughly understood at Framley Court that the
duke and all belonging to him, was noxious and damnable.  He was a
Whig, he was a bachelor, he was a gambler, he was immoral in every
way, he was a man of no Church principle, a corrupter of youth, a
sworn foe of young wives, a swallower up of small men's
patrimonies; a man whom mothers feared for their sons, and sisters
for their brothers; and worse again, whom fathers had cause to fear
for their daughters, and brothers for their sisters;--a man who,
with his belongings, dwelt, and must dwell, poles asunder from Lady
Lufton and her belongings! And it must be remembered that all
these evil things were fully believed by Mrs Robarts.  Could it
really be that her husband was going to dwell in the halls of
Apollyon, to shelter himself beneath the wings of this very
Lucifer? A cloud of sorrow settled upon her face, and then she
read the letter again very slowly, not omitting the tell-tale
postscript.

'Oh, Justinia!' at last she said.

'What, have you got bad news, too?'

'I hardly know how to tell you what has occurred.  There; I suppose
you had better read it;' and she handed her husband's epistle to
Lady Meredith--keeping back, however, the postscript.

'What on earth will her ladyship do now?' said Lady Meredith, as
she folded the paper, and replaced it in the envelope.

'What had I better do, Justinia? how had I better tell her?' And
then the two ladies put their heads together, bethinking themselves
how they might best deprecate the wrath of Lady Lufton.  It had been
arranged that Mrs Robarts should go back to the parsonage after
lunch, and she had persisted in her intention after it had been
settled that the Merediths were to stay over that evening.  Lady
Meredith now advised her friend to carry out this determination
without saying anything about her husband's iniquities, and then to
send the letter up to Lady Lufton as soon as she reached the
parsonage.  'Mamma will never know that you received it here,' said
Lady Meredith.  But Mrs Robarts would not consent to this.  Such a
course seemed to her to be cowardly.  She knew that her husband was
doing wrong; she felt that he knew it himself; but still it was
necessary that she should defend him.  However terrible might be
the storm, it must break upon her own head.  So she at once went
and tapped at Lady Lufton's private door; and as she did so Lady
Meredith followed her.

'Come in,' said Lady Lufton, and the voice did not sound soft and
pleasant.  When they entered, they found her sitting at her little
writing-table, with her head resting on her arm, and that letter
which she had received that morning was lying open on the table
before her.  Indeed there were two letters now there, one from a
London lawyer to herself, and the other from her son to that London
lawyer.  It needs only to be explained that the subject of those
letters was the immediate sale of that outlying portion of the
Lufton property in Oxfordshire, as to which Mr Sowerby once spoke.
Lord Lufton had told the lawyer that the thing must be done at
once, adding that his friend Robarts would have explained the whole
affair to his mother.  And then the lawyer had written to Lady
Lufton, as was indeed necessary; but unfortunately Lady Lufton had
not hitherto heard a word of the matter.  In her eyes the sale of
family property was horrible; the fact that a young man with some
fifteen or twenty thousand a year should require subsidiary money
was horrible; that her own son should have not written to her
himself was horrible; and it was also horrible that her own pet,
the clergyman whom she had brought there to be her son's friend,
should be mixed up in the matter; should be cognizant of it while
she was not cognizant; should be employed in it as a go-between and
agent in her son's bad courses.  It was all horrible, and Lady
Lufton was sitting there with a black brow and an uneasy heart.  As
regarded our poor parson, we may say that in this matter he was
blameless, except that he had hitherto lacked the courage to
execute his friend's commission.

'What is it, Fanny?' said Lady Lufton, as soon as the door was
opened; 'I should have been down in half an hour if you wanted me,
Justinia.'

'Fanny has received a letter which makes her wish to speak to you
at once,' said Lady Meredith.

'What letter, Fanny?' Poor Fanny's heart was in her mouth; she
held it in her hand, but had not yet quite made up her mind whether
she would show it boldly to Lady Lufton.  'From Mr Robarts,' she
said.

'Well; I suppose he is going to stay another week at Chaldicotes.
For my part I should be as well pleased;' and Lady Lufton's voice
was not friendly, for she was thinking of the farm in Oxfordshire.
The imprudence of the young is very sore to the prudence of their
elders.  No woman could be less covetous, less grasping than Lady
Lufton; but the sale of a portion of the old family property was to
her as the loss of her own heart's blood.

'Here is the letter, Lady Lufton; perhaps you had better read;' and
Fanny handed it to her, again keeping back the postscript.  She had
read and re-read the letter downstairs, but could not make out
whether her husband had intended her to show it.  From the line of
the argument, she thought that he must have done so.  At any rate
he said for himself more than she could say for him, and so,
probably, it was best that her ladyship should see it.  Lady Lufton
took it, and read it, and her face grew blacker and blacker.  Her
mind was set against the writer before she began it, and every word
in it tended to make her feel more estranged from him.  'Oh, he is
going to the palace, is he? well; he must choose his own friends.
Harold Smith one of the party! It's a pity, my dear, he did not
see Miss Proudie before he met you, he might have lived to be the
bishop's chaplain.  Gatherum Castle! You don't mean to tell me that
he is going there? Then I tell you fairly, Fanny, that I have done
with him.'

'Oh, Lady Lufton, don't say that,' said Mrs Robarts, with tears in
her eyes.

'Mamma, mamma, don't speak in that way,' said Lady Meredith.

'But, my dear, what am I to say? I must speak in that way.  You
would not wish me to speak falsehoods, would you? A man must
choose for himself, but he can't live with two different sets of
people; at least, not if I belong to one and the Duke of Omnium to
the other.  The bishop going indeed! If there be anything that I
hate is hypocrisy.'

'There is no hypocrisy in that, Lady Lufton.'

'But I say there is, Fanny.  Very strange, indeed! "Put off his
defence!" Why should a man need any defence to his wife if he acts
in a straightforward way? His own language condemns him.  "Wrong
to stand out!"  Now, will either of you tell me that Mr Robarts
would really have thought it wrong to refuse that invitation? I
say that is hypocrisy.  There is no other word for it.' By this
time the poor wife, who had been in tears, was wiping them away and
preparing for action.  Lady Lufton's extreme severity gave her
courage.  She knew that it behoved her to fight for her husband
when he was thus attacked.  Had Lady Lufton been moderate in her
remarks, Mrs Robarts would not have had a word to say.

'My husband may have been ill-judged,' she said, 'but he is no
hypocrite.'

'Very well, my dear, I dare say you know better than I; but to me
it looks extremely like hypocrisy; eh, Justinia?'

'Oh, mamma, do be moderate.'

'Moderate! That's all very well.  How is one to moderate one's
feelings when one has been betrayed?'

'You do not mean that Mr Robarts has betrayed you?' said the wife.

'Oh, no; of course not.' And then she went on reading the letter:
'"Seem to have been standing in judgement upon the duke." Might he
not use the same argument as to going into any house in the
kingdom, however infamous? We must all stand in judgement one upon
another in that sense.  "Crawley!" Yes; if he were a little more
like Mr Crawley it would be a good thing for me, and for the
parish, and for you too, my dear.  God forgive me for bringing him
here; that's all.'

'Lady Lufton, I must say that you are very hard upon him--very
hard.  I did not expect it from such a friend.'

'My dear, you ought to know me well enough to be sure that I shall
speak my mind.  "Written to Jones"--yes; it is easy enough to write
to poor Jones.  He had better write to Jones, and bid him do the
whole duty.  Then he can go on and be the duke's domestic
chaplain.'

'I believe my husband does as much of his own duty as any clergyman
in the whole diocese,' said Mrs Robarts, now again in tears.

'And you are to take his work in the school; you and Mrs Podgens.
What with his curate and his wife and Mrs Podgens, I don't see why
he should come back at all.'

'Oh, mamma,' said Justinia, 'pray, pray don't be so harsh to her.'

'Let me finish it, my dear;--oh, here I come.  "Tell her ladyship my
whereabouts." He little thought you'd show me this letter.'

'Didn't he,' said Mrs Robarts, putting out her hand to get it back,
but in vain.  'I thought it was for the best; I did indeed.'

'I had better finish it now, if you please.  What is this? How does
he dare to send his ribald jokes to me in such a matter? No, I do
not suppose I ever shall like Dr Proudie; I have never expected
it.  A matter of conscience with him! Well--well--well.  Had I not
read it myself, I could not have believed it of him.  I would not
positively have believed it.  "Coming from my parish he could not
go to the Duke of Omnium!" And it is what I would wish to have
said.  People fit for this parish should not be fit for the Duke of
Omnium's house.  And I had trusted that he would have this feeling
more strongly than any one else in it.  I have been deceived
--that's all.'

'He has done nothing to deceive you, Lady Lufton.'

'I hope he will not have deceived you, my dear.  "More money."
There is your letter, Fanny.  I am very sorry for it.  I can say
nothing more.' And she folded up the letter and gave it back to
Mrs Robarts.  'I thought it right to show it to you,' said Mrs
Robarts.

'It did not much matter whether you did or not; of course I must
have been told.'

'He especially begs me to tell you.'

'Why, yes; he could not very well have kept me in the dark on such
a matter.  He could not neglect his own work, and go and live with
gamblers and adulterers at the Duke of Omnium's without my knowing
it.' And now Fanny Robarts's cup was full, full to overflowing.
When she heard these words she forgot all about Lady Lufton, all
about Lady Meredith, and remembered only her husband--that he was
her husband, and, in spite of his faults, a good and loving
husband;--and that other fact also she remembered, that she was his
wife.

'Lady Lufton,' she said, 'you forget yourself in speaking in that
way of my husband.'

'What!' said her ladyship; 'you are to show me such a letter as
that, and I am not to tell you what I think?'

'Not if you think such hard things as that.  Even you are not
justified in speaking to me in that way, and I will not hear it.'

'Heighty-tighty!' said her ladyship.

'Whether or no he is right in going to the Duke of Omnium's, I will
not pretend to judge.  He is the judge of his own actions, and
neither you nor I.'

'And when he leaves you with the butcher's bill unpaid and no money
to buy shoes for the children, who will be the judge then?'

'Not you, Lady Lufton.  If such bad days should ever come--and
neither you nor I have a right to expect them--I will not come to
you in my troubles; not after this.'

'Very well, my dear.  You may go to the Duke of Omnium if that
suits you better.'

'Fanny, come away,' said Lady Meredith.  'Why should you try to
anger my mother?'

'I don't want to anger her; but I won't hear him abused in that way
without speaking up for him.  If I don't defend him, who will? Lady
Lufton has said terrible things about him; and they are not true.'

'Oh, Fanny!' said Justinia.

'Very well, very well!' said Lady Lufton.  'This is the sort of
return one gets.'

'I don't know what you mean by return, Lady Lufton; but would you
wish me to stand quietly by and hear such things said of my
husband? He does not live with such people as you have named.  He
does not neglect his duties.  If every clergyman were as much in
his parish, it would be well for some of them.  And in going to
such a house as the Duke of Omnium's it does make a difference that
he goes there in company with the bishop.  I can't explain why, but
I know that it does.'

'Especially when the bishop is coupled with the devil, as Mr
Robarts has done,' said Lady Lufton; 'he can join the duke with
them and then they'll stand for the three Graces, won't they,
Justinia?' And Lady Lufton laughed a bitter little laugh at her
own wit.

'I suppose I may go now, Lady Lufton.'

'Oh, yes; certainly, my dear.'

'I am very sorry if I have made you angry with me; but I will not
allow any one to speak against Mr Robarts without answering them.
You have been very unjust to him; and even though I do anger you, I
must say so.'

'Come, Fanny, this is too bad,' said Lady Lufton.  'You have been
scolding me for the last half-hour because I would not congratulate
you on this new friend that your husband has made, and now you are
going to begin it all over again.  That is more than I can stand.
If you have nothing else particular to say, you might as well leave
me.' And Lady Lufton's face as she spoke was unbending, severe,
and harsh.  Mrs Robarts had never before been so spoken to by her
old friend; indeed, she had never been so spoken to by any one, and
she hardly knew how to bear herself.

'Very well, Lady Lufton,' she said; 'then I will go.  Good-bye.'

'Good-bye,' said Lady Lufton, and turning herself to her table she
began to arrange her papers.  Fanny had never before left Framley
Court to go back to her own parsonage without a warm embrace.  Now
she was to do so without even having her hand shaken.  Had it come to
this, that there was absolutely to be a quarrel between them--a
quarrel for ever?'

'Fanny is going, you know, mamma,' said Lady Meredith.  'She will
be home before you are down again.'

'I cannot help it, my dear.  Fanny must do as she pleases.  I am
not to be the judge of her actions.  She has just told me so.' Mrs
Robarts had said nothing of the kind, but she was far too proud to
point this out.  So with a gentle step she retreated through the
door, and then Lady Meredith, having tried what a conciliatory
whisper with her mother would do, followed her.  Alas, the
conciliatory whisper was altogether ineffectual.

The two ladies said nothing as they descended the stairs, but when
they had regained the drawing-room they looked with black horror
into each other's faces.  What were they to do now? Of such a
tragedy as this they had had no remotest preconception.  Was it
absolutely the case that Fanny Robarts was to walk out of Lady
Lufton's house as a declared enemy--she who, before her marriage
as well as since, had been almost treated as an adopted daughter of
the family?

'Oh, Fanny, why did you answer my mother in that way?' said Lady
Meredith.  'You saw that she was vexed.  She had other things to
vex her besides this about Mr Robarts.'

'And would not you answer any one who attacked Sir George?'

'No, not my own mother.  I would let her say what she pleased, and
leave Sir George to fight his own battles.'

'Ah, but it is different with you.  You are her daughter, and Sir
George--she would not dare to speak in that way as to Sir George's
doings.'

'Indeed she would, if it pleased her.  I am sorry I let you go up
there.'

'It is as well that it should be over, Justinia.  As those are her
thoughts about Mr Robarts, it is quite as well that we should know
them.  Even for all that I owe to her, and all the love I bear to
you, I will not come to this house if I am to hear my husband
abused--not into any house.'

'My dearest Fanny, we all know what happens when two angry people
get together.'

'I was not angry when I went up to her; not in the least.'

'It is no good looking back.  What are we to do now?'

'I suppose I had better go home,' said Mrs Robarts.  'I will go and
put my things up, and then I will send James for them.'

'Wait till after lunch, and then you will be able to kiss my mother
before you leave us.'

'No, Justinia; I cannot wait.  I must answer Mr Robarts by this
post, and I must think what I have to say to him.  I could not
write that letter here, and the post goes at four.' And Mrs Robarts
got up from her chair, preparatory to her final departure.

'I shall come to you before dinner,' said Lady Meredith; 'and if I
can bring you good tidings, I shall expect you to come back here
with me.  It is out of the question that I should go away from
Framley leaving you and my mother in enmity with each other.' To
this Mrs Robarts made no answer; and in a very few minutes
afterwards she was in her own nursery, kissing her children, and
teaching the elder one to say something about papa.  But, even as
she taught him, the tears stood in her eyes, and the little fellow
knew that everything was not right.  And there she sat till about
two, doing little odds and ends of things for the children, and
allowing that occupation to stand as an excuse to her for not
commencing her letter.  But then there remained only two hours to
her, and it might be that the letter would be difficult in the
writing--would require thoughts and changes, and must needs be
copied, perhaps, more than once.  As to the money, that she had in
the house--as much, at least, as Mark now wanted, though the
sending of it would leave her nearly penniless.  She could,
however, in case of personal need, resort to Davis as declared by
him.

So she got out her desk in the drawing-room and sat down and wrote
her letter.  It was difficult though she found that it hardly took
so long as she expected.  It was difficult, for she felt bound to
tell him the truth; and yet she was anxious not to spoil all his
pleasure among his friends.  She told him, however, that Lady
Lufton was very angry, 'unreasonably angry, I must say,' she put
in, in order to show that she had not sided against him.  'And,
indeed, we have quite quarrelled, and this has made me unhappy, as
it will you, dearest; I know that.  But we both know how good she
is at heart, and Justinia thinks that she had other things to
trouble her; and I hope it will all be made up before you come
home; only, dearest Mark, pray do not be longer than you said in
your last letter.' And then there were three or four paragraphs
about the babies, and two about the schools, which I may as well
omit.  She had just finished her letter, and was carefully folding
it for its envelope, with the two whole five-pound notes
imprudently placed within it, when she heard a footstep on the
gravel path which led up from a small wicket to the front door.  The
path ran near the drawing-room window, and she was just in time to
catch a glimpse of the last fold of a passing cloak.  'It is
Justinia,' she said to herself; and her heart became disturbed at
the idea of again discussing the morning's adventure.  'What am I
to do,' she had said to herself before.  'If she wants me to beg
her pardon? I will not own before her that he is in the wrong.'

And then the door opened--for the visitor made her entrance without
the aid of any servant--and Lady Lufton herself stood before her.
'Fanny,' she said, 'I have come to beg your pardon.'

'Oh, Lady Lufton!'

'I was very much distressed when you came to me just now;--by more
things than one, my dear.  But, nevertheless, I should not have
spoken to you of your husband as I did, and so I have come to beg
your pardon.' Mrs Robarts was past answering by the time that
this was said, at least in words; so she jumped up, and with her
eyes full of tears, threw herself into her old friend's arms.  'Oh,
Lady Lufton!' she sobbed forth again.

'You will forgive me, won't you?' said her ladyship, as she
returned her young friend's caress.  'Well, that's right.  I have
not been at all happy since you left my den this morning, and I
don't suppose you have.  But, Fanny, dearest, we love each other
too well, and know each other too thoroughly, to have a long
quarrel, don't we?'

'Oh, yes, Lady Lufton.'

'Of course we do.  Friends are not to be picked up on the road-side
every day; nor are they to be thrown away lightly.  And now sit
down, my love, and let us have a little talk.  There, I must take my
bonnet off.  You have pulled the strings so that you have almost
choked me.' And Lady Lufton deposited her bonnet on the table,
and seated herself comfortably in the corner of the sofa.

'My dear,' she said, 'there is no duty which any woman owes to any
other human being at all equal to that which she owes to her
husband, and, therefore, you were quite right to stand up for Mr
Robarts this morning.' Upon this Mrs Robarts said nothing, but she
got her hand within that of her ladyship's, and gave it a slight
squeeze.

'And I loved you for what you were doing, all the time.  I did, my
dear, though you were a little fierce, you know.  Even Justinia
admits that, and she has been at me ever since you went away.  And,
indeed, I did not know that it was in you to look in that way out
of those pretty eyes of yours.'

'Oh, Lady Lufton!'

'But I looked fierce enough myself, I dare say, so we'll say
nothing more about that; will we? But now, about this good man of
yours.'

'Dear Lady Lufton, you must forgive him.'

'Well, as you ask me, I will.  We'll have nothing more said about
the duke, either now or when he comes back; not a word.  Let me
see--he's to be back;--when is it?'

'Wednesday week, I think.'

'Ah, Wednesday.  Well, tell him to come and dine up at the house on
Wednesday.  He'll be in time, I suppose, and there shan't be a word
said about this horrid duke.'

'I am so much obliged to you, Lady Lufton.'

'But look here, my dear; believe me he's better off without such
friends.'

'Oh, I know he is; much better off.'

'Well, I'm glad you admit that, for I thought you seemed to be in
favour of the duke.'

'Oh, no, Lady Lufton.'

'That's right, then.  And now, if you'll take my advice, you'll use
your influence, as good, dear sweet wife, as you are, to prevent
his going there any more.  I'm an old woman and he is a young man,
and it's very natural that he should think me behind the times.  I'm
not angry about that.  But he'll find that it's better for him,
better for him in every way, to stick to his old friends.  It will
be better for his peace of mind, better for his character as a
clergyman, better for his pocket, better for his children, and for
you--and better for his eternal welfare.  The duke is not such a
companion as he should seek;--nor, if he is sought, should he allow
himself to be led away.' And then Lady Lufton ceased, and Fanny
Robarts kneeling at her feet sobbed, with her face hidden in her
friend's knees.  She had not a word now to say as to her husband's
capability of judging for himself.

'And now I must be going again; but Justinia has made me
promise--promise, mind you, most solemnly, that I would have you
back to dinner to-night,--by force if necessary.  It was the only
way I could make my peace with her; so you must not leave me in the
lurch.' Of course Fanny said that she would go and dine at Framley
Court.

'And you must not send that letter, by any means,' said her
ladyship, as she was leaving the room, poking with her umbrella at
the epistle, which lay directed on Mrs Robarts's desk.  'I can
understand well what it contains.  You must alter it altogether, my
dear.' And then Lady Lufton left.

Mrs Robarts instantly rushed to her desk and tore open the letter.
She looked at her watch and it was past four.  She had hardly begun
when the postman came.  'Oh, Mary,' she said, 'do make him wait.  If
he'll wait a quarter of an hour, I'll give him a shilling.'

'There's no need of that, ma'am.  Let him have a glass of beer.'

'Very well, Mary; but don't give him too much, for fear he should
drop the letters about.  I'll be ready in ten minutes.' And in
five minutes she had scrawled a very different sort of letter.  But
he might want the money immediately, so she would not delay it a
day.



CHAPTER VI

MR HAROLD SMITH'S LECTURE


On the whole the party at Chaldicotes was very pleasant and the
time passed away quickly enough.  Mr Robarts's chief friend there,
independently of Mr Sowerby, was Miss Dunstable, who seemed to take
a great fancy to him, whereas she was not very accessible to the
blandishments of Mr Supplehouse, nor more especially courteous to
her host than good manners required of her.  But then Mr
Supplehouse and Mr Sowerby were both bachelors, while Mark Robarts
was a married man.  With Mr Sowerby Robarts had more than one
communication respecting Lord Lufton and his affairs, which he
would willingly have avoided had it been possible.  Sowerby was one
of those men who are always mixing up business with pleasure, and
who have usually some scheme in their mind which requires
forwarding.  Men of this class have, as a rule, no daily work, no
regular routine of labour; but it may be doubted whether they do
not toil much more incessantly than those who have.

'Lufton is so dilatory,' Mr Sowerby said.  'Why did he not arrange
this at once, when he promised it? And then he is afraid of that
old woman at Framley Court.  Well, my dear fellow, say what you
will; she is an old woman, and she'll never be younger.  But do
write to Lufton, and tell him that this delay is inconvenient to
me; he'll do anything for you, I know.' Mark said that he would
write, and, indeed, he did so; but he did not at first like the
tone of the conversation into which he was dragged.  It was very
painful to him to hear Lady Lufton called an old woman, and hardly
less so to discuss the propriety of Lord Lufton's parting with his
property.  This was irksome to him, till habit made it easy.  But
by degrees his feelings became less acute, and he accustomed
himself to his friend Sowerby's mode of talking.

And then on Saturday they went over to Barchester.  Harold Smith
during the last forty-eight hours had become crammed to overflowing
with Sarawak, Labuan, New Guinea, and the Salomon Islands.  As is
the case with all men labouring under temporary specialities, he
for the time had faith in nothing else, and was not content that
any one near him should have any other faith.  They called him
Viscount Papua and Baron Borneo; and his wife, who headed the joke
against him, insisted on having her title.  Miss Dunstable swore
that she would wed none but a South Sea Islander; and to Mark was
offered the income and duties of Bishop of Spices.  Nor did the
Proudie family set themselves against these little sarcastic quips
with any overwhelming severity.  It is sweet to unbend oneself at
the proper opportunity, and this was the proper opportunity for Mrs
Proudie's unbending.  No mortal can be seriously wise at all
hours; and in these happy hours did that usually wise mortal, the
bishop, lay aside for awhile his serious wisdom.

'We think of dining at five to-morrow, my Lady Papua,' said the
facetious bishop; 'will that suit his lordship and the affairs of
state? he, he, he!' And the good prelate laughed at the fun.  How
pleasantly young men and women of fifty or thereabouts can joke and
flirt and poke their fun about, laughing and holding their sides,
dealing in little innuendoes and rejoicing in nicknames, when they
have no Mentors of twenty-five or thirty years near them to keep
them in order! The vicar of Framley might perhaps have been
regarded as such a Mentor, were it not for that capability of
adapting himself to the company immediately around him on which he
so much piqued himself.  He therefore also talked to my Lady Papua,
and was jocose about the Baron--not altogether to the satisfaction
of Mr Harold Smith himself.  For Mr Harold Smith was in earnest,
and did not quite relish these jocundities.  He had an idea that he
could in about three minutes talk the British world into civilizing
New Guinea, and that the world of Barsetshire would be made to go
with him by one night's efforts.  He did not understand why others
should be less serious, and was inclined to resent somewhat stiffly
the amenities of our friend Mark.

'We must not keep the Baron waiting,' said Mark, as they were
preparing to start for Barchester.

'I don't know what you mean by the Baron, sir,' said Harold Smith.
'But perhaps the joke will be against you, when you are getting up
in your pulpit to-morrow, and sending the hat round among the
clod-hoppers of Chaldicotes.'

'Those who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, eh, Baron?'
said Miss Dunstable.  'Mr Robarts's sermon will be too near akin to
your lecture to allow of his laughing.'

'If we can do nothing towards instructing the outer world till it's
done by the parsons,' said Harold Smith, 'the outer world will have
to wait a long time, I fear.'

'Nobody can do anything of that kind short of a member of
Parliament and would-be minister,' whispered Mrs Harold.  And so
they were all very pleasant together, in spite of a little fencing
with edge-tools, and at three o'clock the cortege of carriages
started for Barchester, that of the bishop, of course, leading the
way.  His lordship, however, was not in it.

'Mrs Proudie, I'm sure you'll let me go with you,' said Miss
Dunstable, at the last moment, as she came down the big stone
steps.  'I want to hear the rest of that story about Mr Slope.' Now
this upset everything.  The bishop was to have gone with his wife,
Mrs Smith, and Mark Robarts; and Mr Sowerby had so arranged matters
that he could have accompanied Miss Dunstable in his phaeton.  But
no one ever dreamed of denying Miss Dunstable anything.  Of course
Mark gave way; but it ended in the bishop declaring that he had no
special predilection for his own carriage, which he did in
compliance with a glance from his wife's eye.  Then other changes
of course followed, and, at last, Mr Sowerby and Harold Smith were
the joint occupants of the phaeton.  The poor lecturer, as he
seated himself made some remark such as those he had been making
for the last two days--for out of a full heart the mouth speaketh.
But he spoke to an impatient listener.  'D-- the South Sea
Islanders,' said Mr Sowerby.  'You'll have it all your own way in a
few moments, like a bull in a china-shop; but for Heaven's sake let
us have a little peace till that time comes.' It appeared that Mr
Sowerby's little plan of having Miss Dunstable for his companion
was not quite insignificant; and, indeed, it may be said that but
few of his little plans were so.  At the present moment he flung
himself back in the carriage and prepared for sleep.  He could
further no plan of his by a tete-a-tete conversation with his
brother-in-law.  And then Mrs Proudie began her story about Mr
Slope, or rather recommenced it.  She was very fond of talking
about this gentleman, who had once been her pet chaplain, but was
now her bitterest foe; and in telling her story, she had sometimes
to whisper to Miss Dunstable, for there were one or two fie-fie
little anecdotes about a married lady, not altogether fit for young
Mr Robarts's ears.  But Mrs Harold Smith insisted on having them
out loud, and Miss Dunstable would gratify that lady in spite of
Mrs Proudie's winks.

'What, kissing her hand, and he a clergyman!' said Miss Dunstable.
'I did not think they ever did such things, Mr Robarts.'

'Still waters run deep,' said Mrs Harold Smith.

'Hush-h-h,' looked, rather than spoke, Mrs Proudie.  'The grief of
spirit which that bad man caused me nearly broke my heart, and all
the while, you know, he was courting--' and then Mrs Proudie
whispered a name.

'What, the dean's wife?' shouted Miss Dunstable, in a voice which
made the coachman in the next carriage give a chuck to his horse as
he overheard her.

'The archdeacon's sister-in-law!' screamed Mrs Harold Smith.

'What might he have not attempted next?' said Miss Dunstable.

'She wasn't the dean's wife then, you know,' said Mrs Proudie,
explaining.

'Well, you are a gay set in the chapter, I must say,' said Miss
Dunstable.  'You ought to make one of them in Barchester, Mr
Robarts.'

'Only perhaps Mrs Robarts might not like it,' said Mrs Harold
Smith.

'And then the schemes which he tried on with the bishop!' said Mrs
Proudie.

'It's all fair in love and war, you know,' said Miss Dunstable.

'But he little knew whom he had to deal with when he began that,'
said Mrs Proudie.

'The bishop was too many for him,' suggested Mrs Harold Smith, very
maliciously.

'The bishop was not, somebody else was; and he was obliged to leave
Barchester in utter disgrace.  He has since married the wife of
some tallow-chandler.'

'The wife!' said Miss Dunstable.  'What a man!'

'The widow, I mean; but it's all one to him.'

'The gentleman was clearly born when Venus was in the ascendant,'
said Mrs Smith.  'You clergymen usually are, I believe, Mr
Robarts.' So that Mrs Proudie's carriage was by no means the
dullest as they drove into Barchester that day; and by degrees our
friend Mark became accustomed to his companions, and before they
reached the palace he acknowledged to himself that Miss Dunstable
was very good fun.  We cannot linger over the bishop's dinner,
though it was very good of its kind; and as Mr Sowerby contrived to
sit next to Miss Dunstable, thereby overturning a little scheme
made by Mr Supplehouse, he again shone forth in unclouded good
humour.  But Mr Harold Smith became impatient immediately on the
withdrawal of the cloth.  The lecture was to begin at seven, and
according to his watch that hour had already come.  He declared
that Sowerby and Supplehouse were endeavouring to delay matters in
order that the Barchesterians might become vexed and impatient; and
so the bishop was not allowed to exercise his hospitality in true
episcopal fashion.

'You forget, Sowerby,' said Supplehouse, 'that the world here for
the last fortnight has been looking forward to nothing else.'

'The world shall be gratified at once,' said Mrs Harold, obeying a
little nod from Mrs Proudie.  'Come, my dear,' and she took hold of
Miss Dunstable's arm, 'don't let us keep Barchester waiting.  We
shall be ready in a quarter of an hour, shall we not, Mrs Proudie?'
and so they sailed off.

'And we shall have time for one glass of claret, said the bishop.

'There; that's seven by the cathedral,' said Harold Smith, jumping
up from his chair as he heard the clock.  'If the people have come
it would not be right in me to keep them waiting, and I shall go.'

'Just one glass of claret, Mr Smith, and we'll be off,' said the
bishop.

'Those women will keep me half an hour,' said Harold, filling his
glass, and drinking it standing.  'They do it on purpose.'

It was rather late when they all found themselves in the big room
of the Mechanic's Institute; but I do not know whether this on the
whole did any harm.  Most of Mr Smith's hearers, excepting the
party from the palace, were Barchester tradesmen with their wives
and families; and they waited, not impatiently, for the big
people.  And then the lecture was gratis, a fact which is always
borne in mind by an Englishman, when he comes to reckon up and
calculate the way in which he is treated.  When he pays his money,
then he takes his choice; he may be impatient or not as he likes.
His sense of justice teaches him so much, and in accordance with
that sense he usually acts.  So the people on the benches rose
graciously when the palace party entered the room.  Seats for them
had been kept in the front.  There were three arm-chairs, which
were filled, after some little hesitation, by the bishop, Mrs
Proudie, and Miss Dunstable--Mrs Smith positively declining to take
one of them; though, as she admitted, her rank as Lady Papua of the
islands did give her some claim.  And this remark, as it was made
quite out loud, reached Mr Smith's ears as he stood behind a little
table on a small raised dais, holding his white kid gloves; and it
annoyed him and rather put him out.  He did not like that joke
about Lady Papua.  And then the others of the party sat upon a
front bench covered with red cloth.  'We shall find this very hard
and very narrow about the second hour,' said Mr Sowerby, and Mr
Smith on his dais again overheard the words, and dashed his gloves
down to the table.  He felt that all the room would hear it.

And there were one or two gentlemen on the second seat who shook
hands with some of our party.  There was Mr Thorne of Ullathorne, a
good-natured old bachelor, whose residence was near enough to
Barchester to allow of his coming in without much personal
inconvenience; and next to him was Mr Harding, an old clergyman of
the chapter, with whom Mrs Proudie shook hands very graciously,
making way for him to seat himself close behind her if he would so
please.  But Mr Harding did not so please.  Having paid his
respects to the bishop he returned quietly to the side of his old
friend Mr Thorne, thereby angering Mrs Proudie, as might easily be
seen by her face.  And Mr Chadwick also was there, the episcopal
man of business for the diocese; but he also adhered to the two
gentlemen above named.  And now that the bishop and the ladies had
taken their place, Mr Harold Smith hummed three times distinctly,
and then began.

'It was,' he said, 'the most peculiar characteristic of the present
era in the British islands that those who were high placed before
the world in rank, wealth, and education were willing to come
forward and give their time and knowledge without fee or reward,
for the advantage and amelioration of those who did not stand so
high in the social scale.' And then he paused for a moment, during
which Mrs Smith remarked to Miss Dunstable that that was pretty
well for a beginning; and Miss Dunstable replied, 'that as for
herself she felt very grateful to rank, wealth and education.' Mr
Sowerby winked to Mr Supplehouse, who opened his eyes very wide and
shrugged his shoulders.  But the Barchesterians took it all in good
part and gave the lecturer the applause of their hands and feet.
And then, well pleased, he recommenced--'I do not make these
remarks with reference to myself--'

'I hope he's not going to be modest,' said Miss Dunstable.

'It will be quite new if he is,' replied Mrs Smith.

'--so much as to many noble and talented lords and members of the
Lower House who have lately from time to time devoted themselves to
this good work.' And then he went through a long list of peers and
members of Parliament, beginning, of course, with Lord Boanerges,
and ending with Mr Green Walker, a young gentleman who had lately
been returned by his uncle's interference for the borough of Crewe
Junction, and had immediately made his entrance into public life by
giving a lecture on the grammarians of the Latin language as
exemplified at Eton School.  'On the present occasion,' Mr Smith
continued, 'our object is to learn something as to those grand and
magnificent islands which lie far away, beyond the Indies, in the
Southern Ocean; the lands of which produce rich spices and glorious
fruits, and whose seas are embedded with pearls and corals--Papua
and the Philippines, Borneo and the Moluccas.  My friends, you are
familiar with your maps, and you know the track which the equator
makes for itself through those distant oceans.' And then many
heads were turned down, and there was a rustle of leaves; for not a
few of those 'who stood not so high in the social scale' had
brought their maps with them, and refreshed their memories as to
the whereabouts of those wondrous islands.

And then Mr Smith also, with a map in his hand, and pointing
occasionally to another large map which hung against the wall, went
into the geography of the matter.  'We might have found that out
from our atlases, I think, without coming all the way to
Barchester,' said that unsympathetic helpmate Mrs Harold, very
cruelly--most illogically too, for there be so many things which we
could find out ourselves by search, but which we never do find out
unless they be specially told to us; and why should not this
latitude and longitude of Labuan be one--or rather two of these
things? And then, when he had duly marked the path of the line
through Borneo, Celebes, and Gilolo, through the Macassar Strait
and the Molucca passage, Mr Harold Smith rose to a higher flight.
'But what,' said he, 'avails all that God can give to man, unless
man will open his hand to receive the gift? And what is this
opening of the hand but the process of civilization--yes, my
friends, the process of civilization? These South Sea islanders
have all that a kind Providence can bestow on them; but that all is
as nothing without education.  That education and that civilization
it is for you to bestow upon them--yes, my friends, for you; for
you, citizens of Barchester as you are.' And then he paused again,
in order that the feet and hands might go to work.  The feet and
hands did go to work, during which Mr Smith took a slight drink of
water.  He was now quite in his element, and had got into the
proper way of punching the table with his fists.  A few words
dropping from Mr Sowerby did now and again find their way to his
ears, but the sound of his own voice had brought with it the
accustomed charm, and he ran on from platitude to truism, and from
truism back to platitude, with an eloquence that was charming to
himself.

'Civilization,' he exclaimed, lifting his eyes and his hands to the
ceiling.  'O Civilization--'

'There will not be a chance for us now for the next hour and
a half,' said Mr Supplehouse, groaning.  Harold Smith cast one eye
down at him, but it immediately flew back to the ceiling.

'O Civilization! Thou that ennoblest mankind and makest him equal to
the gods, what is like unto thee?' Here Mrs Proudie showed evident
signs of disapprobation, which, no doubt would have been shared by
the bishop, had not that worthy prelate been asleep.  But Mr Smith
continued unobservant; or at any rate, regardless.  'What is like
unto thee? Thou art the irrigating stream which makest fertile the
barren plain.  Till thou comest all is dark and dreary; but at thy
advent the noontide sun shines out, the earth gives forth her
increase; the deep bowels of the rocks render up their tribute.
Forms which were dull and hideous become endowed with grace and
beauty, and vegetable existence rises to the scale of celestial
life.  Then, too, Genius appears clad in a panoply of translucent
armour, grasping in his hand the whole terrestrial surface, and
making every rood of earth subservient to his purposes;--Genius,
the child of Civilization, the mother of the Arts!' The last
little bit, taken from the 'Pedigree of Progress', had a great
success, and all Barchester went to work with its hands and feet;--
all Barchester, except that ill-natured aristocratic front row
together with the three arm-chairs at the corner of it.  The
aristocratic front row now felt itself to be too intimate with
civilization to care much about it; and the three arm-chairs, or
rather that special one which contained Mrs Proudie, considered
that there was a certain heathenness, a papism sentimentality
almost amounting to infidelity, contained in the lecturer's
remarks, with which she, a pillar of the Church, could not put up,
seated as she was now in public conclave.

'It is to civilization that we must look,' continued Mr Harold
Smith, descending from poetry to prose as a lecturer well knows
how, and thereby showing the value of both--'for any material
progress in these islands; and--'

'And to Christianity,' shouted Mrs Proudie, to the great amazement
of the assembled people, and to the thorough wakening of the
bishop, who, jumping up in his chair at the sound of the well-known
voice, exclaimed, 'Certainly, certainly.'

'Hear, hear, hear,' said those on the benches who particularly
belonged to Mrs Proudie's school of divinity in the city, and among
the voices was distinctly heard that of a new verger in whose
behalf she had greatly interested herself.

'Oh, yes Christianity, of course,' said Harold Smith, upon whom
the interruption did not seem to have operated favourably.

'Christianity and Sabbath-day observation,' exclaimed Mrs Proudie,
who, now that she had obtained the ear of the public, seemed well
inclined to keep it.  'Let us never forget that these islanders can
never prosper unless they keep the Sabbath holy.' Poor Mr Smith,
having been so rudely dragged from his high horse, was never able
to mount it again, and completed the lecture in a manner not at all
comfortable to himself.  He had there, on the table before him, a
huge bundle of statistics, with which he had meant to convince the
reason of his hearers, after he had taken full possession of their
feelings.  But they fell very dull and flat.  And at the moment
when he was interrupted, he was about to explain that that material
progress to which he had alluded could not be attained without
money; and that it behoved them, the people of Barchester before
him, to come forward with their purses like men and brothers.  He
did also attempt this; but from the moment of that fatal onslaught
from the arm-chair, it was clear to him, and to every one else,
that Mrs Proudie was now the hero of the hour.  His time had gone
by, and the people of Barchester did not care a straw for his
appeal.  From these causes the lecture was over a full twenty
minutes earlier than any one had expected, to the great delight of
Messrs Sowerby and Supplehouse, who, on that evening, moved and
carried a vote of thanks to Mrs Proudie.  For they had gay doings
yet before they went to their beds.

'Robarts, here one moment,' Mr Sowerby said, as they were standing
at the door of the Mechanic's Institute.  Don't go off with Mr and
Mrs Bishop.  We are going to have a little supper at the Dragon of
Wantly, and, after what we have gone through, upon my word, we want
it.  You can tell one of the palace servants to let you in.' Mark
considered the proposal wistfully.  He would fain have joined the
supper party had he dared, but he, like many others of his cloth,
had the fear of Mrs Proudie before his eyes.  And a very merry
supper they had; but poor Mr Harold Smith was not the merriest of
the party.



CHAPTER VII

SUNDAY MORNING


It was, perhaps, quite as well on the whole for Mark Robarts, that
he did not go to that supper party.  It was eleven o'clock before
they sat down and nearly two before the gentlemen were in bed.  It
must be remembered that he had to preach, on the Sunday morning, a
charity sermon on behalf of a mission to Mr Harold Smith's
islanders; and, to tell the truth, it was a task for which he had
now very little inclination.  When first invited to do this, he had
regarded the task seriously enough, as he always did regard
such work, and he completed his sermon for the occasion before he
left Framley; but, since that, an air of ridicule had been thrown
over the whole affair, in which he had joined without much thinking
of his own sermon, and this made him now heartily wish that he
could choose a discourse upon any other subject.  He knew well that
the very points on which he had most insisted, were those which had
drawn most mirth from Miss Dunstable and Mrs Smith, and had
oftenest provoked his own laughter; and how was he now to preach on
those matters in a fitting mood, knowing, as he would know, that
these two ladies would be looking at him, would endeavour to catch
his eye, and would turn him into ridicule as they had already
turned the lecturer? In this he did injustice to one of those
ladies unconsciously.  Miss Dunstable, with all her aptitude for
mirth, and we may almost fairly say for frolic, was in no way
inclined to ridicule religion or say anything which she thought
appertained to it.  It may be presumed that among such things she did
not include Mrs Proudie, as she was willing enough to laugh at that
lady; but Mark, had he known her better, might have been sure that
she would have sat out his sermon with perfect propriety.

As it was, however, he did feel considerable uneasiness; and in the
morning, he got up early, with the view of seeing what might be
done in the way of emendation.  He cut out those parts which
referred most specially to the islands,--he rejected altogether
those names over which they had all laughed together so
heartily,--and he inserted a string of genial remarks, very useful,
no doubt, which he flattered himself would rob his sermon of all
similarity to Harold Smith's lecture.  He had, perhaps, hoped, when
writing it, to create some little sensation; but now he would be
quite satisfied if it passed without remark.  It had been arranged
that the party at the hotel should breakfast at eight and start at
half-past eight punctually, so as to enable them to reach
Chaldicotes in ample time to arrange their dresses before they went
to church.  The church stood on the grounds, close to that long
formal avenue of lime-trees, but within the front gate.  Their
walk, therefore, after reaching Mr Sowerby's house, would not be
long.

Mrs Proudie, who was herself an early body, would not hear of her
guest--and he a clergyman--going out to the inn for his breakfast
on a Sunday morning.  As regarded that Sabbath-day journey to
Chaldicotes, to that she had given her assent, no doubt with much
uneasiness of mind; but let them have as little desecration as
possible.  It was therefore an understood thing that he was to
return with his friends; but he should not go without the advantage
of family prayers and family breakfast.  And so Mrs Proudie on
retiring to rest gave the necessary orders, to the great annoyance
of her household.

To the great annoyance, at least, of her servants! The bishop
himself did not make his appearance till a much later hour.  He in
all things now supported his wife's rule; in all things now, I say;
for there had been a moment, when in the first flush and pride of
his episcopacy, other ideas had filled his mind.  Now, however, he
gave no opposition to that good woman with whom Providence had
blessed him; and in return to his little personal comforts.  With
what surprise did the bishop now look back upon that unholy war
which he had once been tempted to wage against the wife of his bosom?
Nor did any of the Miss Proudies show themselves at that early
hour.  They, perhaps, were absent on a different ground.  With them
Mrs Proudie had not been so successful as with the bishop.  They
had wills of their own which became stronger and stronger every
day.  Of the three with whom Mrs Proudie was blessed one was
already in a position to exercise that will in a legitimate way
over a very excellent young clergyman in the diocese, the Rev.
Optimus Grey; but the other two, having as yet no such opening for
their powers of command, were perhaps a little too much inclined to
keep themselves in practice at home.  But at half-past seven
punctually Mrs Proudie was there, and so was the domestic chaplain;
so was Mr Robarts, and so were the household servants--all
excepting one lazy recreant.  'Where is Thomas?' said she of the
Argus eyes, standing up with her book of family prayers in her
hand.  'So please you, ma'am, Tummas be bad with the tooth-ache.'
'Tooth-ache!' exclaimed Mrs Proudie; but her eyes said more
terrible things than that.  'Let Thomas come to me before church.'
And then they proceeded to prayers.  These were read by the
chaplain, as it was proper and decent that they should be; but I
cannot but think that Mrs Proudie a little exceeded her office in
taking upon herself to pronounce the blessing when the prayers were
over.  She did it, however, in a clear, sonorous voice, and perhaps
with more personal dignity than was within the chaplain's compass.

Mrs Proudie was rather stern at breakfast, and the vicar of Framley
felt an unaccountable desire to get out of the house.  In the first
place she was not dressed with her usual punctilious attention to
the proprieties of her high situation.  It was evident that there
was to be a further toilet before she sailed up the middle of the
cathedral choir.  She had on a large loose cap with no other
strings than those which were wanted of tying it beneath her chin,
a cap with which the household and the chaplain were well
acquainted, but which seemed ungracious in the eyes of Mr Robarts,
after all the well-dressed holiday doings of the last week.  She
wore also a large, loose, dark-coloured wrapper, which came well up
round her neck, and which was not buoyed out, as were her dresses
in general, with an under mechanism of petticoats.  It clung to her
closely, and added to the inflexibility of her general appearance.
And then she had encased her feet in large carpet slippers, which
no doubt were comfortable, but which struck her visitor as being
strange and unsightly.  'Do you find difficulty in getting your
people together for early morning prayers?' she said, as she
commenced her operations with the teapot.

'I can't say that I do,' said Mark.  'But then we are seldom so
early as this.'

'Parish clergymen should be early, I think,' said she.  'It sets a
good example in the village.'

'I am thinking of having morning prayers in the church,' said Mr
Robarts.

'That's nonsense,' said Mrs Proudie, 'and usually means worse than
nonsense.  I know what that comes to.  If you have three services
on a Sunday and domestic prayers at home, you do very well.' And
so saying she handed him his cup.

'But I have not three services on Sunday, Mrs Proudie.'

'Then I think you should have.  Where can the poor people be so
well off on Sundays as in church? The bishop intends to express a
very strong opinion on this subject in his next charge; and then I
am sure you will attend to his wishes.' To this Mark made no
answer, but devoted himself to his egg.

'I suppose you have not a very large establishment at Framley?'
asked Mrs Proudie.

'What, at the parsonage?'

'Yes; you live at the parsonage, don't you?'

'Certainly--well; not very large, Mrs Proudie; just enough to do
the work, make things comfortable, and look after the children.'

'It is a very fine living,' said she; 'very fine.  I don't remember
that we have anything so good ourselves,--except at Plumstead, the
archdeacon's place.  He has managed to butter his bread very well.'

'His father was bishop of Barchester.'

'Oh, yes, I know all about him.  Only for that he would barely have
risen to archdeacon, I suspect.  Let me see; yours is 800 pounds, is
it not, Mr Robarts? And you such a young man! I suppose you have
insured your life highly.'

'Pretty well, Mrs Proudie.'

'And then, too, your wife had some little fortune, had she not? We
cannot all fall on our feet like that; can we, Mr White?' and Mrs
Proudie was an imperious woman; but then so also was Lady Lufton;
and it may therefore be said that Mr Robarts ought to have been
accustomed to feminine domination; but as he sat there munching his
toast he could not but make a comparison between the two.  Lady
Lufton in her little attempts sometimes angered him; but he
certainly thought, comparing that lady and the clerical together,
that the rule of the former was the lighter and the pleasanter.  But
then Lady Lufton had given him a living and a wife, and Mrs Proudie
had given him nothing.  Immediately after breakfast Mr Robarts
escaped to the Dragon of Wantly, partly because he had had enough
of the matutinal Mrs Proudie, and partly also in order that he
might hurry his friends there.  He was already becoming fidgety
about the time, as Harold Smith had been on the preceding evening;
and he did to give Mrs Smith credit for much punctuality.  When he
arrived at the inn he asked if they had done breakfast, and was
immediately told that not one of them was yet down.  It was already
half-past eight, and they ought to be now under weigh on the road.
He immediately went to Mr Sowerby's room, and found that gentleman
shaving himself.  'Don't be a bit uneasy,' said Mr Sowerby.  'You
and Smith shall have my phaeton, and those horses will take you
there in an hour.  Not, however, but what we shall all be in time.
We'll send round to the whole party and ferret them out.' And then
Mr Sowerby, having evoked manifold aid with various peals of the
bell, sent messengers, male and female, flying to all the different
rooms.

'I think I'll hire a gig and go over at once,' said Mark.  'It would
not do for me to be late, you know.'

'It won't do for any of us to be late; and it's all nonsense about
hiring a gig.  It would be just throwing a sovereign away, and we
should pass you on the road.  Go down and see that the tea is made,
and all that; and make them have the bill ready; and, Robarts, you
may pay it too, if you like it.  But, I believe we may as well
leave that to Baron Borneo--eh?' And then Mark did go down and
make the tea, and he did order the bill; and then he walked about
the room, looking at his watch, and nervously waiting for the
footsteps of his friends.  And as he was so employed, he bethought
himself whether it was fit that he should be so doing on a Sunday
morning; whether it was good that he should be waiting there, in
painful anxiety, to gallop over a dozen miles in order that he
might not be too late with his sermon; whether his own snug room at
home, with Fanny opposite to him, and his bairns crawling on the
floor, with his own preparations for his own quiet service, and the
warm pressure of Lady Lufton's hand when that service should be
over, was not better than all this.  He could not afford not to
know Harold Smith, and Mr Sowerby, and the Duke of Omnium, he had
said to himself.  He had to look to rise in the world, as other men
did.  But what pleasure had come to him as yet from these
intimacies? How much had he hitherto done towards his rising? To
speak the truth he was not over well pleased with himself, as he
made Mrs Harold Smith's tea and ordered Mr Sowerby's mutton-chops
on that Sunday morning.

At a little after nine they all assembled; but even then he could
not make the ladies understand that there was any cause for hurry;
at least Mrs Smith, who was the leader of the party, would not
understand it.  When Mark again talked of hiring a gig, Miss
Dunstable indeed said that she would join him; and seemed to be so
far earnest in the matter that Mr Sowerby hurried through his
second egg in order to prevent such a catastrophe.  And then Mark
absolutely did order the gig; whereupon Mrs Smith remarked that in
such case she need not hurry herself; but the waiter brought up
word that all the horses of the hotel were out, excepting one pair,
neither of which could go in single harness.  Indeed, half of their
stable establishment was already secured by Mr Sowerby's own party.
'Then let me have the pair,' said Mark, almost frantic with delay.

'Nonsense, Robarts; we are ready now.  He won't want them, James.
Come, Supplehouse, have you done?'

'Then I am to hurry myself, am I?' said Mrs Harold Smith.  'What
changeable creatures you are! May I be allowed half a cup of tea,
Mr Robarts?' Mark, who was now really angry, turned away to the
window.  There was no charity in these people, he said to himself.
They knew the nature of his distress, and yet they only laughed at
him.  He did not, perhaps, reflect that he had assisted in the joke
against Mr Harold Smith on the previous evening.  'James,' said he
turning to the waiter, 'let me have that pair of horses
immediately, if you please.'

'Yes, sir, round in fifteen minutes, sir: only Ned, sir, the
post-boy, sir; I fear he's at his breakfast, sir; but we'll have
him here in less than no time, sir!' But before Ned and the pair
were there, Mrs Smith had absolutely got her bonnet on, and at ten
they started.  Mark did share the phaeton with Harold Smith, but
the phaeton did not go any faster than the other carriages.  They
led the way, indeed, but that was all; and when the vicar's watch
told him that it was eleven, they were still a mile from
Chaldicotes gate, although the horses were in lather of steam; and
they had just only entered the village when the church bell ceased
to be heard.

'Come, you are in time, after all,' said Harold Smith.  'Better time
than I was last night.' Robarts could not explain to him that the
entry of a clergyman into church, of a clergyman who is going to
assist in the service, should not be made at the last minute, that
it should be staid and decorous, and not done in scrambling haste,
with running feet and scant breath.

'I suppose we'll stop here, sir,' said the postillion, as he pulled
up his horses short of the church-door, in the midst of the people
who were congregating together ready for the service.  But Mark had
not anticipated being so late, and said at first that it was
necessary that he should go on to the house; then, when the horses
had again begun to move, he remembered that he could send for his
gown, and as he got out of the carriage he gave his orders
accordingly.  And now the other two carriages were there, and so
there was a noise and confusion at the door--very unseemly, as Mark
felt it; and the gentlemen spoke in loud voices, and Mrs Harold
Smith declared that she had no Prayer-Book, and was much too tired
to go in at present; she would go home and rest herself, she said.
And two other ladies of the party did so also, leaving Miss
Dunstable to go alone;--for which, however, she did not care one
button.  And then one of the party, who had a nasty habit of
swearing, cursed at something as he walked in close to Mark's
elbow; and so they made their way up the church as the Absolution
was being read, and Mark Robarts felt thoroughly ashamed of
himself.  If his rising in the world brought him in contact with
such things as these, would it not be better for him that he should
do without rising? His sermon went off without any special
notice.  Mrs Harold Smith was not there, much to his satisfaction;
and the others who were did not seem to pay any special attention
to it.  The subject had lost its novelty; except with the ordinary
church congregation, the farmers and labourers of the parish; and
the 'quality' in the squire's great pew were content to show their
sympathy by a moderate subscription.  Miss Dunstable, however, gave
a ten-pound note, which swelled up the sum total to a respectable
amount--for such a place as Chaldicotes.

'And now I hope I may never hear another word about New Guinea,'
said Mr Sowerby, as they clustered round the drawing-room fire
after church.  'That subject may be regarded as killed, eh, Harold?'

'Certainly murdered last night,' said Mrs Harold, 'by that awful
woman, Mrs Proudie.'

'I wonder you did not make a dash at her and pull her out of the
arm-chair,' said Miss Dunstable.  'I was expecting it, and thought
that I should come to grief in the scrimmage.'

'I never knew such a brazen-faced thing before,' said Miss Kerrigy,
a travelling friend of Miss Dunstable's.

'Nor I--never; in a public place, too,' said Dr Easyman, a medical
gentleman, who also often accompanied her.

'As for brass,' said Mr Supplehouse, 'she would never stop at
anything for want of that.  It is well that she has enough, for the
poor bishop is but badly provided.'

'I hardly heard what it was she did say,' said Harold Smith; 'so I
could not answer her, you know.  Something about Sundays, I believe.'

'She hoped you would not put the South Sea Islanders up to Sabbath
travelling,' said Mr Sowerby.

'And specially begged that you would establish Lord's-day schools,'
said Mrs Smith; and then they all went to work, and picked Mrs
Proudie to pieces from the top ribbons of her cap down to the sole
of her slipper.

'And then she expects the poor parsons to fall in love with her
daughters.  That's the hardest thing of all,' said Miss Dunstable.
But, on the whole, when our vicar went to bed, he did not feel that
he had spent a profitable Sunday.



CHAPTER VIII

GATHERUM CASTLE


On the Tuesday morning Mark did receive his wife's letter, and the
ten-pound note, whereby a strong proof was given of the honesty of
the post-office people in Barsetshire.  That letter, written as it
had been in a hurry, while Robin post-boy was drinking a single
mug of beer,--well, what of it if he half filled a second
time?---was nevertheless eloquence of his wife's love and of her
great triumph.  'I have only half a moment to send the money,' she
said, 'for the postman is here waiting.  When I see you, I'll
explain why I am so hurried.  Let me know you get it safe.  It is
all right now, and Lady Lufton was here not a minute ago.  She did
not quite like it; about Gatherum Castle, I mean; but you'll hear
nothing about it.  Only remember that you must dine at Framley
Court on Wednesday week.  I have promised that for you.  You will,
won't you, dearest? I shall come and fetch you away if you attempt
to stay longer than you have said.  But I'm sure you won't.  God
bless you, my own one! Mr Jones gave us the same sermon he
preached the second Sunday after Easter.  Twice in the same year is
too often.  God bless you! The children are quite well.  Mark
sends you a big kiss.---Your own F.'

Robarts, as he read this letter and crumpled the note up into his
pocket, felt that it was much more satisfactory than he deserved.
He knew that there must have been a fight, and that his wife,
fighting loyally on his behalf, had got the best of it; and he knew
also that her victory had not been owing to the goodness of her
cause.  He frequently declared to himself that he would not be
afraid of Lady Lufton; but nevertheless these tidings that no
reproaches were to be made to him afforded him great relief.  On
the following Friday they all went to the duke's, and found that
the bishop and Mrs Proudie were there before them; as were also
sundry other people, mostly of some note either in the estimation
of the world at large or that of West Barsetshire.  Lord Boanerges
was there, an old man who would have his own way in everything, and
who was regarded by all men--apparently even the duke himself--as
an intellectual king, by no means of the constitutional kind--as an
intellectual emperor, rather, who took upon himself to rule all
questions of mind without the assistance of any ministers
whatever.  And Baron Brawl was of the party, one of Her Majesty's
puisne Judges, as jovial a guest as ever entered a county house;
but given to be rather sharp withal in his jovialities.  And there
was Mr Green Walker, a young but rising man, the same who lectured
not long since on a popular subject to his constituents at the
Crewe Junction.  Mr Green Walker was a nephew of the Marchioness of
Hartletop, and the Marchioness of Hartletop was a friend of the
Duke of Omnium's.  Mr Mark Robarts was certainly elated when he
ascertained who composed the company of which he had been so
earnestly pressed to make a portion.  Would it have been wise in
him to forgo this on account of the prejudices of Lady Lufton?

As the guests were so many and so great, the huge front portals of
Gatherum Castle were thrown open and the vast hall, adorned with
trophies--with marble busts from Italy and armour from Wardour
Street--was thronged with gentlemen and ladies, and gave forth
unwonted echoes to many a footstep.  His grace himself, when Mark
arrived there with Sowerby and Miss Dunstable--for in this instance
Miss Dunstable did travel in the phaeton, while Mark occupied a
seat in the dicky--his grace himself was at this moment in the
drawing-room and nothing could exceed his urbanity.

'Oh, Miss Dunstable!' he said, taking that lady by the hand, and
leading her up to the fire, 'now I feel for the first time that
Gatherum Castle has not been built for nothing.'

'Nobody ever supposed it was, your grace,' said Miss Dunstable.  'I
am sure the architect did not think so when his bill was paid.' And
Miss Dunstable put her toes on the fender to warm them with as much
self-possession as though her father had been a duke also, instead
of a quack doctor.

'We have given the strictest orders about the parrot--,' said the
duke.

'Ah! but I have not brought him after all;' said Miss Dunstable.

'--and I have had an aviary built on purpose,--just such as parrots
are used to in their own country.  Well, Miss Dunstable, I do call
that unkind.  Is it too late to send for him?'

'He and Dr Easyman are travelling together.  The truth was, I could
not rob the doctor of his companion.'

'Why? I have had another aviary built for him.  I declare, Miss
Dunstable, the honour you are doing me is shorn of half its glory.
But the poodle--I still trust in the poodle.'

'And your grace's trust shall not in that respect be in vain.
Where is he, I wonder?' And Miss Dunstable looked round as though
she expected that somebody would certainly have brought her dog in
after her.  'I declare I must go and look for him,--only think if
they were to put him among your grace's dogs,--how his morals would
be destroyed!'

'Miss Dunstable, is that intended to be personal?' but the lady had
turned away from the fire, and the duke was able to welcome his
other guests.  This he did with much courtesy.  'Sowerby,' he said,
'I am glad you have survived the lecture.  I can assure you I had
fears for you.'

'I was brought back to life after considerable delay by the
administration of tonics at the Dragon of Wantly.  Will your grace
allow me to present to you Mr Robarts, who on that occasion was not
so fortunate.  It was found necessary to carry him off to the
palace, where he was obliged to undergo very vigorous treatment.'
And then the duke shook hands with Mr Robarts, assuring him that he
was most happy to make his acquaintance.  He had often heard of him
since he came into the county; and then he asked after Lord Lufton,
regretting that he had been unable to induce his lordship to come
to Gatherum Castle.

'But you had a diversion at the lecture, I am told,' continued the
duke.  'There was a second performance, was there not, who almost
eclipsed poor Harold Smith?' And then Mr Sowerby gave an amusing
sketch of the little Proudie episode.

'It has, of course, ruined your brother-in-law for ever as a
lecturer,' said the duke, laughing.

'If so, we shall feel ourselves under the deepest obligations to
Mrs Proudie,' said Mr Sowerby.  And then Harold Smith himself came
up and received the duke's sincere and hearty congratulations on
the success of his exercise at Barchester.  Mark Robarts had now
turned away, and his attention was suddenly arrested by the loud
voice of Miss Dunstable, who had stumbled across some very dear
friends in her passage through the rooms, and who by no means hid
from the public her delight upon the occasion.

'Well--well--well!' she exclaimed, and then she seized upon a very
quiet-looking well-dressed, attractive young woman who was walking
towards her, in company with a gentleman.  The gentleman and lady,
as it turned out, were husband and wife.  'Well--well--well! I
hardly hoped for this.' And then she took hold of the lady and
kissed her enthusiastically, and after that grasped both the
gentleman's hands, shaking them stoutly.

'And what a deal I shall have to say to you!' she went on.  'You'll
upset all my other plans.  But, Mary, my dear, how long are you
going to stay here? I go--let me see--I forget when, but it's all
put down in a book upstairs.  But the next stage is at Mrs
Proudie's.  I shan't meet you there, I suppose.  And now, Frank,
how's the governor?' The gentleman called Frank declared that the
governor was all right--'mad about the hounds, of course, you
know.'

'Well, my dear, that's better than the hounds being mad about him.
But talking of hounds, Frank, how badly they manage their foxes at
Chaldicotes! I was out hunting all one day--'

'You out hunting!' said the lady called Mary.

'And why shouldn't I go out hunting? I'll tell you what, Mrs
Proudie was out hunting too.  But they didn't catch a single fox;
and, if you must have the truth, it seemed to me to be rather
slow.'

'You were in the wrong division of the county,' said the gentleman
called Frank.

'Of course I was.  When I really want to practise hunting I'll go
to Greshambury; not a doubt about that.'

'Or go to Boxall Hill,' said the lady; 'you'll find quite as much
zeal there as at Greshambury.'

'And more discretion, you should add,' said the gentleman.

'Ha! Ha! Ha!,' laughed Miss Dunstable; 'your discretion indeed!
But you have not told me a word about Lady Arabella.'

'My mother is quite well,' said the gentleman.

'And the doctor? By the by, my dear, I've had such a letter from
the doctor; only two days ago.  I'll show it to you upstairs
to-morrow.  But, mind, it must be a positive secret.  If he goes on
in this way he'll get himself into the Tower or Coventry, or a
blue-book, or some dreadful place.'

'Why? what has he said?'

'Never mind, Master Frank; I don't mean to show you this letter,
you may be sure of that.  But if your wife will swear three times
on a poker and tongs that she won't reveal, I'll show it to her.
And you are quite settled at Boxall Hill, are you?'

'Frank's horses are settled; and the dogs nearly so,' said Frank's
wife; 'but I can't boast much of anything else yet.'

'Well, there's a good thing coming.  I must go and change my things
now.  But, Mary, mind you get near me this evening; I have such a
deal to say to you.' And then Miss Dunstable marched out of the room.

All this had been said in so loud a voice that it was, as a matter
of course, overheard by Mark Robarts--that part of the conversation
of course I mean which had come from Miss Dunstable.  And then Mark
learned that this was young Frank Gresham of Boxall Hill, son of
old Mr Gresham of Greshambury.  Frank had lately married a great
heiress; a greater heiress, men said, even than Miss Dunstable; and
as the marriage was hardly as yet more than six months old the
Barsetshire world was still full of it.

'The two heiresses seem to be very loving, don't they?' said Mr
Supplehouse.  'Birds of a feather flock together, you know.  But
they did say some little time ago that young Gresham was to have
married Miss Dunstable herself.

'Miss Dunstable! why, she might almost be his mother,' said Mark.

'That made little difference.  He was obliged to marry money, and I
believe there is no doubt that he did at one time propose to Miss
Dunstable.'

'I have a letter from Lufton,' Mr Sowerby said to him the next morning.
'He declares that the delay was all your fault.  You were to have
told Lady Lufton before you did anything, and he was waiting to
write about it till he heard from you.  It seems that you never
said a word to her ladyship on the subject.'

'I never did, certainly.  My commission from Lufton was to break
the matter to her when I found her in a proper humour for receiving
it.  If you knew Lady Lufton as well as I do, you would know that
it is not every day that she would be in a humour for such things.'

'And so I was to be kept waiting indefinitely because you two
between you were afraid of an old woman! However, I have not a
word to say against her, and the matter is settled now.'

'Has the farm been sold?'

'Not a bit of it.  The dowager would not bring her mind to suffer
such profanation for the Lufton acres, and so she sold five
thousand pounds out of the funds and sent the money to Lufton as a
present;--sent it to him without saying a word, only hoping that it
would suffice for his wants.  I wish I had a mother, I know.'

Mark found it impossible at the moment to make any remark upon what
had been told him, but he felt a sudden qualm of conscience and a
wish that he was back at Framley instead of Gatherum Castle at the
present moment.  He knew a good deal respecting Lady Lufton's
income and the manner in which it was spent.  It was very handsome
for a single lady, but then she lived in a free and open-handed
style; her charities were noble; there was no reason why she should
save money, and her annual income was usually spent within the
year.  Mark knew this, and he knew also that nothing short of an
impossibility to maintain them would induce her to lessen her
charities.  She had now given away a portion of her principal to
save the property of her son--her son, who was so much more opulent
than herself--upon whose means, too, the world made fewer effectual
claims.  And Mark knew, too, something of the purpose for which
this money had gone.  There had been unsettled gambling claims
between Sowerby and Lord Lufton, originating in affairs of the
turf.  It had now been going on for four years, almost from the
period when Lord Lufton had become of age.  He had before now
spoken to Robarts on the matter with much bitter anger, alleging
that Mr Sowerby was treating him badly, nay, dishonestly--that he
was claiming money that was not due to him; and then he declared
more than once that he would bring the matter before the Jockey
Club.  But Mark, knowing that Lord Lufton was not clear-sighted in
these matters, and believing it to be impossible that Mr Sowerby
should actually endeavour to defraud his friend, had smoothed down
the young lord's anger, and remonstrated him to get the case
referred to some private arbiter.  All this had afterwards been
discussed between Robarts and Mr Sowerby himself, and hence had
originated their intimacy.  The matter was so referred, Mr Sowerby
naming the referee; and Lord Lufton when the matter was given
against him, took it easily.  His anger was over by that time.
'I've been clean done among them,' he said to Mark, laughing; 'but
it does not signify; a man must pay for his experience.  Of course,
Sowerby thinks it all right; I am bound to suppose so.' And then
there had been some further delay as to the amount, and part of the
money had been paid to a third person, and a bill had been given,
and Heaven and the Jews only knew how much money Lord Lufton had
paid in all; and now it was ended by his handing over to some
wretched villain of a money-dealer, on behalf of Mr Sowerby, the
enormous sum of five thousand pounds, which had been deducted from
the means of Lady Lufton!

Mark, as he thought of all this, could not but feel a certain
animosity against Mr Sowerby--could not but suspect that he was a
bad man.  Nay, must he not have known that, he was very bad? And
yet he continued walking with him through the duke's grounds, still
talking about Lord Lufton's affairs, and still listening with
interest to what Sowerby told him of his own.  'No man was ever
robbed as I have been,' said he.  'But I shall win through yet, in
spite of them all.  But those Jews, Mark!'--he had become very
intimate with him in these latter days--'whatever you do, keep
clear of them.  Why, I could paper a room with their signatures; and
yet I never had a claim upon one of them, though they always have
claims in me!'

I have said that this affair of Lord Lufton's was ended, but it now
appeared to Mark that it was not quite ended.  'Tell Lufton, you
know,' said Sowerby, 'that every bit of paper with his name has
been taken up, except what that ruffian Tozer has.  Tozer may have
one bill, I believe,--something that was not given up when it was
renewed.  But I'll make my lawyer Gumption get that up.  It may
cost ten pounds or twenty pounds, not more.  You'll remember that
when you see Lufton, will you?'

'You'll see Lufton, in all probability, before I shall.'

'Oh, did not I tell you? He's going to Framley Court at once;
you'll find him there when you return.'

'Find him at Framley?'

'Yes; this little cadeau from his mother has touched his filial
heart.  He is rushing home to Framley to pay back the dowager's
hard moidores in soft caresses.  I wish I had a mother; I know
that.' And Mark still felt that he feared Mr Sowerby, but he could
not make up his mind to break away from him.

And there was much talk of politics just then at the castle.  Not
that the duke joined in with any enthusiasm.  He was a Whig--a huge
mountain of a colossal Whig--all the world knew that.  No opponent
would have dreamed of tampering with his Whiggery, nor would any
brother Whig have dreamed of doubting it.  But he was a Whig who
gave very little practical support to any set of men, and very
little practical opposition to any other set.  He was above
troubling himself with such sublunar matters.  At election time he
supported, and always carried, Whig candidates; and in return he
had been appointed lord lieutenant of the county by one Whig
minister, and had received the Garter from another.  But these
things were a matter of course to a Duke of Omnium.  He was born to
be a lord lieutenant and a Knight of the Garter.  But not the less
on account of his apathy, or rather quiescence, was it thought that
Gatherum Castle was a fitting place in which politicians might
express to each other their present hopes and future aims, and
concoct together little plots in a half-serious and half-mocking
way.  Indeed it was hinted that Mr Supplehouse and Harold Smith,
with one or two others, were at Gatherum for this express purpose.
Mr Fothergill, too, was a noted politician, and was supposed to
know the duke's mind well; and Mr Green Walker, the nephew of the
marchioness, was a young man whom the duke desired to have brought
forward.  Mr Sowerby also was the duke's own member, and so the
occasion suited well for the interchange of a few ideas.

The then prime minister, angry as many men were with him, had not
been altogether unsuccessful.  He had brought the Russian war to a
close, which, if not glorious, was at any rate much more so than
Englishmen at one time ventured to hope.  And he had had wonderful
luck with that Indian Mutiny.  It is true that many of those even
who voted with him would declare that this was in no way
attributable to him.  Great men had risen in India and done all
that.  Even his minister there, the Governor whom he had sent out,
was not allowed in those days any credit for the success which was
achieved under his orders.  There was great reason to doubt the man
at the helm.  But nevertheless he had been lucky.  There is no
merit in a public man like success! But now, when the evil days
were wellnigh over, came the question whether he had not been too
successful.  When a man has nailed fortune to his chariot-wheels
he is apt to travel about in rather a proud fashion.  There are
servants who think that their masters cannot do without them; and
the public also may occasionally have some such servant.  What if
this too successful minister were one of them! And then a
discreet, commonplace, zealous member of the Lower House does not
like to be jeered at, when he does his duty by his constituents and
asks a few questions.  An all-successful minister who cannot keep
his triumph to himself, but must needs drive about in a proud
fashion, laughing at commonplace zealous members--laughing even
occasionally at members who are by no means commonplace, which is
outrageous!---may it not be as well to ostracize him for a while?'

'Had we not better throw in our shells against him?' says Mr Harold
Smith.

'Let us throw in our shells by all means,' says Mr Supplehouse,
mindful of the Juno of his despised charms.  And when Mr
Supplehouse declares himself an enemy, men know how much it means.
They know that that much-belaboured head of affairs must succumb to
the terrible blows which are now in store for him.  'Yes, we will
throw in our shells.' And Mr Supplehouse rises from his chair with
gleaming eyes.  'Has not Greece as noble a son as him? Aye, and much
nobler, traitor that he is.  We must judge a man by his friends,'
says Mr Supplehouse; and he points away to the East, where
our dear allies the French are supposed to live, and where our head
of affairs is supposed to have too close intimacy.

They all understand this, even Mr Green Walker.  'I don't know that
he is any good to any of us at all, now,' says the talented member
for the Crewe-Junction.  'He's a great deal too uppish to suit my
book; and I know a great many people that think so too.  There's my
uncle--'

'He's the best fellow in the world,' said Mr Fothergill, who felt,
perhaps, that that coming revelation about Mr Green Walker's uncle
might not be of use to them; 'but the fact is one gets tired of the
same man always.  One does not like his partridge every day.  As
for me, I have nothing to do with it myself; but I would certainly
like to change the dish.'

'If we're merely to do as we are bid, and have no voice of our own,
I don't see what's the good of going to the shop at all,' said Mr
Sowerby.

'Let's have a change, then,' said Mr Sowerby.  'The matter's pretty
much in our own hands.'

'Altogether,' said Mr Green Walker.  'That's what my uncle always
says.'

'The Manchester men will only be too happy for the chance,' said
Harold Smith.

'And as for the high and dry gentlemen,' said Mr Sowerby, 'it's not
very likely that they will object to pick up the fruit when we
shake the tree.'

'As to picking up the fruit, that's as may be,' said Mr
Supplehouse.  Was he not the man to save the nation? and if so,
why should he not pick up the fruit himself? Had not the greatest
power in the country pointed him out as such a saviour? What
though the country at the present moment needed no more saving,
might there not, nevertheless, be a good time coming? Were there
not rumours of other wars still prevalent?---if indeed the actual
war then going on was being brought to a close without his
assistance by some other species of salvation? He thought of that
country to which he had pointed, and of that friend of his enemies,
and remembered that there might be still work for a mighty
saviour.  The public mind was now awake, and understood what it was
about.  When a man gets into his head an idea that the public voice
calls for him, it is astonishing how great becomes his trust in the
wisdom of the public.  Vox populi, vox Dei.  'Has it not been so
always?' he says to himself, as he gets up and as he goes to bed.
And then Mr Supplehouse felt that he was the master mind there at
Gatherum Castle, and that those there were all puppets in his
hands.  It is such a pleasant thing to feel that one's friends are
puppets, and that the strings are in one's own possession.  But
what if Mr Supplehouse himself were a puppet? Some months
afterwards, when the much-belaboured head of affairs was in very
truth made to retire, when unkind shells were thrown against him in
great numbers, when he exclaimed, 'Et tu, Brute!' till the words
were stereotyped upon his lips, all men in all places talked much
about the great Gatherum Castle confederation.  The Duke of Omnium,
the world said, had taken into his high consideration the state of
affairs, and seeing with his eagle's eye that the welfare of his
countrymen at large required that some great step should be
initiated, he had at once summoned to his mansion many members of
the Lower House, and some also of the House of Lords,--mention was
here especially made of the all-venerable and all-wise Lord
Boanerges; and men went on to say that there, in deep conclave, he
had made known to them his views.  It was thus agreed that the head
of affairs, Whig as he was, must fall.  The country required it,
and the duke did his duty.  This was the beginning, the world said,
of that celebrated confederation, by which the ministry was
overturned, and--as the Goody Twoshoes added--the country saved.
But the Jupiter was not far wrong.  All the credit was due to the
Jupiter--in that, as in everything else.

In the meantime the Duke of Omnium entertained his guests in the
quiet princely style, but did not condescend to have much
conversation on politics either with Mr Supplehouse or with Mr
Harold Smith.  And as for Lord Boanerges, he spent the morning on
which the above-mentioned conversation took place in teaching Miss
Dunstable to blow soap-bubbles on scientific principles.

'Dear, dear!' said Miss Dunstable, as sparks of knowledge came
flying in upon her mind.  'I always thought that a soap-bubble was
a soap-bubble, and I never asked the reason why.  Once doesn't, you
know, my lord.'

'Pardon me, Miss Dunstable,' said the old lord, 'one does; but nine
hundred and ninety-nine do not.'

'And the nine hundred and ninety-nine have the best of it,' said
Miss Dunstable.  'What pleasure can one have in a ghost after one
has seen the phosphorus rubbed on?'

'Quite true, my dear lady.  "If ignorance be bliss, 'tis folly to
be wise." It all lies in the "if".'

Then Miss Dunstable began to sing:-

      '"Did I not own Jehovah's power
        How vain were all I know."'

'Exactly, exactly, Miss Dunstable,' said his lordship; 'but why not
own the power and trace the flower as well? Perhaps one might help
the other.' Upon the whole, I am afraid that Lord Boanerges got
the best of it.  But, then, that is his line.  He has been getting
the best of it all his life.

It was observed by all that the duke was especially attentive to
young Mr Frank Gresham, the gentleman on whose wife Miss Dunstable
seized so vehemently.  This Mr Gresham was the richest commoner in
the county, and it was rumoured that at the next election he would
be one of the members for the East Riding.  Now the duke had little
or nothing to do with the East Riding, and it was well known that
young Gresham would be brought forward as a strong Conservative.
But, nevertheless, his acres were so extensive and his money so
plentiful that he was worth a duke's notice.  Mr Sowerby, also, was
almost more than civil to him, as was natural, seeing that this
very young man by a mere scratch of his pen could turn a scrap of
paper into a bank note of almost fabulous value.

'So you have the East Barsetshire hounds at Boxall Hill; have you
not,' said the duke.

'The hounds are there,' said Frank.  'But I am not the master.'

'Oh! I understood--'

'My father has them.  But he finds Boxall Hill more centrical than
Greshambury.  The dogs and horses have to go shorter distances.'

'Boxall Hill is very centrical.'

'Oh, exactly!'

'And your young gorse coverts are doing well?'

'Pretty well--gorse won't thrive everywhere, I find.  I wish it
would.'

'That's just what I say to Fothergill; and then where there's much
woodland you can't get the vermin to leave it.'

'But we haven't a tree at Boxall Hill,' said Mr Gresham.

'Ah, yes; you're new there, certainly; you've enough of it at
Greshambury in all conscience.  There's a larger extent of wood
there than we have; isn't there, Fothergill?' Mr Fothergill said
that the Greshambury woods were very extensive, but that, perhaps,
he thought--

'Oh, ah! I know,' said the duke.  'The Black Forest in its old
days was nothing to Gatherum woods, according to Fothergill.  And
then, again, nothing in East Barsetshire could be equal to anything
in West Barsetshire.  Isn't that it; eh, Fothergill?' Mr
Fothergill professed that he had been brought up in that faith and
intended to die in it.

'Your exotics at Boxall Hill are very fine, magnificent!'

'I'd sooner have one full-grown oak standing in its pride alone,'
said young Gresham, rather grandiloquently, 'than all the exotics
in the world.'

'They'll come in due time,' said the duke.

'But the due time won't be in my days.  And so they're going to cut
down Chaldicotes Forest, are they, Mr Sowerby.'

'Well, I can't tell you that.  They are going to disforest it.  I
have been ranger since I was twenty-two, and I don't yet know
whether that means cutting down.'

'Not only cutting down, but rooting up,' said Mr Fothergill.

'It's a murderous shame,' said Frank Gresham; 'and I will say one
thing, I don't think any but a Whig government would do it.'

'Ha, ha, ha!' said his grace.  'At any rate, I'm sure of this,' he
said, 'that if a Conservative government did do so, the Whigs would
be just as indignant as you are now.'

'I'll tell you what you ought to do, Mr Gresham,' said Sowerby;
'put in an offer for the whole of the West Barsetshire Crown
property; they will be very glad to sell it.'

'And we should be delighted to welcome you on this side of the
border,' said the duke.  Young Gresham did feel rather flattered.
There were not many men in the county to whom such an offer could be
made without an absurdity.  It might be doubted whether the duke
himself could purchase the chase of Chaldicotes with ready money;
but that he, Gresham, could do so--he and his wife between them--no
man did doubt.  And then Mr Gresham thought of a former day when he
had once been at Gatherum Castle.  He had been poor enough then,
and the duke had not treated him in the most courteous manner in
the world.  How hard it is for a rich man not to lean upon his
riches! harder, indeed, than for a camel to go through the eye of
a needle.

All Barsetshire knew--at any rate all West Barsetshire--that Miss
Dunstable had been brought down in those parts in order that Mr
Sowerby might marry her.  It was not surmised that Miss Dunstable
herself had had any previous notice of this arrangement, but it was
supposed that the thing would turn out as a matter of course.  Mr
Sowerby had no money, but then he was witty, clever, good-looking,
and a member of Parliament.  He lived before the world, represented
an old family, and had an old place.  How could Miss Dunstable
possibly do better? She was not so young now, and it was time that
she should look about her.  The suggestion, as regarded Mr Sowerby,
was certainly true, and was not the less so as regarded some of Mr
Sowerby's friends.  His sister, Mrs Harold Smith, had devoted
herself to the work, and with this view had run up a dear
friendship with Miss Dunstable.  The bishop had intimated, nodding
his head knowingly, that it would be a very good thing.  Mrs
Proudie had given her adherence.  Mr Supplehouse had been made to
understand that it must be a case of 'Pawn off' with him, as long
as he remained in that part of the world; and even the duke himself
had desired Mr Fothergill to manage it.

'He owes me an enormous sum of money,' said the duke, who held all
Mr Sowerby's title-deeds, 'and I doubt whether the security will be
sufficient.'

'Your grace will find the security quite insufficient,' said Mr
Fothergill; 'but nevertheless it would be a good match.'

'Very good,' said the duke.  And then it became Mr Fothergill's duty
to see that Mr Sowerby and Miss Dunstable became man and wife as
speedily as possible.  Some of the party, who were more wide awake
than others, declared that he had made the offer; others that he
was just going to do so; and one very knowing lady went so far at
one time as to say that he was making it that moment.  Bets also
were laid as to the lady's answer, as to the terms of the
settlement, and as to the period of the marriage--of all which poor
Miss Dunstable of course knew nothing.  Mr Sowerby, in spite of the
publicity of his proceedings, proceeded in this matter very well.
He said little about it, to those who joked with him, but carried
on the fight with what best knowledge he had in these matters.  But
so much it is given to us to declare with certainty, that he had
not proposed on the evening previous to the morning fixed for the
departure of Mark Robarts.  During the last two days Mr Sowerby's
intimacy with Mark had grown warmer and warmer.  He had talked to the
vicar confidentially about the doings of these bigwigs now present
at the castle, as though there were no other guests there with whom
he could speak in so free a manner.  He confided, it seemed, much
more in Mark than in his brother-in-law, Harold Smith, or in any of
his brother members of Parliament, and had altogether opened his
heart to him in this affair of his anticipated marriage.  Now Mr
Sowerby was a man of mark in the world, and all this flattered our
young clergyman not a little.  On that evening before Robarts went
away Sowerby asked him to come up to his bedroom when the whole
party was breaking up, and there got him into an easy chair while
he, Sowerby, walked up and down the room.

'You can hardly tell, my dear fellow,' said he, 'the state of
nervous anxiety in which this puts me.'

'Why don't you ask her and have done with it? She seems to me to
be fond of your society.'

'Ah, it is not that only; there are wheels within wheels;' and then
he walked once or twice up and down the room, during which Mark
thought that he might as well go to bed.

'Not that I mind telling you everything,' said Sowerby.  'I am
infernally hard up for a little ready money, just at the present
moment.  It may be, and indeed I think it will be, the case that I
shall be ruined in this matter for the want of it.'

'Could not Harold Smith give it to you?'

'Ha, ha, ha! you don't know Harold Smith.  Did you ever hear of
his lending a man a shilling in his life?'

'Or Supplehouse?'

'Lord love you.  You see me and Supplehouse together here, and he
comes and stays at my house, and all that; but Supplehouse and I
are no friends.  Look you here, Mark--I would do more for your
little finger than for his whole hand, including the pen which he
holds in it.  Fothergill indeed might--but then I know Fothergill
is pressed himself at the present moment.  It is deuced hard, isn't
it? I must give up the whole game if I can't put my hand upon
L400, within the next two days.'

'Ask her for it, herself.'

'What, the woman I wish to marry! No, Mark, I'm not quite come to
that.  I would sooner lose her than that.' Mark sat silent, gazing
at the fire and wishing that he was in his own bedroom.  He had an
idea that Mr Sowerby wished him to produce the L400, and he knew
also that he had not L400 in the world, and that if he had he would
be acting very foolishly to give it to Mr Sowerby.  But,
nevertheless, he felt half fascinated by the man, and half afraid
of him.

'Lufton owes it to me to do more than this,' continued Mr Sowerby,
'but then Lufton is not here.'

'Why, he has just paid five thousand pounds to you.'

'Paid five thousand pounds to me! Indeed he has done no such
thing; not a sixpence of it came into my hands.  Believe me, Mark,
you don't know the whole of that yet.  Not that I mean to say a
word against Lufton.  He is the soul of honour; though so deucedly
dilatory in money matters.  He thought he was right all through
that affair, but no man was ever so confoundedly wrong.  Why, don't
you remember that that was the very view you took yourself.'

'I remember saying that I thought he was mistaken.'

'Of course he was mistaken.  And dearly that mistake cost me.  I
had to make good the money for two or three years.  And my property
is not like his--I wish it were.'

'Marry Miss Dunstable, and that will set it all right for you.'

'Ah! so I would if I had this money.  At any rate I would bring it
to the point.  Now, I tell you what, Mark, if you'll assist me at
this strait I'll never forget it.  And the time will come round
when I may be able to do something for you.'

'I have not got a hundred, no, not fifty pounds by me in the
world.'

'Of course you've not.  Men don't walk about the streets with L400
in their pockets.  I don't suppose there is a single man here in
the house with such a sum at his banker's, unless it is the duke.'

'What is it you want, then?'

'Why, your name, to be sure.  Believe me, my dear fellow, I would
not ask you really to put your hand into your pocket to such a tune
as that.  Allow me to draw on you for that amount at three months.
Long before that time I shall be flush enough.' And then, before
Mark could answer, he had a bill stamp and pen and ink out on the
table before him, and was filling in the bill as though his friend
had already given his consent.

'Upon my word, Sowerby, I had rather not do that.'

'Why? what are you afraid of?'--Mr Sowerby asked this very
sharply.  'Did you ever hear of my having neglected to take up a
bill when it fell due?' Robarts thought that he had heard of such a
thing; but in his confusing he was not exactly sure, and so he said
nothing.

'No, my boy; I have not come to that.  Look here: just you write,
"Accepted, Mark Robarts," across that, and then you shall never
hear of the transaction again; and you will have obliged me for
ever.'

'As a clergyman it would be wrong of me,' said Robarts.

'As a clergyman! Come, Mark.  If you don't like to do as much as
that for a friend, say so; but don't let me have that sort of
humbug.  If there be one class of men whose names would be found
more frequent on the backs of bills in the provincial banks than
another, clergymen are that class.  Come, old fellow, you won't
throw me over when I am so hard pushed.' Mark Robarts took the pen
and signed the bill.  It was the first time in his life that he had
ever done such an act.  Sowerby then shook him cordially by the
hand, and he walked off to his own bedroom a wretched man.



CHAPTER IX

THE VICAR'S RETURN

The next morning Mr Robarts took leave of all his grand friends
with a heavy heart.  He had lain awake half the night thinking of
what he had done and trying to reconcile himself to his position.
He had not well left Mr Sowerby's room before he felt certain that
at the end of three months he would again be troubled about that
400L.  As he went along the passage, all the man's known
antecedents crowded upon him much quicker than he could remember
them when seated in that arm-chair with the bill stamp before him,
and the pen and ink ready to his hand.  He remembered what Lord
Lufton had told him--how he had complained of having been left in
the lurch; he though of all the stories current throughout the
entire country as to the impossibility of getting money from
Chaldicotes; he brought to mind the known character of the man, and
then he knew that he must prepare himself to make good a portion at
least of that heavy payment.  Why had he come to this horrid
place?  Had he not everything at home at Framley at which the heart
of man could desire?  No; the heart of man can desire deaneries--the
heart, that is, of the man vicar; and the heart of the man dean can
desire bishoprics; and before the eyes of the man bishop does there
not loom the transcendental glory of Lambeth?  He had owned to himself
that he was ambitious; but he had to own to himself now that he had
hitherto taken but a sorry path towards the object of his ambition.
On the next morning at breakfast-time, before his horse and gig arrived
for him, no one was so bright as his friend Sowerby.  'So you are off,
are you?' said he.

'Yes, I shall go this morning.'

'Say everything that's kind from me to Lufton.  I may possibly see
him hunting; otherwise we shan't meet till the spring.  As to my
going to Framley, that's out of the question.  Her ladyship would
look for my tail, and swear that she smelt brimstone.  By-bye, old
fellow!'

The German student when he first made his bargain with the devil
felt an indescribable attraction to his new friend; and such was
the case now with Robarts.  He shook Sowerby's hand very warmly,
said that he hoped he should meet him soon somewhere, and professed
himself specially anxious to hear how that affair with the lady
came off.  As he had made his bargain--as he had undertaken to pay
nearly half a year's income for his dear friend--ought he not to
have as much value as possible for his money?  If the dear
friendship of this flash member of Parliament did not represent
that value, what else did so?  But then he felt, or fancied that he
felt, that Mr Sowerby did not care for him so much this morning as
he had done on the previous evening.  'By-bye,' said Mr Sowerby,
but he spoke no word as to such future meetings, nor did he even
promise to write.  Mr Sowerby probably had many things on his mind;
and it might be that it behoved him, having finished one piece of
business, immediately to look for another.

The sum for which Robarts had made himself responsible--which he
so much feared that he would be called upon to pay--was very
nearly half a year's income; and as yet he had not put by one
shilling since he had been married.  When he found himself settled
in his parsonage, he found also that all the world regarded him as
a rich man.  He had taken the dictum of all the world as true, and
had set himself to work to live comfortably.  He had no absolute
need of a curate; but he could afford the 70L--as Lady Lufton had
said rather injudiciously; and by keeping Jones in the parish he
would be acting charitably to a brother clergyman, and would also
place himself in a more independent position.  Lady Lufton had
wished to see her pet clergyman well-to-do and comfortable; but
now, as matters had turned out, she much regretted this affair of
the curate.  Mr Jones, she said to herself more than once, must be
made to depart from Framley.  He had given his wife a
pony-carriage, and for himself he had a saddle-horse, and a second
horse for his gig.  A man in his position, well-to-do, as he was,
required as much as that. He had a footman also, and a gardener and
a groom.  The two latter were absolutely necessary, but about the
former there had been a question.  His wife had been decidedly
hostile to the footman; but in all such matters as that, to doubt
is to be lost.  When the footman had been discussed for a week it
became quite clear to the master he also was a necessity.

As he drove home that morning he pronounced to himself the doom of
that footman, and the doom also of that saddle-horse.  They at any
rate should go.  And then he would spend no more money in trips to
Scotland; and above all, he would keep out of the bedrooms of
impoverished members of Parliament at the witching hour of
midnight.  Such resolves did he make to himself wearily how that
400L might be made to be forthcoming.  As to any assistance in the
matter from Sowerby--of that he gave himself no promise.  But he
almost felt himself happy again as his wife came out into the porch
to meet him with a silk shawl over her head, and pretending to
shiver as she watched him descending from his gig.  'My dear old
man,' she said, as she led him into the warm drawing-room with all
his wrappings still around him, 'you must be starved.'  But Mark
during the whole drive had been thinking too much of that
transaction in Mr Sowerby's bedroom to remember that he was cold.
Now he had his arms round his own dear Fanny's waist; but was he to
tell her of that transaction?  At any rate he would not do it now,
while his two boys were in his arms, rubbing the moisture from his
whiskers with his kisses.  After all, what is there equal to coming
home?

'And so Lufton is here.  I say, Frank, gently, old boy,'--Frank
was his eldest son--'you'll have baby into the fender.'

'Let me take baby; it's impossible to hold the two of them, they
are so strong,' said the proud mother.  'Oh, yes, he came home
early yesterday.'

'Have you seen him?'

'He was here yesterday, with her ladyship; and I lunched there
to-day.  The letter came, you know, in time to stop the Merediths.
They don't go till to-morrow, so you will meet them after all.  Sir
George is wild about it, but Lady Lufton would have her way.  You
never saw her in such a state as she is.'

'Good spirit, eh!'

'I should think so.  All Lord Lufton's horses are coming, and he's
to be there till March.'

'Till March!'

'So her ladyship whispered to me.  She could not conceal her
triumph at his coming.  He's going to give up Leicestershire this
year altogether.  I wonder what has brought it all about?'  Mark
knew very well what had brought it about; he had been made
acquainted, as the reader has also, with the price which Lady
Lufton had purchased her son's visit.  But no one had told Mrs
Robarts that the mother had made her son a present of five thousand
pounds.

'She's in a good humour about everything now,' continued Fanny; 'so
you need say nothing at all about Gatherum Castle.'

'But she was very angry when she first heard it; was she not?'

'Well, Mark, to tell the truth, she was; and we had quite a scene
there up in her own room upstairs--Justinia and I. She had heard
something else that she did not like at the same time; and
then--but you know her way.  She blazed up quite a lot.'

'And said all manner of things about me.'

'About the duke she did.  You know she never did like the duke; and
for the matter of that, neither do I.  I tell you that fairly,
Master Mark.'

'The duke is not so bad as he's painted.'

'Ah, that's what you say about another great person. However, he
won't come here to trouble us, I suppose.  And then I left her, not
in the best temper in the world; for I blazed up too, you must
know.'

'I am sure you did,' said Mark, pressing his arm round her waist.

'And then we were going to have a dreadful war, I thought; and I
came home and wrote such a doleful letter to you.  But what should
happen when I had just closed it, but in came her ladyship--all
alone, and--But I can't tell you what she did or said, only she
behaved beautifully; just like herself too; so full of love and
truth and honesty.  There's nobody like her, Mark; and she's better
than all the dukes that ever wore--whatever dukes do wear.'

'Horns and hoofs; that's their usual apparel, according to you and
Lady Lufton,' said he, remembering what Mr Sowerby had said of
himself.

'You may say what you like about me, Mark, but you shan't abuse
Lady Lufton.  And if horns and hoofs mean wickedness and
dissipation, I believe it's not far wrong.  But get off your big
coat and make yourself comfortable.'  And that was all the scolding
that Mark Robarts got from his wife on the occasion of his great
iniquity.

'I will certainly tell her about this bill transaction,' he said to
himself; 'but not to-day; not till after I have seen Lufton.'  That
evening they dined at Framley Court, and there they met the young
lord; they found also Lady Lufton still in high good-humour.  Lord
Lufton himself was a fine, bright-looking young man; not as tall
as Mark Robarts, and with perhaps less intelligence marked on his
face; but his features were finer, and there was in his countenance
a thorough appearance of good-humour and sweet temper.  It was
indeed a pleasant face to look upon, and dearly Lady Lufton loved
to gaze at it.

'Well, Mark, so you have been among the Philistines?' that was his
lordship's first remark.  Robarts laughed as he took his friend's
hands, and bethought himself how truly that was the case; that he
was, in very truth, already 'himself in bonds under Philistian
yoke'.  Alas, alas, it is very hard to break asunder the bonds of
the latter-day Philistines.  When a Samson does now and then pull a
temple down about their ears, is he not sure to be engulfed in the
ruin with them? There is not horse-leech that sticks so fast as
your latter-day Philistine.

'So you have caught Sir George, after all,' said Lady Lufton; and
that was nearly all she said in allusion to his absence.  There was
afterwards some conversation about the lecture, and from her
ladyship's remarks it certainly was apparent that she did not like
the people among whom the vicar had been lately staying; but she
said no word that was personal to him himself, or that could be taken
as a reproach.  The little episode of Mrs Proudie's address in the
lecture-room had already reached Framley, and it was only to be
expected that Lady Lufton should enjoy the joke.  She would affect
to believe that the body of the lecture had been given by the
bishop's wife; and afterwards, when Mark described her costume at
that Sunday morning breakfast table, Lady Lufton would assume that
such had been the dress in which she had addressed her faculties in
public.

'I would have given a five-pound note to have heard it,' said Sir
George.

'So would not I,' said Lady Lufton.  'When one hears of such things
described as graphically as Mr Robarts now tells it, one can hardly
help laughing.  But it would me great pain to see the wife of one
of our bishops place herself in such a situation.  For he is a
bishop after all.'

'Well, upon my word, my lady, I agree with Meredith,' said Lord
Lufton.  'It must have been good fun.  As it did happen, you
know,--as the Church was doomed to disgrace,--I should like to have
heard it.'

'I know you would have been shocked, Ludovic.'

'I should have got over it in time, mother.  It would have been
like a bull-fight, I suppose--horrible to see, no doubt, but
extremely interesting.  And Harold Smith, Mark; what did he do all
the while?'

'It didn't take so very long, you know,' said Robarts.

'And the poor bishop,' said Lady Meredith; 'how did he look?  I
really do pity him.'

'Well, he was asleep, I think.'

'What, slept through it all?' said Sir George.

'It awakened him; and then he jumped up and said something.'

'What, out loud, too?'

'Only one word or so.'

'What a disgraceful scene,' said Lady Lufton.  'To those who
remember the good old man who was in the diocese before him, it is
perfectly shocking.  He confirmed you, Ludovic, and you ought to
remember him.  It was over at Barchester, and you went and lunched
with him afterwards.'

'I do remember; and especially this, that I never ate such tarts in
my life, before or since.  The old man particularly called my
attention to them, and seemed remarkably pleased that I concurred
in his sentiments.  There are no such tarts as those going to the
palace now, I'll be bound.'

'Mrs Proudie will be very happy to do her best for you if you will
go and try,' said Sir George.

'I beg that he will do no such thing,' said Lady Lufton; and that
was the only severe word she said about any of Mark's visitings. As
Sir George Meredith was there, Robarts could say nothing then to
Lord Lufton about Mr Sowerby and Mr Sowerby's money affairs; but he
did make an appointment for a tete-a-tete on the next morning.

'You must come down and see my nags, Mark; they came to-day.  The
Merediths will be off at twelve, and then we can have an hour
together.'  Mark said he would, and then went home with his wife
under his arm.

'Well now, is not she kind?' said Fanny, as soon as they were out
on the gravel together.

'She is kind; kinder than I can tell you at present.  But did you
ever know anything so bitter as she is to the poor bishop?  And
really the bishop is not so bad.'

'Yes; and I know something more bitter; and that is what she thinks
of the bishop's wife.  And you know, Mark, it was so unladylike,
her getting up in that way.  What must the people at Barchester
think of her?'

'As far as I could see, the people of Barchester liked it.'

'Nonsense, Mark; they could not.  But never mind that now.  I want
you to own that she is good.'  And then Mrs Robarts went on with
another long eulogy on the dowager.  Since that affair of the
pardon-begging at the parsonage, Mrs Robarts hardly knew how to
think well enough of her friend.  And the evening had been so
pleasant after that dreadful storm and threatenings of hurricanes;
her husband had been so well received after his lapse of judgement;
the wounds that had looked so sore had been so thoroughly healed,
and everything was so pleasant.  How all of this would have been
changed had she known of that little bill!  At twelve the next
morning the lord and the vicar were walking through the Framley
stables together.  Quite a commotion had been made there, for the
larger portion of those buildings had been of late years seldom
been used.  But now all was crowding and activity. Seven or eight
precious animals had followed Lord Lufton from Leicestershire, and
all of them required dimensions that were thought to be rather
excessive by the Framley old-fashioned groom.  My lord, however,
had a head man of his own who took the matter quite into his own
hands.  Mark, priest as he was, was quite worldly enough to be fond
of a good horse; and for some little time allowed Lord Lufton to
decant on the merit of this four-year-old filly, and that
magnificent Rattlebones colt, out of a Mousetrap mare; but he had
other things that lay heavy on his mind, and after bestowing half
an hour on the stud, he contrived to get his friend away to the
shrubbery walks.

'So you have settled with old Sowerby,' Robarts began by saying.

'Settled with him; yes, but do you know the price?'

'I believe that you have paid five thousand pounds.'

'Yes, and about three before; and that is a matter in which I did
not really owe one shilling.  Whatever I do in future, I'll keep
out of Sowerby's grip.'

But you don't think he was unfair to you.'

'Mark, to tell you the truth, I have banished the affair from my
mind, and don't wish to take it up again.  My mother has paid the
money to save the property, and of course I must pay her back.  But
I think I may promise that I will not have any more money dealings
with Sowerby.  I will not say that he is dishonest, but at any rate
he is sharp.'

'Well, Lufton; what will you say when I tell you that I have put my
name to a bill for him, for four hundred pounds?'

'Say; why I should say--; but you're joking; a man in your position
would never do such a thing.'

'But I have done it.'  Lord Lufton gave a long low whistle.

'He asked me the last night that I was there, making a great favour
of it, and declaring that no bill of his had ever been
dishonoured.'

Lord Lufton whistled again.  'No bill of his dishonoured! Why, the
pocket-books of the Jews are stuffed full of his dishonoured
papers!  And you have really given him your name for four hundred
pounds?'

'I have certainly.'

'At what date?'

'Three months.'

'And have you thought where you are to get the money?'

'I know very well that I can't get it, not at least by that time.
The bankers must renew it for me, and I must pay it be degrees.
That is, if Sowerby really does not take it up.'

'It is just as likely he will take up the National Debt.' Robarts
then told him about the projected marriage with Miss Dunstable,
giving it as his opinion that the lady would probably accept the
gentleman.

'Not at all improbable,' said his lordship, 'for Sowerby is an
agreeable fellow; and if it be so, he will have all that he wants
for life.  But his creditors will gain nothing.  The duke, who has
his title-deeds, will doubtless get his money, and the estate will
in fact belong to the wife.  But the small fry, such as you, will
not get a shilling.'  Poor Mark!  He had an inkling of this before;
but it had hardly presented itself to him in such certain terms. It
was then, a positive fact, that in punishment for his weakness in
having signed the bill he would have to pay, not only four hundred
pounds, but four hundred pounds with interest, and expenses of
renewal, and commission and bill stamps.  Yes; he had certainly got
among the Philistines during his visit to the duke.  It began to
appear to him pretty clearly that it would have been better for him
to have relinquished altogether the glories of Chaldicotes and
Gatherum Castle.

And now, how was he to tell his wife?



CHAPTER X

LUCY ROBARTS

And now, how was he going to tell his wife?  That was the
consideration heavy on Mark Robarts's mind when last we left him;
and he turned the matter over in his thoughts before he could bring
himself to a resolution.  At last he did so, and one may say that
it was not altogether a bad one, if only he could carry it out.  He
would ascertain in what bank that bill of his had been discounted.
He would ask Sowerby, and if he could not learn from him, he would
go to the three banks in Barchester.  That it had been taken to one
of them he felt tolerably certain.  He would explain to the manager
his conviction that he would have to make good the amount, his
inability to do so at the end of three months, and the whole state
of his income; and then the banker would explain to him how the
matter might be arranged.  He thought that he could pay 50L every
three months with interest.  As soon as this should have been
concerted with the banker, he would let is wife know all about it.
Were he to tell her at the present moment, while the matter was all
unsettled, the intelligence would frighten her into illness.  But
on the next morning there came to him tidings by the hands of Robin
postman, which for a long while upset all his plans.  The letter
was from Exeter.  His father had been taken ill, and had very
quickly been pronounced to be in danger.  That evening--the evening
on which his sister wrote--the old man was much worse, and it was
desirable that Mark should go off to Exeter as quickly as
possible.  Of course he went to Exeter--again leaving the Framley
souls at the mercy of the Welsh Low Churchman.  Framley is only
four miles from Silverbridge, and at Silverbridge he was on the
direct road to the West.  He was, therefore, at Exeter before
nightfall on that day.  But, nevertheless, he arrived there too
late to see his father again alive.  The old man's illness had been
sudden and rapid, and he expired without again seeing his eldest
son.  Mark arrived at the house of mourning just as they were
learning to realize the full change in their position.

The doctor's career had been on the whole successful, but
nevertheless, he did not leave behind him as much money as the
world had given him credit for possessing.  Who ever does?  Dr
Robarts had educated a large family, had always lived with every
comfort, and had never possessed a shilling but what he had earned
himself.  A physician's fees come in, no doubt, with comfortable
rapidity as soon as rich old gentlemen and middle-aged ladies begin
to put their faith in him; but fees run out almost with equal
rapidity when a wife and seven children are treated to everything
that the world considers most desirable.  Mark, as we have seen,
had been educated at Harrow and Oxford, and it may be said,
therefore, that he had received his patrimony early in life.  For
Gerald Robarts, the second brother, a commission had been bought in
a crack regiment.  He also had been lucky, having lived and become
a captain in the Crimea; and the purchase-money was lodged for his
majority.  And John Robarts, the youngest was clerk in the Petty
Bag Office, and was already assistant private secretary to Lord
Petty Bag himself--a place of considerable trust, if not hitherto
of large emolument: and on his education money had been spent
freely, for in these days a young man cannot get into the Petty Bag
Office without knowing at least three modern languages; and he must
be well up in trigonometry too, in Bible theology, or in one dead
language--at his option.  And the doctor had four daughters.  The
two elder were married, including that Blanche with whom Lord
Lufton was to have fallen in love at the vicar's wedding.  A
Devonshire squire had done this in the lord's place; but on
marrying her it was necessary that he should have a few thousand
pounds, two or three perhaps, and the old doctor had managed that
they should be forthcoming.  The elder sister had not been sent
away from the paternal mansions quite empty handed.  There were,
therefore, at the time of the doctor's death, two children left at
home, of whom one only, Lucy, the younger will come much across us
in the course of our story.

Mark stayed for ten days at Exeter, he and the Devonshire squire
having been named as executors in the will.  In this document it
was explained that the doctor trusted that providence had been made
for most of his children.  As for his dear son Mark, he said, he
was aware that he need be under no uneasiness.  On hearing this
read Mark smiled sweetly, and looked very gracious; but,
nevertheless, his heart did sink somewhat within him, for there had
been a hope that a small windfall, coming now so opportunely, might
enable him to rid himself at once of that dreadful Sowerby
incubus.  And then the will went on to declare that Mary, and
Gerald, and Blanche, had also, by God's providence, been placed
beyond want.  And here, looking into the squire's face, one might
have thought that his heart fell a little also; for he had not so
full a command of his feelings as his brother-in-law, who had been
so much more before the world.  To John, the assistant private
secretary, was left a legacy of a thousand pounds; and to Jane and
Lucy certain sums in certain four per cents., which were quite
sufficient to add an efficient value to the hands of those young
ladies in the eyes of the most prudent young would be Benedicts.
Over and beyond this there was nothing but the furniture, which he
desired might be sold, and the proceeds divided among them all.  It
might come to sixty or seventy pounds a piece, and pay the expenses
incidental on is death.  And then all men and women there and
thereabouts said that old Dr Robarts had done well.  His life had
been good and prosperous, and his will was just.  And Mark, among
others, so declared--and was so convinced in spite of his own
little disappointment.  And on the third morning after the reading
of the will Squire Crowdy, of Creamclotted Hall, altogether got
over his grief, and said that it was all right.  And then it was
decided that Jane should go home with him--for there was a brother
squire who, it was thought, might have an eye to Jane;--and Lucy,
the younger, should be taken to Framley Parsonage.  In a fortnight
from the receipt of that letter, Mark arrived at his own house with
his sister Lucy under his wing.

All this interfered greatly with Mark's wise resolution as to the
Sowerby incubus.  In the first place, he could not get to
Barchester as soon as he had intended, and then an idea came across
him that possibly it might be well that he should borrow the money
of his brother John, explaining the circumstances, of course, and
paying him due interest.  But he had not liked to broach the
subject when they were there in Exeter, standing, as it were, over
their father's grave, and so the matter was postponed.  There was
still ample time for arrangement before the bill would come due,
and he would not tell Fanny till he had made up his mind what that
arrangement would be.  It would kill her, he said to himself over
and over again, were he to tell her of it without being able to
tell her also that the means of liquidating the debt were to be
forthcoming.

And now I must say a word about Lucy Robarts.  If one might only go
on without those descriptions how pleasant it would be!  But Lucy
Robarts has to play a forward part in this little drama, and those
who care for such matters must be made to understand something of
her form and likeness.  When last we mentioned her as appearing,
though not in any promising position, at her brother's wedding, she
was only sixteen; but now, at the time of her father's death,
somewhat over two years having since elapsed, she was nearly
nineteen.  Laying aside for the sake of clearness that indefinite
term of girl--for girls are girls from the age of three up to
forty-three, if not previously married--dropping that generic word,
we may say that then, at that wedding of her brother, she was a
child; and now, at the death of her father, she was a woman.
Nothing, perhaps, adds so much to womanhood, turns the child so
quickly into a woman, as such death-bed scenes as these.  Hitherto
but little has fallen to Lucy to do in the way of woman's duties.
Of money transactions she had known nothing, beyond a jocose
attempt to make her annual allowance of twenty-five pounds cover
all her personal wants--an attempt which was mad jocose by the
loving bounty of her father.  Her sister, who was three years her
elder--for John came in between them--had managed the house; that
is, she had made the tea and talked to the housekeeper about the
dinners.  But Lucy had sat at her father's elbow, had read to him
of evenings when he went to sleep, had brought him his slippers and
looked after the comforts of his easy chair.  All this she had done
as a child; but when she stood at the coffin head, and knelt at the
coffin side, then she was a woman.

She was smaller in stature than either of her three sisters, to all
of whom had been acceded the praise of being fine woman--a eulogy
which the people of Exeter, looking back at the elder sisters, and
the general remembrance of them which pervaded the city, were not
willing to extend to Lucy.  'Dear--dear!' had been said of her;
'poor Lucy is not like a Robarts at all; is she, now, Mrs
Pole?'--for as the daughters had become fine women, so had the sons
grown into stalwart men.  And then Mrs Pole had answered: 'Not a
bit; is she, now?  Only think what Blanche was at her age.  But she
has fine eyes, for all that; and they do say she is the cleverest
of them all.'  And that, too, is so true a description of her that
I do know that I can add much to it.  She was not like Blanche; for
Blanche had bright complexion, and a fine neck, and a noble bust,
et vera incessu patuit Dea--a true goddess, that is, as far as the
eye went.  She had a grand idea, moreover, of an apple-pie, and had
not reigned eighteen months at Creamclotted Hall before she knew
all the mysteries of pigs and milk, and most of those appertaining
to cider and green cheese.

Lucy had no neck at all worth speaking of,--no neck, I mean, that
ever produced eloquence; she was brown, too, and had addicted
herself in nowise, as she undoubtedly should have done, to larder
utility.  In regard to the neck and colour, poor girl, she could
not help herself; but in that other respect she must be held as
having wasted her opportunities.  But then what eyes she had!  Mrs
Pole was right there.  They flashed upon you, not always softly;
indeed not often softly if you were a stranger to her; but whether
softly or savagely, with a brilliancy that dazzled you as you
looked at them.  And who shall say of what colour they were? Green,
probably, for most eyes are green--green or grey, if green be
thought uncomely for an eye-colour.  But it was not their colour,
but their fire, which struck one with such surprise.

Lucy Robarts was thoroughly a brunette.  Sometimes the dark tint of
her cheek was exquisitely rich and lovely, and the fringes of her
eyes were long and soft, and her small teeth, which one so seldom
saw, were white as pearls, and her hair, though short, was
beautifully soft--by no means black, but yet of so dark a shade of
brown.  Blanche, too, was noted for fine teeth.  They were white
and regular and lofty as a new row of houses in a French city.  But
then when she laughed she was all teeth; as she was all neck when
she sat at the piano.  But Lucy's teeth!---it was only now and
again, when in some sudden burst of wonder she would sit for a
moment with her lips apart, that the fine finished lines and dainty
pearl-white colour of that perfect set of ivory could be seen.  Mrs
Pole would have said a word of her teeth also, but that to her they
had never been made visible.  'But they do say that she is the
cleverest of them all,' Mrs Pole had added, very properly.  The
people of Exeter had expressed such an opinion, and had been quite
just in doing so.  I do not know how it happens, but it always does
happen, that everybody in every small town knows which is the
brightest-witted in every family.  In that respect Mrs Pole had
only expressed public opinion, and public opinion was right.  Lucy
Robarts was blessed with an intelligence keener than that of her
brothers and sisters.

'To tell the truth, Mark, I admire Lucy more than I do Blanche.'
This had been said by Mrs Robarts within a few hours of her having
assumed that name.  'She's not a beauty, I know, but yet I do.'

'My dearest Fanny!' Mark had answered in a tone of surprise.

'I do then; of course people won't think so; but I never seem to
care about regular beauties.  Perhaps I envy them too much.'  What
Mark said next need not be repeated, but everybody may be sure that
it contained more gross flattery for his young bride.  He
remembered this, however, and had always called Lucy his wife's
pet.  Neither of the sisters had since been at Framley; and though
Fanny had spent a week at Exeter on the occasion of Blanche's
marriage, it could hardly be said that she was very intimate with
them. Nevertheless, when it became expedient that one of them shoud
go to Framley, the remembrance of what his wife had said
immediately induced Mark to make the offer to Lucy; and Jane, who
was of a kindred soul with Blanche, was delighted to go to
Creamclotted Hall.  The acres of Heavybed House, down in that fat
Totnes country, adjoined those of Creamclotted Hall, and Heavybed
House still wanted a mistress.

Fanny was delighted when the news reached her.  It would of course
be proper that one of his sisters should live with Mark under their
present circumstances, and she was happy to think that that quiet
little bright-eyed creature was to come and nestle with her under
the same roof.  The children should so love her--only not quite so
much as they loved mamma; and the snug little room that looks out
over the porch, in which the chimney never smokes, should be made
ready for her; and she should be allowed her share of driving the
pony--which was a great sacrifice of self on the part of Mrs
Robarts--and Lady Lufton's best good-will should be bespoken.  In
fact, Lucy was not unfortunate in the destination that was laid out
for her.  Lady Lufton had of course heard of the doctor's death,
and had sent all manner of kind messages to Mark, advising him not
to hurry home by any means until everything was settled at Exeter.
And then she was told of the new-comer that was expected in the
parish.  When she heard that it was Lucy, the younger, she was
satisfied; for Blanche's charms, though indisputable, had not been
altogether to her taste.  If a second Blanche were to arrive there
what danger might there not be for young Lord Lufton! 'Quite
right,' said her ladyship, 'just what he ought to do.  I think I
remember the young lady; rather small, is she not, and very
retiring?'

'Rather small and very retiring.  What a description!'

'Never mind, Ludovic; some young ladies must be small, and some at
least ought to be retiring.  We shall be delighted to make her
acquaintance.'

'I remember your other sister-in-law very well,' said Lord Lufton.
'She was a beautiful woman.'

'I don't think you will consider Lucy a beauty,' said Mrs Robarts.

'Small, retiring, and--'so far Lord Lufton had gone, when Mrs
Robarts finished by the work 'plain'.  She had liked Lucy's face,
but she had thought that others probably did not think so.

'Upon my word,'said Lady Lufton, 'you don't deserve to have a
sister-in-law.  I remember her very well, and can say that she is
not plain.  I was very much taken with her manner at your wedding,
my dear, and thought more of her than I did of the beauty, I can
tell you.'

'I must confess I do not remember her at all,' said his lordship.
And so the conversation ended.  And then at the end of the
fortnight Mark arrived with his sister.  They did not reach Framley
till long after dark--somewhere between six and seven--and by this
time it was December.  There was snow on the ground, and frost in
the air, and no moon, and cautious men when they went on the roads
had their horses' shoes socked.  Such being the state of the
weather, Mark's gig had been nearly filled with cloaks and shawls
when it was sent over to Silverbridge.  And a cart was sent for
Lucy's luggage, and all manner of preparations had been made. Three
times had Fanny gone herself to see that the fire burned brightly
in the little room over the porch, and at the moment that the sound
of the wheels was heard she was engaged in opening her son's mind
as to the nature of an aunt.  Hitherto papa and mamma and Lady
Lufton were all that he had known, excepting, of course, the
satellites of the nursery.  And then in three minutes Lucy was
standing by the fire.  Those three minutes had been taken up by
embraces between the husband and wife.  Let who would be brought as
a visitor to the house, after a fortnight's absence, she would kiss
him before she would welcome anyone else.  But then she turned to
Lucy, and began to assist her with her cloaks.

'Oh, thank you,' said Lucy; 'I'm not cold,--not very at least.
Don't trouble yourself: I can do it.'  But here she had made a
false boast, for her fingers had been so numbed that she could not
do or undo anything.  They were all in black, of course; but the
sombreness of Lucy's clothes struck Fanny much more than her own.
They seemed to have swallowed her up in their blackness, and to
have made her almost an emblem of death.  She did not look up, but
kept her face turned towards the fire, and seemed almost afraid of
her position.

'She may say what she likes, Fanny,' said Mark, 'but she is very
cold.  And so am I,--cold enough.  You had better go up with her to
her room.  We won't do much in the dressing way to-night; eh,
Lucy?'  In the bedroom Lucy thawed a little, and Fanny, as she
kissed her, said to herself that she had been wrong as to that work
'plain'.  Lucy, at any rate, was not plain.

'You'll be used to us soon,' said Fanny, 'and then I hope we shall
make you comfortable.'  And she took her sister-in-law's hand and
pressed it.  Lucy looked up at her, and her eyes were then tender
enough.  'I am sure I shall be happy here,' she said, 'with you.
But--but--dear papa!'  And then they got into each other's arms,
and had a great bout of kissing and crying.  'Plain,' said Fanny to
herself, as at last she got her guest's hair smoothed, and the
tears washed from her eyes--'plain!  She has the loveliest
countenance that I ever looked at in my life!'

'Your sister is quite beautiful,' she said to Mark, as they talked
her over alone before they went to sleep that night.

'No, she's not beautiful; but she's a very good girl, and clever
enough, too, in her sort of way.'

'I think her perfectly lovely.  I never such eyes in my life
before.'

'I'll leave her in your hands, then; you shall get her a husband.'

'That mayn't be so easy.  I don't think she'd marry anybody.'

'Well, I hope not.  But she seems to me to be exactly cut out for
an old maid;--to be Aunt Lucy for ever and ever to your bairns.'

'And so she shall, with all my heart.  But I don't think she will,
very long.  I have no doubt she will be hard to please; but if I
were a man I should fall in love with her at once.  Did you ever
observe her teeth, Mark?'

'I don't think I ever did.'

'You wouldn't know whether any one had a tooth in their head, I
believe.'

'No one except you, my dear; and I know all yours by heart.'

'You are a goose.'

'And a very sleepy one; so, if you please, I'll go to roost.' And
thus there was nothing more said about Lucy's beauty on that
occasion.

For the first two days Mrs Robarts did not make much of her
sister-in-law.  Lucy, indeed, was not demonstrative; and she was,
moreover, one of those few persons--for they are very few--who are
contented to go on with their existence without making themselves
the centre of any special outward circle.  To the ordinary run of
minds it is impossible not to do this.  A man's own dinner is to
himself so important that he cannot bring himself to believe that
it is a matter utterly indifferent to every one else.  A lady's
collection of baby-clothes, in early years, and of house linen and
curtain-fringes in later life, is so very interesting to her own
eyes, that she cannot believe but what other people will rejoice to
behold it.  I would not, however, be held to regarding this
tendency as evil.  It leads to conversation of some sort among
people, and perhaps to a kind of sympathy. Mrs Jones will look at
Mrs White's linen chest, hoping that Mrs White may be induced to
look at hers.  One can only pour out of a jug that which is in it.
For the most of us, if we do not talk of ourselves, or at any rate
of the individual circles of which we are the centre, we can talk
of nothing. I cannot hold with those who wish to put down the
insignificant chatter of the world.  As for myself, I am always
happy to look at Mrs Jones's linen, and never omit an opportunity
of giving her the details of my own dinners.  But Lucy Robarts had
not this gift.  She had come there as a stranger into her
sister-in-law's house, and at first seemed as though she would be
contented in simply having her corner in the drawing-room and her
place at the parlour table.  She did not seem to need the comforts
of condolences and open-hearted talking.  I do not mean to say that
she was moody, that she did not answer when she was spoken to, or
that she took no notice of the children; but she did not at once
throw herself and all her hopes and sorrows into Fanny's heart,
Fanny would have had her do.

Mrs Robarts herself was what we call demonstrative.  When she was
angry with Lady Lufton she showed it.  And as since that time her
love and admiration for Lady Lufton had increased, she showed that
also.  When she was in any way displeased with her husband, she
could not hide it, even though she tried to do so, and fancied
herself successful;--no more than she could hide her warm,
constant, overflowing woman's love.  She could not walk through a
room laughing on her husband's arm without seeming to proclaim to
every one there that she thought him the best man in it.  She was
demonstrative, and therefore she was the more disappointed in that
Lucy did not rush at once with all her cares into her open heart.
'She is so quiet,' Fanny said to her husband.

'That's her nature,' said Mark.  'She always was quiet as a child.
While we were smashing everything, she would never crack a teacup.'

'I wish she would break something now,'said Fanny, 'and then
perhaps we should get to talk about it.'  But she did not on this
account give over loving her sister-in-law.  She probably valued
her the more, unconsciously, for not having those aptitudes with
which she herself was endowed.  And then after two days, Lady
Lufton called; of course it may be supposed that Fanny had said a
good deal to her new inmate about Lady Lufton.  A neighbour of that
kind in the country exercises so large an influence upon the whole
tenor of one's life, that to abstain from such talk is out of the
question.  Mrs Robarts had been brought up almost under the
dowager's wing, and of course she regarded her as being worthy of
much talking.  Do not let persons on this account suppose that Mrs
Robarts was a tuft-hunter, or a toad-eater.  If they do not see the
difference, they have yet got to study the earliest principles of
human nature.

Lady Lufton called, and Lucy was struck dumb.  Fanny was
particularly anxious that her ladyship's first impression should be
favourable, and to effect this, she especially endeavoured to throw
the two together during that visit.  But in this she was unwise.
Lady Lufton, however, had woman-craft enough not to be led into
any egregious error by Lucy's silence.  'And what day will you come
and dine with us?' said Lady Lufton, turning expressly to her old
friend Fanny.

'Oh, do you name the day.  We never have many engagements, you
know.'

'Will Thursday, do Miss Robarts?  You will meet nobody you know,
only my son; so you need not regard it as going out. Fanny here
will tell you that stepping over to Framley Court is no more going
out, than when you go from one room to another in the parsonage. Is
it, Fanny?'  Fanny laughed, and said that stepping over to Framley
Court certainly was done so often that perhaps they did not think
so much about it as they ought to do.

'We consider ourselves as a sort of happy family here, Miss
Robarts, and are delighted to have the opportunity of including you
in the menage.' Lucy gave her ladyship one of her sweetest smiles,
but what she said at that moment was inaudible.  It was plain,
however, that she could not bring herself even to go as far as
Framley Court for her dinner at present.  'It was very kind of lady
Lufton,'she said to Fanny; 'but it was so very soon, and--and if
they would only go without her, she would be so happy.'  But as the
object was to go with her--expressly to take her there--the dinner
was adjourned for a short time--sine die.



CHAPTER XI

GRISELDA GRANTLY

It was nearly a month after this that Lucy was first introduced to
Lord Lufton, and then it was brought about only by accident. During
that time Lady Lufton had been often at the parsonage, and had in a
certain degree learned to know Lucy; but the stranger in the parish
had never yet plucked up courage to accept one of the numerous
invitations that had reached her.  Mr Robarts and his wife had
frequently been at Framley Court, but the dreaded day of Lucy's
initiation had not yet arrived.  She had seen Lord Lufton in
church, but hardly as to know him, and beyond that she had not seem
him at all.  One day, however,--or rather, one evening, for it was
already dusk--he overtook her and Mrs Robarts on the road walking
towards the vicarage.  He had his gun on his shoulder, three
pointers were at his heels, and a game-keeper followed a little in
the rear.

'How are you Mrs Robarts?' he said, almost before he had overtaken
them.  'I have been chasing you along the road for the last
half-mile.  I never knew ladies walk so fast.'

'We should be frozen if we were to dawdle about as you gentlemen
do,' and then she stopped and shook hands with him.  She forgot at
the moment that Lucy and he had not met, and therefore she did not
introduce them.

'Won't you make me known to your sister-in-law!' said he taking off
his hat, and bowing to Lucy.  'I have never yet had the pleasure of
meeting her, though we have been neighbours for a month or more.'
Fanny made her excuses and introduced them, and then they went on
till they came to Framley Gate, Lord Lufton talking to them both,
and Fanny answering for the two, and there they stopped for a
moment.

'I am surprised to see you alone,' Mrs Robarts had just said; 'I
thought that Captain Culpepper was with you.'

'The captain has left me for this one day.  If you'll whisper, I'll
tell you where he has gone.  I dare not speak it out loud, even to
the woods.'

'To what terrible place can he have taken himself?  I'll have no
whispering about such horrors.'

'He has gone to--to--but you'll promise not to tell my mother?'

'Do you promise then?'

'Oh, yes!  I will promise, because I am sure Lady Lufton won't ask
me as to Captain Culpepper's whereabouts.  We won't tell; will we
Lucy?'

'He has gone to Gatherum Castle for a day's peasant-shooting.  Now,
mind you must not betray us.  Her ladyship supposes that he is shut
up in his room with a toothache.  We did not dare to mention the
name to her.' and then it appeared that Mrs Robarts had some
engagement which made it necessary that she should go up and see
Lady Lufton, whereas Lucy was intending to walk on to the parsonage
alone.

'And I have promised to go to your husband,' said Lord Lufton; 'or
rather to your husband's dog, Ponto.  And I will do two other good
things--I will carry a brace of pheasants with me, and protect Miss
Robarts from the evil spirits of the Framley roads.'  And so Mrs
Robarts turned at the gate, and Lucy and his lordship walked off
together.  Lord Lufton, though he had never before spoken to Miss
Robarts, had already found out that she was by no means plain.
Though he had hardly seen her except at church, he had already made
himself certain that the owner of that face must be worth knowing,
and was not sorry to have the present opportunity of speaking to
her.  'So you have an unknown damsel shut up in your castle,' he
had once said to Mrs Robarts.  'If she be kept a prisoner much
longer, I shall find it my duty to come and release her by force of
arms.'  He had been there twice with the object of seeing her, but
on both occasions Lucy had managed to escape.  Now we may say she
was fairly caught, and Lord Lufton, taking a pair of pheasants from
the gamekeeper, and swinging them over his shoulder, walked off
with his prey.  'You have been here a long time,' he said, 'without
our having had the pleasure of seeing you.'

'Yes, my lord,' said Lucy.  Lords had not been frequent among her
acquaintance hereto.

'I will tell Mrs Robarts that she has been confining you illegally,
and that we shall release you by force or stratagem.'

'I-I-I have had a great sorrow lately.'

'Yes, Miss Robarts; I know you have; and I am only joking, you
know.  But I do hope that now you will be able to come among us. My
mother is so anxious that you should do so.'

'I am sure she is very kind, and you also--my lord.'

'I never knew my own father,' said Lord Lufton, speaking gravely.
'But I can well understands what a loss you have had.'  And then,
after pausing a moment, he continued, 'I remember Dr Robarts well.'

'Do you, indeed?' said Lucy, turning sharply towards him, and
speaking now with some animation in her voice.  Nobody had yet
spoken to her about her father since she had been at Framley.  It
had been as though the subject was a forbidden one.  And how
frequently is this the case?  When those we love are dead, our
friends dread to mention them, though to us who are bereaved no
subject would be so pleasant as their names.  But we rarely
understand how to treat our own sorrow or those of others.

There was once a people in some land--and they may be still there
for what I know--who thought it sacrilegious to stay the course of
a raging fire.  If a house were being burned, burn it must, even
though there were facilities for saving it.  For who would dare to
interfere with the course of the god?  Our idea of sorrow is much
the same.  We think it wicked, or at any rate heartless, to put it
out.  If a man's wife be dead, he should go about lugubrious with
long face, for at least two years, or perhaps with full length for
eighteen months, decreasing gradually during the other six.  If he
be a man who can quench his sorrow--put out his fire as it were--in
less time than that, let him at any rate not show his power!

'Yes, I remember him,' continued Lord Lufton.  'He came twice to
Framley, while I was still a boy, consulting with my mother about
Mark and myself--whether the Eton floggings were not more
efficacious than those of Harrow.  He was very kind to me,
foreboding all manner of good things on my behalf.'

'He was very kind to every one,' said Lucy.

'I should think he would have been--a kind, good, genial man --just
the man to be adored by his own family.'

'Exactly; and so he was.  I do not remember that I ever heard an
unkind word from him.  There was not a hard tone in his voice.  And
he was generous as the day.'  Lucy, we have said, was not generally
demonstrative, but now, on this subject, and with this absolute
stranger, she became almost eloquent.

'I do not wonder that you should feel his loss, Miss Robarts.'

'Oh, I do feel it.  Mark is the best of brothers, and, as for
Fanny, she is too kind and too good to me.  But I had always been
specially my father's friend.  For the last year or two we had
lived so much together!'

'He was an old man when he died, was he not?'

'Just seventy, my lord.'

'Ah, then he was old.  My mother is only fifty, and we sometimes
call her an old woman.  Do you think she looks older than that?  We
all say that she makes herself out to be so much more ancient than
she need do.'

'Lady Lufton does not dress young.'

'That is it.  She never has, in my memory.  She always used to wear
black when I first recollect her.  She has given that up now; but
she is still very sombre; is she not?'

'I do not like ladies to dress very young, that is, ladies of
--of--'

'Ladies of fifty, shall we say?'

'Very well; ladies of fifty, if you like it.'

'Then I am sure you will like my mother.'

They had now turned up through the parsonage wicket, a little gate
that opened into the garden at a point on the road nearer than the
chief entrance.  'I suppose I shall find Mark up at the house?'
said he.

'I dare say you will, my lord.'

'Well, I'll go round this way, for my business is partly in the
stable.  You see I am quite at home here, though you never have
seen me before.  But Miss Robarts, now that the ice is broken, I
hope that we may be friends.'  He then put out his hand, and when
she gave him hers he pressed it almost as an old friend might have
done.  And, indeed, Lucy had talked to him almost as though he were
an old friend.  For a minute or two she had forgotten that he was a
lord and a stranger--had forgotten also to be still and guarded as
was her wont.  Lord Lufton had spoken to her as though he had
really cared to know her; and she, unconsciously, had been taken by
the compliment.  Lord Lufton, indeed, had not thought much about
it--excepting as thus, that he liked the glance of a pair of bright
eyes, as most other men do like it.  But, on this occasion, the
evening had been so dark, that he had hardly seen Lucy's eyes at
all.

'Well, Lucy, I hope you liked your companion,' Mrs Robarts said, as
the three of them clustered round the drawing-room fire before
dinner.

'Oh yes; pretty well,' said Lucy.

'That is not at all complimentary to his lordship.'

'I did not mean to be complimentary, Fanny.'

'Lucy is a great deal too matter-of-fact for compliments,' said
Mark.

'What I meant was, that I had no great opportunity for judging,
seeing that I was only with Lord Lufton for about ten minutes.'

'Ah! but there are girls here who would give their eyes for ten
minutes of Lord Lufton to themselves.  You do not know how he's
valued.  He has the character of being always able to make himself
agreeable to ladies at half a minute's warning.'

'Perhaps he had not the half-minute's warning in this case,' said
Lucy,--hypocrite that she was.

'Poor Lucy,' said her brother; 'he was coming up to see Ponto's
shoulder, and I am afraid he was thinking more about the dog than
you.'

'Very likely,' said Lucy; and then they went in to dinner. Lucy had
been a hypocrite, for she had confessed to herself, while dressing,
that Lord Lufton had been very pleasant; but then it is allowed to
young ladies to be hypocrites when the subject under discussion is
the character of a young gentleman.

Soon after that Lucy did dine at Framley Court.  Captain Culpepper,
in spite of his enormity with reference to Gatherum Castle, was
still staying there, as was also a clergyman from the neighbourhood
of Barchester with his wife and daughter.  This was Archdeacon
Grantly, a gentleman whom we have mentioned before, and who was as
well known in the diocese as the bishop himself, and more thought
of by many clergymen than even that illustrious prelate.  Miss
Grantly was a young lady not much older than Lucy Robarts, and she
also was quiet, and not given to much talking in open company.  She
was decidedly a beauty; but somewhat statuesque in her loveliness.
Her forehead was high and whit, but perhaps too like marble to
gratify the taste of those who are fond of flesh and blood.  Her
eyes were large and exquisitely formed, but they seldom showed much
emotion.  She, indeed, was impassible herself, and betrayed but
little of her feelings.  Her nose was nearly Grecian, not coming
absolutely in a straight line from her forehead, but doing so
nearly enough to entitle it to be considered as classical.  Her
mouth, too, was very fine--artists, at least, said so, and
connoisseurs in beauty; but to me she always seemed as though she
wanted fulness of lip.  But the exquisite symmetry of her cheek and
chin and lower face no man could deny.  Her hair was light, and
being always dressed with considerable care, did not detract from
her appearance; but it lacked that richness which gives such
luxuriance to feminine loveliness.  She was tall and slight, and
very graceful in her movements; but there were those who thought
that she wanted the ease and abandon of youth.  They said that she
was too composed and stiff for her age, and that she gave but
little to society beyond the beauty of her form and face.  There
can be no doubt, however, that she was considered by most men and
women to be the beauty of Barsetshire, and that gentlemen from
neighbouring counties would come many miles through dirty roads on
the mere hope of being able to dance with her. Whatever attractions
she may have lacked, she had at any rate created for herself a
great reputation.  She had spent two months of the last spring in
London, and even there she had made a sensation; and people had
said that Lord Dumbello, Lady Hartletop's eldest son, had been
peculiarly struck with her.

It may be imagined that the archdeacon was proud of her, and so,
indeed, was Mrs Grantly--more proud, perhaps, of her daughter's
beauty, than so excellent a woman should have allowed herself to be
of such an attribute.  Griselda--that was her name--was now an only
daughter.  One sister she had had, but that sister had died.  There
were two brothers also left, one in the Church, and the other in
the Army.  That was the extent of the archdeacon's family, and as
the archdeacon was a very rich man--he was the only child of his
father, who had been Bishop of Barchester for a great many years;
and in those years it had been worth a man's while to be Bishop of
Barchester--it was supposed that Miss Grantly would have a large
fortune.  Mrs Grantly, however, had been heard to say, that she was
in no hurry to see her daughter established in the world;--ordinary
young ladies are merely married, but those of real importance are
established;--and this, if anything, added to the value of the
prize.  Mothers sometimes depreciate their wares by an undue
solicitude to dispose of them.  But to tell the truth openly and at
once--a virtue for which a novelist does not receive very much
commendation --Griselda Grantly was, to a certain extent, already
given away.  Not that she, Griselda, knew anything about it, or
that the thrice happy gentleman had been made aware of his good
fortune; nor even had the archdeacon been told.  But Mrs Grantly
and Lady Lufton had been closeted together more than once, and
terms had been signed and sealed between them.  Not signed on
parchment, and sealed with wax, as is the case with treaties made
by kings and diplomats--to be broken by the same; but signed with
little words, and sealed with certain pressings of the hand--a
treaty which between two such contracting parties would be binding
enough.  And by the terms of this treaty Griselda Grantly was to
become Lady Lufton.  Lady Lufton had hitherto been fortuned in her
matrimonial speculations.  She had selected Sir George for her
daughter, and Sir George, with the utmost good nature, had fallen
in with her views.  She had selected Fanny Monsell for Mr Robarts,
and Fanny Monsell had not rebelled against her for a moment.  There
was a prestige of success about her doings, and she felt almost
confident that her dear son Ludovic must fall in love with
Griselda.  As to the lady herself, nothing, Lady Lufton thought,
could be much better than such a match for her son.  Lady Lufton, I
have said, was a good Churchwoman, and the archdeacon was the very
type of that branch of the Church which she venerated.  The
Grantlys, too, were of a good family--not noble, indeed; but in
such matters Lady Lufton did not want everything.  She was one of
those persons who, in placing their hopes at a moderate pitch, may
fairly trust to see them realized.  She would fain that her son's
wife should be handsome; this she wished for his sake, that he
might be proud of his wife, and because men love to look on
beauty.  But she was afraid of vivacious beauty, of those soft,
sparkling feminine charms which spread out as lures for all the
world, soft dimples, laughing eyes, luscious lips, conscious
smiles, and easy whispers.  What if her son should bring her home a
rattling, rapid-spoken, painted piece of Eve's flesh such as this?
Would not the glory and joy of her life be over, even though such
child of their first mother should have come forth to the present
day ennobled by the blood of two dozen successive British peers?

And then, too, Griselda's money would not be useless.  Lady Lufton,
with all her high flown ideas, was not an imprudent woman.  She
knew that her son had been extravagant, though she did not believe
that he had been reckless; and she was well content to think that
some balsam from the old bishop's coffers should be made to cure
the slight wounds which his early imprudence might have inflicted
on the carcass of the family property.  And thus, in this way, and
for these reasons, Griselda Grantly had been chosen out from all
the world to be the future Lady Lufton.  Lord Lufton had met
Griselda more than once already; had met her before these high
contracting parties had come to any terms whatsoever, and had
evidently admired her.  Lord Dumbello had remained silent one whole
evening in London with effable disgust, because Lord Lufton had
been rather particular in his attentions; but then Lord Dumbello's
muteness was his most eloquent mode of expression.  Both Lady
Hartletop and Mrs Grantly, when they saw him, knew very well what
he meant. But that match would not exactly have suited Mrs
Grantly's views.  The Hartletop people were not in her line.  They
belonged altogether to another set, being connected, as we have
heard before, with the Omnium interest--'those horrid Gatherum
people', as Lady Lufton would say to her, raising her hands and
eyebrows, and shaking her head.  Lady Lufton probably thought that
they ate babies in pies during their midnight orgies at Gatherum
Castle; and that widows were kept in cells, and occasionally put on
racks for the amusement of the duke's guests.

When the Robarts's party entered the drawing-room the Grantlys were
already there, and the archdeacon's voice sounded loud and imposing
in Lucy's ears, as she heard him speaking while she was yet on the
threshold of the door.  'My dear Lady Lufton, I would believe
anything on earth about her --anything.  There is nothing too
outrageous for her.  Had she insisted on going there with the
bishop's apron on, I should not have been surprised.'  And then
they all knew that the archdeacon was talking about Mrs Proudie,
for Mrs Proudie was his bugbear.

Lady Lufton after receiving her guests introduced Lucy to Griselda
Grantly.  Miss Grantly smiled graciously, bowed slightly, and then
remarked in the lowest voice possible that it was exceedingly
cold.  A low voice, we know, is an excellent thing in a woman.
Lucy, who thought that she was bound to speak, said that it was
cold, but that she did not mind it when she was walking.  And then
Griselda smiled again, somewhat less graciously than before, and so
the conversation ended.  Miss Grantly was the elder of the two, and
having seem most of the world, should have been the best able to
talk, but perhaps she was not very anxious for a conversation with
Miss Robarts.

'So, Robarts, I hear that you have been preaching at Chaldicotes,'
said the archdeacon, still rather loudly.  'I saw Sowerby the other
day, and he told me that you gave them the fag end of Mrs Proudie's
lecture.'

'It was ill-natured of Sowerby to say the fag end,' said Robarts.
'We divided the matter into thirds.  Harold Smith took the first
part, I the last--'

'And the lady the intervening portion.  You have electrified the
county between you; but I am told that she had the best of it.'

'I was so sorry that Mr Robarts went there,' said Lady Lufton, as
she walked into the dining-room leaning on the archdeacon's arm.

'I am inclined to think he could not very well have helped
himself,' said the archdeacon, who was never willing to lean
heavily on a brother parson, unless on one who had utterly and
irrevocably gone away from his side of the Church.

'Do you think not, archdeacon?'

'Why, no; Sowerby is a friend of Lufton's--'

'Not particularly,' said poor Lady Lufton, in a deprecating tone.

'Well, they have been intimate;' and Robarts, when he was asked to
preach at Chaldicotes, could not well refuse.'

'But then he went afterwards to Gatherum Castle.  Not that I am
vexed with him at all now, you understand.  But it is auch a
dangerous house, you know.'

'So it is.--But the very fact of the duke's wishing to have a
clergyman there, should always be taken as a sign of grace, Lady
Lufton.  The air was impure, no doubt; but it was less impure with
Robarts there than it would have been without him.  But, gracious
heavens! what blasphemy have I been saying about impure air?  Why,
the bishop was there!'

'Yes, the bishop was there,' said Lady Lufton, and they both
understood each other thoroughly.

Lord Lufton took out Mrs Grantly to dinner, and matters were so
arranged that Miss Grantly sat on is other side.  There was no
management apparent in this to anybody; but there she was, while
Lucy was placed between her brother and Captain Culpepper.  Captain
Culpepper was a man with an enormous moustache, and a great
aptitude for slaughtering game; but as he had no other strong
characteristics it was not probable that he would make himself very
agreeable to poor Lucy.  She had seen Lord Lufton once, for two
minutes, since the day of that walk, and then he had addressed her
quite like an old friend.  It had been in the parsonage
drawing-room, and Fanny had been there.  Fanny was now so well
accustomed to his lordship, that she thought but little of this,
but to Lucy it had been very pleasant.  He was not forward or
familiar, but kind and gentle, and pleasant; and Lucy did feel that
she liked him.  Now, on this evening, he had hitherto hardly spoken
to her; but then she knew that there were other people in the
company to whom he was bound to speak.  She was not exactly
humble-minded in the usual sense of the word; but she did recognise
the fact that her position was less important than that of other
people there, and that therefore it was probable that to a certain
extent she would be overlooked. But not the less would she have
liked to occupy the seat to which Miss Grantly had found her way.
She did not want to flirt with Lord Lufton; she was not such a fool
as that; but she would have liked to have heard the sound of his
voice close to her ear, instead of that of Captain Culpepper's
knife and fork.  This was the first occasion on which she had
endeavoured to dress herself with care since her father had died;
and now, sombre though she was in her deep mourning, she did look
very well.

'There is an expression about her forehead that is full of poetry,'
said Fanny to her husband.

'Don't you turn her head, Fanny, and make her believe that she is a
beauty,' Mark had answered.

'I doubt it is not so easy to turn her head, Mark.  There is more
in Lucy than you imagine, and so you will find out before long.' So
it was thus that Mrs Robarts prophesied about her sister-in-law.
Had she been asked she might perhaps have said that Lucy's presence
would be dangerous to the Grantly interest at Framley Court.

Lord Lufton's voice was audible enough as he went on talking to
Miss Grantly--his voice, but not his words.  He talked in such a
way that there was no appearance of whispering, and yet the person
to whom he spoke, and she only, could hear what he said.  Mrs
Grantly the while conversed constantly with Lucy's brother, who sat
at Lucy's left hand.  She never lacked for subjects on which to
speak to a country clergyman of the right sort, and thus Griselda
was left quite uninterrupted.  But Lucy could not but observe that
Griselda herself seemed to have very little to say--or at any rate
to say very little.  Every now and then she did open her mouth, and
some word or brace of words would fall from it.  But for the most
part she seemed to be content in the fact that Lord Lufton was
paying her attention.  She showed no animation, but sat there still
and graceful, composed and classical, as she always was.  Lucy, who
could not keep her ears from listening or her eyes from looking,
thought that had she been there she would have endeavoured to take
a more prominent part in the conversation.  But then Griselda
Grantly probably know much better than Lucy did how to comport
herself in such a situation.  Perhaps it might be that young men
such as Lord Lufton, liked to hear the sound of their own voices.

'Immense deal of game about here,' Captain Culpepper said to her
towards the end of dinner.  It was the second attempt he had made;
on the former he had asked her whether she knew any fellows of the
9th.

'Is there?' said Lucy.  'Oh!  I saw Lord Lufton the other day with
a great armful of pheasants.'

'An armful!  Why we had seven cartloads the other day at Gatherum.'

'Seven cartloads of pheasants!' said Lucy, amazed.

'That's not so much.  We had eight guns, you know.  Eight guns will
do a deal of work when the game has been well got together.  They
manage all that capitally at Gatherum.  Been at the duke's, eh?'
Lucy had heard the Framley report as to Gatherum Castle, and said
with a sort of shudder that she had never been at that place. After
this, Captain Culpepper troubled her no further.

When the ladies had taken themselves to the drawing-room Lucy found
herself hardly better off than she had been at the dinner-table.
Lady Lufton and Mrs Grantly got themselves on to a sofa together,
and there chatted confidently into each other's ears.  Her ladyship
had introduced Lucy to Miss Grantly, and then she naturally thought
that the young people might do very well together.  Mrs Robarts did
attempt to bring about a joint conversation, which should include
the three, and for ten minutes or so she worked hard at it.  But it
did not thrive.  Miss Grantly was monosyllabic, smiling, however,
at every monosyllable; and Lucy found that nothing would occur to
her at that moment worthy of being spoken. There she sat, still and
motionless, afraid to take up a book, and thinking in her heart how
much happier she would have been at home at the parsonage.  She was
not made for society; she felt sure of that; and another time she
would let Mark and Fanny come to Framley Court by themselves.  And
then the gentlemen came in, and there was another stir in the
room.  Lady Lufton got up and bustled about; she poked the fire and
shifted the candles, spoke a few words to Dr Grantly, whispered
something to her son, patted Lucy on the cheek, told Fanny, who was
a musician, that they would have a little music, and ended by
putting her two hands on Griselda's shoulders and telling her that
the fit of her frock was perfect.  For Lady Lufton, though she did
dress old herself, as Lucy had said, delighted to see those around
her neat and pretty, jaunty and graceful.  'Dear Lady Lufton!' said
Griselda, putting up her hand so as to press the end of her
ladyship's fingers.  It was the first piece of animation she had
shown, and Lucy Robarts watched it all.  And then there was music,
Lucy neither played nor sang; Fanny did both, and for an amateur
she did both well. Griselda did not sing, but she played; and did
so in a manner that showed that neither her own labour nor her
father's money had been spared in her instruction.  Lord Lufton
sang also, a little, and Captain Culpepper a very little; so that
they got up a concert among them.  In the meantime the doctor and
Mark stood talking together on the rug before the fire; the two
mothers sat contented, watching the billings and the cooings of
their offspring--and Lucy sat alone, turning over the leaves of a
book of pictures.  She made up her mind fully, then and there, that
she was quite unfitted by disposition for such work as this.  She
cared for no one, and no one cared for her. Well, she must go
through with it now; but another time she would know better.  With
her own book and a fireside she never felt herself to be miserable
as she was now.  She had turned her back to the music for she was
sick of seeing Lord Lufton watch the artistic motion of Miss
Grantly's fingers, and was sitting at a small table as far away
from the piano as a long room would permit, when she was suddenly
roused from her reverie of self-reproach by a voice close behind
her: 'Miss Robarts,' said the voice, 'why have you cut us all?' And
Lucy felt that, though she heard the voice plainly, nobody else
did.  Lord Lufton was now speaking to her as he had before spoken
to Miss Grantly.

'I don't play, my lord,' said Lucy, 'nor yet sing.'

'That would have made your company so much more valuable to us, for
we are terribly badly off for listeners.  Perhaps you don't like
the music?'

'I do like it,--sometimes very much.'

'And when are the sometimes?  But we shall find it all out in
time.  We shall have unravelled all you mysteries, and read all
your riddles by--when shall I say?---by the end of winter.'

'I do not know that I have got any mysteries.'

'Oh, but you have!  It is very mysterious in you to come and sit
here--with you back to us all--'

'Oh, Lord Lufton; if I have done wrong--!' and poor Lucy almost
started from her chair, and a deep flush came across her dark neck.

'No--no; you have done no wrong.  I was only joking.  It is we who
have done you wrong in leaving you to yourself--you who are the
greatest stranger among us.'

'I have been very well, thank you.  I don't care about being left
alone.  I have always been used to it.'

'Ah!  but we must break you of the habit.  We won't allow you to
make a hermit of yourself.  But the truth is, Miss Robarts, you
don't know us yet, and therefore you are not quite happy among us.'

'Oh!  Yes I am; you are all very good to me.'

'You must let us be good to you.  At any rate, you must let me do
so.  You know, don't you, that Mark and I have been dear friends
since we were seven years old.  His wife has been my sister's
dearest friend almost as long; and now that you are with them, you
must be a dear friend too.  You won't refuse the offer, will you?'

'Oh, no' she said quite in a whisper; and, indeed, she could hardly
raise her voice above a whisper, fearing that tears would fall from
her tell-tale eyes.

'Dr and Mrs Grantly will have gone in a couple of days, and then we
must get you down here.  Miss Grantly is to remain for Christmas,
and you two must become bosom friends.' Lucy smiled, and tried to
look pleased, but she felt that she and Griselda Grantly could
never be bosom friends--could never have anything in common between
them.  She felt sure that Griselda despised her, little, brown,
plain, and unimportant as she was.  She herself could not despise
Griselda in turn; indeed she could not but admire Miss Grantly's
great beauty and dignity of demeanour; but she knew that she could
never love her.  It is hardly possible that the proud-hearted
should love those who despise them; and Lucy Robarts was very
proud-hearted.

'Don't you think she is very handsome?' said Lord Lufton.

'Oh, very,' said Lucy.  'Nobody can doubt that.'

'Ludovic,' said Lady Lufton--not quite approving of her son's
remaining so long at the back of Lucy's chair--'won't you give us
another song?  Mrs Robarts and Miss Grantly are still at the
piano.'

'I have sung away all that I know, mother.  There's Culpepper has
not had a chance yet.  He has got to give us his dreams--how he
"dreamt that he dwelt in marble halls"!'

'I sung that an hour ago,' said the captain, not over-pleased.

'But you certainly have not told us how "your little lovers
came"!'  The captain, however, would not sing any more.  And then
the party was broken up, and the Robartses went home to their
parsonage.



CHAPTER XII

THE LITTLE BILL

Lucy, during those last fifteen minutes of her sojourn in the
Framley Court drawing-room, somewhat modified the very strong
opinion she had before formed as to her unfitness for such
society.  It was very pleasant sitting there, in that easy chair,
while Lord Lufton stood at the back of it saying nice, soft,
good-natured words to her.  She was sure that in a little time she
could feel a true friendship for him, and that she could do so
without any risk of falling in love with him.  But then she had a
glimmering of an idea that such a friendship would be open to all
manner of remarks, and would hardly be compatible with the world's
ordinary ways.  At any rate it would be pleasant to be at Framley
Court, if he would come and occasionally notice her.  But she did
not admit to herself that such a visit would be intolerable if his
whole time was devoted to Griselda Grantly.  She neither admitted
it, nor thought it; but nevertheless, in a strange unconscious way,
such a feeling did find entrance in her bosom.  And then the
Christmas holidays passed away.  How much of this enjoyment fell to
her share, and how much of this suffering she endured, we will not
attempt accurately to describe.  Miss Grantly remained at Framley
Court up to Twelfth Night, and the Robartses also spent most of the
season at the house.  Lady Lufton, no doubt, had hoped that
everything might have been arranged on this occasion in accordance
with her wishes, but such had not been the case. Lord Lufton had
evidently admired Miss Grantly very much:  indeed, he had said so
to his mother half a dozen times; but it may almost be questioned
whether the pleasure Lady Lufton derived from this was not more
than neutralized by an opinion he once put forward that Griselda
Grantly wanted some of the fire of Lucy Robarts.

'Surely, Ludovic, you would never compare the two girls' said Lady
Lufton.

'Of course not.  They are the very antipodes to each other.  Miss
Grantly would probably be more to my taste; but then I am wise
enough to know that it is so because my taste is a bad taste.'

'I know no man with a more accurate or refined taste in such
matters,' said Lady Lufton.  Beyond this she did not dare to go.
She knew very well that her strategy would be vain should her son
learn that she had a strategy.  To tell the truth, Lady Lufton was
becoming somewhat indifferent to Lucy Robarts.  She had been very
kind to the little girl; but the little girl seemed hardly to
appreciate the kindness as she should do--and then Lord Lufton
would talk to Lucy, 'which was so unnecessary, you know;' and Lucy,
had got into a way of talking quite freely with Lord Lufton, having
completely dropped that short, spasmodic, ugly exclamation of 'my
lord'.  And so the Christmas festivities were at an end, and
January wore itself away.  During the greater part of this month
Lord Lufton did not remain at Framley, but was nevertheless in the
county, hunting with the hounds of both divisions, and staying at
various houses.  Two or three nights he spent at Chaldicotes; and
one--let it only be told in an under voice--at Gatherum Castle! Of
this he said nothing to Lady Lufton.  'Why make her unhappy?' as he
said to Mark.  But Lady Lufton knew it, though she said not a word
to him--knew it, and was unhappy.  'If he would only marry
Griselda, there would be an end of that danger,' she said to
herself.

And now we must go back a while to the vicar and his little bill.
It will be remembered, that his first idea with reference to that
trouble, after the reading of his father's will, was to borrow the
money from his brother John.  John was down at Exeter at the time,
and was to stay one night at the parsonage on his way to London.
Mark would broach the matter to him on the journey, painful though
it would be to him to tell the story of his own folly to a brother
much younger than himself, and who had always looked up to him,
clergyman and full-blown vicar as he was, with a deference greater
than that which such difference in age required.  The story was
told, however; but was told in vain, as Mark found out before he
reached Framley.  His brother John immediately declared that he
would lend him the money, of course--eight hundred, if his brother
wanted it.  He, John, confessed that, as regarded the remaining
two, he should like to feel the pleasure of immediate possession.
As for interest, he would not take any--take interest from a
brother; of course not.  Well, if Mark made such a fuss about it he
supposed he must take it; but would rather not.  Mark should have
his own way, and do just what he liked.

This was all very well, and Mark had fully made up his mind that
his brother should not be kept long out of his agony. But then
arose the question how was that money to be reached?  He, Mark, was
executor, or one of the executors under his father's will, and,
therefore, no doubt, could put his hand upon it; but his brother
wanted five months of being of age, and could not therefore as yet
be put legally in possession of his legacy.  'That is a bore,' said
the assistant private secretary to the Lord Petty Bag, thinking,
perhaps, as much of his own immediate wish for ready cast as he did
of his brother's necessities.  Mark felt that it was a bore, but
there was nothing more to be done in that direction.  He must now
find out far the bankers would assist him.

Some week or two after his return to Framley he went over to
Barchester, and called there on a certain Mr Forrest, the manager
of one of the banks, with whom he as acquainted; and with many
injunctions as to secrecy told this manager the whole of his
story.  At first he concealed the name of his friend Sowerby, but
it soon appeared that no such concealment was to any avail.  'That
Sowerby, of course,' said Mr Forrest.  'I know you are intimate
with him; and all his friends go through that, sooner or later.' It
seemed to Mark as though Mr Forrest made very light of the whole
transaction.

'I cannot pay the bill when it is due,' said Mark.

'Oh, no, of course not,' said Mr Forrest.  'It's never very
convenient to hand out four hundred pounds at a blow.  Nobody will
expect you to pay it.'

'But I suppose I shall have to do it sooner or later.'

'Well, that's as may be.  It will depend partly on how you manage
with Sowerby, and partly on the hands it goes into. As the bill has
your name on it, they'll have patience as long as the interest is
paid, and the commissions on renewal.'  Mr Forrest said that he was
sure that the bill was not in Barchester; Mr Sowerby would not, he
thought, have brought it to a Barchester bank.  The bill was
probably in London, but doubtless would be sent to Barchester for
collection.  'If it comes in my way,' said Mr Forrest, 'I will give
you plenty of time, so that you may manage about the renewal with
Sowerby.  I suppose he'll pay the expense of doing that.'

Mark's heart was somewhat lighter as he left the bank.  Mr Forrest
had made so little of the whole transaction that he felt himself
justified in making little of it also.  'It may be as well,' said he
to himself, as he drove home, 'not to tell Fanny anything about it
till the three months have run round.  I must make some arrangement
then.'  And in this way his mind was easier during the last of
those three months than he had been during the two former.  That
feeling of over-due bills, of bills coming due, of accounts
overdrawn, of tradesmen unpaid, of general money cares, is very
dreadful at first; but it is astonishing how soon men get used to
it.  A load which would crash a man at first becomes, by habit, not
only endurable, but easy and comfortable to the bearer.  The
habitual debtor goes along jaunty and with elastic step, almost
enjoying the excitement of his embarrassments.  There was Mr
Sowerby himself; who ever saw a cloud on his brow?  It made one
almost in love with ruin to be in his company.  And even now,
already, Mark Robarts was thinking to himself quite comfortably
about this bill;--how very pleasantly those banker managed these
things.  Pay it!  No; no one will be so unreasonable as to expect
you to do that!  And then Mr Sowerby certainly was a pleasant
fellow, and gave a man something in return for his money.  It was
still a question with Mark whether Lord Lufton had not been too
hard on Sowerby.  Had that gentleman fallen across his clerical
friend at the present moment, he might no doubt gotten from him an
acceptance for another four hundred pounds.

One is almost inclined to believe that there is something
pleasurable in the excitement of such embarrassments, as there is
also in the excitement of drink.  But then, at last, the time does
come when the excitement is over, and when nothing but the misery
is left.  If there be an existence of wretchedness on earth it must
be that of the elderly, worn-out roue, who has run this race of
debt and bills of accommodation and acceptances--of what, if we
were not in these days somewhat afraid of good broad English, we
might call lying and swindling, falsehood and fraud--and who,
having ruined all whom he should have loved, having burnt up every
one who would trust him much, and scorched all who would trust him
a little, is at last left to finish his life with such bread and
water as these men get, without one honest thought to strengthen
his sinking heart, or one honest friend to hold his shivering
hand!  If a man could only think of that, as he puts his name to
the first little bill, as to which he is so good-naturedly assured
that it can easily be renewed.

When the three months had nearly run out, it so happened that
Robarts met is friend Sowerby.  Mark had once to twice ridden with
Lord Lufton as far as the meet of the hounds, and may, perhaps,
have gone a field or two farther on some occasions.  The reader
must not think that he had taken to hunting, as some parsons do;
and it is singular enough that whatever they do so they always show
a special aptitude for the pursuit, as though hunting were an
employment peculiarly congenial with the care of souls in the
country.  Such a thought would do our vicar justice.  But when Lord
Lufton would ask him what on earth could be the harm of riding
along the roads to look at the hounds, he hardly knew what sensible
answer to give his lordship.  It would be absurd to say that his
time would be better employed at home in clerical matters, for it
was notorious that he had not clerical pursuits for the employment
of half his time.  In this way, therefore, he had got into the
habit of looking at the hounds, and keeping up his acquaintance in
the county, meeting Lord Dumbello, Mr Green Walker, Harold Smith,
and other such like sinners; and on one such occasion, as the three
months were nearly closing, he did meet Mr Sowerby.  'Look here,
Sowerby, I want to speak to you for half a moment.  What are you
doing about that bill?'

'Bill--bill?  what bill?---which bill?  The whole bill, and nothing
but the bill.  That seems to be the conversation nowadays of all
men, noon and night?'

'Don't you know the bill I signed for you for four hundred pounds?'

'Did you though?  Was not that rather green of you?'  This did seem
strange to Mark.  Could it really be the fact that Mr Sowerby had
so many bills flying about that he had absolutely forgotten that
occurrence in the Gatherum Castle bedroom?  And then to be called
green by by the very man whom he had obliged!

'Perhaps I was,' said Mark, in a tone that showed that he was
somewhat piqued.  'But all the same I should be glad to know how it
will be taken up?'

'Oh, Mark, what a ruffian you are to spoil my day's sport in this
way.  Any man but a parson would be too good a Christian for such
intense cruelty.  But let me see--four hundred pounds?  Oh,
yes--Tozer has it.'

'And what will Tozer do with it?'

'Make money of it; whatever way he may go to work he will do that.'

'But will Tozer bring it to me on the 20th?'

'Oh, Lord, no!  Upon my work, Mark, you are deliciously green.  A
cat would as soon think of killing a mouse directly she got it into
her claws.  But, joking apart, you need not trouble yourself. Maybe
you will hear no more about it; or, perhaps, which no doubt is more
probable, I may have to send it to you to be renewed.  But you need
do nothing till you hear from me or somebody else.'

'Only do not let any one come down upon me for the money.'

'There is not the slightest fear of that.  Tally-ho, old fellow!
He's away.  Tally-ho, right over by Gossetts' barn.  Come along,
and never mind Tozer--"Sufficient for the day is the evil
thereof."' And away they both went together, parson and member of
Parliament.  And then again on that occasion Mark went home with a
sort of feeling that the bill did not matter.  Tozer would manage
it somehow; and it was quite clear that it would not do to tell his
wife of it just at present.

On the 21st of that month of February, however, he did receive a
reminder that the bill and all concerning it had not merely been a
farce.  This was a letter from Mr Sowerby, dated from Chaldicotes,
though not bearing the Barchester post-mark, in which that
gentleman suggested a renewal--not exactly of the old bill, but of
a new one.  It seemed to Mark that the letter had been posted in
London.  If I give it entire, I shall, perhaps, most quickly
explain its import:

'Chaldicotes,--20th February, 185-.
'MY DEAR MARK,
'"Lend not thy name to money dealers, for
the same is the destruction and a snare."  If that
be not in the Proverbs, it ought to be.  Tozer has
given me certain signs of his being alive and
strong this cold weather.  As we can neither of us
take up that bill for 400L at the moment, we must
renew it, and pay him his commission and interest,
with all the rest of his perquisites, and
pickings, and stealings--from all which, I can
assure you, Tozer does not keep his hands as he
should do.  To cover this and some other little
outstanding trifles, I have filled in the new bill
for 500L, making it due 23rd May next.  Before
that time, a certain accident will, I trust, have
occurred to your improvident friend.  By the by, I
never told you how she went off from Gatherum
Castle, the morning after you left us, with the
Greshams.  Cart-ropes would not hold her, even
though the duke held them; which he did, with all
the strength of his ducal hands.  She would go
meet some doctor of theirs, and so I was put off
for that time; but I think that the matter stands
in a good train.

'Do not lose a post in sending back the bill
accepted, as Tozer can annoy you--nay,
undoubtedly will, if the matter be not in his
hand, duly signed by both of us, the day after
to-morrow.  He is an ungrateful brute; he has lived
on me for these eight years and would not let me
off a single squeeze now to save my life.  But I
am specially anxious to save you from the
annoyance and cost of lawyers' letters; and if
delayed, it might get to the papers.  Put it under
cover to me, at No 7, Duke Street, St James's.  I
shall be in town by that time.

'Good-bye, old fellow.  That was a decent
brush we had the other day from Cobbold's Ashes. I
wish I could get that brown horse from you.  I
would not mind going to a hundred and thirty.
Yours ever,
'N.  SOWERBY'

When Mark had read it through he looked down on his table to see
whether the old bill had fallen from the letter; but no, there was
no enclosure, and had been no enclosure but the new bill.  And then
he read the letter through again, and found that there was no word
about the old bill--not a syllable, at least, as to its
whereabouts.  Sowerby did not even say that it would remain in his
own hands.  Mark did not in truth know much about such things.  It
might be that the very fact of his signing this second document
would render that first document null and void; and from Sowerby's
silence on the subject, it might be argued that this was so well
known to be the case, that he had not thought of explaining it. But
yet Mark could not see how this could be so.  But what was he to
do?  That threat of cost and lawyers, and specially of the
newspapers, did have its effect on him--as no doubt it was intended
to do.  And then he was utterly dumbfounded by Sowerby's impudence
ind drawing on him for 500L instead of 400L, 'covering,' as Sowerby
so good-humouredly said, 'sundry little outstanding trifles'.

But, at last, he did sign the bill, and sent it off, as Sowerby had
directed.  What else was he to do?  Fool that he was.  A man always
can do right, even though he has done wrong before.  But that
previous wrong adds so much difficulty to the path--a difficulty
which increases in tremendous ratio, till a man at last is choked
in his struggling, and is drowned beneath the waters.  And then he
put away Sowerby's letter carefully, locking it up from his wife's
sight.  It was a letter that no parish clergyman should have
received.  So much he acknowledged to himself. But nevertheless it
was necessary that he should keep it. And now again for a few hours
this affair made him very miserable.



CHAPTER XIII

DELICATE HINTS

Lady Lufton had been greatly rejoiced at that good deed which her
son did in giving up his Leicestershire hunting, and coming to
reside for the winter at Framley.  It was proper, and becoming, and
comfortable in the extreme.  An English nobleman ought to hunt in
the county where he himself owns the fields over which he rides; he
ought to receive the respect and honour due to him from his own
tenants; he ought to sleep under a roof of his own, and he ought
also--so Lady Lufton thought--to fall in love with a young embryo
bride of his mother's choosing.  And then it was so pleasant to
have him there in the house.  Lady Lufton was not a woman who
allowed her life to be what people in common parlance call dull.
She had too many duties, and thought too much of them, to allow of
her suffering from tedium and ennui.  But nevertheless the house
was more joyous to her when he was there.  There was a reason for
some little gaiety, which would never have been attracted thither
by herself, but by which, nevertheless, she did enjoy when it was
brought about by his presence.  She was younger and brighter when
he was there, thinking more of the future and less of the past. She
could look at him, and that alone was happiness to her.  And then
he was pleasant-mannered with her; joking with her on her little
old-world prejudices in a tone that was musical to her ear as
coming from him; smiling on her, reminding her of those smiles
which she had loved so dearly when as yet he was still her own,
lying there in his little bed beside her chair.  He was kind and
gracious to her, behaving like a good son, at any rate while he was
there in her presence.  When we add to this, her fears that he
might not be so perfect in his conduct when absent, we may well
imagine that Lady Lufton was pleased to have him at Framley Court.

She had hardly said a word to him as that five thousand pounds.
Many a night, as she lay thinking on her pillow, she said to
herself that no money had ever been better expended, since it had
brought him back to his own home.  He had thanked her for it in his
own open way, declaring that he would pay it back to her during the
coming year, and comforting her heart by his rejoicing that the
property had not been sold.  'I don't like the idea of parting with
an acre of it,' he had said.

'Of course not, Ludovic.  Never let the estate decrease in your
hands.  It is only by such resolutions as that that English
noblemen and English gentlemen can preserve their country.  I
cannot bear to see property changing hands.'

'Well, I suppose it's a good thing to have land in the market
sometimes, so that the millionaires may know what to do with their
money.'

'God forbid that yours should be there!'  And the widow made a
little mental prayer that her son's acres might be protected from
the millionaires and other Philistines.

'Why, yes; I don't exactly want to see a Jew tailor investing his
earnings at Lufton.' said the lord.

'Heaven forbid!' said the widow.  All this, as I have said, was
very nice.  It was manifest to her ladyship, from his lordship's
way of talking, that no vital injury had as yet been done: he had
no cares on his mind, and spoke freely about the property: but
nevertheless there were clouds even now, at this period of bliss,
which somewhat obscured the brilliancy of Lady Lufton's sky.  Why
was Ludovic so slow in that affair of Griselda Grantly?  Why so
often in these latter winter days did he saunter over to the
parsonage?  And then that terrible visit to Gatherum Castle!  What
actually did happen at Gatherum Castle, she never knew.  We,
however, are more intrusive, less delicate in our enquiries, and we
can say.  He had a very bad day's sport with the West Barsetshire.
The county is altogether short of foxes, and some one who
understands the matter must take that point up before they can do
any good.  And after that he had had rather a dull dinner with the
duke.  Sowerby had been there, and in the evening he and Sowerby
had played billiards. Sowerby had won a pound or two, and that had
been the extent of the damage done.  But those saunterings over to
the parsonage might be more dangerous.  Not that it ever occurred
to Lady Lufton as possible that her son should fall in love with
Lucy Robarts.  Lucy's personal attraction were not of a nature to
give grounds for such a fear as that.  But he might turn the girl's
head with his chatter; she might be fool enough to fancy any folly;
and, moreover, people would talk.  Why should he go to the
parsonage now more frequently than he had ever done before Lucy
came there?

And then her ladyship, in reference to the same trouble, hardly
knew how to manage her invitations to the parsonage.  These
hitherto had been very frequent, and she had been in the habit of
thinking that they could hardly be too much so; but now she was
almost afraid to continue the custom.  She could not ask the parson
and his wife without Lucy; and when Lucy was there, her son would
pass the greater part of the evening in talking to her, or playing
chess with her.  Now this did disturb Lady Lufton not a little. And
then Lucy took it all so quietly.  On her first arrival at Framley
she had been so shy, so silent, and so much awestruck by the
grandeur of Framley Court, that Lady Lufton had sympathized with
her and encouraged her.  She had endeavoured to moderate the blaze
of her own splendour, in order that Lucy's unaccustomed eyes might
not be dazzled.  But all this was changed now.  Lucy could listen
to the young lord's voice by the hour together--without being
dazzled in the least. Under these circumstances two things occurred
to her.  She would speak either to her son or to Fanny Robarts, and
by a little diplomacy have this evil remedied.  And then she had to
determine on which step she would take.  'Nothing could be more
reasonable than Ludovic.'  So at least she said to herself over and
over again.  But then Ludovic understood nothing about such
matters; and had, moreover, a habit, inherited from his father, of
taking the bit between his teeth whenever he suspected
interference.  Drive him gently without pulling his mouth about,
and you might take him anywhere, almost at any pace; but a smart
touch, let it be ever so slight, would bring him on his haunches,
and then it might be a question whether you could get him another
mile that day.  So that on the whole Lady Lufton thought that the
other plan would be the best.  I have no doubt that Lady Lufton was
right.

She got Fanny up into her own den one afternoon, and seated her
discreetly in an easy arm-chair, making her guest take off her
bonnet, and showing by various signs that her visit was regarded as
one of great moment.  'Fanny,' she said, 'I want to speak to you
about something that is important and necessary to mention, and yet
it is a very delicate affair to speak of.'  Fanny opened her eyes
and said that she hoped that nothing was wrong.  'No, my dear, I
think nothing is wrong: I hope so, and I think I may say I'm sure
of it; but then it's always well to be on one's guard.'

'Yes, it is,' said Fanny, who knew that something unpleasant was
coming--something as to which she might be called upon to differ
from her ladyship.  Mrs Robarts's own fears, however, were running
entirely in the direction of her husband;--and, indeed, Lady Lufton
had a word to two to say on that subject also, only not exactly
now.  A hunting parson was not at all to her taste; but that matter
might be allowed to remain in abeyance for a few days.

'Now, Fanny, you know that we have all liked your sister-in-law,
Lucy, very much.'  And then Mrs Robarts's mind was immediately
opened, and she knew the rest as well as though it had been all
spoken.  'I need hardly tell you that, for I an sure we have shown
it.'

'You have indeed, as you always do.'

'And you must not think that I am going to complain,' continued
Lady Lufton.

'I hope there is nothing to complain of,' said Fanny, speaking by
no means in a defiant tone, but humbly as it were, and deprecating
her ladyship's wrath.  Fanny had gained one signal victory over
Lady Lufton, and on that account, with a prudence equal to her
generosity, felt that she could afford to be submissive.  It might,
perhaps, not be long before she would be equally anxious to conquer
again.

'Well, no; I don't think there is,' said Lady Lufton. 'Nothing to
complain of; but a little chat between you and me may, perhaps, set
matters right, which, otherwise, might become troublesome.'

'Is it about Lucy?'

'Yes, my dear--about Lucy.  She is a very nice, good girl, and a
credit to her father--'

'And a great comfort to us,' said Fanny.

'I am sure she is; she must be a very pleasant companion to you,
and so useful about the children; but--' And then Lady Lufton
paused for moment; for she, eloquent and discreet as she always
was, felt herself rather at a loss for words to express her exact
meaning.

'I don't know what I should do without her,' said Fanny, speaking
with the object of assisting her ladyship in her embarrassment.

'But the truth is this: she and Lord Lufton are getting in the way
of being too much together--of talking to each other too
exclusively.  I am sure you must have noticed it, Fanny.  It is not
that I suspect any evil.  I don't think that I am suspicious by
nature.'

'Oh! no,' said Fanny.

'But they will each of them get wrong ideas about the other, and
about themselves.  Lucy will, perhaps, think that Ludovic means
more than he does, and Ludovic will--' But it was not quite so easy
to say what Ludovic might do or think; but Lady Lufton went on:

'I am sure that you understand me, Fanny, with your excellent sense
and tact.  Lucy is clever, and amusing, and all that; and Ludovic,
like all young men, is perhaps ignorant that his attentions may be
taken to mean more than he intends--'

'You don't think that Lucy is in love with him?'

'On, dear no--nothing of the kind.  If I thought it had come to
that, I should recommend that she should be sent away altogether. I
am sure she is not so foolish as that.'

'I don't think there is anything in it at all, Lady Lufton.'

'I don't think there is, my dear, and therefore I would not for
worlds make any suggestion about it to Lord Lufton.  I would not
let him suppose that I suspected Lucy of being so imprudent.  But
still, it may be well that you should just say a word to her.  A
little management now and then, in such matters is so useful.'

'But what shall I say to her?'

'Just explain to her that any young lady who talks so much to the
same young gentleman will certainly be observed--that people will
accuse her of setting her cap at Lord Lufton. Not that I suspect
her--I give her credit for too much proper breeding: I know her
education has been good, and her principles are upright.  But
people will talk of her.  You must understand that, Fanny, as well
as I do.'  Fanny could not help meditating whether proper feeling,
education, and upright principles did forbid Lucy Robarts to fall
in love with Lord Lufton; but her doubts on this subject, if she
held any, were not communicated to her ladyship.  It had never
entered into her mind that a match was possible between Lord Lufton
and Lucy Robarts, nor had she the slightest wish to encourage it
now that the idea was suggested to her.  On such a matter she would
sympathize with Lady Lufton, though she did not completely agree
with her as to the expediency of any interference.  Nevertheless,
she at once offered to speak to Lucy.  'I don't think that Lucy has
any idea in her head upon the subject,' said Mrs Robarts.

'I dare say not--I don't suppose she has.  But young ladies
sometimes allow themselves to fall in love, and then to think
themselves very ill-used just because they have had no idea in
their head.'

'I will put her on her guard if you wish it, Lady Lufton.'

'Exactly, my dear; that is just it.  Put her on her guard--that is
all that is necessary.  She is a dear, good, clever girl, and it
would be very sad if anything were to interrupt our comfortable way
of getting on with her.'  Mrs Robarts knew to a nicety the exact
meaning of this threat.  If Lucy should persist in securing to
herself so much of Lord Lufton's time and attention, her visits to
Framley Court must become less frequent.  Lady Lufton would do
much, very much indeed, for her friends at the parsonage; but not
even for them could she permit her son's prospects in life to be so
endangered.  There was nothing more said between them, and Mrs
Robarts got up to take her leave, having promised to speak to Lucy.

'You manage everything so perfectly,' said Lady Lufton, as she
pressed Mrs Robarts's hand, 'that I am quite at ease now that I
find you will agree with me.'  Mrs Robarts did not exactly agree
with her ladyship, but she hardly thought it worth her while to say
so.  Mrs Robarts immediately started off on her walk to her won
home, and when she had got out of the grounds into the road, where
it makes a turn towards the parsonage, nearly opposite to Podgens'
shop, she saw Lord Lufton on horseback, and Lucy standing beside
him.  It was already five o'clock, and it was getting dusk; but as
she approached, or rather as she came suddenly within sight of
them, she could see that they were in close conversation. Lord
Lufton's face was towards her, and his horse was standing still; he
was leaning over towards his companion, and the whip, which he held
in his right hand, hung almost over her arm and down her back, as
though his hand had touched and perhaps rested on her shoulder. She
was standing by his side, looking up into his face, with one gloved
hand resting on the horse's neck.  Mrs Robarts, as she saw them,
could not but own that there might be cause for Lady Lufton's
fears.  But then Lucy's manner, as Mrs Robarts approached, was
calculated to dissipate any such fears and to prove that there was
no ground for them.  She did not move from her position, or allow
her hand to drop, or show that she was in any way either confused
or conscious.  She stood her ground, and when her sister-in-law
came up was smiling and at her ease.  'Lord Lufton wants me to
learn to ride,' said she.

'To learn to ride!' said Fanny, not knowing what answer to make to
such a proposition.

'Yes,' said he.  'This horse would carry her beautifully: he is as
quiet as a lamb, and I made Gregory go out with him yesterday with
a sheet hanging over him like a lady's habit, and the man got up
into a lady's saddle.'

'I think Gregory would make a better hand of it than Lucy.'

'The horse cantered with him as though he had carried a lady all
his life, and his mouth is like velvet; indeed, that is his
fault--he is too soft-mouthed.'

'I suppose that's the same sort of thing as a man being soft-
hearted,' said Lucy.

'Exactly; you ought to ride them both with a very light hand.  They
are difficult cattle to manage, but very pleasant when you know how
to do it.'

'But you see I don't know how to do it,' said Lucy.

'As regards the horse, you will learn in two days, and I do hope
you will try.  Don't you think it will be an excellent thing for
her, Mrs Robarts?'

'Lucy has got no habit,' said Mrs Robarts, making use of the excuse
common on all such occasions.

'There is one of Justinia's in the house, I know.  She always
leaves one here, in order that she may be able to ride when she
comes.'

'She would not think of taking such a liberty with Lady Meredith's
things,' said Fanny, almost frightened at the proposal.

'Of course it is out of the question, Fanny,' said Lucy, now
speaking rather seriously.  'In the first place, I would not take
Lord Lufton's horse; in the second place, I would not take Lady
Meredith's habit; in the third place, I should be a great deal too
much frightened; and, lastly, it is quite out of the question for a
great many other very good reasons.'

'Nonsense,' said Lord Lufton.

'A great deal of nonsense,' said Lucy, laughing, 'but all of it of
Lord Lufton's talking.  But we are getting cold--are we not,
Fanny?---so we will wish you good-night.'  And then the two ladies
shook hands with him, and walked on towards the parsonage.  That
which astonished Mrs Robarts the most in all this was the perfectly
collected manner in which Lucy spoke and conducted herself.  This,
connected, as she could not but connect, with the air of chagrin
with which Lord Lufton received Lucy's decision, made it manifest
to Mrs Robarts that Lord Lufton was annoyed because Lucy would not
consent to learn to ride; whereas she, Lucy herself, had given her
refusal in a firm and decided tone, as though resolved that nothing
more should be said about it.  They walked on in silence for a
minute or two, till they reached the parsonage gates, and then Lucy
said, laughing, 'Can't you fancy me sitting on that great big
horse?  I wonder what Lady Lufton would say if she saw me there,
and his lordship giving me my first lesson?'

'I don't think she would like it,' said Fanny.

'I'm sure she would not.  But I will not try her temper in that
respect.  Sometimes I fancy she does to even like seeing Lord
Lufton talking to me.'

'She does not like it, Lucy, when she sees him flirting with you.'
This Mrs Robarts said rather gravely, whereas Lucy had been
speaking in a half-bantering tone.  As soon as even the word
flirting was out of Fanny's mouth, she was conscious that she had
been guilty of an injustice in using it.  She had wished to say
something which would convey to her sister-in-law an idea of what
Lady Lufton would dislike; but in doing so, she had unintentionally
brought against her an accusation.

'Flirting, Fanny!' said Lucy, standing still in the path, and
looking up into her companion's face with all her eyes.  'Do you
mean to say that I have been flirting with Lord Lufton?'

'I did not say that.'

'Or that I have allowed him to flirt with me?'

'I did not mean to shock you, Lucy.'

'What did you mean, Fanny?'

'Why, just this: that Lady Lufton would not be pleased if he paid
you marked attentions, and if you received them; just like that
affair of riding; it was better to decline it.'

'Of course I declined it; of course I never dreamt of accepting
such an offer.  Go riding about the country on his horses!  What
have I done, Fanny, that you should suppose such a thing?'

'You have done nothing, dearest.'

'Then why did you speak as you did just now?'

'Because I wished to put you on your guard.  You know, Lucy, that I
do not intend to find fault with you; but you may be sure, as a
rule, that intimate friendships between young gentlemen and young
ladies are dangerous things.'  They then walked up to the hall-door
in silence.  When they reached it, Lucy stood in the doorway
instead of entering it, and said, 'Fanny, let us take another turn
together if you are not tired.'

'No, I'm not tired.'

'It will be better that I should understand you at once,'--and
then they again moved away from the house.  'Tell me truly now, do
you think that Lord Lufton and I have been flirting?'

'I do think he is a little inclined to flirt with you.'

'And Lady Lufton has been asking you to lecture me about it?' Poor
Mrs Robarts hardly knew what to say.  She thought well of all the
persons concerned; and was very anxious to behave well by all of
them;--was particularly anxious to create no ill feeling, and
wished that everybody would be comfortable, and on good terms with
everybody else.  But yet the truth was forced out of her when this
question was asked so suddenly.  'Not to lecture you, Lucy,' she
said at last.

'Well, to preach to me, or to talk to me, or to give me a lesson;
to say something that shall drive me to put my back up against Lord
Lufton?'

'To caution you, dearest.  Had you heard what she said, you would
hardly have felt angry with Lady Lufton.'

'Well, to caution me.  It is such a pleasant thing for a girl to be
cautioned against falling in love with a gentleman, especially when
the gentleman is very rich, and a lord, and all that sort of
thing.'

'Nobody for a moment attributes anything wrong to you, Lucy.'

'Anything wrong--no.  I don't know whether it would be anything
wrong, even if I were to fall in love with him.  I wonder whether
they cautioned Griselda Grantly when she was here?  I suppose when
young lords go about, all the girls are cautioned as a matter of
course.  Why do they not label him "dangerous"?'  And then they
were again silent for a moment, as Mrs Robarts did not feel that
she had anything further to say on the matter.

'"Poison" should be the word with any one so fatal as Lord Lufton;
and he ought to be made up of some particular colour; for fear he
should be swallowed by mistake.'

'You will be safe, you see,' said Fanny laughing, 'as you have been
specially cautioned as to this individual bottle.'

'Ah!  but what's the use of that after I have had so many doses? It
is no good telling me about it now; when the mischief is
done,--after I have been taking it for I don't know how long.
Dear!  Dear!  Dear!  And I regarded it as a more commonplace
powder, good for the complexion.  I wonder whether it's too late,
or whether there's any antidote?'  Mrs Robarts did not always quite
understand her sister-in-law, and now she was a little at a loss.
'I don't think there' much harm done yet on either side,' said she,
cheerily.

'Ah! you don't know, Fanny.  But I do think that if I die--as I
shall--I feel I shall;--and if so, I do think it ought to go very
hard with Lady Lufton.  Why didn't she label him "dangerous" in
time?'  And then they went into the house and up to their own
rooms.  It was difficult for any one to understand Lucy's state of
mind at present, and it can hardly be said that she understood it
herself.  She felt that she had received a severe blow in having
been thus made the subject of remark with reference to Lord
Lufton.  She knew that her pleasant evenings at Framley Court were
now over, and that she could not again talk to him in an
unrestrained tone and without embarrassment.  She had felt the air
of the whole place to be very cold before her intimacy with him,
and now it must be cold again.  Two homes had been open to her;
Framley Court and the parsonage; and no, as far as comfort was
concerned, she must confine herself to the latter.  She could not
again be comfortable in Lady Lufton's drawing-room.  But then she
could not help asking herself whether Lady Lufton was not right.
She had had courage enough, and presence of mind, to joke about the
matter when her sister-in-law spoke to her, and yet she was quite
aware that it was no joking matter.  Lord Lufton had not absolutely
made love to her, but had latterly spoken to her in a manner which
she knew was not compatible with that ordinary comfortable
masculine friendship with the idea of which she had once satisfied
herself.  Was not Fanny right when she said that intimate
friendships of that nature were dangerous things?

Yes, Lucy, very dangerous.  Lucy, before she went to bed that
night, had owned to herself that they were so; and lying there with
sleepless eyes and a moist pillow, she was driven to confess that
the label would in truth be now too late, that the caution had come
to her after the poison had been swallowed.  Was there any
antidote?  That was all that was left for her to consider.  But,
nevertheless, on the following morning she could appear quite at
her ease.  And when Mark had left the house after breakfast, she
could still joke with Fanny as to Lady Lufton's poisoned cupboard.



CHAPTER XIV

MR CRAWLEY OF HOGGLESTOCK

And then there was that other trouble in Lady Lufton's mind, the
sins, namely, of her selected parson.  She had selected him, and
she was by no means inclined to give him up, even though his sins
against parsondom were grievous.  Indeed she was a woman not prone
to give up anything, and of all things not prone to give up a
protege.  The very fact that she herself had selected him was the
strongest argument in his favour.  But his sins against parsondom
were becoming very grievous in her eyes, and she was at a loss to
know what steps to take.  She hardly dared to take him to task, him
himself.  Were she to do so, and should he then tell her to mind
her own business--as he probably might do, though not in those
words--there would be a schism in the parish; and almost anything
would be better than that.  The whole work of her life would be
upset, all the outlets of her energy would be impeded, if not
absolutely closed, if a state of things were to come to pass in
which she and the parson of her parish should not be on good terms.

But what was to be done?  Early in the winter he had gone to
Chaldicotes and to Gatherum Castle, consorting with gamblers,
Whigs, atheists, men of loose pleasure, and Proudieites. That she
had condoned; and now he was turning out a hunting parson on her
hands.  It was all very well for Fanny to say that he merely looked
at the hounds as he made about his parish.  Fanny might be
deceived.  Being his wife, it might be her duty not to see her
husband's iniquities.  But Lady Lufton could not be deceived.  She
knew very well in what part of the county Cobbold's Ashes lay.  It
was not in Framley parish, nor in the next parish to it.  It was
half-way across to Chaldicotes--to the western division; and she
had heard of that run in which two horses had been killed, and in
which Parson Robarts had won immortal glory among West Barsetshire
sportsmen.  It was not easy to keep Lady Lufton in the dark as to
matters occurring in her own county.

All those things she knew, but as yet had not noticed, grieving
over them in her own heart the more on that account.  Spoken grief
relieves itself; and when one can give counsel, one always hopes at
least that that counsel will be effective.  To her son she had
said, more than once, that it was a pity that Mr Robarts should
follow the hounds--'The world has agreed that it is unbecoming in a
clergyman,' she would urge, in her deprecatory tone.  But her son
would by no means give her any comfort.  'He doesn't hunt, you
know--not as I do,' he would say.  'And if he did, I really don't
see the harm of it.  A man must have some amusement, even if he is
an archbishop.'  'He has amusement at home,' Lady Lufton would
answer.  'What does his wife do--and his sister?' This allusion to
Lucy, however, was very soon dropped.

Lord Lufton would in no wise help her.  He would not even passively
discourage the vicar, or refrain from offering to give him a seat
in going to the meets.  Mark and Lord Lufton had been boys
together, and his lordship knew that Mark in his heart would enjoy
a brush across the country quite as well himself; and then what was
the harm of it?  Lady Lufton's best aid had been in Mark's own
conscience.  He had taken himself to task more than once, and had
promised himself that he would not become a sporting parson.
Indeed, where would be his hopes of ulterior promotion, if he
allowed himself to degenerate so far as that?  It had been his
intention, in reviewing what he considered to be the necessary
proprieties of clerical life, in laying out his own future mode of
living, to assume no peculiar sacerdotal strictness; he would not
be known as a denouncer of dancing or of card-tables, of theatres
or of novel-reading; he would take the world around him, as he
found it, endeavouring by precept and practice to lend a hand to
the gradual amelioration which Christianity is producing; but he
would attempt no sudden or majestic reforms.  Cake and ale would
still be popular, and ginger be hot in the mouth, let him preach
ever so--let him be never so solemn as a hermit; but a bright face,
a true trusting heart, an strong arm, and an humble mind, might do
much in teaching those around him that men may be gay and yet not
profligate, that women may be devout and yet not be dead to the
world.

Such had been his ideas as to his own future life; and though many
would think that, as a clergyman, he should have gone about his
work with more serious devotion of thought, nevertheless there was
some wisdom in them;--some folly also undoubtedly, as appeared by
the troubles into which they had led him.  'I will not affect to
think that to be bad,' said he to himself, 'which in my heart of
hearts does not seem to be bad.'  And thus he resolved that he
might live without contamination among hunting squires.  And then,
being a man only to prone by nature to do as other did around him,
he found by degrees that that could hardly be wrong for him which
he admitted to be right for others.

But still his conscience upbraided him, and he declared to himself
more than once that after this year he would hunt no more.  And
then his own Fanny would look at him on his return home on those
days in a manner that would cut him to the heart.  She would say
nothing to him.  She never inquired in a sneering tone; and with
angry eyes, whether he had enjoyed his day's sport; but when he
spoke of it, she could not answer with enthusiasm; and in other
matters which concerned him she was always enthusiastic.  After a
while, too, he made matters worse, for about the end of March, he
did another very foolish thing.  He almost consented to buy an
expensive horse from Sowerby--an animal which he by no means
wanted, and which, if once possessed, would certainly lead him into
further trouble.  A gentleman, when he has a good horse in his
stable, does not like to leave him there eating his head off.  If
he be a gig-horse, the owner of him will be keen to drive a gig; if
a hunter, the happy possessor will wish to be with a pack of
hounds.

'Mark,' Sowerby said to him one day, when they were out together,
'this brute of mine is so fresh, I can hardly ride him; you are
young and strong; change with me for an hour or so.'  And then they
did change, and the horse on which Robarts found himself mounted
went away with him beautifully.

'He's a splendid animal,' said Mark, when they again met.

'Yes, for a man of your weight.  He's thrown away upon me;--too
much of a horse for my purposes.  I don't get along now quite as
well as I used to do.  He is a nice sort of hunter; just rising
six, you know.'  How it came to pass that the price of the splendid
animal was mentioned between them, I need not describe with
exactness.  But it did come to pass that Mr Sowerby told the parson
that the horse could be his for one hundred and thirty pounds. 'And
I really wish you'd take him,' said Sowerby.  'It would be the
means of partially relieving my mind of a great weight.'  Mark
looked up into his friend's face with an air of surprise, for he
did not at the moment understand how this should be the case.

'I'm afraid, you know, that you will have to put your hand into
your pocket sooner or later for that accursed bill'--Mark shrank
as the profane words struck his ears--'and I should be glad to
think that you had got something in hand in the way of value.'

'Do you mean that I shall have to pay the whole sum of five hundred
pounds?'

'Oh!  dear, no; nothing of the kind.  But something I dare say you
will have to pay: if you like to take Dandy for a hundred and
thirty, you can be prepared for that amount when Tozer comes to
you.  The horse is dog cheap, and you will have a long day for you
money.'  Mark, at first, declared, in a quiet determined tone, that
he did not want the horse; but it afterwards appeared to him that
if he were so fated that he must pay a portion of Mr Sowerby's
debts, he might as repay himself to any extent within his power. It
would be as well perhaps that he should take the horse and sell
him.  It did not occur to him that by so doing he would put it in
Mr Sowerby's power to say that some valuable consideration had
passed between them with reference to this bill, and that he would
be aiding that gentleman in preparing an inextricable confusion in
money matters between them.  Mr Sowerby well knew the value of
this.  It would enable him to make a plausible story, as he had
done in that other case of Lord Lufton.  'Are you going to have
Dandy?'  Sowerby said to him again.

'I can't say that I will just at present,' said the parson.  'What
should I do with him now the season's over?'

'Exactly, my dear fellow; and what do I do want of him now the
season's over?  If it were the beginning of October instead of the
end of March, Dandy would be up at two hundred and thirty instead
of one: in six months' time that horse would be worth anything you
like to ask for him.  Look at his bone.'  The vicar did look at his
bones, examining the brute with a very knowing and unclerical
manner.  He lifted the animal's four feet, one after another,
handling the frogs, and measuring with his eye the proportion of
his parts; he passed his hand up and down his legs, spanning the
bones of the lower joint; he peered into his eyes, took into
consideration the width of his chest, the dip of his back, the form
of his ribs, the curve of his haunches, and the capabilities for
breathing when pressed by work.  And then he stood away a little,
eyeing him from the side, and taking in a general idea of the form
and make of the whole.  'He seems to stand over a little, I think,'
said the parson.

'It's the lie of the ground.  Move him about, Bob.  There now, let
him stand there.'

'He's not perfect,' said Mark.  'I don't quite like his heels; but
no doubt he's a niceish cut of horse.'

'I rather think he is.  If he were perfect, as you say, he would
not be going into your stables for a hundred and thirty.  Do you
ever remember to have seen a perfect horse?'

'Your mare Mrs Gamp was as nearly perfect as possible.'

'Even Mrs Gamp had her faults.  In the first place she was a bad
feeder.  But one certainly doesn't often come across anything much
better than Mrs Gamp.'  And thus the matter was talked over between
them with much stable conversation, all of which tended to make
Sowerby more and more oblivious of his friend's sacred profession,
and perhaps to make the vicar himself too frequently oblivious of
it also.  But no; he was not oblivious of it.  He was even mindful
of it; but mindful of it in such a manner that his thoughts on the
subject were nowadays always painful.

There is a parish called Hogglestock lying away quite in the
northern extremity of the eastern division of the county--lying
also on the borders of the western division.  I almost fear that it
will become necessary, before this history be completed, to provide
a map of Barsetshire for the due explanation of all these
localities.  Framley is also in the northern portion of the county,
but just to the south of the grand trunk line of railway from which
the branch to Barchester strikes off at a point some thirty miles
nearer to London.  The station for Framley Court is Silverbridge,
which is, however, in the western division of the county.
Hogglesock is to the north of the railway, the line of which,
however, runs through a portion of the parish, and it adjoins
Framley, though the churches are as much as seven miles apart.
Barsetshire, taken altogether, is a pleasant green tree-becrowded
county, with large husky hedges, pretty damp deep lanes, and roads
with broad grass margins running along them.  Such is the general
nature of the county; but just up in its northern extremity this
nature alters.  There it is bleak and ugly, with low artificial
hedges, and without wood; not uncultivated, as it is all portioned
out into new-looking large fields, bearing turnips, and wheat, and
mangel, all in due course of agricultural rotation; but it has none
of the special beauties of English cultivation.  There is not a
gentleman's house in the parish of Hogglestock besides that of the
clergyman; and this, though it is certainly the house of a
gentleman, can hardly be said to be fit to be so.  It is ugly, and
straight, and small.  It produces cabbages, but no trees: potatoes
of, I believe, an excellent description, but hardly any flowers,
and nothing worthy of the name of a shrub.  Indeed the whole parish
of Hogglestock should have been in the adjoining county, which is
by no means so attractive as Barsetshire;--a fact well known to
those few of my readers who are well acquainted with their own
country.

Mr Crawley, whose name has been mentioned in these pages, was the
incumbent of Hogglestock.  On what principle the remuneration of
our parish clergymen was settled when the original settlement was
made, no deepest, keenest, lover of middle-aged ecclesiastical
black-letter learning can, I take it, now say.  That priests were
to be paid from tithes of the parish produce, out of which tithes
certain other good things were to be bought and paid for, such as
church repairs and education, of so much the most have an inkling.
That a rector, being a big sort of parson, owned the tithes of his
parish in full,--or at any rate that part of them intended for the
clergyman,--and that a vicar was somebody's deputy, and therefore
entitled only to little tithes, as being of a little body: of so
much we that are simple in such matters have a general idea.  But
one cannot conceive that even in this way any approximation could
have been made, even in these old medieval days, towards a fair
proportioning of the pay to the work.  At any rate, it is clear
enough that there is no such approximation now.  And what a screech
would there not be among the clergy of the Church, even in these
reforming days, if any over-bold reformer were to suggest that such
an approximation should be attempted?  Let those who know
clergymen, and like them, and have lived with them, only fancy it!
Clergymen to be paid, not according to the temporalities of any
living which they may have acquired, either by merit or favour, but
in accordance with the work to be done!  O Doddington!  And O
Stanhope, think of this, if an idea so sacrilegious can find
entrance into your warm ecclesiastical bosoms!  Ecclesiastical work
to be bought and paid of according to its quantity and quality!

But, nevertheless, one may prophesy that we Englishmen must come to
this, disagreeable as the idea undoubtedly is.  Most
pleasant-minded Churchmen feel, I think, on this subject pretty
much in the same way.  Our present arrangement of parochial incomes
is beloved as being time-honoured, gentlemanlike, English, and
picturesque.  We would fain adhere to it closely as long as we can,
but we know that we do so by the force of our prejudice, and not by
that of our judgement.  A time-honoured, gentlemanlike, English,
picturesque arrangement is so far very delightful.  But are there
not other attributes very desirable--nay, absolutely necessary--in
respect to which this time-honoured, picturesque arrangement is so
very deficient?

How pleasant it was, too, that one bishop should be getting fifteen
thousand a year, and another with an equal care of parsons only
four?  That a certain prelate could get twenty thousand one year
and his successor in the same diocese only five the next?  There
was something in it pleasant and picturesque; it was an arrangement
endowed with feudal charms, and the change which they had made was
distasteful to many of us.  A bishop with a regular salary, and no
appanage of land and land-bailiffs, is only half a bishop.  Let any
man prove to me the contrary ever so thoroughly--me prove it to my
own self ever so often--my heart in this matter is not thereby a
whit altered.  One liked to know that there was a dean or two who
got his three thousand a year, and that old Dr Purple held four
stalls, one of which was golden, and the other three silver-gilt!
Such knowledge was always so pleasant to me!  A golden stall!  How
sweet is the ground thereof to church-loving ears!  But bishops
have been shorn of their beauty, and deans are in their decadence.
A utilitarian age requires the fatness of the ecclesiastical land,
in order that it may be divided out into small portions of
provender, on which necessary working clergymen may live, --into
portions so infinitely small that working clergyman can hardly
live.  And the full-blown rectors and vicars, with full-blown
tithes--with tithes when too full-blown for strict utilitarian
principles--will necessarily follow. Stanhope and Doddington must
bow their heads, with such compensation for temporal rights as may
be extracted,--but in other trades, professions, and lines of life,
men are paid according to their work.  Let it be so in the Church.
Such will sooner or later be the edict of a utilitarian, reforming,
matter-of-fact House of Parliament.

I have a scheme of my own on the subject, which I will not
introduce here, seeing that neither men nor women would read it.
And with reference to this matter, I will only here further explain
that all these words have been brought about by the fact, necessary
to be here stated, that Mr Crawley only received one hundred and
thirty pounds a year for performing the whole parochial duty of the
parish of Hogglestock.  And Hogglestock is a large parish.  It
includes two populous villages, abounding in brickmakers, a race of
men very troublesome to a zealous parson who won't let men go
rollicking to the devil without interference.  Hogglestock has full
work for two men; and yet all the funds therein applicable to
parson's work is this miserable stipend of one hundred and thirty
pounds a year.  It is a stipend neither picturesque nor
time-honoured, nor feudal, for Hogglestock takes rank only as a
perpetual curacy.

Mr Crawley has been mentioned before as a clergyman of whom Mr
Robarts said, that he almost thought it wrong to take a walk out of
his own parish.  In so saying Mark Robarts of course burlesqued his
brother parson; but there can be no doubt that Mr Crawley was a
strict man,--a strict, stern, unpleasant man, and one who feared
God and his own conscience.  We must say a word or two of Mr
Crawley and his concerns.  He was now some forty years of age, but
of these he had not been in possession even of his present benefice
for more than four or five.  The first ten years of his life as a
clergyman had been passed in performing the duties and struggling
through the life of a curate in a bleak, ugly, cold parish on the
northern coast of Cornwall.  It had been a weary life and a fearful
struggle, made up of duties ill requited and not always
satisfactorily performed, of love and poverty, of increasing cares,
of sickness, debt, and death.  For Mr Crawley had married almost as
soon as he was ordained, and children had been born to him in that
chill, comfortless Cornish village.  He had married a lady
well-educated and softly nurtured, but not dowered with worldly
wealth.  They two had gone forth determined to fight bravely
together; to disregard the world and the world's ways, looking only
to God and to each other for their comfort.  They would give up
ideas of gentle living, of soft raiment, and delicate feeding.
Others,--those that work with their hands, even the betterment of
such workers--could live in decency and health upon even such
provisions as he could earn as a clergyman.  In such manner would
they live, so poorly and so decently, working out their work, not
with their hands but with their hearts.

And so they had established themselves, beginning the world with
bare-footed little girl of fourteen to aid them in the small
household matters; and for a while they had both kept heart, loving
each other dearly, and prospering somewhat in their work.  But a
man who has once walked the world as a gentleman knows to what it
is to change his position, and place himself lower down in the
social rank. Much less can he know what it is to put down the
woman he loves.  There are a thousand things, mean and trifling in
themselves, which a man despises when he thinks of them in his
philosophy, but to dispense with which puts is philosophy to so
stern a proof.  Let any plainest man who reads this think of his
usual mode of getting himself into is matutinal garments, and
confess how much such a struggle would cost him.  And then children
had come.  The wife of the labouring man does rear her children,
and often rears them in health, without even so may appliances of
comfort as found their way into Mrs Crawley's cottage; but the task
to her was almost more than she could accomplish.  Not that she
ever fainted, or gave way: she was made of the sterner metal of the
two, and could last on while he was prostrate.

And sometimes he was prostrate--prostrate in soul and spirit.  Then
would he complain with bitter voice, crying out that the world was
too hard for him, that his back was broken with his burden, that
his God had deserted him.  For days and days, in such moods, he
would stay within his cottage, never darkening the door or seeing
other face than those of his own inmates.  Those days were terrible
both to him and her.  He would sit there unwashed, with his unshorn
face resting on his hand, with an old dressing-gown hanging loose
about him, hardly tasting food, seldom speaking, striving to pray,
but striving so frequently in vain.  And then he would rise from
his chair, and, with a burst of frenzy, call upon his Creator to
remove him from this misery.  In these moments she never deserted
him.  At one period they had had four children, and though the
whole weight of this young brood rested on her arms, on her
muscles, on her strength of mind and body, she never ceased in her
efforts to comfort him.  Then, at length, falling utterly upon the
ground, he would pour forth piteous prayers for mercy, and after a
night of sleep would once more go forth to his work.

But she never yielded to despair: the struggle was never beyond her
powers of endurance.  She had possessed her share of woman's
loveliness, but that was now all gone.  Her colour quickly faded,
and the fresh, soft tints soon deserted her face and forehead.  She
became thin, and rough, and almost haggard; thin till her
cheek-bones were nearly pressing through her skin, till her elbows
were sharp, and her finger-bones as those of a skeleton.  Her eye
did not lose its lustre, but it became unnaturally bright,
prominent, and too large for her wan face.  The soft brown locks,
which she had once loved to brush back, scorning, as she would
boast to herself, to care that they should be seen, were now sparse
enough and all untidy and unclean.  It was matter of little thought
now whether they were seen or not.  Whether he could be made fit to
go into his pulpit--whether they might be fed--those four
innocents--and their backs kept from the cold wind--that was now
the matter of her thought.  And then two of them died, and she went
forth herself to see them laid under the frost-bound sod, lest he
should faint in his work over their graves.  For he would ask aid
from no man--such at least was his boast through all.  Two of them
died, but their illness had been long; and then debts came upon
them.  Debt, indeed, had been creeping on them with slow but sure
feet during the last five years.  Who can see his children hungry,
and not take bread if it be offered?  Who can see his wife lying in
sharpest want, and not seek a remedy if there be a remedy within
reach?  So debt had come upon them, and rude men pressed for small
sums of money--for sums small to the world, but impossibly large to
them.  And he would hide himself within there, in that cranny of an
inner chamber--hide himself with deep shame from the world, with
shame and a sinking heart, and a broken spirit.

But had such a man no friend? it will be said.  Such men, I take
it, do not make many friends.  But this man was not utterly
friendless.  Almost every year one visit was paid to him in his
Cornish curacy, by a brother clergyman, an old college friend, who,
as far as might in him lie, did give aid to the curate and his
wife.  This gentleman would take up his abode for a week at a
farmer's in the neighbourhood, and though he found Mr Crawley in
despair, he would leave him with some drops of comfort in his
soul.  Nor were the benefits in this respect al on one side.  Mr
Crawley, though at some periods weak enough himself, could be
strong for others; and, more than once, was strong to the great
advantage of this man whom he loved.  And then, too, pecuniary
assistance was forthcoming--in those earlier years not in great
amount, for this friend was not then among the rich ones of the
earth--but in amount sufficient for that moderate hearth, if only
its acceptance could have been managed.  But in that matter there
were difficulties without end.  Of absolute money tenders Mr
Crawley would accept none.  But a bill here and there was paid, the
wife assisting; and shoes came for Kate--till Kate was placed
beyond the need of shoes; and cloth for Harry and Frank, found its
way surreptitiously in beneath the cover of that wife's solitary
trunk--cloth with which those lean fingers worked garments for the
two boys, to be worn--such was God's will--only by the one.

Such were Mr and Mrs Crawley in their Cornish curacy, and during
their severest struggles.  To one who thinks that a fair day's work
is worth a fair day's wages, it seems hard enough that a man should
work so hard and receive so little.  There will be those who think
that the fault was all his own in marrying so young.  But still
there remains that question, Is not a fair day's work worth a fair
day's wages?  This man did work hard--at a task perhaps the hardest
of any that a man may do; and for ten years he earned some seventy
pounds a year.  Will any one say that he received fair wages for
his fair work, let him be married or single?  And yet, there are so
many who would fain pay their clergy, if they only knew how to
apply their money!  But that is a long subject, as Mr Robarts had
told Miss Dunstable.  Such was Mr Crawley in his Cornish curacy.



CHAPTER XV

LADY LUFTON'S AMBASSADOR


And then, in the days which followed, that friend of Mr Crawley's,
whose name, by the by, is yet to be mentioned, received quick and
great promotion.  Mr Arabin by name he was then; Dr Arabin
afterwards, when that quick and great promotion reached its
climax.  He had been simply a Fellow of Lazarus in those former
years.  Then he became vicar of St Ewold's, in East Barsetshire,
and had not yet got himself settled there when he married the widow
Bold, a widow with belongings in land and funded money, and with
but one small baby as an encumbrance.  Nor had he even yet married
her, had only engaged himself so to do, when they made him Dean of
Barchester--all of which may be read in the diocesan and county
chronicles.  And now that he was wealthy, the new dead did contrive
to pay the debts of his poor friend, some lawyer of Camelford
assisting him.  It was but a paltry schedule after all, amounting
in the total to something not much above a hundred pounds.  And
then, in the course of eighteen months, this poor piece of
preferment fell the dean's way, this incumbency of Hogglestock with
its stipend reaching one hundred and thirty pounds a year.  Even
that was worth double the Cornish curacy, and there was, moreover,
a house attached to it.  Poor Mrs Crawley, when she heard of it,
thought that their struggles of poverty were now well-nigh over.
What might not be done with a hundred and thirty pounds by people
who had lived for ten years on seventy?

And so they moved away out of that cold, bleak country, carrying
with them their humble household goods, and settled themselves in
another country, cold and bleak also, but less terribly so than the
former.  They settled themselves, and again began their struggles
against man's hardness and the devil's zeal.  I have said that Mr
Crawley was a stern, unpleasant man; and it certainly was so.  The
man must be made of very sterling stuff, whom continued and
undeserved misfortune does not make unpleasant.  This man had so
far succumbed to grief, that it had left upon him its marks,
palpable and not to be effaced.  He cared little for society,
judging men to be doing evil who did care for it.  He knew as a
fact, and believed with all his heart, that these sorrows had come
to him from the hand of God, and that they would work for his weal
in the long run; but not the less did they make him morose, silent
and dogged.  He had always at his heart a feeling that he and his
had been ill-used, and too often solaced himself, at the devil's
bidding, with the conviction that eternity would make equal that
which life in this world had made so unequal; the last bait that
with which the devil angles after those who are struggling to elude
his rod and line.

The Framley property did not run into the parish of Hogglestock;
but nevertheless Lady Lufton did what she could in the way of
kindness to these new-comers.  Providence had not supplied
Hogglestock with a Lady Lufton, or with any substitute in the shape
of lord or lady, squire or squiress.  The Hogglestock farmers, male
and female, were a rude, rough set, not bordering in their social
rank on the farmer gentle; and Lady Lufton, knowing this, and
hearing something of these Crawleys from Mrs Arabin the dean's
wife, trimmed her lamps, so that they should shed a wider light,
and pour forth some of their influence on that forlorn household.
And as regards Mrs Crawley, Lady Lufton by no means found that her
work was thrown away.  Mrs Crawley accepted her kindness with
thankfulness, and returned to some of the softness of life under
her hand.  As for dining at Framley Court, that was out of the
question.  Mr Crawley, she knew, would not hear of it, even if
other things were fitting and appliances were at command.  Indeed
Mrs Crawley at once said that she felt herself unfit to go through
such a ceremony with anything like comfort.  The dean, she said,
would talk of their going to stay at the deanery; but she thought
it quite impossible that either of them should endure even that.
But, all the same, Lady Lufton was a comfort to her; and the poor
woman felt that it was well to have a lady near her in case of
need.

The task was much harder with Mr Crawley, but even with him it was
not altogether unsuccessful.  Lady Lufton talked to him of his
parish and of her own; made Mark Robarts go to him, and by degrees
did something towards civilizing him.  Between him and Robarts too
there grew up an intimacy rather than a friendship.  Robarts would
submit his opinion on matters of ecclesiastical and even
theological law, would listen to him with patience, would agree
with him where he could, and differ with him mildly when he could
not.  For Robarts was a man who made himself pleasant to all men.
And thus, under Lady Lufton's wing, there grew up a connexion
between Framley and Hogglestock, in which Mrs Robarts also
assisted.  And now that Lady Lufton was looking about her, to see
how she might best bring proper clerical influence to bear upon her
own recreant fox-hunting parson, it occurred to her that she might
use Mr Crawley in the matter.  Mr Crawley would certainly be on her
side as far as opinion went, and would have no fear in expressing
his opinion to his brother clergyman.  So she sent for Mr Crawley.
In appearance he was the very opposite of Mark Robarts.  He was a
lean, slim, meagre man, with shoulders slightly curved, and pale,
lank locks of ragged hair; his forehead was high, but his face was
narrow; his small grey eyes were deeply sunken in his head, his
nose was well-formed, his lips thin, and his mouth expressive.
Nobody could look at him without seeing that there was a purpose
and a meaning in his countenance.  He always wore, in summer and
winter, a long dusky grey coat, which buttoned close up to his neck
and descended almost to his heels.  He was full six feet high, but
being so slight in build, he looked as though he were taller.  He
came at once at Lady Lufton's bidding, putting himself into the gig
beside the servant, to whom he spoke no single word during the
journey.  And the man, looking into his face, was struck with
taciturnity.  Now Mark Robarts would have talked with him the whole
way from Hogglestock to Framley Court; discoursing partly as to
horses and land, but partly also as to higher things.  And then
Lady Lufton opened her mind and told her griefs to Mr Crawley,
urging, however, through the whole length of her narrative, that Mr
Robarts was an excellent parish clergyman,--'just such a clergyman
in his church as I would wish him to be,' she explained, with the
view of saving herself from an expression of any of Mr Crawley's
special ideas as to church teaching, and of confining him to the
one subject-matter in hand; 'but he got his living so young, Mr
Crawley, that he is hardly quite as steady as I should wish him to
be.  It has been as much my fault as his own in placing him in such
a position so early in life.'

'I think it has,' said Mr Crawley, who might perhaps be a little
sore on the subject.

'Quite so, quite so,' continued her ladyship, swallowing down a
certain sense of anger.  'But that is done now, and is past cure.
That Mr Robarts will become a credit to his profession, I do not
doubt, for his heart is in the right place and his sentiments are
good; but I fear that at present he is succumbing to temptation.'

'I am told that he hunts two or three times a week. Everybody is
talking about it.'

'No, Mr Crawley; not two or three times a week; very seldom above
once, I think.  And then I do believe he does it more with the view
of being with Lord Lufton than anything else.'

'I cannot see that that would make the matter better,' said Mr
Crawley.

'It would show that he was not strongly imbued with a taste which I
cannot but regard as vicious in a clergyman.'

'It must be vicious in all men,' said Mr Crawley.  'It is in itself
cruel, and leads to idleness and profligacy.'  Again Lady Lufton
made a gulp.  She had called Mr Crawley thither to her aid, and
felt that it would be inexpedient to quarrel with him.  But she did
not like to be told that her son's amusement was idle and
profligate.  She had always regarded hunting as a proper pursuit
for a country gentleman.  It was, indeed, in her eyes one of the
peculiar institutions of country life in England, and it may be
almost said that she looked upon the Barsetshire Hunt as something
sacred.  She could not endure to hear that a fox was trapped, and
allowed her turkeys to be purloined without a groan.  Such being
the case, she did not like being told that it was vicious, and had
by no means wished to consult Mr Crawley on that matter.  But
nevertheless she swallowed her wrath.

'It is at any rate unbecoming in a clergyman,' she said; 'and as I
know that Mr Robarts places a high value on your opinion, perhaps
you will not object to advise him to discontinue it.  He might
possibly feel aggrieved were I to interfere personally on such a
question.'

'I have no doubt he would,' said Mr Crawley.  'It is not within a
woman's province to give counsel to a clergyman on such a subject,
unless she be very near and very dear to him--his wife, or mother,
or sister.'

'As living in the same parish, you know, and being, perhaps--' the
leading person in it, and the one who naturally rules the others.
Those would have been the fitting words for the expression of
her ladyship's ideas; but she remembered herself, and did not use
them.  She had made up her mind that, great as her influence ought
to be, she was not the proper person to speak to Mr Robarts as to
his pernicious, unclerical habits, and she would not now depart
from her resolve by attempting to prove that she was the proper
person.

'Yes,' said Mr Crawley, 'just so.  All that would entitle him to
offer you his counsel if he thought that your mode of life was such
as to require it, but could by no means justify in addressing
yourself to him.'  This was very hard upon Lady Lufton.  She was
endeavouring with all her woman's strength to do her best, and
endeavouring so to do it that the feelings of the sinner might be
spared; and yet the ghostly comforter whom she had evoked to her
aid, treated her as though she were arrogant and overbearing.  She
acknowledged the weakness of her own position with reference to her
parish clergyman by calling in the aid of Mr Crawley; and, under
such circumstances, he might, at any rate, have abstained from
throwing her weakness in her teeth.

'Well, sir; I hope my mode of life may not require it; but that is
not exactly to the point; what I wish to know is, whether you will
speak to Mr Robarts?'

'Certainly I will', said he.

'Then I shall be much obliged to you.  But, Mr Crawley, pray
--pray, remember this: I would not on any account wish that you
should be harsh with him.  He is an excellent young man, and--'

'Lady Lufton, if I do this, I can only do it in my own way, as best
I may, using such words as God may give me at the time.  I hope
that I am harsh to no man; but it is worse than useless, in all
cases, to speak anything but the truth.'

'Of course--of course.'

'If the ears be too delicate to hear the truth, the mind will be
too perverse to profit by it.'  And then Mr Crawley got up to take
his leave.  But Lady Lufton insisted that he should go with her to
luncheon.  He hummed and ha'd and would fain have refused, but on
this subject she was peremptory.  It might be that she was unfit to
advise a clergyman as to his duties, but in a matter of hospitality
she did know what she was about.  Mr Crawley should not leave the
house without refreshment.  As to this, she carried her point; and
Mr Crawley,--when the matter before him was cold roast beef and hot
potatoes, instead of the relative position of a parish priest and
his parishioner--became humble, submissive, and almost timid.  Lady
Lufton recommended Madeira instead of sherry, and Mr Crawley obeyed
at once, and was, indeed, perfectly unconscious of the difference.
Then there was a basket of seakale in the gig for Mrs Crawley; that
he would have left behind had he dared, but he did not dare.  Not a
word was said to him as to the marmalade for the children which was
hidden under the seakale, Lady Lufton feeling well aware that that
would find its way to its proper destination without any necessity
for his co-operation.  And then Mr Crawley returned home in the
Framley Court gig.

Three or four days after this he walked over to Framley parsonage.
This he did on a Saturday, having learned that the hounds never
hunted on that day; and he started early, so that he might be sure
to catch Mr Robarts before he went out on his parish business.  He
was quite early enough to attain this object, for when he reached
the parsonage door at about half-past nine, the vicar, with his
wife and sister, were just sitting down to breakfast.  'Oh,
Crawley,' said Robarts, before the other had well spoken, 'you are
a capital fellow;' and then he got him a chair, and Mrs Robarts had
poured him out tea, and Lucy had surrendered to him a knife and
plate, before he knew under what guise to excuse his coming among
them.

'I hope you will excuse this intrusion,' at last he muttered; 'but
I have a few words of business to which I will request your
attention presently.'

'Certainly,' said Robarts, conveying a broiled kidney on to the
plate before Mr Crawley; 'but there is no preparation for business
like a good breakfast.  Lucy, where are the eggs?'  And then, John,
in livery, brought in the fresh eggs.  'Now, we shall do.  I always
eat my eggs while they're hot, Crawley, and I advise you to do the
same.'  To all this, Mr Crawley said very little, and he was not at
all home under the circumstances.  Perhaps a thought did pass
across his brain, as to the difference between the meal which he
had left on his own table, and that which he now saw before him;
and as to any cause which might exist for such difference.  But, if
so, it was a very fleeting thought, for he had far other matter,
now fully occupying his mind.  And then the breakfast was over, and
in a few minutes the two clergymen found themselves together in the
parsonage study.'

'Mr Robarts,' began the senior, when he had seated himself
uncomfortably on one of the ordinary chairs at the farther side of
the well-stored library table, while Mark was sitting at his ease
in his own arm-chair by the fire.  'I have called upon you on an
unpleasant business.'  Mark's mind immediately flew off to Mr
Sowerby's bill, but he could not think it possible that Mr Crawley
could have had anything to do with that.

'But as a brother clergyman, and as one who esteems you much and
wishes you well, I have thought myself bound to take this matter in
hand.'

'What matter is it Crawley?'

'Mr Robarts, men say that your present mode of life is one not
befitting a soldier in Christ's army.'

'Men say so?  What men?'

'The men around you, of your own neighbourhood; those who watch
your life, and know all your doings; those who look to see you
walking as a lamp to guide their feet, but find you consorting with
horse-jockeys and hunters, galloping after hounds, and taking your
place among the vainest of worldly pleasure-seekers.  Those who
have a right to expect an example of good living, and think they do
not see it.'  Mr Crawley had gone at once to the root of the
matter, and in doing so had certainly made his own task much the
easier. There is nothing like going to the root of the matter at
once when one has on hand an unpleasant piece of business.

'And have such men deputed you to come here?'

'No one has or could depute me.  I have come to speak my own mind,
not that of any other.  But I refer to what those around you think
and say, because it is to them that your duties are due.  You owe
it to those around you to live a godly, cleanly life;--as you owe it
also, in a much higher way, to your Father who is in heaven.  I now
make bold to ask you whether you are doing your best to lead such a
life as that?'  And then he remained silent, waiting for an answer.
He was a singular man; so humble and meek, so unutterably
inefficient and awkward in the ordinary intercourse of life, but one
so bold and enterprising, almost eloquent, on the one subject which
was the work of his mind!  As he sat there, he looked into his
companion's face from out his sunken grey eyes with a gaze which
made his victim quail.  And then he repeated his words: 'I now make
bold to ask you, Mr Robarts, whether you are doing your best to
lead such a life as may become a parish clergyman among his
parishioners?'  And again he paused for an answer.

'There are but few of us,' said Mark, in a low tone, 'who could
safely answer that question in the affirmative.'

'But are there many, think you, among us who would find the
question so unanswerable as yourself?  And even were there many,
would you, young, enterprising, and talented as you are, be content
to be numbered among them?  Are you satisfied to be a castaway
after you have taken upon yourself Christ's armour?  If you will
say so, I am mistaken in you, and will go my way.'  There was again
a pause, and then he went on. 'Speak to me, my brother, and open
your heart, if it be possible.'  And rising from his chair, he
walked across the room, and laid his hand tenderly upon Mark's
shoulder.  Mark had been sitting lounging in his chair, and had at
first, for a moment only, thought to brazen it out.  But all idea
of brazening had now left him.  He had raised himself from his
comfortable ease, and was leaning forward with his elbow on the
table; but now, when he heard these words, he allowed his head to
sink upon his arms, and he buried his face between his hands.

'It is a terrible falling off,' continued Crawley: 'terrible in the
fall, but doubly terrible through that difficulty of returning. But
it cannot be that it should content you to place yourself as one
among those thoughtless sinners, for the crushing of whose sin you
have been placed among them. You become a hunting parson, and ride
with a happy mind among blasphemers and mocking devils--you, whose
aspirations were so high, who have spoken so often and so well of
the duties of a minister of Christ; you, who can argue in your
pride as to the petty details of your Church, as though the broad
teachings of its great and simple lessons were not enough for your
energies!  It cannot be that I have a hypocrite beside me in all
those eager controversies!'

'Not a hypocrite--not a hypocrite,' said Mark, in a tone which was
almost reduced to sobbing.

'But a castaway!  Is it so I must call you?  No, Mr Robarts, not a
castaway; neither a hypocrite, nor a castaway; but one who in
walking has stumbled in the dark, and bruised his feet among the
stones.  Henceforth let him take a lantern in his hand, and look
warily to his path, and walk cautiously among the thorns and
rocks--cautiously, but yet boldly, with manly courage, but
Christian meekness, as all men should walk on their pilgrimage
through this vale of tears.'  And then, without giving his
companion time to stop him he hurried out of the room, and from the
house, and without again seeing any of the others of the family,
stalked back on his road to Hogglestock, thus trampling fourteen
miles through the deep mud in performance of the mission on which
he had been sent.

It was some hours before Mr Robarts left his room.  As soon as he
found that Crawley was really gone, and that he should see him no
more, he turned the lock of his door, and sat himself down to think
of his present life.  At about eleven his wife knocked, not knowing
whether that other strange clergyman were there or no, for none had
seen his departure.  But Mark, answering cheerily, desired that he
might be left to his studies.  Let us hope that his thoughts and
mental resolves were then of service to him.



CHAPTER XVI

MRS PODGENS' BABY


The hunting season had now nearly passed away, and the great ones
of the Barsetshire world were thinking of the glories of London. Of
these glories Lady Lufton always thought with much inquietude of
mind.  She would fain have remained throughout the whole year at
Framley Court, did not certain grave considerations render such a
course on her part improper in her own estimation.  All the Lady
Luftons of whom she had heard, dowager and ante-dowager, had always
had their seasons in London, till old age had incapacitated them
for such doings--sometimes for clearly long after the arrival of
such period.  And then she had an idea, perhaps not altogether
erroneous, that she annually imported back with her into the
country somewhat of the passing civilization of the times:--may we
not say an idea that certainly was not erroneous?  For how
otherwise is it that the forms of new caps and remodelled shapes
for women's waists find their way down into agricultural parts, and
that the rural eye learns to appreciate grace and beauty?  There
are those who think that remodelled waists and new caps had better
be kept to the towns; but such people, if they would follow out
their own argument, would wish to see plough-boys painted with
ruddle and milkmaids covered with skins.  For those and other
reasons Lady Lufton always went to London in April, and stayed
there till the beginning of June.  But for her this was usually a
period of penance.  In London she was no very great personage.  She
had never laid herself out for greatness of that sort, and did not
shine as lady-patroness or state secretary in the female cabinet of
fashion.  She was dull and listless, and without congenial pursuits
in London, and spent her happiest moments in reading accounts of
what was being done at Framley, and in writing orders for further
local information of the same kind.  But on this occasion there was
a matter of vital import to give an interest of its own to her
visit to town.  She was to entertain Griselda Grantly, and, as far
as might be possible, to induce her son to remain in Griselda's
society.  The plan of the campaign was to be as follows:--Mrs
Grantly and the archdeacon were in the first place to go up to
London for a month, taking Griselda with them; and then, when they
returned to Plumstead, Griselda was to go to Lady Lufton.  This
arrangement was not at all points agreeable to Lady Lufton, for she
knew that Mrs Grantly did not turn her back on the Hartletop people
quite as cordially as she should do, considering the terms of the
Lufton-Grantly family treaty. But then Mrs Grantly might have
alleged in excuse the slow manner in which Lord Lufton was proceeding
in the making and declaring of his love, and the absolute necessity
which there is for two strings to one bow, when one string may be
in any way doubtful.  Could it be possible that Mrs Grantly had
heard anything of that unfortunate Platonic friendship with Lucy
Robarts?

There came a letter from Mrs Grantly just about the end of March,
which added much to Lady Lufton's uneasiness, and made her more
than ever anxious to be herself on the scene of action, and to have
Griselda in her own hands.  After some communications of mere
ordinary importance with reference to the London world in general
and the Lufton-Grantly world in particular, Mrs Grantly wrote
confidentially about her daughter:--'It would be useless to deny,'
she said, with a mother's pride and a mother's humility, 'that she
is very much admired.  She is asked out a great deal more than I
can take her, and to houses to which I myself by no means wish to
go.  I could not refuse her as to Lady Hartletop's first ball, for
there will be nothing else yea like them; and of course when with
you, dear Lady Lufton, that house will be out of the question.  So
indeed would it be with me, were I myself only concerned.  The duke
was there, of course, and I really wonder Lady Hartletop should not
be more discreet in her own drawing-room when all the world is
there.  It is clear to me that Lord Dumbello admires Griselda much
more than I could wish.  She, dear girl, has such excellent sense
that I do not think it likely that her head should be turned by it;
but with how many girls would not the admiration of such a man be
irresistible?  The marquis, you know, is very feeble, and I am told
that since this rage for building has come on, the Lancashire
property is over two hundred thousand a year!  I do not think that
Lord Dumbello has said much to her.  Indeed it seems to me that he
never does say much to any one.  But he always stands to dance with
her, and I see that he is uneasy and fidgety when she stands up
with any other partner whom he could care about.  It was really
embarrassing to see him the other night at Miss Dunstable's, when
Griselda was dancing with a certain friend of ours.  But she did
look very well that evening, and I have seldom seen her more
animated!'

All this, and a great deal more of the same sort in the same
latter, tended to make Lady Lufton anxious to be in London.  It was
quite certain--there was no doubt of that, at any rate--that
Griselda would see no more of Lady Hartletop's meretricious
grandeur when she had been transferred to Lady Lufton's
guardianship.  And she, Lady Lufton, did wonder that Mrs Grantly
should have taken her daughter to such a house.  All about Lady
Hartletop was known to the world.  It was known that it was almost
the only house in London at which the Duke of Omnium was constantly
to be met.  Lady Lufton herself would almost as soon think of
taking a young girl to Gatherum Castle; and on these accounts she
did feel rather angry with her friend Mrs Grantly.  But then
perhaps she did not sufficiently calculate that Mrs Grantly's
letter had been written purposely to produce such feelings--with
the express view of awakening her ladyship to the necessity of
action. Indeed, in such a matter as this, Mrs Grantly was a more
able woman than Lady Lufton--more able to see her way and to follow
it out.  The Lufton-Grantly alliance was in her mind the best,
seeing that she did not regard money as everything.  But failing
that, the Hartletop-Grantly alliance was not bad.  Regarding it as
a second string to her bow, she thought that it was not at all
bad.  Lady Lufton's reply was very affectionate.  She declared how
happy she was to know that Griselda was enjoying herself; she
insinuated that Lord Dumbello was known to the world as a fool, and
his mother as--being not a bit better than she ought to be; and
then she added that circumstances would bring herself up to town
four days sooner than she had expected, and that she hoped her dear
Griselda would come to her at once.  Lord Lufton, she said, though
he would not sleep in Bruton Street--Lady Lufton lived in Bruton
Street--had promised to pass there as much of his time as his
parliamentary duties would permit.

O Lady Lufton!  Lady Lufton!  did not it occur to you when you
wrote those last words intending that they should have so strong an
effect on the mind of your correspondent that you were telling
a--tarradiddle?  Was it not the case that you had said to your son,
in your own dear, kind, motherly way:  'Ludovic, we shall see
something of you in Bruton Street this year, shall we not?  Griselda
Grantly will be with me, and we must not let her be dull--must
we?'  And then had he not answered, 'Oh, of course, mother,' and
sauntered out of the room, not altogether graciously?  Had he, or
you, said a word about his parliamentary duties?  Not a word!  O
Lady Lufton!  have you not written a tarradiddle to your friend?  In
these days we are becoming very strict about truth with our
children; terribly strict occasionally, when we consider the
natural weakness of the moral courage at the ages of ten, twelve,
and fourteen.  But I do not know that we are at all increasing the
measure of strictness with which we, grown-up people, regulate our
own truth and falsehood.  Heaven forbid that I should be thought to
advocate falsehood in children; but an untruth is more pardonable
in them than in parents. Lady Lufton's tarradiddle was of a nature
that is usually considered excusable--at least with grown-up
people; but, nevertheless, she would have been nearer to perfection
could she have confined herself to the truth.  Let us suppose that
a boy were to write home from school, saying that another boy had
promised to come and stay with him, that other having given no such
promise--what a very naughty boy would that first boy be in the eyes
of his pastors and masters!

That little conversation between Lord Lufton and his mother--in
which nothing was said about his lordship's parliamentary
duties--took place on the evening before he started for London.  On
that occasion he certainly was not in the best humour, nor did he
behave to his mother in the kindest manner.  He had then left the
room when she began to talk about Miss Grantly; and once again in
the course of the evening, when his mother, not very judiciously,
said a word or two about Griselda's beauty; he had remarked that
she was no conjurer, and would hardly set the Thames on fire.  'If
she were a conjurer,' said Lady Lufton, rather piqued, 'I should
not now be going to take her out in London.  I know many of those
sort of girls whom you call conjurers; they can talk for ever, and
always talk loudly or in a whisper.  I don't like them, and I am
sure that you do not in your heart.'

'Oh, as to liking them in my heart--that is being very
particular.'

'Griselda Grantly is a lady, and as such I shall be happy to have
her with me in town.  She is just the girl that Justinia will like
to have with her.'

'Exactly,' said Lord Lufton.  'She will do exceedingly well for
Justinia.'  Now this was not good-natured on the part of Lord
Lufton; and his mother felt it the more strongly, inasmuch as it
seemed to signify that he was setting his back up against the
Lufton-Grantly alliance.  She had been pretty sure that he would do
so in the event of his suspecting that a plot was being laid to
catch him; and now it almost appeared that he did suspect such a
plot.  Why else sarcasm as to Griselda doing very well for his
sister?

And now we must go back and describe a little scene at Framley,
which will account for his Lordship's ill-humour and suspicions,
and explain how it came to pass that he so snubbed his mother. This
scene took place about ten days after the evening on which Mrs
Robarts and Lucy were walking together in the parsonage garden, and
during those ten days Lucy had not once allowed herself to be
entrapped into any special conversation with the young peer.  She
had dined at Framley Court during that interval, and had spent a
second evening there; Lord Lufton had also been up at the parsonage
on three or four occasions, and had looked for her in her usual
walks; but, nevertheless, they had never come together in their old
familiar way, since the day on which Lady Lufton had hinted her
fears to Mrs Robarts.

Lord Lufton had very much missed her.  At first he had not
attributed this change to a purposed scheme of action on the part
of any one; nor, indeed, had he much thought about it, although he
had felt himself to be annoyed.  But as the period fixed for his
departure grew near, it did occur to him as very odd that he should
never hear Lucy's voice unless when she said a few words to his
mother, or to her sister-in-law.  And then he made up his mind that
he would speak to her before he went, and that the mystery should
be explained to him.  And he carried out his purpose, calling at
the parsonage on one special afternoon; and it was on the evening
of the same day that his mother sang the praises of Griselda
Grantly so inopportunely.  Robarts, he knew, was then absent from
home, and Mrs Robarts was with his mother down at the house,
preparing lists of the poor people to be specially attended to in
Lady Lufton's approaching absence.  Taking advantage of this, he
walked boldly in through the parsonage garden; asked the gardener,
with an indifferent voice, whether either of the ladies were at
home, and then caught poor Lucy exactly on the doorstep of the
house.

'Were you going in or out, Miss Robarts?'

'Well, I was going out,' said Lucy; and she began to consider how
best she might get quit of any prolonged encounter.

'Oh, going out, were you?  I don't know whether I may offer to--'

'Well, Lord Lufton, not exactly, seeing that I am about to pay a
visit to our near neighbour, Mrs Podgens.  Perhaps, you have no
particular call towards Mrs Podgens's just at present, or to her
new baby?'

'And have you any particular call that way?'

'Yes, and especially to Baby Podgens.  Baby Podgens is a real
little duck--only just two days old.'  And Lucy, as she spoke,
progressed a step or two, as though she were determined not to
remain there talking on the doorstep.  A slight cloud came across
his brow as he saw this, and made him resolve that she should not
gain her purpose.  He was not going to be foiled in that way by
such a girl as Lucy Robarts.  He had come there to speak to her,
and speak to her he would.  There had been enough of intimacy
between them to justify him in demanding, at any rate, as much as
that.

'Miss Robarts,' he said, 'I am starting for London to-morrow, and
if I do not say good-bye to you now, I shall not be able to do so
at all.'

'Good-bye, Lord Lufton,' she said, giving him her hand, and smiling
on him with her old genial, good-humoured, racy smile.  'And mind
you bring into Parliament that law which you promised me for
defending my young chickens.'

He took her hand, but that was not all he wanted.  'Surely Mrs
Podgens and her baby can wait ten minutes.  I shall not see you
again for months to come, and yet you seem to begrudge me two
words.'

'Not two hundred if they can be of any service to you,' said she,
walking cheerily back into the drawing-room; 'only I did not think
it worth while to waste your time, as Fanny is not here.'  She was
infinitely more collected, more master of herself than he was.
Inwardly, she did tremble at the idea of what was coming, but
outwardly she showed no agitation--none as yet; if only she could
so possess herself as to refrain from doing so, when she heard what
he might have to say to her.

He hardly knew what it was for the saying of which he had so
resolutely come hither.  He had by no means made up his mind that
he loved Lucy Robarts; nor had he made up his mind that, loving
her, he would, or that, loving her, he would not, make her his
wife.  He had never used his mind in the matter in any way, either
for good or evil.  He had learned to like her and to think that she
was very pretty.  He had found out that it was very pleasant to
talk to her; whereas, talking to Griselda Grantly, and, indeed, to
some other young ladies of his acquaintance, was often hard work.
The half-hours which he had spent with Lucy had always been
satisfactory to him.  He had found himself to be more bright with
her than with other people, and more apt to discuss subjects worth
discussing; and thus it had come about that he thoroughly liked
Lucy Robarts.  As to whether his affection was Platonic or
anti-Platonic he had never asked himself; but he had spoken
words to her, shortly before that sudden cessation of their
intimacy, which might have been taken as anti-Platonic by any girl
so disposed to regard them.  He had not thrown himself at her feet,
and declared himself to be devoured by a consuming passion; but he
had touched her hand as lovers touch those of women whom they love;
he had had his confidences with her, talking to her of his own
mother, of his sister, and of his friends; and he had called her
his own dear friend Lucy.  All this had been very sweet to her, but
very poisonous also.  She had declared to herself very frequently
that her liking for this young nobleman was purely a feeling of
mere friendship as was that of her brother; and she had professed
to herself that she would give the lie to the world's cold sarcasms
on such subjects.  But she had now acknowledged that the sarcasms
of the world on that matter, cold though they may be, are not the
less true; and having so acknowledged, she had resolved that all
close alliance between herself and Lord Lufton must be at an end.
She had come to a conclusion, but he had come to none; and in this
frame of mind he was now there with the object of reopening that
dangerous friendship which she had had the sense to close.

'And so you are going to-morrow?' she said, as soon as they were
both within the drawing-room.

'Yes: I'm off by the early train to-morrow morning, and Heaven
knows when we may meet again.'

'Next winter, shall we not?'

'Yes, for a day or two, I suppose.  I do not know whether I shall
pass another winter here.  Indeed, one can never say where one will
be.'

'No, one can't; such as you, at least, cannot.  I am not of a
migratory tribe myself.'

'I wish you were.'

'I'm not a bit obliged to you.  Your nomad life does not agree with
young ladies.'

'I think they are taking to it pretty freely then.  We have
unprotected young women all about the world.'

'And great bores you find them, I suppose?'

'No; I like it.  The more we can get out of old-fashioned grooves
the better I am pleased.  I should be a Radical to-morrow--a
regular man of the people--only I should break my mother's heart.'

'Whatever you do, Lord Lufton, do not do that.'

'That is why I like you so much,' he continued, 'because you
get out of the grooves.'

'Do I?'

'Yes; and go along by yourself, guiding your own footsteps; not
carried hither and thither, just as your grandmother's old tramway
may chance to take you.'

'Do you know I have a strong idea that my grandmother's old tramway
will be the safest and the best after all?  I have not left it very
far, and I certainly mean to go back to it.'

'That's impossible!  An army of old women, with coils of rope made
out of time-honoured prejudices, could not draw you back.'

'No, Lord Lufton, that is true.  But one--' and then she stopped
herself.  She could not tell him that one loving mother, anxious
for her only son, had sufficed to do it.  She could not explain to
him that this departure from the established tramway had already
broken her own rest, and turned her peaceful happy life into a
grievous battle.

'I know you are trying to go back,' he said.  'Do you think that I
have eyes and cannot see?  Come, Lucy, you and I have been friends,
and we must not part in this way.  My mother is a paragon among
women.  I say it in earnest;--a paragon among women: and her love
for me is the perfection of motherly love.'

'It is, it is; and I am so glad that you acknowledge it.'

'I should be worse than a brute did I not do so; but, nevertheless,
I cannot allow her to lead me in all things.  Were I to do so, I
should cease to be a man.'

'Where can you find any one who will counsel you so truly?'

'But, nevertheless, I must rule myself.  I do not know whether my
suspicions may be perfectly just, but I fancy that she has created
this estrangement between you and me.  Has it not been so?'

'Certainly not by speaking to me,' said Lucy, blushing ruby-red
through every vein of her deep-tinted face.  But though she could
not command her blood, her voice was still under her control--her
voice and her manner.

'But has she not done so?  You, I know, will tell me nothing but
the truth.'

'I will tell you nothing on this matter, Lord Lufton, whether true
or false.  It is a subject on which it does not concern me to
speak.'

'Ah!  I understand,' he said; and rising from his chair, he stood
against the chimney-piece with his back to the fire. 'She cannot
leave me alone to choose for myself, my friends, and my own--;' but
he did not fill up the void.

'But why tell me this, Lord Lufton?'

'No!  I am not to choose my own friends, though they be amongst the
best and purest of God's creatures.  Lucy, I cannot think that you
have ceased to have a regard for me. That you had a regard for me,
I am sure.'  She felt that it was most unmanly of him to seek her
out, and hunt her down, and then throw upon her the whole weight of
the explanation that his coming thither made necessary.  But,
nevertheless, the truth must be told, and with God's help she would
find strength for the telling of it.

'Yes, Lord Lufton, I had a regard for you--and have.  By that word
you mean something more than the customary feeling of acquaintance
which may ordinarily prevail between a gentleman and a lady of
different families, who have known each other so short a time as we
have done.'

'Yes, something much more,' said he with energy.

'Well, I will not define the much--something closer than that?'

'Yes, and warmer, and dearer, and more worthy of two human
creatures who value each other's minds and hearts.'

'Some such closer regard I have felt for you--very foolishly.
Stop!  You have made me speak, and do not interrupt me now.  Does
not your conscience tell you that in doing so I have unwisely
deserted those wise old grandmother's tramways of which you spoke
just now?  It has been pleasant to me to do so.  I have liked the
feeling of independence with which I thought that I might indulge
in an open friendship with such as you are.  And your rank, so
different from my own, has doubtless made this more attractive.'

'Nonsense!'

'Ah!  but it has.  I know it now.  But what will the world say of
me as to such an alliance?'

'The world!'

'Yes, the world.  I am not such a philosopher as to disregard it,
though you may afford to do so.  The world will say that, I, the
parson's sister, set my cap at the young lord, and that the young
lord has made a fool of me.'

'The world shall say no such thing!' said Lord Lufton, very
imperiously.

'Ah!  but it will.  You can no more stop it, than King Canute could
the waters.  Your mother has interfered wisely to spare me from
this; and the only favour that I can ask you is, that you will
spare me also.'  And then she got up, as though she intended at
once to walk forth to her visit to Mrs Podgens's baby.

'Stop, Lucy!' he said, putting himself between her and the door.

'It must not be Lucy any longer, Lord Lufton; I was madly foolish
when I first allowed it.'

'By heavens!  But it shall be Lucy--Lucy before all the world.  My
Lucy, my own Lucy--my heart's best friend, and chosen love.  Lucy,
there is my hand.  How long you may have had my heart it matters
not to say now.'  The game was at her feet now, and no doubt she
felt her triumph.  Her ready wit and speaking lip, not her beauty,
had brought him to her side; and now he was forced to acknowledge
that her power over him had been supreme.  Sooner than leave her he
would risk all.  She did feel her triumph; but there was nothing in
her face to tell him that she did so.  As to what she would now do
she did not for a moment doubt.  He had been precipitated into the
declaration he had made not by his love, but by his embarrassment.
She had thrown in his teeth the injury which he had done her, and
he had then been moved by his generosity to repair that injury by
the noblest sacrifice which he could make.  But Lucy Robarts was
not the girl to accept a sacrifice.  He had stepped forward, as
though he were going to clasp her round the waist, but she receded,
and got beyond the reach of his hand.  'Lord Lufton!' she said,
'when you are more cool you will know that this is wrong.  The best
for both of us now is to part.'

'Not the best thing, but the very worst, till we perfectly
understand each other.'

'Then perfectly understand me, that I cannot be your wife.'

'Lucy! do you mean that you cannot learn to love me?'

'I mean that I shall not try.  Do not persevere in this, or you
will have to hate yourself for your own folly.'

'But I will persevere till you accept my love, or say with your
hand on your heart that you cannot and will not love me.'

'Then I must beg you to let me go,' and having so said, she paused
while he walked once or twice hurriedly up and down the room.  'And
Lord Lufton,' she continued, 'if you will leave me now, the words
you have spoken shall be as though they had never been uttered.'

'I care not who knows they have been uttered.  The sooner that they
are known to all the world the better I shall be pleased, unless
indeed--'

'Think of your mother, Lord Lufton.'

'What can I do better than give her as a daughter the best and
sweetest girl I have ever met?  When my mother really knows you,
she will love you as I do.  Lucy, say one word to me of comfort.'

'I will say no word that shall injure your future comfort. It is
impossible that I should be your wife.'

'Do you mean that you cannot love me?'

'You have no right to press me any further,' she said; and sat down
upon the sofa, with an angry frown upon her forehead.

'By heavens,' he said, 'I will take no such answer from you till
you put your hand upon your heart, and say that you cannot love
me.'

'Oh, why should you press me so, Lord Lufton?'

'Why, because my happiness depends upon it; because it behoves me
to know the very truth.  It has come to this, that I love you with
my whole heart, and I must know how your heart stands towards me.'
She had now again risen from the sofa, and was looking steadily in
his face.

'Lord Lufton,' she said, 'I cannot love you,' and as she spoke she
did put her hand, as he had desired, upon her heart.

'Then God help me! for I am wretched.  Good-bye, Lucy,' and he
stretched his hand to her.

'Good-bye, my lord.  Do not be angry with me.'

'No, no, no!' and without further speech he left the room, and the
house and hurried home.  It was hardly surprising that he should
that evening tell his mother that Griselda Grantly would be a
companion sufficiently good for his sister.  He wanted no such
companion.

And when he was well gone--absolutely out of sight from the
window--Lucy walked steadily up to her room, locked the door, and
then threw herself on the bed.  Why--oh! why had she told such a
falsehood?  Could anything justify her in a lie? was it not a
lie--knowing as she did that she loved him with all her loving
heart?  But, then, his mother! and the sneers of the world, which
would have declared that she had set her trap, and caught the
foolish young lord!  Her pride would not have submitted to that.
Strong as her love was, yet her pride was, perhaps stronger--
stronger at any rate during that interview.  But how was
she to forgive herself the falsehood she had told?



CHAPTER XVII

MRS PROUDIE'S CONVERSAZIONE


It was grievous to think of the mischief and danger into which
Griselda Grantly was brought by the worldliness of her mother in
those few weeks previous to Lady Lufton's arrival in town--very
grievous, at least, to her ladyship, as from time to time she heard
of what was done in London.  Lady Hartletop's was not the only
objectionable house at which Griselda was allowed to reap fresh
fashionable laurels.  It had been stated openly in the Morning Post
that that young lady had been the most admired among the beautiful
at one of Miss Dunstable's celebrated soirees and then she was
heard of as gracing the drawing-room at Mrs Proudie's
conversazione.

Of Miss Dunstable herself Lady Lufton was not able openly to allege
any evil.  She was acquainted, Lady Lufton knew, with very many
people of the right sort, and was the dear friend of Lady Lufton's
highly conservative and not very distant neighbours, the Greshams.
But then she was also acquainted with so many people of the bad
sort.  Indeed, she was intimate with everybody, from the Duke of
Omnium to old Dowager Lady Goodgaffer, who had represented all the
cardinal virtues of the last quarter of a century.  She smiled with
equal sweetness on treacle and on brimstone; was quite at home at
Exeter Hall, having been consulted--so the world said, probably not
with exact truth--as to the selection of more than one disagreeable
Low Church bishop; and was not less frequent in her attendance at
the ecclesiastical doings of a certain terrible prelate in the
Midland counties, who was supposed to favour stoles and vespers,
and to have no proper Protestant hatred for auricular confession
and fish on Fridays.  Lady Lufton, who was very staunch, did not
like this, and would say of Miss Dunstable that it was impossible
to serve both God and Mammon.  But Mrs Proudie was much more
objectionable to her.  Seeing how sharp was the feud between the
Proudies and the Grantlys down in Barsetshire, how absolutely
unable they had always been to carry a decent face towards each
other in Church matters, how they headed two parties in the
diocese, which were, when brought together, as oil and vinegar, in
which battles the whole Lufton influence had always been brought to
bear on the Grantly side;--seeing all this, I say, Lady Lufton was
surprised to hear that Griselda had been taken to Mrs Proudie's
evening exhibition.  'Had the archdeacon been consulted about it,'
she said to herself, 'this would never have happened.'  But there
she was wrong, for in matters concerning his daughter's
introduction to the world the archdeacon never interfered.

On the whole, I am inclined to think that Mrs Grantly understood
the world better than did Lady Lufton.  In her heart of hearts Mrs
Grantly hated Mrs Proudie--that is, with that sort of hatred one
Christian lady allows herself to feel towards another.  Of course
Mrs Grantly forgave Mrs Proudie all her offences, and wished her
well, and was at peace with her, in the Christian sense of the
word, as with all other women.  But under this forbearance and
meekness, and perhaps, we may say, wholly unconnected with it,
there was certainly a current of antagonistic feeling which, in the
ordinary unconsidered language of every day, men and women do call
hatred.  This raged before the eyes of all mankind.  But,
nevertheless, Mrs Grantly took Griselda to Mrs Proudie's evening
parties in London.  In these days Mrs Proudie considered herself to
be by no means the least among bishop's wives.  She had opened the
season this year in a new house in Gloucester Place, at which the
reception rooms, at any rate, were all that a lady bishop could
desire.  Here she had a front drawing-room of very noble
dimensions, a second drawing-room rather noble also, though it had
lost one of its back corners awkwardly enough, apparently in a
jostle with the neighbouring house; and then there was a
third--shall we say drawing-room, or closet?---in which Mrs Proudie
delighted to be seen sitting, in order that the world might know
that there was a third room; altogether a noble suite, as Mrs
Proudie herself said in confidence to more than one clergyman's
wife from Barsetshire.  'A noble suite, indeed Mrs Proudie!' the
clergymen's wives from Barsetshire would usually answer.

For some time Mrs Proudie was much at a loss to know by what sort
of party or entertainment she would make herself famous.  Balls and
suppers were of course out of the question.  She did not object to
her daughters dancing all night at other houses--at least, of late
she had not objected, for the fashionable world required it, and
the young ladies had perhaps a will of their own--but dancing at
her house--absolutely under the shade of the bishop's apron--would
be a sin and a scandal.  And then as to suppers--of all modes in
which one may extend one's hospitality to a large acquaintance,
they are the most costly.  'It is horrid to think that we should go
out among our friends for the mere sake of eating and drinking,'
Mrs Proudie would say to the clergymen's wives from Barsetshire.
'It shows such a sense of sensual propensity.'

'Indeed it does, Mrs Proudie; and is so vulgar too!' those ladies
would reply.  But the elder among them would remember with regret,
the unsparing, open-handed hospitality of Barchester Palace in the
good old days of Bishop Grantly--God rest his soul!  One old
vicar's wife there was whose answer had not been so courteous--

'When we are hungry, Mrs Proudie,' she had said, 'we do all have
sensual propensities.'

'It would be much better, Mrs Athill, if the world would provide
for all that at home,' Mrs Proudie had rapidly replied; with which
opinion I must her profess that I cannot by any means bring myself
to coincide.  But a conversazione would give play to no sensual
propensity, nor occasion that intolerable expense which the
gratification of sensual propensities too often produce.  Mrs
Proudie felt that the word was not at all that she could have
desired.  It was a little faded by old use and present oblivion,
and seemed to address itself to that portion of the London world
that is considered blue, rather than fashionable.  But,
nevertheless, there was a spirituality about it which suited her,
and one may also say an economy.  And then as regarded fashion, it
might perhaps not be beyond the power of a Mrs Proudie to begild
the word with a newly burnished gilding.  Some leading person must
produce fashion at first hand, and why not Mrs Proudie?

Her plan was to set the people by the ears talking, if talk they
would, or to induce them to show themselves there inert if no more
be could got from them.  To accommodate with chairs and sofas as
many as the furniture of her noble suite of rooms would allow,
especially with the two chairs and padded bench against the walls
in the back closet--the small inner drawing-room, as she
would call it to the clergymen's wives from Barsetshire--and to
let the others stand about upright, or 'group themselves' as she
described it.  Then four times during the two hours' period of her
conversazione tea and cake were to be handed around on salvers.  It
is astonishing how far a very little cake will go in this way,
particularly if administered tolerably early after dinner. The men
can't eat it, and the women, having no plates and no table, are
obliged to abstain.  Mrs Jones knows she cannot hold a piece of
crumbly cake in her hand till it be consumed without doing serious
injury to her best dress.  When Mrs Proudie, with her weekly books
before her, looked into the financial upshot of her conversazione,
her conscience told her that she had done the right thing.  Going
out to tea is not a bad thing, if one can contrive to dine early,
and then be allowed to sit round a big table with a tea urn in the
middle.  I would, however, suggest that breakfast cups should
always be provided for the gentlemen.  And then with pleasant
neighbours,--or more especially with a pleasant neighbour,--the
affair is not, according to my taste, by any means the worst phase
of society.  But I do dislike that handing round, unless it be of a
subsidiary thimbleful when the business of the social intercourse
has been dinner.

And indeed this handing round has become a vulgar and an
intolerable nuisance among us second-class gentry with our eight
hundred a year--there or thereabouts;--doubly intolerable as being
destructive of our natural comforts, and a wretchedly vulgar aping
of men with large incomes.  The Duke of Omnium and Lady Hartletop
are undoubtedly wise to have everything handed round.  Friends of
mine who occasionally dine at such houses tell me that they get
their wine quite as quickly as they can drink it, that their mutton
is brought to them without delay, and that the potato bearer
follows quick upon the heels of carnifer.  Nothing can be more
comfortable, and we may no doubt acknowledge that these first-class
grandees do understand their material comforts.  But we of the
eight hundred can no more come up to them in this than we can in
their opera-boxes and equipages.  May I not say that the usual
tether of this class, in the way of carnifers, cupbearers, and the
rest, does not reach beyond neat-handed Phyllis and the
greengrocer?  and that Phyllis, neat-handed as she probably is, and
the greengrocer, though he be ever so active, cannot administer a
dinner to twelve people who are prohibited by a Medo-Persian law
from all self-administration whatever?  And may I not further say
that the lamentable consequence to us eight hundreders, dining out
among each other is this, that we too often get no dinner at all.
Phyllis, with the potatoes, cannot reach us till our mutton is
devoured, or in a lukewarm state past our power of managing; and
Ganymede, the greengrocer, though we admire the skill of his
necktie and the whiteness of his unexceptionable gloves, fails to
keep us going in sherry.  Seeing a lady the other day in this
strait, left without a small modicum of stimulus which was no doubt
necessary for her good digestion.  I ventured to ask her to drink
wine with me.  But when I bowed my head at her, she looked at me
with all her eyes, struck with amazement.  Had I suggested that she
should join me in a wild Indian war-dance, with nothing on but
paint, her face could not have shown greater astonishment.  And yet
I should have thought she might have remembered the days when
Christian men and women used to drink wine with each other.  God be
with the good old days when I could hob-nob with my friend over the
table as often as I was inclined to lift my glass to my lips, and
make a long arm for the hot-potato whenever the exigencies of my
plate required it.

I think it may be laid down as a rule in affairs of hospitality,
that whatever extra luxury or grandeur we introduce at our tables
when guests are with us, should be introduced for the advantage of
the guest and not for our own.  If, for instance, our dinner be
served in a manner different from that usual to us, it should be so
served in order that our friends may with more satisfaction eat our
repast than our everyday practice would produce on them.  But the
change should by no means be made to their material detriment in
order that our fashion may be acknowledged. Again, if I decorate my
sideboard and table, wishing that the eyes of my visitors may rest
on that which is elegant and pleasant to the sight, I act in that
matter with a becoming sense of hospitality; but if my object be to
kill Mrs Jones with envy at the sight of all my silver trinkets, I
am a very mean-spirited fellow.  This, in a broad way, will be
acknowledged; but if we would bear in mind the same idea at all
times,--on occasions when the way perhaps may not be so broad, when
more thinking may be required to ascertain what is true
hospitality,--I think we of the eight hundred would make a greater
advance towards really entertaining our own friends than by any
rearrangement of the actual meats and dishes which we set before
them.

Knowing as we do, that the terms of the Lufton-Grantly alliance had
been so solemnly ratified between the two mothers, it is perhaps
hardly open to us to suppose that Mrs Grantly was induced to take
her daughter to Mrs Proudie's by any knowledge which she may have
acquired that Lord Dumbello had promised to grace the bishop's
assembly.  It is certainly the fact that high contracting parties
do sometimes allow themselves a latitude which would be considered
dishonest by contractors of a lower sort; and it may be possible
that the archdeacon's wife did think of that second string with
which her bow was furnished.  Be that as it may, Lord Dumbello was
at Mrs Proudie's, and it did so come to pass that Griselda was
seated at a corner of a sofa close to which a vacant space in which
his lordship could--"group himself".  They had not been long there
before Lord Dumbello did group himself.  'Fine day,' he said,
coming up and occupying the vacant position by Miss Grantly's
elbow.

'We are driving to-day, and we thought it rather cold,' said
Griselda.

'Deuced cold,' said Lord Dumbello, and then he adjusted his white
cravat and touched up his whiskers.  Having got so far, he did not
proceed to any immediate conversational efforts; nor did Griselda.
But he grouped himself again as became a marquis, and gave very
intense satisfaction to Mrs Proudie.

'This is so kind of you, Lord Dumbello,' said that lady, coming up
to him and shaking his hand warmly; 'so very kind of you to come to
my poor little tea-party.'

'Uncommonly pleasant, I call it,' said his lordship.  'I like this
sort of thing--no trouble, you know.'

'No; that is the charm of it; isn't it?  no trouble, or fuss, or
parade.  That's what I always say.  According to my ideas, society
consists in giving people facility for an interchange of
thoughts--what we call conversation.'

'Aw, yes, exactly.'

'Not in eating and drinking together--eh, Lord Dumbello?  And yet
the practice of our lives would seem to show that the indulgence of
this animal propensities can alone suffice to bring people
together.  The world in this has surely made a great mistake.'

'I like a good dinner all the same,' said Lord Dumbello.

'Oh, yes, of course--of course.  I am by no means one of those who
would pretend to preach that our tastes have not been given to us
for our enjoyment.  Why should things be nice if we are not to like
them?'

'A man who can really give a good dinner has learned a great deal,'
said Lord Dumbello, with unusual animation.

'An immense deal.  It is quite an art in itself: and one which I,
at any rate, by no means despise.  But we cannot always be
eating--can we?'

'No,' said Lord Dumbello, 'not always.'  And he looked as though he
lamented that his powers should be so circumscribed.  And then Mrs
Proudie passed on to Mrs Grantly.  The two ladies were quite
friendly in London; though down in their own neighbourhood they
waged a war so internecine in its nature.  But nevertheless Mrs
Proudie's manner might have showed to a very close observer that
she knew the difference between a bishop and an archdeacon.  'I am
delighted to see you,' said she.  'No, don't mind moving; I won't
sit down just at present.  But why didn't the archdeacon come?'

'It was quite impossible; it was indeed,' said Mrs Grantly.  'The
archdeacon never has a moment in London that he can call his own.'

'You don't stay up very long, I believe.'

'A good deal longer than either of us like, I can assure you.
London life is a perfect nuisance to me.'

'But people in a certain position must go through with it, you
know,' said Mrs Proudie.  'The bishop, for instance, must attend
the House.'

'Must he?' asked Mrs Grantly, as though she were not at all well
informed with reference to this branch of a bishop's business.  'I
am very glad that archdeacons are under no such liability.'

'Oh, no; there's nothing of that sort,' said Mrs Proudie, very
seriously.  'But how uncommonly well Miss Grantly is looking!  I do
hear that she has quite been admired.'  This phrase certainly was a
little hard for the mother to bear. All the world had acknowledged,
so Mrs Grantly had taught herself to believe, that Griselda was
undoubtedly the beauty of the season.  Marquises and lords were
already contending for her smiles, and paragraphs had been written
in newspapers as to her profile.  It was too hard to be told, after
that, that her daughter had been 'quite admired.'  Such a phrase
might suit a pretty little red-cheeked milkmaid of a girl.

'She cannot, of course, come near your girls in that respect,' said
Mrs Grantly, very quietly.  Now the Miss Proudies had not elicited
from the fashionable world any very loud encomiums on their
beauty.  Their mother felt the taunt in its fullest force, but she
would not essay to do battle on the present arena.  She jotted down
the item in her mind, and kept it over for Barchester and the
chapter.  Such debts as those she usually paid on some day, if the
means of doing so were at all within her power.  'But there is Miss
Dunstable, I declare,' she said, seeing that that lady had entered
the room; and away went Mrs Proudie to welcome her distinguished
guest.

'And so this is a conversazione, is it,' said that lady, speaking,
as usual, not in a suppressed voice.  'Well, I declare, it's very
nice.  It means conversation, don't it, Mrs Proudie?'

'Ha, ha, ha!  Miss Dunstable, there is nobody like you, I declare.'

'Well, but don't it?  and tea and cake?  and then, when we're tired
of talking, we go away, isn't that it?'

'But you must not be tired for these three hours yet.'

'Oh, I am never tired of talking; all the world knows that.  How
do, bishop?  A very nice sort of thing this conversazione, isn't it
now?'  The bishop rubbed his hands together and smiled, and said
that he thought it was rather nice.

'Mrs Proudie is so fortunate in all her little arrangements,' said
Miss Dunstable.

'Yes, yes,' said the bishop.  'I think she is happy in these
matters.  I do flatter myself that she is so.  Of course, Miss
Dunstable, you are accustomed to things on a much grander scale.'

'I!  Lord bless you, no!  Nobody hates grandeur so much as I do.
Of course I must do as I am told.  I must live in a big house, and
have three footmen six feet high.  I must have a coachman with a
top-heavy wig, and horses so big that they frighten me.  If I did
not, I should be made out a lunatic and declared unable to manage
my own affairs.  But as for grandeur, I hate it.  I certainly think
that I shall have some of these conversaziones.  I wonder whether
Mrs Proudie will come and put me up to a wrinkle or two.'  The
bishop again rubbed his hands, and said that he was sure she would.
He never felt quite at his ease with Miss Dunstable, as he rarely
could ascertain whether or no she was earnest in what she was
saying.  So he trotted off, muttering some excuse as he went, and
Miss Dunstable chuckled with an inward chuckle at his too evident
bewilderment.  Miss Dunstable was by nature kind, generous, and
open-hearted; but she was living now very much with people who,
kindness, generosity, and open-heartedness were thrown away.  She
was clever also, and could be sarcastic; and she found that those
qualities told better in the world around her than generosity and
an open heart.  And so she went on from month to month, and year to
year, not progressing in a good spirit as she might have done, but
still carrying within her bosom a warm affection for those she
could really love.  And she knew that she was hardly living as she
should live,--that the wealth which she affected to despise was
eating into the soundness of her character, not by its splendour,
but by the style of life which it had seemed to produce as a
necessity.  She knew that she was gradually becoming irreverent,
scornful, and prone to ridicule; but yet, knowing this, and hating
it, she hardly knew how to break from it.  She had seen so much of
the blacker side of human nature that blackness no longer startled
her as it should do.  She had been the prize at which so many
ruined spendthrifts had aimed; so many pirates had endeavoured to
run her down while sailing in the open waters of life, that she had
ceased to regard such attempts on her money-bags as unmanly or
over-covetous.  She was content to fight her own battle with her
own weapons, feeling secure in her own strength of purpose and
strength of wit.

Some few friends she had whom she really loved,--among whom her
inner self could come out and speak boldly what it had to say with
its own true voice.  And the woman who thus so spoke was very
different from that Miss Dunstable whom Mrs Proudie courted, and
the Duke of Omnium feted, and Mrs Harold Smith claimed as her bosom
friend.  If only she could find among such one special companion on
whom her heart might rest, who would help her to bear the heavy
burdens of her world!  But where was she to find such a
friend?---she with her keen wit, her untold money, and loud
laughing voice.  Everything about her was calculated to attract
those whom she could not value, and to scare from her the sort of
friend to whom she would fain have linked her lot.  And then she
met Mrs Harold Smith, who had taken Mrs Proudie's noble suite of
rooms in her tour of the evening, and was devoting to them a period
of twenty minutes.  'And so I may congratulate you,' Miss Dunstable
said eagerly to her friend.

'No, in mercy's name, do no such thing, or you may too probably
have to uncongratulate me again; and that will be so unpleasant.'

'But they told me that Lord Brock had sent for him yesterday.'  Now
at this period Lord Brock was Prime Minister.

'So he did, and Harold was with him backwards and forwards all the
day.  But he can't shut his eyes and open his mouth, and see what
God will send him, as a wise and prudent man should do.  He is
always for bargaining, and no Prime Minister likes that.'

'I would not be in his shoes if, after all, he has to come home and
say that the bargain is off.'

'Ha, ha, ha!  Well I should not take it very quietly.  But what can
we poor women do, you know?  When it is settled, my dear, I'll send
you a line at once.'  And then Mrs Harold Smith finished her course
round the rooms, and regained her carriage within the twenty
minutes.

'Beautiful profile, has she not?' said Miss Dunstable, somewhat
later in the evening, to Mrs Proudie.  Of course, the profile
spoken of belonged to Miss Grantly.

'Yes, it is beautiful, certainly,' said Mrs Proudie.  'The pity is
that it means nothing.'

'The gentlemen seem to think that it means a good deal.'

'I am not sure of that.  She has no conversation, you see; not a
word.  She has been sitting there with Lord Dumbello at her elbow
for the last hour, and yet she has hardly opened her mouth three
times.'

'But, my dear Mrs Proudie, who on earth could talk to Lord
Dumbello?'  Mrs Proudie thought that her own daughter Olivia would
undoubtedly be able to do so, if only she could get the
opportunity.  But, then, Olivia had so much conversation.  And while
the two ladies were yet looking at the youthful pair, Lord Dumbello
did speak again.  'I think I have had enough of this now,' said he,
addressing himself to Griselda.

'I suppose you have other engagements,' said she.

'Oh, yes; and I believe I shall go to Lady Clantelbrocks.'  And then
he took his departure.  No other word was spoken that evening
between him and Miss Grantly beyond those given in this chronicle,
and yet the world declared that he and that young lady had passed
the evening in so close a flirtation as to make the matter more
than ordinarily particular; and Mrs Grantly, as she was driven home
to her lodgings, began to have doubts in her mind whether it would
be wise to discountenance so great an alliance as that which the
head of the great Hartletop family now seemed so desirous to
establish.  The prudent mother had not yet spoken a word to her
daughter on these subjects, but it might soon become necessary to
do so.  It was all very well for Lady Lufton to hurry up to town,
but of what service would that be, if Lord Lufton were not to be
found in Bruton Street?



CHAPTER XVIII

THE NEW MINISTER'S PATRONAGE


At that time, just as Lady Lufton was about to leave Framley for
London, Mark Robarts received a pressing letter, inviting him also
to go up to the metropolis for a day or two--not for pleasure, but
on business.  The letter was from his indefatigable friend
Sowerby.  'My dear Robarts,' the letter ran:--'I have just heard
that poor little Burslem, the Barsetshire prebendary, is dead.  We
must all die some day, you know--as you have told your parishioners
from the Framley pulpit more than once, no doubt.  The stall must
be filled up, and why should not you have it as well as another?
It is six hundred a year and a house.  Little Burslem had nine, but
the good old times are gone.  Whether the house is lettable or not
under the present ecclesiastical regime, I do not know.  It used to
be so, for I remember Mrs Wiggins, the tallow-chandler's widow,
living in old Stanhope's house.

'Harold Smith has just joined the Government as Lord Petty Bag, and
could, I think, at the present moment, get this for asking.  He
cannot well refuse me, and, if you will say the word, I will speak
to him.  You had better come up yourself; but say the word "Yes" or
"No" by the wires.

'If you say "Yes", as of course you will, do not fail to come up.
You will find me at the "Travellers", or at the House.  The stall
will just suit you,--will give you no trouble, improve your
position, and give some little assistance towards bed and board,
and rack and manger.  --Yours ever faithfully, N. SOWERBY,

'Singularly enough, I hear your brother is private secretary to the
new Lord Petty Bag.  I am told that his chief duty will consist in
desiring the servants to call my sister's carriage.  I have only
seen Harold once since he accepted office; but my Lady Petty Bag
says that he has certainly grown an inch since that occurrence.'

This was certainly very good-natured on the part of Mr Sowerby, and
showed that he had a feeling within his bosom that he owed
something to his friend the parson for the injury he had done him.
And such was in truth the case.  A more reckless being than the
member for West Barsetshire could not exist.  He was reckless for
himself, and reckless for all others with whom he might be
concerned.  He could ruin his friends with as little remorse he had
ruined himself.  All was fair game that came in the way of his net.
But, nevertheless, he was good-natured, and willing to move heaven
and earth to do a friend a good turn, if it came in his way to do
so.  He did really love Mark Robarts as much as it was given to him
to love any among his acquaintance.  He knew that he had already
done him an almost irreparable injury, and might very probably
injure him still deeper before he had done with him.  That he would
undoubtedly do so, if it came in his way, was very certain.  But
then, if it also came in his way to repay his friend by any side
blow he would also undoubtedly do that.  Such an occasion had now
come, and he had desired his sister to give the new Lord Petty Bag
no rest till he should have promised to use all his influence in
getting the vacant prebend for Mark Robarts.

This letter of Sowerby's Mark immediately showed to his wife.  How
lucky, thought he to himself, that not a word was said in it about
those accursed money transactions!  Had he understood Sowerby
better he would have known that that gentleman never said anything
about money transactions until it became absolutely necessary.  'I
know you don't like Mr Sowerby,' he said; 'but you must own that
this is very good natured.'

'It is the character I hear of him that I don't like,' said Mrs
Robarts.

'But what shall I do now, Fanny?  As he says, why should not I have
the stall as well as another?'

'I suppose it would not interfere with your parish?'

'Not in the least, at the distance we are.  I did think of giving
up old Jones; but if I take this, of course I must keep the
curate.'  His wife could not find it in her heart to dissuade him
from accepting promotion when it came in his way--what vicar's
wife would have so persuaded her husband?  But yet she did not
altogether like it.  She feared that Greek from Chaldicotes, even
when he came with the present of a prebendal stall in his hands.
And then what would Lady Lufton say?

'And do you think that you must go up to London, Mark?'

'Oh, certainly; that is, if I intend to accept Harold Smith's kind
offices in the matter.'

'I suppose it will be better to accept them,' said Fanny, feeling
perhaps that it would be useless in her to hope that they should
not be accepted.

'Prebendal stalls, Fanny, don't generally go begging long among
clergymen.  How could I reconcile it to the duty I owe my children
to refuse such an increase to my income?'  And so it was settled
that he should at once drive to Silverbridge and send off a message
by telegraph, and that he should himself proceed to London on the
following day.  'But you must see Lady Lufton first, of course,'
said Fanny, as soon as all this was settled.  Mark would have
avoided this if he could have decently done so, but he felt that it
would be impolite, as well as indecent.  And why should he be
afraid to tell Lady Lufton that he hoped to receive this piece of
promotion from the present Government?  There was nothing
disgraceful in a clergyman becoming a prebendary of Barchester.
Lady Lufton herself had always been very civil to the prebendaries,
and especially to little Dr Burslem, the meagre little man who had
just now paid the debt of nature.  She had always been very fond of
the chapter, and her original dislike to Bishop Proudie had been
chiefly on his interference, or on that of his wife or chaplain.
Considering these things Mark Robarts tried to make himself believe
that Lady Lufton would be delighted at his good fortune.  But yet
he did not believe it.  She at any rate would revolt from the gift
of the Greek of Chaldicotes.  'Oh, indeed,' she said, when the
vicar had with some difficulty explained to her all the
circumstances of the case.  'Well, I congratulate you, Mr Robarts,
on your powerful new patron.'

'You will probably feel with me, Lady Lufton, that the benefice is
one which I can hold without any detriment to me in my position
here at Framley,' said he, prudently resolving to let the slur upon
his friends pass by unheeded.

'Well, I hope so.  Of course, you are a very young man, Mr Robarts,
and these things have generally been given to clergymen more
advanced in life.'

'But you do not mean to say that you think I ought to refuse it?'

'What my advice to you might be if you really came to me for
advice, I am hardly prepared to say at so very short a notice.  You
seem to have made up your mind, and therefore I need not consider
it.  As it is, I wish you joy, and hope that it may turn out to
your advantage in every way.'

'You understand, Lady Lufton, that I have by no means got it yet.'

'Oh, I thought it had been offered to you: I thought you spoke of
this new minister as having all that in his own hand.'

'Oh dear no.  What may be the amount of his influence in that
respect I do not at all know.  But my correspondent assures me--'

'Mr Sowerby, you mean.  Why don't you call him by his name?'

'Mr Sowerby assures me that Mr Smith will ask for it; and thinks it
most probable that his request will be successful.'

'Oh, of course.  Mr Sowerby and Mr Harold Smith together would no
doubt be successful in anything.  They are the sort of men who are
successful nowadays.  Well, Mr Robarts, I wish you joy.'  And she
gave him her hand in token of her sincerity.  Mark took her hand,
resolving to say nothing further on that occasion.  That Lady
Lufton was not now cordial with him, as she used to be, he was well
aware; and sooner or later he was determined to have the matter out
with her.  He would ask her why she so constantly met with him in a
taunt, and so seldom greeted him with that kind old affectionate
smile which he knew and appreciated so well. That she was honest
and true he was quite sure.  If he asked her the question plainly,
she would answer him openly.  And if he could induce her to say
that she would return to her old ways, return to them she would in
a hearty manner.  But he could not do this just at present.  It was
but a day or two since Mr Crawley had been with him; and was it not
probable that Mr Crawley had been sent hither by Lady Lufton?  His
own hands were not clean enough for a remonstrance at the present
moment.  He would cleanse them, and then he would remonstrate.
'Would you like to live part of the year in Barchester?' he said to
his wife and sister that evening.

'I think that the two houses are only a trouble,' said his wife.
'And we have been happy here.'

'I have always liked a cathedral town,' said Lucy; 'and I am
particularly fond of the close.'

'And Barchester Close is the closest of all closes,' said Mark.
'There is not a single house within the gateways that does not
belong to the chapter.'

'But if we are to keep up two houses, the additional income will
soon be wasted,' said Fanny, prudently.

'The thing would be to let the house furnished every summer,' said
Lucy.

'But I must take my residence as the terms come,' said the vicar;
'and I certainly should not like to be away from Framley all the
winter; I should never see anything of Lufton.'  And perhaps he
thought of his hunting and then thought again of the cleansing of
his hands.

'I should not a bit mind being away during winter,' said Lucy,
thinking of what the last winter had done for her.

'But where on earth should we find money to furnish one of those
large, old-fashioned houses?  Pray, Mark, do not do anything
rash.'  And the wife laid her hand affectionately on her husband's
arm.  In this manner the question of the prebend was discussed
between them on the evening before he started for London.  Success
had at last crowned the earnest effort with which Harold Smith had
carried on the political battle of his life for the last ten
years.  The late Lord Petty Bag had resigned in disgust, having
been unable to digest the Prime Minister's ideas on Indian Reform,
and Mr Harold Smith, after sundry hitches in the business, was
installed in his place.  It was said that Harold Smith was not
exactly the man whom the Premier would himself have chosen for that
high office; but the Premier's hands were a good deal tied by
circumstances.  The last great appointment he had made had been
terribly unpopular,--so much so as to subject him, popular as he
undoubtedly was himself, to a screech from the whole nation.  The
Jupiter, with withering scorn, had asked whether vice of every kind
was to be considered, in these days of Queen Victoria, as a
passport to the Cabinet.  Adverse members of both Houses had
arrayed themselves in a pure panoply of morality, and thundered
forth their sarcasms with the indignant virtue and keen discontent
of political Juvenals; and even his own friends had held up their
hands in dismay.  Under these circumstances he had thought himself
obliged in the present instance to select a man who would not be
especially objectionable to any party.  Now Harold Smith lived with
his wife, and his circumstances were not more than ordinarily
embarrassed.  He kept no racehorses; and, as Lord Brock now heard
for the first time, gave lectures in provincial towns on popular
subjects.  He had a seat which was tolerably secure, and could talk
to the House by the yard if required to do so.  Moreover, Lord
Brock had a great idea that the whole machinery of his own ministry
would break to pieces very speedily.  His own reputation was not
bad, but it was insufficient for himself and lately for that
selected friend of his.  Under all the circumstances combined, he
chose Harold Smith to fill the vacant office of Lord Petty Bag; and
very proud the Lord Petty Bag was.  For the last three or four
months, he and Mr Supplehouse had been agreeing to consign the
ministry to speedy perdition.  'This sort of dictatorship will
never do,' Harold Smith had himself said, justifying that future
vote of his as to want of confidence in the Queen's Government.  And
Mr Supplehouse in this matter had fully agreed with him.  He was a
Juno whose form that wicked old Paris had utterly despised, and he,
too, had quite made up his mind as to the lobby in which he would
be found when that day of vengeance should arrive.  But now things
were much altered in Harold Smith's views.  The Premier had shown
his wisdom in seeking for new strength where strength ought to be
sought, and introducing new blood into the body of his ministry.
The people would now feel fresh confidence, and probably the House
also.  As to Mr Supplehouse--he would use all his influence on
Supplehouse.  But after all, Mr Supplehouse was not everything.

On the morning after the vicar's arrival in London he attended at
the Petty Bag Office.  It was situated in the close neighbourhood
of Downing Street and the higher governmental gods; and though the
building itself was not much, seeing that it was shored up on one
side, that it bulged out on the front, was foul with smoke, dingy
with dirt, and was devoid of any single architectural grace or
modern scientific improvement, nevertheless its position gave it a
status in the world which made the clerks in the Lord Petty Bag's
office quite respectable in their walk of life.  Mark had seen his
friend Sowerby on the previous evening, and had then made an
appointment with him for the following morning, at the new
minister's office.  And now he was there a little before his time,
in order that he might have a few moments' chat with his brother.
When Mark found himself in the private secretary's room he was
quite astonished to see the change in his brother's appearance
which the change in his official rank had produced.  Jack Robarts
had been a well-built, straight-legged, lissom young fellow,
pleasant to the eye because of his natural advantages, but rather
given to a harum-scarum style of gait, and occasionally careless,
not to say slovenly, of dress.  But now he was the very pink of
perfection.  His jaunty frock-coat fitted him to perfection; not a
hair of his head was out of place; his waistcoat and trousers were
glossy and new, and his umbrella, which stood in the umbrella-stand
in the corner, was tight and neat, and small and natty.  'Well,
John, you've become quite a great man,' said his brother.

'I don't know much about that,' said John; 'but I find that I have
an enormous deal of fagging to go through.'

'Do you mean work?  I thought you had about the easiest berth in
the whole Civil Service.'

'Ah! that's just the mistake people make.  Because we don't cover
whole reams of foolscap paper at the rate of fifteen lines to a
page, and five words to a line, people think that we private
secretaries have got nothing to do.  Look here,' and he tossed over
scornfully a dozen or so of little notes.  'I tell you what, Mark;
it is no easy matter to manage the patronage of a Cabinet
minister.  Now I am bound to write to every one of these fellows a
letter that will please him; and yet I shall refuse to every one of
them the request which he asks.'

'That must be difficult.'

'Difficult is no word for it.  But, after all, it consists chiefly
in the knack of the thing.  One must have the wit "from such a
sharp and waspish word as No to pluck the sting".  I do it every
day, and I really think that the people like it.'

'Perhaps your refusals are better than people's acquiescences.'

'I don't mean that at all.  We private secretaries have all to do
the same thing.  Now, would you believe it?  I have used up three
lifts of notepaper already in telling people that there is no
vacancy for a lobby messenger in the Petty Bag Office.  Seven
peeresses have asked for it for their favourite footmen.  But
there--there's the Lord Petty Bag!'  A bell rang and the private
secretary, jumping up from his notepaper, tripped away quickly to
the great man's room.  'He'll see you at once,' said he, returning.
'Buggins, show the Reverend Mr Robarts to the Lord Petty Bag.'
Buggins was the messenger for whose vacant place all the peeresses
were striving with so much animation.  And then Mark, following
Buggins for two steps, was ushered into the next room.

If a man be altered by becoming a private secretary, he is much
more altered by being made a Cabinet minister.  Robarts, as he
entered the room, could hardly believe that this was the same
Harold Smith whom Mrs Proudie bothered so cruelly in the
lecture-room at Barchester.  Then he was cross, and touchy, and
uneasy, and insignificant.  Now, as he stood smiling on the
hearth-rug of his official fire-place, it was quite pleasant to see
the kind, patronizing smile which lighted up his features.  He
delighted to stand there, with his hands in his trousers' pocket,
the great man of the place, conscious of his lordship, and feeling
himself every inch a minister.  Sowerby had come with him, and was
standing a little in the background, from which position he winked
occasionally at the parson over the minister's shoulder. 'Ah,
Robarts, delighted to see you.  How odd, by the by, that your
brother should be my private secretary!'  Mark said that it was a
singular coincidence.

'A very smart young fellow, and, if he minds himself, he'll do
well.'

'I'm quite sure he'll do well,' said Mark.

'Ah!  well, yes; I think he will.  And now, what can I do for you,
Robarts?'  Hereupon Mr Sowerby struck in, making it apparent by his
explanation that Mr Robarts himself by no means intended to ask for
anything; but that, as his friends had thought that this stall at
Barchester might be put into his hands with more fitness than in
those of any other clergyman of the day, he was willing to accept a
piece of preferment from a man whom he respected so much as he did
the new Lord Petty Bag.  The minister did not quite like this, as
it restricted him from much of his condescension, and robbed him of
the incense of a petition which he had expected Mark Robarts would
make to him.  But, nevertheless, he was very gracious.  'He could
not take it upon himself to declare,' he said, 'what might be Lord
Brock's pleasure with reference to the preferment at Barchester
which was vacant.  He had certainly already spoken to his lordship
on the subject, and had perhaps some reason to believe that his own
wishes would be consulted.  No distinct promise had been made, but
he might perhaps go so far as to say that he expected such result.
If so, it would give him the greatest pleasure in the world to
congratulate Mr Robarts on the possession of the stall--a stall
which he was sure Mr Robarts would fill with dignity, piety, and
brotherly love.'  And then, when he had finished, Mr Sowerby gave a
final wink, and said that he regarded the matter as settled.

'No, not settled, Nathaniel,' said the cautious minister.

'It's the same thing,' rejoined Sowerby.  'We all know what all
that flummery means.  Men in office, Mark, never do make a distinct
promise,--not even to themselves of the leg of mutton which is
roasting before their kitchen fires.  It is so necessary in these
days to be safe; is it not, Harold?'

'Most expedient,' said Harold Smith, shaking his head wisely.
'Well, Robarts, who is it now?'  This he had said to his private
secretary, who came to notice the arrival of some bigwig.  'Well,
yes.  I will say good morning, with your leave, for I am a little
hurried.  And remember, Mr Robarts, I will do what I can for you;
but you must distinctly understand that there is no promise.'

'Oh, no promise at all,' said Sowerby--'of course not.'  And then,
as he sauntered up Whitehall towards Charing Cross, with Robarts on
his arm, he again pressed upon him the sale of that invaluable
hunter, who was eating his head off his shoulders in the stable at
Chaldicotes.



CHAPTER XIX

MONEY DEALINGS


Mr Sowerby, in his resolution to obtain this good gift for the vicar
of Framley, did not depend quite alone on the influence of his near
connexion with the Lord Petty Bag.  He felt the occasion to be one
on which he might endeavour to move even higher powers than that,
and therefore he had opened the matter to the duke--not by direct
application, but through Mr Fothergill.  No man who understood
matters ever thought of going direct to the duke in such an affair
as that.  If one wanted to speak about a woman or a horse or a
picture the duke could, on occasions, be affable enough.  But
through Mr Fothergill the duke was approached.  It was represented,
with some cunning, that this buying over of the Framley clergyman
from the Lufton side would be a praiseworthy spoiling of the
Amalekites.  The doing so would give the Omnium interest a hold
even in the cathedral close.  And then it was known to all men that
Mr Robarts had considerable influence over Lord Lufton himself.  So
guided, the Duke of Omnium did say two words to the Prime Minister,
and two words from the duke went a great way, even with Lord
Brock.  The upshot of all this was, that Mark Robarts did get the
stall; abut he did not hear the tidings of his success till some
days after his return to Framley.

Mr Sowerby did not forget to tell him of the great effort--the
unusual effort, as he of Chaldicotes called it--which the duke had
made on the subject.  'I don't know when he has done such a thing
before,' said Sowerby; 'and you may be quite sure of this, he would
not have done it now, had you not gone to Gatherum Castle when he
asked you: indeed, Fothergill would have known that it was vain to
attempt it.  And I'll tell you what, Mark--it does not do for me to
make little of my own nest, but I truly believe the duke's word
will be more efficacious than the Lord Petty Bag's solemn
adjuration.'  Mark, of course, expressed his gratitude in proper
terms, and did buy the horse for a hundred and thirty pounds. 'He's
as well worth it,' said Sowerby, 'as any animal that ever stood on
four legs; and my only reason for pressing him on you is, that when
Tozer's day does come round, I know you will have to stand us to
something about that tune.'  It did not occur to Mark to ask him
why the horse should not be sold to some one else, and the money
forthcoming in the regular way.  But this would not have suited Mr
Sowerby.

Mark knew that the beast was good, and as he walked to his lodgings
was half proud of his new possession.  But then, how would he
justify it to his wife, or how introduce the animal into his
stables without attempting any justification in the matter?  And
yet, looking to the absolute amount of his income, surely he might
feel himself entitled to buy a new horse when it suited him.  He
wondered what Mr Crawley would say when he heard of the new
purchase.  He had lately fallen into a state of much wondering as
to what his friends and neighbours would say about him.  He had now
been two days in town, and was to go down after breakfast on the
following morning so that he might reach home by Friday afternoon.
But on that evening, just as he was going to bed, he was surprised
by Lord Lufton coming into the coffee room at his hotel.  He walked
in with a hurried step, his face was red, and it was clear that he
was very angry. 'Robarts,' said he, walking up to his friend and
taking the hand that was extended to him, 'do you know anything
about this man Tozer?'

'Tozer--what Tozer.  I have heard Sowerby speak of such a man.'

'Of course you have.  If I do not mistake you have written to me
about him yourself.'

'Very probably.  I remember Sowerby mentioning the man with
reference to your affairs.  But why do you ask me?'

'This man has not only written to me, but has absolutely forced his
way into my rooms when I was dressing for dinner; and absolutely
had the impudence to tell me that if I did not honour some bill
which he holds for eight hundred pounds he would proceed against
me.'

'But you settled all that matter with Sowerby?'

'I did settle it at very great cost to me.  Sooner than have a
fuss, I paid him through the nose--like a fool that I
was--everything that he claimed.  This is an absolute swindle, and
if it goes on I will expose it as such.'  Robarts looked round the
room, but luckily there was not a soul in it but themselves.  'You
do not mean that Sowerby is swindling you?' said the clergyman.

'It looks very like it,' said Lord Lufton; 'and I tell you fairly
that I am not in a humour to endure any more of this sort of
thing.  Some years ago I made an ass of myself through that man's
fault.  But four thousand pounds should have covered the whole of
what I really lost.  I have now paid more than three times that
sum; and, by heavens!  I will not pay more without exposing the
whole affair.'

'But, Lufton, I do not understand.  What is this bill?--has it
your name on it?'

'Yes, it has: I'll not deny my name, and if there be absolute need,
I will pay it; but, if I do so, my lawyer will sift it, and it
shall go before a jury.'

'But I thought all those bills were paid.'

'I left it to Sowerby to get up the old bills when they were
renewed, and now one of them has in truth been already honoured is
brought against me.'  Mark could not but think of the two documents
which he himself had signed, and both of which were now undoubtedly
in the hands of Tozer, or of some other gentleman of the same
profession;--which both might be brought against him, the second as
soon as he should have satisfied the first.  And then he remembered
that Sowerby had said something to him about an outstanding bill,
for the filling up of which some trifle must be paid, and of this
he reminded Lord Lufton.

'And do you call eight hundred pounds a trifle?  If so, I do not.'

'They will probably make no such demand as that.'

'But I tell you they do make such a demand, and have made it.  The
man whom I saw, and who told me that he was Tozer's friend, but who
was probably Tozer himself, positively swore to me that he would be
obliged to take legal proceedings if the money were not forthcoming
within a week or ten days.  When I explained to him that it was an
old bill that had been renewed, he declared that his friends had
given full value for it.'

'Sowerby said that you would probably have to pay ten pounds to
redeem it.  I should offer the man some such sum as that.'

'My intention is to offer the man nothing, but to leave the affair
in the hands of my lawyer with instructions to him to spare none;
neither myself nor any one else. I am not going to allow such a man
as Sowerby to squeeze me like an orange.'

'But, Lufton, you seem as though you were angry with me.'

'No, I am not.  But I think it is as well to caution you about this
man; my transactions with him lately have chiefly been through you,
and therefore--'

'But they have only been so through his and your wish:  because I
have been anxious to oblige you both.  I hope you don't mean to say
that I am concerned in these bills.'

'I know that you are concerned in bills with him.'

'Why, Lufton, am I to understand then, that you are accusing me of
having any interest in these transactions which you have called
swindling?'

'As far as I am concerned there has been swindling, and there is
swindling going on now.'

'But you do not answer my question.  Do you bring any accusation
against me?  If so, I agree with you that you had better go to your
lawyer.'

'I think that is what I shall do.'

'Very well.  But, upon the whole, I never heard of a more
unreasonable man, or of one whose thoughts are more unjust than
yours.  Solely with the view of assisting you, and solely at your
request, I spoke to Sowerby about these money transactions of
yours.  Then, at his request, which originated out of your request,
he using me as his ambassador to you, as you had used me as yours
to him, I wrote and spoke to you.  And now this is the upshot.'

'I bring no accusation against you, Robarts; but I know you have
dealings with this man.  You have told me so yourself.'

'Yes, at his request to accommodate him.  I have put my name to a
bill.'

'Only to one?'

'Only to one; and then to that same renewed, or not exactly the
same, but to one which stands for it.  The first was for four
hundred pounds; the last for five hundred.'

'All which you will have to make good, and the world will of course
tell you that you have paid that price for this stall at
Barchester.'  This was terrible to be borne.  He had heard much
lately which had frightened and scared him, but nothing so terrible
as this; nothing which so stunned him, or conveyed to his mind so
frightful a reality of misery and ruin.  He made no immediate
answer, but standing on the hearth-rug with his back to the fire,
looked up the whole length of the room.  Hitherto his eyes had been
fixed upon Lord Lufton's face, but now it seemed to him as though
he had but little more to do with Lord Lufton.  Lord Lufton and
Lord Lufton's mother were neither to be counted among those who
wished him well.  Upon whom indeed could he now count, except that
wife of his bosom upon whom he was bringing all this wretchedness?
In that moment of agony ideas ran quickly through his brain.  He
would immediately abandon his preferment at Barchester, of which it
might be said with so much colour that he had bought it.  He would
go to Harold Smith, and say positively that he declined it.  Then
he would return home and tell his wife all that had occurred;--tell
the whole also to Lady Lufton, if that might still be of service.
He would make arrangement for the payment of both those bills as
they might be presented, asking no questions as to the justice of
the claim, making no complaint to any one, not even to Sowerby.  He
would put half his income, if half were necessary, into the hands
of Forrest the banker, till all was paid.  He would sell every
horse he had.  He would part with his footman and groom, and at any
rate strive like a man to get again a firm footing on good ground.
Then, at that moment, he loathed with his whole soul the position
in which he had found himself placed, and his own folly which had
placed him there.  How could he reconcile it to his conscience that
he was there in London with Sowerby and Harold Smith, petitioning
for Church preferment to a man who should have been altogether
powerless in such a matter, buying horses, and arranging about past
due bills?  He did not reconcile it to his conscience.  Mr Crawley
had been right when he told him that he was a castaway.

Lord Lufton whose anger during the whole interview had been
extreme, and who had become more angry the more he talked, had now
walked once or twice up and down the room; and as he so walked the
idea did occur to him that he had been unjust.  He had come there
with the intention of exclaiming against Sowerby, and of inducing
Robarts to convey to that gentleman, that if he, Lord Lufton, were
made to undergo any further annoyance about this bill, the whole
affair should be thrown into the lawyer's hands; but instead of
doing this, he had brought an accusation against Robarts.  That
Robarts had latterly become Sowerby's friend rather than his own in
all these horrid money dealings, had galled him; and now he had
expressed himself in terms much stronger than he had intended to
use.  'As to you personally, Mark,' he said, coming back to the
spot on which Robarts was standing, 'I do not wish to say anything
that shall annoy you.'

'You have said quite enough, Lufton.'

'You cannot be surprised that I should be angry and indignant at
the treatment I have received.'

'You might, I think, have separated in your mind those who have
wronged you, if there has been such wrong, from those who have only
endeavoured to do your will and pleasure for you.  That I, as a
clergyman, have been very wrong in taking any part whatsoever in
these matters, I am well aware.  That as a man I have been
outrageously foolish in lending my name to Mr Sowerby, I also know
well enough; it is, perhaps, as well that I should be told of this
somewhat rudely; but I certainly did not expect the lesson to come
from you.'

'Well, there has been mischief enough.  The question is, what we
had better now both do?'

'You have said what you mean to do.  You will put the affair in the
hands of your lawyer.'

'Not with any object of exposing you.'

'Exposing me, Lord Lufton!  Why, one would think that I had had the
handling of your money.'

'You will misunderstand me.  I think no such thing.  But do you not
know yourself that if legal steps be taken in this wretched affair,
your arrangements with Sowerby will be brought to light?'

'My arrangements with Sowerby will consist in paying or having to
pay, on his account, a large sum of money, for which I have never
had and shall never have any consideration whatever.'

'And what will be said about this stall at Barchester?'

'After the charge which you brought against me just now, I shall
decline to accept it.'  At this moment three or four other
gentlemen entered the room, and the conversation between the two
friends was stopped.  They still remained standing near the fire,
but for a few minutes neither of them said anything.  Robarts was
waiting till Lord Lufton should go away, and Lord Lufton had not
yet said that which he had come to say.  At last he spoke again,
almost in a whisper: 'I think it will be best to ask Sowerby to
come to my rooms to-morrow, and I think also that you should meet
him there.'

'I do not see any necessity for my presence,' said Robarts.  'It
seems probable that I shall suffer enough for meddling with your
affairs, and I will do so no more.'

'Of course, I cannot make you come; but I think it will be only
just to Sowerby, and it will be a favour to me.' Robarts again
walked up and down the room for half a dozen times, trying to
resolve what it would most become him to do in the present
emergency.  If his name were dragged before the courts;--if he
should be shown up in the public papers as having been engaged in
accommodation bills, that would certainly be ruinous to him.  He
had already learned from Lord Lufton's innuendoes what he might
expect to hear as the public version of his share in these
transactions!  And then his wife,--how would she bear such
exposure?  'I will meet Mr Sowerby at your rooms to-morrow, on one
condition,' he at last said.

'And what is that?'

'That I receive you positive assurance that I am not suspected by
you of having had any pecuniary interest whatever in any matters
with Mr Sowerby, either as concerns your affairs of those of
anybody else.'

'I have never suspected you of any such thing.  But I have thought
that you were compromised with him.'

'And so I am--I am liable for these bills.  But you ought to have
known, and do know, that I have never received a shilling on
account of such liability.  I have endeavoured to oblige a man whom
I regarded first as your friend, and then as my own; and this has
been the result.'  Lord Lufton did at last give him the assurance
that he desired, as they sat with their heads together over one of
the coffee-room tables; and then Robarts promised that he would
postpone his return to Framley till the Saturday, so that he might
meet Sowerby at Lord Lufton's chambers in the Albany on the
following afternoon.  As soon as this was arranged, Lord Lufton
took his leave and went his way.

After this poor Mark had a very uneasy night of it.  It was clear
enough that Lord Lufton had thought, if he did not still think,
that the stall at Barchester was to be given as pecuniary
recompense in return for certain money accommodation to be afforded
by the nominee to the dispenser of this patronage.  Nothing on
earth could be worse than this.  In the first place it would be
simony; and then it would be simony beyond all description mean and
simoniacal.  The very thought of it filled Mark's soul with horror
and dismay.  It might be that Lord Lufton's suspicions were now at
rest; but others would think the same thing, and their suspicions
it would be impossible to allay; those others would consist of the
outer world, which is always eager to gloat over the detected vice
of a clergyman.  And that wretched horse which he had purchased,
and the purchase of which should have prohibited him from saying
that nothing of value had accrued to him in these transactions with
Mr Sowerby!  what was he to do about that?  And then of late he had
been spending, and had continued to spend, more money than he could
afford.  This very journey of his up to London would be most
imprudent, if it should become necessary for him to give up all
hope of holding the prebend.  As to that he had made up his mind;
but then again he unmade it, as men always do in such troubles.
That line of conduct which he had laid down for himself in the
first moments of his indignation against Lord Lufton, by adopting
which he would have to encounter poverty, and ridicule, and
discomfort, the annihilation of his high hopes, and the ruin of his
ambition--that, he said to himself over and over again, would now
be the best for him.  But it is so hard for us to give up our high
hopes, and willingly encounter poverty, ridicule and discomfort!

On the following morning, however, he boldly walked down to the
Petty Bag Office, determined to let Harold Smith know that he was
no longer desirous of the Barchester stall.  He found his brother
there, still writing artistic notes to anxious peeresses on the
subject of Buggins's non-vacant situation; but the great man of the
place, the Lord Petty Bag himself, was not there.  He might
probably look in when the House was beginning to sit, perhaps at
four or a little after; but he certainly would not be at the office
in the morning.  The functions of the Lord Petty Bag he was no
doubt performing elsewhere.  Perhaps he had carried his work home
with him--a practice which the world should know is not uncommon
with civil servants of exceeding zeal.  Mark did think of opening
his heart to his brother, and of leaving a message with him.  But
his courage failed him, or perhaps it might be more correct to say
that his prudence prevented him.  It would be better for him, he
thought, to tell his wife before he told anyone else.  So he merely
chatted with his brother for half an hour and then left him.  The
day was very tedious till the hour came at which he was to attend
at Lord Lufton's rooms; but at last it did come, and just as the
clock struck he turned out of Piccadilly into Albany.  As he was
going across the court before he entered the building, he was
greeted by a voice just behind him.  'As punctual as the big clock
on Barchester tower,' said Mr Sowerby.  'See what it is to have a
summons from a great man, Mr Prebendary.'  He turned round and
extended his hand mechanically to Mr Sowerby, and as he looked at
him he thought he had never before seen him so pleasant in
appearance, so free from care, and so joyous in demeanour.

'You have heard from Lord Lufton,' said Mark, in a voice that was
certainly very lugubrious.

'Heard from him!  oh, yes, of course I have heard from him.  I'll
tell you what it is, Mark,' and he now spoke almost in a whisper as
they walked together along the Albany passage, 'Lufton is a child
in money matters--a perfect child.  The dearest finest fellow in
the world, you know; but a perfect baby in money matters.'  And
then they entered his lordship's rooms.  Lord Lufton's countenance
also was lugubrious enough, but this did not in the least abash
Sowerby, who walked quickly up to the young lord with his gait
perfectly self-possessed and his face radiant with satisfaction.

'Well, Lufton, how are you?' said he.  'It seems that my worthy
friend Tozer has been giving you some trouble?'  Then Lord Lufton
with a face by no means radiant with satisfaction again began the
story of Tozer's fraudulent demand upon him.  Sowerby did not
interrupt him, but listened patiently to the end;--quite patiently,
although Lord Lufton, as he made himself more and more angry by the
history of his own wrongs, did not hesitate to pronounce certain
threats against Mr Sowerby, as he had pronounced them before Mark
Robarts.  He would not, he said, pay a shilling, except through his
lawyer; and he would instruct his lawyer, that before he paid
anything, the whole matter should be exposed openly in court.  He
did not care, he said, what might be the effect on himself or on
any one else.  He was determined that the whole case should go to a
jury.  'To grand jury, and special jury, and common jury, and Old
Jewry, if you like,' said Sowerby.  'The truth is, Lufton, you lost
some money, and as there was some delay in paying it, you have been
harassed.'

'I have paid more that I lost three times over,' said Lord Lufton,
stamping his foot.

'I will not go into that question now.  It was settled as I thought
some time ago by persons to whom you yourself referred it.  But
will you tell me this: why on earth should Robarts be troubled in
this matter?  What has he done?'

'Well, I don't know.  He arranged the matter with you.'

'No such thing.  He was kind enough to carry a message from you to
me, and to convey a return message from me to you.  That has been
his part in it.'

'You don't suppose that I want to implicate him: do you?'

'I don't think you want to implicate any one, but you are
hot-headed and difficult to deal with, and very irrational into the
bargain.  And, what is worse, I must say you are a little
suspicious.  In all this matter I have harassed myself greatly to
oblige you, and in return I have got more kicks than halfpence.'

'Did you not give this bill to Tozer--the bill which he now holds?'

'In the first place he does not hold it; and in the next place I
did not give it to him.  These things pass through scores of hands
before they reach the man who makes the application for payment.'

'And who came to me the other day?'

'That, I take it, was Tom Tozer, a brother of our Tozer's.'

'Then he holds the bill, for I saw it with him.'

'Wait a moment; that is very likely.  I sent you word that you
would have to pay for taking it up.  Of course they don't abandon
those sort of things without some consideration.'

'Ten pounds, you said,' observed Mark.

'Ten or twenty; some such sum as that.  But you were hardly so soft
as to suppose that the man would ask for such a sum.  Of course he
would demand the full payment.  There is the bill, Lord Lufton,'
and Sowerby, producing a document, handed it across the table to
his lordship.  'I gave five-and-twenty pounds for it this morning.'
Lord Lufton took the paper and looked at it.

'Yes,' said he, 'that's the bill.  What am I to do with it now?'

'Put it with the family archives,' said Sowerby,--'or behind the
fire, just which you please.'

'And this is the last of them?  Can no other be brought up?'

'You know better than I do what paper you may have put your hand
to.  A know of no other.  At the last renewal that was the only
outstanding bill of which I was aware.'

'And you have paid five-and-twenty pounds for it?'

'I have.  Only that you have been in such a tantrum about it, and
would have made such a noise this afternoon if I had not brought
it, I might have had it for fifteen or twenty.  In three or four
days they would have taken fifteen.'

'The odd ten pounds does not signify, and I'll pay you the
twenty-five of course,' said Lord Lufton, who now began to feel a
little ashamed of himself.

'You may do as you please about that.'

'Oh!  it's my affair, as a matter of course.  Any amount of that
kind I don't mind,' and he sat down to fill in a cheque for the
money.

'Well, now, Lufton, let me say a few words to you,' said Sowerby,
standing with his back against the fireplace, and playing with a
small cane which he held in his hand.  'For heaven's sake try and
be a little more charitable to those around you.  When you become
fidgety about anything, you indulge in language which the world
won't stand, though men who know you as well as Robarts and I may
consent to put up with it.  You have accused me, since I have been
here, of all manner of iniquity--'

'Now, Sowerby--'

'My dear fellow, let me have my say out.  You have accused me, I
say, and I believe that you have accused him.  But it has never
occurred to you, I dare say, to accuse yourself.'

'Indeed it has.'

'Of course you have been wrong in having to do with such men as
Tozer.  I have also been very wrong.  It wants no great moral
authority to tell us that.  Pattern gentlemen don't have dealings
with Tozer, and very much the better they are for not having them.
But a man should have back enough to bear the weight which he
himself puts on it.  Keep away from Tozer, if you can, for the
future; but if you do deal with him, for heaven's sake keep your
temper.'

'That's all very fine, Sowerby; but you know as well as I do--'

'I know this,' said the devil, quoting Scripture, as he folded up
the cheque for twenty-five pounds, and put it in his pocket, 'that
when a man sows tares, he won't reap wheat, and it's no use to
expect it.  I am tough in these matters, and can bear a great
deal--that is, if I be not pushed too far,' and he looked full into
Lord Lufton's face as he spoke; 'but I think you have been very
hard upon Robarts.'

'Never mind me, Sowerby; Lord Lufton and I are very old friends.'

'And may therefore take a liberty with each other.  Very well.  And
now I've done my sermon.  My dear dignitary, allow me to
congratulate you.  I hear from Fothergill that that little affair
of yours has been definitely settled.'  Mark's face again became
clouded.  'I rather think,' said he, 'that I shall decline the
presentation.'

'Decline it!' said Sowerby, who, having used his utmost efforts to
obtain it, would have been more absolutely offended by such
vacillation on the vicar's part than by any personal abuse which
either he or Lord Lufton could heap upon him.

'I think I shall,' said Mark.

'And why?'  Mark looked up at Lord Lufton, and then remained silent
for a moment.

'There can be no occasion for such a sacrifice under the present
circumstances,' said his lordship.

'And under what circumstances could there be occasion for it?'
asked Sowerby.  'The Duke of Omnium has used some little influence
to get the place for you as a parish clergyman belonging to his
county, and I should think it monstrous if you were to reject it.'
And then Robarts openly stated the whole reasons, explaining
exactly what Lord Lufton had said with reference to the bill
transactions, and to the allegation which would be made as to the
stall having been given in payment for the accommodation.

'Upon my word that's too bad,' said Sowerby.

'Now, Sowerby, I won't be lectured,' said Lord Lufton.

'I have done my lecture,' said he, aware, perhaps, that it would
not do for him to push his friend too far, 'and I shall not give a
second.  But, Robarts, let me tell you this: as far as I know,
Harold Smith has had little or nothing to do with the appointment.
The duke has told the Prime Minister that he was very anxious that
a parish clergyman from the county should go to the chapter, and
then, at Lord Brock's request, he named you.  If under those
circumstances you talk of giving it up, I shall believe you to be
insane.  As for the bill which you accepted for me, you need have
no uneasiness about it.  The money will be ready; but of course,
when that time comes, you will let me have the hundred and thirty
for--' And then Mr Sowerby took his leave, having certainly made
himself master of the occasion.  If a man of fifty have his wits
about him, and be not too prosy, he can generally make himself
master of the occasion, when his companions are under thirty.
Robarts did not stay at the Albany long after him, but took his
leave, having received some assurances of Lord Lufton's regret for
what had passed and many promises of his friendship for the
future.  Indeed Lord Lufton was a little ashamed of himself.  'And
as for the prebend, after what has passed, of course you must
accept it.'  Nevertheless his lordship had not omitted to notice Mr
Sowerby's hint about the horse and the hundred and thirty pounds.

Robarts, as he walked back to his hotel, thought that he certainly
would accept the Barchester promotion, and was very glad that he
had said nothing on the subject to his brother.  On the whole his
spirits were much raised.  That assurance of Sowerby's about the
bill was very comforting to him; and, strange to say, he absolutely
believed it.  In truth, Sowerby had been completely the winning
horse at the late meeting, that both Lord Lufton and Robarts were
inclined to believe almost anything he said;--which was not always
the case with either of them.



CHAPTER XX

HAROLD SMITH IN CABINET


For a few days the whole Harold Smith party held their heads very
high.  It was not only that their man had been made a Cabinet
minister; but a rumour had got abroad that Lord Brock, in selecting
him, had amazingly strengthened his party, and done much to cure
the wounds which his own arrogance and lack of judgement had
inflicted on the body politic of his Government.  So said the
Harold-Smithians, much elated.  And when we consider what Harold
had himself achieved, we need not be surprised that he himself was
somewhat elated also.  It must be a proud day for any man when he
first walks into a Cabinet.  But when a humble-minded man thinks of
such a phase of life, his mind becomes lost in wondering what a
Cabinet is.  Are they gods that attend there or men?  Do they sit
on chairs, or hang about on clouds?  When they speak, is the music
of the spheres audible in their Olympian mansion, making heaven
drowsy with its harmony?  In what way do they congregate?  In what
order do they address each other?  Are the voices of all the
deities free and equal?  If plodding Themis from the Home
Department, or Ceres from the Colonies, heard with as rapt
attention as powerful Pallas of the Foreign Office, the goddess
that is never seen without her lance and helmet?  Does our
Whitehall Mars make eyes there at bright young Venus of the Privy
Seal, disgusting that quaint tinkering Vulcan, who is blowing his
bellows at our Exchequer, not altogether unsuccessfully?  Old
Saturn of the Woolsack sits there mute, we will say, a relic of
other days, as seated in this divan.  The hall in which he rules is
now elsewhere.  Is our Mercury of the Post Office ever ready to fly
nimbly from globe to globe, as great Jove may order him, while
Neptune, unaccustomed to the waves, offers needful assistance to
the Apollo of the India Board?  How Juno sits apart, glum and huffy,
uncared for, Council President though she be, great in name, but
despised among gods--that we can guess.  If Bacchus and Cupid share
Trade and the Board of Words between them, the fitness of things
will have been as fully consulted as is usual.  And modest Diana of
the Petty Bag, latest summoned to these banquets of ambrosia,--does
she not cling retiring near the doors, hardly able as yet to make
her low voice heard among her brother deities?  But Jove, great
Jove--old Jove, the King of Olympus, hero among gods and men, how
does he carry himself in these councils summoned by his voice?  Does
he lie there at his ease, with his purple cloak cut from the
firmament round his shoulders?  Is his thunderbolt ever at his hand
to reduce a recreant god to order?  Can he proclaim silence in that
immortal hall?  Is it not there, as elsewhere, in all places, and
among all nations, that a king of gods and a king of men is and
will be king, rules and will rule, over those who are smaller than
himself?

Harold Smith, when he was summoned to the august hall of divine
councils, did feel himself to be a proud man; but we may perhaps
conclude that at the first meeting or two he did not attempt to
take a very leading part.  Some of my readers may have sat at
vestries, and will remember how mild, and, for the most part, mute
is a new-comer at their board.  He agrees generally, with abated
enthusiasm; but should he differ, he apologizes for the liberty.
But anon, when the voices of his colleagues have become habitual in
his ears--when the strangeness of the room is gone, and the table
before him is known and trusted--he throws off his awe and dismay,
and electrifies his brotherhood by the vehemence of his declamation
and the violence of his thumping.  So let us suppose it will be
with Harold Smith, perhaps in the second or third season of his
Cabinet practice.  Alas! alas! that such pleasures should be so
fleeting!  And then, too, there came upon him a blow which somewhat
modified his triumph--a cruel, dastard blow, from a hand which
should have been friendly to him, from one to whom he had fondly
looked to buoy him up in the great course that was before him.  It
had been said by his friends that in obtaining Harold Smith's
services the Prime Minister had infused new young healthy blood
into his body.  Harold himself had liked the phrase, and had seen
at a glance how it might have been made to tell by some friendly
Supplehouse or the like.  But why should a Supplehouse out of
Elysium be friendly to a Harold Smith within it?  Men lapped in
Elysium, steeped to the neck in bliss, must expect to see their
friends fall off from them.  Human nature cannot stand it.  If I
want to get anything from my old friend Jones, I like to see him
shoved up into a high place.  But if Jones, even in his high place,
can do nothing for me, then his exaltation above my head is an
insult and an injury.  Who ever believes his own dear intimate
companion to be fit for the highest promotion?  Mr Supplehouse had
known Mr Smith too closely to think much of his young blood.

Consequently, there appeared an article in the Jupiter, which was
by no means complimentary to the ministry in general.  It harped a
good deal on the young-blood view of the question, and seemed to
insinuate that Harold Smith was not much better than diluted
water.  'The Prime Minister,' the article said, 'having lately
recruited his impaired vigour by a new infusion of aristocratic
influence of the highest moral tone, had again added to himself
another tower of strength chosen from among the people.  What might
he not hope, now that he possessed the services of Lord Brittleback
and Mr Harold Smith!  Revoted in a Medea's cauldron of such
potency, all his effete limbs--and it must be acknowledged that
some of them had become very effete--would come forth young and
round and robust.  A new energy would diffuse itself through every
department; India would be saved and quieted; the ambition of
France would be tamed; evenhanded reform would remodel our courts
of law and parliamentary elections; and Utopia would be realized.
Such, it seems, is the result expected in the ministry from Mr
Harold Smith's young blood!'

This was cruel enough, but even this was hardly so cruel as the
words with which the article ended.  By that time irony had been
dropped, and the writer spoke out earnestly his opinion on the
matter.  'We beg to assure Lord Brock,' said the article, 'that
such alliances as these will not save him from the speedy fall with
which his arrogance and want of judgement threaten to overwhelm
it.  As regards himself we shall be sorry to hear of his
resignation.  He is in many respects the best statesman that we
possess for the emergencies of the present period.  But if he be so
ill-judged as to rest on such men as Mr Harold Smith and Lord
Brittleback for his assistants in the work which is before him, he
must not expect that the country will support him.  Mr Harold Smith
is not made of the stuff from which Cabinet ministers should be
formed.'  Mr Harold Smith, as he read this, seated at his
breakfast-table, recognized, or said that he recognized, the hand
of Mr Supplehouse in every touch.  That phrase about the effete
limbs was Supplehouse all over, as was also the realization of
Utopia.  'When he wants to be witty, he always talks about Utopia,'
said Mr Harold Smith--to himself: for Mrs Harold Smith was not
usually present in the flesh at these matutinal meals.  And then he
went down to his office, and saw in the glance of every man that he
met an announcement that that article in the Jupiter had been read.
His private secretary tittered in evident allusion to the article,
and the way in which Buggins took his coat made it clear that it
was well known in the messengers' lobby.  'He won't have to fill up
my vacancy when I go,' Buggins was saying to himself.  And then in
the course of the morning came the Cabinet council, the second that
he had attended, and he read in the countenance of every god and
goddess there assembled that their chief was thought to have made
another mistake.  If Mr Supplehouse could have been induced to
write in another strain, then indeed that new blood might have been
felt to have been efficacious.

All this was a great drawback to his happiness, but still it could
not rob him of the fact of his position.  Lord Brock could not ask
him to resign because the Jupiter had been written against him; nor
was Lord Brock the man to desert a new colleague for such a
reason.  So Harold Smith girded his loins, and went about his
duties of the Petty Bag with a new zeal.  'Upon my word, the
Jupiter is right,' said young Robarts to himself, as he finished
his fourth dozen of private notes explanatory of everything in and
about the Petty Bag Office.  Harold Smith required that his private
secretary's notes should be so terribly precise.  But nevertheless,
in spite of his drawbacks, Harold Smith was happy in his new
honours, and Mrs Harold Smith enjoyed them also.  She certainly,
among her acquaintances, did quiz the new Cabinet minister not a
little, and it may be a question whether she was not as hard upon
him as the writer in the Jupiter.  She whispered a great deal to
Miss Dunstable about new blood, and talked of going down to
Westminster Bridge to see whether the Thames were really on fire.
But though she laughed, she triumphed, and though she flattered
herself that she bore her honours without any outward sign, the
world knew that she was triumphing, and ridiculed her elation.

About this time she also gave a party--not a pure-minded
conversazione like Mrs Proudie, but a downright wicked worldly
dance, at which there were fiddles, ices, and champagne sufficient
to run away with the first quarter's salary accruing to Harold
Smith from the Petty Bag Office. To us this ball is chiefly
memorable from the fact that Lady Lufton was among the guests.
Immediately on her arrival in town she received cards from Mrs H
Smith for herself and Griselda, and was about to send back a reply
at once declining the honour.  What had she to do at the house of
Mr Sowerby's sister?  But it so happened that at that moment her
son was with her, and as he expressed a wish that she should go,
she yielded.  Had there been nothing in his tone of persuasion more
than ordinary,--had it merely had reference to herself--she would
have smiled on him for his kind solicitude, have made out some
occasion for kissing his forehead as she thanked him, and would
still have declined.  But he had reminded her both of himself and
Griselda.  'You might as well go, mother, for the sake of meeting
me,' he said; 'Mrs Harold Smith caught me the other day, and would
not liberate me till I had given her a promise.'

'That is an attraction, certainly,' said Lady Lufton.  'I do like
going to a house when I know that you will be there.'

'And now that Miss Grantly is with you--you owe it to her to do the
best you can for her.'

'I certainly do, Ludovic; and I have to thank you for reminding me
of my duty so gallantly.'  And so she said that she would go to Mrs
Harold Smith's.  Poor lady!  She gave much more weight to those few
words about Miss Grantly than they deserved.  It rejoiced her heart
to think that her son was anxious to meet Griselda--that he should
perpetrate this little ruse in order to gain his wish.  But he had
spoken out of the mere emptiness of his mind, without thought of
what he was saying, excepting that he wished to please his mother.
But nevertheless he went to Mrs Harold Smith's, and when there he
did dance more than once with Griselda Grantly--to the manifest
discomfiture of Lord Dumbello.  He came in late, and at the moment
Lord Dumbello was moving slowly up the room, with Griselda on his
arm, while Lady Lufton was sitting near looking on with unhappy
eyes.  And then Griselda sat down, with Lord Dumbello stood mute at
her elbow.

'Ludovic,' whispered his mother, 'Griselda is absolutely bored by
that man, who follows like a ghost.  Do go and rescue her.'  He did
go and rescue her, and afterwards danced with her for the best part
of an hour consequently.  He knew that the world gave Lord Dumbello
the credit of admiring the young lady, and was quite alive to the
pleasure of filling his brother nobleman's heart with jealousy and
anger.  Moreover, Griselda was in his eyes very beautiful, and had
she been one whit more animated, or had his mother's tactics been but
a thought better concealed, Griselda might have been asked that
night to share the vacant throne at Lufton, in spite of all that
had been said and sworn in the drawing-room of Framley parsonage.
It must be remembered that our gallant, gay Lothario had passed
some considerable number of days with Miss Grantly in his mother's
house, and the danger of such contiguity must be remembered also.
Lord Lufton was by no means a man capable of seeing beauty unmoved
or of spending hours with a young lady without some approach to
tenderness.  Had there been no such approach it is probable that Lady
Lufton would not have pursued the matter.  But, according to her
ideas on such subjects, her son Ludovic had on some occasions shown
quite sufficient partiality for Miss Grantly to justify her in her
hopes, and to lead her to think that nothing but opportunity was
wanted.  Now, at this ball of Mrs Smith's, he did, for a while,
seem to be taking advantage of such opportunity, and his mother's
heart was glad.  If things should turn out well on this evening she
would forgive Mrs Harold Smith all her sins.  And for a while it
looked as though things would turn out well.  Not that it must be
supposed that Lord Lufton had come there with any intention of
making love to Griselda, or that he ever had any fixed thought that
he was doing so.  Young men in such matters are so often without
any fixed thoughts!  They are such absolute moths.  They amuse
themselves with the light of the beautiful candle, fluttering
about, on and off, in and out of the flame with dazzled eyes, till
in a rash moment they rush in too near the wick, and then fall with
singed wings and crippled legs, burnt up and reduced to tinder by
the consuming fire of matrimony.  Happy marriages, men say, are
made in heaven, and I believe it.  Most marriages are fairly happy,
in spite of Sir Cresswell Cresswell; and yet how little care is
taken on earth towards such a result!---'I hope my mother is using
you well?' said Lord Lufton to Griselda, as they were standing
together in a doorway between the dances.

'Oh, yes; she is very kind.'

'You have been rash to trust yourself in the hands of so very staid
and demure a person.  And, indeed, you owe your presence to Mrs
Harold Smith's first Cabinet ball altogether to me.  I don't know
whether you are aware of that.'

'Oh, yes; Lady Lufton told me.'

'And are you grateful or otherwise?  Have I done you an injury or a
benefit?  Which do you find best, sitting with a novel in the
corner of a sofa in Bruton Street, or pretending to dance polkas
here with Lord Dumbello?'

'I don't know what you mean.  I haven't stood up with Lord Dumbello
all the evening.  We were going to dance a quadrille, but we
didn't.'

'Exactly; just what I say;--pretending to do it.  Even that's a
good deal for Lord Dumbello, isn't it?'  And then Lord Lufton, not
being a pretender himself, put his arm round her waist, and away
they went up and down the room, and across and about, with an
energy which showed that what Griselda lacked in her tongue, she
made up with her feet.  Lord Dumbello, in the meantime, stood by,
observant, thinking to himself that Lord Lufton was a glib-tongued,
empty-headed ass, and reflecting that if his rival were to break
the tendons of his leg in one of those rapid evolutions, or
suddenly come by any other dreadful misfortune, such as the loss of
all his property, absolute blindness, or chronic lumbago, it would
only serve him right.  And in that frame of mind he went to bed, in
spite of the prayer which no doubt he said as to his forgiveness of
other people's trespasses.  And then, when they were again
standing, Lord Lufton, in the little intervals between his violent
gasps for fresh breath, asked Griselda if she liked London. 'Pretty
well,' said Griselda, gasping also a little herself.

'I am afraid--you were very dull--down at Framley.'

'Oh, no;--I liked it particularly.'

'It was a great bore when you went--away, I know.  There wasn't a
soul--about the house worth speaking to.'  And they remained silent
for a minute till their lungs had become quiescent.

'Not a soul,' he continued--not of falsehood prepense, for he
was not in fact thinking of what he was saying.  It did not occur
to him at the moment that he had truly found Griselda's going a
great relief, and that he had been able to do more in the way of
conversation with Lucy Robarts in one hour than with Miss Grantly
during a month of intercourse in the same house.  But,
nevertheless, we should not be hard upon him.  All is fair in love
and war; and if this was not love, it was the usual thing that
stands in counterpart for it.

'Not a soul,' said Lord Lufton.  'I was very nearly hanging myself
in the Park next morning--only it rained.'

'What nonsense!  You had your mother to talk to.'

'Oh, my mother,--yes; and you may tell me too, if you please, that
Captain Culpepper was there.  I do love my mother dearly; but do
you think that she could make up for your absence?'  And then his
voice was very tender, and so were his eyes.

'And Miss Robarts; I thought you admired her very much?'

'What, Lucy Robarts?' said Lord Lufton, feeling that Lucy's name
was more than he at present knew how to manage.  Indeed that name
destroyed all the life there was in that little flirtation.  'I do
like Lucy Robarts, certainly.  She is very clever; but it so
happened that I saw little or nothing of her after you were gone.'
To this Griselda made no answer, but drew herself up, and looked as
cold as Diana when she froze Orion in the cave.  Nor could she be
got to give more then monosyllabic answers to the three or four
succeeding attempts at conversation which Lord Lufton made.  And
then they danced again, but Griselda's steps were by no means so
lively as before.  What took place between them on that occasion
was very little more than what has been here related.  There may
have been an ice or a glass of lemonade into the bargain, and
perhaps the faintest possible attempt at hand-pressing.  But if so,
it was all on one side.  To such overtures as that Griselda Grantly
was as cold as any Diana.  But little as all this was, it was
sufficient to fill Lady Lufton's mind and heart.  No mother with
six daughters was ever more anxious to get them off her hands, than
Lady Lufton was to see her son married,--married, that is, to some
girl of the right sort.  And now it really did seem as though he
were actually going to comply with her wishes.  She had watched him
during the whole evening, painfully endeavouring not to be observed
in doing so.  She had seen Lord Dumbello's failure and wrath, and
she had seen her son's victory and pride.  Could it be the case that
he had already said something, which was still allowed to be
indecisive only through Griselda's coldness?  Might it not be the
case, that by some judicious aid on her part, that indecision might
be turned into certainty, and that coldness into warmth?  But then
any such interference requires so delicate a touch,--as Lady Lufton
was well aware.--'Have you had a pleasant evening?' Lady Lufton
said, when she and Griselda were seated together with their feet on
the fender of her ladyship's dressing-room.  Lady Lufton had
especially invited her guest into this, her most private sanctum,
to which as a rule none had admittance but her daughter, and
sometimes Fanny Robarts.  But to what sanctum might not such a
daughter-in-law as Griselda have admittance?  'Oh, yes--very,' said
Griselda.

'It seemed to me that you bestowed most of your smiles upon
Ludovic.'  And Lady Lufton put on a look of good pleasure that such
should have been the case.

'Oh!  I don't know,' said Griselda; 'I did dance with him two or
three times.'

'Not once too often to please me, my dear.  I like to see Ludovic
dancing with my friends.'

'I am sure I am very much obliged to you, Lady Lufton.'

'Not at all, my dear.  I don't know where he could get so nice a
partner.'  And then she paused a moment, not feeling how far she
might go.  In the meantime Griselda sat still, staring at the hot
coals.  'Indeed, I know that he admires you very much,' continued
Lady Lufton.--'Oh!  no, I am sure he doesn't,' said Griselda; and
then there was another pause.

'I can only say this,' said Lady Lufton, 'that if he does do
so--and I believe he does--it would give me very great pleasure.
For you know, my dear, that I am very fond of you myself.'

'Oh! thank you,' said Griselda, and stared at the coals more
perseveringly than before.

'He is a young man of a most excellent disposition--though he is my
own son, I will say that--and if there should be anything between
you and him--'

'There isn't, indeed, Lady Lufton.'

'But if there should be, I should be delighted to think that
Ludovic had made so good a choice.'

'But there will never be anything of the sort, I'm sure, Lady
Lufton.  He is not thinking of such a thing in the least.'

'Well, perhaps he may, some day.  And now, good night, my dear.'

'Good night, Lady Lufton.'  And Griselda kissed with the utmost
composure, and betook herself to her own bedroom.  Before she
retired to sleep she looked carefully to her different articles of
dress, discovering what amount of damage the evening's wear and
tear might have inflicted.



CHAPTER XXI

WHY PUCK, THE PONY, WAS BEATEN


Mark Robarts returned home the day after the scene at the Albany,
considerably relieved in spirit.  He now felt that he might accept
the stall without discredit to himself as a clergyman in doing so.
Indeed, after what Mr Sowerby had said, and after Lord Lufton's
assent to it, it would have been madness, he considered, to decline
it.  And then, too, Mr Sowerby's promise about the bills was very
comfortable to him.  After all, might it not be possible that he
might get rid of all these troubles with no other drawback than
that of having to pay L 130 for a horse that was well worth the
money?

On the day after his return he received proper authentic tidings of
his presentation to the prebend.  He was, in fact, already
prebendary, or would be as soon as the dean and chapter had gone
through the form of instituting him in his stall.  The income was
already his own; and the house also would be given up to him in a
week's time--a part of the arrangement with which he would most
willingly have dispensed had it been at all possible to do.  His
wife congratulated him nicely, with open affection, and apparent
satisfaction at the arrangement.  The enjoyment of one's own
happiness at such windfalls depends so much on the free and freely
expressed enjoyment of others!  Lady Lufton's congratulations had
nearly made him throw up the whole thing; but his wife's smiles
re-encouraged him; and Lucy's warm and eager joy made him feel
quite delighted with Mr Sowerby and the Duke of Omnium.  And then
that splendid animal, Dandy, came home to the parsonage stables,
much to the delight of the groom and gardener, and of the assistant
stable boy who had been allowed to creep into the establishment,
unawares, as it were, since 'master' had taken so keenly to
hunting.  But this satisfaction was not shared in the
drawing-room.  The horse was seen on his first journey round to the
stable gate, and questions were immediately asked.  It was a horse,
Mark said, 'which he had bought from Mr Sowerby some little time
since, with the object of obliging him.  He, Mark, intended to see
him again, as soon as he could do so judiciously.' This, as I have
said above was not satisfactory.  Neither of the two ladies at
Framley parsonage knew much about horses, or of the manner in which
one gentleman might think it proper to oblige another by purchasing
the superfluities of his stable; but they did both feel that there
were horses enough in the parsonage stable without Dandy, and that
the purchasing of a hunter with a view of immediately selling him
again, was, to say the least of it, an operation hardly congenial
with the usual tastes and pursuits of a clergyman. 'I hope you did
not give very much money for him, Mark,' said Fanny.

'Not more than I shall get again,' said Mark; and Fanny saw from
the form of his countenance that she had better not pursue the
subject any further at that moment.

'I suppose I shall have to go into residence almost immediately,'
said Mark, recurring to the more agreeable subject of the stall.

'And shall we all have to go and live at Barchester at once?' asked
Lucy.

'The house will not be furnished, will it, Mark?' said his wife. 'I
don't know how we shall get on.'

'Don't frighten yourselves.  I shall take lodgings in Barchester.'

'And we shall not see you all the time,' said Mrs Robarts with
dismay.  But the prebendary explained that he would be backwards
and forwards at Framley every week, and that in all probability he
would only sleep at Barchester on the Saturdays, and Sundays--and,
perhaps, not always then.

'It does not seem very hard work, that of a prebendary,' said Lucy.

'But it is very dignified,' said Fanny.  'Prebendaries are
dignitaries of the Church--are they not, Mark?'

'Decidedly,' said he; 'and their wives also, by special canon law.
The worst of it is that both of them are obliged to wear wigs.'

'Shall you have a hat, Mark, with curly things at the side, and
strings through to hold them up?' asked Lucy.

'I fear that does not come within my perquisites.'

'Nor a rosette?  Then I shall never believe that you are a
dignitary.  Do you mean to say that you will wear a hat like a
common parson--like Mr Crawley, for instance?'

'Well--I believe I may give a twist to the leaf; but I am by no
means sure till I shall have consulted the dean in chapter.'

And thus at the parsonage they talked over the good things that
were coming to them, and endeavoured to forget the new horse, and
the hunting boots that had been used so often during the last
winter, and Lady Lufton's altered countenance.  It might be that
the evils would vanish away, and the good things alone remain to
them.  It was now the month of April, and the fields were beginning
to look green, and the wind had got itself out of the east and was
soft and genial, and the early spring flowers were showing their
bright colours in the parsonage garden, and all things were sweet
and pleasant.  This was a period of the year that was usually dear
to Mrs Robarts.  Her husband was always a better parson when the
warm months came than he had been during the winter.  The distant
county friends whom she did not know and of whom she did not
approve, went away when the spring came, leaving their houses
innocent and empty.  The parish duty was better attended to, and
perhaps domestic duties also.  At such period he was a pattern
parson and a pattern husband, atoning to his own conscience for
past shortcomings by present zeal.  And then, though she had never
acknowledged it to herself, the absence of her dear friend Lady
Lufton was perhaps in itself not disagreeable.  Mrs Robarts did
love Lady Lufton heartily; but it must be acknowledged of her
ladyship, that with all her good qualities, she was inclined to be
masterful.  She liked to rule, and she made people feel that she
liked it.  Mrs Robarts would never have confessed that she laboured
under a sense of thraldom; but perhaps she was mouse enough to
enjoy the temporary absence of her kind-hearted cat.  When Lady
Lufton was away Mrs Robarts herself had more play in the
parish.  And Mark also was not unhappy, though he did not find it
practicable immediately to turn Dandy into money.  Indeed, just at
this moment, when he was a good deal over at Barchester, going
through those deep mysteries before a clergyman can become one of
the chapter, Dandy was rather a thorn in his side.  Those wretched
bills were to come due early in May, and before the end of April
Sowerby wrote to him saying that he was doing his utmost to provide
for the evil day; but that if the price of Dandy could be remitted
to him at once, it would greatly facilitate his object.  Nothing
could be more different than Mr Sowerby's tone about money at
different times.  When he wanted to raise the wind, everything was
so important; haste and superhuman efforts and men running to and
fro with blank acceptances in their hands, could alone stave off
the crack of doom; but at other times, when retaliatory
applications were made to him, he could prove with the easiest
voice and most jaunty manner that everything was quite serene.  Now,
at this period, he was in that mood of superhuman efforts, and he
called loudly for the hundred and thirty pounds for Dandy.  After
what had passed, Mark could not bring himself to say that he would
pay nothing till the bills were safe; and therefore with the
assistance of Mr Forrest of the Bank, he did remit the price of
Dandy to his friend Sowerby in London.

And Lucy Robarts--we must now say a word of her.  We have seen how,
on that occasion, when the world was at her feet, she had sent her
noble suitor away, not only dismissed, but so dismissed that he
might be taught never again to offer to her the sweet incense of
his vows.  She had declared to him plainly that she did not love
him and could not love him, and had thus thrown away not only
riches and honour and high station, but more than that--much worse
than that--she had flung away from her the lover to whose love her
warm heart clung.  That her love did cling to him, she knew even
then, and owned more thoroughly as soon as he was gone.  So much of
her pride had done for her, and that strong resolve that Lady
Lufton should not scowl on her and tell her that she had entrapped
her son.  I know it will be said of Lord Lufton himself that,
putting aside his peerage and broad acres, and handsome, sonsy
face, he was not worth a girl's care and love.  That will be said
because people think that heroes in books should be so much better
than heroes got up for the world's common wear and tear.  I may as
well confess that of absolute, true heroism there was only a
moderate admixture in Lord Lufton's composition; but what would the
world come to if none but absolute true heroes were to be thought
worthy of woman's love?  What would the men do?  Lucy Robarts in
her heart did not give her dismissed lover credit for much more
heroism than did truly appertain to him;--did not, perhaps, give
him full credit for a certain amount of heroism which did really
appertain to him; but, nevertheless, she would have been very glad
to take him could she have done so without wounding her pride.

That girls should not marry for money we are all agreed.  A lady
who can sell herself for a title or an estate, for an income or a
set of family diamonds, treats herself as a farmer treats his sheep
and oxen--makes hardly more of herself, of her own inner self, in
which are comprised a mind and soul, than the poor wretch of her
own sex who earns her bread in the lowest stage of degradation. But
a title, and an estate, and an income, are matters which will weigh
in the balance with all Eve's daughters--as they do with all Adam's
sons.  Pride of place, and the power of living well in front of the
world's eye, are dear to us all;--are, doubtless, intended to be
dear.  Only in acknowledging so much, let us remember that there
are prices at which these good things may be too costly. Therefore,
being desirous, too, of telling the truth in this matter, I must
confess that Lucy did speculate with some regret on what it would
have been to be Lady Lufton.  To have been the wife of such a man,
the owner of such a heart, the mistress of such a destiny--what
more or what better could the world have done for her?  And now she
had thrown all that aside because she would not endure that Lady
Lufton should call her a scheming, artful girl!  Actuated by that
fear she had repulsed him with a falsehood, though the matter was
one on which it was so terribly expedient that she should tell the
truth.  And yet she was cheerful with her brother and
sister-in-law.  It was when she was quite alone, at night in her
own room, or in her solitary walks, that a single silent tear would
gather in the corner of her eye and gradually moisten her eyelids.
'She never told her love,' nor did she allow concealment to 'feed
on her damask cheek'.  In all her employments, in her ways about
the house, and her accustomed quiet mirth, she was the same as
ever.  In this she showed the peculiar strength which God had given
her.  But not the less did she in truth mourn for her lost love and
spoiled ambition.  'We are going to drive over to Hogglestock this
morning,' Fanny said one day at breakfast.  'I suppose, Mark, you
won't go with me?'

'Well, no; I think not.  The pony carriage is wretched for three.'

'Oh, as for that, I should have thought the new horse might have
been able to carry you as far as that.  I heard you say you wanted
to see Mr Crawley.'

'So I do; and the new horse, as you call him, shall carry me there
to-morrow.  Will you say that I'll be over about twelve o'clock?'

'You had better say earlier, as he is always out about the parish.'

'Very well, say eleven.  It is parish business about which I am
going, so it need not irk his conscience to stay in for me.'

'Well, Lucy, we must drive ourselves, that's all.  You shall be
charioteer going, and then we'll change coming back.'  To all which
Lucy agreed, and as soon as their work in the school was over they
started.  Not a word had been spoken between them about Lord Lufton
since that evening, now more than a month ago, on which they had
been walking together in the garden.  Lucy had so demeaned herself
on that occasion to make her sister-in-law quite sure that there
had been no love passages up to that time; and nothing had since
occurred which had created any suspicion in Mrs Robarts's mind.  She
had seen at once that all the close intimacy between them was over,
and thought that everything was as it should be.

'Do you know, I have an idea,' she said in the pony carriage that
day, 'that Lord Lufton will marry Griselda Grantly.'  Lucy could not
refrain from giving a little check at the reins which she was
holding, and she felt that the blood rushed quickly to her heart.
But she did not betray herself.  'Perhaps he may,' she said, and
then gave the pony a little touch with her whip.

'Oh, Lucy, I won't have Puck beaten.  He was going very nicely.'

'I beg Puck's pardon.  But you see when one is trusted with a whip
one feels such a longing to use it.'

'Oh, but you should keep it still.  I feel almost certain that Lady
Lufton would like such a match.'

'I dare say she might.  Miss Grantly will have a large fortune, I
believe.'

'It is not that altogether: but she is the sort of young lady that
Lady Lufton likes.  She is ladylike and very beautiful--'

'Come, Fanny!'

'I really think she is; not what I would call lovely, you know, but
very beautiful.  And then she is quiet and reserved; she does not
require excitement, and I am sure is conscientious in the
performance of her duties.'

'Very conscientious, I have no doubt,' said Lucy, with something
like a sneer in her tone.  'But the question, I suppose, is,
whether, Lord Lufton likes her.'

'I think he does,--in a sort of way.  He did not talk to her so
much as he did to you--'

'Ah! that was all Lady Lufton's fault, because she didn't have him
properly labelled.'

'There does not seem to have been much harm done?'

'Oh! by God's mercy, very little.  As for me, I shall get over it
in three or four years I don't doubt--that's if I can get ass's
milk and a change of air.'

'We'll take you to Barchester for that.  But as I was saying, I really
do think that Lord Lufton likes Griselda Grantly.'

'Then I really do think that he has uncommon bad taste,' said Lucy,
with a reality in her voice differing much from the tone of banter
she had hitherto used.

'What, Lucy!' said her sister-in-law, looking at her.  'Then I fear
we shall really want the ass's milk.'

'Perhaps, considering my position, I ought to know nothing of Lord
Lufton, for you say that it is very dangerous for young ladies to
know young gentlemen.  But I do know enough of him to understand
that he ought not to like such a girl as Griselda Grantly.  He
ought to know that she is a mere automaton, cold, lifeless,
spiritless, and even vapid.  There is, I believe, nothing in her
mentally, whatever may be her moral excellences.  To me she is more
absolutely like a statue than any other human being I ever saw. To
sit still and be admired is all that she desires; and if she cannot
get that, to sit still and not be admired would almost suffice for
her.  I do not worship Lady Lufton as you do; but I think quite
well enough of her to wonder that she could choose such a girl as
that for her son's wife.  That she does wish it I do not doubt.  But
I shall indeed be surprised if he wishes it also.'  And then as she
finished her speech, Lucy again flogged the pony.  This she did in
vexation, because she felt that the tell-tale blood had suffused
her face.

'Why, Lucy, if he were your brother you could not be more eager
about it.'

'No, I could not.  He is the only man friend with whom I was ever
intimate, and I cannot bear to think that he should throw himself
away.  It's horridly improper to care about such a thing, I have no
doubt.'

'I think we might acknowledge that if he and his mother are both
satisfied, we may be satisfied also.'

'I shall not be satisfied.  It's no use your looking at me, Fanny.
You will make me talk of it, and I won't tell a lie on the
subject.  I do like Lord Lufton very much; and I do dislike
Griselda Grantly almost as much.  Therefore I shall not be
satisfied if they become man and wife.  However, I do not suppose
that either of them will ask my consent; nor is it probable that
Lady Lufton will do so.'  And then they went on for perhaps a
quarter of a mile without speaking.

'Poor Puck!' Lucy at last said.  'He shan't be whipped any more,
shall he, because Miss Grantly looks like a statue?  And, Fanny,
don't tell Mark to put me into a lunatic asylum.  I also know a
hawk from a heron, and that's why I don't like to see such a very
unfitting marriage.'  There was then nothing more said on the
subject, and in two minutes they arrived at the house of the
Hogglestock clergyman.  Mrs Crawley had brought two of the children
with her when she came from the Cornish curacy to Hogglestock, and
two other babies had been added to her cares since then.  One of
these was now ill with croup, and it was with the object of
offering to the mother some comfort and solace, that the present
visit was made.  The two ladies got down from their carriage,
having obtained the services of a boy to hold Puck, and soon found
themselves in Mrs Crawley's single sitting-room.  She was sitting
there with her foot on the board of a child's cradle, rocking it,
while an infant about three months old was lying in her lap.  For
the elder one, who was the sufferer, had in her illness usurped the
baby's place.  Two other children, considerably older, were also in
the room.  The eldest was a girl perhaps nine years of age, and the
other a boy three years her junior.  These were standing at their
father's elbow, who was studiously endeavouring to initiate them in
the early mysteries of grammar.  To tell the truth, Mrs Robarts
would much preferred that Mr Crawley had not been there, for she
had with her and about her certain contraband articles, presents
for the children, as they were to be called, but in truth relief
for that poor, much-tasked mother, which they knew it would be
impossible to introduce in Mr Crawley's presence.  She, as we have
said, was not quite so gaunt, not altogether so haggard as in the
latter of those dreadful Cornish days.  Lady Lufton and Mrs Arabin
between them, and the scanty comfort of their improved, though
still wretched, income, had done something towards bringing her
back to the world in which she had lived in the soft days of her
childhood.  But even the liberal stipend of a hundred and thirty
pounds a year--liberal according to the scale by which the incomes
of clergymen in our new districts are now apportioned--would not
admit of a gentleman with his wife and four children living with
the ordinary comforts of an artisan's family.  As regards the mere
eating and drinking, the amount of butcher's meat and tea and
butter, they of course were used in quantities which any artisan
would have regarded as compatible only with demi-starvation.
Better clothing for her children was necessary, and better clothing
for him.  As for her own raiment, the wives of artisans would have
been content to put up with Mrs Crawley's best gown.  The stuff of
which it was made had been paid for by her mother when she with
much difficulty bestowed upon her daughter her modest wedding
trousseau.

Lucy had never seen Mrs Crawley.  These visits to Hogglestock were
not frequent, and had generally been made by Lady Lufton and Mrs
Robarts together.  It was known that they were distasteful to Mr
Crawley, who felt a savage satisfaction in being left to himself.
It may almost be said of him that he felt angry with those who
relieved him, and he had certainly never as yet forgiven the Dean
of Barchester for paying his debts.  The dean had also given him
his present living; and consequently his old friend was not now so
dear to him as when in old days he could come down to that
farm-house, almost as penniless as the curate himself.  Then they
would walk together for hours along the rock-bound shore, listening
to the waves, discussing deep polemical mysteries, sometimes with
hot fury, then again with tender, loving charity, but always with a
mutual acknowledgement of each other's truth.  Now they lived
comparatively near together, but no opportunities arose for such
discussions.  At any rate once a quarter Mr Crawley was pressed by
his old friend to visit him at the deanery, and Dr Arabin had
promised that no one else should be in the house if Mr Crawley
objected to society.  But this was not what he wanted.  The finery
and grandeur of the deanery, the comfort of that warm, snug,
library, would silence him at once.  Why did not Dr Arabin come out
there to Hogglestock, and tramp with him through the dirty lanes as
they used to tramp?  Then he could have enjoyed himself; then he
could have talked; then old days would have come back to them.  But
now!--'Arabin always rides on a sleek, fine horse, nowadays,' he
once said to his wife with a sneer.  His poverty had been so
terrible to himself that it was not in his heart to love a rich
friend.



CHAPTER XXII

HOGGLESTOCK PARSONAGE


At the end of the last chapter, we left Lucy Robarts waiting for an
introduction to Mrs Crawley, who was sitting with one baby in her
lap while she was rocking another who lay in a cradle at her feet.
Mr Crawley, in the meanwhile, had risen from his seat with his
finger between the leaves of an old grammar out of which he had
been teaching his two elder children.  The whole Crawley family was
thus before them when Mrs Robarts and Lucy entered the
sitting-room.  'This is my sister-in-law, Lucy,' said Mrs Robarts.
'Pray don't move now, Mrs Crawley; or if you do, let me take
baby.'  And she put out her arms and took the infant into them,
making him quite at home there; for she had work of this kind of
her own, at home, which she by no means neglected, though the
attendance of nurses was more plentiful with her than at
Hogglestock.  Mrs Crawley did get up and told Lucy that she was
glad to see her, and Mr Crawley came forward, grammar in hand,
looking humble and meek.  Could we have looked into the innermost
spirit of him and his life's partner, we should have seen that
mixed with the pride of his poverty there was some feeling of
disgrace that he was poor, but that with her, regarding this
matter, there was neither pride nor shame.  The realities of life
had become so stern to her that the outward aspects of them were as
nothing.  She would have liked a new gown because it would have
been useful; but it would have been nothing to her if all the
county knew that the one in which she went to church had been
turned three times.  It galled him, however, to think that he and
his were so poorly dressed.  'I am afraid you can hardly find a
chair, Miss Robarts,' said Mr Crawley.

'Oh, yes, there is nothing here but this young gentleman's
library,' said Lucy, moving a pile of ragged, coverless books onto
the table.  'I hope he'll forgive me for moving them.'

'They are not Bob's,--at least, not the most of them,--but mine,'
said the girl.

'But some of them are mine,' said the boy; 'ain't they, Grace?'

'And are you a great scholar?' asked Lucy, drawing the child to
her.

'I don't know,' said Grace, with a sheepish face.  'I am in Greek
Delectus and the irregular verbs.'

'Greek Delectus and the irregular verbs!'  And Lucy put up her
hands with astonishment.

'And she knows an ode of Horace all by heart,' said Bob.

'An ode of Horace!' said Lucy, still holding the young shamefaced
prodigy close to her knees.

'It is all that I can give them,' said Mr Crawley, apologetically.
'A little scholarship is the only fortune that has come my way, and
I endeavour to share that with my children.'

'I believe men may say that it is the best fortune any of us can
have,' said Lucy, thinking, however, in her own mind, that Horace
and the irregular Greek verbs savoured too much of precocious
forcing in a young lady of nine years old. But, nevertheless, Grace
was a pretty, simple-looking girl, and clung to her ally closely,
and seemed to like being fondled.  So that Lucy anxiously wished
that Mr Crawley could be got rid of and the presents produced.

'I hope you have left Mr Robarts quite well,' said Mr Crawley, with
a stiff, ceremonial voice, differing very much from that in which
he had so energetically addressed his brother clergyman when they
were alone together in the study at Framley.  'He is quite well,
thank you.  I suppose you have heard of his good fortune?'

'Yes; I have heard of it,' said Mr Crawley, gravely.  'I hope that
his promotion may tend in every way to his advantage here and
hereafter.'  It seemed, however, to be manifest from the manner in
which he expressed his kind wishes that his hopes and expectation
did not go hand in hand together.

'By the by, he desired us to say that he will call here to-morrow;
at about eleven, didn't he say, Fanny?'

'Yes; he wishes to see you about some parish business, I think,'
said Mrs Robarts, looking up for a moment from the anxious
discussion in which she was already engaged with Mrs Crawley on
nursery matters.

'Pray tell him,' said Mr Crawley, 'that I shall be happy to see
him; though, perhaps, now that new duties have been thrown upon
him, it will be better that I should visit him at Framley.'

'His new duties do not disturb him much as yet,' said Lucy.  'And
his riding over here will be no trouble to him.'

'Yes; there he has the advantage over me.  I unfortunately have no
horse.'  And then Lucy began petting the little boy, and by degrees
slipped a small bag of gingerbread-nuts out of her muff into his
hands.  She had not the patience necessary for waiting, as had her
sister-in-law.  The boy took the bag, peeped into it, and then
looked up into her face.

'What is that, Bob?' said Mr Crawley.

'Gingerbread,' faltered Bobby, feeling that a sin had been
committed, though, probably feeling also that he himself could
hardly as yet be accounted as deeply guilty.

'Miss Robarts,' said the father, 'we are very much obliged to you;
but our children are hardly used to such things.'

'I am a lady with a weak mind, Mr Crawley, and always carry things
of this sort about with me when I go to visit children; so you must
forgive me, and allow your little boy to accept them.'

'Oh, certainly, Bob, my child, give the bag to your mamma, and she
will let you and Grace have them, one at a time.'  And then the bag
in a solemn manner was carried over to their mother, who, taking it
from her son's hands, laid it high on a bookshelf.

'And not one now?' said Lucy Robarts, very piteously.  'Don't be so
hard, Mr Crawley,--not upon them, but upon me.  May I not learn
whether they are good of their kind?'

'I am sure they are very good; but I think their mamma will prefer
their being put by for the present.'  This was very discouraging to
Lucy.  If one small bag of gingerbread-nuts created so great a
difficulty, how was she to dispose of the pot of guava jelly and a
box of bonbons, which were still in her muff; or how distribute the
packet of oranges with which the pony carriage was laden?  And
there was jelly for the sick child, and chicken broth, which was,
indeed, another jelly; and, to tell the truth openly, there was
also a joint of fresh pork and a basket of eggs from the Framley
parsonage farmyard, which Mrs Robarts was to introduce, should she
find herself capable of doing so; but which would certainly be cast
out with utter scorn by Mr Crawley, if tendered in his immediate
presence.  There had also been a suggestion as to adding two or
three bottles of port: but the courage of the ladies had failed
them on that head, and the wine was not now added to their
difficulties.  Lucy found it very difficult to keep up a
conversation with Mr Crawley--the more so as Mrs Robarts and Mrs
Crawley presently withdrew into a bedroom, taking the two younger
children with them.  'How unlucky,' thought Lucy, 'that she has not
got my muff with her!'  But the muff lay in her lap, ponderous with
its rich enclosures.

'I suppose you will live in Barchester for a portion of the year
now,' said Mr Crawley.

'I really do not know as yet; Mark talks of taking lodgings for his
first month's residence.'

'But he will have the house, will he not?'

'Oh, yes; I suppose so.'

'I fear he will find it interfere with his own parish--with his
general utility there: the schools, for instance.'

'Mark thinks that, as he is so near, he need not be much absent
from Framley, even during his residence.  And then Lady Lufton is
so good about the schools.'

'Ah! yes: but Lady Lufton is not a clergyman, Miss Robarts.' It
was on Lucy's tongue to say that her ladyship was pretty nearly as
bad, but she stopped herself.  At this moment Providence sent great
relief to Miss Robarts in the shape of Mrs Crawley's red-armed
maid-of-all-work, who, walking up to her master, whispered into his
ear that he was wanted.  It was the time of day at which his
attendance was always required in his parish school; and that
attendance being so punctually given, those who wanted him looked
for him there at this hour, and if he were absent, did not scruple
to send for him.  'Miss Robarts, I am afraid you must excuse me,'
said he, getting up and taking his hat and stick.  Lucy begged that
she might not be at all in the way, and already began to speculate
how she might best unload her treasures.  'Will you make my
compliments to Mrs Robarts, and say that I am sorry to miss the
pleasure of wishing her good-bye?  But I shall probably see her as
she passes the school-house.'  And then, stick in hand, he walked
forth, and Lucy fancied that Bobby's eyes immediately rested on the
bag of gingerbread-nuts.

'Bob,' said she, almost in a whisper, 'do you like sugar-plumbs?'

'Very much, indeed,' said Bob, with exceeding gravity, and with his
eye upon the window to see whether his father had passed.

'Then come here,' said Lucy.  But as she spoke the door again
opened, and Mr Crawley reappeared.  'I have left a book behind me,'
he said; and coming back through the room, he took up the well-worn
Prayer Book which accompanied him in all his wanderings through the
parish.  Bobby, when he saw his father, had retreated a few steps
back, as also did Grace, who, to confess the truth, had been
attracted by the sound of sugar-plumbs, in spite of the irregular
verbs.  And Lucy withdrew her hand from the muff and looked
guilty.  Was she not deceiving the good man--nay, teaching his own
children to deceive him?  But there are men made of such stuff that
an angel could hardly live with them without some deceit.  'Papa's
gone now,' whispered Bobby; 'I saw him turn round the corner.'  He,
at any rate, had learned his lesson--as it was natural that he
should do.  Some one else, also, had learned that papa was gone;
for while Bob and Grace were still counting the big lumps of
sugar-candy, each employed the while for inward solace with an inch
of barley-sugar, the front-door opened, and a big basket, and a
bundle done up in kitchen cloth, made surreptitious entrance into
the house, and were quickly unpacked by Mrs Robarts herself on the
table in Mrs Crawley's bedroom.

'I did venture to bring them,' said Fanny, with a look of shame,
'for I know how a sick child occupies the whole house.'

'Ah! my friend,' said Mrs Crawley, taking hold of Mrs Robarts's
arm and looking into her face, 'that sort of shame is over with
me.  God has tried us with want, and for my children's sake I am
glad of such relief.'

'But will he be angry?'

'I will manage it.  Dear Mrs Robarts, you must not be surprised at
him.  His lot is sometimes very hard to bear; such things are so
much worse for a man than for a woman.'  Fanny was not quite
prepared to admit this in her own heart, but she made no reply on
that head.  'I am sure I hope we may be able to be of use to you,'
she said, 'if you will only look upon me as an old friend, and
write to me if you want me.  I hesitate to come frequently for fear
that I should offend him.'  And then, by degrees, there was
confidence between them, and the poverty-stricken helpmate of the
perpetual curate was able to speak of the weight of her burden to
the well-to-do young wife of the Barchester prebendary.  It was
hard, the former said, to feel herself so different from the wives
of other clergymen around her--to know that they lived softly,
while she, with all the work of her hands, and unceasing struggle
of her energies, could hardly manage to place wholesome food before
her husband and children.  It was a terrible thing--a grievous
thing to think of, that all the work of her mind should be given up
to such subjects as these.  But, nevertheless, she could bear it,
she said, as long he would carry himself like a man, and face his
lot boldly before the world.  And then she told how he had been
better there at Hogglestock than in their former residence down in
Cornwall, and in warm language she expressed her thanks to the
friend who had done so much for them.  'Mrs Arabin told me that she
was so anxious you should go to them,' said Mrs Robarts.

'Ah, yes; but that, I fear, is impossible.  The children, you know,
Mrs Robarts.'

'I would take care of two of them for you.'

'Oh, no; I could not punish you for your goodness in that way.  But
he would not go.  He could go and leave me at home.  Sometimes I
have thought that it might be so, and I have done all in my power
to persuade him.  I have told him that if he could mix once more
with the world, with the clerical world, you know, that he would be
better fitted for the performance of his own duties.  But he
answers me angrily, that it is impossible--that his coat is not fit
for the dean's table,' and Mrs Crawley almost blushed as she spoke
of such a reason.

'What! with an old friend like Dr Arabin?  Surely that must be
nonsense.'

'I know that it is.  The dean would be glad to see him with any
coat.  But the fact is that he cannot bear to enter the house of a
rich man unless his duty calls him there.'

'But surely that is a mistake?'

'It is a mistake.  But what can I do?  I fear that he regards the
rich as his enemies.  He is pining for the solace of some friend to
whom he could talk--for some equal with a mind educated like his
own, to whose thoughts he could listen, and to whom he could speak
his own thoughts.  But such a friend must be equal, not only in
mind, but in purse; and where can he ever find such a man as that?'

'But you may get better preferment.'

'Ah, no; and if he did, we are hardly fit for it now.  If I could
think that I could educate my children; if I could only do
something for my poor Grace--'  In answer to this Mrs Robarts said a
word or two, but not much.  She resolved, however, that if she
could get her husband's leave, something should be done for Grace.
Would it not be a good work? and was it not incumbent on her to
make some kindly use of all the goods with which Providence had
blessed herself?  And then they went back to the sitting-room, each
again with a young child in her arms.  Mrs Crawley having stowed
away in the kitchen the chicken broth and the leg of pork and the
supply of eggs.  Lucy had been engaged the while with the children,
and when the two married ladies entered, they found that a shop had
been opened at which all manner of luxuries were being readily sold
and purchased at marvellously easy prices; the guava jelly was
there, and the oranges, and the sugar-plums, red and yellow and
striped; and, moreover, the gingerbread had been taken down in the
audacity of their commercial speculations, and the nuts were spread
out upon a board, behind which Lucy stood as shop-girl, disposing
of them for kisses.  'Mamma, mamma,' said Bobby, running up to his
mother, 'you must buy something of her,' and he pointed with his
fingers to the shop-girl.  'You must give her two kisses for that
heap of barley-sugar.'  Looking at Bobby's mouth at the time, one
would have said that his kisses might be dispensed with.

When they were again in the pony carriage behind the impatient
Puck, and were well away from the door, Fanny was the first to
speak.  'How very different those two are,' she said; 'different in
their minds, and how false is his shame!'

'But how much higher toned is her mind than his!  How weak he is in
many things, and how strong she is in everything!  How false is his
pride, and how false his shame!'

'But we must remember what he has to bear.  It is not every one
that can endure such a life as his without false pride and false
shame.'

'But she has neither,' said Lucy.

'Because you have one hero in a family, does that give you a right
to expect another?' said Mrs Robarts.  'Of all my own acquaintance,
Mrs Crawley, I think, comes nearest to heroism.'  And then they
passed by the Hogglestock School, and Mr Crawley, when he heard the
noise of the wheels, came out.  'You have been very kind,' said he,
'to remain so long with my poor wife.'

'We had a great many things to talk about, after you went.'

'It is very kind of you, for she does not often see a friend
nowadays.  Will you have the goodness to tell Mr Robarts that I shall
be here at the school, at eleven o'clock to-morrow?'  And then he
bowed, taking off his hat to them, and they drove on.

'If he really does care about her comfort, I shall not think so
badly of him,' said Lucy.



CHAPTER XXIII

THE TRIUMPH OF THE GIANTS

And now about the end of April news arrived almost simultaneously
in all quarters of the habitable globe that was terrible in its
import to one of the chief persons of our history;--some may think
to the chief person of it.  All high parliamentary people will
doubtless so think, and the wives and daughters of such.  The
Titans warring against the gods had been for awhile successful.
Thyphoeus and Mimas, Porphyrion and Rhoecus, the giant brood of
old, steeped in ignorance and wedded to corruption, had scaled the
heights of Olympus, assisted by that audacious flinger of deadly
ponderous missiles, who stands ever ready with his terrific
sling--Supplehouse, the Enceladus of the press.  And in this
universal cataclysm of the starry councils, what could a poor Diana
do, Diana of the Petty Bag, but abandon her pride of place to some
rude Orion?  In other words, the ministry had been compelled to
resign, and with them Mr Harold Smith.  'And so poor Harold is out,
before he has well tasted the sweets of office,' said Sowerby,
writing to his friend the parson; 'and as far as I know, the only
piece of Church patronage which has fallen in the way of the
ministry since he joined it, has made its way down to Framley--to
my great joy and contentment.'  But it hardly tended to Mark's joy
and contentment on the same subject that he should be so often
reminded of the benefit conferred upon him.

Terrible was this break-down of the ministry, and especially to
Harold Smith, who to the last had had confidence in that theory of
new blood.  He could hardly believe that a large majority of the
House should vote against a Government which he had only just
joined.  'If we are to go in this way,' he said to his young friend
Green Walker, 'the Queen's Government cannot be carried on.'  That
alleged difficulty as to carrying on the Queen's Government has
been frequently mooted in late years since a certain great man
first introduced the idea.  Nevertheless, the Queen's Government is
carried on, and the propensity and aptitude of men for this work
seems to be not at all on the decrease.  If we have but few young
statesmen, it is because the old stagers are so fond of the rattle
of their harness.

'I really do not see how the Queen's Government is to be carried
on,' said Harold Smith to Green Walker, standing in a corner of one
of the lobbies of the House of Commons on the first of those days
of awful interest, in which the Queen was sending for one crack
statesman after another; and some anxious men were beginning to
doubt whether or no we should, in truth, be able to obtain the
blessing of another Cabinet.  The gods had all vanished from their
places.  Would the giants be good enough to do anything for us or
no?  There were men who seemed to think that the giants would
refuse to do anything for us.  'The House will now be adjourned
over till Monday, and I would not be in Her Majesty's shoes for
something,' said Mr Harold Smith.

'By Jove! no,' said Green Walker, who in these days was a staunch
Harold Smithian, having felt a pride in joining himself on as a
substantial support of a Cabinet minister.  Had he contented himself
with being merely a Brockite, he would have counted as nobody.  'By
Jove! no,' and Green Walker opened his eyes and shook his head as
he thought of the perilous condition in which Her Majesty must be
placed.  'I happen to know that Lord -- won't join them unless he has
the Foreign Office,' and he mentioned some hundred-handed Gyas
supposed to be of the utmost importance to the counsels of the
Titans.

'And that, of course, is impossible.  I don't see what on earth
they are to do.  There's Sidonia; they do say that he's making some
difficulty now.'  Now Sidonia was another giant, supposed to be
very powerful.

'We all know that the Queen won't see him,' said Green Walker, who,
being a member of parliament for the Crewe Junction, and nephew to
Lord Hartletop, of course had perfectly correct means of
ascertaining what the Queen would do, and what she would not.

'The fact is,' said Harold Smith, recurring again to his own
situation as an ejected god, 'that the House does not in the least
understand what it is about;--doesn't know what it wants.  The
question I would like to ask them is this: do they intend that the
Queen shall have a Government, or do they not?  Are they prepared
to support such men as Sidonia and Lord De Terrier?  If so, I am
their obedient humble servant; but I shall be very much surprised,
that's all.'  Lord De Terrier was at this time recognized by all men
as the leader of the giants.

'And so shall I, deucedly surprised.  They can't do it, you know.
There are the Manchester men.  I ought to know something about them
down in my country; and I say they can't support Lord De Terrier.
It wouldn't be natural.'

'Natural!  Human nature has come to an end, I think,' said Harold
Smith, who could hardly understand that the world should conspire
to throw over a Government which he had joined, and that, too,
before the world had waited to see how much he would do for it;
'the fact is, Walker, we have no longer among us any strong feeling
of party.'

'No, not a d-,' said Green Walker, who was very energetic in his
present political aspirations.

'And till we can recover that, we shall never be able to have a
Government firm-seated and sure-handed.  Nobody can count on men
from one week to another.  The very members who in one month place
a minister in power, are the very first to vote against him in the
next.'

'We must put a stop to that sort of thing, otherwise we shall never
do any good.'

'I don't mean to deny that Brock was wrong with reference to Lord
Brittleback.  I think he was wrong, and I said so all through.  But,
heavens on earth--!' and instead of completing his speech, Harold
Smith turned away his head, and struck his hands together in token
of his astonishment at the fatuity of the age.  What he probably
meant to express was this: that if such a good deed as that late
appointment made at the Petty Bag Office were not held sufficient
to atone for that other evil deed to which he had alluded, there
would be an end of justice in sublunary matters.  Was no offence to
be forgiven, even when so great virtue had been displayed?  'I
attribute it all to Supplehouse,' said Green Walker, trying to
console his friend.

'Yes,' said Harold Smith, now verging on the bounds of
parliamentary eloquence, although he still spoke with bated breath,
and to one solitary hearer.  'Yes; we are becoming the slaves of a
mercenary and irresponsible press--of one single newspaper.  There
is a man endowed with no great talent, enjoying no public
confidence, untrusted as a politician, and unheard of even as a
writer by the world at large, and yet, because he is on the staff
of the Jupiter, he is able to overturn a Government and throw the
whole country into dismay.  It is astonishing to me that a man like
Lord Brock should allow himself to be so timid.'  And nevertheless
it was not yet a month since Harold Smith had been counselling
with Supplehouse how a series of strong articles in the Jupiter,
together with the expected support of the Manchester men, might
probably be effective in hurling the minister from his seat.  But
at that time the minister had not revigorated himself with young
blood.  'How the Queen's Government is to be carried on, that is
the question now,' Harold Smith repeated.  A difficulty which had
not caused him much dismay at that period, about a month since, to
which we have alluded.  At this moment Sowerby and Supplehouse
together joined them, having come out of the House, in which some
unimportant business had been completed, after the minister's
notice of adjournment.

'Well, Harold,' said Sowerby, 'what do you say to your governor's
statement?'

'I have nothing to say to it,' said Harold Smith, looking up very
solemnly from under the penthouse of his hat, and, perhaps rather
savagely.  Sowerby had supported the Government in the late crisis;
but why was he now seen herding with such a one as Supplehouse?

'He did it pretty well, I think,' said Sowerby.

'Very well, indeed,' said Supplehouse; 'as he always does those
sort of things.  No man makes so good an explanation of
circumstances, or comes out with so telling a personal statement.
He ought to keep himself in reserve for those sort of things.'

'And who in the meantime is to carry on the Queen's Government?'
said Harold Smith, looking very stern.

'That should be left to men of lesser mark,' said he of the
Jupiter.  'The points as to which one really listens to a minister,
the subjects about which men really care, are always personal.  How
many of us are truly interested as to the best mode of governing
India?  But in a question touching the character of a prime
minister we all muster together like bees round a sounding cymbal.'

'That arises from envy, malice, and all uncharitableness,' said
Harold Smith.

'Yes; and from picking and stealing, evil speaking, lying, and
slandering,' said Mr Sowerby.

'We are so prone to desire and covet other men's places,' said
Supplehouse.

'Some men are so,' said Sowerby; 'but it is the evil speaking,
lying, and slandering, which does the mischief.  Is it not,
Harold?'

'And in the meantime, how is the Queen's Government to be carried
on?' said Mr Green Walker.  On the following morning it was known
that Lord De Terrier was with the Queen at Buckingham Palace, and
at about twelve a list of the new ministry was published, which
must have been in the highest degree satisfactory to the whole
brood of giants.  Every son of Tellus was included in it, as were
also very many of the daughters.  But then, late in the afternoon,
Lord Brock was again summoned to the palace, and it was thought in
the West End among the clubs that the gods had again a chance.  'If
only,' said the Purist, an evening paper which was supposed to be
very much in the interest of Mr Harold Smith, 'if only Lord Brock
can have the wisdom to place the right men in the right places.  It
was only the other day that he introduced Mr Smith into his
Government.  That this was a step in the right direction every one
acknowledged, though unfortunately it was made too late to prevent
the disturbance which has since occurred.  It now appears probable
that his lordship will again have an opportunity of selecting a
list of statesmen with a view of carrying on the Queen's
Government; and it is to be hoped that such men as Mr Smith may be
placed in situations in which their talents, industry, and
acknowledged official aptitudes, may be of permanent service to the
country.'  Supplehouse, when he read this at the club with Mr
Sowerby at his elbow, declared that the style was too well marked
to leave any doubt as to the author; but we ourselves are not
inclined to think that Mr Harold Smith wrote the article himself,
although it may be probable that he saw it in type.  But the
Jupiter the next morning settled the whole question, and made it
known to the world that, in spite of all the sendings and
resendings, Lord Brock and the gods were permanently out, and Lord
De Terrier and the giants permanently in.  That fractious giant who
would only go to the Foreign Office, had, in fact, gone to some
sphere of much less important duty, and Sidonia, in spite of the
whispered dislike of an illustrious personage, opened the campaign
with all the full appanages of a giant of the highest standing. 'We
hope,' said the Jupiter, 'that Lord Brock may not yet be too old to
take a lesson.  If so, the present decision of the House of
Commons, and we may say of the country also, may teach him not to
put his trust in such princes as Lord Brittleback, or
such broken reeds as Mr Harold Smith.'  Now this parting blow we
always thought to be exceedingly unkind, and altogether unnecessary,
on the part of Mr Supplehouse.

'My dear,' said Mrs Harold Smith, when she first met Miss Dunstable
after the catastrophe was known, 'how am I possibly to endure this
degradation?'  And she put her deeply laced handkerchief to her
eyes.

'Christian resignation,' suggested Miss Dunstable.

'Fiddlestick!' said Mrs Harold Smith.  'You millionaires always
talk of Christian resignation, because you never are called on to
resign anything.  If I had any Christian resignation, I shouldn't
have cared for such pomps and vanities.  Think of it, my dear; a
Cabinet minister's wife for only three weeks!'

'How does poor Mr Smith endure it?'

'What?  Harold?  He only lives on the hope of vengeance.  When he
has put an end to Mr Supplehouse he will be content to die.'  And
then there were further explanations in both Houses of Parliament,
which were altogether satisfactory.  The high-bred, courteous giants
assured the gods that they had piled Pelion on Ossa and thus
climbed up into power, very much in opposition to their good-wills;
for they, the giants themselves, preferred the sweets of dignified
retirement.  But the voice of the people had been too strong for
them; the effort had been made, not by themselves, but by others,
who were determined that the giants should be at the head of
affairs.  Indeed, the spirit of the times was so clearly in favour
of giants that there had been no alternative.  So said Briareus to
the Lords and Orion to the Commons.  And then the gods were
absolutely happy in ceding their places; and so far were they from
any uncelestial envy or malice which might not be divine, that they
promised to give the giants all the assistance in their power in
carrying on the work of the government; upon which the giants
declared how deeply indebted they would be for such valuable
counsel and friendly assistance.  All this was delightful in the
extreme; but not the less did ordinary men seem to expect that the
usual battle would go on in the old customary way.  It is easy to
love one's enemy when one is making fine speeches; but so difficult
to do so in the actual everyday work of life.  But there was and
always has been this peculiar good point about the giants, that
they are never too proud to follow in the footsteps of the gods.
If the gods, deliberating painfully together, have elaborated any
skilful project, the giants are always willing to adopt it as their
own, not treating the bantling as a foster child, but praising it
and pushing it so that men should regard it as the undoubted
offspring of their own brains.  Now just at this time there had
been a plan much thought of for increasing the number of bishops.
Good active bishops were very desirable, and there was a strong
feeling among certain excellent Churchmen that there could hardly
be too many of them.  Lord Brock had his measures cut and dry.
There should be a Bishop of Westminster to share the Herculean
toils of the metropolitan prelate, and another up in the North to
Christianize the mining interests and wash white the blackamoors of
Newcastle: Bishop of Beverley he should be called.  But, in
opposition to this, the giants, it was known, had intended to put
forth the whole measure of their brute force.  More curates, they
said, were wanting, and district incumbents; not more bishops
rolling in carriages.  That bishops should roll in carriages was
very good; but of such blessings the English world for the present
had enough.  And therefore Lord Brock and the gods had had much
fear as to their little project.  But now, immediately on the
accession of the giants, it was known that the bishop bill was to
be gone on with immediately.  Some small changes would be effected
so that the bill should be gigantic rather than divine; but the
result would be altogether the same.  It must, however, be admitted
that bishops appointed by ourselves may be very good things,
whereas those appointed by our adversaries will be anything but
good.  And, no doubt, this feeling went a long way with the
giants.  Be that as it may, the new bishop bill was to be their
first work of government, and it was to be brought forward and
carried, and the new prelates selected and put into their chairs
all at once,--before the grouse should begin to crow and put an end
to the doings of gods as well as giants.  Among other minor effects
arising from this decision was the following, that Archdeacon and
Mrs Grantly returned to London, and again took the lodgings in
which they had been staying.  On various occasions also during the
first week of this second sojourn, Dr Grantly might be seen
entering the official chambers of the First Lord of the Treasury.
Much counsel was necessary among High-Churchmen of great repute
before any fixed resolution could wisely be made in such a matter
as this; and few Churchmen stood in higher repute than the
Archdeacon of Barchester.  And then it began to be rumoured in the
world that the minister had disposed at any rate of the see of
Westminster.  This present time was a very nervous one for Mrs
Grantly.  What might be the aspirations of the archdeacon himself,
we will not stop to inquire.  It may be that time and experience
had taught him the futility of earthly honours, and made him
content with the comfortable opulence of his Barsetshire rectory.
But there is no theory of Church discipline which makes it
necessary that a clergyman's wife should have an objection to a
bishopric.  The archdeacon probably was only anxious to give a
disinterested aid to the minister, but Mrs Grantly did long to sit
in high places, and be at any rate equal to Mrs Proudie.  It was
for her children, she said to herself, that she was thus anxious--
that they should have a good position before the world and the
means of making the best of themselves.  'One is able to do
nothing, you know, shut up there, down at Plumstead,' she had
remarked to Lady Lufton on the occasion of her first visit to
London, and yet the time was not long past when she had thought
that rectory house at Plumstead to be by no means insufficient or
contemptible.  And then there came the question whether or no
Griselda should go back to her mother; but this idea was very
strongly opposed by Lady Lufton, and ultimately with success.
'I really think the dear girl is very happy with me,' said Lady
Lufton; 'and if ever she is to belong to me more closely, it will
be so well that we should know and love one another.'

To tell the truth, Lady Lufton had been trying hard to know and
love Griselda, but hitherto she had scarcely succeeded to the full
extent of her wishes.  That she loved Griselda was certain,--with
that sort of love which springs from a person's volition and not
from the judgement.  She had said all along to herself and others
that she did love Griselda Grantly.  She had admired the young
lady's face, liked her manner, approved of her fortune and family,
and had selected her for a daughter-in-law in a somewhat impetuous
manner.  Therefore she loved her.  But it was by no means clear to
Lady Lufton that she did as yet know her young friend.  The match
was a plan of her own, and therefore she stuck to it as warmly as
ever, but she began to have some misgivings whether or no the dear
girl would be to her herself all that she had dreamed of in a
daughter-in-law.  'But, dear Lady Lufton,' said Mrs Grantly, 'is it
not possible that we may put her affections to too severe a test?
What, if she should learn to regard him, and then--'

'Ah! if she did, I should have no fear of the result.  If she
showed anything like love for Ludovic, he would be at her feet in a
moment.  He is impulsive, but she is not.'

'Exactly, Lady Lufton.  It is his privilege to be impulsive and to
sue for her affection, and hers to have her love sought for without
making any demonstration.  It is perhaps the fault of young ladies
of the present day that they are too impulsive.  They assume
privileges which are not their own, and thus lose those which are.'

'Quite true!  I quite agree with you.  It is probably that very
feeling that has made me think so highly of Griselda.  But then--'
But then a young lady, though she need not jump down a gentleman's
throat, or throw herself into his face, may give some signs that
she is made of flesh and blood; especially when her papa and mamma
all belonging to her are so anxious to make that path of her love
run smooth.  That was what was passing through Lady Lufton's mind;
but she did not say it all; she merely looked it.

'I don't think she will ever allow herself to indulge in an
unauthorized passion,' said Mrs Grantly.

'I am sure she will not,' said Lady Lufton, with ready agreement,
fearing perhaps in her heart that Griselda would never indulge in
any passion authorized or unauthorized.

'I don't know whether Lord Lufton sees much of her now,' said Mrs
Grantly, thinking perhaps of that promise of Lady Lufton's with
reference to his lordship's spare time.

'Just lately, during these changes, you know, everybody has been so
much engaged.  Ludovic has been constantly at the House, and then
men find it so necessary to be at their clubs just now.'

'Yes, yes, of course,' said Mrs Grantly, who was not at all
disposed to think little of the importance of the present crisis,
or to wonder that men should congregate together when such deeds
were to be done as those which now occupied the breasts of the
Queen's advisers.  At last, however, the two mothers perfectly
understood each other.  Griselda was still to remain with Lady
Lufton; and was to accept her ladyship's son, if he could only be
induced to exercise his privilege of asking her; but in the
meantime, as this seemed to be doubtful, Griselda was not to be
debarred from her privilege of making what use she could of any
other string which she might have to her bow.

'But, mamma,' said Griselda, in a moment of unwatched intercourse
between the mother and daughter, 'is it really true that they are
going to make papa a bishop?'

'We can tell nothing as yet, my dear.  People in the world are
talking about it.  Your papa has been a good deal with Lord De
Terrier.'

'And isn't he Prime Minister?'

'Oh, yes; I am happy to say that he is.'

'I thought the Prime Minister could make any one a bishop that he
chooses,--any clergyman, that is.'

'But there is no see vacant,' said Mrs Grantly.

'Then there isn't any chance,' said Griselda, looking very glum.

'They are going to have an Act of Parliament for making two more
bishops.  That's what they are talking about at least.  And if they
do--'

'Papa will be made Bishop of Westminster--won't he?  And we shall
live in London.'

'But you must not talk about it, my dear.'

'No, I won't.  But, mamma, a Bishop of Westminster will be higher
than a Bishop of Barchester, won't he?  I shall so like to be able
to snub the Miss Proudies.'  It will therefore be seen that there
were matters on which even Griselda Grantly could be animated.  Like
the rest of her family she was devoted to the Church.  Late on that
afternoon the archdeacon returned home to dine in Mount Street,
having spent the whole of the day between the Treasury chambers, a
meeting of Convocation, and his club.  And when he did get home it
was soon manifest to his wife that he was not laden with good
news.  'It is almost incredible,' he said, standing with his back
to the drawing-room fire.

'What is incredible?' said his wife, sharing her husband's anxiety
to the full.

'If I had not learned it as a fact, I would not have believed it,
even of Lord Brock,' said the archdeacon.

'Learned what?' said the anxious wife.

'After all, they are going to oppose the bill.'

'Impossible!' said Mrs Grantly.

'But they are.'

'The bill for the two new bishops, archdeacon?  Oppose their own
bill?'

'Yes--oppose their own bill.  It is almost incredible; but so it
is.  Some changes have been forced upon us; little things which
they had forgotten--quite minor matters; and they now say that they
will be obliged to divide against us on these twopenny-halfpenny,
hair-splitting points.  It is Lord Brock's own doing too, after all
that he has said about abstaining from factious opposition to the
Government.'

'I believe there is nothing too bad or too false for that man,'
said Mrs Grantly.

'After all they said, too, when they were in power themselves, as
to the present Government opposing the cause of religion!  They
declare now that Lord De Terrier cannot be very anxious about it,
as he had so many good reasons against it a few weeks ago.  Is it
not dreadful that there should be such double-dealing in men in
such positions?'

'It is sickening,' said Mrs Grantly.  And then there was a pause
between them as the thought of the injury that was done to them.

'But, archdeacon--'

'Well?'

'Could you not give up those small points and shame them into
compliance?'

'Nothing would shame them.'

'But would it not be well to try?'  The game was so good a one, and
the stake so important, that Mrs Grantly felt that it would be
worth playing for to the last.

'It is no good.'

'But I certainly would suggest it to Lord De Terrier.  I am sure
the country would go along with him; at any rate the Church would.'

'It is impossible,' said the archdeacon.  'To tell the truth, it
did occur to me.  But some of them down there seemed to think that
it would not do.'  Mrs Grantly sat awhile on the sofa, still
meditating in her mind whether there might not yet be some escape
from so terrible a downfall.

'But, archdeacon--'

'I'll go upstairs and dress,' said he, in despondency.

'But, archdeacon, surely the present ministry may have a majority
on such a subject as that; I thought they were sure of a majority
now.'

'No; not sure.'

'But at any rate the chances are in their favour?  I do hope
they'll do their duty, and exert themselves to keep their members
together.'  And then the archdeacon told out the whole truth.

'Lord De Terrier says that under the present circumstances he will
not bring the matter forward this session at all.  So we had better
go back to Plumstead.'  Mrs Grantly then felt that there was
nothing further to be said, and it will be proper that the
historian should drop a veil over their sufferings.



CHAPTER XXIV

MAGNA EST VERITAS

It was made known to the reader that in the early part of the
winter Mr Sowerby had a scheme for retrieving his lost fortunes,
and setting himself right in the world, by marrying that rich
heiress, Miss Dunstable.  I fear my friend Sowerby does not, at
present, stand high in the estimation of those who have come with
me thus far in this narrative.  He has been described as a
spendthrift and gambler, and as one scarcely honest in his
extravagance and gambling.  But nevertheless there are worse men
than Mr Sowerby, and I am not prepared to say that, should he be
successful with Miss Dunstable, that lady would choose by any means
the worst of the suitors who are continually throwing themselves at
her feet.  Reckless as this man always appeared to be, reckless as
he absolutely was, there was still within his heart a desire for
better things, and in his mind an understanding that he had
hitherto missed the career of an honest English gentleman.  He was
proud of his position as a member for his county, though hitherto
he had done so little to grace it; he was proud of his domain at
Chaldicotes, though the possession of it had so nearly passed out
of his own hands; he was proud of the old blood that flowed in his
veins; and he was proud also of that easy, comfortable, gay manner,
which went so far in the world's judgement to atone for his
extravagance and evil practices.  If only he could get another
chance, as he now said to himself, things should go very
differently with him.  He would utterly forswear the whole company
of Tozers.  He would cease to deal in bills, and to pay Heaven only
knows how many hundred per centum for his moneys.  He would no
longer prey upon his friends, and would redeem his title-deeds
from the Duke of Omnium.  If only he could get another chance!  Miss
Dunstable's fortune would do all this and ever so much more, and
then, moreover, Miss Dunstable was a woman whom he really liked.
She was not soft, feminine, or pretty, nor was she very young; but
she was clever, self-possessed, and quite able to hold her own in
any class; and as to age, Mr Sowerby was not very young himself.
In making such a match he would have no cause of shame.  He could
speak of it before his friends without any fear of their grimaces,
and ask them to his house, with the full assurance that the head of
his table would not disgrace him.  And then as the scheme grew
clearer and clearer to him, he declared to himself that if he
should be successful, he would use her well, and not rob her of her
money--beyond what was absolutely necessary.  He had intended to
have laid his fortunes at her feet at Chaldicotes; but the lady had
been coy.  Then the deed was to have been done at Gatherum Castle,
but the lady ran away from Gatherum Castle just at the time on
which he had fixed.  And since that, one circumstance after another
had postponed the affair in London, till now at last he was
resolved that he would know his fate, let it be what it might.
If he could not contrive that things should speedily be arranged,
it might come to pass that he would be altogether debarred from
presenting himself to the lady as Mr Sowerby of Chaldicotes.
Tidings had reached him, through Mr Fothergill, that the duke would
be glad to have matters arranged; and Mr Sowerby well knew the
meaning of that message.

Mr Sowerby was not fighting this campaign alone, without the aid of
an ally.  Indeed, no man ever had a more trusty ally in any
campaign than he had in this.  And it was this ally, the only
faithful comrade that clung to him through good and ill during his
whole life, who first put it into his head that Miss Dunstable was
a woman and might be married.  'A hundred needy adventurers have
attempted it, and failed already,' Mr Sowerby had said, when the
plan was first proposed to him.

'But, nevertheless, she will some day marry some one; and why not
you as well as another?' his sister had answered.  For Mrs Harold
Smith was the ally of whom I have spoken.  Mrs Harold Smith,
whatever may have been her faults, could boast of this virtue--that
she loved her brother.  He was probably the only human being that
she did love.  Children she had none; and as for her husband, it
had never occurred to her to love him.  She had married him for a
position; and being a clever woman, with a good digestion and
command of her temper, had managed to get through the world without
much of that unhappiness which usually follows ill-assorted
marriages.  At home she managed to keep the upper hand, but she did
so in an easy, good-humoured way that made her rule bearable; and
away from home she assisted her lord's political standing, though
she laughed more keenly than any one else at his foibles.  But the
lord of her heart was her brother; and in all his scrapes, all his
extravagances, and all his recklessness, she had ever been willing
to assist him.  With the view of doing this she had sought the
intimacy of Miss Dunstable, and for the last year past had indulged
every caprice of that lady.  Or rather, she had had the wit to
learn that Miss Dunstable was to be won, not by the indulgence of
caprice, but by free and easy intercourse, with a dash of fun, and,
at any rate, a semblance of honesty.  Mrs Harold Smith was not,
perhaps, herself very honest by disposition; but in these latter
days she had taken up a theory of honesty for the sake of Miss
Dunstable--not altogether in vain, for Miss Dunstable and Mrs
Harold Smith were very intimate.

'If I am to do it at all, I must not wait any longer,' said Mr
Sowerby to his sister a day or two after the final breakdown of the
gods.  The affection of the sister for the brother may be imagined
from the fact that at such a time she could give up her mind to
such a subject.  But, in truth, her husband's position as Cabinet
minister was as nothing as compared with her brother's position as
a county gentleman.  'One time is as good as another.'

'You mean that you would advise me to ask her at once.'

'Certainly.  But you must remember, Nat, that you will have no easy
task.  It will not do for you to kneel down and swear that you love
her.'

'If I do it at all, I shall certainly do it without kneeling--you
may be sure of that, Harriet.'

'Yes, and without swearing that you love her.  There is only one
way in which you can be successful with Miss Dunstable--you must
tell her the truth.'

'What! tell her that I am ruined, horse, foot, and dragoons, and
then bid her help me out of the mire?'

'Exactly: that will be your only chance, strange as it may appear.'

'This is very different from what you used to say, down at
Chaldicotes.'

'So it is; but I know her much better than I did when we were
there.  Since then I have done but little else than study the
freaks of her character.  If she really likes you--and I think she
does--she could forgive you any other crime but that of swearing
that you loved her.'

'I should hardly know how to propose without saying something about
it.'

'But you must say nothing--not a word; you must tell her that you
are a gentleman of good blood and high station, but sadly out at
elbows.'

'She knows that already.'

'Of course she does; but she must know it as coming directly from
your mouth.  And then tell her that you propose to set yourself
right by marrying her--by marrying her for the sake of her money.'

'That will hardly win her, I should say.'

'If it does not, no other way, that I know of, will do so.  As I
told you before, it will be no easy task.  Of course you must make
her understand that her happiness shall be cared for; but that must
not be put prominently forward as your object.  Your first object
is her money, and your only chance for success is in telling the
truth.'

'It is very seldom that a man finds himself in such a position as
that,' said Sowerby, walking up and down his sister's room; 'and,
upon my word, I don't think that I am up to the task.  I should
certainly break down.  I don't believe there's a man in London
could go to a woman with such a story as that, and then ask her to
marry him.'

'If you cannot, you may as well give it up,' said Mrs Harold
Smith.  'But if you can do it--if you can go through with it in
that manner--my own opinion is that your chance of success would
not be bad.  The fact is,' added the sister after a while, during
which her brother was continuing his walk and meditating on the
difficulties of his position--'the fact is, you men never
understand a woman; you give her credit neither for her strength,
nor for her weakness.  You are too bold, and too timid: you think
she is a fool and tell her so, and yet never can trust her to do a
kind action.  Why should she not marry you with the intention of
doing you a good turn?  After all, she would lose very little:
there is the estate, and if she redeemed it, it would belong to her
as well as you.'

'It would be a good turn, indeed.  I fear I should be too modest to
put it to her in that way.'

'Her position would be much better as your wife than it is at
present.  You are good-humoured and good-tempered, you would intend
to treat her well, and, on the whole, she would be much happier as
Mrs Sowerby, of Chaldicotes, than she can be in her present
position.'

'If she cared about being married, I suppose she could be a peer's
wife to-morrow.'

'But I don't think she cares about being a peer's wife.  A needy
peer might perhaps win her in the way that I propose to you; but
then a needy peer would not know how to set about it.  Needy peers
have tried--half a dozen I have no doubt--and have failed, because
they have pretended that they were in love with her.  It may be
difficult, but your only chance is to tell her the truth.'

'And where shall I do it?'

'Here if you choose; but her own house will be better.'

'But I never can see her there--at least, not alone.  I believe she
is never alone.  She always keeps a lot of people round her in
order to stave off her lovers.  Upon my word, Harriet, I think I'll
give it up.  It is impossible that I should make such a declaration
to her as that you propose.'

'Faint heart, Nat--you know the rest.'

'But the poet never alluded to such a wooing as that you have
suggested.  I suppose I had better begin with a schedule of my
debts, and make reference, if she doubts me, to Fothergill, the
sheriff's officers, and the Tozer family.'

'She will not doubt you, on that head; nor will she be a bit
surprised.'  Then there was again a pause, during which Mr Sowerby
still walked up and down the room, thinking whether or no he might
possibly have any chance of success in so hazardous an enterprise.

'I tell you what, Harriet,' at last he said; 'I wish you'd do it
for me.'

'Well,' said she, 'if you really mean it, I will make the attempt.'

'I am sure of this, that I shall never make it myself.  I
positively should not have the courage to tell her in so many
words, that I wanted to marry her for her money.'

'Well, Nat, I will attempt it.  At any rate, I am not afraid of
her.  She and I are excellent friends, and, to tell the truth, I
think I like her better than any other woman that I know; but I
never should have been intimate with her, had it not been for your
sake.'

'And now you will have to quarrel with her, also for my sake?'

'Not at all.  You'll find that whether she accedes to my
proposition or not, we shall continue to be friends.  I do not
think that she would die for me--nor I for her.  But as the world
goes we suit each other.  Such a little trifle as this will not
break our loves.'  And so it was settled.  On the following day Mrs
Harold Smith was to find an opportunity of explaining the whole
matter to Miss Dunstable, and was to ask that lady to share her
fortune--some incredible number of thousands of pounds--with the
bankrupt member for West Barsetshire, who in return was to bestow
on her--himself and his debts.  Mrs Harold Smith had spoken no more
than the truth in saying that she and Miss Dunstable suited one
another.  And she had not improperly described their friendship.
They were not prepared to die, one for the sake of the other.  They
had said nothing to each other of mutual love and affection.  They
never kissed, or cried, or made speeches, when they met or when
they parted.  There was no great benefit for which either had to be
grateful to the other; no terrible injury which either had
forgiven.  But they suited each other; and this, I take it, is the
secret of most of pleasantest intercourse in the world.  And it was
almost grievous that they should suit each other, for Miss
Dunstable was much the worthier of the two, had she but known it
herself.  It was almost to be lamented that she should have found
herself able to live with Mrs Harold Smith on terms that were
perfectly satisfactory to herself.  Mrs Harold Smith was worldly,
heartless--to all the world but her brother--and, as has been above
hinted, almost dishonest.  Miss Dunstable was not worldly, though
it was possible that her present style of life might make her so;
she was affectionate, fond of truth, and prone to honesty, if those
around would but allow her to exercise it.  But she was fond of
ease and humour, sometimes of wit that might almost be called
broad, and she had a thorough love of ridiculing the world's
humbugs.  In all the propensities Mrs Harold Smith indulged her.

Under these circumstances they were now together almost every day.
It had become quite a habit with Mrs Harold Smith to have herself
driven early in the forenoon to Miss Dunstable's house; and that
lady, though she could never be found alone by Mr Sowerby, was
habitually so found by his sister.  And after that they would go
out together, or each separately as fancy or the business of the
day might direct them.  Each was easy to the other in this
alliance, and they so managed that they never trod on each other's
corns.  On the day following the agreement made between Mr Sowerby
and Mrs Harold Smith, that lady as usual called on Miss Dunstable,
and soon found herself alone with her friend in a small room which
the heiress kept solely for her own purposes.  On special occasions
persons of various sorts were there admitted; occasionally a parson
who had a church to build, or a dowager laden with the last morsel
of town slander, or a poor author who could not get due payment for
the efforts of his brain, or a poor governess on whose feeble
stamina the weight of the world had borne too hardly.  But men who
by possibility could be lovers did not make their way thither, nor
women who could be bores.  In these latter days, that is, during
the present London season, the doors of it had been oftener open to
Mrs Harold Smith than to any other person.  And now the effort was
to be made with the object of which all this intimacy had been
effected.  As she came thither in her carriage, Mrs Harold Smith
herself was not altogether devoid of that sinking of the heart
which is so frequently the forerunner of any difficult and
hazardous undertaking.  She had declared that she would feel no
fear in making the little proposition.  But she did feel something
very like it: and when she made her entrance into the little room
she certainly wished that the work was done and over.

'How is poor Mr Smith to-day?' asked Miss Dunstable, with an air of
mock condolence, as her friend seated herself in her accustomed
easy chair.  The downfall of the gods was as yet a history hardly
three days old, and it might well be supposed that the late of the
Petty Bag had hardly recovered from his misfortune.  'Well, he is
better, I think, this morning; at least I should judge so from the
manner in which he confronted his eggs.  But still I don't like the
way he handles the carving-knife.  I am sure he is always thinking
of Mr Supplehouse at those moments.'

'Poor man!  I mean Supplehouse.  After all, why shouldn't he follow
his trade as well as another?  Live and let live, that's what I
say.'

'Aye, but it's kill and let kill with him.  That is what Horace
says.  However, I am tired of all that now, and I came here to-day
to talk about something else.'

'I rather like Mr Supplehouse myself,' exclaimed Miss Dunstable.
'He never makes any bones about the matter.  He has a certain work
to do, and a certain cause to serve--namely, his own; and in order
to do that work, and serve that cause, he uses such weapons as God
has placed in his hands.'

'That's what the wild beasts do.'

'And where will you find men honester than they?  The tiger tears
you up because he is hungry and wants to eat you.  That's what
Supplehouse does.  But there are so many among us tearing up one
another without any excuse of hunger.  The mere pleasure of
destroying is reason enough.

'Well, my dear, my mission to you to-day is certainly not one of
destruction, as you will admit when you hear it.  It is one,
rather, very absolutely of salvation.  I have come to make love to
you.'

'Then the salvation, I suppose, is not for myself,' said Miss
Dunstable.  It was quite clear to Mrs Harold Smith that Miss
Dunstable had immediately understood the whole purport of this
visit, and that she was not in any great measure surprised.  It did
not seem from the tone of the heiress's voice, or from the serious
look which at once settled on her face, that she would be prepared
to give very ready compliance.  But then great objects can only be
won with great efforts.

'That's as may be,' said Mrs Harold Smith.  'For you and another
also, I hope.  But I trust, at any rate, that I may not offend
you?'

'Oh, laws, no; nothing of that kind ever offends me now.'

'Well, I suppose you're used to it.'

'Like the eels, my dear.  I don't mind it the least in the
world--only sometimes, you know, it is a little tedious.'

'I'll endeavour to avoid that, so I may as well break the ice at
once.  You know enough of Nathaniel's affairs to be aware that he
is not a very rich man.'

'Since you do ask me about it, I suppose there's no harm in saying
that I believe him to be a very poor man.'

'Not the least harm in the world, but just the reverse.  Whatever
may come of this, my wish is that the truth should be told
scrupulously on all sides; the truth, the whole truth, and nothing
but the truth.'

'Magna est veritas,' said Miss Dunstable.  'The Bishop of
Barchester taught me as much Latin as that at Chaldicotes; and he
did add some more, but there was a long word, and I forgot it.'

'The bishop was quite right, my dear, I'm sure.  But if you go to
your Latin, I'm lost.  As we were just now saying, my brother's
pecuniary affairs are in a very bad state.  He has a beautiful
property of his own, which has been in the family for I can't say
how many centuries--long before the Conquest, I know.'

'I wonder what my ancestors were then?'

'It does not much signify to any of us,' said Mrs Harold Smith,
with a moral shake of her head, 'what our ancestors were; but it's
a sad thing to see an old property go to ruin.'

'Yes, indeed; we none of us like to see our property going to ruin,
whether it be old or new.  I have some of that sort of feeling
already, although mine was only made the other day out of an
apothecary's shop.'

'God forbid that I should ever help you ruin it,' said Mrs Harold
Smith.  'I should be sorry to be the means of your losing a
ten-pound note.'

'Magna est veritas, as the dear bishop said,' exclaimed Miss
Dunstable.  'Let us have the truth, the whole truth, and nothing
but the truth, as we agreed just now.'  Mrs Harold Smith did begin
to find that the task before her was difficult.  There was a
hardness about Miss Dunstable when matters of business were
concerned on which it seemed almost impossible to make any
impression.  It was not that she had evinced any determination to
refuse the tender of Mr Sowerby's hand; but she was so painfully
resolute not to have dust thrown in her eyes!  Mrs Harold Smith had
commenced with a mind fixed upon avoiding what she called humbug;
but this sort of humbug had become so prominent a part of her usual
rhetoric, that she found it very hard to abandon it.  'And that's
what I wish,' said she.  'Of course my chief object is to secure my
brother's happiness.'

'That's very unkind to poor Mr Harold Smith.'

'Well, well, well--you know what I mean.'

'Yes, I think I do know what you mean.  Your brother is a gentleman
of good family, but of no means.'

'Not quite as bad as that.'

'Of embarrassed means, then, or anything that you will; whereas I
am a lady of no family, but of sufficient wealth.  You think that
if you brought us together and made a match of it, it would be a
very good thing for--for whom?' said Miss Dunstable.

'Yes, exactly,' said Mrs Harold Smith.

'For which of us?  Remember the bishop now and his nice little bit
of Latin.'

'For Nathaniel then,' said Mrs Harold Smith, boldly.  'It would be
a very good thing for him.'  And a slight smile came across her
face as she said it.  'Now that's honest, or the mischief is in
it.'

'Yes, that's honest enough.  And did he send you here to tell me
this?'

'Well, he did that, and something else.'

'And now let's have the something else.  The really important part,
I have no doubt, has been spoken.'

'No, by no means, by no means all of it.  But you are so hard on
one, my dear, with your running after honesty, that one is not able
to tell the real facts as they are.  You make one speak in such a
bald, naked way.'

'Ah, you think that anything naked must be indecent; even truth.'

'I think it is more proper-looking, and better suited, too, for the
world's work, when it goes about with some sort of garment on it.
We are so used to a leaven of falsehood in all we hear and say,
nowadays, that nothing is more likely to deceive us than the
absolute truth.  If a shopkeeper told me that his wares were simply
middling, of course, I should think that they were not worth a
farthing.  But all that has nothing to do with my poor brother.
Well, what was I saying?'

'You were going to tell me how well he will use me, no doubt.'

'Something of that kind.'

'That he wouldn't beat me; or spend all my money if I managed to
have it tied up out of his power; or look down on me with contempt
because my father was an apothecary!  Was not that what you were
going to say?'

'I was going to tell you that you might be more happy as Mrs
Sowerby of Chaldicotes than you can be as Miss Dunstable--'

'Of Mount Lebanon.  And had Mr Sowerby no other message to
send?---nothing about love, or anything of that sort?  I should
like, you know, to understand what his feelings are before I take
such a leap.'

'I do believe he has as true a regard for you as any man of his age
does have--'

'For any woman of mine.  That is not putting it in a very devoted
way certainly; but I am glad to see that you remember the bishop's
maxim.'

'What would you have me say?  If I told you that he was dying for
love, you would say, I was trying to cheat you; and now because I
don't tell you so, you say that he is wanting of devotion.  I must
say you are hard to please.'

'Perhaps I am, and very unreasonable into the bargain.  I ought to
ask no questions of the kind when your brother proposes to do me so
much honour.  As for my expecting the love of a man who condescends
to wish to be my husband, that, of course, would be monstrous.  What
right can I have to think that any man should love me?  It ought to
be enough for me to know that as I am rich, I can get a husband.
What business can such as I have to inquire whether the gentleman
who would so honour me really would like my company, or would only
deign to put up with my presence in the household?'

'Now, my dear Miss Dunstable--'

'Of course I am not so much an ass to expect that any gentleman
should love me; and I feel that I ought to be obliged to your
brother for sparing me the string of complimentary declarations
which are usual on such occasions.  He, at any rate, is not
tedious--or rather you on his behalf; for no doubt his own time is
so occupied with his parliamentary duties that he cannot attend to
this little matter himself.  I do feel grateful to him; and perhaps
nothing more will be necessary than to give him a schedule of the
property, and name an early day for putting him possession.'  Mrs
Smith did feel that she was rather badly used.  This Miss
Dunstable, in their mutual confidences, had so often ridiculed the
love-making grimaces of her mercenary suitors--had spoken so
fiercely against those who had persecuted her, not because they had
desired her money, but on account of their ill-judgement in
thinking her to be a fool--that Mrs Smith had a right to expect
that the method she had adopted for opening the negotiation would be
taken in a better spirit.  Could it be possible, after all, thought
Mrs Smith to herself, that Miss Dunstable was like other women, and
that she did like to have men kneeling at her feet?  Could it be
the case that she had advised her brother badly, and that it would
have been better for him to have gone about his work in the
old-fashioned way?  'They are very hard to manage,' said Mrs Harold
Smith to herself, thinking of her own sex.

'He was coming here himself,' said she, 'but I advised him not to
do so.'

'That was kind of you.'

'I thought that I could explain to you more openly and more freely,
what his intentions really are.'

'Oh! I have no doubt that they are honourable,' said Miss
Dunstable.  'He does not want to deceive me in that way, I am
sure.'  It was impossible to help laughing, and Mrs Harold Smith
did laugh.  'Upon my word, you would provoke a saint,' said she.

'I am not likely to get into such company by the alliance that you
are suggesting to me.  There are not many saints usually at
Chaldicotes, I believe;--always excepting the dear bishop and his
wife.'

'But, my dear, what am I to say to Nathaniel?'

'Tell him, of course, how much obliged to him I am.'

'Do listen to me one moment.  I dare say that I have done wrong to
speak to you in such a bold, unromantic way.'

'Not at all.  The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth.  That's what we agreed upon.  But one's first efforts in
any line are always apt to be a little uncouth.'

'I will send Nathaniel to you himself.'

'No, do not do so.  Why torment either him or me?  I do like your
brother; in a certain way, I like him much.  But no earthly
consideration would induce me to marry him.  Is it not so glaringly
plain that he would marry me for my money only, that you have not
even dared to suggest any other reason?'

'Of course it would have been nonsense to say that he had no regard
whatever towards your money.'

'Of course it would--absolute nonsense.  He is a poor man with a
good position, and he wants to marry me because I have got that
which he wants.  But, my dear, I do not want that which he has got,
and therefore the bargain would not be a fair one.'

'But he would do his best to make you happy.'

'I am so much obliged to him; but you see, I am very happy as I
am.  What should I gain?'

'A companion whom you confess you like.'

'Ah! but I don't know that I should like too much even of such a
companion as your brother.  No, my dear--it won't do.  Believe me
when I tell you, once for all, that it won't do.'

'Do, you mean, then, Miss Dunstable, that you'll never marry?'

'To-morrow--if I met any one that I fancied, and he would have me.
But I rather think that any that I may fancy won't have me.  In the
first place, if I marry any one, the man must be quite indifferent
to my money.'

'Then you'll not find him in the world, my dear.'

'Very possibly not,' said Miss Dunstable.  All that was further
said upon the subject need not be here repeated.  Mrs Harold Smith
did not give up her cause quite at once, although Miss Dunstable
had spoken so plainly.  She tried to explain how eligible would be
her friend's situation as mistress of Chaldicotes, when Chaldicotes
should owe no penny to any man; and went so far as to hint that the
master of Chaldicotes, if relieved of his embarrassments and known
as a rich man, might in all probability be found worthy of a
peerage when the gods should return to Olympus.  Mr Harold Smith,
as a Cabinet minister, would, of course, do his best.  But it was
all of no use.  'It's not my destiny,' said Miss Dunstable, 'and
therefore do not press it any longer.'

'But we shall not quarrel,' said Mrs Harold Smith, almost tenderly.

'Oh, no--why should we quarrel?'

'And you won't look glum at my brother?'

'Why should I look glum at him?  But, Mrs Smith, I'll do more than
not looking glum at him.  I do like you, and I do like your
brother, and if I can in any moderate way assist him in his
difficulties, let him tell me so.'  Soon after this, Mrs Harold
Smith went her way.  Of course, she declared in a very strong
manner that her brother could not think of accepting from Miss
Dunstable any such pecuniary assistance as that offered--and, to
give her her due, such was the feeling of her mind at the moment;
but as she went to meet her brother and gave him an account of this
interview, it did occur to her that possibly Miss Dunstable might
be a better creditor than the Duke of Omnium for the Chaldicotes
property.



CHAPTER XXV

NON-IMPULSIVE

It cannot be held as astonishing, that that last decision on the
part of the giants in the matter of the two bishoprics should have
disgusted Archdeacon Grantly.  He was a politician, but not a
politician as they were.  As is the case with all exoteric men, his
political eyes saw a short way only, and his political aspirations
were as limited.  When his friends came into office, that bishop
bill, which as the original product of his enemies had been
regarded by him as being so pernicious--for was it not about to be
made law in order that other Proudies and such like might be
hoisted up into high places and large incomes, to the terrible
detriment of the Church?---that bishop bill, I say, in the hands of
his friends, had appeared to him to be a means of almost national
salvation.  And then, how great had been the good fortune of the
giants in this matter!  Had they been the originators of such a
measure they would not have had a chance of success; but now--now
that the two bishops were falling into their mouths out of the weak
hands of the gods, was not their success ensured?  So Dr Grantly
had girded up his loins and marched up to the fight, almost
regretting that the triumph would be so easy.  The subsequent
failure was very trying to his temper as a party man.  It always
strikes me that the supporters of the Titans are in this respect
much to be pitied.  The giants themselves, those who are actually
handling Pelion and breaking their shins over the lower rocks of
Ossa, are always advancing in some sort towards the councils of
Olympus.  Their highest policy is to snatch some ray from heaven.
Why else put Pelion on Ossa, unless it be that a furtive hand,
making its way through Jove's windows, may pluck forth a
thunderbolt or two, or some article less destructive, but of
manufacture equally divine?  And in this consists the wisdom of
higher giants--that, in spite of their mundane antecedents,
theories and predilections, they can see that articles of divine
manufacture are necessary.  But then they never carry their
supporters with them.  Their whole army is an army of martyrs.
'For twenty years I have stuck to them, and see how they have treated
me!'  Is not that always the plaint of an old giant-slave?  'I have
been true to my party all my life, and where am I now?' he says.
Where, indeed, my friend?   Looking about you, you begin to learn
that you cannot describe your whereabouts.  I do not marvel at
that.  No one finds himself planted at last in so terribly foul a
morass, as he would fain stand still for ever on dry ground.

Dr Grantly was disgusted; and although he was himself too true and
thorough in all his feelings, to be able to say aloud that any
giant was wrong, still he had a sad feeling within his heart that
the world was sinking from under him.  He was still sufficiently
exoteric to think that a good stand-up fight in a good cause was a
good thing.  No doubt he did wish to be Bishop of Westminster, and
was anxious to compass that preferment by any means that might
appear to him to be fair.  And why not?  But this was not the end
of his aspirations.  He wished that the giants might prevail in
everything, in bishoprics as in all other matters; and he could not
understand that they should give way on the very first appearance
of a skirmish.  In his open talk he was loud against many a god;
but in his heart of hearts he was bitter enough against both
Porphyrion and Orion.

'My dear doctor, it would not do;--not in this session; it would
not indeed.'  So had spoken to him a half-fledged but especially
esoteric young monster-cub at the Treasury, who considered himself
as up to all the dodges of his party, and regarded the army of
martyrs who supported it as a rather heavy, but very useful
collection of fogies.  Dr Grantly had not cared to discuss the
matter with the half-fledged monster-cub.  The best licked of all
the monsters, the giant most like a god of them all, had said a
word or two to him; and he also had said a word or two to that
giant.  Porphyrion had told him that the bishop bill would not do;
and he, in return, speaking with a warm face, and blood on his
cheeks, had told Porphyrion that he saw no reason why the bill
should not do.  The courteous giant had smiled as he shook his
ponderous head, and then the archdeacon had left him, unconsciously
shaking some dust from his shoes, as he paced the passages of the
Treasury chambers for the last time.  As he walked back to his
lodgings in Mount Street, many thoughts, not altogether bad in
their nature, passed through his mind.  Why should he trouble
himself about a bishopric?  Was he not well as he was, in his
rectory down at Plumstead?  Might it not be ill for him at his age
to transplant himself into new soil, to engage in new duties, and
live among new people?  Was he not useful at Barchester, and
respected also; and might it not be possible that up there at
Westminster, he might be regarded merely as a tool with which other
men could work?  He had not quite liked the tone of that specially
exoteric young monster-cub, who had clearly regarded him as a
distinguished fogy from the army of martyrs.  He would take his
wife back to Barsetshire, and there live contented with the good
things which Providence had given him.

Those high political grapes had become sour, my sneering friends
will say.  Well?  Is it not a good thing that grapes should become
sour which hang out of reach?  Is he not wise who can regard all
grapes as sour which are manifestly too high for his hand?  Those
grapes of the Treasury bench, for which gods and giants fight,
suffering so much when they are forced to abstain from eating, and
so much more when they do eat,--those grapes are very sour to me.
I am sure that they are indigestible, and that those who eat them
undergo all the ills which the Revalenta Arabica is prepared to
cure.  And so it was now with the archdeacon.  He thought of the
strain which would have been put on his conscience had he come up
there to sit in London as Bishop of Westminster; and in this frame
of mind he walked home to his wife.  During the first few moments
of his interview with her all his regrets had come back upon him.
Indeed, it would have hardly suited for him then to have preached
this new doctrine of rural contentment.  The wife of his bosom,
whom he so fully trusted--had so fully loved--wished for grapes
that hung high upon the wall, and he knew that it was past his
power to teach her at the moment to drop her ambition.  Any
teaching that he might effect in that way, must come by degrees.
But before many minutes were over he had told her of her fate and
of his own decision.  'So we had better go back to Plumstead,' he
said; and she had not dissented.

'I am sorry for poor Griselda's sake,' Mrs Grantly had remarked
later in the evening, when they were again together.

'But I thought she was to remain with Lady Lufton?'

'Well; so she will for a little time.  There is no one with whom I
would so soon trust her out of my own care as with Lady Lufton. She
is all that one can desire.'

'Exactly; and as far as Griselda is concerned, I cannot say that I
think she is to be pitied.'

'Not to be pitied, perhaps,' said Mrs Grantly.  'But, you see,
archdeacon, Lady Lufton, of course, has her own views.'

'Her own views?'

'It is hardly any secret that she is very anxious to make a match
between Lord Lufton and Griselda.  And though that might be a very
proper arrangement if it were fixed--'

'Lord Lufton marry Griselda!' said the archdeacon, speaking quick
and raising his eyebrows.  His mind had as yet been troubled by but
few thoughts respecting his child's future establishment.  'I had
never dreamt of such a thing.'

'But other people have done more than dreamt of it, archdeacon.  As
regards the match itself, it would, I think, be unobjectionable.
Lord Lufton will not be a very rich man, but his property is
respectable, and as far as I can learn, his character is on the
whole good.  If they like each other, I should be contented with
such a marriage.  But, I must own, I am not quite satisfied at the
idea of leaving her all alone with Lady Lufton.  People will look
on it as a settled thing, when it is not settled--and very probably
may not be settled; and that will do the poor girl harm.  She is
very much admired; there can be no doubt of that; and Lord
Dumbello--'

The archdeacon opened his eyes still wider.  He had had no idea
that such a choice of sons-in-law was being prepared for him; and,
to tell the truth, was almost bewildered by the height of his
wife's ambition.  Lord Lufton, with his barony and twenty thousand
a year, might be accepted as just good enough; but failing him
there was an embryo marquis, whose fortune would be more than ten
times as great, all ready to accept his child!  And then he
thought, as husbands sometimes will think, of Susan Harding as she
was when he had gone a-courting to her under the elms before the
house in the warden's garden, at Barchester, and of dear old Mr
Harding, his wife's father, who still lived, in humble lodgings in
that city; and as he thought, he wondered at and admired the
greatness of that lady's mind.  'I never can forgive Lord De
Terrier,' said the lady, connecting various points together in her
mind.

'That's nonsense,' said the archdeacon.  'You must forgive him.'

'And I must confess that it annoys me to leave London at present.'

'It can't be helped,' said the archdeacon, somewhat gruffly; for he
was a man who, on certain points, chose to have his own way--and
had it.

'Oh, no: I know it can't be helped,' said Mrs Grantly, in a tone
which implied a deep injury.  'I know it can't be helped.  Poor
Griselda!'  And then they went to bed.  On the next morning
Griselda came to her, and in an interview that was strictly
private, her mother said more to her than she had ever yet spoken,
as to the prospects of her future life.  Hitherto, on this subject,
Mrs Grantly had said little or nothing.  She would have been well
pleased that her daughter should have received the incense of Lord
Lufton's vows--or, perhaps, as well pleased had it been the incense
of Lord Dumbello's vows--without any interference on her part.  In
such case her child, she knew, would have told her with quite
sufficient eagerness, and the matter in either case would have been
arranged as a pretty love match.  She had no fear of any
impropriety or of any rashness on Griselda's part.  She had
thoroughly known her daughter when she boasted that Griselda would
never indulge in an unauthorized passion.  But as matters now
stood, with those two strings to her bow, and with that
Lufton-Grantly alliance treaty in existence--of which she, Griselda
herself knew nothing--might it not be possible that the poor child
should stumble through want of adequate direction?  Guided by these
thoughts, Mrs Grantly had resolved to say a few words before she
left London.  So she wrote a line to her daughter, and Griselda
reached Mount Street at two o'clock in Lady Lufton's carriage,
which during the interview, waited for her at the beer-shop round
the corner.

'And papa won't be Bishop of Westminster?' said the young lady,
when the doings of the giants had been sufficiently explained to
make her understand that all those hopes were over.

'No, my dear; at any rate not now.'

'What a shame!  I thought it was all settled.  What's the good,
mamma, of Lord De Terrier being Prime Minister, if he can't make
whom he likes a bishop?'

'I don't think that Lord De Terrier has behaved at all well to your
father.  However, that's a long question, and we can't go into it
now.'

'How glad those Proudies will be!'  Griselda would have talked by
the hour on this subject had her mother allowed her, but it was
necessary that Mrs Grantly should go to other matters.  She began
about Lady Lufton, saying what a dear woman her ladyship was; and
then went on to say that Griselda was to remain in London as long
as it suited her friend and hostess to stay there with her; but
added, that this might probably not be very long, as it was
notorious that Lady Lufton, when in London, was always in a hurry
to get back to Framley.

'But I don't think she is in such a hurry this year, mamma,' said
Griselda, who in the month of May preferred Bruton Street to
Plumstead, and had no objection whatever to the coronet on the
panels of Lady Lufton's coach.  And then Mrs Grantly commenced her
explanation--very cautiously.  'No, my dear, I dare say she is not
in such a hurry this year,--that is, as long as you remain with
her.'

'I am sure she is very kind.'

'She is very kind, and you ought to love her very much.  I know I
do.  I have no friend in the world for whom I have a greater regard
than for Lady Lufton.  It is that which makes me happy to leave you
with her.'

'All the same, I wish you and papa had remained up; that is, if
they had made papa a bishop.'

'It's no good thinking of that now, my dear.  What I particularly
wanted to say to you was this: I think you should know what are the
ideas which Lady Lufton entertains.'

'Her ideas!' said Griselda, who had never troubled herself much in
thinking about other people's thoughts.

'Yes, Griselda.  While you were staying down at Framley Court, and
also, I suppose, since you have been up here in Bruton Street, you
must have seen a good deal of--Lord Lufton.'

'He doesn't come very often to Bruton Street,--that is to say, not
very often.'

'H-m,' ejaculated Mrs Grantly, very gently.  She would willingly
have repressed the sound altogether, but it had been too much for
her.  If she found reason to think that Lady Lufton was playing her
false, she would immediately take her daughter away, break up the
treaty, and prepare for the Hartletop alliance.  Such were the
thoughts that ran through her mind.  But she knew all the while
that Lady Lufton was not false.  The fault was not with Lady
Lufton; nor, perhaps, altogether with Lord Lufton.  Mrs Grantly had
understood the full force of the complaint which Lady Lufton had
made against her daughter; and though she had of course defended
her child, and on the whole had defended her successfully, yet she
confessed to herself that Griselda's chance of a first-rate
establishment would be better if she were a little more impulsive.
A man does not wish to marry a statue, let the statue be ever so
statuesque.  She could not teach her daughter to be impulsive, any
more than she could teach her to be six feet high; but might it not
be possible to teach her to seem so?  The task was a very delicate
one, even for a mother's hand.  'Of course he cannot be at home now
as much as he was down at the country, when he was living in the
same house,' said Mrs Grantly, whose business it was to take Lord
Lufton's part at the present moment.  'He must be at his club and
at the House of Lords, and in twenty places.'

'He is very fond of going to parties, and he dances beautifully.'

'I am sure he does.  I have seen as much as that myself, and I
think I know some one with whom he likes to dance.'  And the mother
gave the daughter a loving little squeeze.

'Do you mean me, mamma?'

'Yes, I do mean you, my dear.  And is it not true?  Lady Lufton
says that he likes dancing with you better than with any one else
in London.'

'I don't know,' said Griselda, looking down upon the ground.  Mrs
Grantly thought that this upon the whole was rather a good
opening.  It might have been better.  Some point of interest more
serious in its nature than that of a waltz might have been found on
which to connect her daughter's sympathies with those of her future
husband.  But any point of interest was better than none; and it is
so difficult to find points of interest in persons who by their
nature are not impulsive.

'Lady Lufton says so, at any rate,' continued Mrs Grantly, ever so
cautiously.  'She thinks that Lord Lufton likes no partner better.
What do you think yourself, Griselda?'

'I don't know, mamma.'

'But young ladies must think of such things, must they not?'

'Must they, mamma?'

'I suppose they do, don't they?  The truth is, Griselda, that Lady
Lufton thinks that if--Can you guess what she thinks?'

'No, mamma.'  But that was a fib on Griselda's part.

'She thinks that my Griselda would make the best possible wife in
the world for her son: and I think so too.  I think her son will be
a very fortunate man if he can get such a wife.  And now what do
you think, Griselda?'

'I don't think anything, mamma.'  But that would not do.  It was
absolutely necessary that she should think, and absolutely
necessary that her mother should tell her so.  Such a degree of
unimpulsiveness as this would lead to--Heaven knows what results!
Lufton-Grantly treaties and Hartletop interests would be all thrown
away upon a young lady who would not think anything of a noble
suitor sighing for her smiles.  Besides, it was not natural.
Griselda, as her mother knew, had never been a girl of headlong
feeling; but still she had had her likes and dislikes.  In that
matter of the bishopric she was keen enough; and no one could
evince a deeper interest in the subject of a well-made new dress
than Griselda Grantly.  It was not possible that she should be
indifferent as to her future prospects, and she must know that
those prospects depended mainly on her marriage.  Her mother was
almost angry with her, but nevertheless she went on very gently.

'You don't think anything!  But, my darling, you must think.  You
must make up your mind what would be your answer if Lord Lufton
were to propose to you.  That is what Lady Lufton wishes him to
do.'

'But he never will, mamma.'

'And if he did?'

'But I'm sure he never will.  He doesn't think of such a thing at
all--and--and--'

'And what, my dear?'

'I don't know, mamma.'

'Surely you can speak out to me, dearest!  All I care about is your
happiness.  Both Lady Lufton and I think that it would be a happy
marriage if you both cared for each other enough.  She thinks that
he is fond of you.  But if he were ten times Lord Lufton I would
not tease you about it if I thought that you could not learn to
care about him.  What was it you were going to say, my dear?'

'Lord Lufton thinks a great deal more about Lucy Robarts than he
does of--of--of any one else, I believe,' said Griselda, showing
now some little animation by her manner, 'dumpy little black thing
that she is.'

'Lucy Robarts!' said Mrs Grantly, taken by surprise at finding that
her daughter was moved by such a passion as jealousy, and feeling
also perfectly assured that there could not be any possible ground
for jealousy in such a direction as that.  'Lucy Robarts, my dear!
I don't suppose Lord Lufton ever thought of speaking to her, except
in the way of civility.'

'Yes, he did, mamma!  Don't you remember at Framley?'  Mrs Grantly
began to look back in her mind, and she thought she did remember
having once observed Lord Lufton speaking in rather a confidential
manner with the parson's sister.  But she was sure there was
nothing in it.  If that were the reason why Griselda was so cold to
her proposed lover, it would be a thousand pities that it should not
be removed.  'Now you mention her, I do remember the young lady,'
said Mrs Grantly, 'a dark girl, very low, and without much figure.
She seemed to me to keep very much in the background.'

'I don't know much about that, mamma.'

'As far as I saw her, she did.  But, my dear Griselda, you should
not allow yourself to think of such a thing.  Lord Lufton, of
course, is bound to be civil to any young lady in his mother's
house, and I am quite sure that he has no other idea whatever with
regard to Miss Robarts.  I certainly cannot speak as to her
intellect, for I do not think she opened her mouth in my presence;
but--'

'Oh! she has plenty to say for herself, when she pleases.  She's a
sly little thing.'

'But, at any rate, my dear, she has no personal attractions
whatever, and I do not at all think that Lord Lufton is a man to be
taken by--by--by anything that Miss Robarts might do or say.'  As
those words 'personal attractions' were uttered, Griselda managed
so to turn her neck to catch a side view of herself in one of the
mirrors on the wall, and then she bridled herself up, and made a
little play with her eyes, and looked, as her mother thought, very
well.  'It is all nothing to me, mamma, of course,' she said.

'Well, my dear, perhaps not.  I don't say that it is.  I do not
wish to put the slightest constraint upon your feelings.  If I did
not have the most thorough dependence on your good sense and high
principles, I should not speak to you in this way.  But as I have,
I thought it best to tell you that both Lady Lufton and I should be
well pleased if we thought that you and Lord Lufton were fond of
each other.

'I am sure he never thinks of such a thing, mamma.'

'And as for Lucy Robarts, pray get that idea out of your head; if
not for your sake, then for his.  You should give him credit for
better taste.'  But it was not so easy to take anything out of
Griselda's head that she had once taken into it.  'As for tastes,
mamma, there is no accounting for them,' she said; and then the
colloquy on that subject was over.  The result of it on Mrs
Grantly's mind was a feeling amounting almost to a conviction in
favour of the Dumbello interest.



CHAPTER XXVI

IMPULSIVE

I trust my readers will all remember how Puck the pony was beaten
during that drive to Hogglestock.  It may be presumed that Puck
himself on that occasion did not suffer much.  His skin was not so
soft as Mrs Robarts's heart.  The little beast was full of oats and
all the good things of this world, and therefore, when the whip
touched him, he would dance about and shake his little ears, and
run on at a tremendous pace for twenty yards, making his mistress
think that he had endured terrible things.  But, in truth, during
those whippings Puck was not the chief sufferer.  Lucy had been
forced to declare--forced by the strength of her own feelings, and
by the impossibility of assenting to the propriety of a marriage
between Lord Lufton and Miss Grantly,--she had been forced to
declare that she did care about Lord Lufton as much as though he
were her brother.  She had said all this to herself--nay, much more
than this--very often.  But now she had said it out loud to her
sister-in-law; and she knew that what she had said was remembered,
considered, and had, to a certain extent, become the cause of
altered conduct.  Fanny alluded very seldom to the Luftons in
casual conversation, and never spoke about Lord Lufton unless when
her husband made it impossible that she should not speak of him.
Lucy had attempted on more than one occasion to remedy this, by
talking about the young lord in a laughing, and, perhaps,
half-jeering way; she had been sarcastic as to his hunting and
shooting, and had boldly attempted to say a word in joke about his
love for Griselda.  But she felt that she had failed; that she had
failed altogether as regarded Fanny; and that as to her brother,
she would more probably be the means of opening his eyes, than have
any effect in keeping them closed.  So she gave up her efforts and
spoke no further word about Lord Lufton.  Her secret had been
told, and she knew that it had been told.  At this time the two
ladies were left a great deal alone together in the drawing-room at
the parsonage; more, perhaps, than had ever yet been the case since
Lucy had been there.  Lady Lufton was away, and therefore the
almost daily visit to Framley Court was not made; and Mark in these
days was a great deal at Barchester, having, no doubt, very onerous
duties to perform before he could be admitted as one of the
chapter.  He went into, what he was pleased to call residence,
almost at once.  That is, he took his month of preaching, aiding
also, in some slight and very dignified way, in the general Sunday
morning services.  He did not exactly live at Barchester, because
the house was not ready.  That at least was the assumed reason.
The chattels of Dr Stanhope, the late prebendary, had not been as
yet removed, and there was likely to be some little delay,
creditors asserting their right to them.  This might have been very
inconvenient to a gentleman anxiously expecting the excellent house
which the liberality of past ages had provided for his use; but it
was not so felt by Mr Robarts.  If Dr Stanhope's family or
creditors would keep the house for the next twelve months, he would
be well pleased.  And by this arrangement he was enabled to get
through his first month of absence from the church at Framley
without any notice from Lady Lufton, seeing that Lady Lufton was in
London all the time.  This was also convenient, and taught our
young prebendary to look in his new preferment more favourably than
he had hitherto done.

Fanny and Lucy were thus left much alone: and as out of the full
head the mouth speaks, so is the full heart more prone to speak at
such periods of confidence as these.  Lucy, when she first thought
of her own state, determined to endow herself with a powerful gift
of reticence.  She would never tell her love, certainly; but
neither would she let concealment feed on her damask cheek, nor
would she ever be found for a moment sitting like Patience on a
monument.  She would fight her own fight bravely within her own
bosom, and conquer her enemy altogether.  She would either preach,
or starve, or weary her love into subjection, and no one should be
a bit the wiser.  She would teach herself to shake hands with Lord
Lufton without a quiver, and would be prepared to like his wife
amazingly--unless indeed that wife should be Griselda Grantly.  Such
were her resolutions; but at the end of the first week they were
broken into shivers and scattered to the winds.  They had been
sitting in the house together the whole of one wet day; and as Mark
was to dine at Barchester with the dean, they had had dinner early,
eating with the children almost in their laps.  It is so that
ladies do, when their husbands leave them to themselves.  It was
getting dusk towards evening, and they were sitting in the
drawing-room, the children now having retired, when Mrs Robarts for
the fifth time since her visit to Hogglestock began to express her
wish that she could do some good to the Crawleys,--to Grace Crawley
in particular, who, standing up there at her father's elbow,
learning Greek irregular verbs, had appeared to Mrs Robarts to be
an especial object of pity.

'I don't know how to set about it,' said Mrs Robarts.  Now any
allusion to that visit to Hogglestock always drove Lucy's mind back
to the consideration of the subject which had most occupied it at
the time.  She at such moments remembered how she had beaten Puck,
and how in her half-bantering but still too serious manner she had
apologized for doing so, and had explained the reason.  And
therefore she did not interest herself about Grace Crawley as
vividly as she should have done.  'No; one never does,' she said.

'I was thinking about it all day as I drove home,' said Fanny. 'The
difficulty is this: What can we do with her?'

'Exactly,' said Lucy, remembering the very point of the road at
which she had declared that she did like Lord Lufton very much.

'If we could have her here for a month or so and then send her to
school;--but I know Mr Crawley would not allow us to pay for her
schooling.'

'I don't think he would,' said Lucy, with her thoughts far removed
from Mr Crawley and his daughter Grace.

'And then we should not know what to do with her, should we?'

'No; you would not.'

'It would never do to have the poor girl about the house here, with
no one to teach her anything.  Mark would not teach her Greek
verbs, you know.'

'I suppose not.'

'Lucy, you are not attending to a word I say to you, and I don't
think you have for the last hour.  I don't believe you know what I
am talking about.'

'Oh, yes, I do--Grace Crawley; I'll try and teach her if you like,
only I don't know anything myself.'

'That's not what I mean at all, and you know I would not ask you to
take such a task on yourself.  But I do think you might talk it
over with me.'

'Might I?  very well; I will.  What is it?  Oh, Grace Crawley--you
want to know who is to teach her the irregular Greek verbs.  Oh,
dear, Fanny, my head does ache so; pray don't be angry with me.'
And then Lucy, throwing herself back on the sofa, put one hand up
painfully to her forehead, and altogether gave up the battle.  Mrs
Robarts was by her side in a moment.

'Dearest Lucy, what is it makes your head ache so often now?  You
used not to have those headaches.'

'It's because I'm growing stupid: never mind.  We will go on about
poor Grace.  It would not do to have a governess, would it?'

'I can see that you are not well, Lucy,' said Mrs Robarts, with a
look of deep concern.  'What is it, dearest?  I can see that
something is the matter.'

'Something the matter!  No, there's not; nothing worth talking of.
Sometimes I think I'll go back to Devonshire and live there.  I
could stay with Blanche for a time, and then get a lodging in
Exeter.'

'Go back to Devonshire!' and Mrs Robarts looked as though she
thought that her sister-in-law was going mad.  'Why do you want to
go away from us?  This is to be your own, own home, always now.'

'Is it?  Then I am in a bad way.  Oh dear, oh dear, what a fool I
am!  What an idiot I've been!  Fanny, I don't think I can stay here;
and I do wish I'd never come.  I do--do--do, though you look at me
so horribly,' and jumping up she threw herself into her
sister-in-law's arms and began kissing her violently.  'Don't
pretend to be wounded, for you know that I love you.  You know that
I could live with all my life, and think you were perfect--as you
are; but--'

'Has Mark said anything?'

'Not a word--not a ghost of a syllable.  It is not Mark; oh,
Fanny!'

'I am afraid I know what you mean,' said Mrs Robarts in a low
tremulous voice, and with deep sorrow painted on her face.

'Of course you do; of course you know; you have known it all along;
since that day in the pony carriage.  I knew that you knew it.  You
do not dare to mention his name; would not that tell me that you
know it?  And I, I am hypocrite enough for Mark; but my hypocrisy
won't pass muster before you.  And, now, had I not better go to
Devonshire?'

'Dearest, dearest Lucy.'

'Was I not right about that labelling?  O heavens! what idiots we
girls are!  That a dozen soft words should have bowled me over like
a ninepin, and left me without an inch of ground to call my own.
And I was so proud of my own strength; so sure that I should never
be missish, and spoony, and sentimental!  I was so determined to
like him as Mark does, or you--'

'I shall not like him at all if he has spoken words to you that he
should not have spoken.'

'But he has not.'  And then she stopped a moment to consider.  'No,
he has not.  He never said a word to me that would make you angry
with him if you knew of it.  Except, perhaps, that he called me
Lucy; and that was my fault, not his.'

'Because you talked of soft words.'

'Fanny, you have no idea what an absolute fool I am, what an
unutterable ass.  The soft words of which I tell you were of the
kind which he speaks to you when he asks you how the cow gets on
which he sent to you from Ireland, or to Mark about Ponto's
shoulder.  He told me that he knew papa, and that he was at school
with Mark, and that as he was such good friends with you here at
the parsonage, he must be good friends with me too.  No; it has not
been his fault.  The soft words which did the mischief were such as
those.  But how well his mother understood the world!  In order to
have been safe, I should not have dared to look at him.'

'But, dearest Lucy--'

'I know what you are going to say, and I admit it all.  He is no
hero.  There is nothing on earth wonderful about him.  I never
heard him say a single word of wisdom, or utter a thought that was
akin to poetry.  He devotes all his energies to riding after a fox
or killing poor birds, and I never heard of his doing a single
great action in my life.  And yet--'  Fanny was so astounded by the
way her sister-in-law went on, that she hardly knew how to speak.
'He is an excellent son, I believe,' at last she said.

'Except when he goes to Gatherum Castle.  I'll tell you what he
has: he has fine straight legs, and a smooth forehead, and a
good-humoured eye, and white teeth.  Was it possible to see such a
catalogue of perfections, and not fall down, stricken to the very
bone?  But it was not that that did it all, Fanny.  I could have
stood against that.  I think I could at least.  It was his title
that killed me.  I had never spoken to a lord before.  Oh, me! what
a fool, what a beast I have been!'  And then she burst out into
tears.  Mrs Robarts, to tell the truth, could hardly understand
poor Lucy's ailment.  It was evident enough that her misery was
real; but yet she spoke of herself and her sufferings with so much
irony, with so near an approach to joking, that it was very hard to
tell how far she was in earnest.  Lucy, too, was so much given to a
species of badinage which Mrs Robarts did not always quite
understand, that the latter was afraid sometimes to speak out what
came uppermost to her tongue.  But now that Lucy was absolutely in
tears, and was almost breathless with excitement, she could not
remain silent any longer.  'Dearest Lucy, pray do not speak in that
way; it will all come right.  Things always do come right when no
one has acted wrongly.'

'Yes, when nobody has done wrongly.  That's what papa used to call
begging the question.  But I'll tell you what, Fanny; I will not be
beaten.  I will either kill myself or get through it.  I am so
heartily self-ashamed that I owe it to myself to fight the battle
out.'

'To fight what battle, dearest?'

'This battle.  Here, now, at the present moment I could not meet
Lord Lufton.  I should have to run like a scared fowl if he were to
show himself within the gate; and I should not dare to go out of
the house, if I knew that he was in the parish.'

'I don't see that, for I am sure you have not betrayed yourself.'

'Well, no; as for myself, I believe I have done the lying and the
hypocrisy pretty well.  But, dearest Fanny, you don't know half;
and you cannot and must not know.'

'But I thought you said there had been nothing whatever between
you.'

'Did I?  Well, to you I have not said a word that was not true.  I
said that he had spoken nothing that it was wrong for him to say.
It could not be wrong--But never mind.  I'll tell you what I mean to
do.  I have been thinking of it for the last week--only I shall
have to tell Mark.'

'If I were you, I would tell him all.'

'What, Mark!  If you do, Fanny, I'll never, never, never speak to
you again.  Would you--when I have given you all my heart in true
sisterly love?'  Mrs Robarts had to explain that she had not
proposed to tell anything to Mark herself, and was persuaded,
moreover, to give a solemn promise that she would not tell anything
to him unless specially authorized to do so.

'I'll go into a home, I think,' continued Lucy.  'You know what
these homes are?'  Mrs Robarts assured her that she knew very well,
and then Lucy went on: 'A year ago I should have said that I was
the last girl in England to think of such a life, but I do believe
now that it would be the best thing for me.  And then I'll starve
myself, and flog myself, and, in that way I'll get back my own mind
and my own soul.'

'Your own soul, Lucy,' said Mrs Robarts, in a tone of horror.

'Well, my own heart, if you like it better; but I hate to hear
myself talking about hearts.  I don't care for my heart.  I'd let
it go--with this popinjay lord or any one else, so that I could
read, and talk, and walk, and sleep, and eat, without always
feeling that I was wrong here--here--here--' and she pressed her
hand vehemently against her side.  'What is it that I feel, Fanny?
Why am I so weak in body that I cannot take exercise?  Why cannot I
keep my mind on a book for one moment?  Why can I not write two
sentences together?  Why should every mouthful that I eat stick in
my throat?  Oh, Fanny, is it his legs, think you, or is it his
title?'  Through all her sorrow--and she was very sorrowful--Mrs
Robarts could not help smiling.  And, indeed, there was every now
and then something even in Lucy's look that was almost comic.  She
acted the irony so well with which she strove to throw ridicule on
herself!  'Do laugh at me,' she said.  'Nothing on earth will do me
so much good as that; nothing, unless it be starvation and a whip.
If you would only tell me that I must be a sneak and an idiot to
care for a man because he is good-looking and a lord!'

'But that has not been the reason.  There is a great deal more in
Lord Lufton than that; and since I must speak, dear Lucy, I cannot
but say that I should not wonder at your being in love with him,
only--only that--'

'Only what?  Come, out with it.  Do not mince matters, or think
that I shall be angry with you because you scold me.'

'Only that I should have thought that you would have been too
guarded to have--have cared for any gentleman till--till he had
shown that he cared for you.'

'Guarded!  Yes, that's it; that's just the word.  But it's he that
should have been guarded.  He should have had a fire-guard hung
before him, or a love-guard, if you will.  Guarded!  Was I not
guarded, till you all would drag me out?  Did I want to go there?
And when I was there, did I not make a fool of myself, sitting in a
corner, and thinking how much better placed I should have been down
in the servants' hall.  Lady Lufton--she dragged me out, and then
cautioned me, and then, then--Why is Lady Lufton to have it all her
own way?  Why am I to be sacrificed for her?  I did not want to
know Lady Lufton, or any one belonging to her.'

'I cannot think that you have any cause to blame Lady Lufton, nor,
perhaps, to blame anybody very much.'

'Well, no, it has been all my own fault; though, for the life of
me, Fanny, going back and back, I cannot see where I took the first
false step.  I do not know where I went wrong.  One wrong thing I
did, and it is the only thing that I do not regret.'

'What was that, Lucy?'

'I told him a lie.'

Mrs Robarts was altogether in the dark, and feeling that she was
so, she knew that she could not give counsel as a friend or
sister.  Lucy had begun by declaring--so Mrs Robarts thought--that
nothing had passed between her and Lord Lufton but words of most
trivial import, and yet she now accused herself of falsehood, and
declared that that falsehood was the only thing which she did not
regret!

'I hope not,' said Mrs Robarts.  'If you did, you were very unlike
yourself.'

'But I did, and were he here again, speaking to me in the same way,
I should repeat it.  I know I should.  If I did not, I should have
all the world on me.  You would frown on me, and be cold.  My
darling Fanny, how would you look if I really displeasured you?'

'I don't think you will do that, Lucy.'

'But if I told him the truth, I should, should I not?  Speak now.
But no, Fanny, you need not speak.  It was not the fear of you; no,
nor even of her: though Heaven knows that her terrible glumness
would be quite unendurable.'

'I cannot understand you, Lucy.  What truth or what untruth can you
have told him, if, as you say, there has been nothing between you
but ordinary conversation?'

Lucy then got up from the sofa, and walked twice the length of the
room before she spoke.  Mrs Robarts had all the ordinary
curiosity--I was going to say, of a woman, but I mean to say, of
humanity; and she had, moreover, all the love of a sister.  She was
both curious and anxious, and remained sitting where she was,
silent, and her eyes fixed on her companion.  'Did I say so?' Lucy
said at last.  'No, Fanny, you have mistaken me--I did not say
that.  Ah, yes, about the cow and the dog.  All that was true.  I
was telling you of what his soft words had been while I was
becoming such a fool.  Since that he has said more.'

'What more has he said, Lucy?'

'I yearn to tell you, if only I can trust you;' and Lucy knelt down
at the feet of Mrs Robarts, looking up into her face and smiling
through the remaining drops of her tears.  'I would fain tell you,
but I do not know you yet--whether you are quite true.  I could be
true--true against all the world, if my friend told me.  I will
tell you, Fanny, if you say that you can be true.  But if you doubt
yourself, if you must whisper all to Mark--then let us be silent.'

There was something almost awful in this to Mrs Robarts. Hitherto,
since their marriage, hardly a thought had passed through her mind
which she had not shared with her husband.  But now all this had
come upon her so suddenly, that she was unable to think whether it
would be well that she should become the depository of such a
secret--not to be mentioned to Lucy's brother, not to be mentioned
to her own husband.  But who ever yet was offered a secret and
declined it?  Who at least ever declined a love secret?  What
sister could do so?  Mrs Robarts, therefore, gave the promise,
smoothing Lucy's hair as she did so, and kissing her forehead and
looking into her eyes, which, like a rainbow, were the brighter for
her tears.  'And what has he said to you, Lucy?'

'What?  Only this, that he asked me to be his wife.'

'Lord Lufton proposed to you?'

'Yes; he proposed to me.  It is not credible, is it?  You cannot
bring yourself to believe such a thing happened, can you?'  And
Lucy rose again to her feet, as the idea of the scorn with which
she felt others would treat her--with which she had treated
herself--made the blood rise to her cheek.  'And yet it is not a
dream--I think that it is not a dream.  I think that he really
did.'

'Think, Lucy!'

'Well, I may say that I am sure.'

'A gentleman would not make you a formal proposal and leave you in
doubt as to what he meant.'

'Oh dear, no.  There was no doubt at all of that kind--none in the
least.  Mr Smith, in asking Miss Jones to do him the honour of
becoming Mrs Smith, never spoke more plainly.  I was alluding to
the possibility of having dreamt it all.'

'Lucy!'

'Well, it was not a dream.  Here, standing here, on this very
spot--on that flower of the carpet--he begged me a dozen times to
be his wife.  I wonder whether you and Mark would let me cut it out
and keep it.'

'And what answer did you make to him?'

'I lied to him, and told him that I did not love him.'

'You refused him?'  'Yes; I refused a live lord.  There is some
satisfaction in having that to think of, is there not?  Fanny, was
I wicked to tell that falsehood?'

'And why did you refuse him?'

'Why?  Can you ask?  Think of what it would have been to go down to
Framley Court, and to tell her ladyship, in the course of
conversation, that I was engaged to her son.  Think of Lady
Lufton.  But yet it was not that, Fanny.  Had I thought that it was
good for him, that he would not have repented, I would have braved
anything--for his sake.  Even for your frown, for you would have
frowned.  You would have thought it sacrilege for me to marry Lord
Lufton!  You know you would.'

Mrs Robarts hardly knew how to say what she thought, or indeed what
she ought to think.  It was a matter on which much meditation would
be required before she could give advice, and there was Lucy
expecting counsel from her at that very moment.  If Lord Lufton
really loved Lucy Robarts, and was loved by Lucy Robarts, why
should not they two become man and wife?  And yet she did feel that
it would be--perhaps not sacrilege, as Lucy had said, but something
almost as troublesome.  What would Lady Lufton say, or think and
feel?  What would she say, and think, and feel as to that parsonage
from which so deadly a blow would fall upon her?  Would she not
accuse the vicar and the vicar's wife of the blackest ingratitude?
Would life be endurable at Framley under such circumstances as
those?

'What you tell me so surprises me, that I hardly as yet know how to
speak about it,' said Mrs Robarts.

'It was amazing, was it not?  He must have been insane at the time;
there can be no other excuse for him.  I wonder whether there is
anything of that sort in the family?'

'What; madness?' said Mrs Robarts, quite in earnest.

'Well, don't you think he must have been mad when such an idea as
that came into his head?  But you don't believe it; I can see
that.  And yet it is as true as heaven.  Standing exactly here, on
this spot, he said that he would persevere till I accepted his
love.  I wonder what made me specially observe that both his feet
were within the lines of that division.'

'And you would not accept his love?'

'No; I would have nothing to say to it.  Look you, I stood here,
and putting my hand upon my heart--for he bade me do that--I said
that I could not love him.'

'And what then?'

'He went away--with a look as though he were heart-broken.  He
crept away slowly, saying that he was the most wretched soul
alive.  For a minute I believed him, and could almost have called
him back; but no, Fanny, do not think that I am over proud, or
conceited about my conquest.  He had not reached the gate before he
was thanking God for his escape.'

'That I do not believe.'

'But I do; and I thought of Lady Lufton too.  How could I bear that
she should scorn me, and accuse me of stealing her son's heart?  I
know that it is better as it is; but tell me--is a falsehood
always wrong, or can it be possible that the end should justify the
means?  Ought I to have told him the truth, and to have let him
know that I could almost kiss the ground on which he stood?'

This was a question for the doctors which Mrs Robarts would take
upon herself to answer.  She would not make that falsehood a matter
of accusation, but neither would she pronounce for it any
absolution.  In that matter Lucy must regulate her own conscience.

'And what shall I do next?' said Lucy, still speaking in a tone
that was half tragic and half jeering.

'Do?' said Mrs Robarts.

'Yes, something must be done.  If I were a Mediterranean I should
go to Switzerland, of course; or, as the case is a bad one, perhaps
as far as Hungary.  What is it that girls do?  They don't die
nowadays, I believe.'

'Lucy, I do not believe that you care for him one jot.  If you were
in love you would not speak of it like that.'

'There, there.  That's my only hope.  If I could laugh at myself
till it had become incredible to you, I also, by degrees, should
cease to believe that I had cared for him.  But, Fanny, it is very
hard.  If I were to starve, and rise before daybreak, and pinch
myself, or do some nasty work,--clean the pots and pans and the
candlesticks; that I think would do the most good.  I have got a
piece of sack-cloth, and I mean to wear that, when I have made it
up.'

'You are joking now, Lucy, I know.'

'No, by my word; not in the spirit of what I am saying.  How shall
I act upon my heart, if I do not go through the blood and flesh?'

'Do you not pray that God will give you strength to bear these
troubles?'

'But how is one to word one's prayer, or how even to word one's
wishes?  I do not know what is the wrong that I have done.  I say
it boldly; in this matter I cannot see my own fault.  I have simply
found that I have been a fool.'

It was now quite dark in the room, or would have been so to any one
entering afresh.  They had remained there talking till their eyes
had become accustomed to the gloom, and would still have remained,
had they not suddenly been disturbed by the sound of a horse's
feet.

'There is Mark,' said Fanny, jumping up and running to the bell,
that lights might be ready when he should enter.

'I thought he remained in Barchester to-night.'

'And so did I; but he said it might be doubtful.  What shall we do
if he has not dined?'  That, I believe, is always the first thought
in the mind of a good wife when her husband returns home.  Has he
had his dinner?  What can I give him for dinner?  Will he like his
dinner?  Oh dear, oh dear! there is nothing in the house but cold
mutton.  But on this occasion the lord of the mansion had dined,
and came home radiant with good humour, and owing, perhaps, a
little of his radiance to the dean's claret.  'I have told them,'
said he, 'that they may keep possession of the house for the next
two months, and they have agreed to that arrangement.'

'That is very pleasant,' said Mrs Robarts.

'And I don't think we shall have so much trouble about the
dilapidation after all.'

'I am very glad of that,' said Mrs Robarts.  But nevertheless she
was thinking more of Lucy than of the house in Barchester Close.

'You won't betray me,' said Lucy, as she gave her sister-in-law a
parting kiss at night.

'No; not unless you give me permission.'

'Ah; I shall never do that.'



CHAPTER XXVII

SOUTH AUDLEY STREET

The Duke of Omnium had notified to Mr Fothergill his wish that some
arrangement should be made about the Chaldicotes mortgages, and Mr
Fothergill had understood what the duke meant as well as though his
instructions had been written down with all a lawyer's verbosity.
The duke's meaning was this, that Chaldicotes was to be swept up
and garnered, and made part and parcel of the Gatherum property. It
had seemed to the duke that that affair between his friend and Miss
Dunstable was hanging fire, and, therefore, it would be well that
Chaldicotes should be swept up and garnered.  And, moreover,
tidings had come into the western division of the county that young
Frank Gresham of Boxall Hill was in treaty with the Government for
the purchase of all that Crown property called the Chace of
Chaldicotes.  It had been offered to the duke, but the duke had
given no definite answer.  Had he got his money back from Mr
Sowerby he could have forestalled Mr Gresham; but now that did not
seem to be probable, and his grace resolved that either the one
property or the other should be garnered.  Therefore Mr Fothergill
went up to town, and therefore Mr Sowerby was, most unwillingly,
compelled to have a business interview with Mr Fothergill.  In the
meantime, since last we saw him, Mr Sowerby had learned from his
sister the answer which Miss Dunstable had given to his
proposition, and knew that he had no further hope in that
direction.  There was no further hope thence of absolute
deliverance, but there had been a tender of money service.  To give
Mr Sowerby his due, he had at once declared that it would be quite
out of the question that he should now receive any assistance of
that sort from Miss Dunstable; but his sister had explained to him
that it would be mere business transaction; that Miss Dunstable
would receive her interest; and that, if she would be content with
four per cent, whereas the duke received five, and other creditors
six, seven, eight, ten, and Heaven only knows how much more, it
might be well for all parties.  He, himself, understood, as well as
Fothergill had done, what was the meaning of the duke's message.
Chaldicotes was to be gathered and garnered, as had been done with
so many another fair property lying in those regions.  It was to be
swallowed whole, and the master was to walk out from his old family
hall, to leave the old woods that he loved, to give up utterly to
another the parks and paddocks and pleasant places which he had
known from his earliest infancy, and owned from his earliest
manhood.

There can be nothing more bitter to a man than such a surrender.
What, compared to this, can be the loss of wealth to one who has
himself made it, and brought it together, but has never actually
seen it with his bodily eyes?  Such wealth has come by one chance,
and goes by another: the loss of it is part of the game which the
man is playing; and if he cannot lose as well as win, he is a poor,
weak, cowardly creature.  Such men, as a rule, do know how to bear
a mind fairly equal to adversity.  But to have squandered the acres
which have descended from generation to generation; to be the
member of one's family that has ruined that family; to have
swallowed up in one's own maw all that should have graced one's
children, and one's grandchildren!  It seems to me that the
misfortunes of this world can hardly go beyond that!  Mr Sowerby,
in spite of his recklessness and that dare-devil gaiety which he
knew so well how to wear and use, felt all this as keenly as any
man could feel it.  It had been absolutely his own fault.  The
acres had come to him all his own, and now, before his death, every
one of them would have gone bodily into that greedy maw.  The duke
had bought up nearly all the debts which had been secured upon the
property, and now could make a clean sweep of it.  Sowerby, when he
received that message from Mr Fothergill, knew well that this was
intended; and he knew well also, that when once he should cease to
be Mr Sowerby of Chaldicotes, he need never again hope to be
returned as member for West Barsetshire.  This world would for him
be all over.  And what must such a man feel when he reflects that
this world for him is all over?  On the morning in question he went
to his appointment, still bearing a cheery countenance.  Mr
Fothergill, when in town on such business as this, always had a
room at his service in the house of Messrs Gumption & Gagebee, the
duke's London law agents, and it was thither that Mr Sowerby had
been summoned.  The house of business of Messrs Gumption & Gagebee
was in South Audley Street; and it may be said that there was no
spot on the whole earth which Mr Sowerby hated as he did the
gloomy, dingy back sitting-room upstairs in that house.  He had
been there very often, but had never been there without annoyance.
It was a horrid torture-chamber, kept for such dread purposes as
these, and no doubt had been furnished, and papered, and curtained
with the express object of finally breaking down the spirits of
such poor country gentlemen as chanced to be involved.  Everything
was of a brown crimson,--of a crimson that had become brown.
Sunlight, real genial light of the sun, never made its way there,
and no amount of candles could illuminate the gloom of that
brownness.  The windows were never washed; the ceiling was of a
dark brown; the old Turkey carpet was thick with dust, and brown
withal.  The ungainly office-table, in the middle of the room, had
been covered with black leather, but that was now brown.  There was
a bookcase full of dingy brown law books in a recess on one side of
the fireplace, but no one had touched them for years, and over the
chimney-piece hung some old legal pedigree table, black with soot.
Such was the room which Mr Fothergill always used in the business
house of Messrs Gumption & Gagebee, in South Audley Street, near to
Park Lane.

I once heard this room spoken of by an old friend of mine, one Mr
Gresham of Greshambury, the father of Frank Gresham, who was now
about to purchase that part of the Chace of Chaldicotes which
belonged to the Crown.  He also had had evil days, though now
happily they were past and gone; and he, too, had sat in that room,
and listened to the voice of men who were powerful over his
property, and intended to use that power.  The idea which he left
on my mind was much the same as that which I had entertained, when
a boy, of a certain room in the castle of Udolpho.  There was a
chair in that Udolpho room in which those who sat were dragged out
limb by limb, the head one way and the legs another; the fingers
were dragged off from the hands, and the teeth out from the jaws,
and the hair off the head, and the flesh from the bones, and the
joints from their sockets, till there was nothing left but a
lifeless trunk seated in the chair.  Mr Gresham, as he told me,
always sat in the same seat, and the tortures were suffered when so
seated, the dislocations of his property which he was forced to
discuss, the operations of his very self which he was forced to
witness, made me regard that room as worse than the chamber of
Udolpho.  He, luckily--a rare instance of good fortune--had lived
to see all his bones and joints put together again, and flourishing
soundly; but he never could speak of the room without horror.  'No
consideration on earth,' he once said to me, very solemnly,--'I say
none, should make me again enter that room.'  And indeed this
feeling was so strong with him, that from the day when his affairs
took a turn he would never even walk down South Audley Street.  On
the morning in question into this torture-chamber Mr Sowerby went,
and there, after some two or three minutes, he was joined by Mr
Fothergill.

Mr Fothergill was, in one respect, like to his friend Sowerby.  He
enacted two together different persons on occasions which were
altogether different.  Generally speaking, with the world at large,
he was a jolly, rollicking, popular man, fond of eating and
drinking, known to be devoted to the duke's interests, and supposed
to be somewhat unscrupulous, or at any rate hard, when they were
concerned; but in other respects a good-natured fellow: and there
was a report about that he had once lent somebody money, without
charging him interest or taking security.  On the present occasion
Sowerby saw at a glance that he had come thither with all the
aptitudes and appurtenances of his business about him.  He walked
into the room with a short, quick step; there was no smile on his
face as he shook hands with his old friend; he brought with him a
box laden with papers and parchments, and he had not been a minute
in the room before he was seated in one of the old dingy chairs.
'How long have you been in town, Fothergill?' said Sowerby, still
standing with his back against the chimney.  He had resolved on
only one thing--that nothing should induce him to touch, look at,
or listen to any of those papers.  He knew well enough that no good
would come of that.  He also had his own lawyers, to see that he
was pilfered according to rule.

'How long?  Since the day before yesterday.  I never was so busy in
my life.  The duke, as usual, wants to have everything done at
once.'

'If he wants to have all that I owe him paid at once, he is like to
be out in his reckoning.'

'Ah, well; I'm glad you are ready to come quickly to business,
because it's always best.  Won't you come and sit down here?'

'No, thank you.  I'll stand.'

'But we shall have to go through these figures, you know.'

'Not a figure, Fothergill.  What good would it do?  None to me, and
none to you either, as I take it.  If there is anything wrong,
Potter's fellows will find it out.  What is it the duke wants?'

'Well; to tell the truth, he wants his money.'

'In one sense, and that the main sense, he has got it.  He gets his
interest regularly, does not he?'

'Pretty well for that, seeing how times are.  But, Sowerby, that's
a nonsense.  You understand the duke as well as I do, and you know
very well what he wants.  He has given you time, and if you had
taken any steps towards getting the money, you might have saved the
property.'

'A hundred and eighty thousand pounds!  What steps could I take to
get that?  Fly a bill, and let Tozer have it to get cash on it in
the City!'

'We hoped you were going to marry.'

'That's all off.'

'Then I don't think you can blame the duke for looking for his
own.  It does not suit him to have so large a sum standing out any
longer.  You see, he wants land, and will have it.  Had you paid
off what you owed him, he would have purchased the Crown property;
and now, it seems young Gresham has bid against him, and is to have
it.  This has riled him, and I may as well tell you fairly, that he
is determined to have either money or marbles.'

'You mean that I am to be dispossessed.  Then I must say the duke is
treating me most uncommonly ill.'

'Well, Sowerby, I can't see it.'

'I can, though.  He has his money like clock-work; and he has
bought up these debts from persons who would have never disturbed
me as long as they got their interest.'

'Haven't you had the seat?'

'The seat! and it is expected that I am to pay for that?'

'I don't see that any one is asking you to pay for it.  You are
like a great many other people that I know.  You want to eat your
cake and have it.  You have been eating it for the last twenty
years, and now you think yourself very ill-used because the duke
wants to have his turn.'

'I shall think myself very ill-used if he sells me out--worse than
ill-used.  I do not want to use strong language, but it will be
more than ill-usage.  I can hardly believe that he really means to
treat me in that way.'

'It is very hard that he should want his own money!'

'It is not his money he wants.  It is my property.'

'And has he not paid for it?  Have you not had the price of your
property?  Now, Sowerby, it is of no use for you to be angry; you
have known for the last three years what was coming on you as well
as I did.  Why should the duke lend you money without an object?
Of course he has his own views.  But I do say this; he has not hurried
you; and had you been able to do anything to save the place you
might have done it.  You have had time enough to look about you.'
Sowerby still stood in the place in which he had first fixed
himself, and now for awhile he remained silent.  His face was very
stern, and there was in his countenance none of those winning looks
which often told so powerfully with his young friends,--which had
caught Lord Lufton and had charmed Mark Robarts.  The world was
going against him, and things around him were coming to an end.  He
was beginning to perceive that he had in truth eaten his cake and
that there was now little left for him to do,--unless he chose to
blow out his brains.  He had said to Lord Lufton that a man's back
should be broad enough for any burden with which he himself might
load it.  Could he now boast that his back was broad enough and
strong enough for this burden?  But he had even then, at that
bitter moment, a strong remembrance that it behoved him still to be
a man.  His final ruin was coming on him, and he would soon be
swept away out of the knowledge and memory of those with whom he
had lived.  But, nevertheless, he would bear himself well to the
last.  It was true that he had made his own bed, and he understood
the justice which required him to lie upon it.

During this time Fothergill occupied himself with the papers.  He
continued to turn over one sheet after another, as though he were
deeply engaged in money considerations and calculations.  But, in
truth, during all that time he did not read a word.  There was
nothing there for him to read.  The reading and writing, and the
arithmetic in such matters, are done by underlings--not by such big
men as Mr Fothergill.  His business was to tell Sowerby that he was
to go.  All those records there were of little use.  The duke had
the power; Sowerby knew the duke had the power; and Fothergill's
business was to explain that the duke meant to exercise his power.
He was used to the work, and went on turning over the papers and
pretending to read them, as though his doing so were of the
greatest moment.  'I shall see the duke myself,' Mr Sowerby said at
last, and there was something almost dreadful in the sound of his
voice.

'You know the duke won't see you on a matter of this kind.  He never
speaks to any one about money; you know that as well as I do.'

'By --, but he shall speak to me.  Never speak to any one about
money!  Why is he ashamed to speak of it when he loves it so
dearly?  He shall see me.'

'I have nothing further to say, Sowerby.  Of course I shan't ask
his grace to see you; and if you force your way in on him, you know
what will happen.  It won't be my doing if he is set against you.
Nothing that you say to me in that way,--nothing that anybody ever
says,--goes beyond myself.'

'I shall manage the matter through my own lawyer,' said Sowerby;
and then he took his hat, and, without uttering another word, left
the room.

We know not what may be the nature of that eternal punishment to
which those will be doomed who shall be judged to have been evil to
the last; but methinks that no more terrible torment can be devised
than the memory of self-imposed ruin.  What wretchedness can exceed
that of remembering from day to day that the race has been all run,
and has been altogether lost; that the last chance has gone, and
has gone in vain; that the end has come, and with it disgrace,
contempt, and self-scorn--disgrace that never can be redeemed,
contempt that never can be removed, and self-scorn that will eat
into one's vitals for ever?  Mr Sowerby was now fifty; he had
enjoyed the chances in life; and as he walked back, up South Audley
Street, he could not but think of the uses he had made of them.  He
had fallen into the possession of a fine property on the attainment
of manhood; he had been endowed with more than average gifts of
intellect; never-failing health had been given to him, and a vision
fairly clear in discerning good from evil; and now to what a pass
he had brought himself!  And that man Fothergill had put all this
before him in so terribly clear a light!  Now that the day for his
final demolishment had arrived, the necessity that he should be
demolished--finished away at once, out of sight and out of
mind--had not been softened, or, as it were, half hidden, by any
ambiguous phrase.  'You have had your cake, and eaten it--eaten it
greedily.  Is not that sufficient for you?  Would you eat your cake
twice?  Would you have a succession of cakes?  No, my friend; there
is no succession of these cakes for those who eat them greedily.
Your proposition is not a fair one, and we who have the whip-hand
of you will not listen to it.  Be good enough to vanish.  Permit
yourself to be swept quietly into the dunghill.  All that there was
about you of value has departed from you; and allow me to say that
you are now--rubbish.'  And then the ruthless besom comes with
irresistible rush, and the rubbish is swept away into the pit,
there to be hidden for ever from the light.  And the pity of it is
this--that a man, if he will only restrain his greed, may eat his
cake and yet have it; aye, and in so doing will have twice more the
flavour of the cake than he who with gourmandizing maw will devour
his dainty all at once.  Cakes in this world will grow by being fed
on, if only the feeder be not too insatiate.  On all which wisdom
Mr Sowerby pondered with sad heart and very melancholy mind as he
walked away from the premises of Messrs Gumption & Gagebee.  His
intention had been to go down to the House after leaving Mr
Fothergill, but the prospect of immediate ruin had been too much
for him, and he knew that he was not fit to be seen at once among
the haunts of men.  And he had intended also to go down to
Barchester early on the following morning--only for a few hours,
that he might make further arrangements respecting that bill which
Robarts had accepted for him.  That bill--the second one--had now
become due, and Mr Tozer had been with him.

'Now it ain't no use in life, Mr Sowerby,' Tozer had said.  'I ain't
got the paper myself, nor didn't hold it, not two hours.  It went
away through Tom Tozer; you knows that, Mr Sowerby, as well as I
do.'  Now, whenever Tozer, Mr Sowerby's Tozer, spoke of Tom Tozer,
Mr Sowerby knew that seven devils were being evoked, each worse
than the first devil.  Mr Sowerby did feel something like sincere
regard, or rather love, for that poor parson whom he inveigled into
mischief, and would fain save him, if it were possible, from the
Tozer fang.  Mr Forrest, of the Barchester bank, would probably
take up that last five hundred pound bill, on behalf of Mr
Robarts,--only it would be needful that he, Sowerby, should run
down and see that it was properly done.  As to the other bill--the
former and lesser one--as to that, Mr Tozer would probably be quiet
for a while.  Such had been Sowerby's programme for these two
days; but now--what further possibility was there now that he
should care for Robarts, or any other human being; he that was to be
swept away at once into the dung-heap?  In this frame of mind he
walked up South Audley Street, and crossed one side of Grosvenor
Square, and went almost mechanically into Green Street.  At the
farther end of Green Street, near to Park Lane, lived Mr and Mrs
Harold Smith.



CHAPTER XXVIII

DR THORNE

When Miss Dunstable met her friends the Greshams--young Frank
Gresham and his wife--at Gatherum Castle, she immediately asked
after one Dr Thorne, who was Mrs Gresham's uncle.  Dr Thorne was an
old bachelor, in whom both as a man and a doctor Miss Dunstable was
inclined to place much confidence.  Not that she had ever entrusted
the cure of her bodily ailments to Dr Thorne--for she kept a doctor
of her own, Dr Easyman, for this purpose--and it may moreover be
said that she rarely had bodily ailments requiring the care of any
doctor.  But she always spoke of Dr Thorne among her friends as a
man of wonderful erudition and judgement; and had once or twice
asked and acted on his advice in matters of much moment.  Dr Thorne
was not a man accustomed to the London world; he kept no house
there, and seldom even visited the metropolis; but Miss Dunstable
had known him at Greshamsbury, where he lived, and there had for
some months past grown up a considerable intimacy between them.  He
was now staying at the house of his niece, Mrs Gresham; but the
chief reason of his coming up had been a desire expressed by Miss
Dunstable, that he should do so.  She had wished for his advice;
and at the instigation of his niece he had visited London and given
it.  The special piece of business as to which Dr Thorne had thus
been summoned from the bedside of Lady Arabella Gresham, to whose
son his niece was married, related to certain large money
interests, as to which one might have imagined that Dr Thorne's
advice would not be peculiarly valuable.  He had never been much
versed in such matters on his own account, and was knowing neither
in the ways of the share market, nor in the prices of land.  But
Miss Dunstable was a lady accustomed to have her own way, and to be
indulged in her own wishes without being called on to give adequate
reasons for them.  'My dear,' she said to young Mrs Gresham, 'if
your uncle don't come up to London now, when I make such a point
of it, I shall think that he is a bear and a savage; and I
certainly will never speak to him again,--or to Frank--or to you;
so you had better see to it.'  Mrs Gresham had not probably taken
her friend's threat as meaning quite all that it threatened.  Miss
Dunstable habitually used strong language; and those who knew her
well, generally understood when she was to be taken as expressing
her thoughts by figures of speech.  In this instance she had not
meant it at all; but, nevertheless, Mrs Gresham had used violent
influence in bringing the poor doctor up to London.  'Besides,'
said Miss Dunstable, 'I have resolved on having the doctor at my
conversazione, and if he won't come of himself, I shall go down and
fetch him.  I have set my heart on trumping my dear friend Mrs
Proudie's best card; so I mean to get everybody!'

The upshot of all this was, that the doctor did come up to town,
and remained the best part of a week at his niece's house in
Portman Square--to the great disgust of Lady Arabella, who
conceived that she must die if neglected for three days.  As to the
matter of business, I have no doubt but that he was of great use.
He was possessed of common sense and an honest purpose; and I am
inclined to think that they are often a sufficient counterpoise to
considerable amount of worldly experience also--!  True! but then
it is difficult to get everything.  But with that special matter of
business we need not have any further concern.  We will presume it
to have been discussed and completed, and will not dress ourselves
for Miss Dunstable's conversazione.  But it must not be supposed
that she was so poor in genius as to call her party openly by a
name borrowed for the nonce from Mrs Proudie.  It was only among
her specially intimate friends, Mrs Harold Smith and some few dozen
others, that she indulged in this little joke.  There had been
nothing in the least pretentious about the card with which she
summoned her friends to her house on this occasion.  She had merely
signified in some ordinary way, that she would be glad to see them
as soon after nine o'clock on Thursday evening, the -- instant, as
might be convenient.  But all the world understood that all the
world was to be gathered together at Miss Dunstable's house on the
night in question--that an effort was to be made to bring together
people of all classes, gods and giants, saints and sinners, those
rabid through the strength of their morality, such as our dear
friend Lady Lufton, and those who were rabid in the opposite
direction, such as Lady Hartletop, the Duke of Omnium, and Mr
Sowerby.  An orthodox martyr had been caught from the East, and an
oily latter-day St Paul, from the other side of the water--to the
horror and amazement of Archdeacon Grantly, who had come up all the
way from Plumstead to be present on the occasion.  Mrs Grantly also
had hankered to be there; but when she heard of the presence of the
latter-day St Paul, she triumphed loudly over her husband, who had
made no offer to take her.  That Lords Brock and De Terrier were to
be at the gathering was nothing.  The pleasant king of the gods and
the courtly chief of the giants could shake hands with each other
in any house with the greatest pleasure; but men were to meet who,
in reference to each other, could shake nothing but their heads or
their fists.  Supplehouse was to be there, and Harold Smith, who
now hated the enemy with a hatred surpassing that of women--or even
of politicians.  The minor gods, it was thought, would congregate
together in one room, very bitter in their present state of
banishment; and the minor giants in another, terribly loud in their
triumph.  That is the fault of the giants, who, otherwise, are not
bad fellows; they are unable to endure the weight of any temporary
success.  When attempting Olympus--and this work of attempting is
doubtless their natural condition--they scratch and scramble,
diligently using both toes and fingers, with a mixture of
good-humoured virulence and self-satisfied industry that is
gratifying to all parties.  But, whenever their efforts are
unexpectedly, and for themselves unfortunately successful, they are
so taken aback that they lose the power of behaving themselves with
even gigantesque propriety.

Such, so great and so various, was to be the intended gathering
at Miss Dunstable's house.  She herself laughed, and quizzed
herself--speaking of the affair to Mrs Harold Smith as though it
were an excellent joke, and to Mrs Proudie as though she were
simply emulous of rivalling those world-famous assemblies of
Gloucester Place; but the town at large knew that an effort was
being made, and it was supposed that even Miss Dunstable was
somewhat nervous.  In spite of her excellent joking it was presumed
that she would be unhappy if she failed.  To Mrs Frank Gresham she
did speak with some little seriousness.  'But why on earth should
you give yourself all this trouble?' that lady had said, when Miss
Dunstable owned that she was doubtful, and unhappy in her doubts,
as to the coming of one of the great colleagues of Mr Supplehouse.
'When such hundreds are coming, big wigs and little wigs of all
shades, what can it matter whether Mr Towers be there or not?'  But
Miss Dunstable had answered almost with a screech--

'My dear, it will be nothing without him.  You don't understand;
but the fact is that Tom Towers is everybody and everything at
present.'  And then, by no means for the first time, Mrs Gresham
began to lecture her friend as to her vanity; in answer to which
lecture Miss Dunstable mysteriously hinted, that if she were only
allowed her full swing on this occasion,--if all the world would
now indulge her, she would--She did not quite say what she would
do, but the inference drawn by Mrs Gresham was this: that if the
incense now offered on the altar of Fashion were accepted, Miss
Dunstable would at once abandon the pomp and vanities of this
wicked world, and all the sinful lusts of the flesh.

'But the doctor will stay, my dear?  I hope I may look on that as
fixed.'  Miss Dunstable, in making this demand on the doctor's
time, showed an energy quite equal to that with which she invoked
the gods that Tom Towers might not be absent.  Now, to tell the
truth, Dr Thorne had at first thought it very unreasonable that he
should be asked to remain up in London in order that he might be
present at an evening party, and had for a while pertinaciously
refused; but when he learned that three or four prime ministers
were expected, and that it was possible that even Tom Towers might
be there in the flesh, his philosophy also had become weak, and he
had written to Lady Arabella to say that his prolonged absence for
two days further must be endured, and that the mild tonics, morning
and evening, might be continued.  But why should Miss Dunstable be
so anxious that Dr Thorne should be present on this grand
occasion?  Why, indeed, should she be so frequently inclined to
summon him away from his country practice, his compounding board,
and his useful ministrations to rural ailments?  The doctor was
connected with her by no ties of blood.  Their friendship, intimate
as it was, had as yet been but of short date.  She was a very rich
woman, capable of purchasing all manner of advice and good counsel,
whereas he was so far from being rich, that any continued
disturbance to his practice might be inconvenient to him.
Nevertheless, Miss Dunstable seemed to have no more compunction in
making calls upon his time, than she might have felt had he been
her brother.  No ideas on this matter suggested themselves to the
doctor himself.  He was a simple-minded man, taking things as they
came, and especially so taking things that came pleasantly.  He
liked Miss Dunstable, and was gratified by her friendship, and did
not think of asking himself whether she had a right to put him to
trouble and inconvenience.  But such ideas did occur to Mrs
Gresham, the doctor's niece.  Had Miss Dunstable any object, and if
so, what object?  Was it simply veneration for the doctor, or was
it caprice?  Was it eccentricity--or could it possibly be love?  In
speaking of the ages of these two friends it may be said in round
terms that the lady was well past forty, and that the gentleman was
well past fifty.  Under such circumstances could it be love?  The
lady, too, was one who had had offers almost by the dozen,--offers
from men of rank, from men of fashion, and from men of power; from
men endowed with personal attractions, with pleasant manners, with
cultivated tastes, and with eloquent tongues.  Not only had she
loved none such, but by none such had she been cajoled into an idea
that it was possible that she could love them.  That Dr Thorne's
tastes were cultivated, and his manners pleasant, might probably be
admitted by three or four old friends in the country who valued
him; but the world in London, that world to which Miss Dunstable
was accustomed, and which was apparently becoming dearer to her day
by day, would not have regarded the doctor as a man likely to
become the object of a lady's passion.  But nevertheless the idea
did occur to Mrs Gresham.  She had been brought up at the elbow of
the country practitioner; she had lived with him as though she had
been his daughter; she had been for years the ministering angel of
his household; and, till her heart had opened to the natural
love of womanhood, all her closest sympathies had been with him.  In
her eyes the doctor was all but perfect; and it did not seem to her
to be out of the question that Miss Dunstable should have fallen in
love with her uncle.

Miss Dunstable once said to Mrs Harold Smith that it was possible
that she might marry, the only condition then expressed being this,
that the man elected should be one who was quite indifferent as to
money.  Mrs Harold Smith, who, by her friends, was presumed to know
the world with tolerable accuracy, had replied that such a man Miss
Dunstable would never find in this world.  All this had passed in
that half-comic of banter which Miss Dunstable so commonly used
when conversing with such friends as Mrs Harold Smith; but she had
spoken words of the same import more than once to Mrs Gresham; and
Mrs Gresham, putting two and two together as women do, had made
four of the little sum; and as the final result of the calculation,
determined that Miss Dunstable would marry Dr Thorne if Dr Thorne
would ask her.  And then Mrs Gresham began to rethink herself of
two other questions.  Would it be well that her uncle should marry
Miss Dunstable? and if so, would it be possible to induce him to
make such a proposition?  After the consideration of many pros and
cons, and the balancing of very various arguments, Mrs Gresham
thought that the arrangement on the whole might not be a bad one.
For Miss Dunstable she herself had a sincere affection, which was
shared by her husband.  She had often grieved at the sacrifices
Miss Dunstable made to the world, thinking that her friend was
falling into vanity, indifference, and an ill mode of life; but
such a marriage as this would probably cure all that.  And then as
to Dr Thorne himself, to whose benefit were of course applied to
Mrs Gresham's most earnest thoughts in this matter, she could not
but think that he would be happier married than he was single.  In
point of temper, no woman could stand higher than Miss Dunstable;
no one had ever heard of her being in an ill-humour; and then
though Mrs Gresham was gifted with a mind which was far removed
from being mercenary, it was impossible not to feel that some
benefit must accrue from the bride's wealth.  Mary Thorne, the
present Mrs Frank Gresham, had herself been a great heiress.
Circumstances had weighed her hand with enormous possessions, and
hitherto she had not realized the truth of that lesson which would
teach us to believe that happiness and riches are incompatible.
Therefore she resolved that it might be well if the doctor and Miss
Dunstable were brought together.  But could the doctor be induced
to make such an offer?  Mrs Gresham acknowledged a terrible
difficulty in looking at the matter from that point of view.  Her
uncle was fond of Miss Dunstable; but she was sure that an idea of
such a marriage had never entered his head; that it would be very
difficult--almost impossible--to create such an idea; and that if
the idea were there, the doctor could hardly be instigated to make
the proposition.  Looking at the matter as a whole, she feared that
the match was not practicable.

On the day of Miss Dunstable's party, Mrs Gresham and her uncle
dined together alone in Portman Square.  Mr Gresham was not yet in
Parliament, but an almost immediate vacancy was expected in his
division of the county, and it was known that no one could stand
against him with any chance of success.  This threw him much among
the politicians of his party--those giants, namely, who it would
be his business to support--and on this account he was a good deal
away from his own house at the present moment.  'Politics make a
terrible demand on a man's time,' he said to his wife; and then
went down to dine at his club in Pall Mall, with sundry other young
philogeants.  On men of that class politics do make a great
demand--at the hour of dinner and thereabouts.

'What do you think of Miss Dunstable?' said Mrs Gresham to her
uncle, as they sat together over their coffee.  She added nothing
to the question, but asked it in all its baldness.

'Think about her!' said the doctor; 'well, Mary, what do you think
about her?  I dare say we think the same.'

'But that's not the question.  What do you think about her?  Do you
feel she's honest?'

'Honest?  Oh, yes, certainly--very honest, I should say.'

'And good-tempered?'

'Uncommonly good-tempered.'

'And affectionate?'

'Well, yes; and affectionate.  I should certainly say that she is
affectionate.'

'I'm sure she's clever.'

'Yes, I think she's clever.'

'And, and--and womanly in her feelings.'  Mrs Gresham felt that she
could not quite say lady-like, though she would fain have done so
if she dared.

'Oh, certainly,' said the doctor.  'But, Mary, why are you
dissecting Miss Dunstable's character with so much ingenuity?'

'Well, uncle, I will tell you why; because--' and Mrs Gresham,
while she was speaking, got up from her chair, and going round the
table to her uncle's side, put her arm round his neck till her face
was close to his, and then continued speaking as she stood behind
him out of his sight--'because--I think that Miss Dunstable is--is
very fond of you; and that it would make her happy if you
would--ask her to be your wife.'

'Mary!' said the doctor, turning round with an endeavour to look
his niece in the face.

'I am quite in earnest, uncle--quite in earnest.  From little
things that she has said, and little things that I have seen, I do
believe what I now tell you.'

'And you want me to--'

'Dear uncle; my own one darling uncle, I want you only to do that
which will make you--make you happy.  What is Miss Dunstable to me
compared to you?'  And then she stooped down and kissed him.  The
doctor was apparently too much astounded by the intimation given
him to make any further immediate reply.  His niece, seeing this,
left him that she might go and dress; and when they met again in the
drawing-room Frank Gresham was with them.



CHAPTER XXIX

MISS DUNSTABLE AT HOME

Miss Dunstable did not look like a love-lorn maiden, as she stood
in a small ante-chamber at the top of her drawing-room stairs,
receiving her guests.  Her house was one of those abnormal
mansions, which are to be seen here and there in London, built in
compliance rather with the rules of rural architecture, than with
those which usually govern the erection of city streets and town
terraces.  It stood back from its brethren, and alone, so that its
owner could walk around it.  It was approached by a short
carriage-way; the chief door was in the back of the building; and
the front of the house looked on to one of the parks.  Miss
Dunstable in procuring it had had her usual luck.  It had been
built by an eccentric millionaire at an enormous cost; and the
eccentric millionaire, after living in it for twelve months, had
declared that it did not possess a single comfort, and that it was
deficient in most of those details which, in point of house
accommodation, are necessary to the very existence of man.
Consequently the mansion was sold, and Miss Dunstable was the
purchaser.  Cranbourn House it had been named, and its present
owner had made no change in that respect; but the world at large
very generally called it Ointment Hall, and Miss Dunstable herself
as frequently used that name for it as any other.  It was
impossible to quiz Miss Dunstable with any success, because she
always joined in the joke herself.  Not a word further had passed
between Mrs Gresham and Dr Thorne on the subject of their last
conversation; but the doctor, as he entered the lady's portals
amongst a tribe of servants and in a glare of light, and saw the
crowd before him and the crowd behind him, felt that it was quite
impossible that he should ever be at home there.  It might be all
right that a Miss Dunstable should live in this way, but it could
not be right that the wife of Dr Thorne should so live.  But all
this was a matter of the merest speculation, for he was well
aware--as he said to himself a dozen times--that his niece had
blundered strangely in her reading of Miss Dunstable's character.

When the Gresham party entered the ante-room into which the
staircase opened, they found Miss Dunstable standing there
surrounded by a few of her most intimate allies.  Mrs Harold Smith
was sitting quite close to her; Dr Easyman was reclining on a sofa
against the wall, and the lady who habitually lived with Miss
Dunstable was by his side.  One or two others were there also, so
that a little running conversation was kept up in order to relieve
Miss Dunstable of the tedium which might otherwise be engendered by
the work she had in hand.  As Mrs Gresham, leaning on her husband's
arm, entered the room, she saw the back of Mrs Proudie, as that
lady made her way through the opposite door, leaning on the arm of
the bishop.  Mrs Harold Smith had apparently recovered from the
annoyance which she must no doubt have felt when Miss Dunstable so
utterly rejected her suit on behalf of her brother.  If any feeling
had existed, even for a day, calculated to put a stop to the
intimacy between the two ladies, that feeling had altogether died
away, for Mrs Harold Smith was conversing with her friend, quite in
the old way.  She made some remark on each of the guests as they
passed by, and apparently did so in a manner satisfactory to the
owner of the house, for Miss Dunstable answered with her kindest
smiles, and in that genial, happy tone of voice which gave its
peculiar character to her good humour: 'She is quite convinced that
you are a mere plagiarist in what you are doing,' said Mrs Harold
Smith, speaking of Mrs Proudie.

'And so I am.  I don't suppose there can be anything very original
nowadays about an evening party.'

'She thinks you are copying her.'

'And why not?  I copy everybody that I see, more or less. You did
not at first begin to wear petticoats out of your own head?  If Mrs
Proudie has any such pride as that, pray don't rob her of it.
Here's the doctor and the Greshams.  Mary, my darling, how are
you?' and in spite of all her grandeur of apparel, Miss Dunstable
took hold of Mrs Gresham and kissed her--to the disgust of the
dozen and half of the distinguished fashionable world who were
passing up the stairs behind.  The doctor was somewhat repressed in
his mode of address by the communication which had so lately been
made to him.  Miss Dunstable was now standing on the very top of
the pinnacle of wealth, and seemed to him to be not only so much
above his reach, but also so far removed from his track of life,
that he could not in any way put himself on a level with her.  He
could neither aspire so high nor descend so low; and thinking of
this he spoke to Miss Dunstable as though there were some great
distance between them,--as though there had been no hours of
intimate friendship down at Greshambury.  There been such hours,
during which Miss Dunstable and Dr Thorne had lived as though they
belonged to the same world: and this at any rate may be said of
Miss Dunstable, that she had no idea of forgetting them.

Dr Thorne merely gave her his hand, and then prepared to pass on.

'Don't go, doctor,' she said; 'for heaven's sake, don't go yet.  I
don't know when I may catch you if you get in there.  I shan't be
able to follow you for the next two hours.  Lady Meredith, I am so
much obliged to you for coming--your mother will be here, I hope.
Oh, I am so glad!  From her you know that is quite a favour.  You,
Sir George, are half a sinner yourself, so I don't think so much
about it.'

'Oh, quite so,' said Sir George; 'perhaps rather the largest half.'

'The men divide the world into gods and giants,' said Miss
Dunstable.  'We women have our divisions also.  We are saints or
sinners according to our party.  The worst of it is, that we rat
almost as often as you do.'  Whereupon Sir George laughed, and
passed on.

'I know, doctor, you don't like this kind of thing,' she continued,
'but there is no reason why you should indulge yourself altogether
in your way, more than another, is there, Frank?'

'I am not so sure but he does like it,' said Mr Gresham.  'There are
some of your reputed friends whom he owns that he is anxious to
see.'

'Are there?  Then there is some hope of his ratting too.  But he'll
never make a good staunch sinner; will he, Mary?  You're too old to
learn new tricks; eh, doctor?'

'I am afraid I am,' said the doctor with a faint laugh.

'Does Dr Thorne rank himself among the army of saints?' asked Mrs
Harold Smith.

'Decidedly,' said Miss Dunstable.  'But you must always remember
that there are saints of different orders; are there not, Mary? and
nobody supposes that the Franciscans and the Dominicans agree very
well together.  Dr Thorne does not belong to the school of St
Proudie, of Barchester; he would prefer the priestess whom I see
coming round the corner of the staircase, with a very famous young
novice at her elbow.'

'From all that I can hear, you will have to reckon with Miss
Grantly among the sinners,' said Mrs Harold Smith--seeing that Lady
Lufton with her young friend was approaching--'unless indeed, you
can make a saint of Lady Hartletop.'  And then Lady Lufton entered
the room, and Miss Dunstable came forward to meet her with more
quiet respect in her manner than she had as yet shown to many of
her guests.  'I am much obliged to you for coming, Lady Lufton,'
she said, 'and the more so, for bringing Miss Grantly with you.'
Lady Lufton uttered some pretty little speech, during which Dr
Thorne came up and shook hands with her; as did also Frank Gresham
and his wife.  There was a county acquaintance between the Framley
people and the Greshambury people, and therefore there was a little
general conversation before Lady Lufton passed out of the small
room into what Mrs Proudie would have called the noble suite of
apartments.  'Papa will be here,' said Miss Grantly; 'at least so I
understand.  I have not seen him yet myself.'

'Oh yes, he has promised me,' said Miss Dunstable; 'and the
archdeacon, I know, will keep his word.  I should by no means have
the proper ecclesiastical balance without him.'

'Papa always does keep his word,' said Miss Grantly, in a tone that
was almost severe.  She had not at all understood poor Miss
Dunstable's little joke, or at any rate, she was too dignified to
respond to it.

'I understand that old Sir John is to accept the Chiltern Hundreds
at once,' said Lady Lufton, in a half whisper to Frank Gresham.

Lady Lufton had always taken a keen interest in the politics of
East Barsetshire, and was now desirous of expressing her
satisfaction that a Gresham should again sit for the county.  The
Greshams had been old county members for Barsetshire, time out of
mind.

'Oh yes; I believe so,' said Frank, blushing.  He was still young
enough to feel most ashamed of putting himself forward for such
honours.

'There will be no contest, of course,' said Lady Lufton,
confidently.  'There seldom is in East Barsetshire, I am happy to
say.  But if there were, every tenant at Framley would vote on the
right side; I can assure you of that.  Lord Lufton was saying to me
only this morning.'  Frank Gresham made a pretty little speech in
reply, such as young sucking politicians are expected to make; and
this, with sundry other small courteous murmurings, detained the
Lufton party for a minute or two in the ante-chamber.  In the
meantime the world was pressing on and passing to the four or five
large reception-rooms--the noble suite which was already piercing
poor Mrs Proudie's heart with envy to the very core.  'These are
the sort of rooms,' she said to herself unconsciously, 'which ought
to be provided by the country for the use of the bishops.'

'But the people are not brought enough together,' she said to her
lord.

'No, no; I don't think they are,' said the bishop.

'And that is so essential for a conversazione,' continued Mrs
Proudie.  'Now in Gloucester Place--'  But we will not record all
her adverse criticisms, as Lady Lufton is waiting for us in the
ante-room.  And now another arrival of moment had taken place;--and
arrival indeed of very great moment.  To tell the truth, Miss
Dunstable's heart had been set upon having two special persons; and
though no stone had been left unturned,--no stone which could be
turned with discretion,--she was still left in doubt as to both
these two wondrous potentates.  At the very moment of which we are
now speaking, light and airy as she appeared to be--for it was her
character to be light and airy--her mind was torn with doubts.  If
the wished-for two would come, her evening would be thoroughly
successful; but if not, all her trouble would have been thrown
away, and the thing would have been a failure; and there were
circumstances connected with the present assembly which made Miss
Dunstable very anxious that she should not fail.  That the two
great ones of the earth were Tom Towers of the Jupiter, and the
Duke of Omnium, need hardly be expressed in words.  And now, at
this very moment, as Lady Lufton was making her civil speeches to
young Gresham, apparently in no hurry to move on, and while Miss
Dunstable was endeavouring to whisper something into the doctor's
ear, which would make him feel himself at home in this new world, a
sound was heard which made that lady know that half her wish had at
any rate been granted to her.  A sound was heard--but only by her
own and one other attentive pair of ears.  Mrs Harold Smith had
also caught the name, and knew that the duke was approaching.  There
was great glory and triumph in this; but why had his grace come at
so unchancy a moment?  Miss Dunstable had been fully aware of the
impropriety of bringing Lady Lufton and the Duke of Omnium into the
same house at the same time; but when she had asked Lady Lufton,
she had been led to believe that there was no hope of obtaining the
duke; and then, when that hope had dawned upon her, she had
comforted herself with the reflection that the two suns, though
they might for some few minutes be in the same hemisphere, could
hardly be expected to clash, or come across each other's orbits.
Her rooms were large and would be crowded; the duke would probably
do little more than walk through them once, and Lady Lufton would
certainly be surrounded by persons of her own class.  Thus Miss
Dunstable had comforted herself.  But now all things were going
wrong, and Lady Lufton would find herself in close contiguity to
the nearest representative of the Satanic agency, which, according
to her ideas, was allowed to walk this nether English world of
ours.  Would she scream? or indignantly retreat out of the
house?--or would she proudly raise her head, and with outstretched
hand and audible voice, boldly defy the devil and all his works?
In thinking of these things as the duke approached Miss Dunstable
almost lost her presence of mind.  But Mrs Harold Smith did not
lose hers.  'So here at last is the duke,' she said, in a tone
intended to catch the express attention of Lady Lufton.

Mrs Smith had calculated that there might still be time for her
ladyship to pass on and avoid the interview.  But Lady Lufton, if
she heard the words, did not completely understand them.  At any
rate they did not convey to her mind at the moment the meaning they
were intended to convey.  She paused to whisper a last little
speech to Frank Gresham, and then looking round, found that the
gentleman who was pressing against her dress was--the Duke of
Omnium!  On this great occasion, when the misfortune could no
longer be avoided, Miss Dunstable was by no means beneath herself
or her character.  She deplored the calamity, but she now saw that
it was only left to her to make the best of it.  The duke had
honoured her by coming to her house, and she was bound to welcome
him, though in doing so she should bring Lady Lufton to her last
gasp.  'Duke,' she said, 'I am greatly honoured by this kindness on
the part of your grace.  I hardly expected that you would be so
good to me.'

'The goodness is all on the other side,' said the duke, bowing over
her hand.  And then in the usual course of things this would have
been all.  The duke would have walked on and shown himself, would
have said a word or two to Lady Hartletop, to the bishop, to Mr
Gresham, and such like, and would have left the rooms by another
way, and quietly escaped.  This was the duty expected from him, and
this he would have done, and the value of the party would have been
increased by thirty per cent. by such doing; but now, as it was,
the newsmongers of the West End were likely to get much more out of
it.

Circumstances had so turned out, that he had absolutely been
pressed close against Lady Lufton, and she, when she heard the
voice, and was made positively acquainted with the fact of the
great man's presence by Miss Dunstable's words, turned round
quickly, but still with much feminine dignity, removing her dress
from the contact.  In doing this she was brought absolutely face to
face with the duke, so that each could not but look full at the
other.  'I beg your pardon,' said the duke.  They were the only
words that had ever passed between them, nor have they spoken to
each other since; but simple as they were, accompanied by the
little by-play of the speakers, they gave rise to a considerable
amount of ferment in the fashionable world.  Lady Lufton, as she
retreated back on to Dr Easyman, curtsied low; she curtsied low and
slowly, and with a haughty arrangement of her drapery that was all
her own; but the curtsy, though it was eloquent, did not say half
so much,--did not reprobate the habitual iniquities of the duke
with a voice nearly so potent, as that which was expressed in the
gradual fall of her eye, and the gradual pressure of her lips.  When
she commenced her curtsy she was looking full in her foe's face.  By
the time that she had completed it her eyes were turned upon the
ground, but there was an ineffable amount of scorn expressed in the
lines of her mouth.  She spoke no word and retreated, as modest
virtue and feminine weakness must ever retreat, before barefaced
vice and virile power; but nevertheless she was held by all the
world to have had the best of the encounter.  The duke, as he
begged her pardon, wore in his countenance that expression of
modified sorrow which is common to any gentleman who is supposed by
himself to have incommoded a lady.  But over and above this,--or
rather under it,--there was a slight smile of derision, as though
it were impossible for him to look upon the bearing of Lady Lufton
without some amount of ridicule.  All this was legible to eyes so
keen as those of Miss Dunstable and Mrs Harold Smith, and the duke
was known to be a master of this silent inward sarcasm; but even by
them,--by Miss Dunstable and Mrs Harold Smith,--it was admitted
that Lady Lufton had conquered.  When her ladyship again looked up,
the duke had passed on; she then resumed the care of Miss Grantly's
hand, and followed in among the company.

'That is what I call unfortunate,' said Miss Dunstable, as soon as
both belligerents had departed from the field of battle.  'The
Fates sometimes will be against me.'

'But they have not been all against you here,' said Mrs Harold
Smith.  'If you could arrive at her ladyship's private thoughts
to-morrow morning, you would find her to be quite happy in having met
the duke.  It will be years before she has done boasting of her
triumph, and it will be talked of by the young ladies of Framley
for the next three generations.'

The Gresham party, including Dr Thorne, had remained in the
ante-chamber during the battle.  The whole combat did not occupy
above two minutes, and the three of them were hemmed off from
escape by Lady Lufton's retreat into Dr Easyman's lap; but now
they, too, essayed to pass on.

'What, will you desert me,' said Miss Dunstable.  'Very well; but I
shall find you out by and by.  Frank, there is to be some dancing
in one of the rooms,--just to distinguish the affair from Mrs
Proudie's conversazione.  It would be stupid, you know, if all
conversazione's were alike; wouldn't it?  So I hope you will go and
dance.'

'There will, I presume, be another variation at feeding time,' said
Mrs Harold Smith.

'Oh, yes, certainly; I am the most vulgar of all wretches in that
respect.  I do love to set people eating and drinking.--Mr
Supplehouse, I am delighted to see you; but do tell me--' and then
she whispered with great energy into the ear of Mr Supplehouse, and
Mr Supplehouse again whispered into her ear.  'You think he will,
then?' said Miss Dunstable.  Mr Supplehouse assented; he did think
so; but he had no warrant for stating the circumstance as a fact.
And then he passed on, hardly looking at Mrs Harold Smith as he
passed.

'What a hang-dog countenance he has,' said that lady.

'Ah, you're prejudiced, my dear, and no wonder; as for myself, I
always liked Supplehouse.  He means mischief; but then mischief is
his trade, and he does not conceal it.  If I were a politician, I
should as soon think of being angry with Mr Supplehouse for turning
against me as I am now with a pin pricking me.  It's my own
awkwardness, and I ought to have known how to use the pin more
craftily.'

'But you must detest a man who professes to stand by his party, and
then does his best to ruin it.'

'So many have done that, my dear; and with much more success than
Mr Supplehouse!  All is fair in love and war,--and why not add
politics to the list?  If we could only agree to do that, it would
save us from such a deal of heartburning, and would make none of us
a bit the worse.'

Miss Dunstable's rooms, large as they were--'a noble suite of rooms
certainly, though perhaps a little too--too--too scattered, we will
say, eh, bishop?' were now nearly full, and would have been
inconveniently crowded, were it not that many who came only
remained for half an hour or so.  Space, however, had been kept for
the dancers--much to Mrs Proudie's consternation.  Not that she
disapproved of dancing in London, as a rule; but she was indignant
that the laws of a conversazione as re-established by herself in
the fashionable world, should be so violently infringed.

'Conversaziones will come to mean nothing,' she said to the bishop,
putting great stress on the latter word, 'nothing at all, if they
are to be treated in this way.'

'No, they won't; nothing in the least,' said the bishop.

'Dancing may be very well in its place,' said Mrs Proudie.

'I have never objected to it myself; that is, for the laity,' said
the bishop.

'But when people profess to assemble for higher objects,' said Mrs
Proudie, 'they ought to act up to the professions.'

'Otherwise they are no better than hypocrites,' said the bishop.

'A spade should be called a spade,' said Mrs Proudie.

'Decidedly,' said the bishop, assenting.

'And when I undertook the trouble and expense of introducing
conversaziones,' continued Mrs Proudie, with an evident feeling
that she had been ill-used, 'I had no idea of seeing the word
so--so--so misinterpreted;' and then observing certain desirable
acquaintances at the side of the room, she went across, leaving the
bishop to fend for himself.

Lady Lufton, having achieved her success, passed on to the dancing,
whither it was not probable that her enemy would follow her, and
she had not been there very long before she was joined by her son.
Her heart at the present moment was not quite satisfied at the
state of affairs with reference to Griselda.  She had gone so far
as to tell her young friend what were her own wishes; she had
declared her desire that Griselda should become her
daughter-in-law; but in answer to this Griselda herself had
declared nothing.  It was, to be sure, no more than natural that a
young lady so well brought up as Miss Grantly should show no signs
of passion till she was warranted in showing them by the
proceedings of the gentleman; but notwithstanding this, fully aware
as she was of the propriety of such reticence--Lady Lufton did
think that to her Griselda might have spoken some word evincing
that the alliance would be satisfactory to her.  Griselda, however,
had spoken no such word, nor had she uttered a syllable to show
that she would accept Lord Lufton if he did offer.  Then again she
had uttered no syllable to show that she would not accept him; but,
nevertheless, although she knew that the world had been talking
about her and Lord Dumbello, she stood up to dance with the future
marquess on every possible occasion.  All this did give annoyance
to Lady Lufton, who began to bethink herself that if she could not
quickly bring her little plan to a favourable issue, it might be
well for her to wash her hands of it.  She was still anxious for
the match on her son's account.  Griselda would, she did not doubt,
make a good wife; but Lady Lufton was not so sure as she once had
been that she herself would be able to keep up so strong a feeling
for her daughter-in-law as she had hitherto hoped to do.  'Ludovic,
have you been here long?' she said, smiling as she always did smile
when her eyes fell upon her son's face.

'This instant arrived; and I hurried on after you, as Miss
Dunstable told me you were here.  What a crowd she had?  Did you
see Lord Brock?'

'I did not observe him.'

'Or Lord De Terrier?  I saw them both in the centre room.'

'Lord De Terrier did me the honour of shaking hands with me as I
passed through.'

'I never saw such a mixture of people.  There is Mrs Proudie going
out of her mind because you are all going to dance.'

'The Miss Proudies dance,' said Griselda Grantly.

'But not at the conversaziones.  You don't see the difference.  And
I saw Spermoil there, looking as pleased as Punch.  He had quite a
circle of his own round him, and was chattering away as though he
were quite accustomed to the wickedness of the world.'

'There certainly are people here whom one would not have wished to
meet, had one thought of it,' said Lady Lufton, mindful of her late
engagement.

'But it must be all right, for I walked up the stairs with the
archdeacon.  That is an absolute proof, is it not, Miss Grantly?'

'I have no fears.  When I am with your mother I know I must be
safe.'

'I am not so sure of that,' said Lord Lufton, laughing.  'Mother,
you hardly know the worst of it yet.  Who is here, do you think?'

'I know whom you mean; I have seen him,' said Lady Lufton, very
quietly.

'We came across him just at the top of the stairs,' said Griselda,
with more animation in her face than ever Lord Lufton had seen
there before.

'What; the duke?'

'Yes, the duke,' said Lady Lufton.  'I certainly should not have
come had I expected to be brought in contact with that man.  But it
was an accident, and on such an occasion as this it could not be
helped.'  Lord Lufton at once perceived, by the tone of his
mother's voice and by the shades of her countenance, that she had
absolutely endured some personal encounter with the duke, and also
that she was by no means so indignant at the occurrence as might
have been expected.  There she was, still in Miss Dunstable's house,
and expressing no anger as to Miss Dunstable's conduct.  Lord
Lufton could hardly have been more surprised had he seen the duke
handing his mother down to supper; he said, however, nothing
further on the subject.

'Are you going to dance, Ludovic?' said Lady Lufton.

'Well, I am not sure that I do not agree with Mrs Proudie in
thinking that dancing would contaminate a conversazione.  What are
your ideas, Miss Grantly?'  Griselda was never very good at a joke,
and imagined that Lord Lufton wanted to escape the trouble of
dancing with her.  This angered her.  For the only species of
love-making, or flirtation, or sociability between herself as a
young lady, and any other self as a young gentleman, which
recommended itself to her taste, was to be found in the amusement
of dancing.  She was altogether at variance with Mrs Proudie on
this matter, and gave Miss Dunstable great credit for her
innovation.  In society Griselda's toes were more serviceable to
her than her tongue, and she was to be won by a rapid twirl much
more probably than by a soft word.  The offer of which she would
approve would be conveyed by two all but breathless words, during a
spasmodic pause in a waltz; and then as she lifted up her arm to
receive the accustomed support at her back, she might just find
power enough to say, 'you--must ask--papa.'  After that she would
not care to have the affair mentioned till everything was properly
settled.

'I have not thought about it,' said Griselda, turning her face away
from Lord Lufton.

It must not, however, be supposed that Miss Grantly had not thought
about Lord Lufton, or that she had not considered how great might
be the advantage of having Lady Lufton on her side is she made up
her mind that she did wish to become Lord Lufton's wife.  She knew
well that now was her time for a triumph, now in this very first
season of her acknowledged beauty; and she knew also that young,
good-looking bachelor lords do not grow in hedges like
blackberries.  Had Lord Lufton offered to her, she would have
accepted him at once without any remorse as to the greater glories
which might appertain to a future Marchioness of Hartletop.  In
that direction she was not without sufficient wisdom.  But then
Lord Lufton had not offered to her, nor given any signs that he
intended to do so; and to give Griselda Grantly her due, she was
not a girl to make the first overture.  Neither had Lord Dumbello
offered; but he had given signs,--dumb signs, such as birds give to
each other, quite as intelligible as verbal signs to a girl who
preferred the use of her toes to that of her tongue.  'I have not
thought about it,' said Griselda, very coldly, and at that moment a
gentleman stood before her and asked her hand for the next dance.
It was Lord Dumbello; and Griselda, making no reply except by a
slight bow, got up and put her hand within her partner's arm.

'Shall I find you here, Lady Lufton, when we have done?' she said;
and then started off among the dancers.  When the work before one
is dancing the proper thing for a gentleman to do is, at any rate,
to ask a lady; this proper thing Lord Lufton had omitted, and now
the prize was taken away from under his very nose.

There was clearly an air of triumph about Lord Dumbello as he
walked away with the beauty.  The world had been saying that Lord
Lufton was to marry her, and the world had also been saying that
Lord Dumbello admired her.  Now this had angered Lord Dumbello, and
make him feel as though he walked about, a mark of scorn, as a
disappointed suitor.  Had it not been for Lord Lufton, perhaps he
would not have cared so much for Griselda Grantly; but circumstances
had so turned out that he did care for her, and felt it to be
incumbent upon him, as the heir to a marquisate, to obtain what he
wanted, let who would have a hankering after the same article.  It
is in this way that pictures are so well sold at auctions; and Lord
Dumbello regarded Miss Grantly as being now subject to the
auctioneer's hammer, and conceived that Lord Lufton was bidding
against him.  There was, therefore, an air of triumph about him as
he put his arm round Griselda's waist, and whirled her up and down
the room in obedience to the music.  Lady Lufton and her son were
left together looking at each other.  Of course, he had intended to
ask Griselda to dance, but it cannot be said that he very much
regretted his disappointment.  Of course also Lady Lufton had
expected that her son and Griselda would stand up together, and she
was a little inclined to be angry with her protegee.  'I think she
might have waited a minute,' said Lady Lufton.

'But why, mother?  There are certain things for which no one ever
waits: to give a friend, for instance, the first passage through a
gate out hunting and such like.  Miss Grantly was quite right to
take the first that offered.'  Lady Lufton had determined to learn
what was to be the end of this scheme of hers.  She could not have
Griselda always with her, and if anything were to be arranged it
must be arranged now, while both of them were in London.  At the
close of the season Griselda would return to Plumstead, and Lord
Lufton would go--nobody as yet knew where.  It would be useless to
look forward to further opportunities.  If they did not contrive to
love each other now, they would never do so.  Lady Lufton was
beginning to fear that her plan would not work, but she made up her
mind that she would learn the truth then and there--at least as far
as her son was concerned.

'Oh, yes; quite so;--if it is equal to her with which she dances,'
said Lady Lufton.

'Quite equal, I should think--unless it be that Dumbello is
longer-winded than I am.'

'I am sorry to hear you speak of her in that way, Ludovic.'

'Why sorry, mother?'

'Because I had hoped--that you and she would have liked each
other.'  This she said in a serious tone of voice, tender and sad,
looking up into his face with a plaintive gaze, as though she knew
that she were asking of him some great favour.

'Yes, mother; I have known that you have wished that.'

'You have known it, Ludovic!'

'Oh, dear, yes; you are not at all sharp at keeping your secrets
from me.  And, mother, at one time, for a day or so, I thought that
I could oblige you.  You have been so good to me, that I would
almost do anything for you.'

'Oh, no, no, no,' she said, deprecating his praise, and the
sacrifice which he seemed to offer of his own hopes and
aspirations.  'I would not for worlds have you do so for my sake.
No mother ever had a better son, and my only ambition is for your
happiness.'

'But, mother, she would not make me happy.  I was mad enough for a
moment to think that she could do so--for a moment I did think so.
There was one occasion on which I would have asked her to take me,
but--'

'But what, Ludovic?'

'Never mind, it passed away; and now I shall never ask her.  Indeed
I do not think she would have me.  She is ambitious, and flying at
higher game than I am.  And I must say this for her, that she knows
well what she is doing, and plays her cards as though she had been
born with them in her hand.'

'You will never ask her?'

'No, mother; had I done so, it would have been for the love of
you--only for the love of you.'

'I would not for worlds that you should do that.'

'Let her have Dumbello; she will make an excellent wife for him,
just the wife that he will want.  And you, you will have been so
good to her in assisting her to such a matter.'

'But, Ludovic, I am so anxious to see you settled.'

'All in good time, mother.'

'Ah, but the good time is passing away.  Years run so very
quickly.  I hope you think of marrying, Ludovic.'

'But, mother, what if I brought you a wife that you do not
approve?'

'I will approve of any one that you love; that is--'

'That is, if you love her also; eh, mother?'

'But I rely with such confidence on your taste.  I know that you
can like no one that is not ladylike and good.'

'Ladylike and good; will that suffice?' said he, thinking of Lucy
Robarts.

'Yes; it will suffice if you love her.  I don't want you to care
for money.  Griselda will have a fortune that would have been
convenient; but I do not wish you to care for that.'  And thus, as
they stood together in Miss Dunstable's crowded room, the mother
and son settled between themselves that the Lufton-Grantly alliance
treaty was not to be ratified.  'I suppose I must let Mrs Grantly
know,' said Lady Lufton to herself, as Griselda returned to her
side.  There had not been above a dozen words spoken between Lord
Dumbello and his partner, but that young lady also had now fully
made up her mind that the treaty above mentioned should never be
brought into operation.

We must go back to our hostess, whom we should not have left for so
long a time, seeing that this chapter is written to show how well
she could conduct herself in great emergencies.  She had declared
that after awhile she would be able to leave her position near the
entrance door, and find out her own peculiar friends among the
crowd; but the opportunity for doing so did not come till very late
in the evening.  There was a continuation of arrivals; she was
wearied to death with making little speeches, and had more than
once declared that she must depute Mrs Harold Smith to take her
place.  That lady stuck to her through all her labours with
admirable constancy, and made the work bearable.  Without some such
constancy on a friend's part, it would have been unbearable; and it
must be acknowledged that this was much to the credit of Mrs Harold
Smith.  Her own hopes with reference to the great heiress had all
been shattered, and her answer had been given to her in very plain
language.  But, nevertheless, she was true to her friendship, and
was almost as willing to endure the fatigue on this occasion as
though she had a sister-in-law's right in the house.  At about one
o'clock her brother came.  He had not yet seen Miss Dunstable since
the offer had been made, and had now with great difficulty been
persuaded by his sister to show himself.

'What can be the use?' said he.  'The game is up with me
now;'--meaning, poor ruined ne'er-do-well, not only that that game
with Miss Dunstable was up, but that the great game of his whole
life was being brought to an uncomfortable termination.

'Nonsense,' said his sister; 'do you mean to despair because a man
like the Duke of Omnium wants his money?  What has been good
security for him will be good security for another;' and then Mrs
Harold Smith made herself more agreeable then ever to Miss
Dunstable.

When Miss Dunstable was nearly worn out, but was still endeavouring
to buoy herself up by a hope of the still-expected great
arrival--for she knew that the hero would show himself only at a
very late hour if it were to be her good fortune that he showed
himself at all--Mr Sowerby walked up the stairs.  He had schooled
himself to go through with this ordeal with all the cool effrontery
which was at his command; but it was clearly to be seen that all
his effrontery did not stand him in sufficient stead, and that the
interview would have been embarrassing had it not been for the
genuine good-humour of the lady.  'Here is my brother,' said Mrs
Harold Smith, showing by the tremulousness of the whisper that she
looked forward to the meeting with some amount of apprehension.

'How do you do, Mr Sowerby?' said Miss Dunstable, walking almost
into the doorway to welcome him.  'Better late than never.'

'I have only just got away from the House,' said he, as he gave her
his hand.

'Oh, I know well that you are sans reproche among senators--as Mr
Harold Smith is sans peur;--eh, my dear?'

'I must confess that you have contrived to be uncommonly severe
upon them both,' said Mrs Harold, laughing; 'and as regards poor
Harold, most undeservedly so; Nathaniel is here, and may defend
himself.'

'And no one is better able to do so on all occasions.  But, my dear
Mr Sowerby, I am dying of despair.  Do you think he'll come?'

'He? who?'

'You stupid man--as if there were more than one he!  There were
two, but the other has been.'

'Upon my word, I don't understand,' said Mr Sowerby, now again at
his ease.  'But can I do anything?  Shall I go and fetch anyone?
Oh, Tom Towers; I fear I can't help you.  But here he is at the
foot of the stairs!'  And then Mr Sowerby stood back with his
sister to make way for the great representative man of the age.

'Angels and ministers of grace assist me!' said Miss Dunstable.
'How on earth am I to behave myself?  Mr Sowerby, do you think
that I ought to kneel down?  My dear, will he have a reporter at
his back in the royal livery?'  And then Miss Dunstable advanced
two or three steps--not into the doorway, as she had done for Mr
Sowerby--put out her hand, and smiled her sweetest on Mr Towers of
the Jupiter.

'The honour done is all conferred on me,' and he bowed and curtsied
with very stately grace.  Each thoroughly understood the badinage
of the other; and then, in a few moments, they were engaged in very
easy conversation.

'By the by, Sowerby, what do you think of this threatened
dissolution?' said Tom Towers.

'We are all in the hands of Providence,' said Mr Sowerby, striving
to take the matter without any outward show of emotion.  But the
question was one of terrible import to him, and up to this time he
had heard of no such threat.  Nor had Mrs Harold Smith, nor Miss
Dunstable, nor had a hundred others who now either listened to the
vaticinations of Mr Towers, or to the immediate report made of
them.  But it is given to some men to originate such tidings, and
the performance of the prophecy is often brought about by the
authority of the prophet.  On the following morning the rumour that
there would be a dissolution was current in all high circles. 'They
have no conscience in such matters; no conscience whatever,' said a
small god, speaking of the giants--a small god, whose constituency
was expensive.  Mr Towers stood there chatting for about twenty
minutes, and then took his departure without making his way into
the room.  He had answered the purpose for which he had been
invited, and left Miss Dunstable in a happy frame of mind.

'I am very glad he came,' said Mrs Harold Smith, with an air of
triumph.

'Yes, I am glad,' said Miss Dunstable, 'though I am thoroughly
ashamed that I should be so.  After all, what good has he done to
me or to anyone?'  And having uttered this moral reflection, she
made her way into the rooms, and soon discovered Dr Thorne standing
by himself against the wall.

'Well, doctor,' said Miss Dunstable, 'where are Mary and Frank?  You
do not look at all comfortable, standing here by yourself.'

'I am quite as comfortable as I expected, thank you,' said he.
'They are in the room somewhere, and, as I believe, equally happy.'

'That's spiteful of you, doctor, to speak in that way.  What would
you say if you were called on to endure all that I have gone
through this evening?'

'There is no accounting for tastes, but I presume you like it?'

'I am not so sure of that.  Give me your arm and let me get some
supper.  One always likes the idea of having done hard work, and
one always likes to have been successful.'

'We all know that virtue is its own reward,' said the doctor.

'Well, that is something hard upon me,' said Miss Dunstable, as she
sat down to table.  'And you really think that no good of any sort
can come from my giving such a party as this?'

'Oh, yes; some people, no doubt, have been amused.'

'It is all vanity in your estimation,' said Miss Dunstable; 'vanity
and vexation of spirit.  Well; there is a good deal of the latter,
certainly.  Sherry, if you please.  I would give anything for a
glass of beer, but that is out of the question.  Vanity and
vexation of spirit!  And yet I meant to do good.'

'Pray, do not suppose I am condemning you, Miss Dunstable.'

'Ah, but I do suppose it.  Not only you, but another also, whose
judgement I care for, perhaps, more than yours; and that, let me
tell you, is saying a great deal.  You do condemn me, Dr Thorne,
and I also condemn myself.  It is not that I have done wrong, but
the game is not worth the candle.'

'Ah; that is the question.'

'The game is not worth the candle.  And yet it was a triumph to
have both the duke and Tom Towers.  You must confess that I have
not managed badly.'  Soon after that the Greshams went away, and in
an hour's time or so, Miss Dunstable was allowed to drag herself to
her own bed.

That is the great question to be asked on all such occasions, 'Is
the game worth the candle?'



CHAPTER XXX

THE GRANTLY TRIUMPH

It has been mentioned cursorily--the reader, no doubt, will have
forgotten it--that Mrs Grantly was not specially invited by her
husband to go up to town with a view of being present at Miss
Dunstable's party.  Mrs Grantly said nothing on the subject, but
she was somewhat chagrined; not on account of the loss she
sustained with reference to that celebrated assembly, but because
she felt that her daughter's affairs required the supervision of a
mother's eye.  She also doubted the final ratification of that
Lufton-Grantly treaty, and, doubting it, she did not feel quite
satisfied that her daughter should be left in Lady Lufton's hands.
She had said a word or two to the archdeacon before he went up, but
only a word or two, for she hesitated to trust him in so delicate a
matter.  She was, therefore, not a little surprised at receiving a
letter from him desiring her immediate presence in London.  She was
surprised; but her heart was filled rather with hope than dismay,
for she had full confidence in her daughter's discretion.  On the
morning after the party, Lady Lufton and Griselda had breakfasted
together as usual, but each felt that the manner of the other was
altered.  Lady Lufton thought that her young friend was somewhat
less attentive, and perhaps less meek in her demeanour than usual;
and Griselda felt that Lady Lufton was less affectionate.  Very
little, however, was said between them, and Lady Lufton expressed
no surprise when Griselda begged to be left alone at home, instead
of accompanying her ladyship when the carriage came to the door.
Nobody called in Bruton Street that afternoon--no one, at least,
was let in--except the archdeacon.  He came there late in the day,
and remained with his daughter till Lady Lufton returned.  Then he
took his leave, with more abruptness than was usual with him, and
without saying anything special to account for the duration of his
visit.  Neither did Griselda say anything special; and so the
evening wore away, each feeling in some unconscious manner that she
was on less intimate terms with the other than had previously been
the case.

On the next day Griselda would not go out, but at four o'clock a
servant brought a letter to her from Mount Street.  Her mother had
arrived in London and wished to see her at once.  Mrs Grantly sent
her love to Lady Lufton, and would call at half-past five, or at
any later hour at which it might be convenient for Lady Lufton to
see her.  Griselda was to stay and dine in Mount Street; so said
the letter.  Lady Lufton declared that she would be very happy to
see Mrs Grantly at the hour named; and then, armed with this
message, Griselda started for her mother's lodgings.  'I'll send
the carriage for you,' said Lady Lufton.  'I suppose about ten will
do.'

'Thank you,' said Griselda, 'that will do very nicely;' and then
she went.  Exactly at half-past five Mrs Grantly was shown into
Lady Lufton's drawing-room.  Her daughter did not come with her,
and Lady Lufton could see by the expression of her friend's face
that business was to be discussed.  Indeed, it was necessary that
she herself should discuss business, for Mrs Grantly must now be
told that the family treaty could not be ratified.  The gentleman
declined the alliance, and poor Lady Lufton was uneasy in her mind
at the nature of the task before her.

'Your coming up has been rather unexpected,' said Lady Lufton, as
soon as her friend was seated on the sofa.

'Yes, indeed; I got a letter from the archdeacon only this morning,
which made it absolutely necessary that I should come.'

'No bad news, I hope?' said Lady Lufton.

'No; I can't call it bad news.  But, dear Lady Lufton, things won't
always turn out exactly as one would have them.'

'No, indeed,' said her ladyship, remembering that it was incumbent
on her to explain to Mrs Grantly now at this present interview the
tidings with which her mind was fraught.  She would, however, let
Mrs Grantly first tell her own story, feeling, perhaps, that the
one might possibly bear upon the other.

'Poor dear Griselda!' said Mrs Grantly, almost with a sigh.  'I
need not tell you, Lady Lufton, what my hopes were regarding her.'

'Has she told you anything--anything that--'

'She would have spoken to you at once--and it was due to you that
she should have done so--but she was timid; and not unnaturally
so.  And then it was right that she should see her father and me
before she quite made up her mind.  But I may say that it is
settled now.'

'What is settled?' asked Lady Lufton.

'Of course it is impossible for anyone to tell beforehand how these
things will turn out,' continued Mrs Grantly, beating about the
bush rather more than was necessary.  'The dearest wish of my heart
was to see her married to Lord Lufton.  I should so much have
wished to have her in the same county with me, and such a match as
that would have fully satisfied my ambition.'

Well, I should think it might!' Lady Lufton did not say this out
loud, but she thought it.  Mrs Grantly was absolutely speaking of a
match between her daughter and Lord Lufton as though she would have
displayed some Christian moderation in putting up with it!  Griselda
Grantly might be a very nice girl; but even she--so thought Lady
Lufton at the moment--might possibly be priced too highly.

'Dear Mrs Grantly,' she said, 'I have foreseen for the last few
days that our mutual hopes in this respect would not be gratified.
Lord Lufton, I think;--but perhaps it is not necessary to
explain--Had you not come up to town, I should have written to
you,--probably today.  Whatever may be dear Griselda's fate in
life, I sincerely hope that she may be happy.'

'I think she will,' said Mrs Grantly, in a tone that expressed much
satisfaction.

'Has--anything--'

'Lord Dumbello proposed to Griselda the other night, at Miss
Dunstable's party,' said Mrs Grantly, with her eyes fixed upon the
floor, and assuming on the sudden much meekness in her manner; 'and
his lordship was with the archdeacon yesterday, and again this
morning.  I fancy he is in Mount Street at the present moment.'

'Oh, indeed!' said Lady Lufton.  She would have given worlds to
have possessed at the moment sufficient self-command to have
enabled her to express in her tone and manner unqualified
satisfaction of the tidings.  But she had not such self-command,
and was painfully aware of her own deficiency.

'Yes,' said Mrs Grantly.  'And as it is all so far settled, and as
I know you are so kindly anxious about dear Griselda, I thought it
right to let you know at once.  Nothing can be more upright,
honourable, and generous, than Lord Dumbello's conduct; and, on the
whole, the match is one with which I and the archdeacon cannot but
be contented.'

'It is certainly a great match,' said Lady Lufton.  'Have you seen
Lady Hartletop yet?'

Now Lady Hartletop could not be regarded as an agreeable connexion,
but this was the only word which escaped from Lady Lufton that
could be considered in any way disparaging, and, on the whole, I
think she behaved well.

'Lord Dumbello is so completely his own master that that has not
been necessary,' said Mrs Grantly.  'The marquess has been told, and
the archdeacon will see him either to-morrow or the day after.'
There was nothing left for Lady Lufton but to congratulate her
friend, and this she did in words perhaps not very sincere, but
which, on the whole, were not badly chosen.

'I am sure I hope she will be very happy,' said Lady Lufton, 'and I
trust that the alliance'--the word was very agreeable to Mrs
Grantly's ear--'will give unalloyed gratification to you and her
father.  The position which she is called to fill is a very
splendid one, but I do not think that it is above her merits.'  This
was very generous, and so Mrs Grantly felt it.  She had expected
that her news would be received with the coldest shade of civility,
and she was quite prepared to do battle if there was occasion.  But
she had no wish for war, and was almost grateful to Lady Lufton for
her cordiality.

'Dear Lady Lufton,' she said, 'it is so kind of you to say so.  I
have told no one else, and of course would tell no one till you
knew it.  No one has known her and understood her so well as you
have done.  And I can assure you of this, that there is no one to
whose friendship she looks forward in her new sphere of life with
half so much pleasure as she does yours.'  Lady Lufton did not say
much further.  She could not declare that she expected much
gratification from an intimacy with the future Marchioness of
Hartletop.  The Hartletops and Luftons must, at any rate for her
generation, live in a world apart, and she had not said all that
her old friendship with Mrs Grantly required.  Mrs Grantly
understood all this quite as well as did Lady Lufton; but then Mrs
Grantly was much the better woman of the world.  It was arranged
that Griselda should come back to Bruton Street for the night, and
that her visit should then be brought to a close.

'The archdeacon thinks that for the present I had better remain in
town,' said Mrs Grantly, 'and under the very peculiar circumstances
Griselda will be--perhaps more comfortable with me.'  To this Lady
Lufton entirely agreed; and so they parted, excellent friends,
embracing each other in a most affectionate manner.  That evening
Griselda did return to Bruton Street, and Lady Lufton had to go
through the further task of congratulating her.  This was the more
disagreeable of the two, especially so as it had to be thought over
beforehand.  But the young lady's excellent good sense and sterling
qualities make the task comparatively an easy one.  She neither
cried, nor was impassioned, nor went into hysterics, nor showed any
emotion.  She did not even talk of her noble Dumbello,--her
generous Dumbello.  She took Lady Lufton's kisses almost in
silence, thanked her gently for her kindness, and made no allusion
to her own future grandeur.

'I think I should like to go to bed early,' she said, 'as I must
see to my packing up.'

'Richards will do all that for you, my dear.'

'Oh, yes, thank you, nothing can be kinder than Richards.  But I'll
just see to my own dresses.'  And so she went to bed early.

Lady Lufton did not see her son for the next two days, but when she
did, of course she said a word or two about Griselda.  'You have
heard the news, Ludovic?' she asked.

'Oh, yes; it's at all the clubs.  I have been overwhelmed with
presents of willow branches.'

'You, at any rate, have nothing to regret,' she said.

'Nor you either, mother.  I am sure you do not think you have.  Say
that you do not regret it.  Dearest mother, say so for my sake.  Do
you not know in your heart of hearts that she was not suited to be
happy as my wife--or to make me happy.'

'Perhaps not,' said Lady Lufton, sighing.  And then she kissed her
son, and declared to herself that no girl in England could be good
enough for him.



CHAPTER XXXI

SALMON FISHING IN NORWAY

Lord Dumbello's engagement with Griselda Grantly was the talk of
the town for the next ten days.  It formed, at least, one of two
subjects which monopolized attention, the other being that dreadful
rumour, first put in motion by Tom Towers at Miss Dunstable's party,
as to a threatened dissolution of Parliament.  'Perhaps after all,
it will be the best thing for us,' said Mr Green Walker, who felt
himself to be tolerably safe at Crewe Junction.

'I regard it as a most wicked attempt,' said Harold Smith, who was
not equally secure in his own borough, and to whom the expense of
an election was disagreeable.  'It is done in order that they may
get the time to tide over the autumn.  They won't gain ten votes by
a dissolution, and less than forty would hardly give them a
majority.  But they have no sense of public duty--none whatever.
Indeed I don't know who has.'

'No, by Jove; that's just it.  That's what my aunt Lady Hartletop
says; there is no sense of duty left in the world.  By the by, what
an uncommon fool Dumbello is making himself!'  And then the
conversation went off to that other topic.

Lord Lufton's joke against himself about the willow branches was
all very well, and nobody dreamed that his heart was sore in that
matter.  The world was laughing at Lord Dumbello for what it chose
to call a foolish match, and Lord Lufton's friends talked to him
about it as though they had never suspected that he could have made
an ass of himself in the same direction; but, nevertheless, he was
not altogether contented.  He by no means wished to marry Griselda;
he had declared himself a dozen times since he had first suspected
his mother's manoeuvres that no consideration on earth should
induce him to do so; he had pronounced her to be cold, insipid, and
unattractive in spite of her beauty: and yet he felt almost angry
that Lord Dumbello should have been successful.  And this, too, was
the more inexcusable, seeing that he had never forgotten Lucy
Robarts, had never ceased to love her, and that, in holding those
various conversations within his own bosom, he was as loud in Lucy's
favour as he was in dispraise of Griselda.

'Your hero, then,' I hear some well-balanced critic say, 'is not
worth very much.'  In the first place Lord Lufton is not my hero;
and in the next place, a man may be very imperfect and yet worth a
great deal.  A man may be as imperfect as Lord Lufton, and yet
worthy of a good mother and a good wife.  If not, how many of us
are unworthy of the mothers and wives we have!  It is my belief
that few young men settle themselves down to the work of the world,
to the begetting of children, and carving and paying and struggling
and fretting for the same, without having first been in love with
four or five possible mothers for them, and probably with two or
three at the same time.  And yet these men are, as a rule, worthy
of the excellent wives that ultimately fall to their lot.  In this
way, Lord Lufton had, to a certain extent, been in love with
Griselda.  There had been one moment in his life in which he would
have offered her his hand, had not her discretion been so
excellent; and though that moment never returned, still he suffered
from some feeling akin to disappointment when he learned that
Griselda had been won and was to be worn.  He was, then, a dog in a
manger, you will say.  Well; and are we not all dogs in the manger
more or less actively?  Is not that manger-doggishness one of the
most common phases of the human heart?  But not the less was Lord
Lufton truly in love with Lucy Robarts.  Had he fancied that any
Dumbello was carrying on a siege before that fortress, his vexation
would have manifested itself in a very different manner.  He could
joke about Griselda Grantly with a frank face and a happy tone of
voice; but had he heard of any tidings of a similar import with
reference to Lucy, he would have been past all joking, and I must
doubt whether it would not even have affected his appetite.
'Mother,' he said to Lady Lufton, a day or two after the
declaration of Griselda's engagement, 'I am going to Norway to
fish.'

'To Norway,--to fish?'

'Yes.  We've got a rather nice party.  Clontarf is going, and
Culpepper--'

'What--that horrid man!'

'He's an excellent hand at fishing; and Haddington Peebles,
and--and--there'll be six of us altogether; and we start this day
week.'

'That's rather sudden, Ludovic.'

'Yes, it is sudden; but we're sick of London.  I should not care to
go so soon myself, but Clontarf and Culpepper say that the season
is early this year.  I must go down to Framley before I
start--about my horses: and therefore I came to tell you that I
shall be there to-morrow.'

'At Framley to-morrow?  If you could put it off for three days I
should be going myself.'  But Lord Lufton could not put it off for
three days.  It may be that on this occasion he did not wish for
his mother's presence at Framley while he was there; that he
conceived that he should be more at his ease in giving orders about
his stable if he were alone while so employed.  At any rate he
declined her company, and on the following morning did go down to
Framley by himself.

'Mark,' said Mrs Robarts, hurrying into her husband's book-room
about the middle of the day, 'Lord Lufton is at home. Have you
heard it?'

'What!  Here at Framley?'

'He is over at Framley Court; so the servants say.  Carson saw him
in the paddock with some of the horses.  Won't you go and see him?'

'Of course I will,' said Mark, shutting up his papers.  'Lady
Lufton can't be here, and if he is alone he will probably come and
dine.'

'I don't know about that,' said Mrs Robarts, thinking of poor Lucy.

'He is not in the least particular.  What does for us will do for
him.  I shall ask him, at any rate.'  And without further parley
the clergyman took up his hat and went off in search of his
friend.  Lucy Robarts had been present when the gardener brought in
tidings of Lord Lufton's arrival at Framley, and was aware that
Fanny had gone to tell her husband.

'He won't come here, will he?' she said, as soon as Mrs Robarts had
returned.

'I can't say,' said Fanny.  'I hope not.  He ought not to do so,
and I don't think he will.  But Mark says that he will ask him to
dinner.'

'Then, Fanny, I must be taken ill.  There is nothing else for it.'

'I don't think he will come.  I don't think he can be so cruel.
Indeed, I feel sure that he won't; but I thought it right to tell
you.' Lucy also conceived that it was improbable that Lord Lufton
should come to the parsonage under the present circumstances; and
she declared to herself that it would not be possible that she
should appear at table if he did so; but, nevertheless, the idea of
his being at Framley was, perhaps, not altogether painful to her.
She did not recognize any pleasure as coming to her from his
arrival, but still there was something in his presence which was,
unconsciously to herself, soothing to her feelings.  But that
terrible question remained;--How was she to act if it should turn
out that he was coming to dinner?

'If he does come, Fanny,' she said solemnly, after a pause, 'I must
keep to my own room, and leave Mark to think what he pleases.  It
will be better for me to make a fool of myself there, than in his
presence in the drawing-room.'

Mark Robarts took his hat and stick and went over at once to the
home paddock, in which he knew that Lord Lufton was engaged with
the horses and grooms.  He also was in no supremely happy frame of
mind for his correspondence with Mr Tozer was on the increase.  He
had received notice from that indefatigable gentleman that certain
'overdue bills' were now lying at the bank in Barchester, and were
very desirous of his, Mr Robarts's, notice.  A concatenation of
certain peculiarly unfortunate circumstances made it indispensably
necessary that Mr Tozer should be repaid, without further loss of
time, the various sums of money which he had advanced on the credit
of Mr Robarts's name, &c, &c, &c.  No absolute threat was put forth,
and, singular to say, no actual amount was named.  Mr Robarts,
however, could not but observe, with a most painfully
accurate attention, that mention was made, not of an overdue bill,
but of overdue bills.  What if Mr Tozer were to demand from him the
instant repayment of nine hundred pounds?  Hitherto he had merely
written to Mr Sowerby, and he might have had an answer from that
gentleman this morning, but no such answer had as yet reached him.
Consequently he was not, at the present moment, in a very happy
frame of mind.

He soon found himself with Lord Lufton and the horses.  Four or
five of them were being walked slowly about the paddock in the care
of as many men or boys, and the sheets were being taken off
them--off one after another, so that their master might look at
them with the more accuracy and satisfaction.  But though Lord
Lufton was thus doing his duty, and going through his work, he was
not doing it with his whole heart,--as the head groom perceived
very well.  He was fretful about the nags, and seemed anxious to
get them out of his whole sight as soon as he had made a decent
pretext of looking at them.  'How are you, Lufton?' said Robarts,
coming forward.  'They told me that you were down, and so I came
across at once.'

'Yes; I only got here this morning, and should have been over with
you directly.  I am going to Norway for six weeks or so, and it
seems that the fish are so early this year that we must start at
once.  I have a matter on which I want to speak to you before I
leave; and, indeed, it was that which brought me down more than
anything else.'  There was something hurried and not altogether
easy about his manner as he spoke, which struck Robarts, and made
him think that this promised matter to be spoken would not be
agreeable in discussion.  He did not know whether Lord Lufton might
not again be mixed up with Tozer and the bills.

'You will dine with us to-day?' he said, 'if, as I suppose, you are
all alone.'

'Yes, I am all alone.'

'Then you will come?'

'Well, I don't quite know.  No, I don't think I can go over to
dinner.  Don't look so disgusted.  I'll explain it all to you
just now.'  What could there be in the wind; and how was it
possible that Tozer's bill should make it inexpedient for Lord
Lufton to dine at the parsonage?  Robarts, however, said nothing
further about it at the moment, but turned off to look at the
horses.

'They are an uncommonly nice set of animals,' said he.

'Well, yes; I don't know.  When a man has four or five horses to
look at, somehow or other he never has one fit to go.  That chestnut
mare is a picture, now that nobody wants her; but she wasn't able
to carry me well to hounds a single day last winter.  Take them in,
Pounce; that'll do.'

'Won't your lordship run your eye over the old black 'oss?' said
Pounce, the head groom, in a melancholy tone; 'he's as fine,
sir--as fine as a stag.'

'To tell you the truth, I think they're too fine; but that'll do;
take them in.  And now, Mark, if you're at leisure, we'll take a
turn round the place.'  Mark, of course, was at leisure, and so
they started on their walk.

'You're too difficult to please about your stable,' Robarts began.

'Never mind about the stable now,' said Lord Lufton.  'The truth
is, I am not thinking about it.  Mark,' he then said, very
abruptly, 'I want you to be frank with me.  Has your sister ever
spoken to you about me?'

'My sister; Lucy?'

'Yes; your sister Lucy.'

'No, never; at least nothing special; nothing that I can remember
at the moment.'

'Nor your wife?'

'Spoken about you!---Fanny?  Of course she has, in the ordinary
way.  It would be impossible that she should not.  But what do you
mean?'

'Have either of them told you that I made an offer to your sister?'

'That you made an offer to Lucy?'

'Yes, that I made an offer to Lucy.'

'No; nobody has told me so.  I have never dreamed of such a thing;
nor, as far as I believe, have they.  If anybody has spread such a
report, or said that either of them have hinted at such a thing, it
is a base lie.  Good heavens!  Lufton, for what do you take them?'

'But I did,' said his lordship.

'Did what?' said the parson.

'I did make your sister an offer.'

'You made Lucy an offer of marriage?'

'Yes, I did;--in as plain language as a gentleman could use to a
lady.'

'And what answer did she make?'

'She refused me.  And now, Mark, I have come down here with the
express purpose of making that offer again.  Nothing could be more
decided than your sister's answer.  It struck me as being almost
uncourteously decided.  But still it is possible that circumstances
may have weighed with her which ought not to weigh with her.  If
her love be not given to anyone else, I may still have a chance of
it.  It's the old story of faint heart, you know; at any rate, I
mean to try my luck again; and thinking over it with deliberate
purpose, I have come to the conclusion that I ought to tell you
before I see her.'

Lord Lufton in love with Lucy!  As these words repeated themselves
over and over again within Mark Robarts's mind, his mind added to
them notes of surprise without end.  How had it come about--and
why?  In his estimation his sister Lucy was a very simple girl--not
plain indeed, but by no means beautiful; certainly not stupid, but
by no means brilliant.  And then, he would have said, that of all
the men he knew, Lord Lufton would have been the last to fall in
love with such a girl as his sister.  And now, what was he to say
or do?  What views was he bound to hold?  In what direction should
he act?  There was Lady Lufton on the one side, to whom he owed
everything.  How would life be possible to him in that
parsonage--within a few yards of her elbow--if he consent to
receive Lord Lufton as the acknowledged suitor of his sister?  It
would be a great match for Lucy, doubtless; but--. Indeed he could
not bring himself to believe that Lucy could in truth become the
absolute reigning queen of Framley Court.

'Do you think that Fanny knows anything of all this?' he said after
a moment or two.

'I cannot possibly tell.  If she does it is not with my knowledge.
I should have thought that you could best answer that.'

'I cannot answer it at all,' said Mark.  'I, at least, have had no
remotest idea of such a thing.'

'Your ideas of it now need not be at all remote,' said Lord Lufton,
with a faint smile; 'and you may know it as a fact.  I did make her
an offer of marriage; I was refused; I am going to repeat it; and I
am now taking you into my confidence, in order that, as her
brother, and as my friend, you may give me such assistance as you
can.'  They then walked on in silence for some yards, after which
Lord Lufton added: 'And now I'll dine with you to-day if you wish
it.'  Mr Robarts did not know what to say; he could not bethink
himself what answer duty required of him.  He had no right to
interfere between his sister and such a marriage if she herself
should wish it; but still there was something terrible in the
thought of it!  He had a vague conception that it must come to
evil; that the project was a dangerous one; and that it could not
finally result happily for any of them.  What would Lady Lufton
say?  That undoubtedly was the chief source of his dismay.

'Have you spoken to your mother about this?' he said.

'My mother?  No; why speak to her till I know my fate?  A man does
not like to speak much of such matters if there be a probability of
its being rejected.  I tell you because I do not like to make my
way into your house under a false pretence.'

'But what would Lady Lufton say?'

'I think it probable that she would be displeased on the first
hearing of it; that in four-and-twenty hours she would be
reconciled; and that after a week or so Lucy would be her dearest
favourite and the Prime Minister of all her machinations.  You
don't know my mother as well as I do.  She would give her head off
her shoulders to do me a pleasure.'

'And for that reason,' said Mark Robarts, 'you ought, if possible,
to do her pleasure.'

'I cannot absolutely marry the wife of her choosing, if you mean
that,' said Lord Lufton.  They went on walking about the garden for
an hour, but they hardly got any farther than the point to which we
have now brought them.  Mark Robarts could not make up his mind on
the spur of the moment; nor, as he said more than once to Lord
Lufton, could he be at all sure that Lucy would in any way be
guided by him.  It was, therefore, at last settled between them
that Lord Lufton should come to the parsonage immediately after
breakfast on the following morning.  It was agreed also that the
dinner had better not come off, and Robarts promised that he would,
if possible, have determined by the morning as to what advice he
would give his sister.  He went directly home to the parsonage from
Framley Court, feeling that he was altogether in the dark till he
should have consulted with his wife.  How would he feel if Lucy
were to become Lady Lufton?  And how would he look Lady Lufton in
the face in telling her that such was to be his sister's destiny?
On returning home he immediately found his wife, and had not been
closeted with her five minutes before he knew, at any rate, all
that she knew.  'And you mean to say that she does love him?' said
Mark.

'Indeed she does; and is it not natural that she should? When I saw
them so much together I feared that she would. But I never thought
that he would care for her.'  Even Fanny did not as yet give Lucy
credit for half her attractiveness. After an hour's talking the
interview between the husband and wife ended in a message to Lucy,
begging her to join them both in the book-room.

'Aunty Lucy,' said a chubby little darling, who was taken up into
his aunt's arms as he spoke, 'Papa and Mamma 'ant 'oo' in te tuddy,
and I must go wis' oo.'  Lucy, as she kissed the boy and pressed
his face against her own, felt that her blood was running quick to
her heart.

'Mustn't oo' go wis me, my own one?' she said as she put her
playfellow down; but she played with the child only because she did
not wish to betray, even to him, that she was hardly mistress of
herself.  She knew that Lord Lufton was at Framley; she knew that
her brother had been to him; she knew that a proposal had been made
that he should come there to dinner.  Must it not, therefore, be
the case that this call to a meeting in the study had arisen out of
Lord Lufton's arrival at Framley?  And yet, how could it have done
so?  Had Fanny betrayed her in order to prevent the dinner
invitation?  It could not be possible that Lord Lufton himself
should have spoken on the subject!  And then again she stooped to
kiss the child, rubbed her hands across her forehead to smooth her
hair, and erase, if that might be possible, the look of care which
she wore, and then descended slowly to her brother's sitting-room.
Her hand paused for a second on the door ere she opened it, but she
had resolved that, come what might, she would be brave.  She pushed
it open and walked in with a bold front, with eyes wide open, and a
slow step.  'Frank says that you want me,' she said.  Mr Robarts
and Fanny were both standing up by the fireplace, and each waited a
second for the other to speak, when Lucy entered the room, and then
Fanny began,--

'Lord Lufton is here, Lucy.'

'Here!  Where?  At the parsonage?'

'No, not at the parsonage; but over at Framley Court,' said Mark.

'And he promises to call here after breakfast to-morrow' said
Fanny.  And then again there was a pause.  Mrs Robarts hardly dared
to look Lucy in the face.  She had not betrayed her trust, seeing
that the secret had been told to Mark, not by her, but by Lord
Lufton; but she could not but feel that Lucy would think that she
had betrayed it.

'Very well,' said Lucy, trying to smile; 'I have no objection in
life.'

'But, Lucy, dear,'--and now Mrs Robarts put her arm round her
sister-in-law's waist--'he is coming here especially to see you.'

'Oh; that makes a difference.  I am afraid that I shall be--
engaged.'

'He has told everything to Mark,' said Mrs Robarts.  Lucy now felt
that her bravery was almost deserting her.  She hardly knew which
way to look or how to stand.  Had Fanny told everything also?  There
was so much that Fanny knew that Lord Lufton could not have known.
But, in truth, Fanny had told all--the whole story of Lucy's love,
and had described the reasons which had induced her to reject her
suitor; and had done so in words which, had Lord Lufton heard them,
would have made him twice as passionate in his love.  And then it
certainly did occur to Lucy to think why Lord Lufton should have
come to Framley and told all of his story to her brother.  She
attempted for a moment to make herself believe that she was angry
with him for doing so.  But she was not angry.  She had not time to
argue much about it, but there came upon her a gratified sensation
of having been remembered, and thought of, and--loved.  Must it not
be so?  Could it be possible that he himself would have told this
tale to her brother, if he did not still love her?  Fifty times she
had said to herself that his offer had been an affair of the
moment, and fifty times she had been unhappy in so saying.  But
this new coming of his could not be an affair of the moment.  She
had been the dupe, she had thought, of an absurd passion on her own
part; but now--how was it now?  She did not bring herself to think
that she should ever be Lady Lufton.  She had still, in some
perversely obstinate manner, made up her mind against that result.
But yet, nevertheless, it did in some unaccountable manner satisfy
her to feel that Lord Lufton had himself come down to Framley and
himself told his story.  'He has told everything to Mark,' said Mrs
Robarts; and then again there was a pause for a moment, during
which these thoughts passed through Lucy's mind.

'Yes,' said Mark, 'he has told me all, and he is coming here
to-morrow morning that he may receive an answer from yourself.'

'What answer?' said Lucy, trembling.

'Nay, dearest; who can say that but yourself?' and her
sister-in-law, as she spoke, pressed against her.  'You must say
that yourself.' Mrs Robarts in her long conversation with her
husband, had pleaded strongly on Lucy's behalf, taking as it were a
part against Lady Lufton.  She had said that if Lord Lufton
persevered in his suit, they at the parsonage could not be
justified in robbing Lucy of all that she had won for herself, in
order to do Lady Lufton's pleasure.

'But she will think,' said Mark, 'that we have plotted and
intrigued for this.  She will call us ungrateful, and will make
Lucy's life wretched.'  To which his wife had answered, that all
must be left in God's hands.  They had not plotted or intrigued.
Lucy, though loving the man in her heart of hearts, had already
once refused him, because she would not be thought to have snatched
at so great a prize.  But if Lord Lufton loved her so warmly that
he had come down there in this manner, on purpose, as he himself
had put it, that he might learn his fate, then--so argued Mrs
Robarts--they two, let their loyalty to Lady Lufton be ever so
strong, could not justify it to their consciences to stand between
Lucy and her lover.  Mark had still somewhat demurred to this,
suggesting how terrible would be their plight if they should now
encourage Lord Lufton, and if he, after such encouragement, when
they should have quarrelled with Lady Lufton, should allow himself
to led away from his engagement by his mother.  To which Fanny had
answered that justice was justice, and that right was right.
Everything must be told to Lucy, and she must judge for herself.

'But I do not know what Lord Lufton wants,' said Lucy, with her
eyes fixed upon the ground, and now trembling more than ever.  'He
did come to me, and I did give him an answer.'

'And is that answer to be final?' said Mark--somewhat cruelly, for
Lucy had not yet been told that her lover had made any repetition
of his proposal.  Fanny, however, determined that no injustice
should be done, and therefore she at last continued the story.

'We know that you did give him an answer, dearest; but gentlemen
sometimes will not put up with one answer on such a subject.  Lord
Lufton has declared to Mark that he means to ask again.  He has
come down here on purpose to do so.'

'And Lady Lufton--' said Lucy, speaking hardly above a whisper, and
still hiding her face as she leaned against her sister's shoulder.

'Lord Lufton has not spoken to his mother about it,' said Mark; and
it immediately became clear to Lucy, from the tone of her brother's
voice, that he, at least, would not be pleased, should she accept
her lover's vow.

'You must decide out of your own heart, dear,' said Fanny,
generously.  'Mark and I know how well you have behaved, for I have
told him everything.' Lucy shuddered and leaned closer against her
sister as this was said to her.  'I had no alternative,
dearest, but to tell him.  It was best so; was it not?  But nothing
has been told to Lord Lufton. Mark would not let him come here
to-day because it would have flurried you, and he wished to give
you time to think.  But you can see him to-morrow morning--can you
not?--and then answer him.'

Lucy now stood perfectly silent, feeling that she dearly loved her
sister-in-law's for her sisterly kindness--for that sisterly wish
to promote her sister's love; but still there was in her mind a
strong resolve not to allow Lord Lufton to come there under the
idea that he would be received as a favoured lover.  Her love was
powerful, but so also was her pride; and she could not bring herself
to bear the scorn which would lay in Lady Lufton's eyes.  'His
mother will despise me, and then he will despise me too,' she said
to herself; and with a strong gulp of disappointed love and
ambition she determined to persist.  'Shall we leave you now, dear;
and speak of it again to-morrow morning before he comes?' said
Fanny.

'That will be the best,' said Mark.  'Turn it in your mind every
way to-night.  Think of it when you have said your prayers--and,
Lucy, come here to me;'--then, taking her in his arms, he kissed
her with a tenderness that was not customary with him towards her.
'It is fair,' said he, 'that I should tell you this: that I have
perfect confidence in your judgement and feeling; and that I will
stand by you as your brother in whatever decision you may come to.
Fanny and I both think that you have behaved excellently, and are
both of us sure that you will do what is best.  Whatever you do I
will stick to you;--and so will Fanny.'

'Dearest, dearest Mark!'

'And now we will say nothing more about it till to-morrow morning,'
said Fanny.  But Lucy felt that this saying nothing more about it
till to-morrow morning would be tantamount to an acceptance on her
part of Lord Lufton's offer.  Mrs Robarts knew, and Mr Robarts also
now knew, the secret of her heart; and if, such being the case, she
allowed Lord Lufton to come there with the acknowledged purpose of
pleading his own suit, it would be impossible for her not to
yield.  If she were resolved that she would not yield, now was the
time for her to stand her ground and make her fight.  'Do not go,
Fanny; at least not quite yet,' she said.

'Well, dear?'

'I want you to stay while I tell Mark.  He must not let Lord Lufton
come here to-morrow.'

'Not let him!' said Mrs Robarts.  Mr Robarts said nothing, but he
felt his sister rising in his esteem from minute to minute.

'No; Mark must bid him not come.  He will not wish to pain me when
it will do no good.  Look here, Mark;' and she walked over to her
brother, and put both her hands upon his arm.  'I do love Lord
Lufton.  I had not such meaning or thought when I first knew him.
But I do love him--I love him dearly;--almost as well as Fanny
loves you, I suppose.  You may tell him so if you think proper--nay,
you must tell him so, or he will not understand me.  But tell him
this, as coming from me: that I will never marry him, unless his
mother asks me.'

'She will not do that, I fear,' said Mark, sorrowfully.

'No; I suppose not,' said Lucy, now regaining her courage. 'If I
thought it probable that she should wish me to be her
daughter-in-law, it would not be necessary that I should make such
a stipulation.  It is because she will not wish it; because she
would regard me as unfit to--to--mate with her son.  She would hate
me, and perhaps would cease to love me.  I could not bear her eye
upon me, if she thought that I had injured her son.  Mark, you will
go to him now; will you not? and explain this to him;--as much of
it as necessary.  Tell him, that if his mother asks me, I
will--consent.  But that as I know that she never will, he is to
look upon all that he has said as forgotten.  With me it shall be
the same as though it were forgotten.'  Such was her verdict, and
so confident were they both of her firmness--of her obstinacy Mark
would have called it on any other occasion,--that they neither of
them sought to make her alter it.

'You will go to him now--this afternoon; will you not?' she said;
and Mark promised that he would.  He could not but feel that he
himself was greatly relieved.  Lady Lufton might, probably, hear
that her son had been fool enough to fall in love with the parson's
sister; but under existing circumstances she could not consider
herself aggrieved either by the parson or by his sister.  Lucy was
behaving well, and Mark was proud of her.  Lucy was behaving with
fierce spirit, and Fanny was grieving for her.

'I'd rather be by myself till dinner-time,' said Lucy, as Mrs
Robarts prepared to go with her out of the room.  'Dear Fanny,
don't look so unhappy; there's nothing to make us unhappy.  I told
you I should want goat's milk, and that will be all.' Robarts,
after sitting for an hour with his wife, did return again to
Framley Court; and, after a considerable search, found Lord Lufton
returning home to a late dinner.

'Unless my mother asks her,' said he, when the story had been told
him.  'That is nonsense.  Surely you told her that such is not the
way of the world.' Robarts endeavoured to explain to him that Lucy
could not endure to think that her husband's mother should look on
her with disfavour.

'Does she think that my mother dislikes her; her specially?' asked
Lord Lufton.  No; Robarts could not suppose that such was the case;
but Lady Lufton might probably think that a marriage with a
clergyman's sister would be a mesalliance.

'That is out of the question,' said Lord Lufton; 'as she has
specially wanted me to marry a clergyman's daughter for some time
past.  But, Mark, that is absurd talking about my mother.  A man in
these days is not to marry as his mother bids him.'  Mark could
only assure him, in answer to all this, that Lucy was very firm in
what she was doing, that she had quite made up her mind, and that
she altogether absolved Lord Lufton from any necessity to speak to
his mother, if he did not think well of doing so.  But all this was
to very little purpose.  'She does love me then,' said Lord Lufton.

'Well,' said Mark, 'I will not say whether she does or does not.  I
can only repeat her own message.  She cannot accept you, unless she
does so at your mother's request.'  And having said that again, he
took his leave, and went back to the parsonage.  Poor Lucy, having
finished her interview with so much dignity, having fully satisfied
her brother, and declined any immediate consolation from her
sister-in-law, betook herself to her own bedroom.  She had to think
over what had been said and done, and it was necessary that she
should be alone to do so.  It might be that, when she came to
reconsider the matter, she would not be quite so well satisfied as
was her brother.  Her grandeur of demeanour and slow propriety of
carriage lasted her till she was well into her own room.  There are
animals who, when they are ailing in any way, contrive to hide
themselves, ashamed, as it were, that the weakness of their
suffering, should be witnessed. Indeed, I am not sure whether all
dumb animals do not do so more or less; and in this respect Lucy
was like a dumb animal.  Even in her confidences with Fanny she
made a joke of her own misfortunes, and spoke of her heart ailments
with self-ridicule.  But now, having walked up the staircase with
no hurried step, and having deliberately locked the door, she
turned herself round to suffer in silence and solitude--as do the
beasts and birds.  She sat herself down on a low chair, which stood
at the foot of her bed, and, throwing back her head, held her
handkerchief across her eyes and forehead, holding it tight in both
her hands; and then she began to think.  She began to think and
also to cry, for the tears came running down from beneath her
handkerchief; and low sobs were to be heard--only that the animal
had taken itself off, to suffer in solitude.  Had she not thrown
from her all her chances of happiness?  Was it possible that he
should come to her yet again--a third time?  No; it was not
possible.  The very mode and pride of this, her second rejection of
him, made it impossible.  In coming to her determination, and
making her avowal, she had been actuated by the knowledge that Lady
Lufton would regard such a marriage with abhorrence.  Lady Lufton
would not and could not ask her to condescend to be her son's
bride.  Her chance of happiness, of glory, of ambition, of love,
was all gone.  She had sacrificed not only herself, but him.  When
first he came there--when she had meditated over his first
visit--she had hardly given him much credit for deep love; but
now--there could be no doubt that he loved her now.  After his
season in London, his days and nights were passed with all that was
beautiful, he had returned there, to that little country parsonage,
that he might again throw himself at her feet.  And she--she had
refused to see him, though she loved him with all her heart, she
had refused to see him because she was so vile a coward that she
could not bear the sour looks of an old woman!  'I will come down
directly,' she said, when Fanny at last knocked at the door,
begging to be admitted.  'I won't open it, love, but I will be with
you in ten minutes; I will, indeed.'  And so she was, not perhaps,
without traces of tears, discernible by the experienced eye of Mrs
Robarts, but yet with a smooth brow, and voice under her own
command.

'I wonder whether she really loves him,' Mark said to his wife that
night.

'Love him!' his wife had answered: 'indeed she does; and, Mark, do
not be led away be the stern-quiet of her demeanour.  To my
thinking she is a girl who might almost die for her love.

On the next day Lord Lufton left Framley; and started, according to
his arrangements, for the Norway salmon fishing.



CHAPTER XXXII

THE GOAT AND COMPASSES

Harold Smith had been made unhappy by that rumour of a dissolution;
but the misfortune to him would be as nothing compared to the
severity with which it would fall on Mr Sowerby.  Harold Smith
might or might not lose his borough; but Mr Sowerby would
undoubtedly lose his county; and, in losing that, he would lose
everything.  He felt very certain that the duke would not support
him again, let who would be master of Chaldicotes; and as he
reflected on these things he found it very hard to keep up his
spirits.  Tom Towers, it seems, had known all about it, as he
always does.  The little remark which had dropped from him at Miss
Dunstable's, made, no doubt, after mature deliberation, and with
profound political motives, was the forerunner, only by twelve
hours, of a very general report that the giants had not a majority
in Parliament, generous as had been the promises of support
disinterestedly made to them by the gods.  This indeed was
manifest, and therefore they were going to the country, although
they had been deliberately warned by a very prominent scion of
Olympus that if they did do so that disinterested support must be
withdrawn.  This threat did not seem to weigh much, and by two
o'clock on the day following Miss Dunstable's party, the fiat was
presumed to have gone forth.  The rumour had begun with Tom Towers,
but by that time it had reached Buggins at the Petty Bag Office.
'It won't make no difference to hus, sir; will it, Mr Robarts?'
said Buggins, as he leaned respectfully against the wall near the
door, in the room of the private secretary at that establishment.

A good deal of conversation, miscellaneous, special, and political,
went on between young Robarts and Buggins in the course of the day;
as was natural, seeing that they were thrown in these evil times
very much upon each other.  The Lord Petty Bag of the present
ministry was not such a one as Harold Smith.  He was a giant
indifferent to his private notes, and careless of the duties even of
patronage; he rarely visited the office, and as there were no other
clerks in the establishment--owing to a root and branch reform
carried out in the short reign of Harold Smith--to whom could young
Robarts talk, if not to Buggins?  'No; I suppose not,' said
Robarts, as he completed on his blotting-paper an elaborate picture
of a Turk seated on a divan.

''Cause, you see, sir, we're in the Upper 'Ouse, now--as I always
thinks we ought to be.  I don't think it ain't constitutional for
the Petty Bag to be in the Commons, Mr Robarts.  Hany ways, it
never usen't.'

'They're changing all those sort of things nowadays, Buggins,' said
Robarts, giving the final touch to the Turk's smoke.

'Well; I'll tell you what, Mr Robarts: I think I'll go.  I can't
stand all these changes.  I'm turned of sixty now, and don't want
any 'stifficates.  I think I'll take my pension and walk.  The
hoffice ain't the same place at all since it come down among
the Commons.'  And then Buggins retired sighing, to console himself
with a pot of porter behind a large open office ledger, set up on
end on a small table in the little lobby outside the private
secretary's room. Buggins sighed again as he saw that the date made
visible on the open book was almost as old as his own appointment;
for such a book as this lasted long in the Petty Bag Office.  A
peer of high degree had been Lord Petty Bag in those days; one whom
a messenger's heart could respect with infinite veneration, as he
made his unaccustomed visits to the office with much
solemnity--perhaps four times during the season.  The Lord Petty
Bag then was highly regarded by his staff, and his coming among
them was talked about for some hours previously and for some days
afterwards; but Harold Smith had bustled in and out like the
managing clerk in a Manchester house.  'The service is going to the
dogs,' said Buggins to himself, as he put down the porter pot, and
looked up over the book at a gentleman who presented himself at the
door. 'Mr Robarts in his room?' said Buggins, repeating the
gentleman's words.  'Yes, Mr Sowerby; you'll find him there--first
door to the left.'  And then, remembering that the visitor was a
county member--a position which Buggins regarded as next to that of
a peer--he got up, and opening the private secretary's door,
ushered in the visitor.

Young Robarts and Sowerby had, of course, become acquainted in the
days of Harold Smith's reign.  During that short time the member
for East Barset had on most days dropped in at the Petty Bag Office
for a minute or two, finding out what the energetic Cabinet
minister was doing, chatting on semi-official subjects, and
teaching the private secretary to laugh at his master.  There was
nothing, therefore, in his present visit which need appear to be
singular, or which required any immediate special explanation.  He
sat himself down in his ordinary way, and began to speak of the
subject of the day.  'We're all to go,' said Sowerby.

'So I hear,' said the private secretary.  'It will give me no
trouble, for, as the respectable Buggins says, we're in the Upper
House now.'

'What a delightful time those lucky dogs of lords do have!' said
Sowerby.  'No constituents, no turning out, no fighting, no
necessity for political opinions; and, as a rule, no such opinions
at all!'

'I suppose you're tolerably safe in East Barsetshire?' said
Robarts.  'The duke has it pretty much his own way there.'

'Yes; the duke does have it pretty much his own way.  By the by,
where is your brother?'

'At home,' said Robarts; 'at least I presume so.'

'At Framley or at Barchester?  I believe he was in residence at
Barchester not long since.'

'He's at Framley now, I know.  I got a letter only yesterday from
his wife, with a commission.  He was there, and Lord Lufton had
just left.'

'Yes; Lufton was down.  He started for Norway this morning.  I want
to see your brother.  You have not heard from him yourself, have
you?'

'No; not lately.  Mark is a bad correspondent.  He would not do at
all for a private secretary.'

'At any rate, not to Harold Smith.  But you are sure I should not
catch him at Barchester?'

'Send down by telegraph, and he would meet you.'

'I don't want to do that.  A telegraph message makes such a fuss in
the country, frightening people's wives, and setting all the horses
about the place galloping.'

'What is it about?'

'Nothing of any great consequence.  I didn't know whether he might
have told you.  I'll write down by to-night's post, and then he can
meet me at Barchester to-morrow.  Or do you write.  There's nothing
I hate so much as letter-writing; just tell him that I called, and
that I shall be much obliged if he can meet me at the Dragon of
Wantly--say at two to-morrow.  I will go down by the express.'

Mark Robarts, in talking over this coming money trouble with
Sowerby, had once mentioned that if it were necessary to take up
the bill for a short time he might be able to borrow the money from
his brother.  So much of the father's legacy still remained in the
hands of the private secretary as would enable him to produce the
amount of the latter bill, and there could be no doubt that he
would lend it if asked.  Mr Sowerby's visit to the Petty Bag Office
had been caused by a desire to learn whether any such request had
been made--and also by a half-formed resolution to make the request
himself if he should find that the clergyman had not done so.  It
seemed to him to be a pity that such a sum should be lying about,
as it were, within reach, and that he should not stoop to put his
hands on it.  Such abstinence would be so contrary to him as it is
for a sportsman to let pass a cock-pheasant.  But yet something
like remorse touched his heart as he sat there balancing himself on
his chair in the private secretary's room, and looking at the young
man's open face.

'Yes; I'll write to him,' said John Robarts; 'but he hasn't said
anything to me about anything particular.'

'Hasn't he?  It does not much signify.  I only mentioned it because
I thought I understood him to say that he would.'  And then Mr
Sowerby went on swinging himself.  How was it that he felt so
averse to mention that little sum of 500L to a young man like John
Robarts, a fellow without wife or children or calls on him of any
sort, who would not even by injured by the loss of the money,
seeing that he had an ample salary on which to live?  He wondered
at his own weakness.  The want of the money was urgent on him in the
extreme.  He had reasons for supposing that Mark would find it very
difficult to renew the bills, but he, Sowerby, could stop their
presentation if he could get this money at once into his own hands.

'Can I do anything for you?' said the innocent lamb, offering his
throat to the butcher.  But some unwonted feeling numbed the
butcher's fingers, and blunted his knife.  He sat still for half a
minute after the question, and then jumping from his seat, declined
the offer.  'No, no; nothing, thank you.  Only write to Mark, and
say that I shall be there to-morrow,' and then, taking his hat, he
hurried out of the office. 'What an ass I am,' he said to himself
as he went: 'as if it were of any use now to be particular.'

He then got into a cab and had himself driven half-way up Portman
Street towards the New Road, and walking from thence a few hundred
yards down a cross-street he came to a public-house.  It was
called the 'Goat and Compasses',--a very meaningless name, one
would say; but the house boasted of being a place of public
entertainment very long established on that site, having been a
tavern out in the country in the days of Cromwell.  At that time
the pious landlord, putting up a pious legend for the benefit of
his pious customers, had declared that--'God encompasseth us.'  The
'Goat and Compasses' in these days does quite as well; and,
considering the present character of the house, was perhaps less
unsuitable than the old legend.  'Is Mr Austen here?' asked Mr
Sowerby of the man at the bar.

'Which on 'em?  Not Mr John; he ain't here.  Mr Tom is in--the
little room on the left-hand side.'  The man whom Mr Sowerby would
have preferred to see was the elder brother John; but as he was not
to be found, he did go into that little room.  In that room he
found--Mr Austen, junior, according to one arrangement of
nomenclature, and Mr Tom Tozer according to another.  To gentlemen
of the legal profession he generally chose to introduce himself as
belonging to the respectable family of the Austens; but among his
intimates he had always been--Tozer.  Mr Sowerby, though he was
intimate with the family, did not love the Tozers:  but he
especially hated Tom Tozer.  Tom Tozer was a bull-necked,
beetle-browed fellow, the expression of whose face was eloquent
with acknowledged roguery.  'I am a rogue,' it seemed to say.  'I
know it; all the world knows it: but you're another.  All the world
don't know that, but I do. Men are all rogues, pretty nigh.  Some
are soft rogues, and some are 'cute rogues.  I am a 'cute one; so
mind your eye.' It was with such words that Tom Tozer's face spoke
out; and though a thorough liar in his heart, he was not a liar in
his face. 'Well, Tozer,' said Mr Sowerby, absolutely shaking his
hands with the dirty miscreant.  'I wanted to see your brother.'

'John ain't here, and ain't like; but it's all as one.'

'Yes, yes; I suppose it is.  I know you two hunt in couples.'

'I don't know what you mean about hunting, Mr Sowerby.  You gents
'as all the hunting, and we poor folk 'as all the work.  I hope
you're going to make up this trifle of money we're out of so long.'

'It's about that I've called.  I don't know what you call long,
Tozer; but the last bill was only dated in February.'

'It's overdue; ain't it?'

'Oh, yes; it's overdue.  There's no doubt about that.'

'Well; when a bit of paper is come round, the next thing is to take
it up.  Them's my ideas.  And to tell you the truth, Mr Sowerby, we
don't think as 'ow you've been treating us just on the square
lately.  In that matter of Lord Lufton's you was down on us
uncommon.'

'You know I couldn't help myself.'

'Well, and we can't help ourselves now.  That's where it is, Mr
Sowerby.  Lord love you; we know what's what, we do.  And so, the
fact is we're uncommon low as to the ready just at present, and we
must have them few hundred pounds.  We must have them at once, or
we must sell up that clerical gent.  I'm dashed if it ain't as hard
to get money from a parson as it is to take a bone from a dog. 'E's
'ad 'is account, no doubt, and why don't he pay?'  Mr Sowerby had
called with the intention of explaining that he was about to
proceed to Barchester on the following day with the express view of
'making arrangements' about this bill; and had he seen John Tozer,
John would have been compelled to accord to him some little
extension of time.  Both Tom and John knew this; and, therefore,
John--the soft-hearted one--kept out of the way.  There was no
danger that Tom would be weak; and, after some half-hour of parley,
he was again left by Mr Sowerby, without having evinced any symptom
of weakness.

'It's the dibs as we want, Mr Sowerby, that's all,' were the last
words which he spoke as the member of Parliament left the room.  Mr
Sowerby then got into another cab, and had himself driven to his
sister's house.  It is a remarkable thing with reference to men who
are distressed for money--distressed as was now the case with Mr
Sowerby--that they never seem at a loss for the luxuries which small
sums purchase.  Cabs, dinners, wine, theatres, and new gloves are
always at the command of men who are drowned in pecuniary
embarrassments, whereas those who don't owe a shilling are so
frequently obliged to go without them!   It would seem that there
is no gratification so costly as that of keeping out of debt.  But
then it is only fair that, if a man has a hobby, he should pay for
it.  Any one else would have saved a shilling, as Mrs Harold
Smith's house was only just across from Oxford Street, in the
neighbourhood of Hanover Square; but Mr Sowerby never thought of
this.  He had never saved a shilling in his life, and it did not
occur to him to begin now.  He had sent word to her to remain at
home for him, and he now found her waiting.  'Harriet,' said he,
throwing himself back into an easy chair, 'the game is pretty well
up at last.'

'Nonsense,' said she.  'The game is not up at all if you have the
spirit to carry it on.'

'I can only say that I got formal notice this morning from the
duke's lawyer, saying that he meant to foreclose at once;--not
from Fothergill, but from those people in South Audley Street.'

'You expected that,' said his sister.

'I don't see how that makes it any better; besides, I am not quite
sure that I did expect it; at any rate I did not feel certain.
There is no doubt now.'

'It is better that there should be no doubt.  It is much better
that you should know on what ground you have to stand.'

'I shall soon have no ground to stand on, none at least of my
own--not an acre,' said the unhappy man, with great bitterness in
his tone.

'You can't in reality be poorer now than you were last year.  You
have not spent anything to speak of.  There can be no doubt that
Chaldicotes will be ample to pay all you owe the duke.'

'It's as much as it will; and what am I to do then?  I almost
think more of the seat than I do of Chaldicotes.'

'You know what I advise,' said Mrs Smith.  'Ask Miss Dunstable to
advance the money on the same security which the duke holds.  She
will be as safe then as he is now.  And if you can arrange that,
stand for the county against him; perhaps you may be beaten.'

'I shouldn't have a chance.'

'But it would show that you are not a creature in the duke's
hands.  That's my advice,' said Mrs Smith, with much spirit; 'and
if you wish, I'll broach it to Miss Dunstable, and ask her to get
her lawyer to look into it.'

'If I had done this before I had run my head into that other
absurdity!'

'Don't fret yourself about that; she will lose nothing by such an
investment, and therefore you are not asking any favour of her.
Besides, did she not make the offer? and she is just the woman to
do this for you now, because she refused to do that thing for you
yesterday.  You understand most things, Nathaniel; but I am not
sure that you understand women; not, at any rate, such a woman as
her.'  It went against the grain with Mr Sowerby, this seeking of
pecuniary assistance from the very woman whose hand he had
attempted to gain about a fortnight since; but he allowed his
sister to prevail.  What could any man do in such straits that
would not go against the grain?  At the present moment he felt in
his mind an infinite hatred against the duke, Mr Fothergill,
Gumption & Gagebee, and all the tribes of Gatherum Castle and South
Audley Street; they wanted to rob of that which had belonged to the
Sowerbys before the name of Omnium had been heard of in the county,
or in England!  The great leviathan of the deep was anxious to
swallow him up as prey!  He was to be swallowed up, and made away
with, and put out of sight, without a pang of remorse.  Any measure
which could not present itself as a means of staving off so evil a
day would be acceptable; and therefore he gave his sister the
commission of making this second proposal to Miss Dunstable.  In
cursing the duke--for he did curse the duke lustily--it hardly
occurred to him to think that, after all, the duke only asked for
his own.  As for Mrs Harold Smith, whatever may be the view taken
of her general character as a wife and a member of society, it must
be admitted that as a sister she had virtues.



CHAPTER XXXIII

CONSOLATION

On the next day at two o'clock punctually, Mark Robarts was at the
"Dragon of Wantly" walking up and down the very room in which the
party had breakfasted after Harold Smith's lecture, and waiting for
the arrival of Mr Sowerby.  He had been very well able to divine
what was the business on which his friend wished to see him, and he
had been rather glad than otherwise to receive the summons.  Judging
of his friend's character by what he had hitherto had seen, he
thought that Mr Sowerby would have kept out of the way, unless he
had it in his power to make some provision for these terrible
bills.  So he walked up and down the dingy room, impatient for the
expected arrival, and thought himself wickedly ill-used in that Mr
Sowerby was not there when the clock struck a quarter to three. But
when the clock struck three, Mr Sowerby was there, and Mark
Robarts's hopes were nearly at an end.

'Do you mean that they will demand nine hundred pounds?' said
Robarts, standing up and glaring angrily at the member of
Parliament.

'I fear they will,' said Sowerby.  'I think it is best to tell you
the worst, in order that we may see what can be done.'

'I can do nothing, and will do nothing,' said Robarts.  'They may
do what they choose--what the law allows them.'  And then he
thought of Fanny and his nursery, and Lucy refusing in her pride
Lord Lufton's offer, and he turned away his face that the hard man
of the world before him might not see the tear gathering in his
eye.

'But, Mark, my dear fellow--' said Sowerby, trying to have recourse
to the power of his cajoling voice.  Robarts, however, would not
listen.

'Mr Sowerby,' said he, with an attempt at calmness which betrayed
itself at every syllable, 'it seems to me that you have robbed me.
That I have been a fool, and worse than a fool, I know well;
but--but--but I thought that your position in the world would
guarantee me from such treatment as this.'  Mr Sowerby was by no
means without feeling, and the words which he now heard cut him
very deeply--the more so because it was impossible that he should
answer them with an attempt at indignation.  He had robbed his
friend, and, with all his wit, knew no words at the present moment
sufficiently witty to make it seem that he had not done so.
'Robarts,' said he, 'you may say what you like to me now; I shall
not resent it.'

'Who would care for your resentment?' said the clergyman, turning
on him with ferocity.  'The resentment of a gentleman is terrible
to a gentleman; and the resentment of one just man is terrible to
another.  Your resentment!'--and then he walked twice the length of
the room, leaving Sowerby dumb in his seat.  'I wonder whether you
ever thought of my wife and children when you were plotting this
ruin for me!'  And then again he walked the room.

'I suppose you will be calm enough presently to speak of this with
some attempt to make a settlement?'

'No; I will make no such attempt.  These friends of yours, you tell
me, have a claim on me for nine hundred pounds, of which they
demand immediate payment.  You shall be asked in a court of law how
much of that money I have handled.  You know that I have never
touched--have never wanted to touch--one shilling.  I will make no
attempt at any settlement.  My person is here, and there is my
house.  Let them do their worst.'

'But, Mark--'

'Call me by my name, sir, and drop that affectation of regard. What
an ass I have been to be so cozened by a sharper!'  Sowerby had by
no means expected this.  He had always known that Robarts possessed
what he, Sowerby, would have called the spirit of a gentleman.  He
had regarded him as a bold, open, generous fellow, able to take his
own part when called on to do so, and by no means disinclined to
speak his own mind; but he had not expected from him such a torrent
of indignation, or thought that he was capable of such a depth of
anger.  'If you use such language, Robarts, I can only leave you.'

'You are welcome.  Go.  You tell me that you are the messenger of
these men who intend to work nine hundred pounds out of me.  You
have done your part in the plot, and have now brought their
message.  It seems to me that you had better go back to them.  As
for me, I want my time to prepare my wife for the destiny before
her.'

'Robarts, you will be sorry some day for the cruelty of your
words.'

'I wonder whether you will ever be sorry for the cruelty of your
doings, or whether these things are really a joke to you.'

'I am at this moment a ruined man,' said Sowerby. 'Everything is
going from me,--my place in the world, the estate of my family, my
father's house, my seat in Parliament, the power of living among my
countrymen, or, indeed, of living anywhere;--but all this does not
oppress me now so much as the misery which I have brought upon
you.'

And then Sowerby also turned away his face, and wiped from his
eyes tears which were not artificial.  Robarts was still walking up
and down the room, but it was not possible for him to continue his
reproaches after this.  This is always the case.  Let a man endure
to heap contumely on his own head, and he will silence the
contumely of others--for the moment.  Sowerby, without meditating
on the matter, had had some inkling of this, and immediately saw
that there was at last an opening for conversation.  'You are
unjust to me,' said he, 'in supposing that I have now no wish to
save you.  It is solely in the hope of doing so that I have come
here.'

'And what is your hope?  That I should accept another brace of
bills, I suppose.'

'Not a brace; but one renewed bill for--'

'Look here, Mr Sowerby.  On no earthly consideration that can be
put before me will I again sign my name to any bill in the guise of
an acceptance.  I have been very weak, and am ashamed of my
weakness; but so much strength as that, I hope, is left to me.  I
have been very wicked, and am ashamed of my wickedness; but so much
right principle as that, I hope, remains.  I will put my name to no
other bill; not for you, not even for myself.'

'But, Robarts, under your present circumstances that will be
madness.'

'Then I will be mad.'

'Have you seen Forrest?  If you will speak to him, I think you will
find that everything can be accommodated.'

'I already owe Mr Forrest a hundred and fifty pounds, which I
obtained from him when you pressed me for the price of that horse,
and I will not increase the debt.  What a fool I was again there!
Perhaps you do not remember that, when I agreed to buy the horse,
the price was to be my contribution to the liquidation of those
bills.'

'I do remember it; but I will tell you how that was.'

'It does not signify.  It has been all of a piece.'

'But listen to me.  I think you would feel for me if you knew all
that I have gone through.  I pledge you my solemn word that I had
no intention of asking you for the money when you took the
horse;--indeed I had not.  But you remember that affair of
Lufton's, when he came to you at your hotel in London and was so
angry about an outstanding bill.'

'I know that he was very unreasonable as far as I was concerned.'

'He was so; but that makes no difference.  He was resolved, in his
rage, to expose the whole affair; and I saw that, if he did so, it
would be most injurious to you, seeing that you had just accepted
your stall at Barchester.'  Here the poor prebendary winced
terribly.  'I moved heaven and earth to get up that bill.  Those
vultures stuck to their prey when they found the value which I
attached to it, and I was forced to raise above a hundred pounds at
the moment to obtain possession of it, although every shilling
absolutely due on it had not long since been paid.  Never in my
life did I wish to get money as I did to raise that hundred and
twenty pounds: and as I hope for mercy in my last moments, I did
that for your sake.  Lufton could not have injured me in that
matter.'

'But you told him that you got it for twenty-five pounds.'

'Yes, I told him so.  I was obliged to tell him that, or I should
have apparently condemned myself by showing how anxious I was to
get it.  And you know that I could not have explained all this
before him and you.  You would have thrown up the stall in
disgust.'  Would that he had!  That was Mark's wish now,--his
futile wish.  In what a slough of despond had he come to wallow in
consequence of his folly on that night at Gatherum Castle!  He had
done a silly thing, and was he now to rue it by almost total ruin?
He was sickened also with all those lies.  His very soul was
dismayed by the dirt through which he was forced to wade.  He had
become unconsciously connected with the lowest dregs of mankind,
and would have to see his name mingled with theirs in the daily
newspapers.  And for what had he done this?  Why had he thus filed
his mind and made himself a disgrace to his cloth?  In order that
he might befriend such a one as Mr Sowerby!

'Well,' continued Sowerby, 'I did get the money, but you would
hardly believe the rigour of the pledge which was exacted from me
for repayment.  I got it from Harold Smith, and never in my worst
straits, will I again look to him for assistance.  I borrowed it
only for a fortnight; and in order that I might repay it, I was
obliged to ask you for the price of the horse.  Mark, it was on
your behalf that I did all this,--indeed it was.'

'And now I am to repay you for your kindness by the loss of all
that I have in the world.'

'If you will put the affair into the hands of Mr Forrest, nothing
need be touched,--not a hair of a horse's back; no, not though you
should be obliged to pay the whole amount yourself gradually out of
your income.  You must execute a series of bills, falling due
quarterly, and then--'

'I will execute no bill, I will put my name to no paper in the
matter; as to that my mind is fully made up.  They may come and do
their worst.'  Mr Sowerby persevered for a long time, but he was
quite unable to move the parson from his position.  He would do
nothing towards making what Mr Sowerby called an arrangement, but
persisted that he would remain at home at Framley, and that any one
who had a claim upon him might take legal steps.  'I shall do
nothing myself,' he said; 'but if proceedings against me be taken,
I shall prove that I have never had a shilling of the money.'  And
with this resolution he quitted the Dragon of Wantly.  Mr Sowerby
at one time said a word as to the expediency of borrowing that sum
of money from John Robarts; but as to this Mark would say nothing.
Mr Sowerby was not the friend with whom he now intended to hold
consultation in such matters.  'I am not at present prepared,' he
said, 'to declare what I may do; I must first see what steps others
take.'  And then he took his hat and went off; and mounting his
horse in the yard of the Dragon of Wantly--that horse which he had
now so many reasons to dislike--he slowly rode back home.

Many thoughts passed through his mind during that ride, but only
one resolution obtained itself a fixture there.  He must now tell
his wife everything.  He would not be so cruel as to let it remain
untold until a bailiff were at the door, ready to walk him off to
the county jail, or until the bed on which they slept was to be
sold from under them.  Yes, he would tell her
everything,--immediately, before his resolution could again have
faded away.  He got off his horse in the yard, and seeing his
wife's maid at the kitchen door, desired her to beg her mistress to
come to him in the book-room.  He would not allow one half-hour to
pass towards the waning of his purpose.  If it be ordained that a
man shall drown, had he not better drown and have done with it? Mrs
Robarts came to him in his room, reaching him in time to touch his
arm as he entered it.  'Mary says you want me.  I have been
gardening, and she caught me just as I came in.'

'Yes, Fanny, I do want you.  Sit down for a moment.'  And walking
across the room, he placed his whip in its proper place.

'Oh, Mark, is there anything the matter?'

'Yes, dearest; yes.  Sit down, Fanny: I can talk to you better if
you will sit.'  But she, poor lady, did not wish to sit.  He had
hinted at some misfortune, and therefore she felt a longing to
stand by him and cling to him.

'Well, there; I will if I must; but, Mark, do not frighten me.  Why
is your face so very wretched?'

'Fanny, I have done very wrong,' he said.  'I have been very
foolish.  I fear that I have brought upon you great sorrow and
trouble.'  And then he leaned his head upon his hands and turned
his face away from her.

'Oh, Mark, dearest Mark, my own Mark!  What is it?'  And then she
was quickly up from her chair, and went down on her knees before
him.  'Do not turn from me.  Tell me, Mark! tell me, that we may
share it.'

'Yes, Fanny, I must tell you now; but I hardly know what you will
think of me when you have heard it.'

'I will think that you are my own husband, Mark; I will think
that--that chiefly, whatever it may be.'  And then she caressed his
knees, and looked up in his face, and, getting hold of one of his
hands, pressed it between her own.  'Even if you have been foolish,
who should forgive you if I cannot?'  And then he told her all,
beginning from that evening when Mr Sowerby had got him into his
bedroom, and going on gradually, now about the bills, and now about
the horses, till his poor wife was utterly lost in the complexity
of the accounts.  She could by no means follow him in the details
of his story; nor could she quite sympathize with him in his
indignation against Mr Sowerby, seeing that she did not comprehend
at all the nature of the renewing of a bill.  The only part to her
of importance in the matter was the money which her husband would
be called upon to pay; that, and her strong hope, which was already
a conviction, that he would never again incur such debts.

'And how much is it, dearest, altogether?'

'These men claim nine hundred pounds of me.'

'Oh dear!  that is a terrible sum.'

'And then there is the hundred and fifty which I have borrowed from
the bank--the price of the horse, you know; and there are some
other debts,--not a great deal, I think; but people will now look
for every shilling that is due to them.  If I have to pay it all,
it will be twelve or thirteen hundred pounds.'

'That will be as much as a year's income, Mark; even with the
stall.'  That was the only word of reproach she said--if that could
be called a reproach.

'Yes,' he said; 'and it is claimed by men who will have no pity in
exacting it at any sacrifice, if they have the power.  And to think
that I should have incurred all this debt, without having received
anything for it.  Oh, Fanny, what will you think of me!'  But she
swore to him that she would think nothing of it--that she would
never bear it in her mind against him--that it could have no effect
in lessening her trust in him.  Was he not her husband?  She was so
glad she knew it, that she might comfort him.  And she did comfort
him, making the weight seem lighter and lighter on his shoulders as
he talked of it.  And such weights do thus become lighter.  A
burden that will crush a single pair of shoulders will, when
equally divided,--when shared by two, each of whom is willing to
take the heavier part--become light as a feather.  Is not that
sharing of the mind's burdens one of the chief purposes for which a
man wants a wife?  For there is no folly so great as keeping one's
sorrows hidden.  And this wife cheerfully, gladly, thankfully took
her share.  To endure with her lord all her lord's troubles was
easy to her; it was the work to which she had pledged herself.  But
to have thought that her lord had troubles not communicated to
her,--that would have been to her the one thing not to be borne.
And then they discussed their plans; what mode of escape they might
have out of this terrible money difficulty.  Like a true woman, Mrs
Robarts proposed at once to abandon all superfluities.  They would
sell all their horses; they would not sell their cows, but would
sell the butter that came from them; they would sell the
pony-carriage, and get rid of the groom.  That the footman must go
was so much a matter of course, that it was hardly mentioned.  But
then, as to that house at Barchester, the dignified prebendal
mansion in the close--might they not be allowed to leave it
unoccupied for one year longer--perhaps to let it?  The world of
course must know of their misfortune; but if that misfortune was
faced bravely, the world would be less bitter in its condemnation.
And then, above all things, everything must be told to Lady Lufton.

'You may, at any rate, believe this, Fanny,' said he, 'that for no
consideration which can be offered to me will I ever put my name to
another bill.'  The kiss with which she thanked him for this was as
warm and generous as though he had brought to her that day news of
the brightest; and when he sat, as he did that evening, discussing
it all, not only with his wife, but with Lucy, he wondered how it
was that his troubles were now so light.  Whether or no a man
should have his own private pleasures, I will not now say; but it
never can be worth his while to keep his sorrows private.



CHAPTER XXXIV

LADY LUFTON IS TAKEN BY SURPRISE

Lord Lufton, as he returned to town, found some difficulty in
resolving what step he would next take.  Sometimes, for a minute or
two, he was half inclined to think--or rather to say to
himself--that Lucy was perhaps not worth the trouble which she
threw in his way.  He loved her very dearly, and would willingly
make her his wife, he thought or said at such moments; but-- Such
moments, however, were only moments.  A man in love seldom loves
less because his love becomes difficult.  And thus, when those
moments were over, he would determine to tell his mother at once,
and urge her to signify her consent to Miss Robarts.  That she
would not be quite pleased he knew; but if he were firm enough to
show that he had a will of his own in this matter, she would
probably not gainsay him.  He would not ask this humbly, as a
favour, but request her ladyship to go through the ceremony as
though it were one of those motherly duties which she as a good
mother could not hesitate to perform on behalf of her son.  Such
was the final resolve with which he reached his chambers in the
Albany.  On the next day he did not see his mother.  It would be
well, he thought, to have his interview with her immediately before
he started for Norway, so that there might be no repetition of it;
and it was on the day before he did start that he made his
communication, having invited himself to breakfast in Brook Street
on the occasion.

'Mother,' he said, quite abruptly, throwing himself into one of the
dining-room chairs.  'I have a thing to tell you.' His mother at
once knew that the thing was important, and with her own peculiar
motherly instinct imagined that the question to be discussed had
reference to matrimony.  Had her son desired to speak to her about
money, his tone and look would have been different; as would also
have been the case--in a different way--had he entertained any
thought of a pilgrimage to Peking, or a prolonged fishing excursion
to the Hudson Bay Territories.

'A thing, Ludovic!  well, I am quite at liberty.'

'I want to know what you think of Lucy Robarts?'  Lady Lufton
became pale and frightened, and the blood ran cold to her heart.
She had feared more than rejoiced in conceiving that her son was
about to talk of love, but she had feared nothing so bad as this.

'What do I think of Lucy Robarts?' she said, repeating her son's
words in a tone of evident dismay.

'Yes, mother; you have said once or twice lately that you thought I
ought to marry, and I am beginning to think so too.  You selected
one clergyman's daughter for me, but that lady is going to do much
better with herself--'

'Indeed she is not,' said Lady Lufton sharply.

'And therefore I rather think I shall select for myself another
clergyman's sister.  You don't dislike Miss Robarts, I hope?'

'Oh, Ludovic!'  It was all that Lady Lufton could say at the spur
of the moment.

'Is there any harm in her!  Have you any objection to her? Is there
anything about her that makes her unfit to be my wife?'

For a moment or two Lady Lufton sat silent, collecting her
thoughts.  She thought that there was a very great objection to
Lucy Robarts, regarding her as the possible future Lady Lufton. She
could hardly have stated all her reasons, but they were very
cogent.  Lucy Robarts had, in her eyes, neither beauty, nor style,
nor manner, nor even the education which was desirable.  She was
almost as far removed from being so as a woman could be in her
position.  But, nevertheless, there were certain worldly attributes
which she regarded as essential to the character of any young lady
who might be considered fit to take the place which she herself had
so long filled.  It was her desire in looking for a wife for her
son to combine these with certain moral excellences which she
regarded as equally essential.  Lucy Robarts might have the moral
excellences, or she might not; but as to the other attributes Lady
Lufton regarded her as altogether deficient.  She could never look
like a Lady Lufton, or carry herself in the county as a Lady Lufton
should do.  She had not that quiet personal demeanour--that dignity
of repose--which Lady Lufton loved to look upon in a young married
woman of rank.  Lucy, she would have said, could be nobody in a
room except by dint of her tongue, whereas Griselda Grantly would
have held her peace for a whole evening, and yet would have
impressed everybody by the majesty of her presence. Then again,
Lucy had no money--and, again Lucy was only the sister of her own
parish clergyman.  People are rarely prophets in their own country,
and Lucy was no prophet at Framley; she was none, at least, in the
eyes of Lady Lufton.  Once before, as may be remembered, she had
had fears on this subject--fears, not so much for her son, whom she
could hardly bring herself to suspect of such a folly, but for
Lucy, who might be foolish enough to fancy that the lord was in
love with her.  Alas! alas!  Her son's question fell upon the poor
woman at the present moment with the weight of a terrible blow. 'Is
there anything about her which makes her unfit to be my wife?'
Those were her son's last words.

'Dearest Ludovic, dearest Ludovic!' and she got up and came over to
him, 'I do think so; I do, indeed.'

'Think what?' said he, in a tone that was almost angry.

'I do think that she is unfit to be your wife.  She is not of that
class from which I would wish to see you choose.'

'She is of the same class as Griselda Grantly.'

'No, dearest.  I think you are in error there.  The Grantlys have
moved in a different sphere of life.  I think you must feel that
they are--'

'Upon my word, mother, I don't.  One man is Rector of Plumstead,
and the other is Vicar of Framley.  But it is no good arguing
that.  I want you to take to Lucy Robarts.  I have come to you on
purpose to ask it of you as a favour.'

'Do you mean as your wife, Ludovic?'

'Yes; as my wife.'

'Am I to understand that you are--are engaged to her?'

'Well, I cannot say that I am--not actually engaged to her.  But
you may take this for granted that, as far as it lies in my power,
I intend to become so.  My mind is made up, and I certainly shall
not alter it.'

'And the young lady knows all this?'

'Certainly.'

'Horrid, sly, detestable, underhand girl,' Lady Lufton said to
herself, not being by any means brave enough to speak out such
language before her son.  What hope could there be if Lord Lufton
had already committed himself by a positive offer?  'And her
brother, and Mrs Robarts; are they aware of it?'

'Yes; both of them.'

'And both approve of it?'

'Well, I cannot say that.  I have not seen Mrs Robarts, and do not
know what may be her opinion.  To speak my mind honestly about
Mark, I do not think he does cordially approve.  He is afraid of
you, and would be desirous of knowing what you think.'

'I am glad, at any rate, to hear that,' said Lady Lufton, gravely.
'Had he done anything to encourage this, it would have been very
base.'  And then there was another short period of silence.  Lord
Lufton had determined not to explain to his mother the whole state
of the case.  He would not tell her that everything depended on her
word--that Lucy was ready to marry him only on condition that she,
Lady Lufton, would desire her to do so.  He would not let her know
that everything depended on her--according to Lucy's present
verdict.  He had a strong disinclination to ask his mother's
permission to get married; and he would have to ask it were he to
tell her the whole truth.  His object was to make her think well of
Lucy, and to induce her to be kind, and generous, and affectionate
down at Framley.  Then things would all turn out comfortably when
he again visited that place, as he intended to do on his return
from Norway.  So much he thought it possible he might effect,
relying on his mother's probable calculation that it would be
useless for her to oppose a measure which she had no power of
stopping by her authority.  But were he to tell her that she was to
be the final judge, that everything was to depend on her will,
then, so thought Lord Lufton, that permission would in all
probability be refused.

'Well, mother, what answer do you intend to give me?' he said.  'My
mind is positively made up.  I should not have come to you had not
that been the case.  You will now be going down home, and I would
wish you to treat Lucy as you yourself would wish to treat any girl
to whom you knew that I was engaged.'

'But you say that you are not engaged.'

'No, I am not; but I have made my offer to her, and I have not been
rejected.  She was confessed that she--loves me,---not to myself,
but to her brother.  Under these circumstances, may I count upon
your obliging me?'  There was something in his manner which almost
frightened his mother, and made her think that there was more
behind this than was told to her.  Generally speaking, his manner
was open, gentle, and unguarded; but now he spoke as though he had
prepared his words, and was resolved on being harsh as well as
obstinate.

'I am so much taken by surprise, Ludovic, that I can hardly give
you an answer.  If you ask whether I approve of such a marriage, I
must say that I do not; I think that you would be throwing yourself
away marrying Miss Robarts.'

'That is because you do not know her.'

'May it not be possible that I know her better than you do, dear
Ludovic?  You have been flirting with her--'

'I hate that word; it always sounds to me to be vulgar.'

'I will say making love to her, if you like it better; and
gentlemen under these circumstances will sometimes become
infatuated.'

'You would not have a man marry a girl without making love to her.
The fact is, mother, that your tastes and mine are not exactly the
same; you like silent beauty, whereas I like talking beauty, and
then--'

'Do you call Miss Robarts beautiful?'

'Yes, I do; very beautiful; she has the beauty that I admire.
Good-bye now, mother; I shall not see you again before I start.  It
will be no use writing, as I shall be away for so short a time, and
I don't quite know where we shall be.  I shall come down to Framley
immediately I return, and shall learn from you how the land lies. I
have told you my wishes, and you will consider how far you think it
right to fall in with them.'  He then kissed her, and without
waiting for a reply, he took his leave.  Poor Lady Lufton, when she
was left to herself, felt that her head was going round and round.
Was this to be the end of all her ambition,--of all her love for
her son?  and was this the result of all her kindness to the
Robarts's?  She almost hated Mark Robarts as she reflected that she
had been the means of bringing him and his sister to Framley.  She
thought over all his sins, his absences from the parish, his visit
to Gatherum Castle, his dealings with reference to that farm which
was to have been sold, his hunting, and then his acceptance of that
stall, given, as she had been told, through the Omnium interest.
How could she love him at such a moment as this?  And then she
thought of his wife.  Could it be possible that Fanny Robarts, her
own friend Fanny, would be so untrue to her as to lend any
assistance to such a marriage as this; as not to use all her power
in preventing it?  She had spoken to Fanny on this very
subject--not fearing for her son, but with a general idea of the
impropriety of intimacies between such girls as Lucy, and such men
as Lord Lufton, and then Fanny had agreed with her.  Could it be
possible that even she must be regarded as an enemy?  And then by
degrees Lady Lufton began to reflect what steps she had better
take.  In the first place, should she give in at once, and consent
to the marriage?  The only thing quite certain to her was this,
that life would be not worth having if she were forced into a
permanent quarrel with her son.  Such an event would probably kill
her.  When she read of quarrels in other noble families--and the
accounts of such quarrels will sometimes, unfortunately, force
themselves upon the attention of my unwilling readers--she would
hug herself, with a spirit that was almost pharisaical, reflecting
that her destiny was not like that of others.  Such quarrels and
hatreds between fathers and daughters, and mothers and sons, were
in her eyes disreputable to all the persons concerned.  She had
lived happily with her husband, comfortably with her neighbours,
respectably with the world, and, above all things, affectionately
with her children.  She spoke everywhere of Lord Lufton as though
he were nearly perfect,--and in so speaking, she had not belied her
convictions.  Under these circumstances, would not any marriage be
better than a quarrel?  But, then, again, how much of the pride of
her daily life would be destroyed by such a match as that!  And
might it not be within her power to prevent it without any
quarrel?  That her son would be sick of such a chit as Lucy before
he had been married to her six months--of that Lady Lufton
entertained no doubt, and therefore her conscience would not be
disquieted in disturbing the consummation of an arrangement so
pernicious.  It was evident that the matter was not considered as
settled even by her son; and also evident that he regarded the
matter as being in some way dependent on his mother's consent.  On
the whole, might it not be better for her--better for them
all--that she should think wholly of her duty, and not of the
disagreeable results to which that duty might possibly lead?  It
could not be her duty to accede to such an alliance; and therefore
she would do her best to prevent it.  Such, at least, should be her
attempt in the first instance.

Having so decided, she next resolved on her course of action.
Immediately on her arrival at Framley, she would send for Lucy
Robarts, and use all her eloquence--and perhaps also a little of
that stern dignity for which she was so remarkable--in explaining
to that young lady how very wicked it was on her part to think of
forcing herself on such a family as that of the Luftons.  She would
explain to Lucy that no happiness could come of it, that people
placed by misfortune above their sphere are always miserable; and,
in short, make use of all those excellent moral lessons which are
so customary on such occasions.  The morality might perhaps be
thrown away; but Lady Lufton depended much on her dignified
sternness. And then, having so resolved, she prepared for her
journey home.  Very little had been said at Framley parsonage about
Lord Lufton's offer after the departure of that gentleman; very
little, at least, in Lucy's presence.  That the parson and his wife
should talk about it between themselves was a matter of course; but
very few words were spoken on the matter either by or to Lucy.  She
was left to her own thoughts, and possibly to her own hopes.  And
then other matters came up at Framley which turned the current of
interest into other tracks.  In the first place there was the visit
made by Mr Sowerby to the Dragon of Wantly, and the consequent
revelation made by Mark Robarts to his wife.  And while that latter
subject was yet new, before Fanny and Lucy had as yet made up their
minds as to all the little economies which might be practised in
the household without serious detriment to their master's comfort,
news reached them that Mrs Crawley of Hogglestock had been stricken
with fever.  Nothing of the kind could well be more dreadful than
this.  To those who knew the family it seemed impossible that their
most ordinary wants could be supplied if that courageous head were
even for a day laid low; and then the poverty of poor Mr Crawley
was such that the sad necessities of a sick bed could hardly be
supplied without assistance. 'I will go over at once,' said Fanny.

'My dear!' said her husband, 'it is typhus, and you must
think of the children.  I will go.'

'What on earth could you do, Mark?' said his wife.  'Men on such
occasions are almost worse than useless; and then they are so much
more liable to infection.'

'I have no children, nor am I a man,' said Lucy, smiling; 'for both
of which exemptions I am thankful.  I will go, and when I come back
I will keep clear of the bairns.'

So it was settled, and Lucy started in the pony-carriage, carrying
with her such things from the parsonage storehouse as were thought
to be suitable to the wants of the sick lady at Hogglestock.  When
she arrived there, she made her way into the house, finding the
door open, and not being able to obtain the assistance of the
servant girl in ushering her in.  In the parlour she found Grace
Crawley, the eldest child, sitting demurely in her mother's chair
nursing an infant. She, Grace herself, was still a young child, but
not the less, on this occasion of well-understood sorrow, did she
go through her task with zeal but almost with solemnity.  Her
brother, a boy of six years old, was with her, and he had the care
of another baby.  There they sat in a cluster, quiet, grave, and
silent, attending on themselves, because it had been willed by fate
that no one else should attend them. 'How is your mamma, dear
Grace?' said Lucy, walking up to her and holding out her hand.

'Poor mamma is very ill indeed,' said Grace.

'And papa is very unhappy,' said Bobby, the boy.

'I can't get up because of baby,' said Grace; 'but Bobby can go and
call papa out.'

'I will knock at the door,' said Lucy; and so saying she walked up
to the bedroom door, and tapped against it lightly.  She repeated
this for the third time before she was summoned in by a low hoarse
voice, and then on entering she saw Mr Crawley standing by the
bedside with a book in his hand.  He looked at her uncomfortably,
in a manner which seemed to show that he was annoyed by this
intrusion, and Lucy was aware that she had disturbed him while at
prayers by the bedside of his wife.  He came across the room,
however, and shook hands with her, and answered her inquiries in
his ordinary grave and solemn voice.  'Mrs Crawley is very ill,' he
said--'very ill.  God has stricken us heavily, but His will be
done.  But you had better not go to her, Miss Robarts.  It is
typhus.'

The caution, however, was too late; for Lucy was already at the
bedside, and had taken the hand of the sick woman, which had been
extended on the coverlid to greet her.  'Dear Miss Robarts,' said a
weak voice; 'this is very good of you; but it makes me unhappy to
see you here.'  Lucy lost no time in taking sundry matters into her
own hands, and ascertaining what was most wanted in that wretched
household.  For it was wretched enough.  Their only servant, a girl
of sixteen, had been taken away by her mother as soon as it became
known that Mrs Crawley was ill with fever.  The poor mother, to
give her her due, had promised to come down morning and evening
herself, to do such work as might be done in an hour or so; but she
could not, she said, leave her child to catch the fever.  And now,
at the period of Lucy's visit, no step had been taken to procure a
nurse, Mr Crawley having resolved to take upon himself the duties
of that position.  In his absolute ignorance of all sanitary
measures, he had thrown himself on his knees to pray; and if
prayers--true prayers--might succour his poor wife, of such
succour she might be confident.  Lucy, however, thought that other
aid was wanting to her.  'If you can do anything for us,' said Mrs
Crawley, 'let it be for the poor children.'

'I will have them all moved from this till you are better,' said
Lucy boldly.

'Moved!' said Mr Crawley, who even now--even in his present
strait--felt a repugnance to the idea that any one should relieve
him of any portion of his burden.

'Yes,' said Lucy; 'I am sure it will be better that you should lose
them for a week or two, till Mrs Crawley may be able to leave the
room.'

'But where are they to go?' said he, very gloomily.  As to this Lucy
was not as yet able to say anything.  Indeed when she left Framley
parsonage there had been no time for discussion.  She would go back
and talk it over with Fanny, and find out in what way the children
might be best put out of danger.  Why should they not all be
harboured at the parsonage, as soon as assurance could be felt that
they were not tainted with the poison of the fever?  An English
lady of the right sort will do all things but one for a sick
neighbour; but for no neighbour will she wittingly admit contagious
sickness within the precincts of her own nursery.  Lucy unloaded
her jellies and her febrifuges, Mr Crawley frowning at her bitterly
the while.  It had come to this with him, that food had been
brought into his house, as an act of charity, in his very presence,
and in his heart of hearts he disliked Lucy Robarts in that she had
brought it.  He could not cause the jars and the pots to be
replaced in the pony-carriage, as he would have done had the
position of his wife been different.  In her state it would have
been barbarous to refuse them, and barbarous also to have created
the fracas of a refusal; but each parcel that was introduced was an
additional weight laid on the sore withers of his pride, till the
total burden became almost unbearable.  All this his wife saw and
recognized even in her illness, and did make some light ineffectual
efforts to give him ease; but Lucy in her new power was ruthless,
and the chicken to make the chicken-broth was taken out of the
basket under his very nose.  But Lucy did not remain long.  She had
made up her mind what it behoved her to do herself, and she was
soon ready to return to Framley.  'I shall be back again, Mr
Crawley,' she said, 'probably this evening, and I shall stay with
her till she is better.'  'Nurses don't want rooms,' she went on to
say, when Mr Crawley muttered something about there being no bed-
chamber.  'I shall make up some sort of litter near her; you'll see
that I shall be very snug.'  And then she got into the pony-chaise,
and drove herself home.


CHAPTER XXXV

THE STORY OF KING COPHETUA

Lucy, as she drove herself home, had much as to which it was
necessary that she should arouse her thoughts.  That she would go
back and nurse Mrs Crawley through her fever she was resolved.  She
was free agent enough to take so much on herself, and to feel sure
that she could carry it through.  But how was she to redeem her
promise about the children?  Twenty plans ran through her mind, as
to farm-houses in which they might be placed, or cottages which
might be hired for them; but all these entailed the want of money;
and at the present moment, were not all the inhabitants of the
parsonage pledged to a dire economy?  This use of the pony-carriage
would have been illicit under any circumstances less pressing than
the present, for it had been decided that the carriage, and even
poor Puck himself, should be sold.  She had, however, given her
promise about the children, and though her own stock of money was
very low, that promise should be redeemed.

When she reached the parsonage she was of course full of her
schemes, but she found that another subject of interest had come up
in her absence, which prevented her from obtaining the undivided
attention of her sister-in-law to her present plans.  Lady Lufton
had returned that day, and immediately on her return had sent up a
note addressed to Miss Lucy Robarts, which note was in Fanny's
hands when Lucy stepped out of the pony-carriage.  The servant who
brought it had asked for an answer, and a verbal answer had been
sent, saying that Miss Robarts was away from home, and would
herself send a reply when she returned.  It cannot be denied that
the colour came to Lucy's face, and that her hand trembled when she
took the note from Fanny in the drawing-room.  Everything in the
world to her might depend on what that note contained; and yet she
did not open it at once, but stood with it in her hand, and when
Fanny pressed her on the subject, still endeavoured to bring back
the conversation to the subject of Mrs Crawley.  But yet her mind
was intent on that letter, and she had already augured ill from the
handwriting and even from the words of the address.  Had Lady
Lufton intended to be propitious, she would have directed her
letter to Miss Robarts, without the Christian name; so at least
argued Lucy--quite unconsciously, as one does argue in such
matters.  One forms half the conclusions of one's life without any
distinct knowledge that the premises have even passed through one's
mind.  They were now alone together, as Mark was out.  'Won't you
open the letter?' said Mrs Robarts.

'Yes, immediately; but, Fanny, I must speak to you about Mrs
Crawley first.  I must go back there this evening, and stay there;
I have promised to do so, and shall certainly keep my promise.  I
have promised also that the children shall be taken away, and we
must arrange about that.  It is dreadful, the state she is in.
There is no one to see to her but Mr Crawley, and the children are
together left by themselves.'

'Do you mean that you are going back there to stay?'

'Yes, certainly; I have made a distinct promise that I would do
so.  And about the children; could not you manage for the children,
Fanny--not perhaps in the house; at least not at first, perhaps?'
And yet during all the time that she was thus speaking and pleading
for the Crawleys, she was endeavouring to imagine what might be the
contents of that letter which she had between her fingers.

'And is she so very ill?' asked Mrs Robarts.

'I cannot say how ill she may be, except this, that she certainly
has typhus fever.  They had some doctor or doctor's assistant from
Silverbridge; but it seems to me that they are greatly in want of
better advice.'

'But, Lucy, will you not read your letter?  It is astonishing to me
that you should be so indifferent about it.'  Lucy was anything but
indifferent, and now did proceed to tear the envelope.  The note
was very short, and ran in these words--

"MY DEAR MISS ROBARTS,
"I am particularly anxious to see you, and
shall feel much obliged to you if you can step
over to me here, at Framley Court.  I must
apologize for taking this liberty with you, but
you will probably feel that an interview here
would suit us both better than at the parsonage.
"Truly yours
"M.  LUFTON"

'There; I am in for it now,' said Lucy, handing the note over to
Mrs Robarts.  'I shall have to be talked to as never poor girl was
talked to before: and when one thinks of what I have done, it is
hard.'

'Yes; and of what you have not done.'

'Exactly; and of what I have not done.  But I suppose I must go,'
and she proceeded to re-tie the strings of her bonnet, which she
had loosened.

'Do you mean that you are going over at once?'

'Yes; immediately.  Why not? it will be better to have it over,
and then I can go to the Crawleys.  But, Fanny, the pity of it is
that I know it all as well as though it had been already spoken;
and what good can there be in my having to endure it?  Can't you
fancy the tone in which she will explain it to me, the conventional
inconveniences which arose when King Cophetua would marry the
beggar's daughter?  how she will explain what Griselda went
through;--not the archdeacon's daughter, but the other Griselda?'

'But it came right with her.'

'Yes; but then I am not Griselda, and she will explain how it would
certainly all go wrong with me.  But what's the good when I know it
all beforehand?  Have I not desired King Cophetua to take himself
and sceptre elsewhere?'  And then she started, having first said
another word or two about the Crawley children, and obtained a
promise of Puck and the pony-carriage for the afternoon.  It was
almost agreed that Puck on his return to Framley should bring back
the four children with him; but on this subject it was necessary
that Mark should be consulted.  The present scheme was to prepare
for them a room outside the house, once the dairy, at present
occupied by the groom and his wife; and to bring them into the
house as soon as it was manifest that there was no danger from
infection.  But all this was to be matter for deliberation.  Fanny
wanted her to send over a note, in reply to Lady Lufton's, as
harbinger of her coming; but Lucy marched off, hardly answering
this proposition.

'What's the use of such a deal of ceremony?' she said.  'I know
she's at home; and if she is not, I shall only lose ten minutes in
going.'  And so she went, and on reaching the door at Framley Court
house found that her ladyship was at home.  Her heart almost came
to her mouth as she was told so, and then, in two minutes' time,
she found herself in the little room upstairs.  In that little room
we found ourselves once before--but Lucy had never before visited
that hallowed precinct.  There was something in its air calculated
to inspire awe in those who first saw Lady Lufton sitting bolt
upright in the cane-bottomed arm-chair, which she always occupied
when at work at her books and papers; and this she knew when she
determined to receive Lucy in that apartment.  But there was
another arm-chair, an easy, cosy chair, which stood by the
fireside; and for those who had caught Lady Lufton napping in that
chair of an afternoon, some of this awe had perhaps been
dissipated.  'Miss Robarts,' she said, not rising from her chair,
but holding out her hand to her visitor, 'I am much obliged to you
for having come over to me here.  You, no doubt, are aware of the
subject on which I wish to speak to you, and will agree with me
that it is better that we should meet here than over at the
parsonage.'  In answer to which Lucy merely bowed her head, and took
her seat on the chair which had been prepared for her.  'My son,'
continued her ladyship, 'has spoken to me on the subject of--I
think I understand, Miss Robarts, that there has been no engagement
between you and him?'

'None whatever,' said Lucy.  'He made me an offer and I refused
him.'  This she said very sharply;--more so undoubtedly than the
circumstances required; and with a brusqueness that was injudicious
as well as uncourteous.  But at the moment, she was thinking of her
own position with reference to Lady Lufton--not to Lord Lufton; and
of her feelings with reference to the lady--not to the gentleman.

'Oh,' said Lady Lufton, a little startled by the manner of the
communication.  'Then I am to understand that there is nothing now
going on between you and my son; that the whole affair is over?'

'That depends entirely upon you.'

'On me; does it?'

'I do not know what your son may have told you, Lady Lufton.  For
myself I do not care to have any secrets from you in this matter;
and as he has spoken to you about it, I suppose that such is his
wish also.  Am I right in presuming that he has spoken to you on
the subject?'

'Yes, he has; and it is for that reason that I have taken the
liberty of sending for you.'

'And may I ask what he has told you?  I mean, of course, as regards
myself,' said Lucy.  Lady Lufton before she answered this question,
began to reflect that the young lady was taking too much of the
initiative in this conversation, and was, in fact, playing the game
in her own fashion, which was not at all in accordance with those
motives which had induced Lady Lufton to send for her.  'He has
told me that he has made you an offer of marriage,' replied Lady
Lufton: 'a matter which, of course, is very serious to me, as his
mother; and I have thought, therefore, that I had better see you,
and appeal to your own good sense and judgement and high feelings.
Of course you are aware--'

Now was coming the lecture to be illustrated by King Cophetua and
Griselda, as Lucy had suggested to Mrs Robarts; but she succeeded
in stopping it for awhile.  'And did Lord Lufton tell you what was
my answer?'

'Not in words.  But you yourself now say that you refused him; and
I must express my admiration for your good--'

'Wait half a moment, Lady Lufton.  Your son did make me an offer.
He made it to me in person, up at the parsonage, and I then refused
him;--foolishly, as I now believe, for I dearly love him.  But I
did so from a mixture of feelings which I need not, perhaps,
explain; that most prominent, no doubt, was a fear of your
displeasure.  And then he came again, not to me, but to my brother,
and urged his suit to him.  Nothing can have been kinder to me,
more noble, more loving, more generous, than his conduct.  At first
I thought, when he was speaking to myself, that he was led on
thoughtlessly to say all that he did say.  I did not trust his
love, though I saw that he did trust it himself.  But I could not
but trust it when he came again--to my brother, and made his
proposal to him.  I don't know whether you will understand me, Lady
Lufton; but a girl placed as I am feels ten times more assurance in
such a tender of affection as that, than in one made to herself, at
the spur of the moment, perhaps.  And then you remember that I--I
myself--I loved him from the first.  I was foolish enough to think
that I could know him and not love him.'

'I saw what was going on,' said Lady Lufton, with a certain
assumption of wisdom about her; 'and took steps which I hoped would
have put a stop to it in time.'

'Everybody saw it.  It was a matter of course,' said Lucy,
destroying her ladyship's wisdom at a blow.  'Well; I did learn to
love him, not meaning to do so; and I do love him with all my
heart.  It is no use my striving to think that I do not; and I
could stand with him at the altar to-morrow and give him my hand,
feeling that I was doing my duty by him, as a woman should do.  And
now he has told you of his love, and I believe in that as I do in
my own--'  And then for a moment she paused.

'But, my dear Miss Robarts--' began Lady Lufton.  Lucy, however,
had not worked herself up into a condition of power, and would not
allow her ladyship to interrupt her in her speech.  'I beg your
pardon, Lady Lufton; I shall have done directly, and then I will
hear you.  And so my brother came to me, not urging this suit,
expressing no wish for such a marriage, but allowing me to judge
for myself, and proposing that I should see your son again on the
following morning. Had I done so, I could not but have accepted
him.  Think of it, Lady Lufton.  How could I have done either than
accept him, seeing that in my heart I had accepted his love
already?'

'Well?' said Lady Lufton, not wishing now to put in any speech of
her own.

'I did not see him--I refused to do so--because I was a coward.  I
could not endure to come into this house as your son's wife, and be
coldly looked on by your son's mother.  Much as I loved him, much as
I do love him, dearly as I prize the generous offer which he came
down here to repeat to me, I could not live with him to be made the
object of your scorn.  I sent him word, therefore, that I would have
him when you would ask me, and not before.'  And, then, having thus
pleaded her cause--and pleaded, as she believed, the cause of her
lover also--she ceased from speaking, and prepared herself to
listen to the story of King Cophetua.  But Lady Lufton felt
considerable difficulty in commencing her speech.  In the first
place she was by no means a hard-hearted or a selfish woman; and
were it not that her own son was concerned, and all the glory which
was reflected upon her from her son, her sympathies would have been
given to Lucy Robarts.  As it was, she did sympathize with her, and
admire her, and to a certain extent like her.  She began also to
understand what it was that had brought about her son's love, and
to feel that but for certain unfortunate concomitant circumstances
the girl before her might have made a fitting Lady Lufton.  Lucy
had grown bigger in her eyes while sitting there and talking, and
had lost much of that missish want of importance--that lack of
social weight--which Lady Lufton in her own opinion had always
imputed to her.  A girl that could thus speak up and explain her
own position now, would be able to speak up and explain her own,
and perhaps some other positions at any future time.  But not for
all or any of these reasons did Lady Lufton think of giving way.
The power of making or marring this marriage was placed in her
hands, as was very fitting, and that power it behoved her to use,
as best she might use it, to her son's advantage.  Much as she
might admire Lucy, she could not sacrifice her son to that
admiration.  The unfortunate concomitant circumstances still
remained, and were of sufficient force, as she thought, to make
such a marriage inexpedient.  Lucy was the sister of a gentleman,
who by his peculiar position as parish clergyman of Framley was
unfitted to be the brother-in-law of the owner of Framley.  Nobody
liked clergymen better than Lady Lufton or was more willing to live
with them on terms of affectionate intimacy, but she could not get
over the feeling that the clergyman of her own parish,--or of her
son's,--was a part of her own establishment, of her own
appanage--or of his,--and that it could not be well that Lord
Lufton should marry among his own dependants.  Lady Lufton would
not have used the word, but she did think it.  And then, too,
Lucy's education had been so deficient.  She had had no one about
her in early life accustomed to the ways of,--of what shall I say
without making Lady Lufton appear more worldly than she was?  Lucy's
wants in this respect, not to be defined in words, had been
exemplified by the very way in which she had just now stated her
case.  She had shown talent, good temper, and sound judgement; but
there had been no quiet, no repose about her.  The species of power
in young ladies which Lady Lufton most admired was the vis inertiae
belonging to beautiful and dignified reticence; of this poor Lucy
had none.  Then, too, she had not fortune, which though a minor
evil, was an evil; and she had no birth, in the high sense of the
word, which was the greater evil.  And then, though her eyes had
sparkled when she confessed her love, Lady Lufton was not prepared
to admit that she was possessed of positive beauty.  Such were the
unfortunate concomitant circumstances which still induced Lady
Lufton to resolve that the match must be marred.

But the performance on her part in this play was much more
difficult than she had imagined, and she found herself obliged to
sit silent for a minute or two, during which, however, Miss Robarts
made no attempt at further speech.  'I am greatly struck,' Lady
Lufton said at last, 'by the excellent sense you have displayed in
the whole of this affair; and you must allow me to say, Miss
Robarts, that I now regard you with very different feelings from
those which I entertained when I left London.'  Upon this Lucy
bowed her head, slightly but very stiffly; acknowledging rather the
former censure implied than the present eulogium expressed.

'But my feelings,' continued Lady Lufton, 'my strongest feelings in
this matter, must be those of a mother.  What might be my conduct
if such a marriage did take place, I need not now consider.  But I
must confess that I should think such a marriage very--very
ill-judged.  A better-hearted young man than Lord Lufton does not
exist, nor one with better principles, or a deeper regard for his
word; but he is exactly the man to be mistaken on any hurried
outlook as to his future life.  Were you and he to become man and
wife, such a marriage would tend to the happiness neither of him or
of you.'  It was clear that the whole lecture was coming; and as
Lucy had openly declared her own weakness, and thrown all the power
of decision into the hands of Lady Lufton, she did not see why she
should endure this.

'We need not argue about that, Lady Lufton,' she said.  'I have
told you the only circumstances under which I would marry your son;
and you, at any rate, are safe.'

'No; I was not wishing to argue,' answered Lady Lufton, almost
humbly; 'but I was desirous of excusing myself to you, so that you
should not think me cruel in withholding my consent.  I wished to
make you believe that I was doing the best for my son.'

'I am sure that you think you are, and therefore no excuse is
necessary.'

'No, exactly; of course it is a matter of opinion, and I do think
so.  I cannot believe that this marriage would make either of you
happy, and therefore I should be very wrong to express my consent.'

'Then, Lady Lufton,' said Lucy, rising from her chair, 'I suppose
we have both now said what is necessary, and I will therefore wish
you good-bye.'

'Good-bye, Miss Robarts.  I wish I could make you understand how
very highly I regard your conduct in this matter.  It has been
above all praise, and so I shall not hesitate to say when speaking
of it to your relatives.'  This was disagreeable enough to Lucy,
who cared but little for any praise which Lady Lufton might express
to her relatives in this matter.  'And pray,' continued Lady
Lufton, 'give my best love to Mrs Robarts, and tell her that I
shall hope to see her over here very soon, and Mr Robarts also.  I
would name a day for you all to dine; but perhaps it will be better
that I should have a little talk with Fanny first.'

Lucy muttered something, which was intended to signify that any
such dinner party had better not be made up with the intention of
including her, and then took her leave.  She had decidedly had the
best of the interview, and there was a consciousness of this in her
heart as she allowed Lady Lufton to shake hands with her.  She had
stopped her antagonist short on each occasion on which an attempt
had been made to produce the homily which had been prepared, and
during the interview had spoken probably three words for every one
which her ladyship had been able to utter.  But, nevertheless,
there was a bitter feeling of disappointment about her heart as she
walked back home; and a feeling, also, that she herself had caused
her own unhappiness.  Why should she have been so romantic and
chivalrous and self-sacrificing, seeing that her romance and
chivalry had all been to his detriment as well as hers,--seeing
that she sacrificed him as well as herself?  Why should she have
been so anxious to play into Lady Lufton's hands?  It was not
because she thought it right, as a general social rule, that a lady
should refuse a gentleman's hand, unless the gentleman's mother
were a consenting party to the marriage.  She would have held any
such doctrine as absurd.  The lady, she would have said, would have
had to look to her own family and no further.  It was not virtue
but cowardice which had influenced her, and she had none of that
solace which may come to us in misfortune from a consciousness that
our own conduct has been blameless.  Lady Lufton had inspired her
with awe, and any such feeling on her part was mean, ignoble, and
unbecoming the spirit with which she wished to think that she was
endowed.  That was the accusation which she had brought against
herself, and it forbade her to feel any triumph as to the result of
the interview.  When she reached the parsonage, Mark was there, and
they were of course expecting her.  'Well,' said she, in her short
hurried manner, 'is Puck ready again?  I have no time to lose, and
I must go and pack up a few things.  Have you settled about the
children, Fanny?'

'Yes; I will tell you directly; but you have seen Lady Lufton?'

'Seen her!  Oh, yes, of course I have seen her.  Did she not send
for me? and in that case it was not on the cards that I would
disobey her.'

'And what did she say?'

'How green you are, Mark; and not only green, but impolite also, to
make me repeat the story of my own disgrace.  Of course she told me
that she did not intend that I should marry my lord, her son; and
of course I said that under those circumstances I should not think
of doing such a thing.'

'Lucy, I cannot understand you,' said Fanny, very gravely.  'I am
sometimes inclined to doubt whether you have any deep feeling in
the matter or not.  If you have, how can you bring yourself to joke
about it?'

'Well, it is singular; and sometimes I doubt myself whether I
have.  I ought to be pale, ought I not? and very thin, and to go
mad by degrees?  I have not the least intention of doing anything
of the kind, and, therefore, the matter is not worth any further
notice.'

'But was she civil to you, Lucy?' asked Mark: 'civil in her manner,
you know?'

'Oh, uncommonly so.  You will hardly believe it, but she actually
asked me to dine.  She always does, you know, when she wants to
show her good humour.  If you'd broken your leg, and she wished to
commiserate you, she'd ask you to dinner.'

'I suppose she meant to be kind,' said Fanny, who was not disposed
to give up her old friend, though she was quite ready to fight
Lucy's battle, if there were any occasion for a battle to be
fought.

'Lucy is so perverse,' said Mark, 'that it is impossible to learn
from her what really has taken place.'

'Upon my word, then, you know it all as well as I can tell you.  She
asked me if Lord Lufton had made me an offer.  I said, yes.  She
asked next, if I meant to accept it.  Not without her approval, I
said.  And then she asked us to dinner.  That is exactly what took
place, and I cannot see that I have been perverse at all.'  After
that she threw herself into a chair, and Mark and Fanny stood
looking at each other.

'Mark,' she said, after a while, 'don't be unkind to me.  I make as
little of it as I can, for all our sakes.  It is better so, Fanny,
than that I should go about moaning, like a sick cow;' and then
they looked at her, and saw that tears were already brimming over
from her eyes.

'Dearest, dearest Lucy,' said Fanny, immediately going down on her
knees before her, 'I won't be unkind to you again.' And then they
had a great cry together.



CHAPTER XXXVI

KIDNAPPING AT HOGGLESTOCK

The great cry, however, did not take long, and Lucy was soon in the
pony-carriage again.  On this occasion her brother volunteered to
drive her, and it was not understood that he was to bring back with
him all the Crawley children.  The whole thing had been arranged;
the groom and his wife were to be taken into the house, and the big
bedroom across the yard, usually occupied by them, was to be
converted into a quarantine hospital until such time as it might be
safe to pull down the yellow flag.  They were about half-way on
their road to Hogglestock, when they were overtaken by a man on
horseback, whom, when he came up beside them, Mr Robarts recognized
as Dr Arabin, Dean of Barchester, and head of the chapter to which
he himself belonged.  It immediately appeared that the dean was
also going to Hogglestock, having heard of the misfortune that had
befallen his friends there; he had, he said, started as soon the
news reached him, in order that he might ascertain how best he
might render assistance.  To effect this he had undertaken a ride
of nearly forty miles, and explained that he did not expect to
reach home again much before midnight.  'You pass by Framley?'
asked Robarts.

'Yes, I do,' said the dean.

'Then of course you will dine with us as you go home; you and your
horse also, which will be quite as important.'  This having been
duly settled, and the proper ceremony of introduction having taken
place between the dean and Lucy, they proceeded to discuss the
character of Mr Crawley.

'I have known him all my life,' said the dean, 'having been at
school and college with him, and for years since that I was on
terms of the closest intimacy with him; but in spite of that, I do
not know how to help him in his need.  A prouder-hearted man I
never met, or one less willing to share his sorrows with his
friends.'

'I have often heard him speak of you,' said Mark.

'One of the bitterest feelings I have is that a man so dear to me
should live so near to me, and that I should see so little of him.
But what can I do?  He will not come to my house; and when I go to
his he is angry with me because I wear a shovel hat and ride on
horseback.'

'I should leave my hat and my horse at the borders of the last
parish,' said Lucy, timidly.

'Well; yes, certainly; one ought not to give offence even in such
matters as that; but my coat and waistcoat would then be equally
objectionable.  I have changed,--in outward matters I mean,--and he
has not.  That irritates him, and unless I could be what I was in
the old days, he will not look at me with the same eyes;' and then
he rode on, in order, as he said, that the first pang of the
interview might be over before Robarts and his sister came upon the
scene.  Mr Crawley was standing before his door, leaning over the
little wooden railing, when the dean trotted up on his horse.  He
had come out after hours of close watching to get a few mouthfuls
of the sweet summer air, and as he stood there he held the youngest
of his children in his arms.  The poor little baby sat there, quiet
indeed, but hardly happy.  This father, though he loved his
offspring with an affection as intense as that which human nature
can supply, was not gifted with the knack of making children fond
of him; for it is hardly more than a knack, that aptitude which
some men have of gaining the good graces of the young.  Such men
are not always the best fathers or the safest guardians; but they
carry about with them a certain duc ad me which children recognize,
and which in three minutes upsets all the barriers between five and
five-and-forty.  But Mr Crawley was a stern man, thinking ever of
the souls and minds of his bairns--as a father should do; and
thinking also that every season was fitted for operating on these
souls and minds--as, perhaps, he should not have done as a father
or as a teacher.  And consequently his children avoided him when
the choice was given them, thereby adding fresh wounds to his torn
heart, but by no means quenching any of the great love with which
he regarded them.

He was standing there thus with the placid little baby in his
arms--a baby placid enough, but one that would not kiss him
eagerly, and stroke his face with her soft little hands, as he
would have had her do--when he saw the dean coming towards him.  He
was sharp-sighted as a lynx out in the open air, though now obliged
to pore over his well-fingered books with spectacles on his nose;
and thus he knew his friend from a long distance, and had time to
meditate on the mode of his greeting.  He too doubtless had come, if
not with jelly and chicken, then with money and advice;--with money
and advice such as a thriving dean might offer to a poor brother
clergyman; and Mr Crawley, though no husband could be more anxious
for a wife's safety than he was, immediately put his back up and
began to bethink himself how these tenders might be rejected.

'How is she?' were the first words which the dean spoke as he
pulled up his horse close to the little gate, and put out his hand
to take that of his friend.

'How are you, Arabin?' said he.  'It is very kind of you to come so
far, seeing how much there is to keep you at Barchester.  I cannot
say that she is any better, but I do not know that she is worse.
Sometimes I fancy she is delirious, though I hardly know.  At any
rate her mind wanders, and then after that she sleeps.'

'But is the fever less?'

'Sometimes less, and sometimes more, I imagine.'

'And the children?'

'Poor things; they are well as yet.'

'They must be taken from this, Crawley, as a matter of course.'

Mr Crawley fancied that there was a tone of authority in the dean's
advice, and immediately put himself into opposition.

'I do not know how that may be; I have not yet made up my mind.'

'But, my dear Crawley--'

'Providence does not admit of such removals in all cases,' said
he.  'Among the poorer classes the children must endure such
perils.'

'In many cases it is so,' said the dean, by no means inclined to
make an argument of it at the present moment; 'but in this case
they need not.  You must allow me to make arrangements for sending
for them, as of course your time is occupied here.'  Miss Robarts,
though she had mentioned her intention of staying with Mrs Crawley,
had said nothing of the Framley plan with reference to the children.

'What you mean is that you intend to take the burden off my
shoulders--in fact, pay for them.  I cannot allow that, Arabin.
They must take the lot of their father and their mother, as it is
proper that they should do.'  Again the dean had no inclination for
arguing, and thought it might be well to let the question of the
children drop for a little while.

'And there is no nurse with her?' said he.

'No, no; I am seeing to her myself at the present moment.  A woman
will be here just now.'

'What woman?'

'Well; her name is Mrs Stubbs; she lives in the parish.  She will
put her younger children to bed, and--and--but it's no use
troubling you with all that.  There was a young lady talked of
coming, but no doubt she has found it too inconvenient.  It will be
better as it is.'

'You mean Miss Robarts; she will be here directly; I passed her as
I came here;' and as Dr Arabin was yet speaking, the noise of the
carriage wheels was heard upon the road.

'I will go in now;' said Mr Crawley, 'and see if she still sleeps;'
and then he entered the house, leaving the dean at the door still
seated upon his horse.  'He will be afraid of the infection, and I
will not ask him to come in,' said Mr Crawley to himself.

'I shall seem to be prying into his poverty, if I enter unasked,'
said the dean to himself.  And so he remained there till Puck, now
acquainted with the locality, stopped at the door.

'Have you not been in?' said Robarts.

'No; Crawley has been at the door talking to me; he will be here
directly, I suppose;' and then Mark Robarts also prepared himself
to wait till the master of the house should reappear.  But Lucy had
not such punctilious misgivings; she did not much care now whether
she offended Mr Crawley or no.  Her idea was to place herself by the
sick woman's bedside, and to send the four children away;--with
their father's consent if it might be; but certainly without it if
that consent were withheld.  So she got down from the carriage, and
taking certain packages in her hand made her way direct into the
house.

'There's a big bundle under the seat, Mark,' she said; 'I'll come
and fetch it directly, if you'll drag it out.'  For some five
minutes the two dignitaries of the Church remained at the door, one
on his cob, and the other in his low carriage, saying a few words
to each other and waiting till some one should again appear from
the house.  'It is all arranged, indeed it is,' were the first
words which reached their ears, and these came from Lucy.  'There
will be no trouble at all, and no expense, and they shall all come
back as soon as Mrs Crawley is able to get out of bed.'

'But, Miss Robarts, I can assure--'  That was Mr Crawley's voice,
heard from him as he followed Miss Robarts to the door; but one of
the elder children had then called him back into the sick room, and
Lucy was left to do her worst.

'Are you going to take the children back with you?' said the dean.

'Yes; Mrs Robarts has prepared for them.'

'You can take greater liberties with my friend here than I can.'

'It is all my sister's doing,' said Robarts.  'Woman are always
bolder in such matters than men.'  And then Lucy reappeared,
bringing Bobby with her, and one of the younger children.

'Do not mind what he says,' said she, 'but drive away when you have
got them all.  Tell Fanny I have put into the basket what things I
could find, but they are very few.  She must borrow things for
Grace from Mrs Granger's little girl'--(Mrs Granger was the wife of
a Framley farmer);--'and, Mark, turn Puck's head round so that you
may be off in a moment.  I'll have Grace and the other one here
directly.'  And then, leaving her brother to pack Bobby and his
little sister on the back part of the vehicle, she returned to her
business in the house.  She had just looked in at Mrs Crawley's
bed, and finding her awake, had smiled on her, and deposited her
bundle in token of her intended stay, and then, without speaking a
word, had gone on her errand about the children.  She had called to
Grace to show her where she might find such things as were to be
taken to Framley, and having explained to the bairns, as well as
she might, the destiny which immediately awaited them, prepared
them for their departure without saying a word to Mr Crawley on the
subject.  Bobby and the elder of the two infants were stowed away
safely in the back part of the carriage, where they allowed
themselves to be placed without saying a word.  They opened their
eyes and stared at the dean, who sat by on his horse, and assented
to such orders as Mr Robarts gave them,--no doubt with much
surprise, but nevertheless in absolute silence.

'Now, Grace, be quick, there's a dear,' said Lucy, returning with
the infant in her arms.  'And, Grace, mind you are very careful
about the baby; and bring the basket; I'll give it you when you are
in.'  Grace and the other child were packed on to the other seat,
and a basket with the children's clothes put in on top of them.
'That'll do, Mark; good-bye; tell Fanny to be sure and send the day
after to-morrow, and not to forget--' and then she whispered into
her brother's ear an injunction about certain dairy comforts which
might not be spoken of in the hearing of Mr Crawley.  'Good-bye,
dears; mind you are good children; you shall hear about mamma the
day after to-morrow,' said Lucy; and Puck, admonished by a sound
from his master's voice, began to move just as Mr Crawley
reappeared at the house door.

'Oh, oh, stop!' he said.  'Miss Robarts, you really had better
not--'

'Go on, Mark,' said Lucy, in a whisper, which, whether audible or
not to Mr Crawley, was heard very plainly by the dean.  And Mark,
who had slightly arrested Puck by the reins on the appearance of Mr
Crawley, now touched the impatient little beast with his whip; and
the vehicle with its freight darted off rapidly, Puck shaking his
head and going away with a tremendously quick short trot, which
soon separated Mr Crawley from his family.

'Miss Robarts,' he began, 'this step has been taken altogether
without--'

'Yes,' said she, interrupting him.  'My brother was obliged to
return at once.  The children, you know, will remain all together
at the parsonage; and that, I think, is what Mrs Crawley will best
like.  In a day or two they will be under Mrs Robarts's own
charge.'

'But, my dear Miss Robarts, I had no intention whatever of putting
the burden of my family on the shoulders of another person.  They
must return to their own home immediately--that is, as soon as
they can be brought back.'

'I really think Miss Robarts has managed very well,' said the
dean.  'Mrs Crawley must be so much more comfortable to think that
they are out of danger.'

'And they will be quite comfortable at the parsonage.' said Lucy.

'I do not at all doubt that,' said Mr Crawley; 'but too much of
such comforts will unfit them for their home; and--and I could have
wished that I had been consulted more at leisure before the
proceedings had been taken.'

'It was arranged, Mr Crawley, when I was here before, that the
children had better go away,' pleaded Lucy.

'I do not remember agreeing to such a measure, Miss Robarts;
however--I suppose they cannot be had back to-night?'

'No, not to-night,' said Lucy.  'And now I will go to your wife.'
And then she returned to the house, leaving the two gentlemen at
the door.  At this moment a labourer's boy came sauntering by, and
the dean, obtaining possession of his services for the custody of
his horse, was able to dismount and put himself on a more equal
footing for conversation with his friend.

'Crawley,' said he, putting his hand affectionately on his friend's
shoulder, as they both stood leaning on the little rail before the
door, 'that is a good girl--a very good girl.'

'Yes,' he said slowly; 'she means well.'

'Nay, but she does well.  She does excellently.  What can be better
than her conduct now?  While I was meditating how I might possible
assist your wife in this strait--'

'I want no assistance; none, at least, from man,' said Crawley,
bitterly.

'Oh, my friend, think of what you are saying!  Think of the
wickedness which must accompany such a state of mind!  Have you
ever known any man able to walk alone, without assistance from his
brother man?'  Mr Crawley did not make any immediate answer, but
putting his arms behind his back and closing his hands, as was his
wont when he walked alone thinking of the general bitterness of his
lot in life, began to move slowly along the road in the front of
his house.  He did not invite the other to walk with him, but
neither was there anything in his manner which seemed to indicate
that he intended to be left by himself.  It was a beautiful summer
afternoon, at that delicious period of the year when summer has
just burst forth from the growth of spring; when the summer is yet
but three days old, and all the various shades of green which
nature can put forth are still in their unsoiled purity of
freshness.  The apple blossoms were on the trees, and the hedges
were sweet with May.  The cuckoo at five o'clock was still sounding
his soft summer call with unabated energy, and even the common
grasses of the hedgerows were sweet with the fragrance of their new
growth.  The foliage of the oaks was complete, so that every bough
and twig was clothed; but the leaves did not yet hand heavy in
masses, and the bend of every bough and the tapering curve of every
twig were visible through light green covering.  There is not time
of the year equal in beauty to the first week of summer: and no
colour which nature gives, not even the gorgeous hues of autumn,
which can equal the verdure produced by the first warm suns of May.

Hogglestock, as has been explained, has little to offer in the way
of landskip beauty, and the clergyman's house at Hogglestock was
not placed on a green slopy bank of land, retired from the road,
with its windows opening on to a lawn, surrounded by shrubs, with a
view of the small church tower seen through them; it had none of
that beauty which is so common to the cosy houses of our spiritual
pastors in the agricultural parts of England.  Hogglestock
parsonage stood bleak beside the road, with no pretty paling lined
inside by hollies and laburnum, Portugal laurels and rose-trees.
But, nevertheless, even Hogglestock was pretty now.  There were
apple-trees there covered with blossom, and the hedgerows were in
full flower.  There were thrushes singing, and here and there an
oak-tree stood in the roadside, perfect in its solitary beauty.

'Let us walk on a little,' said the dean.  'Miss Robarts is with
her now, and you will be better for leaving the room for a few
minutes.'

'No,' said he; 'I must go back; I cannot leave that young lady to
do my work.'

'Stop, Crawley!' And the dean, putting his hand upon him, stayed
him in the road.  'She is doing her own work, and if you were
speaking of her with reference to any other household than your
own, you would say so.  Is it not a comfort to you to know that
your wife has a woman near her at such a time as this; and a woman,
too, who can speak to her as one lady does to another?'

'These are comforts which we have no right to expect.  I could have
done much for poor Mary; but what a man could have done should not
have been wanting.'

'I am sure of it; I know it well.  What any man could do by himself
you would do--excepting one thing.'  And the dean as he spoke
looked full into the other's face.

'And what is there I would not do?' said Crawley.

'Sacrifice you own pride.'

'My pride!'

'Yes; your own pride.'

'I have had but little pride this many a day.  Arabin, you do not
know what my life has been.  How is a man to be proud who--' And
then he stopped himself, not wishing to go through the catalogue of
those grievances, which, as he thought, had killed the very germs
of pride within him, or to insist by spoken words on his poverty,
his wants, and the injustice of his position.  'No; I wish I could
be proud; but the world has been too heavy to me, and I have
forgotten all that.'

'How long I have known you, Crawley?'

'How long?  Ah dear! a lifetime nearly, now.'

'And we were like brothers once.'

'Yes; we were equal as brothers then--in our fortunes, our tastes,
and our modes of life.'

'And yet you would begrudge me the pleasure of putting my hand in
my pocket, and relieving the inconveniences which have been thrown
upon you, and those you love better than yourself, by the chances
of the fate in your life.'

'I will live on no man's charity,' said Crawley, with an abruptness
which amounted almost to an expression of anger.

'And is that not pride?'

'No--yes;--it is a species of pride, but not that pride of which
you spoke.  A man cannot be honest if he have not some pride.  You
yourself; would you not rather starve than become a beggar?'

'I would rather beg than see my wife starve,' said Arabin.

Crawley when he heard these words turned sharply round, and stood
with his back to the dean, with his hands still behind him, and
with his eyes fixed upon the ground.

'But in this case there is no question of begging,' continued the
dean.  'I, out of those superfluities which it has pleased God to
put at my disposal, am anxious to assist the needs of those whom I
love.'

'She is not starving,' said Crawley, in a voice very bitter, but
still intended to be exculpatory of himself.

'No, my dear friend; I know she is not, and do not you be angry
with me because I have endeavoured to put the matter to you in the
strongest language I could use.'

'You look at it, Arabin, from one side only; I can only look at it
from the other.  It is very sweet to give; I do not doubt that.  But
the taking of what is given is very bitter.  Gift bread chokes in a
man's throat and poisons his blood, and sits like lead upon the
heart.  You have never tried it.'

'But that is the very fault of which I blame you.  That is the
pride which I say you ought to sacrifice.'

'And why should I be called upon to do so?  Is not the labourer
worthy of his hire?  Am I not able to work, and willing?  Have I
not always had my shoulder to the collar, and is it right that I
should now be contented with the scraps from a rich man's kitchen?
Arabin, you and I were equal once and we were then friends,
understanding each other's thoughts and sympathizing with each
other's sorrows.  But it cannot be so now.'

'If there be such inability, it is all with you.'

'It is all with me,--because in our connexion the pain would all be
on my side.  It would not hurt you to see me at your table with
worn shoes and a ragged shirt.  I do not think so meanly of you as
that.  You would give me your feast to eat though I were not clad a
tithe as well as the menial behind your chair.  But it would hurt
me to know that there were those looking at me who thought me unfit
to sit in your presence.'

'That is the pride of which I speak;--false pride.'

'Call it so if you will; but, Arabin, no preaching of yours can
alter it.  It is all that is left to me of my manliness.  That poor
broken reed who is lying there sick,--who has sacrificed all the
world to her love for me,--who is the mother of my children, and
the partner of my sorrows and the wife of my bosom,--even she
cannot change me in this, though she pleads with the eloquence of
all her wants.  Not even for her can I hold out my hand for a
dole.'  They had now come back to the door of the house, and Mr
Crawley, hardly conscious of what he was doing, was preparing to
enter.

'Will Mrs Crawley be able to see me if I come in?'

'Oh, stop, no; you had better not do so,' said Mr Crawley. 'You, no
doubt, might be subject to infection, and then Mrs Arabin would be
frightened.'

'I do not care about it in the least,' said the dean.

'But it is of no use; you had better not.  Her room, I fear,
is quite unfit for you to see; and the whole house, you know,
may be infected.'  Dr Arabin, by this time was in the
sitting-room; but seeing that his friend was really anxious
that he should not go farther, he did not persist.

'It will be a comfort to us, at any rate, to know that Miss Robarts
is with her.'

'The young lady is very good--very good indeed,' said Crawley; 'but
I trust she will return to her home to-morrow.  It is impossible that
she should remain in so poor a house as mine.  There will be nothing
here of all the things she will want.'  The dean thought that Lucy
Robarts's wants during her present occupation of nursing would not be
so numerous as to make her continued sojourn in Mrs Crawley's
sick-room impossible, and therefore took his leave with a satisfied
conviction that the poor lady would not be left wholly to the
somewhat unskilled nursing of her husband.



CHAPTER XXXVII

MR SOWERBY WITHOUT COMPANY

And now there were going to be wondrous doings in West Barsetshire,
and men's minds were much disturbed.  The fiat had gone forth from
the high places, and the Queen had dissolved her faithful Commons.
The giants, finding that they could effect little or nothing with
the old House, had resolved to try what a new venture would do for
them, and the hubbub of a general election was to pervade the
country.  This produced no inconsiderable irritation and annoyance,
for the House was not as yet quite three years old; and members of
Parliament, though they naturally feel a constitutional pleasure in
meeting their friends and in pressing the hands of their
constituents, are, nevertheless, so far akin to the lower order of
humanity that they appreciate the danger of losing their seats; and
the certainty of a considerable outlay in their endeavours to
retain them is not agreeable to the legislative mind.  Never did
the old family fury between the gods and giants rage higher than at
the present moment.  The giants declared that every turn which they
attempted to take in their country's service had been thwarted by
faction, in spite of those benign promises of assistance made to
them only a few weeks since by their opponents; and the gods
answered by asserting that they were driven to this opposition by
the Boeotian fatuity of the giants.  They had no doubt promised
their aid, and were ready to give it to measures that were decently
prudent; but not to a bill enabling Government at its will to
pension aged bishops!  No; there must be some limit to their
tolerance, and when such attempts as these were made that limit had
been clearly passed.  All this had taken place openly only a day or
two after that casual whisper dropped by Tom Towers at Miss
Dunstable's party--by Tom Towers, that most pleasant of all
pleasant fellows.  And how should he have know it,--he who flutters
from one sweetest flower of the garden to another,

      'Adding sugar to the pink, and honey to the rose,
      So loved for what he gives, but taking nothing as he goes'?

But the whisper had grown into a rumour, and the rumour into a
fact, and the political world was in a ferment.  The giants,
furious about their bishops' pension bill, threatened the
House--most injudiciously; and then it was beautiful to see how
indignant members got up, glowing with honesty, and declared that
it was base to conceive that any gentleman in that House could be
actuated in his vote by any hopes or fears with reference to his
seat.  And so matters grew from bad to worse, and these contending
parties never hit at each other with some venomed wrath as they did
now;--having entered the ring together so lately with such manifold
promises of good-will, respect, and forbearance!

But going from the general to the particular, we may say that
nowhere was a deeper consternation spread than in the electoral
division of West Barsetshire.  No sooner had the tidings of the
dissolution reached the county than it was known that the duke
intended to change his nominee.  Mr Sowerby had now sat for the
division since the Reform Bill!  He had become one of the county's
institutions, and by the dint of custom and long establishment had
been borne with and even liked by the county gentlemen, in spite of
his well-known pecuniary irregularities.  Now all this was to be
changed.  No reason had as yet been publicly given, but it was
understood that Lord Dumbello was to be returned, although he did
not own an acre of land in the county.  It is true that rumour went
on to say that Lord Dumbello was about to form close connexions
with Barsetshire.  He was on the eve of marrying a young lady, from
the other division indeed, and was now engaged, so it was said, in
completing arrangements with the Government for the purchase of
that noble Crown property usually known as the Chase of
Chaldicotes.  It was also stated--this statement, however, had
hitherto been only announced in confidential whispers--that
Chaldicotes House itself would soon become the residence of the
marquis.  The duke was claiming it as his own--would very shortly
have completed his claims and taken possession:--and then, by some
arrangement between them, it was to be made over to Lord Dumbello.
But very contrary rumours to these got abroad also.  Men said--such
as dared to oppose the duke, and some few also, who did not dare to
oppose him when the day of battle came--that it was beyond his
grace's power to turn Lord Dumbello into a Barsetshire magnate.  The
Crown property--such men said--was to fall into the hands of young
Mr Gresham, of Boxall Hill, in the other division, and that the
terms of purchase had been already settled.  And as to Mr Sowerby's
property and the house of Chaldicotes--these opponents of the
Omnium interest went on to explain--it was by no means as yet so
certain that the duke would be able to enter it and to take
possession.  The place was not to be given up to him quietly.  A
great fight would be made, and it was beginning to be believed that
the enormous mortgages would be paid off by a lady of immense
wealth.  And then a dash of romance was not wanting to make these
stories palatable.  This lady of immense wealth had been courted by
Mr Sowerby, had acknowledged her love,--but had refused to marry
him on account of his character.  In testimony of her love,
however, she was about to pay all his debts.

It was soon put beyond a rumour, and became manifest enough, that
Mr Sowerby did not intend to retire from the county in obedience to
the duke's behest.  A placard was posted through the whole division
in which no allusion was made by name to the duke, but in which Mr
Sowerby warned his friends not to be led away by any report that he
intended to retire from the representation of West Barsetshire.  'He
had sat,' the placard said, 'for the same county during the full
period of a quarter of a century, and he would not lightly give up
an honour that had been extended to him so often and which he
prized so dearly.  There were but few men now in the House whose
connexion with the same body of constituents had remained unbroken
so long as had that which had bound him to West Barsetshire; and he
confidently hoped that the connexion might be continued through
another period of coming years, till he might find himself in the
glorious position of being the father of the county members of the
House of Commons.'  The placard said much more than this, and hinted
at sundry and various questions, all of great interest to the
county; but it did not say one word of the Duke of Omnium, though
every one knew what the duke was supposed to be doing in the
matter.  He was, as it were, a great Llama, shut up in a holy of
holies, inscrutable, invisible, inexorable,--not to be seen by
men's eyes or heard by their ears, hardly to be mentioned by
ordinary men at such periods as these without an inward quaking.
But, nevertheless, it was he who was supposed to rule them.
Euphemism required that his name should be mentioned at no public
meetings in connexion with the coming election; but, nevertheless,
most men in the county believed that he could send his dog up to
the House of Commons as member for West Barsetshire if it so
pleased him.

It was supposed, therefore, that our friend Sowerby would have no
chance; but he was lucky in finding assistance in a quarter from
which he certainly had not deserved it.  He had been a staunch
friend of the gods during the whole of his political life,--as,
indeed, was to be expected, seeing that he had been the duke's
nominee; but, nevertheless, on the present occasion, all the giants
connected with the county came forward to his rescue.  They did to
do this with the acknowledged purpose of opposing the duke; they
declared that they were actuated by a generous disinclination to
see an old county member put from his seat; but the world knew that
the battle was to be waged against the great Llama.  It was to be a
contest between the powers of aristocracy and the powers of
oligarchy, as those powers existed in West Barsetshire,--and it may
be added, that democracy would have very little to say to it, on
one side or on the other.  The lower order of voters, the small
farmers and tradesmen, would no doubt range themselves on the side
of the duke, and would endeavour to flatter themselves that they
were thereby furthering the views of the Liberal side; but they
would in fact be led to the poll by an old-fashioned, time-honoured
adherence to the will of their great Llama; and by an apprehension
of evil if that Llama should arise and shake himself in his wrath.
What might not come to the county if the Llama were to walk himself
off, he with his satellites and armies and courtiers?  There he
was, a great Llama; and though he came among them but seldom, and
was scarcely seen when he did come, nevertheless--and not the less
but rather the more--was obedience to him considered as salutary
and opposition regarded as dangerous.  A great rural Llama is still
sufficiently mighty in rural England.  But the priest of the
temple, Mr Fothergill, was frequent enough in men's eyes, and it
was beautiful to hear with how varied a voice he alluded to the
things around him and to the changes which were coming.  To the
small farmers, not only on the Gatherum property, but on others
also, he spoke of the duke as a beneficent influence, shedding
prosperity on all around him, keeping up prices by his presence,
and in forbidding the poor rates to rise above one and fourpence in
the pound by the general employment which he occasioned.  Men must
be mad, he thought, who would willingly fly in the duke's face.  To
the squire from a distance he declared that no one had a right to
charge the duke with any interference; as far, at least, as he knew
the duke's mind.  People would talk of things of which they
understood nothing.  Could any one say that he had traced a single
request for a vote home to the duke?  All this did not alter the
settled conviction on men's minds; but it had the effect, and
tended to increase the mystery in which the duke's doings were
enveloped.  But to his own familiars, to the gentry immediately
around him, Mr Fothergill merely winked his eye.  They knew what
was what, and so did he.  The duke had never been bit yet in such
matters, and Mr Fothergill did not think that he would now submit
himself to any such operation.

I never heard in what manner and at what rate Mr Fothergill
received remuneration for the various services performed by him
with reference to the duke's property in Barsetshire; but I am very
sure that, whatever might be the amount, he earned it thoroughly.
Never was there a more faithful partisan, or one who, in his
partisanship, was more discreet.  In this matter of the coming
election he declared that he himself--personally, on his own
hook--did intend to bestir himself actively on behalf of Lord
Dumbello.  Mr Sowerby was an old friend of his, and a very good
fellow.  That was true.  But all the world must admit that Sowerby
was not in the position which a county member ought to occupy.  He
was a ruined man, and it would not be for his own advantage that he
should be maintained in a position which was fit only for a man of
property.  He knew--he, Fothergill--that Mr Sowerby must abandon
all right and claim to Chaldicotes; and if so, what would be more
absurd than to acknowledge that he had a right and claim for the
seat in Parliament?  As to Lord Dumbello, it was probable that he
would soon become the largest landowner in the county; and, as
such, who would be more fit for the representation?  Beyond this,
Mr Fothergill was not ashamed to confess--so he said--that he hoped
to hold Lord Dumbello's agency.  It would be compatible with his
other duties, and therefore, as a matter of course, he intended to
support Lord Dumbello; he himself, that is.  As to the duke's mind
in the matter--!  But I have already explained how Mr Fothergill
disposed of that.

In these days Mr Sowerby came down to his own house--for ostensibly
it was still his own house--but he came very quietly, and his
arrival was hardly known in his own village.  Though his placard
was stuck up so widely, he himself took no electioneering steps;
none, at least, as yet.  The protection against arrest which he
derived from Parliament would soon be over, and those who were most
bitter against the duke averred that steps would be taken to arrest
him, should he give sufficient opportunity to the myrmidons of the
law.  That he would, in such case, be arrested was very likely; but
it was not likely that this would be done in any way at the duke's
instance.  Mr Fothergill declared indignantly that this insinuation
made him very angry; but he was too prudent a man to be very angry
at anything, and he knew how to make capital on his own side of
charges such as these which overshot their own mark.  Mr Sowerby
came down very quietly to Chaldicotes, and there he remained for a
couple of days, quite alone.  The place bore a very different
aspect now to that which we noticed when Mark Robarts drove up to
it, in the early pages of this narrative.  There were no lights in
the windows now, and no voices came from the stables; no dogs
barked, and all was dead and silent as the grave.  During the
greater portion of those two days he sat alone within the house,
almost unoccupied.  He did not even open his letters, which lay
piled on a crowded table in the small breakfast parlour in which he
sat; for the letters of such men come in piles, and there are few
of them which are pleasant in the reading.  There he sat, troubled
with thoughts which were sad enough, now and then moving to and fro
the house, but for the most part occupied in thinking over the
position to which he had brought himself.  What would he be in the
world's eye, if he ceased to be the owner of Chaldicotes, and
ceased also to be the member for the county?   He had lived ever
before the world, and, though always harassed by encumbrances, had
been sustained and comforted by the excitement of a prominent
position.  His debts and difficulties had hitherto been bearable,
and he had borne them with ease so long that he had almost taught
himself to think that they would never be unendurable.  But now--

The order for foreclosing had gone forth, and the harpies of the
law, by their present speed in sticking their claws into the
carcass of his property, were atoning to themselves for the delay
with which they had hitherto been compelled to approach their
prey.  And the order as to his seat had gone forth also. That
placard had been drawn up by the combined efforts of his sister,
Miss Dunstable, and a certain well-known electioneering agent,
named Closerstill, presumed to be in the interest of the giants.
But poor Sowerby had but little confidence in the placard.  No one
knew better than he how great was the duke's power.  He was
hopeless, therefore, as he walked about through those empty rooms,
thinking of his past life and of that life which was to come.  Would
it not be well for him that he were dead, now that he was dying to
all that had made the world pleasant?  We see and hear of such men
as Mr Sowerby, and are apt to think that they enjoy that all
without payment either in care or labour; but I doubt that, with
even the most callous of them, their periods of wretchedness must
be frequent, and that wretchedness very intense.  Salmon and lamb
in February, and green pease and new potatoes in March, can hardly
make a man happy, even though nobody pays for them; and the feeling
that one is antecedum scelestum after whom a sure, though lame,
Nemesis is hobbling, must sometimes disturb one's slumbers.  On the
present occasion Scelestus felt that his Nemesis had overtaken
him.  Lame as he had been, and swift as he had run, she had mouthed
him at last, and there was nothing left for him but to listen to
the 'whoop' set up at the sight of his own death-throes.

It was a melancholy, dreary place now, that big house of
Chaldicotes; and though the woods were all green with their early
leaves, and the garden thick with flowers, they were also
melancholy and dreary.  The lawns were untrimmed and weeds were
growing through the gravel, and here and there a cracked Dryad,
tumbled from her pedestal and sprawling in the grass, gave a look
of disorder to the whole place.  The wooden trellis-work was
shattered here and bending there, the standard rose-trees were
stooping to the ground, and the leaves of the winter still
encumbered the borders.  Of all the inanimate things of the world
this wood of Chaldicotes was the dearest to him.  He was not a man
to whom his companions gave much credit for feelings or thoughts
akin to poetry, but here, out in the Chace, his mind would be
almost poetical.  While wandering among the forest trees, he became
susceptible of the tenderness of human nature: he would listen to
the birds singing, and pick here and there a wild flower on his
path.  He would watch the decay of the old trees and the progress
of the young, and make pictures in his eyes of every turn in the
wood.  He would mark the colour of a bit of road as it dipped into
a dell, and then, passing through a water-course, rose brown,
rough, irregular, and beautiful against the bank on the other
side.  And then he would sit and think of his old family: how they
had roamed there time out of mind in those Chaldicotes woods,
father and son and grandson in regular succession, each giving them
over, without blemish or decrease, to his successor.  So he would
sit; and so did he sit even now, and, thinking of these things,
wished that he had never been.

It was dark night when he returned to the house, and as he did so
he resolved that he would quit the place altogether, and give up
the battle as lost.  The duke should take it and do as he pleased
with it; and as for the seat in Parliament, Lord Dumbello, or any
other equally gifted young patrician, might hold it for him.  He
would vanish from the scene and betake himself to some land whence
he would be neither heard nor seen, and there--starve.  Such were
now his future outlooks into the world; and yet, as regards health
and all physical capacities, he knew that he was still in the prime
of his life.  Yes; in the prime of his life!  But what could he do
with what remained to him of such prime?  How could he turn either
his mind or his strength to such account as might now be
serviceable?  How could he, in his sore need, earn for himself even
the barest bread?  Would it not be better for him that he should
die?  Let not any one covet the lot of a spendthrift, even though
the days of his early pease and champagne seem to be unnumbered;
for that lame Nemesis will surely be up before the game has been
played all out.  When Mr Sowerby reached his house he found that a
message by telegraph had arrived for him in his absence.  It was
from his sister, and it informed him that she would be with him
that night.  She was coming down by the mail train, had telegraphed
to Barchester for post-horses, and would be at Chaldicotes about
two hours after midnight.  It was therefore manifest enough that
her business was of importance.  Exactly at two the Barchester
post-chaise did arrive, and Mrs Harold Smith, before she retired to
her bed, was closeted for about an hour with her brother.  'Well,'
she said, the following morning, as they sat together at the
breakfast-table, 'what do you say to it now?  If you accept her
offer you should be with her lawyer this afternoon.'

'I suppose I must accept it,' said he.

'Certainly, I think so.  No doubt it will take the property out of
your own hands as completely as though the duke had it, but it will
leave you the house, at any rate, for your life.'

'What good will the house be, when I can't keep it?'

'But I am not so sure of that.  She will not want more than her
fair interest; and as it will be thoroughly well managed, I should
think that there would be something over--something enough to keep
up the house.  And then, you know, we must have some place in the
country.'

'I tell you fairly, Harriet, that I will have nothing further to do
with Harold in the way of money.'

'Ah!  that was because you would go to him.  Why did you not come
to me?  And then, Nathaniel, it is the only way in which you can
have a chance of keeping the seat.  She is the queerest woman I
ever met, but she seems resolved on beating the duke.'

'I do not quite understand it, but I have not the slightest
objection.'

'She thinks that he is interfering with young Gresham about the
Crown property.  I have no idea that she had so much business at
her fingers' ends.  When I first proposed the matter she took it up
quite as a lawyer might, and seemed to have forgotten altogether
what occurred about the other matter.'

'I wish I could forget it also,' said Mr Sowerby.

'I really think that she does.  When I was obliged to make some
allusion to it--at least I felt myself obliged, and was very sorry
afterwards that I did--she merely laughed--a great loud laugh as
she always does, and then went on about the business.  However, she
was clear about this, that all expenses of the election should be
added to the sum to be advanced by her, and that the house should
be left to you without rent.  If you choose to take the land round
the house you must pay for it, by the acre, as the tenants do.  She
was clear about it all as though she had passed her life in a
lawyer's office.'

My readers will now pretty well understand what last step that
excellent sister, Mrs Harold Smith, had taken on her brother's
behalf, nor will they be surprised to learn that in the course of
the day, Mr Sowerby hurried back to town and put himself into
communication with Miss Dunstable's lawyer.



CHAPTER XXXVIII

IS THERE CAUSE OR JUST IMPEDIMENT?

I now purpose to visit another country house in Barsetshire, but on
this occasion our sojourn shall be in the eastern division, in
which, as every other county in England, electioneering matters are
paramount at the present moment.  It has been mentioned that Mr
Gresham, junior, young Frank Gresham as he was always called, lived
at a place called Boxall Hill.  This property had come to his wife
by will, and he was now settled there,--seeing that his father
still held the family seat of the Greshams at Greshambury.  At the
present moment Miss Dunstable was staying at Boxall Hill with Mrs
Frank Gresham.  They had left London, as indeed, all the world had
done, to the terrible dismay of the London tradesmen.  This
dissolution of Parliament was ruining everybody except the country
publicans, and had of course destroyed the London season among
other things.

Mrs Harold Smith had only just managed to catch Miss Dunstable
before she left London; but she did do so, and the great heiress
had at once seen her lawyers, and instructed them how to act with
reference to the mortgages on the Chaldicotes property.  Miss
Dunstable was in the habit of speaking of herself and her own
pecuniary concerns as though she herself was rarely allowed to
meddle in their management; but this was one of those small jokes
which she ordinarily perpetrated; for in truth few ladies, and
perhaps not many gentlemen, have a more thorough knowledge of their
own concerns or a more potent voice in their own affairs, than was
possessed by Miss Dunstable.  Circumstances had lately brought her
much into Barsetshire, and she had there contracted very intimate
friendships.  She was now disposed to become, if possible, a
Barsetshire proprietor, and with this view had lately agreed with
young Mr Gresham that she would become the purchaser of the Crown
property.  As, however, the purchase had been commenced in his
name, it was so to be continued; but now, as we are aware, it was
rumoured that, after all, the duke, or, if not the duke, then the
Marquis of Dumbello, was to be the future owner of the Chace.  Miss
Dunstable, however, was not a person to give up her object if she
could attain it, nor, under the circumstances, was she at all
displeased at finding herself endowed with the power of rescuing
the Sowerby portion of the Chaldicotes property from the duke's
clutches.  Why had the duke meddled with her or with her friends,
as to the other property?  Therefore it was arranged that the full
amount due to the duke on the mortgage should be ready for
immediate payment; but it was arranged also that the security as
held by Miss Dunstable should be very valid.

Miss Dunstable, at Boxall Hill or at Greshambury, was a very
different person from Miss Dunstable in London; and it was this
difference which so much vexed Mrs Gresham; not that her friend
omitted to bring with her into the country her London wit and
aptitude for fun, but that she did not take with her up to town the
genuine goodness and love of honesty which made her lovable in the
country.  She was, as it were, two persons, and Mrs Gresham could
not understand that any lady should permit herself to be more
worldly at one time of the year than at another--or in one place
than in any other.  'Well, my dear, I am heartily glad we've done
with that,' Miss Dunstable said to her, as she sat herself down to
her desk in the drawing-room on the first morning after her arrival
at Boxall Hill.

'What does "that" mean?' said Mrs Gresham.

'Why, London and smoke and late hours, and standing on one's legs
for four hours at a stretch on the top of one's own staircase, to
be bowed at by any one who chooses to come.  That's all done--for
one year, at any rate.'

'You know you like it.'

'No, Mary; that's just what I don't know.  I don't know whether I
like it or not.  Sometimes, when the spirit of that dearest of all
women, Mrs Harold Smith, is upon me, I think I do like it.  But
then, again, when other spirits are on me, I think that I don't.'

'And who are the owners of the other spirits?'

'Oh, you are one, of course.  But you are a weak little thing, by no
means able to contend with such a Samson as Mrs Harold.  And then
you are a little given to wickedness yourself, you know.  You've
learned to like London well enough since you sat down to the table
of Dives.  Your uncle--he's the real, impracticable, unapproachable
Lazarus who declares that he can't come down because of the big
gulf.  I wonder how he'd behave, if somebody left him ten thousand
a year.'

'Uncommonly well, I am sure.'

'Oh, yes; he is a Lazarus now, so of course we are bound to speak
well of him; but I should like to see him tried.  I don't doubt but
what he'd have a house in Belgrave Square, and become noted for his
little dinners before the first year of his trial was over.'

'Well, and why not?  You would not wish him to be an anchorite?'

'I am told that he is going to try his luck--not with ten thousand
a year, but with one or two.'

'What do you mean?'

'Jane tells me that they all say at Greshambury that he is going to
marry Lady Scatcherd.'  Now Lady Scatcherd was a widow living in
those parts; an excellent woman, but not one formed by nature to
grace society of the highest order.

'What!' exclaimed Mrs Gresham, rising up from her chair, while her
eyes flashed with anger at such a rumour.

'Well, my dear, don't eat me.  I don't say it is so; I only say
that Jane said so.'

'Then you ought to send Jane out of the house.'

'You may be sure of this, my dear: Jane would not have told me if
somebody had not told her.'

'And you believed it?'

'I have said nothing about that.'

'But you look as if you believed it.'

'Do I?  Let us see what sort of look it is, this look of faith.'
And Miss Dunstable got up and went to the glass over the
fireplace.  'But, Mary, my dear, ain't you old enough to know that
you should not credit other people's looks?  You should believe
nothing nowadays; and I did not believe the story about poor Lady
Scatcherd.  I know the doctor well enough to be sure that he is not
a marrying man.'

'What a nasty, hackneyed, false phrase that is--that of a marrying
man!  It sounds as though some men were in the habit of getting
married three or four times a month.'

'It means a great deal all the same.  One can tell very soon
whether a man is likely to marry or not.'

'And can one tell the same of a woman?'

'The thing is so different.  All unmarried women are necessarily in
the market; but if they behave themselves properly and make no
signs.  Now there was Griselda Grantly; of course she intended to
get herself a husband, and a very grand one she has got: but she
always looked as though butter would not melt in her mouth.  It
would have been very wrong to call her a marrying girl.'

'Oh, of course she was,' says Mrs Gresham, with that sort of
acrimony which one pretty young woman so frequently expresses with
reference to another.  'But if one could always tell of a woman, as
you say you can of a man, I should be able to tell of you.  Now, I
wonder whether you are a marrying woman?  I have never been able to
make up my mind yet.'

Miss Dunstable remained silent for a few moments, as though she
were at first minded to take the question as being, in some sort,
one made in earnest; but then she attempted to laugh it off.  'Well,
I wonder at that,' said she, 'as it was only the other day I told
you how many offers I had refused.'

'Yes; but you did not tell me whether any had been made that you
meant to accept.'

'None such was ever made to me.  Talking of that, I shall never
forget your cousin, the Honourable George.'

'He is not my cousin.'

'Well, your husband's.  It would not be fair to show a man's
letter; but I should like to show you his.'

'You are determined, then, to remain single?'

'I didn't say that.  But why do you cross-question me so?'

'Because I think so much about you.  I am afraid that you will
become so afraid of men's motives as to doubt that any one can be
honest.  And yet sometimes I think you would be a happier woman and
a better woman, if you were married.'

'To such a one as the Honourable George, for instance?'

'No, not to such a one as him; you have probably picked out the
worst.'

'Or to Mr Sowerby?'

'Well, no; not to Mr Sowerby either.  I would not have you marry
any man that looked to you for your money principally.'

'And how is it possible that I should expect any one to look at me
principally for anything else?  You don't see my difficulty, my
dear?  If I had only five hundred a year, I might come across some
decent middle-aged personage, like myself, who would like me,
myself, pretty well, and would like my little income--pretty well
also.  He would not tell me any violent lie, and perhaps no lie at
all.  I should take to him in the same sort of way, and we might do
very well.  But, as it is, how is it possible that any disinterested
person should learn to like me?  How could such a man set about
it?  If a sheep have two heads, is not the fact of the two heads
the first and, indeed, only thing which the world regards in that
sheep?  Must it not be so as a matter of course?  I am a sheep with
two heads.  All this money which my father put together, and which
has been growing since like grass under May showers, has turned me
into an abortion.  I am not the giantess eight feet high, or the
dwarf that stands in the man's hand--'

'Or the two-headed sheep--'

'But I am the unmarried woman with--half a dozen millions of
money--as I believe some people think.  Under such circumstances
have I a fair chance of getting my own sweet bit of grass to
nibble, like any ordinary animal with one head?  I never was very
beautiful, and I am not more so than I was fifteen years ago.'

'I am quite sure it is not that which hinders it.  You would not
call yourself plain; and even plain women are married every day,
and are loved too, as well as pretty women.'

'Are they?  Well, we won't say any more about that; but I don't
expect a great many lovers on account of my beauty.  If ever
you hear of such an one, mind you tell me.'  It was almost on Mrs
Gresham's tongue to say that she did know of one such--meaning her
uncle.  But, in truth, she did not know any such thing; nor could
she boast to herself that she had good grounds for feeling that it
was so--certainly none sufficient to justify her in speaking of
it.  Her uncle had said no word to her on the matter, and had been
confused and embarrassed when the idea of such a marriage was
hinted to him.  But, nevertheless, Mrs Gresham did think that each
of these two was well inclined to love the other, and that they
would be happier together than they would be single.  The
difficulty, however, was very great, for the doctor would be
terribly afraid of being thought covetous in regard to Miss
Dunstable's money; and it would hardly be expected that she should
be induced to make the first overture to the doctor.

'My uncle would be the only man that I can think of that would be
at all fit for you,' said Mrs Gresham, boldly.

'What, and rob poor Lady Scatcherd!' said Miss Dunstable.

'Oh, very well.  If you choose to make a joke of his name in that
way, I have done.'

'Why, God bless the girl, what does she want me to say?  And as for
joking, surely that is innocent enough.  You're as tender about the
doctor as though he were a girl of seventeen.'

'It's not about him; but it's such a shame to laugh at poor dear
Lady Scatcherd.  If she were to hear it she'd lose all comfort in
having my uncle near her.'

'And I'm to marry him, so that she may be safe with her friend.'

'Very well.  I have done.'  And Mrs Gresham, who had already got up
from her seat, employed herself very sedulously in arranging
flowers which had been brought in for the drawing-room tables.
Thus they remained silent for a minute or two, during which she
began to reflect that, after all, it might probably be thought that
she was also endeavouring to catch the great heiress for her uncle.

'And now you are angry with me,' said Miss Dunstable.

'No, I am not.'

'Oh, but you are.  Do you think I'm such a fool as not to see when
a person's vexed?  You wouldn't have twitched that geranium's head
if you had been in a proper frame of mind.'

'I don't like that joke about Lady Scatcherd.'

'And is that all, Mary?  Now do try and be true, if you can.  You
remember the bishop.  Magna ist veritas.'

'The fact is you've got yourself into such a way of being sharp,
and saying sharp things among your friends in London, that you can
hardly answer a person without it.'

'Can't I?  Dear, dear, what a Mentor you are, Mary!  No poor lad
that ever ran up from Oxford for a spree in town got so lectured
for his dissipation and iniquities as I do.  Well, I beg Doctor
Thorne's pardon, and Lady Scatcherd's, and I won't be sharp any
more; and I will--let me see, what was it I was to do?  Marry him
myself, I believe; was not that it?'

'No; you're not half good enough for him.'

'I know that.  I'm quite sure of that.  Though I am so sharp, I'm
very humble.  You can't accuse me of putting any very great value
on myself.'

'Perhaps not as much as you ought to do--on yourself.'

'Now what do you mean, Mary?  I won't be bullied and teased, and
have innuendoes thrown out at me, because you've something on your
mind, and don't quite dare to speak it out.  If you have got
anything to say, say it.'  But Mrs Gresham did not choose to say it
at that moment.  She held her peace, and went on arranging her
flowers--now with a more satisfied air, and without destruction to
the geraniums.  And when she had grouped her bunches properly she
carried the jar from one part of the room to the other, backwards
and forwards, trying the effect of the colours, as though her mind
was quite intent upon her flowers, and was the moment wholly
unoccupied with any other subject.  But Miss Dunstable was not a
woman to put up with this.  She sat silent in her place, while her
friend made one or two turns about the room; and then she got up
from her seat also, 'Mary,' she said, 'give over about those
wretched bits of green branches, and leave the jars where they
are.  You're trying to fidget me into a passion.'

'Am I?' said Mrs Gresham, standing opposite to a big bowl, and
putting her head a little on one side, as though she could better
look at her handiwork in that position.

'You know you are; and it's all because you lack courage to speak
out.  You didn't begin at me in this way for nothing.'

'I do lack courage.  That's just it,' said Mrs Gresham, still
giving a twist here and a set there to some of the small sprigs
which constituted the background of her bouquet.  'I do lack
courage--to have ill motives imputed to me, therefore I will not
say it.  And now, if you like, I will be ready to take you out in
ten minutes.'  But Miss Dunstable was not going to be put off in
this way.  And to tell the truth, I must admit that her friend Mrs
Gresham was not using her altogether well.  She should either have
held her peace on the matter altogether--which would probably have
been the wiser course--or she should have declared her own ideas
boldly, feeling secure in her own conscience as to her own
motives.  'I shall not stir from this room,' said Miss Dunstable,
'till I have had this matter out with you.  As for imputations--my
imputing bad motives to you--I don't know how far you may be
joking, and saying what you call sharp things to me; but you have
no right to think that I should think evil of you.  If you really
think so, it is treason to the love I have for you.  If I thought
that you thought so, I could not remain in the house with you.
What, you are not able to know the difference which one makes
between one's real friends and one's mock friends!  I don't believe
it of you, and I know you are only striving to bully me.'  And Miss
Dunstable now took her turn of walking up and down the room.

'Well, she shan't be bullied,' said Mrs Gresham, leaving her
flowers, and putting her arm round her friend's waist;--'at least,
not here, in this house, although she is sometimes such a bully
herself.'

'Mary, you have gone too far about this to go back.  Tell me what
it is that was on your mind, and as far as it concerns me, I will
answer you honestly.'  Mrs Gresham now began to repent that she had
made her little attempt.  That uttering of hints in a half-joking
way was all very well, and might possibly bring about the desired
results, without the necessity of any formal suggestion on her
part; but now she was so brought to book that she must say
something formal.  She must commit herself to the expression of her
own wishes, and to an expression also of an opinion as to what had
been the wishes of her friend; and this she must do without being
able to say anything of the wishes of a third person.  'Well,' she
said, 'I suppose you know what I meant.'

'I suppose I did,' said Miss Dunstable; 'but it is not at the less
necessary that you should say it out.  I am not to commit myself by
my interpretation of your thoughts, while you remain perfectly
secure in having only hinted your own.  I hate hints, as I do--the
mischief.  I go in for the bishop's doctrine.  Magna ist veritas.'

'Well, I don't know,' said Mrs Gresham.

'Ah! but I do,' said Miss Dunstable.  'And therefore go on, or for
ever hold your peace.'

'The quotation out of the Prayer Book which you finished just now.
"If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons
should not be joined together in holy matrimony, ye are to declare
it.  This is the first time of asking."  Do you know any cause,
Miss Dunstable?'

'Do you know any, Mrs Gresham?'

'None, upon my honour!' said the younger lady, putting her hand
upon her breast.

'Ah! but you do not?' and Miss Dunstable caught hold of her arm,
and spoke almost abruptly in her energy.

'No, certainly not.  What impediment?  If I did, I should not have
broached the subject.  I declare I think you would be very happy
together.  Of course, there is one impediment; we all know that.
That must be your look out.'

'What do you mean?  What impediment?'

'Your own money.'

'Psha!  Did you find that an impediment in marrying Frank Gresham?'

'Ah! the matter was so different there.  He had much more to give
than I had, when all was counted.  And I had no money when we--when
we were first engaged.'  And the tears came into her eyes as she
thought of the circumstances of her early love;--all of which have
been narrated in the county chronicles of Barsetshire, and may now
be read by men and women interested therein.

'Yes; yours was a love match.  I declare, Mary, I often think that
you are the happiest woman of whom I have ever heard; to have it
all to give, when you were so sure that you were loved while you
had nothing.'

'Yes; I was sure,' and she wiped the sweet tears from her eyes, as
she remembered a certain day when a certain youth had come to her,
claiming all kinds of privileges in a very determined manner.  She
had been no heiress then.  'Yes; I was sure.  But now with you, my
dear, you can't make yourself poor again.  If you can trust no
one--'

'I can.  I can trust him.  As regards that I do trust him
altogether.  But how can I tell that he would care for me?'

'Do you not know that he likes you?'

'Ah, yes; and so he does Lady Scatcherd.'

'Miss Dunstable!'

'And why not Lady Scatcherd, as well as me?  We are of the same
kind--come from the same class.'

'Not quite that, I think.'

'Yes, from the same class; only I have managed to poke myself up
among dukes and duchesses, whereas she has been content to remain
where God has placed her.  Where I beat her in art, she beats me in
nature.'

'You know you are talking nonsense.'

'I think that we are both doing that--absolute nonsense; such as
schoolgirls of eighteen talk to each other.  But there is a relief
in it; is there not?  It would be a terrible curse to have to talk
sense always.  Well, that's done; and now let us go out.'  Mrs
Gresham was sure after this that Miss Dunstable would be a
consenting party to the little arrangement which she contemplated.
But of that she had felt but little doubt for some considerable
time past.  The difficulty lay on the other side, and all that she
had as yet done was to convince herself that she would be safe in
assuring her uncle of success if he could be induced to take the
enterprise in hand.  He was to come to Boxall Hill that evening,
and to remain there for a day or two.  If anything could be done in
the matter, now would be the time for doing it.  So at least
thought Mrs Gresham.

The doctor did come, and did remain for the allotted time at Boxall
Hill; but when he left, Mrs Gresham had not been successful.
Indeed, he did not seem to enjoy his visit as was usual with him;
and there was very little of that pleasant friendly intercourse
which for some time past had been customary between him and Miss
Dunstable.  There were no passages of arms between them; no abuse
from the doctor against the lady's London gaiety; no raillery from
the lady as to the doctor's country habits.  They were very
courteous to each other, and, as Mrs Gresham thought, too civil by
half; nor, as far as she could see, did they ever remain alone in
each other's company for five minutes at a time during the whole
period of the doctor's visit.  What, thought Mrs Gresham to
herself,--what if she had set these two friends at variance with
each other, instead of binding them together in the closest and
most durable friendship!  But still she had an idea that, as she
had begun to play this game, she must play it out.  She felt
conscious that what she had done must do evil, unless she could so
carry it on as to make it result in good.  Indeed, unless she could
so manage, she would have done a manifest injury to Miss Dunstable
in forcing her to declare her thoughts and feelings.  She had
already spoken to her uncle in London, and though he had said
nothing to show that he approved of her plan, neither had he said
anything to show that he disapproved of it.  Therefore she had
hoped through the whole of those three days that he would make some
sign,--at any rate to her; that he would in some way declare what
were his own thoughts on this matter.  But the morning of his
departure came, and he had declared nothing.  'Uncle,' she said, in
the last five minutes of his sojourn there, after he had already
taken leave of Miss Dunstable and shaken hands with Mrs Gresham
'have you ever thought of what I said to you up in London?'

'Yes, Mary; of course I have thought about it.  Such an idea as
that, when put into a man's head, will make itself thought about.'

'Well; and what next?  Do talk to me about it.  Do not be so hard
and unlike yourself.'

'I have very little to say about it.'

'I can tell you this for certain, you may if you like.'

'Mary!  Mary!'

'I would not say so if I were not sure that I should not lead you
into trouble.'

'You are foolish in wishing this, my dear; foolish in trying to
tempt an old man into folly.'

'Not foolish if I know that it will make you both happier.'  He made
no further reply, but stooping down that she might kiss him, as was
his wont, went his way, leaving her almost miserable in the thought
that she had troubled all these waters for no purpose.  What would
Miss Dunstable think of her?  But on that afternoon Miss Dunstable
seemed to be as happy and even-tempered as ever.



CHAPTER XXXIX

HOW TO WRITE A LOVE LETTER

Dr Thorne, in the few words which he spoke to his niece before he
left Boxall Hill, had called himself an old man; but he was as yet
on the right side of sixty by five good years, and bore about with
him less of the marks of age than most men of fifty-five do bear.
One would have said, in looking at him, that there was no reason
why he should not marry if he found that such a step seemed good to
him; and, looking at the age of the proposed bride, there was
nothing unsuitable in that respect.  But nevertheless he felt almost
ashamed of himself, in that he allowed himself even to think of the
proposition which his niece had made.  He mounted his horse that
day at Boxall Hill--for he made all his journeys about the county
on horseback--and rode slowly home to Greshambury, thinking not so
much of the suggested marriage as of his own folly in thinking of
it.  How could he be such an ass at this time of life as to allow
the even course of his way to be disturbed by any such ideas?  Of
course he could not propose to himself such a wife as Miss
Dunstable without having some thoughts about her wealth; and it had
been the pride of his life so to live that the world might know
that he was indifferent about money.  His profession was all in all
to him; the air which he breathed as well as the bread which he
ate; and how could he follow his profession if he made such a
marriage as this?  She would expect him to go to London with her;
and what would he become, dangling at her heels there, known only
to the world as the husband of the richest woman in the town?  The
kind of life was one which would be unsuitable to him; and yet, as
he rode home, he could not resolve to rid himself of the idea.  He
went on thinking of it, though he still continued to condemn
himself for keeping it in his thoughts.  That night at home he
would make up his mind, so he declared to himself; and would then
write to his niece begging her to drop the subject.  Having so far
come to a resolution he went on meditating what course of life it
might be well for him to pursue if he and Miss Dunstable should
after all become man and wife.

There were two ladies whom it behoved him to see on the day of his
arrival--whom, indeed, he generally saw every day except when
absent from Greshambury.  The first of these--first in the general
consideration of the people of the place--was the wife of the
squire, Lady Arabella Gresham, a very old patient of the doctor's.
Her it was his custom to visit early in the afternoon; and then, if
he were able to escape the squire's daily invitation to dinner, he
customarily went to see the other, Lady Scatcherd, when the rapid
meal in his own house was over.  Such, at least, was his summer
practice.  'Well, doctor, how are they all at Boxall Hill?' said the
squire, waylaying him on the gravel sweep before the door.  The
squire was very hard set for occupation in these summer months.

'Quite well, I believe.'

'I don't know what's come to Frank.  I think he hates this place
now.  He's full of the election, I suppose.'

'Oh, yes; he told me to say that he should be over here soon.  Of
course there'll be no contest, so he need not trouble himself.'

'Happy dog, isn't he, doctor? to have it all before him instead of
behind him.  Well, well; he's as good a lad as ever lived--as ever
lived.  And let me see; Mary's time--' And then there were a few
very important words spoken on that subject.

'I'll just step up to Lady Arabella now,' said the doctor.

'She's as fretful as possible,' said the squire.  'I've just left
her.'

'Nothing special the matter, I hope?'

'No, I think not; nothing in your way, that is; only specially
cross, which always comes in my way.  You'll stop and dine to-day,
of course?'

'Not to-day, squire.'

'Nonsense; you will.  I have been quite counting on you.  I have a
particular reason for wanting to have you to-day--a most particular
reason.'  But the squire always had his particular reasons.

'I'm very sorry, but it is impossible to-day.  I shall have a
letter to write that I must sit down to seriously.  Shall I see you
when I come down from her ladyship?'  The squire turned away
sulkily, almost without answering him, for he now had no prospect
of any alleviation to the tedium of the evening; and the doctor
went upstairs to his patient.  For Lady Arabella, though it cannot
be said that she was ill, was always a patient.  It must not be
supposed that she kept her bed and swallowed daily doses, or was
prevented from taking her share in such prosy gaieties as came from
time to time in the way of her prosy life; but it suited her turn
of mind to be an invalid and to have a doctor; and as the doctor
whom her good fates had placed at her elbow thoroughly understood
her case, no great harm was done.

'It frets me dreadfully that I cannot get to see Mary,' Lady
Arabella said, as soon as the first ordinary question as to her
ailments had been asked and answered.

'She's quite well, and will be over to see you before long.'

'Now I beg that she won't.  She never thinks of coming when there
can be no possible objection, and travelling at the present moment,
would be--' Whereupon the Lady Arabella shook her head very
gravely.  'Only think of the importance of it, doctor,' she said.
'Remember the enormous stake there is to be considered.

'It would not to her a ha'porth of harm if the stake were twice as
large.'

'Nonsense, doctor, don't tell me; as if I didn't know myself.  I
was very much against her going to London this spring, but of
course what I said was overruled.  It always is.  I do believe Mr
Gresham went over to Boxall Hill on purpose to induce her to go.
But what does he care?  He's fond of Frank; but he never thinks of
looking beyond the present day.  He never did, as you know well
enough, doctor.'

'The trip did her all the good in the world,' said Dr Thorne,
preferring anything to a conversation respecting the squire's sins.

'I very well remember that when I was in that way it wasn't thought
that such trips would do me any good.  But, perhaps, things are
altered since then.'

'Yes, they are,' said the doctor.  'We don't interfere so much
nowadays.'

'I know I never asked for such amusements when so much depended on
quietness.  I remember before Frank was born--and indeed, when all
of them were born--But, as you say, things were different then; and
I can easily believe that Mary is a person quite determined to have
her own way.'

'Why, Lady Arabella, she would have stayed at home without wishing
to stir if Frank had done so much as hold up a little finger.'

'So did I always.  If Mr Gresham made the slightest hint I gave
way.  But I really don't see what one gets in return for such
implicit obedience.  Now this year, doctor, of course I should have
liked to been up in London for a week or two.  You seemed to think
yourself that I might as well see Sir Omicron.'

'There could be no possible objection, I said.'

'Well; no; exactly; and as Mr Gresham knew I wished it, I think he
might as well have offered it.  I suppose there can be no reason now
about money.'

'But I understood that Mary specially asked you and Augusta.'

'Yes; Mary was very good.  She did ask me.  But I know very well
that Mary wants all the room she has got in London.  The house is
not at all too large for herself.  And, for the matter of that, my
sister, the countess, was very anxious that I should be with her.
But one does like to be independent if one can, and for one
fortnight I do think that Mrs Gresham might have managed it.  When
I knew that he was so dreadfully out at elbows I never troubled him
about it,--though goodness knows, all that was never my fault.'

'The squire hates London.  A fortnight there in warm weather would
nearly be the death of him.'

'He might at any rate have paid me the compliment of asking me.  The
chances are ten to one I should not have gone.  It is that
indifference that cuts me so.  He was here just now, and would you
believe it?--'

But the doctor was determined to avoid further complaint for the
present day.  'I wonder what you would feel, Lady Arabella, if the
squire were to take it into his head to go away and amuse himself,
leaving you at home.  There are worse men than Mr Gresham, if you
will believe me.'  All this was an allusion to Earl de Courcy, her
ladyship's brother, as Lady Arabella very well understood; and the
argument was one which was very often used to silence her.

'Upon my word, then, I should like it better than his hanging about
here doing nothing but attend to those nasty dogs.  I really
sometimes think that he has no spirit left.'

'You are mistaken there, Lady Arabella,' said the doctor, rising
with his hat in his hand, and making his escape without further
parley.  As he went home he could not but think that that phase of
married life was not a very pleasant one.  Mr Gresham and his wife
were supposed by the world to live on the best of terms.  They
always inhabited the same house, went out together when they did go
out, always sat in their respective corners in the family pew, and
in their wildest dreams after the happiness of novelty never
thought of Sir Cresswell Cresswell.  In some respect--with regard
for instance, to the continued duration of their joint domesticity
at the family mansion at Greshambury--they might have been taken
for a pattern couple.  But yet, as far as the doctor could see,
they did not seem to add much to the happiness of each other.  They
loved one another, doubtless, and had either of them been in real
danger, that danger would have made the other miserable; but yet it
might well be a question whether either would not be more
comfortable without the other.

The doctor, as was his custom, dined at five, and at seven, went up
to the cottage of his old friend Lady Scatcherd.  Lady Scatcherd was
not a refined woman, having in her early days been a labourer's
daughter, and having then married a labourer.  But her husband had
risen in the world--as has been told in these chronicles before
mentioned--and his widow was now Lady Scatcherd with a pretty
cottage and a good jointure.  She was in all things the very
opposite of Lady Arabella Gresham; nevertheless under the doctor's
auspices, the two ladies were in some measure acquainted with each
other.  Of her married life, also, Dr Thorne had seen something,
and it may be questioned whether the memory of that was more
alluring than the reality now existing at Greshambury.  Of the two
women Dr Thorne much preferred his humbler friend, and to her he
made his visits not in the guise of a doctor, but as a neighbour.
'Well, my lady,' he said, as he sat down by her on a broad garden
seat--all the world called Lady Scatcherd 'my lady,'--'and how do
these long summer days agree with you?  Your roses are twice better
out than any I see up in the big house.'

'You may well call them long, doctor.  They're long enough surely.'

'But not too long.  Come, now, I won't have you complaining.  You
don't mean to tell me that you have anything to make you wretched?
You had better not, for I won't believe you.'

'Eh; well; wretched!  I don't know as I'm wretched.  It'd be wicked
to say that, and I with such comforts about me.'

'I think it would, almost.'  The doctor did not say this harshly,
but in a soft, friendly, tone, and pressing her hand gently as he
spoke.

'And I didn't mean to be wicked.  I'm very thankful for
everything--leastways, I always try to be.  But, doctor, it is so
lonely like.'

'Lonely!  Not more lonely than I am.'

'Oh, yes; you're different.  You can go everywheres.  But what can
a lone woman do?  I'll tell you what, doctor; I'd give it all up to
have Roger back with his apron on and his pick in his hand.  How
well I mind his look when he'd come home o' nights!'

'And yet it was a hard life you had then, eh, old woman?  It would
be better for you to be thankful for what you've got.'

'I am thankful.  Didn't I tell you so before?' said she, somewhat
crossly.  'But it's a sad life, this living alone.  I declares I
envy Hannah, 'cause she's got Jemima to sit in the kitchen with
her.  I want her to sit with me sometimes, but she won't.'

'Ah!  but you shouldn't ask her.  It's letting yourself down.'

'What do I care about down or up?  It makes no difference, as he's
gone.  If he had lived one might have cared about being up, as you
call it.  Eh, deary; I'll be going after him before long, and it
will be no matter then.'

'We shall all be going after him, sooner or later; that's sure
enough.'

'Eh, dear, that's true surely.  It's only a span long, as Parson
Oriel tells us, when he gets romantic in his sermons.  But it's a
hard thing, doctor, when two is married, as they can't have their
span, as he calls it, out together.  Well, I must only put up with
it, I suppose, as others does.  Now, you're not going, doctor?
You'll stop and have a dish of tea with me.  You never see such
cream as Hannah has from the Alderney cow.  Do'ey now, doctor.'  But
the doctor had his letter to write, and would not allow himself to
be tempted even by the promise of Hannah's cream.  So he went his
way, angering Lady Scatcherd by his departure as he had before
angered the squire, and thinking as he went which was most
unreasonable in her wretchedness, his friend Lady Arabella or his
friend Lady Scatcherd.  The former was always complaining of an
existing husband who never refused her any moderate request; and
the other passed her days in murmuring at the loss of a dead
husband, who in his life had ever been to her imperious and harsh,
and had sometimes been cruel and unjust.

The doctor had his letter to write, but even yet he had not quite
made up his mind what he would put in it; indeed, he had not
hitherto resolved to whom it should be written.  Looking at the
matter as he had endeavoured to look at it, his niece, Mrs Gresham,
would be his correspondent; but if he brought himself to take this
jump in the dark, in that case he would address himself direct to
Miss Dunstable.  He walked home, not by the straightest road, but
taking a considerable curve, round by narrow lanes, and through
thick flower-laden hedges,--very thoughtful.  He was told that she
wished to marry him; and was he to think only of himself?  And as
to that pride of his about money, was it in truth a hearty, manly
feeling; or was it a false pride, of which it behoved him to be
ashamed as it did of many cognate feelings?  If he acted rightly in
this matter, why should he be afraid of the thoughts of any one?  A
life of solitude was bitter enough as poor Lady Scatcherd had
complained.  But then, looking at Lady Scatcherd, and looking also
at his other near neighbour, his friend the squire, there was
little thereabouts to lead him on to matrimony.  So he walked home
slowly through the lanes, very meditative, with his hands behind
his back.  Nor when he got home was he much more inclined to any
resolute line of action.  He might have drunk his tea with Lady
Scatcherd, as well as have sat there in his own drawing-room,
drinking it alone; for he got no pen and paper, and he dawdled over
his teacup with the utmost dilatoriness, putting off, as it were,
the evil day.  To only one thing was he fixed--to this, namely,
that that letter should be written before he went to bed.

Having finished his tea, which did not take place till near eleven,
he went downstairs to an untidy little room which lay behind his
depot of medicines, and in which he was wont to do his writing; and
herein he did at last set himself down to his work.  Even at that
moment he was in doubt.  But he would write his letter to Miss
Dunstable and see how it looked.  He was almost determined not to
send it; so, at least, he said to himself: but he could do no harm
by writing it.  So he did write it, as follows:--'Greshambury, June
185-.  My dear Miss Dunstable--' When he had got so far, he leaned
back in his chair and looked at the paper.  How on earth was he to
find words to say that which he now wished to have said?  He had
never written such a letter in his life, or anything approaching to
it, and now found himself overwhelmed with a difficulty of which he
had not previously thought.  He spent another half-hour in looking
at the paper, and was at last nearly deterred by this new
difficulty.  He would use the simplest, plainest language, he said
to himself over and over again; but it is not always easy to use
simple, plain language,--by no means so easy as to mount on stilts,
and to march along with sesquipedalian words, with pathos, spasms,
and notes of interjection.  But the letter did at last get itself
written, and there was not a note of interjection in it.


'MY DEAR MISS DUNSTABLE,

'I think it right to confess that I should
not now be writing this letter to you, had I not
been led to believe by other judgement than my
own that the proposition which I am going to make
would be regarded by you with favour.  Without
such other judgement I should, I own, have feared
that the great disparity between you and me in
regard to money would have given to such a
proposition an appearance of being false and
mercenary.  All I ask of you now, with
confidence, is to acquit me of such fault as
that.

'When you have read so far you will
understand what I mean.  We have known each other
now somewhat intimately, though indeed not very
long, and I have sometimes fancied that you were
almost as well pleased to be with me as I have
been to be with you.  If I have been wrong in
this, tell me so simply, and I will endeavour to
let our friendship run on as though this letter
had not been written.  But if I have been right,
and if it be possible that you can think of a
union between us will make us both happier than
we are single, I will plight you my word and
troth with good faith, and will do what an old
man may do to make the burden of the world lie
light on your shoulders.  Looking at my age I can
hardly keep myself from thinking that I am an old
fool; but I try to reconcile myself to that by
remembering that you yourself are no longer a
girl.  You see that I pay you no compliments, and
that you need expect none from me.

'I do not know that I could add anything to
the truth of this, if I were to write three times
as much.  All that is necessary is, that you
should know what I mean.  If you do not believe
me to be true and honest already, nothing that I
can write will make you believe it.

'God bless you.  I know you will not keep me
long in suspense for an answer.

'Affectionately your friend
'THOMAS THORNE'

When he had finished he meditated again for another half-hour
whether it would not be right that he should add something about
her money.  Would it not be well for him to tell her--it might be
said in a postscript--that with regard to all her wealth she would
be free to do what she chose?  At any rate he owed no debts for her
to pay, and would still have his own income, sufficient for his own
purposes.  But about one o'clock he came to the conclusion that it
would be better to leave the matter alone.  If she cared for him,
and could trust him, and was worthy also that he should trust her,
no omission of such statement would deter her from coming to him:
and if there were no such trust, it would not be created by any
such assurance on his part.  So he read the letter over twice,
sealed it, and took it up, together with his bed candle, into his
bedroom.  Now that the letter was written it seemed to be a thing
fixed by fate that it must go.  He had written it that he might see
how it looked when written; but now that it was written, there
remained no doubt that it must be sent.  So he went to bed, with
the letter on the toilette-table beside him; and early in the
morning--so early as to make it seem that the importance of the
letter had disturbed his rest--he sent it off by a special
messenger to Boxall Hill.  'I'se wait for an answer?' said the boy.

'No,' said the doctor: 'leave the letter and come away.'

The breakfast hour was not very early at Boxall Hill in these
summer months.  Frank Gresham, no doubt, went round his farm before
he came in for prayers, and his wife was probably looking to the
butter in the dairy.  At any rate, they did not meet till near ten,
and therefore, though the ride from Greshambury to Boxall Hill was
nearly two hours' work, Miss Dunstable had her letter in her own
room before she came down.  She read it in silence as she was
dressing, while the maid was with her in the room; but she made no
sign which could induce her Abigail to think that the epistle was
more than ordinarily important.  She read it, and then quietly
refolding it and placing it in the envelope, she put it down on the
table at which she was sitting.  It was full fifteen minutes
afterwards that she begged her servant to see if Mrs Gresham were
still in her own room.  'Because I want to see her for five
minutes, alone, before breakfast,' said Miss Dunstable.

'You traitor; you false, black traitor!' were the first words which
Miss Dunstable spoke when she found herself alone with her friend.

'Why, what is the matter?'

'I did not think there was so much mischief in you, nor so keen and
commonplace a desire for match-making.  Look here.  Read the first
four lines; not more, if you please; the rest is private.  Whose is
the other judgement of whom your uncle speaks in his letter?'

'Oh, Miss Dunstable!  I must read it all.'

'Indeed you'll do no such thing.  You think it's a love-letter, I
dare say; but indeed there's not a word about love in it.'

'I know he has offered.  I shall be glad, for I know you like him.'

'He tells me that I am an old woman, and insinuates that I may
probably be an old fool.'

'I am sure he does not say that.'

'Ah!  but I'm sure that he does.  The former is true enough, and I
never complain of the truth.  But as to the latter, I am by no
means certain that it is true--not in the sense that he means it.'

'Dear, dearest woman, don't go on in that way now.  Do speak out to
me, and speak without jesting.'

'Whose was the other judgement to whom he trusts so implicitly?
Tell me that.'

'Mine, mine, of course.  No one else can have spoken to him about
it.  Of course I talked to him.'

'And what did you tell him?'

'I told him--'

'Well, out with it.  Let me have the real facts.  Mind, I tell you
fairly that you had no right to tell him anything.  What passed
between us, passed in confidence.  But let us hear what you did
say.'

'I told him that you would have him if he offered.'  And Mrs
Gresham, as she spoke, looked into her friend's face doubtingly,
not knowing whether in very truth Miss Dunstable were pleased or
displeased.  If she were displeased, then how had her uncle been
deceived!'

'You told him that as a fact?'

'I told him that I thought so.'

'Then, I suppose I am bound to have him,' said Miss Dunstable,
dropping the letter on to the floor in mock despair.

'My dear, dear, dearest woman!' said Mrs Gresham, bursting into
tears, and throwing herself on to her friend's neck.

'Mind you are a dutiful niece,' said Miss Dunstable.  'And let me
go and finish dressing.'

In the course of the afternoon, an answer was sent back to
Greshambury, in these words.

'DEAR DR THORNE, I do and will trust you in everything; and it
shall be as you would have it.  Mary writes to you; but do not
believe a word she says.  I never will again, for she has behaved
so bad in this matter.  'Yours very affectionately and very
truly,   'MARTHA DUNSTABLE.

'And so I am going to marry the richest woman in England,' said Dr
Thorne to himself, as he sat down that day to his mutton-chop.



CHAPTER XL

INTERNECINE

It must be conceived that there was some feeling of triumph at
Plumstead Episcopi, when the wife of the rector returned home with
her daughter, the bride elect of the Lord Dumbello.  The heir to
the Marquess of Hartletop was, in wealth, the most considerable
young nobleman of the day; he was noted, too, as a man difficult to
be pleased, as one who was very fine and who gave himself airs; and
to have been selected as the wife of such a man as this was a great
thing for the daughter of a parish clergyman.  We have seen in what
manner the happy girl's mother communicated the fact to Lady
Lufton, hiding, as it were, her pride under a veil; and we have
seen also how meekly the happy girl bore her own great fortune,
applying herself humbly to the packing of her clothes, as though
she ignored her own glory.  But nevertheless there was triumph at
Plumstead Episcopi.  The mother, when she returned home, began to
feel that she had been thoroughly successful in the great object of
her life.  While she was yet in London she had hardly realized her
satisfaction, and there were doubts then whether the cup might not
be dashed from her lips before it was tasted.  It might be that
even the son of the Marquess of Hartletop was subject to parental
authority, and that barriers should spring up between Griselda and
her coronet; but there had been nothing of the kind.  The
archdeacon had been closeted with the marquess, and Mrs Grantly had
been closeted with the marchioness; and though neither of those
noble persons had expressed themselves gratified by their son's
proposed marriage, so also neither of them had made any attempt to
prevent it.  Lord Dumbello was a man who had a will of his own--as
the Grantlys boasted amongst themselves.  Poor Griselda! the day
may perhaps come when this fact of her lord's masterful will may
not to her be a matter of much boasting.  But in London, as I was
saying, there had been no time for an appreciation of the family
joy.  The work to be done was nervous in its nature, and self-
glorification might have been fatal; but now, when they were safe
at Plumstead, the great truth burst upon them in all its splendour.

Mrs Grantly had but one daughter, and the formation of that child's
character and her establishment in the world had been the one main
object of the mother's life.  Of Griselda's great beauty the
Plumstead household had long been conscious; of her discretion
also, of her conduct, and of her demeanour there had been no
doubt.  But the father had sometimes hinted to the mother that he
did not think that Grizzy was quite so clever as her brothers.  'I
don't agree with you at all,' Mrs Grantly had answered.  'Besides
what you call cleverness is not at all necessary in a girl; she is
perfectly lady-like; even you won't deny that.'  The archdeacon had
never wished to deny it, and was now fain to admit that what he had
called cleverness was not necessary in a young lady.  At this
period of the family glory the archdeacon himself was kept a little
in abeyance, and was hardly allowed free intercourse with his own
magnificent child.  Indeed, to give him his due, it must be said of
him that he would not consent to walk in the triumphal procession
which moved with stately step, to and fro, through the Barchester
regions.  He kissed his daughter and blessed her, and bade her love
her husband and be a good wife; but such injunctions as these,
seeing how splendidly she had done her duty in securing for herself
a marquess, seemed out of place and almost vulgar.  Girls about to
marry curates or sucking barristers should be told to do their duty
in that station of life to which God might be calling them; but it
seemed to be almost an impertinence in a father to give such an
injunction to a future marchioness.

'I do not think that you have any ground for fear on her behalf,'
said Mrs Grantly, 'seeing in what way she has hitherto conducted
herself.'

'She has been a good girl,' said the archdeacon, 'but she is about
to be placed in a position of great temptation.'
'She has the strength of mind suited for any position,' replied Mrs
Grantly, vaingloriously.  But nevertheless even the archdeacon
moved about through the close at Barchester with a somewhat prouder
step since the tidings of this alliance had become known there.  The
time had been--in the latter days of his father's lifetime--when he
was the greatest man of the close.  The dean had been old and
infirm, and Dr Grantly had wielded the bishop's authority.  But
since then things had altered.  A new bishop had come there,
absolutely hostile to him.  A new dean had also come, who was not
only his friend, but the brother-in-law of his wife; but even this
advent had lessened the authority of the archdeacon.  The vicars
choral did not hang upon his words as they had been wont to do, and
the minor canons smiled in return to his smile less obsequiously
when they met him in the clerical circles of Barchester.  But now
it seemed that his old supremacy was restored to him.  In the minds
of many men an archdeacon, who was the father-in-law of a marquess,
was himself as good as any bishop.  He did not say much of his new
connexion to others besides the dean, but he was conscious of the
fact, and conscious also of the reflected glory which shone around
his head.

But as regards Mrs Grantly it may be said that she moved in an
unending procession of stately ovation.  It must not be supposed
that she continually talked to her friends and neighbours of Lord
Dumbello and the marchioness.  She was by far too wise for such
folly as that.  The coming alliance having been once announced, the
name of Hartletop was hardly mentioned by her out of her own
domestic circle.  But she assumed, with an ease that was surprising
even to herself, the airs and graces of a mighty woman.  She went
through her work of morning calls as though it were her business to
be affable to the country gentry.  She astonished her sister, the
dean's wife, by the simplicity of her grandeur; and condescended to
Mrs Proudie in a manner which nearly broke that lady's heart.  'I
shall be even with her yet,' said Mrs Proudie to herself, who had
contrived to learn various very deleterious circumstances
respecting the Hartletop family since the news about Lord Dumbello
and Griselda had become known to her.  Griselda herself was carried
about in the procession, taking but little part in it of her own,
like an Eastern god.  She suffered her mother's caresses and smiled
in her mother's face as she listened to her own praises, but her
triumph was apparently within.  To no one did she say much on the
subject, and greatly disgusted the old family housekeeper by
declining altogether to discuss the future Dumbello menage.  To her
aunt, Mrs Arabin, who strove hard to lead her into some
open-hearted speech as to her future aspirations, she was perfectly
impassive.  'Oh, yes, aunt, of course,' and 'I'll think about it,
Aunt Eleanor,' or 'Of course I shall do that if Lord Dumbello
wishes it.'  Nothing beyond this could be got from her; and so,
after a half dozen ineffectual attempts, Mrs Arabin abandoned the
matter.

But then there arose the subject of clothes--of the wedding
trousseau!  Sarcastic people are wont to say that the tailor makes
the man.  Were I such a one, I might certainly assert that the
milliner makes the bride.  As regarding her bridehood, in
distinction either to her girlhood or wifehood--as being a line of
plain demarcation between those two periods of a woman's life--the
milliner does do much to make her.  She would be hardly a bride if
the trousseau were not there.  A girl married without some such
appendage would seem to pass into the condition of a wife without
any such line of demarcation.  In that moment in which she finds
herself in the first fruition of her marriage finery she becomes a
bride; and in that other moment when she begins to act upon the
finest of these things as clothes to be packed up, she becomes a
wife.  When this subject was discussed Griselda displayed no lack
of becoming interest.  She went to work steadily, slowly, and
almost with solemnity, as though the business in hand were one
which it would be wicked to treat with impatience.  She even struck
her mother with awe by the grandeur of her ideas and the depth of
her theories.  Nor let it be supposed that she rushed away at once
to the consideration of the great fabric which was to be the
ultimate sign and mark of her status, the quintessence of her
briding, the outer veil, as it were, of the tabernacle--namely,
her wedding-dress.  As a great poet works himself up by degrees to
that inspiration which is necessary for the grand turning-point of
his epic, so did she slowly approach the hallowed ground on which
she would sit, with her ministers around her, when about to discuss
the nature, the extent, the design, the colouring, the structure,
and the ornamentation of that momentous piece of apparel.  No;
there was much indeed to be done before she came to this: and as
the poet, to whom I have already alluded, first invokes his muse,
and then brings his smaller events gradually out upon his stage, so
did Miss Grantly with sacred fervour ask her mother's aid, and then
prepare her list of all those articles of underclothing which must
be the substratum for the visible magnificence of her trousseau.
Money was no object.  We all know what that means; and frequently
understand, when the words are used, that a blaze of splendour is
to be attained at the cheapest possible price.  But, in this
instance, money was no object;--such an amount of money, at least,
as could by any possibility be spent on a lady's clothes,
independently of her jewels.  With reference to diamonds and such
like, the archdeacon at once declared his intention of taking the
matter into his own hands--except as insofar as Lord Dumbello, or
the Hartletop interest, might be pleased to participate in the
selection.  Nor was Mrs Grantly sorry for such a decision.  She
was not an imprudent woman, and would have dreaded the
responsibility of trusting herself on such an occasion among the
dangerous temptations of a jeweller's shop.  But as far as silks
and satins went--in the matter of French bonnets, muslins, velvets,
hats, riding-habits, artificial flowers, head-gilding, curious
nettings, enamelled buckles, golden tagged bobbins, and mechanical
petticoats--as regarded shoes, and gloves, and corsets, and
stockings, and linen, and flannel, and calico--money, I may
conscientiously assert, was no object.  And, under these
circumstances, Griselda Grantly went to work with a solemn industry
and a steady perseverance that was beyond all praise.  'I hope she
will be happy,' Mrs Arabin said to her sister, as the two were
sitting together in the dean's drawing-room.

'Oh, yes; I think she will.  Why should she not?'

'Oh, no; I know of no reason.  But she is going up into a station
so much above her own in the eyes of the world that one cannot but
feel anxious for her.'

'I should feel much more anxious if she were going to marry a poor
man,' said Mrs Grantly.  'It has always seemed to me that Griselda
was fitted for a high position; that nature intended her for rank
and state.  You see that she is not a bit elated.  She takes it all
as if it were her own by right.  I do not think that there is any
danger that her head will be turned, if you mean that.'

'I was thinking rather of her heart,' said Mrs Arabin.

'She never would have taken Lord Dumbello without loving him,' said
Mrs Grantly, speaking rather quickly.

'That is not quite what I meant, Susan.  I am sure she would not
have accepted him had she not loved him.  But it is so hard to keep
the heart fresh among all the grandeurs of high rank; and it is
harder for a girl to do so who has not been born to it, than for
one who has enjoyed it as her birthright.'

'I don't quite understand about fresh hearts,' said Mrs Grantly,
pettishly.  'If she does her duty, and loves her husband, and fills
the position in which God has placed her with propriety, I don't
know that we need look for anything more.  I don't at all approve
of the plan of frightening a young girl when she is making her
first outset into the world.'

'No; I would not frighten her.  I think it would be almost
difficult to frighten Griselda.'

'I hope it would.  The great matter with a girl is whether she has
been brought up with proper notions as to a woman's duty.  Of course
it is not for me to boast on this subject.  Such as she is, I, of
course, am responsible.  But I must own that I do not see occasion
to wish for any change.' and then the subject was allowed to drop.

Among those of her relations who wondered much at the girl's
fortune, but allowed themselves to say but little, was her
grandfather, Mr Harding.  He was an old clergyman, plain and simple
in his manners, and not occupying a very prominent position, seeing
that he was only precentor to the chapter.  He was loved by his
daughter, Mrs Grantly, and was treated by the archdeacon, if not
invariably with the highest respect, at least always with
consideration and regard.  But, old and plain as he was, the young
people at Plumstead did not hold him in any reverence.  He was
poorer than their other relatives, and made no attempt to hold his
head high in Barsetshire circles.  Moreover, in these latter days,
the home of his heart had been at the deanery.  He had, indeed, a
lodging of his own in the city, but was gradually allowing himself
to be weaned away from it.  He had his own bedroom in the dean's
house, and his own arm-chair in the dean's library, and his own
corner on a sofa in Mrs Dean's drawing-room.  It was not,
therefore, necessary that he should interfere greatly in this
coming marriage; but still it became his duty to say a word of
congratulation to his granddaughter--and perhaps to say a word of
advice.

'Grizzy, my dear,' he said to her--he always called her Grizzy, but
the endearment of the appellation had never been appreciated by the
young lady--'come and kiss me, and let me congratulate you on your
great promotion.  I do so very heartily.'

'Thank you, grandpapa,' she said touching his forehead with her
lips, thus being, as it were, very sparing with her kiss.  But
those lips now were august and reserved for nobler foreheads than
that of an old cathedral hack.  For Mr Harding still chanted the
Litany from Sunday to Sunday unceasingly, standing at that
well-known desk in the cathedral choir; and Griselda had thought in
her mind that when the Hartletop people should hear of the practice
they should not be delighted.  Dean and archdeacon might be very
well, and if her grandfather had even been a prebendary, she might
have put up with him.  But he had, she thought, almost disgraced
his family in being, at his old age, one of the working menial
clergy of the cathedral.  She kissed him, therefore, sparingly, and
resolved that her words with him should be few.

'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 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
dairy maid.

'Quite as easy, I believe,' continued he; 'though others will tell
you that it 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 the Proudies should hate each other.
They were essentially Church people, and their views on Church
matters were antagonistic.  They had been compelled to fight for
supremacy in the diocese, and neither family had so conquered the
other to 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 the 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 heartbroken, you know, in this matter, and the repetition
of such misfortunes is hard to bear,' she was 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 Marquess 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 of a 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 then 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 of 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 ear 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 about the Continent by that time, my dear,'
said Mrs Proudie to Griselda.  'Lord Dumbello is well known at
Hamburg 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 to 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 of 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 was 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 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 of 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 every one 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 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 to the
front-door.

Mrs Grantly, as she got into the 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 in 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 a 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 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 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 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 would 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 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
sued to do.  You always used to come in dine with me the day I came
home as a matter of course.'  What could she say, poor woman, to
this?

'We were 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 should have used had not Lucy's name and character been
at the present moment been of peculiar import to Lady Lufton; but
nevertheless she could 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 coachhouse.'

'What, where Stubbs lives?'

'Yes; Stubbs and his wife have come into the house, and the
children are to remain 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 twos 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 first time.

'Yes, she is,' said Mrs Robarts, having laid aside all her pleasant
animation, for the discussion which she had dreaded was not 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 is 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 Quixote.'

'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 had 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 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 have 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 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 advice 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 could possibly 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 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.'

'But, my dear child, you do not mean that every young gentleman and
every young lady should fall in love with each other directly they
meet!  Such a doctrine would be very inconvenient.'

'No, I do not mean that.  Lord Lufton and Miss Grantly did not fall
in love with each other, though you meant them to do so.  But was it
not quite as natural that Lord Lufton and Lucy should do so
instead?'

'It is generally thought, Fanny, that young ladies should not give
loose to their affections until they have been certified of their
friends' approval.'

'And that young gentlemen of fortune may amuse themselves as they
please!  I know that is what the world teaches, but I cannot agree
to the justice of it.  The terrible suffering which Lucy has to
endure makes me cry out against it.  She did not seek your son.  The
moment she began to suspect that there might be danger she avoided
him scrupulously.  She would not go down to Framley Court though
her not doing so was remarked by yourself.  She would hardly go
about the place lest she should meet him.  She was contented to put
herself altogether in the background till he should have pleased to
leave the place.  But he--he came to her here, and insisted on
seeing her.  What was she to do?  She did try to escape, but he
stopped her at the door.  Was it her fault that he made her an
offer?'

'My dear, no one has said so.'

'Yes, but you do say so when you tell me that young ladies should
not give play to their affections without permission.  He persisted
in saying to her, here, all that it pleased him, though she
implored him to be silent.  I cannot tell the words she used, but
she did implore him.'

'I do not doubt that she behaved well.'

'But he--he persisted, and begged her to accept his hand.  She
refused him then, Lady Lufton--not as some girls do, with a mock
reserve, not intending to be taken at their words,--but steadily,
and, God forgive her, untruly.  Knowing what your feelings would be,
and acknowledging what the world would say, she declared to him
that he was indifferent to her.  What more could she do in your
behalf?'  And then Mrs Robarts paused.

'I shall wait till you have done, Fanny.'

'You spoke of girls giving loose to their affections.  She did not
do so.  She went about her work exactly as she had done before.  She
did not even speak to me of what had passed--not then, at least.
She determined that it should all be as though it had never been.
She had learned to love your son; but that was her misfortune, and
she would get over it as she might.  Tidings came to us here that
he was engaged, or about to be engaged himself, to Miss Grantly.'

'Those tidings were untrue.'

'Yes, we know that now; but she did not know it then.  Of course
she could not but suffer; but she suffered within her self.'  Mrs
Robarts, as she said this, remembered the pony-carriage and how
Puck had been beaten.  'She made no complaint that he had
ill-treated her--not even to herself.  She had thought it right to
reject his offer; and, there, as far as she was concerned, was to
be the end of it.'

'That would be a matter of course, I should suppose.'

'But it was not a matter of course, Lady Lufton.  He returned from
London to Framley on purpose to repeat his offer.  He sent for her
brother--You talk of a young lady waiting for her friends'
approval.  In this matter who would be Lucy's friends?'

'You and Mr Robarts, of course.'

'Exactly; her only friends.  Well, Lord Lufton sent for Mark and
repeated his offer to him.  Mind you, Mark had never heard a word
of this before, and you may guess whether or no he was surprised.
Lord Lufton repeated his offer in the most formal manner, and
claimed permission to see Lucy.  She refused to see him.  She has
never seen him since that day, when in opposition to all her
efforts, he made his way into this room.  Mark--as I think very
properly--would have allowed Lord Lufton to come up here.  Looking
at both their ages and position he could have had no right to
forbid it.  But Lucy positively refused to see your son, and sent
him a message instead, of the purport of which you are now aware--
that she would never accept him unless she did so at your request.'

'It was a very proper message.'

'I say nothing about that.  Had she accepted him I would not have
blamed her; and so I told her, Lady Lufton.'

'I cannot understand your saying that, Fanny.'

'Well; I did say so.  I don't want to argue now about myself
--whether I was right or wrong, but I did say so.  Whatever
sanction I could give she would have had.  But she again chose to
sacrifice herself, although I believe she regards him with as true
a love as ever a girl felt for a man.  Upon my word, I don't know
that she is right.  Those considerations for the world may perhaps
be carried too far.'

'I think that she was perfectly right.'

'Very well, Lady Lufton; I can understand that.  But after such
sacrifice on her part--a sacrifice made entirely to you--how can
you talk of "not blaming her"?  Is that the language in which you
speak of those whose conduct from the first to last has been
superlatively excellent?  If she is open to blame at all, it is--it
is--' But here Mrs Robarts stopped herself.  In defending her
sister she had worked herself almost into a passion; but such a
state of feeling was not customary to her, and now that she had
spoken her mind she sank suddenly into silence.

'It seems to me, Fanny, that you almost regret Miss Robarts's
decision,' said Lady Lufton.

'My wish in this matter is for her happiness, and I regret anything
that may mar it.'

'You think nothing then of our welfare, and yet I do not know to
whom I might have looked for hearty friendship and for sympathy in
difficulties, if not for you?'  Poor Mrs Robarts was almost upset
by this.  A few months ago, before Lucy's arrival, she would have
declared that the interest of Lady Lufton's family would have been
paramount to her, after and next to her own husband.  And even now,
it seemed to argue so black an ingratitude on her part--this
accusation that she was so indifferent to them!  From her childhood
upwards she had revered and loved Lady Lufton, and for years had
taught herself to regard her as the epitome of all that was good
and gracious in woman.  Lady Lufton's theories of life had been
accepted by her as the right theories, and those whom Lady Lufton
had liked she had liked.  But now it seemed that all these ideas
which it had taken a life to build up were to be thrown to the
ground, because she was bound to defend her sister-in-law whom she
had only known for the last eight months.  It was not that she
regretted a word that she had spoken on Lucy's behalf.  Chance had
thrown her and Lucy together, and, as Lucy was her sister, she
should receive from her a sister's treatment.  But she did not the
less feel how terrible would be the effect of any disseverance from
Lady Lufton.  'Oh, Lady Lufton,' she said, 'do not say that.'

'But, Fanny dear, I must speak as I find.  You were talking about
clouds just now, and do you think that all this is not a cloud in
my sky?  Ludovic tells me that he is attached to Miss Robarts, and
you tell me that she is attached to him; and I am called upon to
decide between them.  Her very act obliges me to do so.'

'Dear Lady Lufton,' said Mrs Robarts, springing from her seat.  It
seemed to her at the moment as though the whole difficulty were to
be solved by an act of grace on the part of her friend.

'And yet I cannot approve of such a marriage,' said Lady Lufton.
Mrs Robarts returned to her seat saying nothing further.

'Is not that a cloud on one's horizon?' continued her ladyship.  'Do
you think that I can be basking in the sunshine while I have such a
weight upon my heart as that?  Ludovic will soon be home, but
instead of looking to his return with pleasure I dread it.  I would
prefer that he would remain in Norway.  I would wish that he should
stay away for months.  And, Fanny, it is a great addition to my
misfortune to feel that you do not sympathize with me.'  Having
said this, in a slow, sorrowful, and severe tone, Lady Lufton got
up and took her departure.  Of course Mrs Robarts did not let her
go without assuring her that  she did sympathize with her,--did
love her as she ever had loved her.  But wounds cannot be cured as
easily as they may be inflicted, and Lady Lufton went her way with
much real sorrow at her heart.  She was proud and masterful, fond
of her own way, and much too careful of the worldly dignities to
which her lot had called her; but she was a woman who could cause
no sorrow to those she loved without deep sorrow to herself.



CHAPTER XLII

TOUCHING PITCH

In these hot midsummer days, the end of June and the beginning of
July, Mr Sowerby had but an uneasy time of it.  At his sister's
instance, he had hurried up to London and there had remained for
days in attendance on the lawyers.  He had to see new lawyers,
Miss Dunstable's men of business, quiet old cautious gentlemen
whose place of business was in a dark alley behind the bank, Messrs
Slow & Bideawhile by name, who had no scruple in detaining him for
hours while they or their clerks talked to him about anything or
about nothing.  It was of vital consequence to Mr Sowerby that this
business of his should be settled without delay, and yet these men,
to whose care this settling was now confided, went on as though law
processes were a sunny bank on which men delighted to bask easily.
And then, too, he had to go more than once to South Audley Street,
which was a worse infliction; for the men in South Audley Street
were less civil now than had been their wont.  It was well
understood there that Mr Sowerby was no longer a client of the
duke's but his opponent; no longer his nominee and dependant, but
his enemy in the county.  'Chaldicotes,' as old Mr Gumption remarked
to young Mr Gagebee; 'Chaldicotes, Gagebee, is a cooked goose, as
far as Sowerby is concerned.  And what difference could it make to
him whether the duke is to own it or Miss Dunstable?  For my part
I cannot understand how a gentleman like Sowerby can like to see
his property go into the hands of a gallipot wench whose money
smells of bad drugs.  And nothing can be more ungrateful,' he said,
'than Sowerby's conduct.  He has held the county five-and-twenty
years without expense; and now that the time for payment has come,
he begrudges the price.'  He called it no better than cheating, he
did not--he, Mr Gumption.  According to his ideas Sowerby was
attempting to cheat the duke.  It may be imagined, therefore, that
Mr Sowerby did not feel any great delight in attending at South
Audley Street.  And then rumour was spread about among all the
bill-discounting leeches that blood was once more to be sucked from
the Sowerby carcass.  The rich Miss Dunstable had taken up his
affairs; so much as that became known in the purlieus of the Goat
and Compasses.  Tom Tozer's brother declared that she and Sowerby
were going to make a match of it, and that any scrap of paper with
Sowerby's name on it, would become worth its weight in bank-notes;
but Tom Tozer himself--Tom, who was the real hero of the family--
pooh-poohed at this, screwing up his nose, and alluding in most
contemptuous terms to his brother's softness.  He knew better--as
was indeed the fact.  Miss Dunstable was buying up the squire, and
by Jingo she should buy them up--them, the Tozers as well as
others!  They knew their value, the Tozers did;--whereupon they
became more than ordinarily active.  From them and all their
brethren Mr Sowerby at this time endeavoured to keep his distance,
but his endeavours were not altogether effectual.  Whenever he
could escape for a day or two from the lawyers he ran down to
Chaldicotes; but Tom Tozer in his perseverance followed him there,
and boldly sent in his name by the servant at the front door.

'Mr Sowerby is not just at home at the present moment,' said the
well-trained domestic.

'I'll wait about, then,' said Tom, seating himself on an heraldic
griffin which flanked the big stone steps before the house.  And in
this way Mr Tozer gained his purpose.  Sowerby was still contesting
the county, and it behoved him not to let his enemies say that he
was hiding himself.  It had been a part of his bargain with Miss
Dunstable that he should contest the county.  She had taken it into
her head that the duke had behaved badly, and she had resolved that
he should be made to pay for it.  'The duke,' she said, 'had
meddled long enough;' she would now see whether the Chaldicotes
interest would not suffice of itself to return a member for the
county, even in opposition to the duke.  Mr Sowerby himself was so
harrassed at the time, that he would have given way on this point
if he had had the power; but Miss Dunstable was determined, and he
was obliged to yield to her.  In this manner Mr Tom Tozer succeeded
and did make his way into Mr Sowerby's presence--of which intrusion
one effect was the following letter from Mr Sowerby to his friend
Mark Robarts:--


'Chaldicotes, July, 185-
'MY DEAR ROBARTS,

'I am so harrassed at the present moment by an infinity
of troubles of my own that I am almost callous to those
of other people.  They say that prosperity makes a man
selfish.  I have never tried that, but I am quite sure
that adversity does so.  Nevertheless I am anxious about
these bills of yours,'

'Bills of mine!' said Robarts to himself, as he walked up
and down the shrubbery path at the parsonage, reading
this letter.  This happened a day or two after his visit
to the lawyer at Barchester.

'--and would rejoice greatly if I thought that I could
save you from any further annoyance about them.  That
kite, Tom Tozer, has just been with me, and insists that
both of them shall be paid.  He knows--no one
better--that no consideration was given for the latter.
But he knows also that the dealing was not with him, nor
even with his brother and he will be prepared to swear
that he gave value for both.  He would swear anything for
five hundred pounds--or for half the money, for that
matter.  I do not think that the father of mischief ever
let loose upon the world a greater rascal than Tom Tozer.

'He declares that nothing shall induce him to take one
shilling less than the whole sum of nine hundred pounds.
He has been brought to this by hearing that my debts are
about to be paid.  Heaven help me!  The meaning of that
is that these wretched acres, which are now mortgaged to
one millionaire, are to change hands and be mortgaged to
another instead.  By this exchange I may possibly obtain
the benefit of having a house to live in for the next
twelve months, but no other.  Tozer, however, is
altogether wrong in his scent; and the worst of it is
that his malice will fall on you rather than on me.

'What I want you to do is this: let us pay him one hundred
pounds between us.  Though I sell the last sorry jade of
a horse I have, I will make up fifty; and I know you can,
at any rate, do as much as that.  Then do you accept a
bill conjointly with me, for eight hundred.  It
shall be done in Forrest's presence, and handed to him;
and you shall receive back the two old bills into your
own hands at the same time.  This new bill should be
timed to run ninety days; and I will move heaven and
earth, during that time, to have it included in the
general schedule of my debts which are to be secured on
the Chaldicotes property.

The meaning of which was that Miss Dunstable was to be cozened into
paying the money under an idea that it was a part of the sum
covered by the existing mortgage.

'What you said the other day at Barchester, as to never
executing another bill, is very well regards future
transactions.  Nothing can be wiser than such a
resolution.  But it would be folly--worse than folly--if
you were to allow your furniture to be seized when the
means of preventing it are so ready to your hand.  By
leaving the new bill in Forrest's hands you may be sure
that you are safe from the claws of such birds of prey as
the Tozers.  Even if I cannot get it settled when the
three months are over, Forrest will enable you to make
any arrangement that may be most convenient.

'For Heaven's sake, my dear fellow, do not refuse this.
You can hardly conceive how it weighs upon me, this fear
that bailiffs should make their way into your wife's
drawing-room.  I know you think ill of me, and I do not
wonder at it.  But you would be less inclined to do so if
you knew how terribly I am punished.  Pray let me hear
that you will do as I counsel you.

'Yours always faithfully,
'N.SOWERBY'

In answer to which the parson wrote a very short reply:-

'Framley, July 185-

'MY DEAR SOWERBY,
'I will sign no more bills on any consideration.
'Yours truly,
MARK ROBARTS'

And then having written this, and having shown it to his wife, he
returned to the shrubbery walk and paced it up and down, looking
every now and then to Sowerby's letter as he thought over all the
past circumstances of his friendship with that gentleman.  That the
man who had written this letter should be his friend--that very
fact was a disgrace to him.  Sowerby so well knew himself and his
own reputation, that he did not dare to suppose that his own word
would be taken for anything,--not even when the thing promised was
an act of the commonest honesty.  'The old bills shall be given
back into your own hands', he had declared with energy, knowing
that his friend and correspondent would not feel himself secure
against further fraud under less stringent guarantee.  This
gentleman, this county member, the owner of Chaldicotes, with whom
Mark Robarts had been so anxious to be on terms of intimacy, had
now come to such a phase of life that he had given over speaking of
himself as an honest man.  He had become so used to suspicion that he
argued of it as of a thing of course.  He knew that no one
could trust either his spoken or written word, and he was content
to speak and to write without attempt to hide this conviction.  And
this was the man whom he had been so glad to call his friend; for
whose sake he had been willing to quarrel with Lady Lufton, and at
whose instance he had unconsciously abandoned so many of the best
resolutions of his life.  He looked back now, as he walked there
slowly, still holding the letter in his hand, to the day when he
had stopped at the school-house and written his letter to Mr
Sowerby, promising to join the party at Chaldicotes.  He had been
so eager then to have his own way, that he would not permit himself
to go home and talk the matter over with his wife.  He thought also
of the manner in which he had been tempted to the house of the Duke
of Omnium, and the conviction on his mind at the time of giving way
to that temptation would surely bring him no evil.  And then he
remembered the evening in Sowerby's bed-room, when the bill had
been brought out, and he had allowed himself to be persuaded to put
his name upon it--not because he was willing in this way to assist
his friend, but because he was unable to refuse.  He had lacked the
courage to say 'No,' though he knew at the time how gross was the
error which he was committing.  He had lacked the courage to say,
'No', and hence had come upon him and on his household all this
misery and cause for bitter repentance.

I have written much of clergymen, but in doing so, I have
endeavoured to portray them as they bear on our social life rather
than to describe the mode and working of their professional
careers.  Had I done the latter I could hardly have steered clear
of subjects on which it has not been my intention to pronounce an
opinion, and I should either have laden my fiction with sermons or
I should have degraded my sermons into fiction.  Therefore I have
said but little in my narrative of this man's feelings or doings as
a clergyman.  But I must protest against its being on this account
considered that Mr Robarts was indifferent to the duties of his
clerical position.  He had been fond of pleasure and had given way
to temptation,--as is so customarily done by young men of
six-and-twenty, who are placed beyond control and who have means at
command.  Had he remained as a curate still at that age, subject in
all his movements to the eye of a superior, he would, we may say,
have put his name to no bills, have ridden after no hounds, have
seen nothing of the iniquities of Gatherum Castle.  There are men
of twenty-six as fit to stand alone as ever they will be--fit to be
prime ministers, heads of schools, Judges on the Bench--almost fit
to be bishops; but Mark Robarts had not been one of them.  He had
within him many aptitudes for good, but not the strengthened
courage of a man to act up to them.  The stuff of which his manhood
was to be formed had been slow of growth, as it is with many men;
and, consequently, when temptation was offered to him, he had
fallen.  But he deeply grieved over his own stumbling, and from
time to time, as his periods of penitence came upon him, he
resolved that he would once more put his shoulder to the wheel as
became one who fights upon earth that battle for which he had put
on the armour.  Over and over again, did he think of those words of
Mr Crawley, and now as he walked up and down the path crumpling Mr
Sowerby's letter in his hand, he thought of them again--'it is a
terrible falling off; terrible in the fall, but doubly terrible
through that difficulty of returning.'  Yes; that is a difficulty
which multiplies itself in a fearful ratio as one goes on
pleasantly running down the path--witherward?  Had it come to that
with him that he could not return--that he could never again hold
up his head with a safe conscience as the pastor of his parish!  It
was Sowerby who had led him into this misery, who had brought on
him this ruin?  But then had not Sowerby paid him?  Had not that
stall which he now held in Barchester been Sowerby's gift?  He was
a poor man now--a distressed, poverty-stricken man; but
nevertheless he wished with all his heart that he had never become
a sharer in the good things of the Barchester chapter.  'I shall
resign the stall,' he said to his wife that night.  'I think I may
say that I have made up my mind as to that.'

'But, Mark, will not people say that it is odd?'

'I cannot help it--they must say it.  Fanny, I fear that we shall
have to bear the saying of harder words than that.'

'Nobody can ever say that you have done anything that is unjust or
dishonourable.  If there are such men as Mr Sowerby--'

'The blackness of his fault will not excuse mine.'  And then again
he sat silent, hiding his eyes, while his wife, sitting by him,
held his hand.

'Don't make yourself wretched, Mark.  Matters will all come right
yet.  It cannot be that the loss of a few hundred pounds should
ruin you.'

'It is not the money--it is not the money.'

'But you have done nothing wrong, Mark.'

'How am I to go into the church and take my place before them all,
when every one will know that bailiffs are in the house?'  And
then, dropping his head on to the table, he sobbed aloud.

Mark Robarts's mistake had been mainly this,--he had thought to
touch pitch and not to be defiled.  He, looking out from his
pleasant parsonage into the pleasant upper ranks of the world
around him, had seen that men and things in those quarters were
very engaging.  His own parsonage, with his sweet wife, were
exceedingly dear to him, and Lady Lufton's affectionate friendship
had its value; but were not these things rather dull for one who
had lived with the best sets at Harrow and Oxford;--unless, indeed,
he could supplement them with some occasional bursts of more lively
life?  Cakes and ale were as pleasant to his palate as to the
palates of those with whom he had formerly lived at college.  He
had the same eye to look at a horse, and the same heart to make him
go across a country, as they.  And then, too, he found that men
liked him,--men and women also; men and women who were high in
worldly standing.  His ass's ears were tickled, and he learned to
fancy that he was intended by nature for the society of high
people.  It seemed as though he were following his appointed course
in meeting men and women of the world at the houses of the
fashionable and rich.  He was not the first clergyman that had so
lived and had so prospered.  Yes, clergymen had so lived, and had
done their duties in the sphere of life altogether to the
satisfaction of their countrymen--and of their sovereigns.  Thus
Mark Robarts had determined that he would touch pitch, and escape
defilement if that were possible.  With what result those who have
read so far will have perceived.  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
documentation 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 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 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 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
ready money.  Perhaps 750L or 800L 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 would probably 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
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 of what you 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 the very deed.

'Thank you, Mr Forrest, but I have made up my mind.  Do not think
that I am the less obliged to you on 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 would again induce him to go near
the fire.

'Was not 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 in 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 250L 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 so the matter went on.  During which the roses faded
from day to day on the cheeks of Mrs Robarts, as under the
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, by
writing 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 Lufton 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, 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 of 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 into 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 that Mr Robarts has embarrassed himself,' said Lady
Lufton, looking very seriously.  'Rumours reach me which are most
distressing.  I have said nothing further 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.'

'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 as any excuse.  Is he to consider that 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 Crawley children were at the parsonage.

'I must say 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 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 the 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 going 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 for 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 might
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 would 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 to these things can be said
of Miss Robarts.  I defy you to say that she is not 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 her catalogue of
her objections, such would have been its extent and nature.  But
she did not dare 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--'

'Then why is it?  At breakfast you were singing her praises, and
saying how excellent she was.'

'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 that 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 nearly be the last 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--aye, 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 now I 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 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 Fates had destined Miss Grantly for another
throne; for another and 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 for
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
a 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 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 sate 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 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 dear 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 already been 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 go to him?'

'No.  If I were to do so it would be the same thing 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 sharp things said between us.  He would
advance me the money if I pressed him 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 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 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 fire-place, 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 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 of 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 it please you 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 stood before.  There he
remained for ten minutes, but the time went by very slowly.  When
about noon some circumstances 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
in 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, Evans, whom he had patronized, and treated
almost as a dependant--how was he to look at 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 by 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 housemaid 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 into 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 could
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 the 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 you not 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 every one 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 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 that 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.

'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 be so
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 has nearly
driven me wild.  It has done the same to you since, 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 know 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 do.  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 penitentiae 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 penitentiae
was for him still a possibility--that was between him and the
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 knew 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 trifle,
which will really be a matter of no inconvenience to me.  I have a
better right than that even of an old friend; I look upon you 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 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 had begun to repent that she had
ever heard of 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 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 of two,--a word in
kindness, as you so well know how.  It will be easier for him in
that way, than if you were 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; aye, and into the canons' houses and the humbler
sitting-rooms of the vicars choral.  Whether they made their way
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 sequestered,' 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 sequestered, 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 his 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 a minor canon.

'The sheriff's officers are in the house at present, I am told,'
said Mrs Proudie.

'And is he not 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 the 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 depressing 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 at 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 on 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 the 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 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 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 by 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 that 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 smile 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 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 that
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 now he 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 understand your
feelings, Dr Grantly.  Considering your daughter's position the
match, as regards earthly wealth, is 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.'  The fact was
that Dr Grantly had done altogether wrong in coming to the palace.
His wife might have some chance with Mrs Proudie, but he had none.
Since she had come to Barchester he had had only two or three
encounters with her, and in all of these cases he had gone to the
wall.  His visits to the palace have always resulted in his leaving
the presence of the inhabitants in a frame of mind by no means
desirable, and he now found that he had to do it once again.  He
could not compel Mrs Proudie to say that the report was untrue; nor
could he condescend to make counter hits at her about her own
daughter, as his wife would have done.  And thus having utterly
failed, he got up and took his leave.  But the worst of the matter
was, that, in going home, he could not divest his mind of the idea
that there might be some truth in the report.  What if Lord
Dumbello had gone to the Continent resolved to send back from
thence some reason why it was impossible that he should make Miss
Grantly his wife?  Such things had been done before now by men in
his rank.  Whether or no Mrs Tickler had been the letter-writing
wellwisher from Littlebath, or had induced her friend to do so, it
did seem manifest to him, Dr Grantly, that Mrs Proudie absolutely
believed the report which she promulgated so diligently.  The wish
might be father to the thought, no doubt; but that the thought was
truly there, Dr Grantly could not induce himself to disbelieve.  His
wife was less credulous, and to a certain degree comforted him;
but that evening he received a letter which greatly confirmed the
suspicions set on foot by Mrs Proudie, and even shook his wife's
faith in Lord Dumbello.  It was from a mere acquaintance, who in
the ordinary course of things would not have written to him.  And
the bulk of the letter referred to ordinary things, as to which the
gentleman in question would hardly have thought of giving himself
the trouble of writing a letter.  But at the end of the note he
said,--'Of course you are aware that Dumbello is off to Paris; I
have not heard whether the exact day of his return is fixed.'

'It is true, then,' said the archdeacon, striking the library table
with his hand, and becoming absolutely white about the mouth and
jaws.

'It cannot be,' said Mrs Grantly; but even she was now trembling.

'If it be so, I'll drag him back to England by the collar of his
coat, and disgrace him before the steps of his father's hall.'  And
the archdeacon as he uttered the threat looked his character as an
irate British father much better than he did his other character as
a clergyman of the Church of England.  The archdeacon had been
greatly worsted by Mrs Proudie, but he was a man who knew how to
fight his battles among men--sometimes without too close a regard
to his cloth.

'Had Lord Dumbello intended any such thing he would have written or
got some friend to write by this time,' said Mrs Grantly.  'It is
quite possible that he might wish to be off, but he would be too
chary of his name not to endeavour to do so with decency.'

Thus the matter was discussed, and it appeared to them both to be
so serious that the archdeacon resolved to go at once to London.
That Lord Dumbello had gone to France he did not doubt; but he
would find some one in town acquainted with the young man's
intentions, and he would, no doubt, be able to hear when his return
was expected.  If there were real reason for apprehension he would
follow the runagate to the Continent, but he would not do this
without absolute knowledge.  According to Lord Dumbello's present
engagements he was bound to present himself in August next at
Plumstead Episcopi, with the view then and there taking Griselda
Grantly in marriage; but if he kept his word in this respect no one
had a right to quarrel with him for going to Paris in the
meantime.  Most expectant bridegrooms would, no doubt, under such
circumstances, have declared their intelligence to future brides;
but if Lord Dumbello were different from others, who had a right on
that account to be indignant with him?  He was unlike other men in
other things; and especially unlike other men in being the eldest
son of the Marquess of Hartletop.  It would be all very well for
Tickler to proclaim his whereabouts from week to week; but the
eldest son of a marquess might find it inconvenient to be precise!
Nevertheless the archdeacon thought it only prudent to go up to
London.  'Susan,' said the archdeacon to his wife, just as he was
starting;--at this moment neither of them were in the happiest of
spirits--'I think I would say a word of caution to Griselda.'

'Do you feel so much doubt about it as that?' said Mrs Grantly.  But
even she did not dare to put a direct negative to this proposal, so
much had she been moved by what she had heard!

'I think I would do so, not frightening her more than I could
help.  It will lessen the blow if it be that the blow is to fall.'

'It will kill me,' said Mrs Grantly; 'but I think that she will be
able to bear it.'  On the next morning Mrs Grantly, with much
cunning preparation, went about the task that her husband had left
her to perform.  It took her long to do, for she was very cunning
in the doing of it; but at last it dropped form in words that there
was a possibility--a bare possibility--that some disappointment
might even yet be in store for them.

'Do you mean, mamma, that the marriage will be put off?'

'I don't mean to say that I think it will; God forbid! but it is
just possible.  I dare say that I am very wrong to tell you this,
but I know you have sense enough to bear it.  Papa has gone to
London, and we shall hear from him soon.'

'Then, mamma, I had better give them orders not to go on with the
marking.'



CHAPTER XLVI

LADY LUFTON'S REQUEST

The bailiffs on that day had their meals regular--and their beer,
which state of things, together with an absence of all duty in the
way of making inventories and the like, I take to be the earthly
paradise of bailiffs; and on the next morning they walked off with
civil speeches and many apologies as to their intrusion.  'They was
very sorry,' they said, 'to have troubled a gen'leman as were a
gen'leman, but in their way of business what could they do?'  To
which one of them added a remark that, 'business is business.'  This
statement I am not prepared to contradict, but I would recommend
all men in choosing a profession to avoid any that may require an
apology at every turn; either an apology or else a somewhat violent
assertion of right.  Each younger male reader may, perhaps, reply
that he has no thought of becoming a sheriff's officer; but then
are there not other cognate lines of life to which, perhaps, the
attention of some such may be attracted?  On the evening of the day
on which they went Mark received a note from Lady Lufton begging
him to call early on the following morning, and immediately after
breakfast he went across to Framley Court.  It may be imagined that
he was not in a very happy frame of mind, but he felt the truth of
his wife's remark that the first plunge into cold water was always
the worst.  Lady Lufton was not a woman who would continually throw
his disgrace into his teeth, however terribly cold might be the
first words with which she spoke of it.  He strove hard as he
entered her room to carry his usual look and bearing, and to put
out his hand to greet her with his customary freedom, but he knew
that he failed.  And it may be said that no good man who has broken
down in this goodness can carry the disgrace of his fall without
some look of shame.  When a man is able to do that, he ceases to be
in any way good.

'This has been a distressing affair,' said Lady Lufton, after her
first salutation.

'Yes, indeed,' said he.  'It has been very sad for poor Fanny.'

'Well; we must all have our little periods of grief; and it may
perhaps be fortunate if none of us have worse than this.  She will
not complain herself, I am sure.'

'She complain!'

'No, I am sure she will not.  And now all I've got to say, Mr
Robarts is this: I hope you and Lufton have had enough to do with
black sheep to last you your lives; for I must protest that your
late friend Mr Sowerby is a black sheep.'  In no possible way could
Lady Lufton have alluded to the matter with greater kindness than
thus joining Mark's name with that of her son.  It took away all
the bitterness of the rebuke, and made the subject one on which
even he might have spoken without difficulty.  But now, seeing that
she was so gentle to him, he could not but lean the more hardly on
himself.

'I have been very foolish,' said he, 'very foolish, and very wrong,
and very wicked.'

'Very foolish, I believe, Mr Robarts--to speak frankly and once for
all; but, as I also believe, nothing worse.  I thought it best for
both of us that we should have just one word about it, and now I
recommend that the matter be never mentioned between us again.'

'God bless you, Lady Lufton,' he said, 'I think no man ever had
such a friend as you are.'  She had been very quiet during the
interview, and almost subdued, not speaking with the animation that
was usual to her; for this affair with Mr Robarts was not the only
one she had to complete that day, nor, perhaps, the one most
difficult of completion.  But she cheered up a little under the
praise now bestowed on her, for it was the sort of praise she loved
best.  She did hope, and perhaps flatter herself, that she was a
good friend.

'You must be good enough, then, to gratify my friendship by coming
to dinner this evening; and Fanny, too, of course.  I cannot take
any excuses, for the matter is completely arranged; I have a
particular reason for wishing it.'  These last violent injunctions
had been added because Lady Lufton had seen a refusal rising in the
parson's face.  Poor Lady Lufton!  Her enemies--for even she had
enemies--used to declare of her, that an invitation to dinner was
the only method of showing itself of which her good-humour was
cognizant.  But let me ask of her enemies whether it is not as good
a method as any other known to be extant?  Under such orders as
these obedience was of course a necessity, and he promised that he,
with his wife, would come across to dinner.  And then, when he went
away, Lady Lufton ordered her carriage.

During these doings at Framley, Lucy Robarts still remained at
Hogglestock, nursing Mrs Crawley.  Nothing occurred to take her
back to Framley, for the same note from Fanny which gave her the
first tidings of the arrival of the Philistines told her also of
their departure--and also of the source whence relief had reached
them.  'Don't come, therefore, for that reason,' said the note,
'but, nevertheless, do come as quickly as you can, for the whole
house is sad without you.'

On the morning after the receipt of this note Lucy was sitting, as
was now usual with her, beside an old arm-chair to which her
patient had been lately promoted.  The fever had gone, and Mrs
Crawley was slowly regaining her strength--very slowly, and with
frequent caution from the Silverbridge doctor that any attempt at
being well too fast might again precipitate her into an abyss of
illness and domestic inefficiency.

'I really think I can get about to-morrow,' said she; 'and then,
dear Lucy, I need not keep you longer from your home.'

'You are in a great hurry to get rid of me, I think.  I suppose Mr
Crawley has been complaining about the cream in his tea.'

Mr Crawley had on one occasion stated his assured conviction that
surreptitious daily supplies were being brought to the house,
because he had detected the presence of cream instead of milk in
his own cup.  As, however, the cream had been going for sundry days
before this, Miss Robarts had not thought much of his ingenuity in
making the discovery.

'Ah, you do not know how he speaks of you when your back is
turned.'

'And how does he speak of me?  I know you would not have the
courage to tell me the whole.'

'No, I have not; for you would think it absurd coming from one who
looks like him.  He says that if he were to write a poem about
womanhood, he would make you the heroine.'

'With a cream-jug in my hand, or else sewing buttons on to a
shirt-collar.  But he never forgave me about the mutton-broth.  He
told me, in so many words, that I was a--story-teller.  And for
the matter of that, my dear, so I was.'

'He told me you were an angel.'

'Goodness gracious!'

'A ministering angel.  And so you have been.  I can almost feel it
in my heart to be glad that I have been ill, seeing that I have had
you for my friend.'

'But you might have had that good fortune without the fever.'

'No, I should not.  In my married life I have made no friends till
my illness brought you to me; nor should I ever really known you
but for that.  How should I get to know any one?'

'You will now, Mrs Crawley; will you not?  Promise that you will.
You will come to us at Framley when you are well?  You have
promised already, you know.'

'You made me do so when I was too weak to refuse.'

'And I shall make you keep your promise, too.  He shall come also,
if he likes; but you shall come whether he likes or no, and I
won't hear a word about your old dresses.  Old dresses will wear as
well at Framley as at Hogglestock.'  From all which it will appear
that Mrs Crawley and Lucy Robarts had become very intimate during
the period of the nursing; as two women always will, or, at least,
should do, when shut up for weeks together in the same sick room.

The conversation was still going on between them when the sound of
wheels was heard upon the road.  It was no highway that passed
before the house, and carriages of any sort were not frequent
there.

'It is Fanny, I am sure,' said Lucy, rising from her chair.

'There are two horses,' said Mrs Crawley, distinguishing the noise
with the accurate sense of hearing which is always attached to
sickness; 'and it is not the noise of the pony-carriage.'

'It is a regular carriage,' said Lucy, speaking from the window,
'and stopping here.  It is somebody from Framley Court, for I know
the servant.'  And as she spoke a blush came to her forehead.  Might
it not be Lord Lufton, she thought to herself--forgetting, at the
moment, that Lord Lufton did not go about the country in a close
chariot with a fat footman.  Intimate as she had become with Mrs
Crawley she had said nothing to her new friend on the subject of
her love affair.  The carriage stopped, and down came the footman,
but nobody spoke to him from the inside.

'He has probably brought something from Framley,' said Lucy, having
cream and such-like matters in her mind; for cream and such-like
matters had come from Framley Court more than once during her
sojourn there.  'And the carriage, probably, happened to be coming
this way.'  But the mystery soon elucidated itself partially, or,
perhaps, became more mysterious in another way.  The red-armed
little girl who had been taken away by her frightened mother in the
first burst of fever had now returned to her place, and at the
present moment entered the room, with awe-struck face, declaring
that Miss Robarts was to go at once to the big lady in the
carriage.

'I suppose it's Lady Lufton,' said Mrs Crawley.  Lucy's heart was
so absolutely in her mouth that any kind of speech was at the
moment impossible to her.  Why should Lady Lufton have come hither
to Hogglestock, and why should she want to see her, Lucy Robarts,
in the carriage?  Had not everything between them been settled?  And
yet--!  Lucy, in the moment for thought that was allowed to her,
could not determine what might be the probable upshot of such an
interview.  Her chief feeling was a desire to postpone it for the
present instant.  But the red-armed little girl would not allow
that.

'You are to come at once,' said she.

And then Lucy, without having spoken a word, got up and left the
room.  She walked downstairs, along the little passage, and out
through the small garden, with firm steps, but hardly knowing
whither she went or why.  Her presence of mind and self-possession
had all deserted her.  She knew that she was unable to speak as she
should do; she felt that she would have to regret her present
behaviour, but yet she could not help herself.  Why should Lady
Lufton have come to her here?  She went on, and the big footman stood
with the carriage door open.  She stepped up almost unconsciously,
and, without knowing how she got there, she found herself seated
by Lady Lufton.  To tell the truth her ladyship also was a little
at a loss to know how she was to carry through her present plan of
operations.  The duty of beginning, however, was clearly with her,
and therefore, having taken Lucy by the hand, she spoke.  'Miss
Robarts,' she said, 'my son has come home.  I don't know whether
you are aware of it.'  She spoke with a low gentle voice, not quite
like herself, but Lucy was much too confused to notice this.

'I was not aware of it,' said Lucy.  She had, however, been so
informed in Fanny's letter, but all that had gone out of her head.

'Yes; he has come back.  He has been in Norway, you know--
fishing.'

'Yes,' said Lucy.

'I am sure you will remember all that took place when you came to
me, not long ago, in my little room upstairs at Framley Court.'  In
answer to which, Lucy, quivering in every nerve, and wrongly
thinking that she was visibly shaking in every limb, timidly
answered that she did remember.  Why was it that she had then been
so bold, and now was so poor a coward?

'Well, my dear, all that I said to you then I said to you thinking
that it was for the best.  You, at any rate, will not be angry with
me for loving my son better than I love any one else.'

'Oh, no,' said Lucy.

'He is the best of sons, and the best of men, and I am sure that he
will be the best of husbands.'

Lucy had an idea, by instinct, however, rather than by sight, that
Lady Lufton's eyes were full of tears as she spoke.  As for herself
she was altogether blinded, and did not dare lift her face or to
turn her head.  As for the utterances of any sound, that was quite
out of the question.  'And now, I have come here, Lucy, to ask you
to be his wife.'

She was quite sure that she heard the words.  They came plainly to
her ears, leaving on her brain their proper sense, but yet she
could not move or make any sign that she had understood them.  It
seemed as though it would be ungenerous in her to take advantage of
such conduct and to accept an offer made with so much
self-sacrifice.  She had not time at the first moment to think even
of his happiness, let alone her own, but she thought only of the
magnitude of the concession which had been made to her.  When she
had constituted Lady Lufton as the arbiter of her destiny she had
regarded the question of her love as decided against herself.

She had found herself unable to endure the position of being Lady
Lufton's daughter-in-law while Lady Lufton would be scorning her,
and therefore she had given up the game.  She had given up the
game, sacrificing herself, and, as far as it might be a sacrifice,
sacrificing him also.  She had been resolute to stand to her word
in this respect, but she had never allowed herself to think it
possible that Lady Lufton should comply with the conditions which
she, Lucy, had laid upon her.  And yet such was the case, as she so
plainly heard.  'And now I have come here, Lucy, to ask you to be
his wife.'  How long they sat together silent, I cannot say;
counted by minutes the time would not probably have amounted to
many, but to each of them the duration seemed considerable.  Lady
Lufton, while she was speaking, had contrived to get hold of Lucy's
hand, and she sat, still holding it, trying to look into Lucy's
face,--which, however, she could hardly see, so much of it was
turned away.  Neither, indeed, were Lady Lufton's eyes perfectly dry.
No answer came to her question, and therefore, after a while, it
was necessary that she should speak again.

'Must I go back to him, Lucy, and tell him that there is some other
objection--something besides a stern old mother; some hindrance,
perhaps, not so easily overcome?'

'No,' said Lucy, and it was all which at the moment she could say.

'What shall I tell him then?  Shall I say yes--simply yes?'

'Simply yes,' said Lucy.

'And as to the stern old mother who thought her only son too
precious to be parted with at the first word--is nothing to be said
to her?'

'Oh, Lady Lufton!'

'No forgiveness to be spoken, no sign of affection to be given?  Is
she always to be regarded as stern and cross, vexatious and
disagreeable?' Lucy slowly turned round her head and looked up into
her companion's face.  Though she had as yet no voice to speak of
affection she could fill her eyes with love, and in that way make
to her future mother all the promises that were needed.  'Lucy,
dearest Lucy, you must be very dear to me now.'  And then they were
in each other's arms, kissing each other.  Lady Lufton now desired
her coachman to drive up and down for some little space along the
road while she completed her necessary conversation with Lucy.  She
wanted at first to carry her back to Framley that evening,
promising to send her again to Mrs Crawley on the following
morning--'till some permanent arrangement could be made,' by which
Lady Lufton intended the substitution of a regular nurse for her
future daughter-in-law, seeing that Lucy Robarts was now invested
in her eyes with attributes which made it unbecoming that she
should sit in attendance at Mrs Crawley's bedside.  But Lucy would
not go back to Framley on that evening; no, nor on the next
morning.  She would be so glad if Fanny would come to her there, and
then she would arrange about going home.  'But, Lucy, dear, what am
I to say to Ludovic?  Perhaps you would feel it awkward if he were
to come to see you here.'

'Oh, yes, Lady Lufton; pray tell him not to do that.'

'And is that all that I am to tell him?'

'Tell him--tell him--he won't want you to tell him anything;--only
I should like to be quiet for a day, Lady Lufton.'

'Well, dearest, you shall be quiet; the day after to-morrow
then.--Mind, we must not spare you any longer, because it will be
right that you should be at home now.  He would think it very hard
if you were to be so near, and he was not to be allowed to see
you.  And there will be some one else who will want to see you.  I
shall want to have you very near to me, for I shall be wretched,
Lucy, if I cannot teach you to love me.'  In answer to which Lucy
did find voice enough to make sundry promises.  And then she was
put out of the carriage at the little wicket gate, and Lady Lufton
was driven back to Framley. I wonder whether the servant when he held
the door for Miss Robarts was conscious that he was waiting on his
future mistress.  I fancy that he was, for these sort of people
always know everything, and the peculiar courtesy of his demeanour
as he let down the carriage was very observable.

Lucy felt almost beside herself as she returned upstairs, not
knowing what to do or how to look, and with what words to speak. It
behoved her to go at once to Mrs Crawley's room, and yet she longed
to be alone.  She knew that she was quite unable either to conceal
her thoughts or express them; nor did she at the present moment want
to talk to any one about her happiness,--seeing that she could not
at the present moment talk to Fanny Robarts.  She went, however,
without delay into Mrs Crawley's room, and with that little eager
way of speaking quickly which is so common with people who know
that they are confused, said that she feared she had been a very
long time away.  'And was it Lady Lufton?'

'Yes; it was Lady Lufton.'

'Why, Lucy; I did not know that you and her ladyship were such
friends.'

'She had something particular she wanted to say,' said Lucy,
avoiding the question, and avoiding also Mrs Crawley's eyes; and
then she sat down in her usual chair.

'It was nothing unpleasant, I hope.'

'No, nothing at all unpleasant; nothing of that kind.--Oh, Mrs
Crawley, I'll tell you some other time, but pray do not ask me
now.'  And then she got up and escaped, for it was absolutely
necessary that she should be alone.

When she reached her own room--that in which the children always
slept--she made a great effort to compose herself, but not
altogether successfully.  She got out her paper and blotting book,
intending, as she said to herself, to write to Fanny, knowing,
however, that the letter when written would be destroyed; but she
was not able even to form a word.  Her hand was unsteady and her
eyes were dim and her thoughts were incapable of being fixed.  She
could only sit, and think, and wonder and hope; occasionally wiping
the tears from her eyes, and asking herself why her present frame
of mind was so painful to her?  During the last two or three months
she had felt no fear of Lord Lufton, had always carried herself
before him on equal terms, and had been signally capable of doing
so when he made his declaration to her at the parsonage; but now
she looked forward with an undefined dread to the first moment in
which she should see him.  And then she thought of a certain
evening she had passed at Framley Court, and acknowledged to
herself that there was some pleasure in looking back to that.
Griselda Grantly had been there, and all the constitutional powers
of the two families had been at work to render easy a process of
love-making between her and Lord Lufton.  Lucy had seen and
understood it all, without knowing that she understood it, and had,
in a certain degree, suffered from beholding it.  She had placed
herself apart, not complaining--painfully conscious of some
inferiority, but, at the same time, almost boasting to herself that
in her own way she was the superior.  And then he had come behind
her chair, whispering to her, speaking to her his first words of
kindness and good-nature, and she had resolved that she would be
his friend--his friend, even though Griselda Grantly might be his
wife.  What those resolutions were worth had soon become manifest
to her.  She had soon confessed to herself the result of that
friendship, and had determined to bear the punishment with
courage.  But now--

She sate so for about an hour, and would fain have so sat out the
day.  But as this could not be, she got up, and having washed her
face and eyes returned to Mrs Crawley's room.  There she found Mr
Crawley also, to her great joy, for she knew that while he was
there no questions would be asked of her.  He was always very
gentle with her, treating her with an old-fashioned, polished
respect--except when compelled on that one occasion by his sense of
duty to accuse her of mendacity respecting the purveying of
victuals--, but he had never become absolutely familiar with her as
his wife had done; and it was well for her now that he had not done
so, for she could not have talked about Lady Lufton.  In the
evening, when the three were present, she did manage to say that
she expected Mrs Robarts would come over on the following day.  'We
shall part with you, Miss Robarts, with the deepest regret,' said
Mr Crawley; 'but we would not on any account keep you longer.  Mrs
Crawley can do without you now.  What she would have done, had you
not come, I am a loss to think.'

'I did not say that I should go,' said Lucy.

'But you will,' said Mr Crawley.  'Yes, dear you will.  I know that
it is proper now that you should return.  Nay, but we will not have
you any longer.  And the poor dear children, too,--they may
return.  How am I to thank Mrs Robarts for what she has done for
us?'  It was settled that if Mrs Robarts came on the following day
Lucy should go back to her; and then, during the long watches of
the night--for on this last night Lucy would not leave the bedside
of her new friend till long after the dawn had broken, she did tell
Mrs Crawley what was to be her destiny in life.  To herself there
seemed nothing strange in her new position; but to Mrs Crawley it
was wonderful that she--she, poor as she was,--should have an
embryo peeress at her bedside, handing her her cup to drink, and
smoothing her pillow that she might be at rest. It was strange, and
she could hardly maintain her accustomed familiarity.  Lucy felt
this at the moment.

'It must make no difference, you know,' said she, eagerly; 'none at
all between you and me.  Promise me that it will make no
difference.'  The promise was, of course, exacted; but it was not
possible that such a promise should be kept. Very early on the
following morning--so early that it woke her while still on her
first sleep--there came a letter for her from the parsonage.  Mrs
Robarts had written it, after her return home from Lady Lufton's
dinner.  The letter said:-

'MY OWN DEAR DARLING,
'How am I to congratulate you, and be eager
enough in wishing you joy?  I do wish you joy, and am
so very happy.  I write now chiefly to say that I
shall be over with you about twelve to-morrow, and
that I must bring you away with me.  If I did not some
one else, by no means so trustworthy, would insist on
doing it.'

But this, though it was thus stated to be the chief part of the
letter, and though it might be so in matter, was by no means so in
space.  It was very long, for Mrs Robarts had sat in writing it
till past midnight.  She went on to say, after two pages had been
filled with his name:-

'I will not say anything about him, but I must tell
you how beautifully she has behaved.  You will own
that she is a dear woman; will you not?'

Lucy had already owned it many times since the visit of yesterday,
and had declared to herself, as she has continued to declare ever
since, that she never doubted it.

'She took us by surprise when we got into the drawing-
room before dinner, and she told us first of all that
she had been to see you at Hogglestock.  Lord Lufton,
of course, could not keep the secret, but brought it
out instantly.  I can't tell you now how he told it
all, but I am sure you will believe that he did it in
the best possible manner.  He took my hand and pressed
it half a dozen times, and I thought he was going to
do something else; but he did not, so you need not be
jealous.  And she was so nice to Mark, saying such
things in praise of you, and paying all manner of
compliments to your father.  But Lord Lufton scolded
her immediately for not bringing you.  He said it was
lackadaisical and nonsensical; but I could see how
much he loved her for what she had done; and she could
see it too, for I know her ways, and know that she was
delighted with him.  She could not keep her eyes off
him all the evening, and certainly I never did see him
so well.

'And then while Lord Lufton and Mark were in the
dining-room, where they remained a terribly long time,
she would make me go through the house that she might
show me your rooms, and explain how you were to be the
mistress there.  She has got it all arranged to
perfection, and I am sure she has been thinking about
it for years.  Her great fear at present is that you
and he should go and live at Lufton.  If you have any
gratitude in you, either to her or to me, you will not
let him do this.  I consoled her by saying that there
are not two stones upon one another at Lufton as yet;
and I believe such is the case.  Besides, everybody
says that it is the ugliest spot in the world.  She
went on to declare, with tears in her eyes, that if
you were content to remain at Framley, she would never
interfere in anything.  I do think that she is the
best woman that ever lived.'

So much have I given of this letter formed but a small portion of
it, but it comprises all that it is necessary that we should know.
Exactly at twelve o'clock on that day Puck the pony appeared, with
Mrs Robarts and Grace Crawley behind him, Grace having been brought
back as being capable of some service in the house.  Nothing that
was confidential, and very little that was loving, could be said at
the moment, because Mr Crawley was there, waiting to bid Miss
Robarts adieu; and he had not as yet been informed of what was to
be the future fate of his visitor.  So they could only press each
other's hands and embrace, which to Lucy was almost a relief; for
even to her sister-in-law she hardly as yet knew how to speak
openly on this subject.

'May God Almighty bless you, Miss Robarts,' said Mr Crawley, as he
stood in his dingy sitting-room ready to lead her out to the
pony-carriage.  'You have brought sunshine into this house, even in
the time of sickness, when there was no sunshine; and He will bless
you.  You have been the Good Samaritan, binding up the wounds of
the afflicted, pouring in oil and balm.  To the mother of my
children you have given life, and to me you have brought light, and
comfort and good words,--making my spirit glad within me as it had
not been gladdened before.  All this hath come of charity, which
vaunteth not itself and is not puffed up.  Faith and hope are great
and beautiful, but charity exceedeth them all.'  And having so
spoken, instead of leading her he went away and hid himself.  How
Puck behaved himself as Fanny drove him back to Framley, and how
those two ladies in the carriage behaved themselves--of that,
perhaps, nothing need be said.



CHAPTER XLVII

NEMESIS

But in spite of these joyful tidings it must, alas! be remembered
that Poena, that just but Rhadamanthine goddess, whom moderns
ordinarily call Punishment, or Nemesis when we wish to speak of her
goddess-ship, very seldom fails to catch a wicked man though she
have sometimes a lame foot of her own, and though the wicked man
may possibly get a start of her.  In this instance the wicked man
had been our unfortunate Mark Robarts; wicked in that he had
unwittingly touched pitch, gone to Gatherum Castle, ridden fast
mares across the country to Cobbold's Ashes, and fallen very
imprudently among the Tozers; and the instrument used by Nemesis
was Mr Tom Towers of the Jupiter, than whom, in these our days,
there is no deadlier scourge in the hands of that goddess.  In the
first instance, however, I must mention, though I will not relate,
a little conversation that took place between Lady Lufton and Mr
Robarts.  That gentleman thought it right to say a few words more
to her ladyship respecting those money transactions.  He could not
but feel, he said, that he had received the prebendal stall from
the hands of Mr Sowerby; and under such circumstances, considering
all that had happened, he could not be easy in his mind as long as
he held it.  What he was about to do would, he was aware, delay
considerably his final settlement with Lord Lufton; but Lufton, he
hoped, would pardon that, and agree with him as to the propriety of
what he was about to do.

On the first blush of the thing Lady Lufton did not quite go along
with him.  Now that Lord Lufton was to marry the parson's sister it
might be well that the parson should be a dignitary of the Church;
and it might be well, also, that one so nearly connected with her
son should be comfortable in money matters.  There loomed, also, in
the future, some distant possibility of higher clerical honours for
a peer's brother-in-law; and the top rung of the ladder is always
more easily attained when a man has already ascended a step or
two.  But, nevertheless, when the matter came to be fully explained
to her, when she saw clearly the circumstances under which the
stall had been conferred, she did agree that it had better be given
up.  And well for both of them that it was--well for them all at
Framley--that this conclusion had been reached before the scourge
of Nemesis had fallen.  Nemesis, of course, declared that her
scourge had produced the resignation; but it was generally
understood that this was a false boast, for all clerical men at
Barchester knew that the stall had been restored to the chapter,
or, in other words, into the hands of the Government, before Tom
Towers had twirled the fatal lash above his head.  But the manner
of the twirling was as follows:-

'It is with difficulty enough,' said the article in the Jupiter,
'that the Church of England maintains at the present moment that
ascendancy among the religious sects of this country which it so
loudly claims.  And perhaps it is rather from an old-fashioned and
time-honoured affection for its standing than from any intrinsic
merits of its own that some such general acknowledgement of its
ascendancy is still allowed to prevail.  If, however, the patrons
and clerical members of this Church are bold enough to disregard
all general rules of decent behaviour, we think we may predict that
this chivalrous feeling will be found to give way.  From time to
time we hear of instances of such imprudence, and are made to
wonder at the folly of those who are supposed to hold the State
Church in the greatest reverence.

'Among those positions of dignified ease to which fortunate
clergymen may be promoted are the stalls of the canons or
prebendaries in our cathedrals.  Some of these, as is well known,
carry little or no emolument with them, but some are rich in the
good things of the world.  Excellent family houses are attached to
them, with we hardly know what domestic privileges, and clerical
incomes, moreover, of an amount which, if divided, would make glad
the hearts of many a hard-working clerical slave.  Reform has been
busy even among these stalls, attaching some amount of work to the
pay, and paring off some superfluous wealth from such of them as
were over full; but reform has been lenient with them,
acknowledging that it was well to have some such places of
comfortable and dignified retirement for those who have worn
themselves out in the hard work of their profession.  There has of
late prevailed a taste for the appointment of young bishops,
produced no doubt a feeling that bishops should be men fitted to
get through really hard work; but we have never heard that young
prebendaries were considered desirable.  A clergyman selected for
such a position should, we have always thought, have earned an
evening of ease by a long day of work, and should, above all
things, be one whose life has been, and therefore in human
probability will be, so decorous as to be honourable to the
cathedral of his adoption.

'We were, however, the other day given to understand that one of
these luxurious benefices belonging to the cathedral of Barchester,
had been bestowed in the Rev Mark Robarts, the vicar of a
neighbouring parish, on the understanding that he should hold the
living and the stall together; and on making further inquiry we
were surprised to learn that this fortunate gentleman is as yet
under thirty years of age.  We were desirous, however of believing
that his learning, his piety, and his conduct, might be of a nature
to add peculiar grace to his chapter, and therefore, though almost
unwillingly, we were silent.  But now it has come to our ears, and,
indeed, to the ears of all the world, that this piety and conduct
are sadly wanting; and judging of Mr Robarts by his life and
associates, we are inclined to doubt even his learning.  He has at
this moment, or at any rate had but a few days since, an execution
in his parsonage house at Framley, on the suit of certain most
disreputable bill discounters in London; and probably would have
another execution in his other house in Barchester close, but for
the fact that he has never thought it necessary to go into
residence.'

Then followed some very stringent, and, no doubt, much-needed
advice to those clerical members of the Church of England who are
supposed to be mainly responsible for the conduct of their
brethren; and the article ended as follows:-

'Many of these stalls are in the gift of the respective deans and
chapters, and in such cases the dean and chapters are bound to see
that proper persons are appointed; but in other instances the power
of selection is vested in the Crown, and then an equal
responsibility rests on the Government of the day.  Mr Robarts, we
learn, was appointed to the stall in Barchester by the late Prime
Minister, and we really think that a grave censure rests on him for
the manner in which his patronage has been exercised.  It may be
impossible that he should himself in all such cases satisfy himself
by personal inquiry.  But our Government is altogether conducted on
the footing of vicarial responsibility.  Quod facit per alium,
facit per se, is a special manner true of our ministers, and any
man who rises to high position among them must abide by the danger
thereby incurred.  In this peculiar case we are informed that the
recommendation was made by a very recently admitted member of the
Cabinet, to whose appointment we alluded at the time as a great
mistake.  The gentleman in question held no high individual office
of his own; but evil such as this which has now been done at
Barchester, is exactly the sort of mischief which follows the
exaltation of unfit men to high positions, even though no great
hope of executive failure may be placed within their reach.

'If Mr Robarts will allow us to tender to him our advice he will
lose no time in going through such ceremony as may be necessary
again to place the stall at the disposal of the Crown!'

I may observe that poor Harold Smith, when he read this, writhing
in agony, declared it to be the handiwork of his hated enemy, Mr
Supplehouse.  He knew the mark; so, at least, he said; but I myself
am inclined to believe that his animosity misled him.  I think that
one greater than Mr Supplehouse had taken upon himself the
punishment of our poor vicar.  This was very dreadful to them all
at Framley, and, when first read, seemed to crush them to atoms.
Poor Mrs Robarts, when she heard it, seemed to think that for them
the world was over.  An attempt had been made to keep it from her,
but such attempts always fail, as did this.  The article was copied
into all the good-natured local newspapers and she soon discovered
that something was being hidden.  At last it was shown to her by
her husband, and then for a few hours she was annihilated; for a
few days she was unwilling to show herself; and for a few weeks she
was very sad.  But after that the world seemed to go on much as it
had done before; the sun shone upon them as warmly as though the
article had not been written; and not only the sun of heaven,
which, as a rule, is not limited in his shining in any display of
pagan thunder, but also the genial sun of their own sphere, the
warmth and light of which were so essentially necessary to their
happiness.  Neighbouring rectors did not look glum, nor did the
rectors' wives refuse to call.  The people in the shops at
Barchester did not regard her as though she were a disgraced woman,
though it must be acknowledged that Mrs Proudie passed her in the
close with the coldest nod of recognition.

On Mrs Proudie's mind alone did the article seem to have any
enduring effect.  In one respect it was, perhaps, beneficial; Lady
Lufton was at once induced by it to make common cause with her own
clergyman, and thus the remembrance of Mr Robarts's sins passed
away the quicker from the minds of the whole Framley Court
household.  And, indeed, the county at large was not able to give
to the matter that undivided attention which would have been
considered its due at periods of no more than ordinary interest.
At the present moment preparations were being made for a general
election, and although no contest was to take place in the eastern
division, a very violent fight was being carried on in the west;
and the circumstances of that fight were so exciting that Mr
Robarts and his article were forgotten before their time.  An edict
had gone forth from Gatherum Castle directing that Mr Sowerby
should be turned out, and an answering note of defiance had been
sounded from Chaldicotes, protesting on behalf of Mr Sowerby, that
the duke's behest would not be obeyed.

There are two classes of persons in this realm who are
constitutionally inefficient to take any part in returning members
of Parliament--peers, namely and women; and yet it was soon known
through the whole length and breadth of the county that the present
electioneering fight was being carried on between a peer and a
woman.  Miss Dunstable had been declared the purchaser of the Chace
of Chaldicotes, as it were, just in the very nick of time; which
purchase--so men in Barsetshire declared, not knowing anything of
the facts,--would have gone altogether the other way, had not the
giants obtained temporary supremacy over the gods.  The duke was a
supporter of the gods, and therefore, so Mr Fothergill hinted, his
money had been refused.  Miss Dunstable was prepared to beard this
ducal friend of the gods in his own county, and therefore her money
had been taken.  I am inclined, however, to think that Mr
Fothergill knew nothing about it, and to opine that Miss Dunstable,
in her eagerness for victory, offered to the Crown more money than
the property was worth in the duke's opinion, and that the Crown
took advantage of her anxiety, to the manifest profit of the public
at large.  And it soon became known also that Miss Dunstable was,
in fact, the proprietor of the whole Chaldicotes estate, and that
in promoting the success of Mr Sowerby as a candidate for the
county, she was standing by her own tenant.  It also became known,
in the course of the battle, that Miss Dunstable had herself at
last succumbed, and that she was about to marry Dr Thorne of
Greshambury, or the "Greshambury apothecary", as the adverse party
now delighted to call him.  'He has been little better than a quack
all his life,' said Dr Fillgrave, the eminent physician of
Barchester, 'and now he is going to marry a quack's daughter.'  By
which, and the like to which, Dr Thorne did not allow himself to be
much annoyed.  But all this gave rise to a very petty series of
squibs arranged between Mr Fothergill and Mr Closerstill, the
electioneering agent.  Mr Sowerby was named 'the lady's pet', and
descriptions were given of the lady who kept this pet, which were
by no means flattering to Miss Dunstable's appearance, or manners,
or age.  And then the western division of the county was asked in a
grave tone--as counties and boroughs are asked by means of
advertisements stuck up on blind walls and barn doors--whether it
was fitting and proper that it should be represented by a woman.
Upon which the county was again asked whether it was fitting and
proper that it should be represented by a duke.  And then the
question became more personal as against Miss Dunstable, and
inquiry was urged whether the county would not be indelibly
disgraced if it were not only handed over to a woman, but handed
over to a woman who sold the oil of Lebanon.  But little was got by
this move, for an answering placard explained to the unfortunate
county how deep would be its shame, if it allowed itself to became
the appanage of any peer, but more especially of a peer who was
known to be the most immoral lord that ever disgraced the benches
of the Upper House.  And so the battle went on very prettily, and,
as money was allowed to flow freely, the West Barsetshire world at
large was not ill satisfied.  It is wonderful how much disgrace of
that kind a borough or county can endure without flinching; and
wonderful, also, seeing how supreme is the value attached to the
Constitution by the realm at large, how very little the principles
of that Constitution are valued by the people in detail.  The duke,
of course, did not show himself.  He rarely did on any occasion,
and never on such occasions as this; but Mr Fothergill was to be
seen everywhere.  Miss Dunstable, also, did not hide her light
under a bushel; though here I declare, on the faith of an
historian, that the rumour spread abroad of her having made a
speech to the electors from the top of the porch over the
hotel-door at Courcy was not founded on fact.  No doubt she was at
Courcy, and her carriage stopped at the hotel; but neither there
nor elsewhere did she make any public exhibition.  'They must have
mistaken me for Mrs Proudie,' she said, when the rumour reached her
ears.  But there was, alas! one great element of failure on Miss
Dunstable's side of the battle.  Mr Sowerby himself could not be
induced to fight it as became a man. Any positive injunctions that
were laid upon him he did, in a sort, obey.  It had been a part of
the bargain that he should stand the contest, and from that bargain
he could not well go back.  But he had not the spirit left to him
for any true fighting on his own part.  He could not go up on the
hustings, and there defy the duke.  Early in the affair Mr
Fothergill challenged him to do so, and Mr Sowerby never took up
the gauntlet.

'We have heard,' said Mr Fothergill, in that great speech which he
made at the Omnium arms at Silverbridge--'we have heard much during
this election of the Duke of Omnium, of the injuries which he is
supposed to have inflicted on one of the candidates.  The duke's
name is very frequent in the mouths of the gentlemen--and of the
lady--who support Mr Sowerby's claims.  But I do not think that Mr
Sowerby himself has dared to say much about the duke.  I defy Mr
Sowerby to mention the duke's name upon the hustings.'  And it so
happened that Mr Sowerby never did mention the duke's name.

It is ill fighting when the spirit it gone, and Mr Sowerby's spirit
for such things was not wellnigh broken.  It is true that he had
escaped from the net in which the duke, by Mr Fothergill's aid, had
entangled him; but he had only broken out of one captivity into
another.  Money is a serious thing; and when gone cannot be had
back by a shuffle in the game, or a fortunate blow with the
battledore, as may political power, or reputation, or fashion.  One
hundred thousand pounds gone, must remain as gone, let the person
who claims to have had the honour of advancing it be Mrs B or my
Lord C. No lucky dodge can erase such a claim from the things that
be--unless, indeed, such dodge be possible as Mr Sowerby tried
with Miss Dunstable.  It was better for him, undoubtedly, to have
the lady for a creditor than the duke, seeing that it was possible
for him to live as a tenant in his own old house under the lady's
reign.  But this he found to be a sad enough life, after all that
was come and gone.

The election on Miss Dunstable's part was lost.  She carried on the
contest nobly, fighting it to the last moment, and sparing neither
her own money nor that of her antagonist; but she carried it on
unsuccessfully.  Many gentlemen did support Mr Sowerby because they
were willing enough to emancipate their county from the duke's
thraldom; but Mr Sowerby was felt to be a black sheep, as Lady
Lufton had called him, and at the close of the election he found
himself banished from the representation of West Barsetshire;
--banished for ever, after having held the county for
five-and-twenty years.  Unfortunate Mr Sowerby!  I cannot take leave
of him here without some feeling of regret, knowing that there was
that within him which might, under better guidance, have produced
better things.  There are men, even of high birth, who seem as
though they were born to be rogues; but Mr Sowerby was, to my
thinking, born to be a gentleman.  That he had not been a
gentleman--that he had bolted from his appointed course, going
terribly on the wrong side of the posts--let us all acknowledge.
It is not a gentlemanlike deed, but a very blackguard action, to
obtain a friend's acceptance to a bill in an unguarded hour of
social intercourse.  That and other similar doings have stamped his
character too plainly.  But, nevertheless, I claim a tear of Mr
Sowerby, and lament that he has failed to run his race discreetly,
in accordance with the rules of the Jockey Club.  He attempted that
plan of living as a tenant in his old house at Chaldicotes, and of
making a living out of the land which he farmed; but he soon
abandoned it.  He had no aptitude for such industry, and he could
not endure his altered position in the county.  He soon
relinquished Chaldicotes of his own accord, and has vanished away,
as such men do vanish--not altogether without necessary income; to
which point in the final arrangement of their joint affairs, Mrs
Thorne's man of business--if I may be allowed so far to
anticipate--paid special attention.  And thus Lord Dumbello, the
duke's nominee, got in, as the duke's nominee had done for very
many years past.  There was no Nemesis here--none as yet.
Nevertheless, she with the lame foot will assuredly catch him, the
duke, if it be that he deserve to be caught.  With us his grace's
appearance has been so unfrequent that I think we may omit to make
any further inquiry as to his concerns.

One point, however, is worthy of notice, as showing the good sense
with which we manage our affairs here in England.  In an early
portion of this story the reader was introduced to the interior of
Gatherum Castle, and there saw Miss Dunstable entertained by the
duke in the most friendly manner.  Since those days the lady has
become the duke's neighbour, and has waged a war with him, which he
probably felt to be very vexatious.  But, nevertheless, on the next
great occasion at Gatherum Castle, Doctor and Mrs Thorne were among
the visitors, and to no one was the duke more personally courteous
than to his opulent neighbour, the late Miss Dunstable.



CHAPTER XLVIII

HOW THEY WERE ALL MARRIED, HAD TWO CHILDREN, AND LIVED HAPPY EVER
AFTER

Dear affectionate, sympathetic readers, we have four couple of
sighing lovers with whom to deal in this our last chapter, and I,
as leader of the chorus, disdain to press you further with doubts
as to the happiness of any of that quadrille.  They were all made
happy, in spite of that little episode which so lately took place
at Barchester; and in telling of their happiness--shortly, as is
now necessary--we will take them chronologically, giving precedence
to those who first appeared at the hymeneal altar.  In July, then,
at the cathedral, by the father of the bride, assisted by his
examining chaplain, Olivia Proudie, the eldest daughter of the
Bishop of Barchester, was joined in marriage to the Rev Tobias
Tickler, incumbent of the Trinity district church in Bethnal
Green.  Of the bridegroom in this instance, our acquaintance has
been so short, that it is not, perhaps, necessary to say much.  When
coming to the wedding he proposed to bring his three darling
children with him; but in this measure he was, I think prudently,
stopped by the advice, rather strongly worded, from his future
valued mother-in-law.  Mr Tickler was not an opulent man, nor had
he hitherto attained any great fame in his profession; but, at the
age of forty-three he still had sufficient opportunity before him,
and now that his merit has been properly viewed by high
ecclesiastical eyes the refreshing dew of deserved promotion will
no doubt fall upon him.  The marriage was very smart, and Olivia
carried herself through the trying ordeal with an excellent
propriety of conduct.  Up to that time, and even for a few days
longer, there was doubt at Barchester as to that strange journey
which Lord Dumbello did take to France.  When a man so
circumstanced will suddenly go to Paris, without notice given even
to his future bride, people must doubt; and grave were the
apprehensions expressed on this occasion by Mrs Proudie, even at
her child's wedding breakfast.  'God bless you, my dear children,'
she said, standing up at the head of her table as she addressed Mr
Tickler and his wife; 'when I see your perfect happiness--perfect,
that is, as far a human happiness can be made perfect in this vale
of tears--and think of the terrible calamity which has fallen on
our unfortunate neighbours, I cannot but acknowledge His infinite
mercy and goodness.  The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.'  By
which she intended, no doubt, to signify that whereas Mr Tickler
had been given to her Olivia, Lord Dumbello had been taken away
from the archdeacon's Griselda.  The happy couple then went in Mrs
Proudie's carriage to the nearest railway station but one, and from
thence proceeded to Malvern, and there spent their honeymoon.  And a
great comfort it was, I am sure, to Mrs Proudie when authenticated
tidings reached Barchester that Lord Dumbello had returned from
Paris and that the Hartletop-Grantly alliance was to be carried to
its completion.  She still, however, held her opinion--whether
correctly or not who shall say?--that the young lord had intended
to escape.  'The archdeacon has shown great firmness in the way in
which he has done it,' said Mrs Proudie; 'but whether he has
consulted the child's best interests in forcing her into a marriage
with an unwilling husband, I for one must take leave to doubt.  But
then, unfortunately, we all know how completely the archdeacon is
devoted to worldly matters.'

In this instance the archdeacon's devotion to worldly matters was
rewarded by that success which he no doubt desired.  He did go up
to London, and did see one or two of Lord Dumbello's friends.  This
he did, not obtrusively, as though in fear of any falsehood or
vacillation on the part of the viscount, but with that discretion
and tact for which he has been so long noted.  Mrs Proudie declares
that during the few days of his absence from Barsetshire he himself
crossed to France and hunted down Lord Dumbello at Paris.  As to
this I am not prepared to say anything; but I am quite sure, as
will be all those who knew the archdeacon, that he was not a man to
see his daughter wronged as long as any measure remained by which
such wrong might be avoided.  But, be that as it may--that mooted
question as to the archdeacon's journey to Paris--Lord Dumbello was
forthcoming at Plumstead on the 5th August, and went through his
work like a man.  The Hartletop family, when the alliance was found
to be inevitable, endeavoured to arrange that the wedding should be
held at Hartletop Priory, in order that the clerical dust and
dinginess of Barchester Close might not soil the splendour of the
marriage gala doings; for, to tell the truth, the Hartletopians, as
a rule, were not proud of their new clerical connexions.  But on
this subject Mrs Grantly was very properly inexorable; nor when an
attempt was made on the bride to induce her to throw over her mamma
at the last moment and pronounce for herself that she would be
married at the priory, was it attended with any success.  The
Hartletops knew nothing of the Grantly fibre and calibre, or they
would have made no such attempt.  The marriage took place at
Plumstead, and on the morning of the day Lord Dumbello posted over
from Barchester to the rectory.  The ceremony was performed by the
archdeacon, without assistance, although the dean, and the
precentor, and two other clergymen, were at the ceremony.
Griselda's propriety of conduct was quite equal to that of Olivia
Proudie; indeed, nothing could exceed the statuesque grace and fine
aristocratic bearing with which she carried herself on the
occasion.  The three or four words which the service required of
her she said with ease and dignity; there was neither sobbing nor
crying to disturb the work or embarrass her friends, and she signed
her name in the church books as "Griselda Grantly" without a
tremor--and without a regret.

Mrs Grantly kissed her and blessed her in the halls as she was
about to step forward to her travelling carriage leaning on her
father's arm, and the child put up her face to her mother for a
last whisper.  'Mamma,' she said, 'I suppose Jane can put out her
hand at once on the moire antique when we reach Dover?'  Mrs
Grantly smiled and nodded, and again blessed the child.  There was
not a tear shed--at least, not then--nor a sign of sorrow to cloud
for a moment the gay splendour of the day.  But the mother did
bethink herself, in the solitude of her own room, of those last
words, and did acknowledge a lack of something for which her heart
had sighed.  She had boasted to her sister that she had nothing to
regret as to her daughter's education; but now, when she was alone
after her success, did she feel that she could still support
herself with that boast?  For, be it known, Mrs Grantly had a heart
within her bosom and a faith within her heart.  The world, it is
true, had pressed upon her sorely with all its weight of
accumulated clerical wealth, but it had not utterly crushed
her--not her, but only her child.  For the sins of the father, are
they not visited on the third and fourth generation?  But if any
such feeling of remorse did for awhile mar the fullness of Mrs
Grantly's joy, it was soon dispelled by the perfect success of her
daughter's married life.  At the end of the autumn the bride and
bridegroom returned from their tour, and it was evident to all the
circle at Hartletop Priory that Lord Dumbello was by no means
dissatisfied with his bargain.  His wife had been admired
everywhere to the top of his bent.  All the world at Ems, and
Baden, and at Nice, had been stricken by the stately beauty of the
young countess.  And then, too, her manner, style, and high dignity
of demeanour altogether supported the reverential feeling which her
grace and form first inspired.  She never derogated from her
husband's honour by the fictitious liveliness of gossip, or allowed
any one to forget the peeress in the woman.  Lord Dumbello soon
found that his reputation for discretion was quite safe in her
hands, and that there were no lessons as to conduct in which it was
necessary that he should give instruction.  Before the winter was
over she had equally won the hearts of all the circle at Hartletop
Priory.  The duke was there and declared to the marchioness that
Dumbello could not possibly have done better.  'Indeed, I do think
he could,' said the happy mother.  'She sees all that she ought to
see, and nothing that she ought not.'

And then, in London, when the season came, all men sang all manner
of praises in her favour and Lord Dumbello was made aware that he
was reckoned among the wisest of his age.  He was married a wife
who managed everything for him, who never troubled him, whom no
woman disliked, and whom every man admired.  As for feast of
reason and for flow of soul, is not a question whether any such
flows and feasts are necessary between a man and his wife?  How
many men can truly assert that they ever enjoy connubial flows of
soul, or that connubial feasts of reason are in their nature
enjoyable?  But a handsome woman at the head of your table, who
knows how to dress, and how to sit, and how to get in and out of
her carriage--who will not disgrace her lord by her ignorance, or
fret him by her coquetry, or disparage him by her talent--how
beautiful a thing it is!  For my own part I think that Griselda
Grantly was born to be the wife of a great English peer.

'After all, then,' said Miss Dunstable, speaking of Lady
Dumbello--she was Mrs Thorne at this time--' after all, there is
some truth in what our quaint latter-day philosophers tell
us--"Great are thy powers, O Silence!"' The marriage of our
friends, Dr Thorne and Miss Dunstable, was the third on the list,
but that did not take place till the end of September.  The lawyers
on such an occasion had no inconsiderable work to accomplish, and
though the lady was not coy, nor the gentleman slow, it was not
found practicable to arrange an earlier wedding.  The ceremony was
performed at St George's, Hanover Square, and was not brilliant in
any special degree.  London at the time was empty, and the few
persons whose presence was actually necessary were imported from
the country for the occasion.  The bride was given away by Dr
Easyman, and the two bridesmaids were ladies who had lived with
Miss Dunstable as companions.  Young Mr Gresham and his wife were
there, as was also Mrs Harold Smith, who was not at all prepared to
drop her own friend in her new sphere of life.  'We shall call her
Mrs Thorne instead of Miss Dunstable, and I really think that will
be all the difference,' said Mrs Harold Smith.  To Mrs Harold Smith
that probably was all the difference, but it was not so to the
persons most concerned.

According to the plan of life arranged between the doctor and his
wife she was still to keep up her house in London, remaining there
during such period of the season as she might choose, and receiving
him when it might appear good to him to visit her; but he was to be
the master in the country.  A mansion at the Chace was to be built,
and till such time as that was completed, they would keep the old
house at Greshambury.  Into this, small as it was, Mrs Thorne,--in
spite of her great wealth,--did not disdain to enter.  But
subsequent circumstances changed their plans.  It was found that Mr
Sowerby could not or would not live at Chaldicotes; and, therefore,
in the second year of their marriage, that place was prepared for
them.  They are now well known to the whole county as Dr and Mrs
Thorne of Chaldicotes,--of Chaldicotes, in distinction to the
well-known Thornes of Ullathorne in the eastern division.  Here
they live respected by their neighbours, and on terms of alliance
both with the Duke of Omnium and with Lady Lufton.  'Of course
those dear old avenues will be very sad to me,' said Mrs Harold
Smith, when at the end of a London season she was invited down to
Chaldicotes; and as she spoke she put her handkerchief up to her
eyes.

'Well, dear, what can I do?' said Mrs Thorne.  'I can't cut them
down; the doctor would not let me.'

'Oh, no,' said Mrs Harold Smith, sighing; and in spite of her
feeling she did visit Chaldicotes.

But it was October before Lord Lufton was made a happy man;--that
is, if the fruition of his happiness was a greater joy than the
anticipation of it.  I will not say that the happiness of marriage
is like the Dead Sea fruit--an apple which, when eaten, turns to
bitter ashes in the mouth.  Such pretended sarcasm would be very
false.  Nevertheless, is it not a fact that the sweetest morsel of
love's feast has been eaten, that the freshest, fairest blush of
the flower has been snatched and has passed away, when the ceremony
at the altar has been performed, and legal possession has been
given?  There is an aroma of love, an undefinable delicacy of
flavour, which escapes and is gone before the church portal is
left, vanishing with the maiden name, and incompatible with the
solid comfort appertaining to the rank of wife.  To love one's own
spouse, and to be loved by her, is the ordinary lot of man, and is
a duty exacted under penalties.  But to be allowed to love youth and
beauty that is not one's own--to know that one is loved by a soft
being who still hangs cowering from the eye of the world as though
her love were all but illicit--can it be that a man is made happy
when a state of anticipation such as this is brought to a close?
No; when the husband walks back from the altar, he has already
swallowed the choicest dainties of his banquet.  The beef and pudding
of married life are then in store for him;--or perhaps only the
bread of cheese.  Let him take care lest hardly a crust remain--or
perhaps not a crust.  But before we finish, let us go back for one
moment to the dainties--to the time before the beef and
pudding were served--while Lucy was still at the parsonage, and
Lord Lufton still staying at Framley Court.  He had come up one
morning, as was now frequently his wont, and, after a few minutes'
conversation, Mrs Robarts had left the room--as not unfrequently on
such occasions was her wont.  Lucy was working and continued her
work, and Lord Lufton for a moment or two sat looking at her; then
he got up abruptly, and, standing before her, thus questioned her:-

'Lucy,' said he.

'Well, what of Lucy now?  Any particular fault this morning?'

'Yes, a most particular fault.  When I asked you, here, in this
room, on this very spot, whether it was possible that you should
love me--why did you say that it was impossible?'

Lucy, instead of answering at the moment, looked down upon the
carpet, to see if his memory was as good as hers.  Yes; he was
standing on the exact spot where he had stood before.  No spot in
all the world was more frequently clear before her eyes.

'Do you remember that day, Lucy?' he said again.

'Yes, I remember it,' she said.

'Why did you say it was impossible?'

'Did I say impossible?'  She knew that she had said so.  She
remembered how she had waited till he had gone, and that then,
going to her own room, she had reproached herself with the
cowardice of the falsehood.  She had lied to him then; and now--how
was she punished for it?

'Well, I suppose it was possible,' she said.

'But why did you say so when you knew it would make me so
miserable?'

'Miserable! nay, but you went away happy enough!  I thought I had
never seen you look better satisfied.'

'Lucy!'

'You had done your duty, and had had such a lucky escape!  What
astonishes me is that you should have ever come back again.  But
the pitcher may go to the well once too often, Lord Lufton.'

'But will you tell me the truth now?'

'What truth?'

'That day, when I came to you--did you love me at all then?'

'We'll let bygones be bygones, if you please.'

'But I swear you shall tell me.  It was such a cruel thing to
answer me as you did, unless you meant it.  And yet you never saw
me again till after my mother had been over for you to Mrs
Crawley's.'

'It was absence that made me--care for you.'

'Lucy, I swear I believe you loved me then.'

'Ludovic, some conjurer must have told you that.'  She was standing
as she spoke, and, laughing at him, she held up her hands and shook
her head.  But she was now in his power, and he had his
revenge--his revenge for her past falsehood and her present joke.
How could he be more happy when he was made happy by having all his
own, than he was now?   And in these days there again came up that
petition as to her riding--with very different result now than on
that former occasion.  There were so many objections, then.  There
was no habit, and Lucy was--or said she was--afraid; and then, what
would Lady Lufton say?  But now Lady Lufton thought it would be
quite right; only were they quite sure about the horse?  Was
Ludovic certain that the horse had been ridden by a lady?  And Lady
Meredith's habits were dragged out as a matter of course, and one
of them chipped and snipped and altered, without any compunction.
And as for fear, there could be no bolder horsewoman than Lucy
Robarts.  It was quite clear to all Framley that riding was the
very thing for her.  'But I never shall be happy, Ludovic, till you
have got a horse properly suited for her,' said Lady Lufton.  And
then, also, came the affair of her wedding garments, of her
trousseau--as to which I cannot boast that she showed capacity or
steadiness at all equal to that of Lady Dumbello.  Lady Lufton, however,
thought it a very serious matter; and as, in her opinion, Mrs
Robarts did not go about it with sufficient energy, she took the
matter mainly into her own hands, striking Lucy dumb by her frowns
and nods, deciding on everything herself, down to the very tags of
the boot-ties.

'My dear, you really must allow me to know what I am about;' and
Lady Lufton patted her on the arm as she spoke.  'I did it all for
Justinia, and she never had reason to regret a single thing that I
bought.  If you'll ask her, she'll tell you so.'  Lucy did not ask
her future sister-in-law, seeing that she had no doubt whatever as
to her future mother-in-law's judgement on the articles in
question.  Only the money!  And what could she want with six dozen
pocket-handkerchiefs all at once?  There was no question of Lord
Lufton's going out as Governor-General to India!  But twelve dozen
pocket-handkerchiefs had not been too many for Griselda's
imagination.  And Lucy would sit alone in the drawing-room at
Framley Court, filling her heart with thoughts of that evening when
she had first sat there.  She had then resolved, painfully, with
inward tears, with groanings of her spirit, that she was wrongly
placed in being in that company.  Griselda Grantly had been there,
quite at her ease, petted by Lady Lufton, admired by Lord Lufton;
while she had retired out of sight, sore at heart, because she felt
herself to be no fit companion to those around her.  Then he had
come to her, making matters almost worst by talking to her,
bringing the tears into her eyes by his good-nature, but still
wounding her by the feeling that she could not speak to him at her
ease.  But things were at a different pass with her now.  He had
chosen her--her out of all the world, and brought her there to
share with him his own home, his own honours, and all that he had
to give.  She was the apple of his eye, and the pride of his
heart.  And the stern mother, of whom she had stood in so much awe,
who at first had passed her by as a thing not to be noticed, and
had then sent out to her that she might be warned to keep herself
aloof, now hardly knew in what way she might sufficiently show her
love, regard and solicitude.

I must not say that Lucy was not proud in these moments--that her
heart was not elated at these thoughts.  Success does beget pride,
as failure begets shame.  But her pride was of that sort which is
no way disgraceful to either man or woman, and was accompanied by
pure true love, and a full resolution to do her duty in that state
of life to which it had pleased her God to call her.  She did
rejoice greatly to think that she had been chosen, and not
Griselda.  Was it possible that having loved she should not so
rejoice, or that, rejoicing, she should not be proud of her love?
They spent the whole winter abroad, leaving the dowager Lady Lufton
to her plans and preparations for their reception at Framley Court;
and in the following spring they appeared in London, and there set
up their staff.  Lucy had some tremblings of the spirit, and
quiverings about the heart, at thus beginning her duty before the
great world, but she said little or nothing to her husband on the
matter.  Other women had done as much before her time, and by
courage had gone through with it.  It would be dreadful enough,
that position in her own house with lords and ladies bowing to her,
and stiff members of Parliament for whom it would be necessary to
make small talk; but, nevertheless, it was to be endured.  The time
came, and she did endure it.  The time came, and before the first
six weeks were over she found that it was easy enough.  The lords
and ladies got into their proper places and talked to her about
ordinary matters in a way that made no effort necessary, and the
members of Parliament were hardly more stiff than the clergymen she
had known in the neighbourhood of Framley.  She had not been long
in town before she met Lady Dumbello.  At this interview also she
had to overcome some little inward emotion.  On the few occasions
on which she had met Griselda Grantly at Framley they had not much
progressed in friendship, and Lucy had felt that she had been
despised by the rich beauty.  She also in her turn had disliked, if
she had not despised, her rival.  But how would it be now?  Lady
Dumbello could hardly despise her, and yet it did not seem possible
that they should meet as friends.  They did meet, and Lucy came
forward with a pretty eagerness to give her hand to Lady Lufton's
late favourite.  Lady Dumbello smiled slightly--the same smile
which had come across her face when they two had been first
introduced in the Framley drawing-room; the same smile without the
variation of a line,--took the offered hand, muttered a word or
two, and then receded.  It was exactly as she had done before.  She
had never despised Lucy Robarts.  She had accorded to the parson's
sister the amount of cordiality with which she usually received her
acquaintance; and now she could do no more for the peer's wife.
Lady Dumbello and Lady Lufton have known each other ever since, and
have occasionally visited each other's houses, but the intimacy
between them has never gone beyond this.

The dowager came up to town for about a month, and while there
contented to fill a second place.  She had no desire to be the
great lady in London.  But then came the trying period when they
commenced their life together at Framley Court.  The elder lady
formally renounced her place at the top of the table--formally
persisted in renouncing it though Lucy with tears implored her to
resume it.  She said also, with equal formality--repeating her
determination over and over again to Mrs Robarts with great
energy,--that she would in no respect detract by interference of
her own from the authority of the proper mistress of the house;
but, nevertheless, it is well known to every one at Framley that
old Lady Lufton still reigns paramount in the parish.

'Yes, my dear; the big room looking into the little garden to the
south was always the nursery; and if you ask my advice, it will
remain so.  But, of course, any room you please--'

And the big room looking into the little garden to the south is
still the nursery at Framley Court.





End of Project Gutenberg's Etext Framley Parsonage, by Anthony Trollope