DELICATE HINTS.
Lady Lufton had been greatly rejoiced at that good deed which her son
did in giving up his Leicestershire hunting, and coming to reside for
the winter at Framley. It was proper, and becoming, and comfortable
in the extreme. An English nobleman ought to hunt in the county where
he himself owns the fields over which he rides; he ought to receive
the respect and honour due to him from his own tenants; he ought to
sleep under a roof of his own, and he ought also—so Lady Lufton
thought—to fall in love with a young embryo bride of his own
mother’s choosing.
And then it was so pleasant to have him there in the house. Lady
Lufton was not a woman who allowed her life to be what people in
common parlance call dull. She had too many duties, and thought too
much of them, to allow of her suffering from tedium and _ennui_.
But nevertheless the house was more joyous to her when he was there.
There was a reason for some little gaiety, which would never have
been attracted thither by herself, but which, nevertheless, she did
enjoy when it was brought about by his presence. She was younger and
brighter when he was there, thinking more of the future and less of
the past. She could look at him, and that alone was happiness to her.
And then he was pleasant-mannered with her; joking with her on her
little old-world prejudices in a tone that was musical to her ear as
coming from him; smiling on her, reminding her of those smiles which
she had loved so dearly when as yet he was all her own, lying there
in his little bed beside her chair. He was kind and gracious to her,
behaving like a good son, at any rate while he was there in her
presence. When we add, to this, her fears that he might not be so
perfect in his conduct when absent, we may well imagine that Lady
Lufton was pleased to have him there at Framley Court.
She had hardly said a word to him as to that five thousand pounds.
Many a night, as she lay thinking on her pillow, she said to herself
that no money had ever been better expended, since it had brought him
back to his own house. He had thanked her for it in his own open way,
declaring that he would pay it back to her during the coming year,
and comforting her heart by his rejoicing that the property had not
been sold.
“I don’t like the idea of parting with an acre of it,” he had said.
“Of course not, Ludovic. Never let the estate decrease in your hands.
It is only by such resolutions as that that English noblemen and
English gentlemen can preserve their country. I cannot bear to see
property changing hands.”
“Well, I suppose it’s a good thing to have land in the market
sometimes, so that the millionnaires may know what to do with their
money.”
“God forbid that yours should be there!” And the widow made a little
mental prayer that her son’s acres might be protected from the
millionnaires and other Philistines.
“Why, yes: I don’t exactly want to see a Jew tailor investing his
earnings at Lufton,” said the lord.
“Heaven forbid!” said the widow.
All this, as I have said, was very nice. It was manifest to her
ladyship, from his lordship’s way of talking, that no vital injury
had as yet been done: he had no cares on his mind, and spoke freely
about the property: but nevertheless there were clouds even now, at
this period of bliss, which somewhat obscured the brilliancy of Lady
Lufton’s sky. Why was Ludovic so slow in that affair of Griselda
Grantly? why so often in these latter winter days did he saunter over
to the parsonage? And then that terrible visit to Gatherum Castle!
What actually did happen at Gatherum Castle, she never knew. We,
however, are more intrusive, less delicate in our inquiries, and we
can say. He had a very bad day’s sport with the West Barsetshire. The
county is altogether short of foxes, and some one who understands
the matter must take that point up before they can do any good. And
after that he had had rather a dull dinner with the duke. Sowerby had
been there, and in the evening he and Sowerby had played billiards.
Sowerby had won a pound or two, and that had been the extent of the
damage done.
But those saunterings over to the parsonage might be more dangerous.
Not that it ever occurred to Lady Lufton as possible that her son
should fall in love with Lucy Robarts. Lucy’s personal attractions
were not of a nature to give ground for such a fear as that. But he
might turn the girl’s head with his chatter; she might be fool enough
to fancy any folly; and, moreover, people would talk. Why should he
go to the parsonage now more frequently than he had ever done before
Lucy came there?
And then her ladyship, in reference to the same trouble, hardly knew
how to manage her invitations to the parsonage. These hitherto had
been very frequent, and she had been in the habit of thinking that
they could hardly be too much so; but now she was almost afraid
to continue the custom. She could not ask the parson and his wife
without Lucy; and when Lucy was there, her son would pass the greater
part of the evening in talking to her, or playing chess with her. Now
this did disturb Lady Lufton not a little.
And then Lucy took it all so quietly. On her first arrival at Framley
she had been so shy, so silent, and so much awestruck by the grandeur
of Framley Court, that Lady Lufton had sympathized with her and
encouraged her. She had endeavoured to moderate the blaze of her
own splendour, in order that Lucy’s unaccustomed eyes might not be
dazzled. But all this was changed now. Lucy could listen to the young
lord’s voice by the hour together—without being dazzled in the
least.
Under these circumstances two things occurred to her. She would speak
either to her son or to Fanny Robarts, and by a little diplomacy have
this evil remedied. And then she had to determine on which step she
would take.
“Nothing could be more reasonable than Ludovic.” So at least she said
to herself over and over again. But then Ludovic understood nothing
about such matters; and he had, moreover, a habit, inherited from his
father, of taking the bit between his teeth whenever he suspected
interference. Drive him gently without pulling his mouth about, and
you might take him anywhere, almost at any pace; but a smart touch,
let it be ever so slight, would bring him on his haunches, and then
it might be a question whether you could get him another mile that
day. So that on the whole Lady Lufton thought that the other plan
would be the best. I have no doubt that Lady Lufton was right.
She got Fanny up into her own den one afternoon, and seated her
discreetly in an easy arm-chair, making her guest take off her
bonnet, and showing by various signs that the visit was regarded as
one of great moment.
“Fanny,” she said, “I want to speak to you about something that is
important and necessary to mention, and yet it is a very delicate
affair to speak of.” Fanny opened her eyes, and said that she hoped
that nothing was wrong.
“No, my dear, I think nothing is wrong: I hope so, and I think I may
say I’m sure of it; but then it’s always well to be on one’s guard.”
“Yes, it is,” said Fanny, who knew that something unpleasant was
coming—something as to which she might probably be called upon to
differ from her ladyship. Mrs. Robarts’ own fears, however, were
running entirely in the direction of her husband;—and, indeed,
Lady Lufton had a word or two to say on that subject also, only not
exactly now. A hunting parson was not at all to her taste; but that
matter might be allowed to remain in abeyance for a few days.
“Now, Fanny, you know that we have all liked your sister-in-law,
Lucy, very much.” And then Mrs. Robarts’ mind was immediately opened,
and she knew the rest as well as though it had all been spoken. “I
need hardly tell you that, for I am sure we have shown it.”
“You have, indeed, as you always do.”
“And you must not think that I am going to complain,” continued Lady
Lufton.
“I hope there is nothing to complain of,” said Fanny, speaking by
no means in a defiant tone, but humbly as it were, and deprecating
her ladyship’s wrath. Fanny had gained one signal victory over Lady
Lufton, and on that account, with a prudence equal to her generosity,
felt that she could afford to be submissive. It might, perhaps, not
be long before she would be equally anxious to conquer again.
“Well, no; I don’t think there is,” said Lady Lufton. “Nothing to
complain of; but a little chat between you and me may, perhaps, set
matters right, which, otherwise, might become troublesome.”
“Is it about Lucy?”
“Yes, my dear—about Lucy. She is a very nice, good girl, and a
credit to her father—”
“And a great comfort to us,” said Fanny.
“I am sure she is: she must be a very pleasant companion to you, and
so useful about the children; but—” And then Lady Lufton paused for
a moment; for she, eloquent and discreet as she always was, felt
herself rather at a loss for words to express her exact meaning.
“I don’t know what I should do without her,” said Fanny, speaking
with the object of assisting her ladyship in her embarrassment.
“But the truth is this: she and Lord Lufton are getting into the way
of being too much together—of talking to each other too exclusively.
I am sure you must have noticed it, Fanny. It is not that I suspect
any evil. I don’t think that I am suspicious by nature.”
“Oh! no,” said Fanny.
“But they will each of them get wrong ideas about the other, and
about themselves. Lucy will, perhaps, think that Ludovic means more
than he does, and Ludovic will—” But it was not quite so easy to say
what Ludovic might do or think; but Lady Lufton went on: “I am sure
that you understand me, Fanny, with your excellent sense and tact.
Lucy is clever, and amusing, and all that; and Ludovic, like all
young men, is perhaps ignorant that his attentions may be taken to
mean more than he intends—”
“You don’t think that Lucy is in love with him?”
“Oh dear, no—nothing of the kind. If I thought it had come to that,
I should recommend that she should be sent away altogether. I am sure
she is not so foolish as that.”
“I don’t think there is anything in it at all, Lady Lufton.”
“I don’t think there is, my dear, and therefore I would not for
worlds make any suggestion about it to Lord Lufton. I would not let
him suppose that I suspected Lucy of being so imprudent. But still,
it may be well that you should just say a word to her. A little
management now and then, in such matters, is so useful.”
“But what shall I say to her?”
“Just explain to her that any young lady who talks so much to the
same young gentleman will certainly be observed—that people will
accuse her of setting her cap at Lord Lufton. Not that I suspect
her—I give her credit for too much proper feeling: I know her
education has been good, and her principles are upright. But people
will talk of her. You must understand that, Fanny, as well as I do.”
Fanny could not help meditating whether proper feeling, education,
and upright principles did forbid Lucy Robarts to fall in love with
Lord Lufton; but her doubts on this subject, if she held any, were
not communicated to her ladyship. It had never entered into her mind
that a match was possible between Lord Lufton and Lucy Robarts, nor
had she the slightest wish to encourage it now that the idea was
suggested to her. On such a matter she could sympathize with Lady
Lufton, though she did not completely agree with her as to the
expediency of any interference. Nevertheless, she at once offered to
speak to Lucy.
“I don’t think that Lucy has any idea in her head upon the subject,”
said Mrs. Robarts.
“I dare say not—I don’t suppose she has. But young ladies sometimes
allow themselves to fall in love, and then to think themselves very
ill-used, just because they have had no idea in their head.”
“I will put her on her guard if you wish it, Lady Lufton.”
“Exactly, my dear; that is just it. Put her on her guard—that is all
that is necessary. She is a dear, good, clever girl, and it would be
very sad if anything were to interrupt our comfortable way of getting
on with her.”
Mrs. Robarts knew to a nicety the exact meaning of this threat. If
Lucy would persist in securing to herself so much of Lord Lufton’s
time and attention, her visits to Framley Court must become less
frequent. Lady Lufton would do much, very much, indeed, for her
friends at the parsonage; but not even for them could she permit her
son’s prospects in life to be endangered.
There was nothing more said between them, and Mrs. Robarts got up to
take her leave, having promised to speak to Lucy.
“You manage everything so perfectly,” said Lady Lufton, as she
pressed Mrs. Robarts’ hand, “that I am quite at ease now that I find
you will agree with me.” Mrs. Robarts did not exactly agree with her
ladyship, but she hardly thought it worth her while to say so.
Mrs. Robarts immediately started off on her walk to her own home, and
when she had got out of the grounds into the road, where it makes a
turn towards the parsonage, nearly opposite to Podgens’ shop, she
saw Lord Lufton on horseback, and Lucy standing beside him. It was
already nearly five o’clock, and it was getting dusk; but as she
approached, or rather as she came suddenly within sight of them, she
could see that they were in close conversation. Lord Lufton’s face
was towards her, and his horse was standing still; he was leaning
over towards his companion, and the whip, which he held in his right
hand, hung almost over her arm and down her back, as though his hand
had touched and perhaps rested on her shoulder. She was standing by
his side, looking up into his face, with one gloved hand resting on
the horse’s neck. Mrs. Robarts, as she saw them, could not but own
that there might be cause for Lady Lufton’s fears.
But then Lucy’s manner, as Mrs. Robarts approached, was calculated to
dissipate any such fears, and to prove that there was no ground for
them. She did not move from her position, or allow her hand to drop,
or show that she was in any way either confused or conscious. She
stood her ground, and when her sister-in-law came up was smiling and
at her ease.
“Lord Lufton wants me to learn to ride,” said she.
“To learn to ride!” said Fanny, not knowing what answer to make to
such a proposition.
“Yes,” said he. “This horse would carry her beautifully: he is as
quiet as a lamb, and I made Gregory go out with him yesterday with a
sheet hanging over him like a lady’s habit, and the man got up into a
lady’s saddle.”
“I think Gregory would make a better hand of it than Lucy.”
“The horse cantered with him as though he had carried a lady all his
life, and his mouth is like velvet; indeed, that is his fault—he is
too soft-mouthed.”
“I suppose that’s the same sort of thing as a man being
soft-hearted,” said Lucy.
“Exactly: you ought to ride them both with a very light hand. They
are difficult cattle to manage, but very pleasant when you know how
to do it.”
“But you see I don’t know how to do it,” said Lucy.
“As regards the horse, you will learn in two days, and I do hope you
will try. Don’t you think it will be an excellent thing for her, Mrs.
Robarts?”
“Lucy has got no habit,” said Mrs. Robarts, making use of the excuse
common on all such occasions.
“There is one of Justinia’s in the house, I know. She always leaves
one here, in order that she may be able to ride when she comes.”
“She would not think of taking such a liberty with Lady Meredith’s
things,” said Fanny, almost frightened at the proposal.
“Of course it is out of the question, Fanny,” said Lucy, now speaking
rather seriously. “In the first place, I would not take Lord Lufton’s
horse; in the second place, I would not take Lady Meredith’s habit;
in the third place, I should be a great deal too much frightened;
and, lastly, it is quite out of the question for a great many other
very good reasons.”
“Nonsense,” said Lord Lufton.
“A great deal of nonsense,” said Lucy, laughing, “but all of it
of Lord Lufton’s talking. But we are getting cold—are we not,
Fanny?—so we will wish you good-night.” And then the two ladies
shook hands with him, and walked on towards the parsonage.
That which astonished Mrs. Robarts the most in all this was the
perfectly collected manner in which Lucy spoke and conducted herself.
This connected, as she could not but connect it, with the air of
chagrin with which Lord Lufton received Lucy’s decision, made it
manifest to Mrs. Robarts that Lord Lufton was annoyed because Lucy
would not consent to learn to ride; whereas she, Lucy herself, had
given her refusal in a firm and decided tone, as though resolved that
nothing more should be said about it.
They walked on in silence for a minute or two, till they reached the
parsonage gate, and then Lucy said, laughing, “Can’t you fancy me
sitting on that great big horse? I wonder what Lady Lufton would say
if she saw me there, and his lordship giving me my first lesson?”
“I don’t think she would like it,” said Fanny.
“I’m sure she would not. But I will not try her temper in that
respect. Sometimes I fancy that she does not even like seeing Lord
Lufton talking to me.”
“She does not like it, Lucy, when she sees him flirting with you.”
This Mrs. Robarts said rather gravely, whereas Lucy had been speaking
in a half-bantering tone. As soon as even the word flirting was out
of Fanny’s mouth, she was conscious that she had been guilty of
an injustice in using it. She had wished to say something which
would convey to her sister-in-law an idea of what Lady Lufton would
dislike; but in doing so, she had unintentionally brought against her
an accusation.
“Flirting, Fanny!” said Lucy, standing still in the path, and looking
up into her companion’s face with all her eyes. “Do you mean to say
that I have been flirting with Lord Lufton?”
“I did not say that.”
“Or that I have allowed him to flirt with me?”
“I did not mean to shock you, Lucy.”
“What did you mean, Fanny?”
“Why, just this: that Lady Lufton would not be pleased if he paid you
marked attentions, and if you received them;—just like that affair
of the riding; it was better to decline it.”
“Of course I declined it; of course I never dreamt of accepting such
an offer. Go riding about the country on his horses! What have I
done, Fanny, that you should suppose such a thing?”
“You have done nothing, dearest.”
“Then why did you speak as you did just now?”
“Because I wished to put you on your guard. You know, Lucy, that I
do not intend to find fault with you; but you may be sure, as a rule,
that intimate friendships between young gentlemen and young ladies
are dangerous things.”
They then walked up to the hall-door in silence. When they had
reached it, Lucy stood in the doorway instead of entering it, and
said, “Fanny, let us take another turn together, if you are not
tired.”
“No, I’m not tired.”
“It will be better that I should understand you at once,”—and then
they again moved away from the house. “Tell me truly now, do you
think that Lord Lufton and I have been flirting?”
“I do think that he is a little inclined to flirt with you.”
“And Lady Lufton has been asking you to lecture me about it?”
Poor Mrs. Robarts hardly knew what to say. She thought well of all
the persons concerned, and was very anxious to behave well by all
of them;—was particularly anxious to create no ill feeling, and
wished that everybody should be comfortable, and on good terms with
everybody else. But yet the truth was forced out of her when this
question was asked so suddenly.
“Not to lecture you, Lucy,” she said at last.
“Well, to preach to me, or to talk to me, or to give me a lesson;
to say something that shall drive me to put my back up against Lord
Lufton?”
“To caution you, dearest. Had you heard what she said, you would
hardly have felt angry with Lady Lufton.”
“Well, to caution me. It is such a pleasant thing for a girl to be
cautioned against falling in love with a gentleman, especially when
the gentleman is very rich, and a lord, and all that sort of thing!”
“Nobody for a moment attributes anything wrong to you, Lucy.”
“Anything wrong—no. I don’t know whether it would be anything wrong,
even if I were to fall in love with him. I wonder whether they
cautioned Griselda Grantly when she was here? I suppose when young
lords go about, all the girls are cautioned as a matter of course.
Why do they not label him ‘dangerous’?” And then again they were
silent for a moment, as Mrs. Robarts did not feel that she had
anything further to say on the matter.
“‘Poison’ should be the word with any one so fatal as Lord Lufton;
and he ought to be made up of some particular colour, for fear he
should be swallowed in mistake.”
“You will be safe, you see,” said Fanny, laughing, “as you have been
specially cautioned as to this individual bottle.”
“Ah! but what’s the use of that after I have had so many doses? It is
no good telling me about it now, when the mischief is done,—after I
have been taking it for I don’t know how long. Dear! dear! dear! and
I regarded it as a mere commonplace powder, good for the complexion.
I wonder whether it’s too late, or whether there’s any antidote?”
Mrs. Robarts did not always quite understand her sister-in-law, and
now she was a little at a loss. “I don’t think there’s much harm done
yet on either side,” she said, cheerily.
“Ah! you don’t know, Fanny. But I do think that if I die—as I
shall—I feel I shall;—and if so, I do think it ought to go very
hard with Lady Lufton. Why didn’t she label him ‘dangerous’ in time?”
And then they went into the house and up to their own rooms.
It was difficult for any one to understand Lucy’s state of mind at
present, and it can hardly be said that she understood it herself.
She felt that she had received a severe blow in having been thus made
the subject of remark with reference to Lord Lufton. She knew that
her pleasant evenings at Framley Court were now over, and that she
could not again talk to him in an unrestrained tone and without
embarrassment. She had felt the air of the whole place to be very
cold before her intimacy with him, and now it must be cold again.
Two homes had been open to her, Framley Court and the parsonage; and
now, as far as comfort was concerned, she must confine herself to
the latter. She could not again be comfortable in Lady Lufton’s
drawing-room.
But then she could not help asking herself whether Lady Lufton was
not right. She had had courage enough, and presence of mind, to joke
about the matter when her sister-in-law spoke to her, and yet she
was quite aware that it was no joking matter. Lord Lufton had not
absolutely made love to her, but he had latterly spoken to her
in a manner which she knew was not compatible with that ordinary
comfortable masculine friendship with the idea of which she had once
satisfied herself. Was not Fanny right when she said that intimate
friendships of that nature were dangerous things?
Yes, Lucy, very dangerous. Lucy, before she went to bed that night,
had owned to herself that they were so; and lying there with
sleepless eyes and a moist pillow, she was driven to confess that the
label would in truth be now too late, that the caution had come to
her after the poison had been swallowed. Was there any antidote? That
was all that was left for her to consider. But, nevertheless, on the
following morning she could appear quite at her ease. And when Mark
had left the house after breakfast, she could still joke with Fanny
as to Lady Lufton’s poison cupboard.