Framley Parsonage

by Anthony Trollope

  And Lucy Robarts – we must now say a word of her. We have seen how on that occasion, when the world was at her feet, she had sent her noble suitor away, not only dismissed, but so dismissed that he might be taught never again to offer to her the sweet incense of his vows. She had declared to him plainly that she did not love him and could not love him, and had thus thrown away not only riches and honour and high station, but more than that – much worse than that – she had flung away from her the lover to whose love her warm heart clung. That her love did cling to him, she knew even then, and owned more thoroughly as soon as he was gone. So much her pride had done for her, and that strong resolve that Lady Lufton should not scowl on her and tell her that she had entrapped her son.

  I know it will be said of Lord Lufton himself that, putting aside his peerage and broad acres, and handsome, sonsy face, he was not worth a girl’s care and love. That will be said because people think that heroes in books should be so much better than heroes got up for the world’s common wear and tear. I may as well confess that of absolute, true heroism there was only a moderate admixture in Lord Lufton’s composition; but what would the world come to if none but absolute true heroes were to be thought worthy of women’s love? What would the men do? and what – oh! what would become of the women? Lucy Robarts in her heart did not give her dismissed lover credit for much more heroism than did truly appertain to him; – did not, perhaps, give him full credit for a certain amount of heroism which did really appertain to him; but, nevertheless, she would have been very glad to take him could she have done so without wounding her pride.

  That girls should not marry for money we are all agreed. A lady who can sell herself for a title or an estate, for an income or a set of family diamonds, treats herself as a farmer treats his sheep and oxen – makes hardly more of herself, of her own inner self, in which are comprised a mind and soul, than the poor wretch of her own sex who earns her bread in the lowest stage of degradation. But a title, and an estate, and an income, are matters which will weigh in the balance with all Eve’s daughters –as they do with all Adam’s sons. Pride of place, and the power of living well in front of the world’s eye, are dear to us all; – are, doubtless, intended to be dear. Only in acknowledging so much, let us remember that there are prices at which these good things may be too costly. Therefore, being desirous, too, of telling the truth in this matter, I must confess that Lucy did speculate with some regret on what it would have been to be Lady Lufton. To have been the wife of such a man, the owner of such a heart, the mistress of such a destiny – what more or what better could the world have done for her? And now she had thrown all that aside because she would not endure that Lady Lufton should call her a scheming, artful girl! Actuated by that fear she had repulsed him with a falsehood, though the matter was one on which it was so terribly expedient that she should tell the truth.

  And yet she was cheerful with her brother and sister-in-law. It was when she was quite alone, at night in her own room, or in her solitary walks, that a single silent tear would gather in the corner of her eye and gradually moisten her eyelids. ‘She never told her love,’ nor did she allow concealment to ‘feed on her damask cheek.’1 In all her employments, in her ways about the house, and her accustomed quiet mirth, she was the same as ever. In this she showed the peculiar strength which God had given her. But not the less did she in truth mourn for her lost love and spoiled ambition.

  ‘We are going to drive over to Hogglestock this morning,’ Fanny said one day at breakfast. ‘I suppose, Mark, you won’t go with us?’

  ‘Well, no; I think not. The pony-carriage is wretched for three.’

  ‘Oh, as for that, I should have thought the new horse might have been able to carry you as far as that. I heard you say you wanted to see Mr Crawley.’

  ‘So I do; and the new horse, as you call him, shall carry me there to-morrow. Will you say that I’ll be over about twelve o’clock.’

  ‘You had better say earlier, as he is always out about the parish.’

  ‘Very well, say eleven. It is parish business about which I am going, so it need not irk his conscience to stay in for me.’

  ‘Well, Lucy, we must drive ourselves, that’s all. You shall be charioteer going, and then we’ll change coming back.’ To all which Lucy agreed, and as soon as their work in the school was over they started.

  Not a word had been spoken between them about Lord Lufton since that evening, now more than a month ago, on which they had been walking together in the garden. Lucy had so demeaned herself on that occasion as to make her sister-in-law quite sure that there had been no love passages up to that time; and nothing had since occurred which had created any suspicion in Mrs Robarts’ mind. She had seen at once that all the close intimacy between them was over, and thought that everything was as it should be.

  ‘Do you know, I have an idea,’ she said in the pony-carriage that day, ‘that Lord Lufton will marry Griselda Grantly.’

  Lucy could not refrain from giving a little check at the reins which she was holding, and she felt that the blood rushed quickly to her heart. But she did not betray herself. ‘Perhaps he may,’ she said, and then gave the pony a little touch with her whip.

  ‘Oh, Lucy, I won’t have Puck beaten. He was going very nicely.’

  ‘I beg Puck’s pardon. But you see when one is trusted with a whip one feels such a longing to use it.’

  ‘Oh, but you should keep it still. I feel almost certain that Lady Lufton would like such a match.’

  ‘I daresay she might. Miss Grantly will have a large fortune, I believe.’

  ‘It is not that altogether: but she is the sort of young lady that Lady Lufton likes. She is ladylike and very beautiful –’

  ‘Come, Fanny!’

  ‘I really think she is; not what I should call lovely, you know, but very beautiful. And then she is quiet and reserved; she does not require excitement, and I am sure is conscientious in the performance of her duties.’

  ‘Very conscientious, I have no doubt,’ said Lucy, with something like a sneer in her tone. ‘But the question, I suppose, is whether Lord Lufton likes her.’

  ‘I think he does, – in a sort of way. He did not talk to her so much as he did to you –’

  ‘Ah! that was all Lady Lufton’s fault, because she didn’t have him properly labelled.’

  ‘There does not seem to have been much harm done?’

  ‘Oh! by God’s mercy, very little. As for me, I shall get over it in three or four years I don’t doubt – that’s if I can get ass’s milk and change of air.’

  ‘We’ll take you to Barchester for that. But as I was saying, I really do think Lord Lufton likes Griselda Grantly.’

  ‘Then I really do think that he has uncommon bad taste,’ said Lucy, with a reality in her voice differing much from the tone of banter she had hitherto used.

  ‘What, Lucy!’ said her sister-in-law, looking at her. ‘Then I fear we shall really want the ass’s milk.’

  ‘Perhaps, considering my position, I ought to know nothing of Lord Lufton, for you say that it is very dangerous for young ladies to know young gentlemen. But I do know enough of him to understand that he ought not to like such a girl as Griselda Grantly. He ought to know that she is a mere automaton, cold, lifeless, spiritless, and even vapid. There is, I believe, nothing in her mentally, whatever may be her moral excellences. To me she is more absolutely like a statue than any other human being I ever saw. To sit still and be admired is all that she desires; and if she cannot get that, to sit still and not be admired would almost suffice for her. I do not worship Lady Lufton as you do; but I think quite well enough of her to wonder that she should choose such a girl as that for her son’s wife. That she does wish it, I do not doubt. But I shall indeed be surprised if he wishes it also.’ And then as she finished her speech, Lucy again flogged the pony. This she did in vexation, because she felt that the tell-tale blood had suffused her face.

  ‘Why, Lucy, if he were your brother you could not be
more eager about it.’

  ‘No, I could not. He is the only man friend with whom I was ever intimate, and I cannot bear to think that he should throw himself away. It’s horridly improper to care about such a thing, I have no doubt.’

  ‘I think we might acknowledge that if he and his mother are both satisfied, we may be satisfied also.’

  ‘I shall not be satisfied. It’s no use your looking at me, Fanny. You will make me talk of it, and I won’t tell a lie on the subject. I do like Lord Lufton very much; and I do dislike Griselda Grantly almost as much. Therefore I shall not be satisfied if they become man and wife. However, I do not suppose that either of them will ask my consent; nor is it probable that Lady Lufton will do so.’ And then they went on for perhaps a quarter of a mile without speaking.

  ‘Poor Puck!’ at last Lucy said. ‘He shan’t be whipped any more, shall he, because Miss Grantly looks like a statue? And, Fanny, don’t tell Mark to put me into a lunatic asylum. I also know a hawk from a heron,2 and that’s why I don’t like to see such a very unfitting marriage.’ There was then nothing more said on the subject, and in two minutes they arrived at the house of the Hogglestock clergyman.

  Mrs Crawley had brought two children with her when she came from the Cornish curacy to Hogglestock, and two other babies had been added to her cares since then. One of these was now ill with croup, and it was with the object of offering to the mother some comfort and solace, that the present visit was made. The two ladies got down from their carriage, having obtained the services of a boy to hold Puck, and soon found themselves in Mrs Crawley’s single sitting-room. She was sitting there with her foot on the board of a child’s cradle, rocking it, while an infant about three months old was lying in her lap. For the elder one, who was the sufferer, had in her illness usurped the baby’s place. Two other children, considerably older, were also in the room. The eldest was a girl, perhaps nine years of age, and the other a boy three years her junior. These were standing at their father’s elbow, who was studiously endeavouring to initiate them in the early mysteries of grammar. To tell the truth Mrs Robarts would much have preferred that Mr Crawley had not been there, for she had with her and about her certain contraband articles, presents for the children, as they were to be called, but in truth relief for that poor, much tasked mother, which they knew it would be impossible to introduce in Mr Crawley’s presence.

  She, as we have said, was not quite so gaunt, not altogether so haggard as in the latter of those dreadful Cornish days. Lady Lufton and Mrs Arabin between them, and the scanty comfort of their improved, though still wretched income had done something towards bringing her back to the world in which she had lived in the soft days of her childhood. But even the liberal stipend of a hundred and thirty pounds a-year – liberal according to the scale by which the incomes of clergymen in some of our new districts are now apportioned – would not admit of a gentleman with his wife and four children living with the ordinary comforts of an artisan’s family. As regards the mere eating and drinking, the amounts of butcher’s meat and tea and butter, they of course were used in quantities which any artisan would have regarded as compatible only with demi-starvation. Better clothing for her children was necessary, and better clothing for him. As for her own raiment, the wives of few artisans would have been content to put up with Mrs Crawley’s best gown. The stuff of which it was made had been paid for by her mother when she with much difficulty bestowed upon her daughter her modest wedding trousseau.

  Lucy had never seen Mrs Crawley. These visits to Hogglestock were not frequent, and had generally been made by Lady Lufton and Mrs Robarts together. It was known that they were distasteful to Mr Crawley, who felt a savage satisfaction in being left to himself. It may almost be said of him that he felt angry with those who relieved him, and he had certainly never as yet forgiven the Dean of Barchester for paying his debts. The dean had also given him his present living; and consequently his old friend was not now so dear to him as when in old days he would come down to that farmhouse, almost as penniless as the curate himself. Then they would walk together for hours along the rock-bound shore, listening to the waves, discussing deep polemical mysteries, sometimes with hot fury, then again with tender, loving charity, but always with a mutual acknowledgment of each other’s truth. Now they lived comparatively near together, but no opportunities arose for such discussions. At any rate once a quarter Mr Crawley was pressed by his old friend to visit him at the deanery, and Dr Arabin had promised that no one else should be in the house if Mr Crawley objected to society. But this was not what he wanted. The finery and grandeur of the deanery, and the comfort of that warm, snug library, would silence him at once. Why did not Dr Arabin come out there to Hogglestock, and tramp with him through the dirty lanes as they used to tramp? Then he could have enjoyed himself; then he could have talked; then old days would have come back to them. But now! – ‘Arabin always rides on a sleek, fine horse, now-a-days,’ he once said to his wife with a sneer. His poverty had been so terrible to himself that it was not in his heart to love a rich friend.

  [8]

  CHAPTER 22

  Hogglestock Parsonage

  AT the end of the last chapter, we left Lucy Robarts waiting for an introduction to Mrs Crawley, who was sitting with one baby in her lap while she was rocking another who lay in a cradle at her feet. Mr Crawley, in the meanwhile, had risen from his seat with his finger between the leaves of an old grammar out of which he had been teaching his two elder children. The whole Crawley family was thus before them when Mrs Robarts and Lucy entered the sitting-room.

  ‘This is my sister-in-law, Lucy,’ said Mrs Robarts. ‘Pray don’t move now, Mrs Crawley; or if you do, let me take baby.’ And she put out her arms and took the infant into them, making him quite at home there; for she had work of this kind of her own, at home, which she by no means neglected, though the attendance of nurses was more plentiful with her than at Hogglestock.

  Mrs Crawley did get up, and told Lucy that she was glad to see her, and Mr Crawley came forward, grammar in hand, looking humble and meek. Could we have looked into the innermost spirit of him and his life’s partner, we should have seen that mixed with the pride of his poverty there was some feeling of disgrace that he was poor, but that with her, regarding this matter, there was neither pride nor shame. The realities of life had become so stern to her that the outward aspects of them were as nothing. She would have liked a new gown because it would have been useful; but it would have been nothing to her if all the county knew that the one in which she went to church had been turned three times. It galled him, however, to think that he and his were so poorly dressed.

  ‘I am afraid you can hardly find a chair, Miss Robarts,’ said Mr Crawley.

  ‘Oh, yes; there is nothing here but this young gentleman’s library,’ said Lucy, moving a pile of ragged, coverless books on to the table. ‘I hope he’ll forgive me for moving them.’

  ‘They are not Bob’s, – at least, not the most of them, but mine,’ said the girl.

  ‘But some of them are mine,’ said the boy; ‘ain’t they, Grace?’

  ‘And are you a great scholar?’ asked Lucy, drawing the child to her.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Grace, with a sheepish face. ‘I am in Greek Delectus1 and the irregular verbs.’

  ‘Greek Delectus and the irregular verbs!’ And Lucy put up her hands with astonishment.

  ‘And she knows an ode of Horace all by heart,’ said Bob.

  ‘An ode of Horace!’ said Lucy, still holding the young shamefaced female prodigy close to her knees.

  ‘It is all that I can give them,’ said Mr Crawley, apologetically. ‘A little scholarship is the only fortune that has come in my way, and I endeavour to share that with my children.’

  ‘I believe men say that it is the best fortune any of us can have,’ said Lucy, thinking, however, in her own mind, that Horace and the irregular Greek verbs savoured too much of precocious forcing in a young lady of nine years old. But, nevertheless, G
race was a pretty, simple-looking girl, and clung to her ally closely, and seemed to like being fondled. So that Lucy anxiously wished that Mr Crawley could be got rid of and the presents produced.

  ‘I hope you have left Mr Robarts quite well,’ said Mr Crawley, with a stiff, ceremonial voice, differing very much from that in which he had so energetically addressed his brother clergyman when they were alone together in the study at Framley.

  ‘He is quite well, thank you. I suppose you have heard of his good fortune?’

  ‘Yes; I have heard of it,’ said Mr Crawley, gravely. ‘I hope that his promotion may tend in every way to his advantage here and hereafter.’

  It seemed, however, to be manifest from the manner in which he expressed his kind wishes, that his hopes and expectations did not go hand-in-hand together.

  ‘By-the-by he desired us to say that he will call here to-morrow; at about eleven, didn’t he say, Fanny?’

  ‘Yes; he wishes to see you about some parish business, I think,’ said Mrs Robarts, looking up for a moment from the anxious discussion in which she was already engaged with Mrs Crawley on nursery matters.

  ‘Pray tell him,’ said Mr Crawley, ‘that I shall be happy to see him; though, perhaps, now that new duties have been thrown upon him, it will be better that I should visit him at Framley.’

  ‘His new duties do not disturb him much as yet,’ said Lucy. ‘And his riding over here will be no trouble to him.’

  ‘Yes; there he has the advantage over me. I unfortunately have no horse.’

  And then Lucy began petting the little boy, and by degrees slipped a small bag of gingerbread-nuts out of her muff into his hands. She had not the patience necessary for waiting, as had her sister-in-law.