‘And you mean to say that she does love him?’ said Mark.
‘Indeed she does; and is it not natural that she should? When I saw them so much together I feared that she would. But I never thought that he would care for her.’
Even Fanny did not as yet give Lucy credit for half her attractiveness. After an hour’s talking the interview between the husband and wife ended in a message to Lucy, begging her to join them both in the book-room.
‘Aunt Lucy,’ said a chubby little darling, who was taken up into his aunt’s arms as he spoke, ‘papa and mama ‘ant’ oo in te tuddy, and I musn’t go wis’ oo.’
Lucy, as she kissed the boy and pressed his face against her own, felt that her blood was running quick to her heart.
‘Musn’t ’oo go wis me, my own one?’ she said, as she put her playfellow down; but she played with the child only because she did not wish to betray even to him that she was hardly mistress of herself. She knew that Lord Lufton was at Framley; she knew that her brother had been to him; she knew that a proposal had been made that he should come there that day to dinner. Must it not therefore be the case that this call to a meeting in the study had arisen out of Lord Lufton’s arrival at Framley? and yet, how could it have done so? Had Fanny betrayed her in order to prevent the dinner invitation? It could not be possible that Lord Lufton himself should have spoken on the subject! And then she again stooped to kiss the child, rubbed her hands across her forehead to smooth her hair, and erase, if that might be possible, the look of care which she wore, and then descended slowly to her brother’s sitting-room.
Her hand paused for a second on the door ere she opened it, but she had resolved that, come what might, she would be brave. She pushed it open and walked in with a bold front, with eyes wide open, and a slow step.
‘Frank says that you want me,’ she said.
Mr Robarts and Fanny were both standing up by the fireplace, and each waited a second for the other to speak when Lucy entered the room, and then Fanny began, –
‘Lord Lufton is here, Lucy.’
‘Here! Where? At the parsonage?’
‘No, not at the parsonage; but over at Framley Court,’ said Mark.
‘And he promises to call here after breakfast to-morrow,’ said Fanny. And then again there was a pause. Mrs Robarts hardly dared to look Lucy in the face. She had not betrayed her trust, seeing that the secret had been told to Mark, not by her, but by Lord Lufton; but she could not but feel that Lucy would think that she had betrayed it.
‘Very well,’ said Lucy, trying to smile; ‘I have no objection in life.’
‘But, Lucy, dear,’ – and now Mrs Robarts put her arm round her sister-in-law’s waist, – ‘he is coming here especially to see you.’
‘Oh; that makes a difference. I am afraid that I shall be – engaged.’
‘He has told everything to Mark,’ said Mrs Robarts.
Lucy now felt that her bravery was almost deserting her. She hardly knew which way to look or how to stand. Had Fanny told everything also? There was so much that Fanny knew that Lord Lufton could not have known. But, in truth, Fanny had told all – the whole story of Lucy’s love, and had described the reasons which had induced her to reject her suitor; and had done so in words which, had Lord Lufton heard them, would have made him twice as passionate in his love.
And then it certainly did occur to Lucy to think why Lord Lufton should have come to Framley and told all this history to her brother. She attempted for a moment to make herself believe that she was angry with him for doing so. But she was not angry. She had not time to argue much about it, but there came upon her a gratified sensation of having been remembered, and thought of, and – loved. Must it not be so? Could it be possible that he himself would have told this tale to her brother, if he did not still love her? Fifty times she had said to herself that his offer had been an affair of the moment, and fifty times she had been unhappy in so saying. But this new coming of his could not be an affair of the moment. She had been the dupe, she had thought, of an absurd passion on her own part; but now – how was it now? She did not bring herself to think that she should ever be Lady Lufton. She had still, in some perversely obstinate manner, made up her mind against that result. But yet, nevertheless, it did in some unaccountable manner satisfy her to feel that Lord Lufton had himself come down to Framley and himself told this story.
‘He has told everything to Mark,’ said Mrs Robarts; and then again there was a pause for a moment, during which these thoughts passed through Lucy’s mind.
‘Yes,’ said Mark, ‘he has told me all, and he is coming here to-morrow morning that he may receive an answer from yourself. ’
‘What answer?’ said Lucy, trembling.
‘Nay, dearest; who can say that but yourself?’ and her sister-in-law, as she spoke, pressed close against her. ‘You must say that yourself.’
Mrs Robarts in her long conversation with her husband had pleaded strongly on Lucy’s behalf, taking, as it were, a part against Lady Lufton. She had said that if Lord Lufton persevered in his suit, they at the parsonage could not be justified in robbing Lucy of all that she had won for herself, in order to do Lady Lufton’s pleasure.
‘But she will think,’ said Mark, ‘that we have plotted and intrigued for this. She will call us ungrateful, and will make Lucy’s life wretched.’ To which the wife had answered, that all that must be left in God’s hands. They had not plotted or intrigued. Lucy, though loving the man in her heart of hearts, had already once refused him, because she would not be thought to have snatched at so great a prize. But if Lord Lufton loved her so warmly that he had come down there in this manner, on purpose, as he himself had put it, that he might learn his fate, then – so argued Mrs Robarts – they two, let their loyalty to Lady Lufton be ever so strong, could not justify it to their consciences to stand between Lucy and her lover. Mark had still somewhat demurred to this, suggesting how terrible would be their plight if they should now encourage Lord Lufton, and if he, after such encouragement, when they should have quarrelled with Lady Lufton, should allow himself to be led away from his engagement by his mother. To which Fanny had announced that justice was justice, and that right was right. Everything must be told to Lucy, and she must judge for herself.
‘But I do not know what Lord Lufton wants,’ said Lucy, with her eyes fixed upon the ground, and now trembling more than ever. ‘He did come to me, and I did give him an answer.’
‘And is that answer to be final?’ said Mark, – somewhat cruelly, for Lucy had not yet been told that her lover had made any repetition of his proposal. Fanny, however, determined that no injustice should be done, and therefore she at last continued the story.
‘We know that you did give him an answer, dearest; but gentlemen sometimes will not put up with one answer on such a subject. Lord Lufton has declared to Mark that he means to ask again. He has come down here on purpose to do so.’
‘And Lady Lufton –’ said Lucy, speaking hardly above a whisper, and still hiding her face as she leaned against her sister’s shoulder.
‘Lord Lufton has not spoken to his mother about it,’ said Mark; and it immediately became clear to Lucy, from the tone of her brother’s voice, that he, at least, would not be pleased, should she accept her lover’s vow.
‘You must decide out of your own heart, dear,’ said Fanny, generously. ‘Mark and I know how well you have behaved, for I have told him everything.’ Lucy shuddered and leaned closer against her sister as this was said to her. ‘I had no alternative, dearest, but to tell him. It was best so; was it not? But nothing has been told to Lord Lufton. Mark would not let him come here to-day, because it would have flurried you, and he wished to give you time to think. But you can see him to-morrow morning, – can you not? and then answer him.’
Lucy now stood perfectly silent, feeling that she dearly loved her sister-in-law for her sisterly kindness – for that sisterly wish to promote a sister’s love; but still there was in her mind a strong resolve not to allo
w Lord Lufton to come there under the idea that he would be received as a favoured lover. Her love was powerful, but so also was her pride; and she could not bring herself to bear the scorn which would lie in Lady Lufton’s eyes. ‘His mother will despise me, and then he will despise me too,’ she said to herself; and with a strong gulp of disappointed love and ambition she determined to persist.
‘Shall we leave you now, dear; and speak of it again to-morrow morning, before he comes?’ said Fanny.
‘That will be the best,’ said Mark. ‘Turn it in your mind every way to-night. Think of it when you have said your prayers – and, Lucy, come here to me;’ – then, taking her in his arms, he kissed her with a tenderness that was not customary with him towards her. ‘It is fair,’ said he, ‘that I should tell you this: that I have perfect confidence in your judgment and feeling; and that I will stand by you as your brother in whatever decision you may come to. Fanny and I both think that you have behaved excellently, and are both of us sure that you will do what is best. Whatever you do I will stick to you; – and so will Fanny.’
‘Dearest, dearest Mark!’
‘And now we will say nothing more about it till to-morrow morning,’ said Fanny.
But Lucy felt that this saying nothing more about it till to-morrow morning would be tantamount to an acceptance on her part of Lord Lufton’s offer. Mrs Robarts knew, and Mr Robarts also now knew, the secret of her heart; and if, such being the case, she allowed Lord Lufton to come there with the acknowledged purpose of pleading his own suit, it would be impossible for her not to yield. If she were resolved that she would not yield, now was the time for her to stand her ground and make her fight.
‘Do not go, Fanny; at least not quite yet,’ she said.
‘Well, dear?’
‘I want you to stay while I tell Mark. He must not let Lord Lufton come here to-morrow.’
‘Not let him!’ said Mrs Robarts.
Mr Robarts said nothing, but he felt that his sister was rising in his esteem from minute to minute.
‘No; Mark must bid him not come. He will not wish to pain me when it can do no good. Look here, Mark;’ and she walked over to her brother, and put both her hands upon his arm. ‘I do love Lord Lufton. I had no such meaning or thought when I first knew him. But I do love him – I love him dearly; – almost as well as Fanny loves you, I suppose. You may tell him so if you think proper – nay, you must tell him so, or he will not understand me. But tell him this, as coming from me: that I will never marry him, unless his mother asks me.’
‘She will not do that, I fear,’ said Mark, sorrowfully.
‘No; I suppose not,’ said Lucy, now regaining all her courage. ‘If I thought it probable that she should wish me to be her daughter-in-law, it would not be necessary that I should make such a stipulation. It is because she will not wish it; because she would regard me as unfit to – to – to mate with her son. She would hate me, and scorn me; and then he would begin to scorn me, and perhaps would cease to love me. I could not bear her eye upon me, if she thought that I had injured her son. Mark, you will go to him now; will you not? and explain this to him; – as much of it as is necessary. Tell him, that if his mother asks me I will – consent. But that as I know that she never will, he is to look upon all that he has said as forgotten. With me it shall be the same as though it were forgotten.’
Such was her verdict, and so confident were they both of her firmness – of her obstinacy Mark would have called it on any other occasion, – that they, neither of them, sought to make her alter it.
‘You will go to him now, – this afternoon; will you not?’ she said; and Mark promised that he would. He could not but feel that he himself was greatly relieved. Lady Lufton might probably hear that her son had been fool enough to fall in love with the parson’s sister, but under existing circumstances she could not consider herself aggrieved either by the parson or by his sister. Lucy was behaving well, and Mark was proud of her. Lucy was behaving with fierce spirit, and Fanny was grieving for her.
‘I’d rather be by myself till dinner-time,’ said Lucy, as Mrs Robarts prepared to go with her out of the room. ‘Dear Fanny, don’t look unhappy; there’s nothing to make us unhappy. I told you I should want goat’s milk,1 and that will be all.’
Robarts, after sitting for an hour with his wife, did return again to Framley Court; and, after a considerable search, found Lord Lufton returning home to a late dinner.
‘Unless my mother asks her,’ said he, when the story had been told him. ‘That is nonsense. Surely you told her that such is not the way of the world.’
Robarts endeavoured to explain to him that Lucy could not endure to think that her husband’s mother should look on her with disfavour.
‘Does she think that my mother dislikes her – her specially?’ asked Lord Lufton.
No; Robarts could not suppose that that was the case; but Lady Lufton might probably think that a marriage with a clergyman’s sister would be a mésalliance.
‘That is out of the question,’ said Lord Lufton; ‘as she has especially wanted me to marry a clergyman’s daughter for some time past. But, Mark, it is absurd talking about my mother. A man in these days is not to marry as his mother bids him.’
Mark could only assure him, in answer to all this, that Lucy was very firm in what she was doing, that she had quite made up her mind, and that she altogether absolved Lord Lufton from any necessity to speak to his mother, if he did not think well of doing so. But all this was to very little purpose.
‘She does love me then?’ said Lord Lufton.
‘Well,’ said Mark, ‘I will not say whether she does or does not. I can only repeat her own message. She cannot accept you, unless she does so at your mother’s request.’ And having said that again, he took his leave, and went back to the parsonage.
Poor Lucy, having finished her interview with so much dignity, having fully satisfied her brother, and declined any immediate consolation from her sister-in-law, betook herself to her own bedroom. She had to think over what she had said and done, and it was necessary that she should be alone to do so. It might be that, when she came to reconsider the matter, she would not be quite so well satisfied as was her brother. Her grandeur of demeanour and slow propriety of carriage lasted her till she was well into her own room. There are animals who, when they are ailing in any way, contrive to hide themselves, ashamed, as it were, that the weakness of their suffering should be witnessed. Indeed, I am not sure whether all dumb animals do not do so more or less; and in this respect Lucy was like a dumb animal. Even in her confidences with Fanny she made a joke of her own misfortunes, and spoke of her heart ailments with self-ridicule. But now, having walked up the staircase with no hurried step, and having deliberately locked the door, she turned herself round to suffer in silence and solitude – as do the beasts and birds.
She sat herself down on a low chair, which stood at the foot of her bed, and, throwing back her head, held her handkerchief across her eyes and forehead, holding it tight in both her hands; and then she began to think. She began to think and also to cry, for the tears came running down from beneath the handkerchief; and low sobs were to be heard, – only that the animal had taken itself off, to suffer in solitude.
Had she not thrown from her all her chances of happiness? Was it possible that he should come to her yet again, – a third time? No; it was not possible. The very mode and pride of this, her second rejection of him, made it impossible. In coming to her determination, and making her avowal, she had been actuated by the knowledge that Lady Lufton would regard such a marriage with abhorrence. Lady Lufton would not, and could not ask her to condescend to be her son’s bride. Her chance of happiness, of glory, of ambition, of love, was all gone. She had sacrificed everything, not to virtue, but to pride. And she had sacrificed not only herself, but him. When first he came there – when she had meditated over his first visit – she had hardly given him credit for deep love; but now, – there could be no doubt that he loved her now. After his s
eason in London, his days and nights passed with all that was beautiful, he had returned there, to that little country parsonage, that he might again throw himself at her feet. And she – she had refused to see him, though she loved him with all her heart; she had refused to see him, because she was so vile a coward that she could not bear the sour looks of an old woman!
‘I will come down directly,’ she said, when Fanny at last knocked at the door, begging to be admitted. ‘I won’t open it, love, but I will be with you in ten minutes; I will, indeed.’ And so she was; not, perhaps, without traces of tears, discernible by the experienced eye of Mrs Robarts, but yet with a smooth brow, and voice under her own command.
‘I wonder whether she really loves him,’ Mark said to his wife that night.
‘Love him!’ his wife had answered; ‘indeed she does; and, Mark, do not be led away by the stern quiet of her demeanour. To my thinking she is a girl who might almost die for love.’
On the next day Lord Lufton left Framley; and started, according to his arrangements, for the Norway salmon fishing.
CHAPTER 32
The Goat and Compasses
HAROLD SMITH had been made unhappy by that rumour of a dissolution; but the misfortune to him would be as nothing compared to the severity with which it would fall on Mr Sowerby. Harold Smith might or might not lose his borough, but Mr Sowerby would undoubtedly lose his county; and, in losing that, he would lose everything. He felt very certain now that the duke would not support him again, let who would be master of Chaldicotes; and as he reflected on these things he found it very hard to keep up his spirits.
Tom Towers, it seems, had known all about it, as he always does. The little remark which had dropped from him at Miss Dunstable’s, made, no doubt, after mature deliberation, and with profound political motives, was the forerunner, only by twelve hours, of a very general report that the giants were going to the country. It was manifest that the giants had not a majority in Parliament, generous as had been the promises of support disinterestedly made to them by the gods. This indeed was manifest, and therefore they were going to the country, although they had been deliberately warned by a very prominent scion of Olympus that if they did do so that disinterested support must be withdrawn. This threat did not seem to weigh much, and by two o’clock on the day following Miss Dunstable’s party, the fiat was presumed to have gone forth. The rumour had begun with Tom Towers, but by that time it had reached Buggins at the Petty Bag Office.
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