“He especially begs me to tell you.
“Why, yes; he could not very well have kept me in the dark in such a matter. He could not neglect his own work, and go and live with gamblers and adulterers at the Duke of Omnium’s without my knowing it.”
And now Fanny Robarts’s cup was full, full to the overflowing. When she heard these words she forgot all about Lady Lufton, all about Lady Meredith, and remembered only her husband—that he was her husband, and, in spite of his faults, a good and loving husband—and that other fact also she remembered, that she was his wife.
“Lady Lufton,” she said, “you forget yourself in speaking in that way of my husband.”
“What!” said her ladyship; “you are to show me such a letter as that, and I am not to tell you what I think?”
“Not if you think such hard things as that. Even you are not justified in speaking to me in that way, and I will not hear it.”
“Heighty-tighty!” said her ladyship.
“Whether or no he is right in going to the Duke of Omnium’s, I will not pretend to judge. He is the judge of his own actions, and neither you nor I.”
“And when he leaves you with the butcher’s bill unpaid and no money to buy shoes for the children, who will be the judge then?”
“Not you, Lady Lufton. If such bad days should ever come—and neither you nor I have a right to expect them—I will not come to you in my troubles; not after this.”
“Very well, my dear. You may go to the Duke of Omnium if that suits you better.”
“Fanny, come away,” said Lady Meredith. “Why should you try to anger my mother?”
“I don’t want to anger her; but I won’t hear him abused in that way without speaking up for him. If I don’t defend him, who will? Lady Lufton has said terrible things about him; and they are not true.”
“Oh, Fanny!” said Justinia.
“Very well, very well!” said Lady Lufton. “This is the sort of return that one gets.”
“I don’t know what you mean by return, Lady Lufton: but would you wish me to stand by quietly and hear such things said of my husband? He does not live with such people as you have named. He does not neglect his duties. If every clergyman were as much in his parish, it would be well for some of them. And in going to such a house as the Duke of Omnium’s it does make a difference that he goes there in company with the bishop. I can’t explain why, but I know that it does.”
“Especially when the bishop is coupled up with the devil, as Mr. Robarts has done,” said Lady Lufton; “he can join the duke with them and then they’ll stand for the three Graces, won’t they, Justinia?” And Lady Lufton laughed a bitter little laugh at her own wit.
“I suppose I may go now, Lady Lufton.”
“Oh, yes, certainly, my dear.”
“I am sorry if I have made you angry with me; but I will not allow anyone to speak against Mr. Robarts without answering them. You have been very unjust to him; and even though I do anger you, I must say so.”
“Come, Fanny; this is too bad,” said Lady Lufton. “You have been scolding me for the last half-hour because I would not congratulate you on this new friend that your husband has made, and now you are going to begin it all over again. That is more than I can stand. If you have nothing else particular to say, you might as well leave me.” And Lady Lufton’s face as she spoke was unbending, severe, and harsh.
Mrs. Robarts had never before been so spoken to by her old friend; indeed, she had never been so spoken to by any one, and she hardly knew how to bear herself.
“Very well, Lady Lufton,” she said; “then I will go. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” said Lady Lufton, and turning herself to her table she began to arrange her papers. Fanny had never before left Framley Court to go back to her own parsonage without a warm embrace. Now she was to do so without even having her hand taken. Had it come to this, that there was absolutely to be a quarrel between them—a quarrel for ever?
“Fanny is going, you know, mamma,” said Lady Meredith. “She will be home before you are down again.”
“I cannot help it, my dear. Fanny must do as she pleases. I am not to be the judge of her actions. She has just told me so.”
Mrs. Robarts had said nothing of the kind, but she was far too proud to point this out. So with a gentle step she retreated through the door, and then Lady Meredith, having tried what a conciliatory whisper with her mother would do, followed her. Alas, the conciliatory whisper was altogether ineffectual.
The two ladies said nothing as they descended the stairs, but when they had regained the drawing-room they looked with blank horror into each other’s faces. What were they to do now? Of such a tragedy as this they had had no remotest preconception. Was it absolutely the case that Fanny Robarts was to walk out of Lady Lufton’s house as a declared enemy—she who, before her marriage as well as since, had been almost treated as an adopted daughter of the family?
“Oh, Fanny, why did you answer my mother in that way?” said Lady Meredith. “You saw that she was vexed, She had other things to vex her besides this about Mr. Robarts.”
“And would not you answer anyone who attacked Sir George?”
“No, not my own mother. I would let her say what she pleased, and leave Sir George to fight his own battles.”
“Ah, but it is different with you. You are her daughter, and Sir George—she would not dare to speak in that way as to Sir George’s doings.”
“Indeed she would, if it pleased her. I am sorry I let you go up to her.”
“It is as well that it should be over, Justinia. As those are her thoughts about Mr. Robarts, it is quite as well that we should know them. Even for all that I owe to her, and all the love I bear to you, I will not come to this house if I am to hear my husband abused—not into any house.”
“My dearest Fanny, we all know what happens when two angry people get together.”
“I was not angry when I went up to her; not in the least.”
“It is no good looking back. What are we to do now, Fanny?”
“I suppose I had better go home,” said Mrs. Robarts. “I will go and put my things up, and then I will send James for them.”
“Wait till after lunch, and then you will be able to kiss my mother before you leave us.”
“No, Justinia; I cannot wait. I must answer Mr. Robarts by this post, and I must think what I have to say to him. I could not write that letter here, and the post goes at four.” And Mrs. Robarts got up from her chair, preparatory to her final departure.
“I shall come to you before dinner,” said Lady Meredith; “and if I can bring you good tidings, I shall expect you to come back here with me. It is out of the question that I should go away from Framley leaving you and my mother at enmity with each other.”
To this Mrs. Robarts made no answer; and in a very few minutes afterwards she was in her own nursery, kissing her children, and teaching the elder one to say something about papa. But, even as she taught him, the tears stood in her eyes, and the little fellow knew that everything was not right.
And there she sat till about two, doing little odds and ends of things for the children, and allowing that occupation to stand as an excuse to her for not commencing her letter. But then there remained only two hours to her, and it might be that the letter would be difficult in the writing—would require thought and changes, and must needs be copied, perhaps, more than once. As to the money, that she had in the house—as much, at least, as Mark now wanted, though the sending of it would leave her nearly penniless. She could, however, in case of personal need, resort to Davis as desired by him.
So she got out her desk in the drawing-room and sat down and wrote her letter. It was difficult, though she found that it hardly took so long as she expected. It was difficult, for she felt bound to tell him the truth; and yet she was anxious not to spoil all his pleasure among his friends. She told him, however, that Lady Lufton was very angry, “unreasonably angry, I must say,” she put in, in order to show that she
had not sided against him. “And, indeed, we have quite quarrelled, and this has made me unhappy, as it will you, dearest; I know that. But we both know how good she is at heart, and Justinia thinks that she had other things to trouble her; and I hope it will all be made up before you come home; only, dearest Mark, pray do not be longer than you said in your last letter.” And then there were three or four paragraphs about the babies, and two about the schools, which I may as well omit.
She had just finished her letter, and was carefully folding it for its envelope, with the two whole five-pound notes imprudently placed within it, when she heard a footstep on the gravel path which led up from a small wicket to the front door. The path ran near the drawing-room window, and she was just in time to catch a glimpse of the last fold of a passing cloak. “It is Justinia,” she said to herself; and her heart became disturbed at the idea of again discussing the morning’s adventure. “What am I to do,” she had said to herself before, “if she wants me to beg her pardon? I will not own before her that he is in the wrong.”
And then the door opened—for the visitor made her entrance without the aid of any servant—and Lady Lufton herself stood before her. “Fanny,” she said at once, “I have come to beg your pardon.”
“Oh, Lady Lufton!”
“I was very much harassed when you came to me just now—by more things than one, my dear. But, nevertheless, I should not have spoken to you of your husband as I did, and so I have come to beg your pardon.”
Mrs. Robarts was past answering by the time that this was said—past answering at least in words; so she jumped up, and with her eyes full of tears, threw herself into her old friend’s arms. “Oh, Lady Lufton!” she sobbed forth again.
“You will forgive me, won’t you?” said her ladyship, as she returned her young friend’s caress. “Well, that’s right. I have not been at all happy since you left my den this morning, and I don’t suppose you have. But, Fanny, dearest, we love each other too well, and know each other too thoroughly, to have a long quarrel, don’t we?”
“Oh, yes, Lady Lufton.”
“Of course we do. Friends are not to be picked up on the road-side every day; nor are they to be thrown away lightly. And now sit down, my love, and let us have a little talk. There, I must take my bonnet off. You have pulled the strings so that you have almost choked me.” And Lady Lufton deposited her bonnet on the table, and seated herself comfortably in the corner of the sofa.
“My dear,” she said, “there is no duty which any woman owes to any other human being at all equal to that which she owes to her husband, and, therefore, you were quite right to stand up for Mr. Robarts this morning.”
Upon this Mrs. Robarts said nothing, but she got her hand within that of her ladyship and gave it a slight squeeze.
“And I loved you for what you were doing all the time. I did, my dear; though you were a little fierce, you know. Even Justinia admits that, and she has been at me ever since you went away. And, indeed, I did not know that it was in you to look in that way out of those pretty eyes of yours.”
“Oh, Lady Lufton!”
“But I looked fierce enough too myself, I dare say; so we’ll say nothing more about that; will we? But now, about this good man of yours?”
“Dear Lady Lufton, you must forgive him.”
“Well, as you ask me, I will. We’ll have nothing more said about the duke, either now or when he comes back; not a word. Let me see—he’s to be back—when is it?”
“Wednesday week, I think.”
“Ah, Wednesday. Well, tell him to come and dine up at the house on Wednesday. He’ll be in time, I suppose, and there shan’t be a word said about this horrid duke.”
“I am so much obliged to you, Lady Lufton.”
“But look here, my dear; believe me, he’s better off without such friends.”
“Oh, I know he is; much better off.”
“Well, I’m glad you admit that, for I thought you seemed to be in favour of the duke.”
“Oh, no, Lady Lufton.”
“That’s right, then. And now, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll use your influence, as a good, dear sweet wife as you are, to prevent his going there any more. I’m an old woman and he is a young man, and it’s very natural that he should think me behind the times. I’m not angry at that. But he’ll find that it’s better for him, better for him in every way, to stick to his old friends. It will be better for his peace of mind, better for his character as a clergyman, better for his pocket, better for his children and for you—and better for his eternal welfare. The duke is not such a companion as he should seek—nor, if he is sought, should he allow himself to be led away.”
And then Lady Lufton ceased, and Fanny Robarts kneeling at her feet sobbed, with her face hidden on her friend’s knees. She had not a word now to say as to her husband’s capability of judging for himself.
“And now I must be going again; but Justinia has made me promise—promise, mind you, most solemnly, that I would have you back to dinner to-night—by force if necessary. It was the only way I could make my peace with her; so you must not leave me in the lurch.” Of course, Fanny said that she would go and dine at Framley Court.
“And you must not send that letter, by any means,” said her ladyship as she was leaving the room, poking with her umbrella at the epistle, which lay directed on Mis. Robarts’s desk. “I can understand very well what it contains. You must alter it altogether, my dear.” And then Lady Lufton went.
Mrs. Robarts instantly rushed to her desk and tore open her letter. She looked at her watch and it was past four. She had hardly begun another when the postman came. “Oh, Mary,” she said, “do make him wait. If he’ll wait a quarter-of-an-hour I’ll give him a shilling.”
“There’s no need of that, ma’am. Let him have a glass of beer.”
“Very well, Mary; but don’t give him too much, for fear he should drop the letters about. I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
And in five minutes she had scrawled a very different sort of letter. But he might want the money immediately, so she would not delay it for a day.
CHAPTER VI
Mr. Harold Smith’s Lecture
On the whole the party at Chaldicotes was very pleasant, and the time passed away quickly enough. Mr. Robarts’s chief friend there, independently of Mr. Sowerby, was Miss Dunstable, who seemed to take a great fancy to him, whereas she was not very accessible to the blandishments of Mr. Supplehouse, nor more specially courteous even to her host than good manners required of her. But then Mr. Supplehouse and Mr. Sowerby were both bachelors, while Mark Robarts was a married man.
With Mr. Sowerby Robarts had more than one communication respecting Lord Lufton and his affairs, which he would willingly have avoided had it been possible. Sowerby was one of those men who are always mixing up business with pleasure, and who have usually some scheme in their mind which requires forwarding. Men of this class have, as a rule, no daily work, no regular routine of labour; but it may be doubted whether they do not toil much more incessantly than those who have.
“Lufton is so dilatory,” Mr. Sowerby said. “Why did he not arrange this at once, when he promised it? And then he is so afraid of that old woman at Framley Court. Well, my dear fellow, say what you will; she is an old woman, and she’ll never be younger. But do write to Lufton, and tell him that this delay is inconvenient to me; he’ll do anything for you, I know.”
Mark said that he would write, and, indeed, did do so; but he did not at first like the tone of the conversation into which he was dragged. It was very painful to him to hear Lady Lufton called an old woman, and hardly less so to discuss the propriety of Lord Lufton’s parting with his property. This was irksome to him, till habit made it easy. But by degrees his feelings became less acute, and he accustomed himself to his friend Sowerby’s mode of talking.
And then on the Saturday afternoon they all went over to Barchester. Harold Smith during the last forty-eight hours had become crammed to overflowing with Sarawak, La
buan, New Guinea, and the Solomon Islands. As is the case with all men labouring under temporary specialities, he for the time had faith in nothing else, and was not content that anyone near him should have any other faith. They called him Viscount Papua and Baron Borneo; and his wife, who headed the joke against him, insisted on having her title. Miss Dunstable swore that she would wed none but a South Sea islander; and to Mark was offered the income and duties of Bishop of Spices. Nor did the Proudie family set themselves against these little sarcastic quips with any overwhelming severity. It is sweet to unbend oneself at the proper opportunity, and this was the proper opportunity for Mrs. Proudie’s unbending. No mortal can be seriously wise at all hours; and in these happy hours did that usually wise mortal, the bishop, lay aside for a while his serious wisdom.
“We think of dining at five to-morrow, my Lady Papua,” said the facetious bishop; “will that suit his lordship and the affairs of State? he! he! he!” And the good prelate laughed at the fun.
How pleasantly young men and women of fifty or thereabouts can joke and flirt and poke their fun about, laughing and holding their sides, dealing in little innuendoes and rejoicing in nicknames, when they have no Mentors of twenty-five or thirty near them to keep them in order! The vicar of Framley might perhaps have been regarded as such a Mentor, were it not for that capability of adapting himself to the company immediately around him on which he so much piqued himself. He therefore also talked to my Lady Papua, and was jocose about the Baron—not altogether to the satisfaction of Mr. Harold Smith himself.
For Mr. Harold Smith was in earnest, and did not quite relish these jocundities. He had an idea that he could in about three months talk the British world into civilizing New Guinea, and that the world of Barsetshire would be made to go with him by one night’s efforts. He did not understand why others should be less serious, and was inclined to resent somewhat stiffly the amenities of our friend Mark.
“We must not keep the Baron waiting,” said Mark, as they were preparing to start for Barchester.
“I don’t know what you mean by the Baron, sir,” said Harold Smith. “But perhaps the joke will be against you, when you are getting up into your pulpit to-morrow, and sending the hat round among the clodhoppers of Chaldicotes.”
The Chronicles of Barsetshire Page 149