Framley Parsonage

by Anthony Trollope

  ‘But what shall I say to her?’

  ‘Just explain to her that any young lady who talks so much to the same young gentleman will certainly be observed – that people will accuse her of setting her cap at Lord Lufton. Not that I suspect her – I give her credit for too much proper feeling: I know her education has been good, and her principles are upright. But people will talk of her. You must understand that, Fanny, as well as I do.’

  Fanny could not help meditating whether proper feeling, education, and upright principles did forbid Lucy Robarts to fall in love with Lord Lufton; but her doubts on this subject, if she held any, were not communicated to her ladyship. It had never entered into her mind that a match was possible between Lord Lufton and Lucy Robarts, nor had she the slightest wish to encourage it now that the idea was suggested to her. On such a matter she could sympathize with Lady Lufton, though she did not completely agree with her as to the expediency of any interference. Nevertheless, she at once offered to speak to Lucy.

  ‘I don’t think that Lucy has any idea in her head upon the subject,’ said Mrs Robarts.

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

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

  ‘Exactly, my dear; that is just it. Put her on her guard – that is all that is necessary. She is a dear, good, clever girl, and it would be very sad if anything were to interrupt our comfortable way of getting on with her.’

  Mrs Robarts knew to a nicety the exact meaning of this threat. If Lucy would persist in securing to herself so much of Lord Lufton’s time and attention, her visits to Framley Court must become less frequent. Lady Lufton would do much, very much, indeed, for her friends at the parsonage; but not even for them could she permit her son’s prospects in life to be endangered.

  There was nothing more said between them, and Mrs Robarts got up to take her leave, having promised to speak to Lucy.

  ‘You manage everything so perfectly,’ said Lady Lufton, as she pressed Mrs Robarts’ hand, ‘that I am quite at ease now that I find you will agree with me.’ Mrs Robarts did not exactly agree with her ladyship, but she hardly thought it worth her while to say so.

  Mrs Robarts immediately started off on her walk to her own home, and when she had got out of the grounds into the road, where it makes a turn towards the parsonage, nearly opposite to Podgens’ shop, she saw Lord Lufton on horseback, and Lucy standing beside him. It was already nearly five o’clock, and it was getting dusk, but as she approached, or rather as she came suddenly within sight of them, she could see that they were in close conversation. Lord Lufton’s face was towards her, and his horse was standing still; he was leaning over towards his companion, and the whip, which he held in his right hand, hung almost over her arm and down her back, as though his hand had touched and perhaps rested on her shoulder. She was standing by his side, looking up into his face, with one gloved hand resting on the horse’s neck. Mrs Robarts, as she saw them, could not but own that there might be cause for Lady Lufton’s fears.

  But then Lucy’s manner, as Mrs Robarts approached, was calculated to dissipate any such fears, and to prove that there was no ground for them. She did not move from her position, or allow her hand to drop, or show that she was in any way either confused or conscious. She stood her ground, and when her sister-in-law came up, was smiling and at her ease.

  ‘Lord Lufton wants me to learn to ride,’ said she.

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

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

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

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

  ‘I suppose that’s the same sort of thing as a man being softhearted,’ said Lucy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Lord Lufton.

  ‘A great deal of nonsense,’ said Lucy, laughing, ‘but all of it of Lord Lufton’s talking. But we are getting cold – are we not, Fanny? – so we will wish you good-night.’ And then the two ladies shook hands with him, and walked on towards the parsonage.

  That which astonished Mrs Robarts the most in all this was the perfectly collected manner in which Lucy spoke and conducted herself. This, connected, as she could not but connect it, with the air of chagrin with which Lord Lufton received Lucy’s decision, made it manifest to Mrs Robarts that Lord Lufton was annoyed because Lucy would not consent to learn to ride; whereas she, Lucy herself, had given her refusal in a firm and decided tone, as though resolved that nothing more should be said about it.

  They walked on in silence for a minute or two, till they reached the parsonage gate, and then Lucy said, laughing, ‘Can’t you fancy me sitting on that great big horse? I wonder what Lady Lufton would say if she saw me there, and his lordship giving me my first lesson?’

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

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

  ‘She does not like it, Lucy, when she sees him flirting with you.’

  This Mrs Robarts said rather gravely, whereas Lucy had been speaking in a half-bantering tone. As soon as even the word flirting was out of Fanny’s mouth, she was conscious that she had been guilty of an injustice in using it. She had wished to say something which would convey to her sister-in-law an idea of what Lady Lufton would dislike; but in doing so, she had unintentionally brought against her an accusation.

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

  ‘I did not say that.’

  ‘Or that I have allowed him to flirt with me?’

  ‘I did not mean to shock you, Lucy.’

  ‘What did you mean, Fanny?’

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

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

  ‘You have done nothing, dearest.’

  ‘Then why did you speak as you did just now?’

  ‘Because I wished to put you on your guard. You know, Lucy, that I do
not intend to find fault with you; but you may be sure, as a rule, that intimate friendships between young gentlemen and young ladies are dangerous things.’

  They then walked up to the hall-door in silence. When they had reached it, Lucy stood in the doorway instead of entering it, and said, ‘Fanny, let us take another turn together, if you are not tired.’

  ‘No, I’m not tired.’

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

  ‘I do think that he is a little inclined to flirt with you.’

  ‘And Lady Lufton has been asking you to lecture me about it?’

  Poor Mrs Robarts hardly knew what to say. She thought well of all the persons concerned, and was very anxious to behave well by all of them; – was particularly anxious to create no ill feeling, and wished that everybody should be comfortable, and on good terms with everybody else. But yet the truth was forced out of her when this question was asked so suddenly.

  ‘Not to lecture you, Lucy,’ she said at last.

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘“Poison” should be the word with any one so fatal as Lord Lufton; and he ought to be made up of some particular colour, for fear he should be swallowed in mistake.’

  ‘You will be safe, you see,’ said Fanny, laughing, ‘as you have been specially cautioned as to this individual bottle.’

  ‘Ah! but what’s the use of that after I have had so many doses? It is no good telling me about it now, when the mischief is done, – after I have been taking it for I don’t know how long. Dear! dear! dear! and I regarded it as a mere commonplace powder, good for the complexion. I wonder whether it’s too late, or whether there’s any antidote?’

  Mrs Robarts did not always quite understand her sister-in-law, and now she was a little at a loss. ‘I don’t think there’s much harm done yet on either side,’ she said, cheerily.

  ‘Ah! you don’t know, Fanny. But I do think that if I die – as I shall –l feel I shall; – and if so, I do think it ought to go very hard with Lady Lufton. Why didn’t she label him “dangerous” in time?’ And then they went into the house and up to their own rooms.

  It was difficult for any one to understand Lucy’s state of mind at present, and it can hardly be said that she understood it herself. She felt that she had received a severe blow in having been thus made the subject of remark with reference to Lord Lufton. She knew that her pleasant evenings at Framley Court were now over, and that she could not again talk to him in an unrestrained tone and without embarrassment. She had felt the air of the whole place to be very cold before her intimacy with him, and now it must be cold again. Two homes had been open to her, Framley Court and the parsonage; and now, as far as comfort was concerned, she must confine herself to the latter. She could not again be comfortable in Lady Lufton’s drawing-room.

  But then she could not help asking herself whether Lady Lufton was not right. She had had courage enough, and presence of mind, to joke about the matter when her sister-in-law spoke to her, and yet she was quite aware that it was no joking matter. Lord Lufton had not absolutely made love to her, but he had latterly spoken to her in a manner which she knew was not compatible with that ordinary comfortable masculine friendship with the idea of which she had once satisfied herself. Was not Fanny right when she said that intimate friendships of that nature were dangerous things?

  Yes, Lucy, very dangerous. Lucy, before she went to bed that night, had owned to herself that they were so; and lying there with sleepless eyes and a moist pillow, she was driven to confess that the label would in truth be now too late, that the caution had come to her after the poison had been swallowed. Was there any antidote? That was all that was left for her to consider. But, nevertheless, on the following morning she could appear quite at her ease. And when Mark had left the house after breakfast, she could still joke with Fanny as to Lady Lufton’s poison cupboard.

  CHAPTER 14

  Mr Crawley of Hogglestock

  AND then there was that other trouble in Lady Lufton’s mind, the sins, namely, of her selected parson. She had selected him, and she was by no means inclined to give him up, even though his sins against parsondom were grievous. Indeed she was a woman not prone to give up anything, and of all things not prone to give up a protégé. The very fact that she herself had selected him was the strongest argument in his favour.

  But his sins against parsondom were becoming very grievous in her eyes, and she was at a loss to know what steps to take. She hardly dared to take him to task, him himself. Were she to do so, and should he then tell her to mind her own business – as he probably might do, though not in those words – there would be a schism in the parish; and almost anything would be better than that. The whole work of her life would be upset, all the outlets of her energy would be impeded if not absolutely closed, if a state of things were to come to pass in which she and the parson of her parish should not be on good terms.

  But what was to be done? Early in the winter he had gone to Chaldicotes and to Gatherum Castle, consorting with gamblers, Whigs, atheists, men of loose pleasure, and Proudieites. That she had condoned; and now he was turning out a hunting parson on her hands. It was all very well for Fanny to say that he merely looked at the hounds as he rode about his parish. Fanny might be deceived. Being his wife, it might be her duty not to see her husband’s iniquities. But Lady Lufton could not be deceived. She knew very well in what part of the county Cobbold’s Ashes lay. It was not in Framley parish, nor in the next parish to it. It was half way across to Chaldicotes – in the western division; and she had heard of that run in which two horses had been killed, and in which Parson Robarts had won such immortal glory among West Barsetshire sportsmen. It was not easy to keep Lady Lufton in the dark as to matters occurring in her own county.

  All these things she knew, but as yet had not noticed, grieving over them in her own heart the more on that account. Spoken grief relieves itself; and when one can give counsel, one always hopes at least that that counsel will be effective. To her son she had said, more than once, that it was a pity that Mr Robarts should follow the hounds. – ‘The world has agreed that it is unbecoming in a clergyman,’ she would urge, in her deprecatory tone. But her son would by no means give her any comfort. ‘He doesn’t hunt, you know – not as I do,’ he would say. ‘And if he did, I really don’t see the harm of it. A man must have some amusement, even if he be an archbishop.’ ‘He has amusement at home,’ Lady Lufton would answer. ‘What does his wife do – and his sister?’ This allusion to Lucy, however, was very soon dropped.

  Lord Lufton would in no wise help her. He would not even passively discourage the vicar, or refrain from offering to give him a seat in going to the meets. Mark and Lord Lufton had been boys together, and his lordship knew that Mark in his heart would enjoy a brush across the country quite as well as he himself; and then what was the harm of it?

  Lady Lufton’s best aid had been in Mark’s own conscience. He had taken himself to task m
ore than once, and had promised himself that he would not become a sporting parson. Indeed, where would be his hopes of ulterior promotion, if he allowed himself to degenerate so far as that? It had been his intention, in reviewing what he considered to be the necessary proprieties of clerical life, in laying out his own future mode of living, to assume no peculiar sacerdotal strictness; he would not be known as a denouncer of dancing or of card-tables, of theatres or of novel-reading; he would take the world around him as he found it, endeavouring by precept and practice to lend a hand to the gradual amelioration which Christianity is producing; but he would attempt no sudden or majestic reforms. Cake and ale would still be popular, and ginger be hot in the mouth,1 let him preach ever so – let him be never so solemn a hermit; but a bright face, a true trusting heart, a strong arm, and an humble mind, might do much in teaching those around him that men may be gay and yet not profligate, that women may be devout and yet not dead to the world.

  Such had been his ideas as to his own future life; and though many will think that as a clergyman he should have gone about his work with more serious devotion of thought, nevertheless there was some wisdom in them; – some folly also, undoubtedly, as appeared by the troubles into which they led him.

  ‘I will not affect to think that to be bad,’ said he to himself, ‘which in my heart of hearts does not seem to be bad.’ And thus he resolved that he might live without contamination among hunting squires. And then, being a man only too prone by nature to do as others did around him, he found by degrees that that could hardly be wrong for him which he admitted to be right for others.

  But still his conscience upbraided him, and he declared to himself more than once that after this year he would hunt no more. And then his own Fanny would look at him on his return home on those days in a manner that cut him to the heart. She would say nothing to him. She never inquired in a sneering tone, and with angry eyes, whether he had enjoyed his day’s sport; but when he spoke of it, she could not answer him with enthusiasm; and in other matters which concerned him she was always enthusiastic.