AMANTIUM IRÆ AMORIS INTEGRATIO.
And now, with my reader’s consent, I will follow the postman with
that letter to Framley; not by its own circuitous route indeed, or by
the same mode of conveyance; for that letter went into Barchester by
the Courcy night mail-cart, which, on its road, passes through the
villages of Uffley and Chaldicotes, reaching Barchester in time for
the up mail-train to London. By that train, the letter was sent
towards the metropolis as far as the junction of the Barset branch
line, but there it was turned in its course, and came down again by
the main line as far as Silverbridge; at which place, between six
and seven in the morning, it was shouldered by the Framley footpost
messenger, and in due course delivered at the Framley Parsonage
exactly as Mrs. Robarts had finished reading prayers to the four
servants. Or, I should say rather, that such would in its usual
course have been that letter’s destiny. As it was, however, it
reached Silverbridge on Sunday, and lay there till the Monday, as
the Framley people have declined their Sunday post. And then again,
when the letter was delivered at the parsonage, on that wet Monday
morning, Mrs. Robarts was not at home. As we are all aware, she was
staying with her ladyship at Framley Court.
“Oh, but it’s mortial wet,” said the shivering postman as he handed
in that and the vicar’s newspaper. The vicar was a man of the world,
and took the _Jupiter_.
“Come in, Robin postman, and warm theeself awhile,” said Jemima the
cook, pushing a stool a little to one side, but still well in front
of the big kitchen fire.
“Well, I dudna jist know how it’ll be. The wery ’edges ’as eyes
and tells on me in Silverbridge, if I so much as stops to pick a
blackberry.”
“There bain’t no hedges here, mon, nor yet no blackberries; so sit
thee down and warm theeself. That’s better nor blackberries I’m
thinking,” and she handed him a bowl of tea with a slice of buttered
toast.
Robin postman took the proffered tea, put his dripping hat on the
ground, and thanked Jemima cook. “But I dudna jist know how it’ll
be,” said he; “only it do pour so tarnation heavy.” Which among us,
O my readers, could have withstood that temptation?
Such was the circuitous course of Mark’s letter; but as it left
Chaldicotes on Saturday evening, and reached Mrs. Robarts on the
following morning, or would have done, but for that intervening
Sunday, doing all its peregrinations during the night, it may be held
that its course of transport was not inconveniently arranged. We,
however, will travel by a much shorter route.
Robin, in the course of his daily travels, passed, first the
post-office at Framley, then the Framley Court back entrance, and
then the vicar’s house, so that on this wet morning Jemima cook was
not able to make use of his services in transporting this letter back
to her mistress; for Robin had got another village before him,
expectant of its letters.
“Why didn’t thee leave it, mon, with Mr. Applejohn at the Court?” Mr.
Applejohn was the butler who took the letter-bag. “Thee know’st as
how missus was there.”
And then Robin, mindful of the tea and toast, explained to her
courteously how the law made it imperative on him to bring the letter
to the very house that was indicated, let the owner of the letter be
where she might; and he laid down the law very satisfactorily with
sundry long-worded quotations. Not to much effect, however, for the
housemaid called him an oaf; and Robin would decidedly have had the
worst of it had not the gardener come in and taken his part. “They
women knows nothin’, and understands nothin’,” said the gardener.
“Give us hold of the letter. I’ll take it up to the house. It’s the
master’s fist.” And then Robin postman went on one way, and the
gardener, he went the other. The gardener never disliked an excuse
for going up to the Court gardens, even on so wet a day as this.
Mrs. Robarts was sitting over the drawing-room fire with Lady
Meredith, when her husband’s letter was brought to her. The Framley
Court letter-bag had been discussed at breakfast; but that was now
nearly an hour since, and Lady Lufton, as was her wont, was away
in her own room writing her own letters, and looking after her own
matters: for Lady Lufton was a person who dealt in figures herself,
and understood business almost as well as Harold Smith. And on that
morning she also had received a letter which had displeased her not
a little. Whence arose this displeasure neither Mrs. Robarts nor Lady
Meredith knew; but her ladyship’s brow had grown black at breakfast
time; she had bundled up an ominous-looking epistle into her bag
without speaking of it, and had left the room immediately that
breakfast was over.
“There’s something wrong,” said Sir George.
“Mamma does fret herself so much about Ludovic’s money matters,” said
Lady Meredith. Ludovic was Lord Lufton,—Ludovic Lufton, Baron Lufton
of Lufton, in the county of Oxfordshire.
“And yet I don’t think Lufton gets much astray,” said Sir George,
as he sauntered out of the room. “Well, Justy; we’ll put off going
then till to-morrow; but remember, it must be the first train.”
Lady Meredith said she would remember, and then they went into the
drawing-room, and there Mrs. Robarts received her letter.
Fanny, when she read it, hardly at first realized to herself the
idea that her husband, the clergyman of Framley, the family clerical
friend of Lady Lufton’s establishment, was going to stay with the
Duke of Omnium. It was so thoroughly understood at Framley Court that
the duke and all belonging to him was noxious and damnable. He was a
Whig, he was a bachelor, he was a gambler, he was immoral in every
way, he was a man of no church principle, a corrupter of youth, a
sworn foe of young wives, a swallower up of small men’s patrimonies;
a man whom mothers feared for their sons, and sisters for their
brothers; and worse again, whom fathers had cause to fear for their
daughters, and brothers for their sisters;—a man who, with his
belongings, dwelt, and must dwell, poles asunder from Lady Lufton and
her belongings!
And it must be remembered that all these evil things were fully
believed by Mrs. Robarts. Could it really be that her husband was
going to dwell in the halls of Apollyon, to shelter himself beneath
the wings of this very Lucifer? A cloud of sorrow settled upon her
face, and then she read the letter again very slowly, not omitting
the tell-tale postscript.
“Oh, Justinia!” at last she said.
“What, have you got bad news, too?”
“I hardly know how to tell you what has occurred. There; I suppose
you had better read it;” and she handed her husband’s epistle to Lady
Meredith,—keeping back, however, the postscript.
“What on earth will her ladyship say now?” said Lady Meredith, as she
folded the paper, and replaced it in the envelope.
“What had I better do, Justinia? how had I better tell her?” And then
the two ladies put their heads together, bethinking themselves how
they might best deprecate the wrath of Lady Lufton. It had been
arranged that Mrs. Robarts should go back to the parsonage after
lunch, and she had persisted in her intention after it had been
settled that the Merediths were to stay over that evening. Lady
Meredith now advised her friend to carry out this determination
without saying anything about her husband’s terrible iniquities, and
then to send the letter up to Lady Lufton as soon as she reached the
parsonage. “Mamma will never know that you received it here,” said
Lady Meredith.
But Mrs. Robarts would not consent to this. Such a course seemed to
her to be cowardly. She knew that her husband was doing wrong; she
felt that he knew it himself; but still it was necessary that she
should defend him. However terrible might be the storm, it must break
upon her own head. So she at once went up and tapped at Lady Lufton’s
private door; and as she did so Lady Meredith followed her.
“Come in,” said Lady Lufton, and the voice did not sound soft and
pleasant. When they entered, they found her sitting at her little
writing table, with her head resting on her arm, and that letter
which she had received that morning was lying open on the table
before her. Indeed there were two letters now there, one from a
London lawyer to herself, and the other from her son to that London
lawyer. It needs only be explained that the subject of those letters
was the immediate sale of that outlying portion of the Lufton
property in Oxfordshire, as to which Mr. Sowerby once spoke. Lord
Lufton had told the lawyer that the thing must be done at once,
adding that his friend Robarts would have explained the whole affair
to his mother. And then the lawyer had written to Lady Lufton, as
indeed was necessary; but unfortunately Lady Lufton had not hitherto
heard a word of the matter.
In her eyes the sale of family property was horrible; the fact that a
young man with some fifteen or twenty thousand a year should require
subsidiary money was horrible; that her own son should have not
written to her himself was horrible; and it was also horrible that
her own pet, the clergyman whom she had brought there to be her
son’s friend, should be mixed up in the matter,—should be cognizant
of it while she was not cognizant,—should be employed in it as a
go-between and agent in her son’s bad courses. It was all horrible,
and Lady Lufton was sitting there with a black brow and an uneasy
heart. As regarded our poor parson, we may say that in this matter
he was blameless, except that he had hitherto lacked the courage to
execute his friend’s commission.
“What is it, Fanny?” said Lady Lufton as soon as the door was opened;
“I should have been down in half-an-hour, if you wanted me,
Justinia.”
“Fanny has received a letter which makes her wish to speak to you at
once,” said Lady Meredith. “What letter, Fanny?”
Poor Fanny’s heart was in her mouth; she held it in her hand, but had
not yet quite made up her mind whether she would show it bodily to
Lady Lufton.
“From Mr. Robarts,” she said.
“Well; I suppose he is going to stay another week at Chaldicotes. For
my part I should be as well pleased;” and Lady Lufton’s voice was
not friendly, for she was thinking of that farm in Oxfordshire. The
imprudence of the young is very sore to the prudence of their elders.
No woman could be less covetous, less grasping than Lady Lufton; but
the sale of a portion of the old family property was to her as the
loss of her own heart’s blood.
“Here is the letter, Lady Lufton; perhaps you had better read it;”
and Fanny handed it to her, again keeping back the postscript. She
had read and re-read the letter downstairs, but could not make out
whether her husband had intended her to show it. From the line of the
argument she thought that he must have done so. At any rate he said
for himself more than she could say for him, and so, probably, it was
best that her ladyship should see it.
Lady Lufton took it, and read it, and her face grew blacker and
blacker. Her mind was set against the writer before she began it, and
every word in it tended to make her feel more estranged from him.
“Oh, he is going to the palace, is he?—well; he must choose his own
friends. Harold Smith one of his party! It’s a pity, my dear, he did
not see Miss Proudie before he met you, he might have lived to be the
bishop’s chaplain. Gatherum Castle! You don’t mean to tell me that he
is going there? Then I tell you fairly, Fanny, that I have done with
him.”
“Oh, Lady Lufton, don’t say that,” said Mrs. Robarts, with tears in
her eyes.
“Mamma, mamma, don’t speak in that way,” said Lady Meredith.
“But my dear, what am I to say? I must speak in that way. You would
not wish me to speak falsehoods, would you? A man must choose for
himself, but he can’t live with two different sets of people; at
least, not if I belong to one and the Duke of Omnium to the other.
The bishop going indeed! If there be anything that I hate it is
hypocrisy.”
“There is no hypocrisy in that, Lady Lufton.”
“But I say there is, Fanny. Very strange, indeed! ‘Put off his
defence!’ Why should a man need any defence to his wife if he acts in
a straightforward way? His own language condemns him: ‘Wrong to stand
out!’ Now, will either of you tell me that Mr. Robarts would really
have thought it wrong to refuse that invitation? I say that that is
hypocrisy. There is no other word for it.”
By this time the poor wife, who had been in tears, was wiping them
away and preparing for action. Lady Lufton’s extreme severity gave
her courage. She knew that it behoved her to fight for her husband
when he was thus attacked. Had Lady Lufton been moderate in her
remarks Mrs. Robarts would not have had a word to say.
“My husband may have been ill-judged,” she said, “but he is no
hypocrite.”
“Very well, my dear, I dare say you know better than I; but to me it
looks extremely like hypocrisy: eh, Justinia?”
“Oh, mamma, do be moderate.”
“Moderate! That’s all very well. How is one to moderate one’s
feelings when one has been betrayed?”
“You do not mean that Mr. Robarts has betrayed you?” said the wife.
“Oh, no; of course not.” And then she went on reading the letter:
“‘Seem to have been standing in judgment upon the duke.’ Might he
not use the same argument as to going into any house in the kingdom,
however infamous? We must all stand in judgment one upon another in
that sense. ‘Crawley!’ Yes; if he were a little more like Mr. Crawley
it would be a good thing for me, and for the parish, and for you too,
my dear. God forgive me for bringing him here; that’s all.”
“Lady Lufton, I must say that you are very hard upon him—very hard.
I did not expect it from such a friend.”
“My dear, you ought to know me well enough to be sure that I shall
speak my mind. ‘Written to Jones’—yes; it is easy enough to write to
poor Jones. He had better write to Jones, and bid him do the whole
duty. Then he can go and be the duke’s domestic chaplain.”
“I believe my husband does as much of his own duty as any clergyman
in the whole diocese,” said Mrs. Robarts, now again in tears.
“And you are to take his work in the school; you and Mrs. Podgens.
What with his curate and his wife and Mrs. Podgens, I don’t see why
he should come back at all.”
“Oh, mamma,” said Justinia, “pray, pray don’t be so harsh to her.”
“Let me finish it, my dear;—oh, here I come. ‘Tell her ladyship my
whereabouts.’ He little thought you’d show me this letter.”
“Didn’t he?” said Mrs. Robarts, putting out her hand to get it back,
but in vain. “I thought it was for the best; I did indeed.”
“I had better finish it now, if you please. What is this? How does
he dare send his ribald jokes to me in such a matter? No, I do not
suppose I ever shall like Dr. Proudie; I have never expected it. A
matter of conscience with him! Well—well, well. Had I not read it
myself, I could not have believed it of him. I would not positively
have believed it. ‘Coming from my parish he could not go to the Duke
of Omnium!’ And it is what I would wish to have said. People fit for
this parish should not be fit for the Duke of Omnium’s house. And I
had trusted that he would have this feeling more strongly than any
one else in it. I have been deceived—that’s all.”
“He has done nothing to deceive you, Lady Lufton.”
“I hope he will not have deceived you, my dear. ‘More money;’ yes,
it is probable that he will want more money. There is your letter,
Fanny. I am very sorry for it. I can say nothing more.” And she
folded up the letter and gave it back to Mrs. Robarts.
“I thought it right to show it you,” said Mrs. Robarts.
“It did not much matter whether you did or no; of course I must have
been told.”
“He especially begs me to tell you.”
“Why, yes; he could not very well have kept me in the dark in such
a matter. He could not neglect his own work, and go and live with
gamblers and adulterers at the Duke of Omnium’s without my knowing
it.”
And now Fanny Robarts’s cup was full, full to the overflowing. When
she heard these words she forgot all about Lady Lufton, all about
Lady Meredith, and remembered only her husband,—that he was her
husband, and, in spite of his faults, a good and loving husband;—and
that other fact also she remembered, that she was his wife.
“Lady Lufton,” she said, “you forget yourself in speaking in that way
of my husband.”
“What!” said her ladyship; “you are to show me such a letter as that,
and I am not to tell you what I think?”
“Not if you think such hard things as that. Even you are not
justified in speaking to me in that way, and I will not hear it.”
“Heighty-tighty!” said her ladyship.
“Whether or no he is right in going to the Duke of Omnium’s, I will
not pretend to judge. He is the judge of his own actions, and neither
you nor I.”
“And when he leaves you with the butcher’s bill unpaid and no money
to buy shoes for the children, who will be the judge then?”
“Not you, Lady Lufton. If such bad days should ever come—and neither
you nor I have a right to expect them—I will not come to you in my
troubles; not after this.”
“Very well, my dear. You may go to the Duke of Omnium if that suits
you better.”
“Fanny, come away,” said Lady Meredith. “Why should you try to anger
my mother?”
“I don’t want to anger her; but I won’t hear him abused in that way
without speaking up for him. If I don’t defend him, who will? Lady
Lufton has said terrible things about him; and they are not true.”
“Oh, Fanny!” said Justinia.
“Very well, very well!” said Lady Lufton. “This is the sort of return
that one gets.”
“I don’t know what you mean by return, Lady Lufton: but would you
wish me to stand by quietly and hear such things said of my husband?
He does not live with such people as you have named. He does not
neglect his duties. If every clergyman were as much in his parish,
it would be well for some of them. And in going to such a house as
the Duke of Omnium’s it does make a difference that he goes there
in company with the bishop. I can’t explain why, but I know that it
does.”
“Especially when the bishop is coupled up with the devil, as Mr.
Robarts has done,” said Lady Lufton; “he can join the duke with them
and then they’ll stand for the three Graces, won’t they, Justinia?”
And Lady Lufton laughed a bitter little laugh at her own wit.
“I suppose I may go now, Lady Lufton.”
“Oh, yes, certainly, my dear.”
“I am sorry if I have made you angry with me; but I will not allow
any one to speak against Mr. Robarts without answering them. You have
been very unjust to him; and even though I do anger you, I must say
so.”
“Come, Fanny; this is too bad,” said Lady Lufton. “You have been
scolding me for the last half-hour because I would not congratulate
you on this new friend that your husband has made, and now you are
going to begin it all over again. That is more than I can stand. If
you have nothing else particular to say, you might as well leave me.”
And Lady Lufton’s face as she spoke was unbending, severe, and harsh.
Mrs. Robarts had never before been so spoken to by her old friend;
indeed she had never been so spoken to by any one, and she hardly
knew how to bear herself.
“Very well, Lady Lufton,” she said; “then I will go. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” said Lady Lufton, and turning herself to her table she
began to arrange her papers. Fanny had never before left Framley
Court to go back to her own parsonage without a warm embrace. Now she
was to do so without even having her hand taken. Had it come to this,
that there was absolutely to be a quarrel between them,—a quarrel
for ever?
“Fanny is going, you know, mamma,” said Lady Meredith. “She will be
home before you are down again.”
“I cannot help it, my dear. Fanny must do as she pleases. I am not to
be the judge of her actions. She has just told me so.”
Mrs. Robarts had said nothing of the kind, but she was far too
proud to point this out. So with a gentle step she retreated
through the door, and then Lady Meredith, having tried what a
conciliatory whisper with her mother would do, followed her. Alas,
the conciliatory whisper was altogether ineffectual!
The two ladies said nothing as they descended the stairs, but when
they had regained the drawing-room they looked with blank horror into
each other’s faces. What were they to do now? Of such a tragedy as
this they had had no remotest preconception. Was it absolutely the
case that Fanny Robarts was to walk out of Lady Lufton’s house as a
declared enemy,—she who, before her marriage as well as since, had
been almost treated as an adopted daughter of the family?
“Oh, Fanny, why did you answer my mother in that way?” said Lady
Meredith. “You saw that she was vexed. She had other things to vex
her besides this about Mr. Robarts.”
“And would not you answer any one who attacked Sir George?”
“No, not my own mother. I would let her say what she pleased, and
leave Sir George to fight his own battles.”
“Ah, but it is different with you. You are her daughter, and Sir
George—she would not dare to speak in that way as to Sir George’s
doings.”
“Indeed she would, if it pleased her. I am sorry I let you go up to
her.”
“It is as well that it should be over, Justinia. As those are her
thoughts about Mr. Robarts, it is quite as well that we should know
them. Even for all that I owe to her, and all the love I bear to you,
I will not come to this house if I am to hear my husband abused;—not
into any house.”
“My dearest Fanny, we all know what happens when two angry people get
together.”
“I was not angry when I went up to her; not in the least.”
“It is no good looking back. What are we to do now, Fanny?”
“I suppose I had better go home,” said Mrs. Robarts. “I will go and
put my things up, and then I will send James for them.”
“Wait till after lunch, and then you will be able to kiss my mother
before you leave us.”
“No, Justinia; I cannot wait. I must answer Mr. Robarts by this post,
and I must think what I have to say to him. I could not write that
letter here, and the post goes at four.” And Mrs. Robarts got up from
her chair, preparatory to her final departure.
“I shall come to you before dinner,” said Lady Meredith; “and if I
can bring you good tidings, I shall expect you to come back here with
me. It is out of the question that I should go away from Framley
leaving you and my mother at enmity with each other.”
To this Mrs. Robarts made no answer; and in a very few minutes
afterwards she was in her own nursery, kissing her children, and
teaching the elder one to say something about papa. But, even as she
taught him, the tears stood in her eyes, and the little fellow knew
that everything was not right.
And there she sat till about two, doing little odds and ends of
things for the children, and allowing that occupation to stand as an
excuse to her for not commencing her letter. But then there remained
only two hours to her, and it might be that the letter would be
difficult in the writing—would require thought and changes, and must
needs be copied, perhaps more than once. As to the money, that she
had in the house—as much, at least, as Mark now wanted, though the
sending of it would leave her nearly penniless. She could, however,
in case of personal need, resort to Davis as desired by him.
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 dare say; 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’s 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.