LUCY ROBARTS.
[Illustration: LORD LUFTON AND LUCY ROBARTS.]
And now how was he to tell his wife? That was the consideration heavy on
Mark Robarts’ mind when last we left him; and he turned the matter often
in his thoughts before he could bring himself to a resolution. At last he
did do so, and one may say that it was not altogether a bad one, if only
he could carry it out.
He would ascertain in what bank that bill of his had been discounted. He
would ask Sowerby, and if he could not learn from him, he would go to the
three banks in Barchester. That it had been taken to one of them he felt
tolerably certain. He would explain to the manager his conviction that he
would have to make good the amount, his inability to do so at the end of
the three months, and the whole state of his income; and then the banker
would explain to him how the matter might be arranged. He thought that he
could pay 50_l._ every three months with interest. As soon as this should
have been concerted with the banker, he would let his wife know all about
it. Were he to tell her at the present moment, while the matter was all
unsettled, the intelligence would frighten her into illness.
But on the next morning there came to him tidings by the hands of
Robin postman, which for a long while upset all his plans. The letter
was from Exeter. His father had been taken ill, and had very quickly
been pronounced to be in danger. That evening—the evening on which his
sister wrote—the old man was much worse, and it was desirable that
Mark should go off to Exeter as quickly as possible. Of course he went
to Exeter—again leaving the Framley souls at the mercy of the Welsh
low Churchman. Framley is only four miles from Silverbridge, and at
Silverbridge he was on the direct road to the west. He was therefore at
Exeter before nightfall on that day.
But nevertheless he arrived there too late to see his father again alive.
The old man’s illness had been sudden and rapid, and he expired without
again seeing his eldest son. Mark arrived at the house of mourning just
as they were learning to realize the full change in their position.
The doctor’s career had been on the whole successful, but nevertheless
he did not leave behind him as much money as the world had given him
credit for possessing. Who ever does? Dr. Robarts had educated a large
family, had always lived with every comfort, and had never possessed a
shilling but what he had earned himself. A physician’s fees come in,
no doubt, with comfortable rapidity as soon as rich old gentlemen and
middle-aged ladies begin to put their faith in him; but fees run out
almost with equal rapidity when a wife and seven children are treated to
everything that the world considers most desirable. Mark, we have seen,
had been educated at Harrow and Oxford, and it may be said, therefore,
that he had received his patrimony early in life. For Gerald Robarts,
the second brother, a commission had been bought in a crack regiment. He
also had been lucky, having lived and become a captain in the Crimea; and
the purchase-money was lodged for his majority. And John Robarts, the
youngest, was a clerk in the Petty Bag Office, and was already assistant
private secretary to the Lord Petty Bag himself—a place of considerable
trust, if not hitherto of large emolument; and on his education money
had been spent freely, for in these days a young man cannot get into the
Petty Bag Office without knowing at least three modern languages; and he
must be well up in trigonometry too, in bible theology, or in one dead
language—at his option.
And the doctor had four daughters. The two elder were married, including
that Blanche with whom Lord Lufton was to have fallen in love at the
vicar’s wedding. A Devonshire squire had done this in the lord’s place;
but on marrying her it was necessary that he should have a few thousand
pounds, two or three perhaps, and the old doctor had managed that they
should be forthcoming. The elder also had not been sent away from the
paternal mansion quite empty-handed. There were therefore at the time of
the doctor’s death two children left at home, of whom one only, Lucy, the
younger, will come much across us in the course of our story.
Mark stayed for ten days at Exeter, he and the Devonshire squire having
been named as executors in the will. In this document it was explained
that the doctor trusted that provision had been made for most of his
children. As for his dear son Mark, he said, he was aware that he need
be under no uneasiness. On hearing this read Mark smiled sweetly, and
looked very gracious; but, nevertheless, his heart did sink somewhat
within him, for there had been a hope that a small windfall, coming now
so opportunely, might enable him to rid himself at once of that dreadful
Sowerby incubus. And then the will went on to declare that Mary, and
Gerald, and Blanche, had also, by God’s providence, been placed beyond
want. And here, looking into the squire’s face, one might have thought
that his heart fell a little also; for he had not so full a command of
his feelings as his brother-in-law, who had been so much more before the
world. To John, the assistant private secretary, was left a legacy of a
thousand pounds; and to Jane and Lucy certain sums in certain four per
cents., which were quite sufficient to add an efficient value to the
hands of those young ladies in the eyes of most prudent young would-be
Benedicts. Over and beyond this there was nothing but the furniture,
which he desired might be sold, and the proceeds divided among them all.
It might come to sixty or seventy pounds a piece, and pay the expenses
incidental on his death.
And then all men and women there and thereabouts said that old Dr.
Robarts had done well. His life had been good and prosperous, and his
will was just. And Mark, among others, so declared,—and was so convinced
in spite of his own little disappointment. And on the third morning after
the reading of the will Squire Crowdy, of Creamclotted Hall, altogether
got over his grief, and said that it was all right. And then it was
decided that Jane should go home with him,—for there was a brother squire
who, it was thought, might have an eye to Jane;—and Lucy, the younger,
should be taken to Framley Parsonage. In a fortnight from the receipt of
that letter Mark arrived at his own house with his sister Lucy under his
wing.
All this interfered greatly with Mark’s wise resolution as to the
Sowerby-bill incubus. In the first place he could not get to Barchester
as soon as he had intended, and then an idea came across him that
possibly it might be well that he should borrow the money of his brother
John, explaining the circumstances of course, and paying him due
interest. But he had not liked to broach the subject when they were there
in Exeter, standing, as it were, over their father’s grave, and so the
matter was postponed. There was still ample time for arrangement before
the bill would come due, and he would not tell Fanny till he had made
up his mind what that arrangement would be. It would kill her, he said
to himself over and over again, were he to tell her of it without being
able to tell her also that the means of liquidating the debt were to be
forthcoming.
And now I must say a word about Lucy Robarts. If one might only go on
without those descriptions, how pleasant it would all be! But Lucy
Robarts has to play a forward part in this little drama, and those who
care for such matters must be made to understand something of her form
and likeness. When last we mentioned her as appearing, though not in any
prominent position, at her brother’s wedding—she was only sixteen; but
now, at the time of her father’s death, somewhat over two years having
since elapsed, she was nearly nineteen. Laying aside for the sake of
clearness that indefinite term of girl—for girls are girls from the age
of three up to forty-three, if not previously married—dropping that
generic word, we may say that then, at that wedding of her brother, she
was a child; and now, at the death of her father, she was a woman.
Nothing, perhaps, adds so much to womanhood, turns the child so quickly
into a woman, as such death-bed scenes as these. Hitherto but little had
fallen to Lucy to do in the way of woman’s duties. Of money transactions
she had known nothing, beyond a jocose attempt to make her annual
allowance of twenty-five pounds cover all her personal wants—an attempt
which was made jocose by the loving bounty of her father. Her sister, who
was three years her elder—for John came in between them—had managed the
house; that is, she had made the tea and talked to the housekeeper about
the dinners. But Lucy had sat at her father’s elbow, had read to him of
evenings when he went to sleep, had brought him his slippers and looked
after the comforts of his easy-chair. All this she had done as a child;
but when she stood at the coffin head, and knelt at the coffin side, then
she was a woman.
She was smaller in stature than either of her three sisters, to all of
whom had been acceded the praise of being fine women—a eulogy which the
people of Exeter, looking back at the elder sisters, and the general
remembrance of them which pervaded the city, were not willing to extend
to Lucy. “Dear—dear!” had been said of her; “poor Lucy is not like a
Robarts at all; is she, now, Mrs. Pole?”—for as the daughters had become
fine women, so had the sons grown into stalwart men. And then Mrs. Pole
had answered: “Not a bit; is she, now? Only think what Blanche was at
her age. But she has fine eyes, for all that; and they do say she is the
cleverest of them all.”
And that, too, is so true a description of her, that I do not know that
I can add much to it. She was not like Blanche; for Blanche had a bright
complexion, and a fine neck, and a noble bust, _et vera incessu patuit
Dea_—a true goddess, that is, as far as the eye went. She had a grand
idea, moreover, of an apple-pie, and had not reigned eighteen months at
Creamclotted Hall before she knew all the mysteries of pigs and milk, and
most of those appertaining to cider and green geese. Lucy had no neck at
all worth speaking of,—no neck, I mean, that ever produced eloquence; she
was brown, too, and had addicted herself in nowise, as she undoubtedly
should have done, to larder utility. In regard to the neck and colour,
poor girl, she could not help herself; but in that other respect she must
be held as having wasted her opportunities.
But then what eyes she had! Mrs. Pole was right there. They flashed upon
you—not always softly; indeed not often softly, if you were a stranger to
her; but whether softly or savagely, with a brilliancy that dazzled you
as you looked at them. And who shall say of what colour they were? Green
probably, for most eyes are green—green or grey, if green be thought
uncomely for an eye-colour. But it was not their colour, but their fire,
which struck one with such surprise.
Lucy Robarts was thoroughly a brunette. Sometimes the dark tint of her
cheek was exquisitely rich and lovely, and the fringes of her eyes were
long and soft, and her small teeth, which one so seldom saw, were white
as pearls, and her hair, though short, was beautifully soft—by no means
black, but yet of so dark a shade of brown. Blanche, too, was noted for
fine teeth. They were white and regular and lofty as a new row of houses
in a French city. But then when she laughed she was all teeth; as she was
all neck when she sat at the piano. But Lucy’s teeth!—it was only now and
again, when in some sudden burst of wonder she would sit for a moment
with her lips apart, that the fine finished lines and dainty pearl-white
colour of that perfect set of ivory could be seen. Mrs. Pole would have
said a word of her teeth also but that to her they had never been made
visible.
“But they do say that she is the cleverest of them all,” Mrs. Pole had
added, very properly. The people of Exeter had expressed such an opinion,
and had been quite just in doing so. I do not know how it happens, but
it always does happen, that everybody in every small town knows which is
the brightest-witted in every family. In this respect Mrs. Pole had only
expressed public opinion, and public opinion was right. Lucy Robarts was
blessed with an intelligence keener than that of her brothers or sisters.
“To tell the truth, Mark, I admire Lucy more than I do Blanche.” This had
been said by Mrs. Robarts within a few hours of her having assumed that
name. “She’s not a beauty I know, but yet I do.”
“My dearest Fanny!” Mark had answered in a tone of surprise.
“I do then; of course people won’t think so; but I never seem to care
about regular beauties. Perhaps I envy them too much.”
What Mark said next need not be repeated, but everybody may be sure that
it contained some gross flattery for his young bride. He remembered
this, however, and had always called Lucy his wife’s pet. Neither of the
sisters had since that been at Framley; and though Fanny had spent a
week at Exeter on the occasion of Blanche’s marriage, it could hardly be
said that she was very intimate with them. Nevertheless, when it became
expedient that one of them should go to Framley, the remembrance of what
his wife had said immediately induced Mark to make the offer to Lucy;
and Jane, who was of a kindred soul with Blanche, was delighted to go to
Creamclotted Hall. The acres of Heavybed House, down in that fat Totnes
country, adjoined those of Creamclotted Hall, and Heavybed House still
wanted a mistress.
Fanny was delighted when the news reached her. It would of course
be proper that one of his sisters should live with Mark under their
present circumstances, and she was happy to think that that quiet little
bright-eyed creature was to come and nestle with her under the same roof.
The children should so love her—only not quite so much as they loved
mamma; and the snug little room that looks out over the porch, in which
the chimney never smokes, should be made ready for her; and she should be
allowed her share of driving the pony—which was a great sacrifice of self
on the part of Mrs. Robarts, and Lady Lufton’s best good-will should be
bespoken. In fact Lucy was not unfortunate in the destination that was
laid out for her.
Lady Lufton had of course heard of the doctor’s death, and had sent all
manner of kind messages to Mark, advising him not to hurry home by any
means until everything was settled at Exeter. And then she was told of
the new-comer that was expected in the parish. When she heard that it was
Lucy, the younger, she also was satisfied; for Blanche’s charms, though
indisputable, had not been altogether to her taste. If a second Blanche
were to arrive there what danger might there not be for young Lord Lufton!
“Quite right,” said her ladyship, “just what he ought to do. I think I
remember the young lady; rather small, is she not, and very retiring?”
“Rather small and very retiring. What a description!” said Lord Lufton.
“Never mind, Ludovic; some young ladies must be small, and some at least
ought to be retiring. We shall be delighted to make her acquaintance.”
“I remember your other sister-in-law very well,” said Lord Lufton. “She
was a beautiful woman.”
“I don’t think you will consider Lucy a beauty,” said Mrs. Robarts.
“Small, retiring, and—” so far Lord Lufton had gone, when Mrs. Robarts
finished by the word, “plain.” She had liked Lucy’s face, but she had
thought that others probably did not do so.
“Upon my word,” said Lady Lufton, “you don’t deserve to have a
sister-in-law. I remember her very well, and can say that she is not
plain. I was very much taken with her manner at your wedding, my dear;
and thought more of her than I did of the beauty, I can tell you.”
“I must confess I do not remember her at all,” said his lordship. And so
the conversation ended.
And then at the end of the fortnight Mark arrived with his sister. They
did not reach Framley till long after dark—somewhere between six and
seven, and by this time it was December. There was snow on the ground,
and frost in the air, and no moon, and cautious men when they went on the
roads had their horses’ shoes cocked. Such being the state of the weather
Mark’s gig had been nearly filled with cloaks and shawls when it was sent
over to Silverbridge. And a cart was sent for Lucy’s luggage, and all
manner of preparations had been made. Three times had Fanny gone herself
to see that the fire burned brightly in the little room over the porch,
and at the moment that the sound of the wheels was heard she was engaged
in opening her son’s mind as to the nature of an aunt. Hitherto papa and
mamma and Lady Lufton were all that he had known, excepting, of course,
the satellites of the nursery.
And then in three minutes Lucy was standing by the fire. Those three
minutes had been taken up in embraces between the husband and the wife.
Let who would be brought as a visitor to the house, after a fortnight’s
absence, she would kiss him before she welcomed any one else. But then
she turned to Lucy, and began to assist her with her cloaks.
“Oh, thank you,” said Lucy; “I’m not cold,—not very at least. Don’t
trouble yourself: I can do it.” But here she had made a false boast, for
her fingers had been so numbed that she could do nor undo anything.
They were all in black, of course; but the sombreness of Lucy’s clothes
struck Fanny much more than her own. They seemed to have swallowed her up
in their blackness, and to have made her almost an emblem of death. She
did not look up, but kept her face turned towards the fire, and seemed
almost afraid of her position.
“She may say what she likes, Fanny,” said Mark, “but she is very cold.
And so am I,—cold enough. You had better go up with her to her room. We
won’t do much in the dressing way to-night; eh, Lucy?”
In the bedroom Lucy thawed a little, and Fanny, as she kissed her, said
to herself that she had been wrong as to that word “plain.” Lucy, at any
rate, was not plain.
“You will be used to us soon,” said Fanny, “and then I hope we shall make
you comfortable.” And she took her sister-in-law’s hand and pressed it.
Lucy looked up at her, and her eyes then were tender enough. “I am sure I
shall be happy here,” she said, “with you. But—but—dear papa!” And then
they got into each other’s arms, and had a great bout of kissing and
crying. “Plain,” said Fanny to herself, as at last she got her guest’s
hair smoothed and the tears washed from her eyes—“plain! She has the
loveliest countenance that I ever looked at in my life!”
“Your sister is quite beautiful,” she said to Mark, as they talked her
over alone before they went to sleep that night.
“No, she’s not beautiful; but she’s a very good girl, and clever enough
too, in her sort of way.”
“I think her perfectly lovely. I never saw such eyes in my life before.”
“I’ll leave her in your hands then; you shall get her a husband.”
“That mayn’t be so easy. I don’t think she’d marry anybody.”
“Well, I hope not. But she seems to me to be exactly cut out for an old
maid;—to be aunt Lucy for ever and ever to your bairns.”
“And so she shall, with all my heart. But I don’t think she will, very
long. I have no doubt she will be hard to please; but if I were a man I
should fall in love with her at once. Did you ever observe her teeth,
Mark?”
“I don’t think I ever did.”
“You wouldn’t know whether any one had a tooth in their head, I believe.”
“No one, except you, my dear; and I know all yours by heart.”
“You are a goose.”
“And a very sleepy one; so, if you please, I’ll go to roost.” And thus
there was nothing more said about Lucy’s beauty on that occasion.
For the first two days Mrs. Robarts did not make much of her
sister-in-law. Lucy, indeed, was not demonstrative; and she was,
moreover, one of those few persons—for they are very few—who are
contented to go on with their existence without making themselves the
centre of any special outward circle. To the ordinary run of minds it is
impossible not to do this. A man’s own dinner is to himself so important
that he cannot bring himself to believe that it is a matter utterly
indifferent to every one else. A lady’s collection of baby-clothes, in
early years, and of house linen and curtain-fringes in later life, is
so very interesting to her own eyes, that she cannot believe but what
other people will rejoice to behold it. I would not, however, be held as
regarding this tendency as evil. It leads to conversation of some sort
among people, and perhaps to a kind of sympathy. Mrs. Jones will look at
Mrs. White’s linen-chest, hoping that Mrs. White may be induced to look
at hers. One can only pour out of a jug that which is in it. For the most
of us, if we do not talk of ourselves, or at any rate of the individual
circles of which we are the centres, we can talk of nothing. I cannot
hold with those who wish to put down the insignificant chatter of the
world. As for myself, I am always happy to look at Mrs. Jones’s linen,
and never omit an opportunity of giving her the details of my own dinners.
But Lucy Robarts had not this gift. She had come there as a stranger into
her sister-in-law’s house, and at first seemed as though she would be
contented in simply having her corner in the drawing-room and her place
at the parlour table. She did not seem to need the comforts of condolence
and open-hearted talking. I do not mean to say that she was moody, that
she did not answer when she was spoken to, or that she took no notice of
the children; but she did not at once throw herself and all her hopes and
sorrows into Fanny’s heart, as Fanny would have had her do.
Mrs. Robarts herself was what we call demonstrative. When she was angry
with Lady Lufton she showed it. And as since that time her love and
admiration for Lady Lufton had increased, she showed that also. When she
was in any way displeased with her husband, she could not hide it, even
though she tried to do so, and fancied herself successful;—no more than
she could hide her warm, constant, overflowing woman’s love. She could
not walk through a room hanging on her husband’s arm without seeming to
proclaim to every one there that she thought him the best man in it. She
was demonstrative, and therefore she was the more disappointed in that
Lucy did not rush at once with all her cares into her open heart.
“She is so quiet,” Fanny said to her husband.
“That’s her nature,” said Mark. “She always was quiet as a child. While
we were smashing everything, she would never crack a teacup.”
“I wish she would break something now,” said Fanny, “and then perhaps
we should get to talk about it.” But she did not on this account give
over loving her sister-in-law. She probably valued her the more,
unconsciously, for not having those aptitudes with which she herself was
endowed.
And then after two days Lady Lufton called; of course it may be supposed
that Fanny had said a good deal to her new inmate about Lady Lufton. A
neighbour of that kind in the country exercises so large an influence
upon the whole tenor of one’s life, that to abstain from such talk is
out of the question. Mrs. Robarts had been brought up almost under the
dowager’s wing, and of course she regarded her as being worthy of much
talking. Do not let persons on this account suppose that Mrs. Robarts was
a tuft-hunter, or a toadeater. If they do not see the difference they
have yet got to study the earliest principles of human nature.
Lady Lufton called, and Lucy was struck dumb. Fanny was particularly
anxious that her ladyship’s first impression should be favourable, and
to effect this, she especially endeavoured to throw the two together
during that visit. But in this she was unwise. Lady Lufton, however,
had woman-craft enough not to be led into any egregious error by Lucy’s
silence.
“And what day will you come and dine with us?” said Lady Lufton, turning
expressly to her old friend Fanny.
“Oh, do you name the day. We never have many engagements, you know.”
“Will Thursday do, Miss Robarts? You will meet nobody you know, only my
son; so you need not regard it as going out. Fanny here will tell you
that stepping over to Framley Court is no more going out, than when you
go from one room to another in the parsonage. Is it, Fanny?”
Fanny laughed and said that that stepping over to Framley Court certainly
was done so often that perhaps they did not think so much about it as
they ought to do.
“We consider ourselves a sort of happy family here, Miss Robarts, and are
delighted to have the opportunity of including you in the ménage.”
Lucy gave her ladyship one of her sweetest smiles, but what she said at
that moment was inaudible. It was plain, however, that she could not
bring herself even to go as far as Framley Court for her dinner just at
present. “It was very kind of Lady Lufton,” she said to Fanny; “but it
was so very soon, and—and—and if they would only go without her, she
would be so happy.” But as the object was to go with her—expressly to
take her there—the dinner was adjourned for a short time—_sine die_.