‘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 tomorrow. 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 37 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 38 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 39 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 today, of course?’
‘Not today, squire.’
‘Nonsense; you will. I have been quite counting on you. I have a particular reason for wanting to have you today — a most particular reason.’ But the squire always had his particular reasons.
‘I’m very sorry, but it is impossible today. 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 do 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 40 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-inlaw 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-inlaw 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 them 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-inlaw 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 41 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 tomorrow. Would you both come and dine tomorrow?’
‘Not tomorrow, 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-inlaw?’
‘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-inlaw 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-inlaw 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 42 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.’

返回书籍页