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 daresay; 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 Mrs Robarts’ 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 a letter. But he might want the money immediately, so she would not delay it for a day.
CHAPTER 6
Mr Harold Smith’s Lecture
ON the whole the party at Chaldicotes was very pleasant and the time passed away quickly enough. Mr Robarts’ 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 woma
n, 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, Labuan, 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 any one near him should have any other faith. They called him Viscount Papua and Baron Borneo; and his wife, who headed the joke against him, insisted on having her title. Miss Dunstable swore that she would wed none but a South Sea islander; and to Mark was offered the income and duties of Bishop of Spices. Nor did the Proudie family set themselves against these little sarcastic quips with any overwhelming severity. It is sweet to unbend oneself at the proper opportunity, and this was the proper opportunity for Mrs Proudie’s unbending. No mortal can be seriously wise at all hours; and in these happy hours did that usually wise mortal, the bishop, lay aside for 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.’
‘Those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones; eh, Baron?’ said Miss Dunstable. ‘Mr Robarts’ sermon will be too near akin to your lecture to allow of his laughing.’
‘If we can do nothing towards instructing the outer world till it’s done by the parsons,’ said Harold Smith, ‘the outer world will have to wait a long time, I fear.’
‘Nobody can do anything of that kind short of a member of Parliament and a would-be minister,’ whispered Mrs Harold.
And so they were all very pleasant together, in spite of a little fencing with edge-tools; and at three o’clock the cortège of carriages started for Barchester, that of the bishop, of course, leading the way. His lordship, however, was not in it.
‘Mrs Proudie, I’m sure you’ll let me go with you,’ said Miss Dunstable, at the last moment, as she came down the big stone steps. ‘I want to hear the rest of that story about Mr Slope.’
Now this upset everything. The bishop was to have gone with his wife, Mrs Smith, and Mark Robarts; and Mr Sowerby had so arranged matters that he could have accompanied Miss Dunstable in his phaeton. But no one ever dreamed of denying Miss Dunstable anything. Of course Mark gave way; but it ended in the bishop declaring that he had no special predilection for his own carriage, which he did in compliance with a glance from his wife’s eye. Then other changes of course followed, and, at last, Mr Sowerby and Harold Smith were the joint occupants of the phaeton.
The poor lecturer, as he seated himself, made some remark such as those he had been making for the last two days – for out of a full heart the mouth speaketh. But he spoke to an impatient listener. ‘D— the South Sea islanders,’ said Mr Sowerby. ‘You’ll have it all your own way in a few minutes, like a bull in a china-shop; but for heaven’s sake let us have a little peace till that time comes.’ It appeared that Mr Sowerby’s little plan of having Miss Dunstable for his companion was not quite insignificant; and, indeed, it may be said that but few of his little plans were so. At the present moment he flung himself back in the carriage and prepared for sleep. He could further no plan of his by a tête-à-tête conversation with his brother-in-law.
And then Mrs Proudie began her story about Mr Slope, or rather recommenced it. She was very fond of talking about this gentleman, who had once been her pet chaplain but was now her bitterest foe; and in telling the story, she had sometimes to whisper to Miss Dunstable, for there were one or two fie-fie little anecdotes about a married lady, not altogether fit for young Mr Robarts’ ears. But Mrs Harold Smith insisted on having them out loud, and Miss Dunstable would gratify that lady in spite of Mrs Proudie’s winks.
‘What, kissing her hand, and he a clergyman!’ said Miss Dunstable. ‘I did not think they ever did such things, Mr Robarts.’
‘Still waters run deepest,’ said Mrs Harold Smith.
‘Hush-h-h,’ looked, rather than spoke, Mrs Proudie. ‘The grief of spirit which that bad man caused me nearly broke my heart, and all the while, you know, he was courting – ’ and then Mrs Proudie whispered a name.
‘What, the dean’s wife!’ shouted Miss Dunstable, in a voice which made the coachman of the next carriage give a chuck to his horses as he overheard her.
‘The archdeacon’s sister-in-law!’ screamed Mrs Harold Smith.
‘What might he not have attempted next?’ said Miss Dunstable.
‘She wasn’t the dean’s wife then, you know,’ said Mrs Proudie, explaining.
‘Well, you’ve a gay set in the chapter, I must say,’ said Miss Dunstable. ‘You ought to make one of them in Barchester, Mr Robarts.’
‘Only perhaps Mrs Robarts might not like it,’ said Mrs Harold Smith.
‘And then the schemes which he tried on with the bishop!’ said Mrs Proudie.
‘It’s all fair in love and war, you know,’ said Miss Dunstable.
‘But he little knew whom he had to deal with when he began that,’ said Mrs Proudie.
‘The bishop was too many for him,’ suggested Mrs Harold Smith, very maliciously.
‘If the bishop was not, somebody else was; and he was obliged to leave Barchester in utter disgrace. He has since married the wife of some tallow-chandler.’
‘The wife!’ said Miss Dunstable. ‘What a man!’
‘Widow, I mean; but it’s all one to him.’
‘The gentleman was clearly born when Venus was in the ascendant,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘You clergymen usually are, I believe, Mr Robarts.’ So that Mrs Proudie’s carriage was by no means the dullest as they drove into Barchester that day; and by degrees our friend Mark became accustomed to his companions, and before they reached the palace he acknowledged to himself that Miss Dunstable was very good fun.
We cannot linger over the bishop’s dinner, though it was very good of its kind; and as Mr Sowerby contrived to sit next to Miss Dunstable, thereby overturning a little scheme made by Mr Supplehouse, he again shone forth in unclouded good humour. But Mr Harold Smith became impatient immediately on the withdrawal of the cloth. The lecture was to begin at seven, and according to his watch that hour had already come. He declared that Sowerby and Supplehouse were endeavouring to delay matters in order that the Barchesterians might become vexed and impatient; and so the bishop was not allowed to exercise his hospitality in true episcopal fashion.
‘You forget, Sowerby,’ said Supplehouse, ‘that the world he
re for the last fortnight has been looking forward to nothing else.’
‘The world shall be gratified at once,’ said Mrs Harold, obeying a little nod from Mrs Proudie. ‘Come, my dear,’ and she took hold of Miss Dunstable’s arm, ‘don’t let us keep Barchester waiting. We shall be ready in a quarter-of-an-hour, shall we not, Mrs Proudie?’ and so they sailed off.
‘And we shall have time for one glass of claret,’ said the bishop.
‘There; that’s seven by the cathedral,’ said Harold Smith, jumping up from his chair as he heard the clock. ‘If the people have come it would not be right in me to keep them waiting, and I shall go.’
‘Just one glass of claret, Mr Smith; and we’ll be off,’ said the bishop.
‘Those women will keep me an hour,’ said Harold, filling his glass, and drinking it standing. ‘They do it on purpose.’ He was thinking of his wife, but it seemed to the bishop as though his guest were actually speaking of Mrs Proudiel
It was rather late when they all found themselves in the big room of the Mechanics’ Institute; but I do not know whether this on the whole did them any harm. Most of Mr Smith’s hearers, excepting the party from the palace, were Barchester tradesmen with their wives and families; and they waited, not impatiently, for the big people. And then the lecture was gratis, a fact which is always borne in mind by an Englishman when he comes to reckon up and calculate the way in which he is treated. When he pays his money, then he takes his choice; he may be impatient or not as he likes. His sense of justice teaches him so much, and in accordance with that sense he usually acts.
So the people on the benches rose graciously when the palace party entered the room. Seats for them had been kept in the front. There were three arm-chairs, which were filled, after some little hesitation, by the bishop, Mrs Proudie, and Miss Dunstable – Mrs Smith positively declining to take one of them; though, as she admitted, her rank as Lady Papua of the islands did give her some claim. And this remark, as it was made quite out loud, reached Mr Smith’s ears as he stood behind a little table on a small raised dais, holding his white kid gloves; and it annoyed him and rather put him out. He did not like that joke about Lady Papua.
Framley Parsonage Page 10