LADY LUFTON’S AMBASSADOR.
And then, in the days which followed, that friend of Mr. Crawley’s,
whose name, by-the-by, is yet to be mentioned, received quick
and great promotion. Mr. Arabin by name he was then;—Dr. Arabin
afterwards, when that quick and great promotion reached its climax.
He had been simply a Fellow of Lazarus in those former years. Then he
became Vicar of St. Ewold’s, in East Barsetshire, and had not yet got
himself settled there when he married the Widow Bold, a widow with
belongings in land and funded money, and with but one small baby as
an encumbrance. Nor had he even yet married her,—had only engaged
himself so to do, when they made him Dean of Barchester—all which
may be read in the diocesan and county chronicles.
And now that he was wealthy, the new dean did contrive to pay the
debts of his poor friend, some lawyer of Camelford assisting him.
It was but a paltry schedule after all, amounting in the total to
something not much above a hundred pounds. And then, in the course
of eighteen months, this poor piece of preferment fell in the dean’s
way, this incumbency of Hogglestock with its stipend reaching one
hundred and thirty pounds a year. Even that was worth double the
Cornish curacy, and there was, moreover, a house attached to it. Poor
Mrs. Crawley, when she heard of it, thought that their struggles
of poverty were now well nigh over. What might not be done with a
hundred and thirty pounds by people who had lived for ten years on
seventy?
And so they moved away out of that cold, bleak country, carrying with
them their humble household gods, and settled themselves in another
country, cold and bleak also, but less terribly so than the former.
They settled themselves, and again began their struggles against
man’s hardness and the devil’s zeal. I have said that Mr. Crawley was
a stern, unpleasant man; and it certainly was so. The man must be
made of very sterling stuff, whom continued and undeserved misfortune
does not make unpleasant. This man had so far succumbed to grief,
that it had left upon him its marks, palpable and not to be effaced.
He cared little for society, judging men to be doing evil who did
care for it. He knew as a fact, and believed with all his heart,
that these sorrows had come to him from the hand of God, and that
they would work for his weal in the long run; but not the less did
they make him morose, silent, and dogged. He had always at his
heart a feeling that he and his had been ill-used, and too often
solaced himself, at the devil’s bidding, with the conviction that
eternity would make equal that which life in this world had made so
unequal;—the last bait that with which the devil angles after those
who are struggling to elude his rod and line.
The Framley property did not run into the parish of Hogglestock; but
nevertheless Lady Lufton did what she could in the way of kindness to
these new-comers. Providence had not supplied Hogglestock with a Lady
Lufton, or with any substitute in the shape of lord or lady, squire
or squiress. The Hogglestock farmers, male and female, were a rude,
rough set, not bordering in their social rank on the farmer gentle;
and Lady Lufton, knowing this, and hearing something of these
Crawleys from Mrs. Arabin, the dean’s wife, trimmed her lamps, so
that they should shed a wider light, and pour forth some of their
influence on that forlorn household.
And as regards Mrs. Crawley, Lady Lufton by no means found that
her work and good-will were thrown away. Mrs. Crawley accepted her
kindness with thankfulness, and returned to some of the softnesses of
life under her hand. As for dining at Framley Court, that was out of
the question. Mr. Crawley, she knew, would not hear of it, even if
other things were fitting and appliances were at command. Indeed Mrs.
Crawley at once said that she felt herself unfit to go through such
a ceremony with anything like comfort. The dean, she said, would
talk of their going to stay at the deanery; but she thought it quite
impossible that either of them should endure even that. But, all the
same, Lady Lufton was a comfort to her; and the poor woman felt that
it was well to have a lady near her in case of need.
The task was much harder with Mr. Crawley, but even with him it was
not altogether unsuccessful. Lady Lufton talked to him of his parish
and of her own; made Mark Robarts go to him, and by degrees did
something towards civilizing him. Between him and Robarts too there
grew up an intimacy rather than a friendship. Robarts would submit
to his opinion on matters of ecclesiastical and even theological law,
would listen to him with patience, would agree with him where he
could, and differ from him mildly when he could not. For Robarts
was a man who made himself pleasant to all men. And thus, under
Lady Lufton’s wing, there grew up a connection between Framley and
Hogglestock, in which Mrs. Robarts also assisted.
And now that Lady Lufton was looking about her, to see how she might
best bring proper clerical influence to bear upon her own recreant
fox-hunting parson, it occurred to her that she might use Mr. Crawley
in the matter. Mr. Crawley would certainly be on her side as far as
opinion went, and would have no fear as to expressing his opinion to
his brother clergyman. So she sent for Mr. Crawley.
In appearance he was the very opposite to Mark Robarts. He was a
lean, slim, meagre man, with shoulders slightly curved, and pale,
lank, long locks of ragged hair; his forehead was high, but his face
was narrow; his small grey eyes were deeply sunken in his head, his
nose was well-formed, his lips thin, and his mouth expressive. Nobody
could look at him without seeing that there was a purpose and a
meaning in his countenance. He always wore, in summer and winter,
a long dusky gray coat, which buttoned close up to his neck and
descended almost to his heels. He was full six feet high, but being
so slight in build, he looked as though he were taller.
He came at once at Lady Lufton’s bidding, putting himself into the
gig beside the servant, to whom he spoke no single word during
the journey. And the man, looking into his face, was struck with
taciturnity. Now Mark Robarts would have talked with him the whole
way from Hogglestock to Framley Court; discoursing partly as to
horses and land, but partly also as to higher things.
And then Lady Lufton opened her mind and told her griefs to Mr.
Crawley, urging, however, through the whole length of her narrative,
that Mr. Robarts was an excellent parish clergyman,—“just such a
clergyman in his church as I would wish him to be,” she explained,
with the view of saving herself from an expression of any of Mr.
Crawley’s special ideas as to church teaching, and of confining him
to the one subject-matter in hand; “but he got this living so young,
Mr. Crawley, that he is hardly quite as steady as I could wish him to
be. It has been as much my fault as his own in placing him in such a
position so early in life.”
“I think it has,” said Mr. Crawley, who might perhaps be a little
sore on such a subject.
“Quite so, quite so,” continued her ladyship, swallowing down with
a gulp a certain sense of anger. “But that is done now, and is past
cure. That Mr. Robarts will become a credit to his profession, I do
not doubt, for his heart is in the right place and his sentiments are
good; but I fear that at present he is succumbing to temptation.”
“I am told that he hunts two or three times a week. Everybody round
us is talking about it.”
“No, Mr. Crawley; not two or three times a week; very seldom above
once, I think. And then I do believe he does it more with the view of
being with Lord Lufton than anything else.”
“I cannot see that that would make the matter better,” said Mr.
Crawley.
“It would show that he was not strongly imbued with a taste which I
cannot but regard as vicious in a clergyman.”
“It must be vicious in all men,” said Mr. Crawley. “It is in itself
cruel, and leads to idleness and profligacy.”
Again Lady Lufton made a gulp. She had called Mr. Crawley thither to
her aid, and felt that it would be inexpedient to quarrel with him.
But she did not like to be told that her son’s amusement was idle and
profligate. She had always regarded hunting as a proper pursuit for
a country gentleman. It was, indeed, in her eyes one of the peculiar
institutions of country life in England, and it may be almost said
that she looked upon the Barsetshire hunt as something sacred. She
could not endure to hear that a fox was trapped, and allowed her
turkeys to be purloined without a groan. Such being the case, she
did not like being told that it was vicious, and had by no means
wished to consult Mr. Crawley on that matter. But nevertheless, she
swallowed down her wrath.
“It is at any rate unbecoming in a clergyman,” she said; “and as I
know that Mr. Robarts places a high value on your opinion, perhaps
you will not object to advise him to discontinue it. He might
possibly feel aggrieved were I to interfere personally on such a
question.”
“I have no doubt he would,” said Mr. Crawley. “It is not within a
woman’s province to give counsel to a clergyman on such a subject,
unless she be very near and very dear to him—his wife, or mother, or
sister.”
“As living in the same parish, you know, and being, perhaps—” the
leading person in it, and the one who naturally rules the others.
Those would have been the fitting words for the expression of her
ladyship’s ideas; but she remembered herself, and did not use them.
She had made up her mind that, great as her influence ought to be,
she was not the proper person to speak to Mr. Robarts as to his
pernicious, unclerical habits, and she would not now depart from her
resolve by attempting to prove that she was the proper person.
“Yes,” said Mr. Crawley, “just so. All that would entitle him to
offer you his counsel if he thought that your mode of life was such
as to require it, but could by no means justify you in addressing
yourself to him.”
This was very hard upon Lady Lufton. She was endeavouring with all
her woman’s strength to do her best, and endeavouring so to do it
that the feelings of the sinner might be spared; and yet the ghostly
comforter whom she had evoked to her aid, treated her as though she
were arrogant and overbearing. She acknowledged the weakness of her
own position with reference to her parish clergyman by calling in the
aid of Mr. Crawley; and under such circumstances, he might, at any
rate, have abstained from throwing that weakness in her teeth.
“Well, sir; I hope my mode of life may not require it; but that is
not exactly to the point: what I wish to know is, whether you will
speak to Mr. Robarts?”
“Certainly I will,” said he.
“Then I shall be much obliged to you. But, Mr. Crawley, pray—pray,
remember this: I would not on any account wish that you should be
harsh with him. He is an excellent young man, and—”
“Lady Lufton, if I do this, I can only do it in my own way, as best
I may, using such words as God may give me at the time. I hope that
I am harsh to no man; but it is worse than useless, in all cases, to
speak anything but the truth.”
“Of course—of course.”
“If the ears be too delicate to hear the truth, the mind will be too
perverse to profit by it.” And then Mr. Crawley got up to take his
leave.
But Lady Lufton insisted that he should go with her to luncheon. He
hummed and ha’d and would fain have refused, but on this subject she
was peremptory. It might be that she was unfit to advise a clergyman
as to his duties, but in a matter of hospitality she did know what
she was about. Mr. Crawley should not leave the house without
refreshment. As to this, she carried her point; and Mr. Crawley—when
the matter before him was cold roast-beef and hot potatoes,
instead of the relative position of a parish priest and his
parishioner—became humble, submissive, and almost timid. Lady Lufton
recommended Madeira instead of Sherry, and Mr. Crawley obeyed at
once, and was, indeed, perfectly unconscious of the difference. Then
there was a basket of seakale in the gig for Mrs. Crawley; that he
would have left behind had he dared, but he did not dare. Not a word
was said to him as to the marmalade for the children which was hidden
under the seakale, Lady Lufton feeling well aware that that would
find its way to its proper destination without any necessity for his
co-operation. And then Mr. Crawley returned home in the Framley Court
gig.
Three or four days after this he walked over to Framley Parsonage.
This he did on a Saturday, having learned that the hounds never
hunted on that day; and he started early, so that he might be sure to
catch Mr. Robarts before he went out on his parish business. He was
quite early enough to attain this object, for when he reached the
parsonage door at about half-past nine, the vicar, with his wife and
sister, were just sitting down to breakfast.
“Oh, Crawley,” said Robarts, before the other had well spoken, “you
are a capital fellow;” and then he got him into a chair, and Mrs.
Robarts had poured him out tea, and Lucy had surrendered to him a
knife and plate, before he knew under what guise to excuse his coming
among them.
“I hope you will excuse this intrusion,” at last he muttered; “but I
have a few words of business to which I will request your attention
presently.”
“Certainly,” said Robarts, conveying a broiled kidney on to the plate
before Mr. Crawley; “but there is no preparation for business like
a good breakfast. Lucy, hand Mr. Crawley the buttered toast. Eggs,
Fanny; where are the eggs?” And then John, in livery, brought in the
fresh eggs. “Now we shall do. I always eat my eggs while they’re hot,
Crawley, and I advise you to do the same.”
To all this Mr. Crawley said very little, and he was not at all at
home under the circumstances. Perhaps a thought did pass across his
brain, as to the difference between the meal which he had left on his
own table, and that which he now saw before him; and as to any cause
which might exist for such difference. But, if so, it was a very
fleeting thought, for he had far other matter now fully occupying his
mind. And then the breakfast was over, and in a few minutes the two
clergymen found themselves together in the parsonage study.
“Mr. Robarts,” began the senior, when he had seated himself
uncomfortably on one of the ordinary chairs at the farther side of
the well-stored library table, while Mark was sitting at his ease
in his own arm-chair by the fire, “I have called upon you on an
unpleasant business.”
Mark’s mind immediately flew off to Mr. Sowerby’s bill, but he could
not think it possible that Mr. Crawley could have had anything to do
with that.
“But as a brother clergyman, and as one who esteems you much and
wishes you well, I have thought myself bound to take this matter in
hand.”
“What matter is it, Crawley?”
“Mr. Robarts, men say that your present mode of life is one that is
not befitting a soldier in Christ’s army.”
“Men say so! what men?”
“The men around you, of your own neighbourhood; those who watch
your life, and know all your doings; those who look to see you
walking as a lamp to guide their feet, but find you consorting with
horse-jockeys and hunters, galloping after hounds, and taking your
place among the vainest of worldly pleasure-seekers. Those who have a
right to expect an example of good living, and who think that they do
not see it.”
Mr. Crawley had gone at once to the root of the matter, and in doing
so had certainly made his own task so much the easier. There is
nothing like going to the root of the matter at once when one has on
hand an unpleasant piece of business.
“And have such men deputed you to come here?”
“No one has or could depute me. I have come to speak my own mind, not
that of any other. But I refer to what those around you think and
say, because it is to them that your duties are due. You owe it to
those around you to live a godly, cleanly life;—as you owe it also,
in a much higher way, to your Father who is in heaven. I now make
bold to ask you whether you are doing your best to lead such a life
as that?” And then he remained silent, waiting for an answer.
He was a singular man; so humble and meek, so unutterably inefficient
and awkward in the ordinary intercourse of life, but so bold and
enterprising, almost eloquent, on the one subject which was the work
of his mind! As he sat there, he looked into his companion’s face
from out his sunken grey eyes with a gaze which made his victim
quail. And then repeated his words: “I now make bold to ask you,
Mr. Robarts, whether you are doing your best to lead such a life as
may become a parish clergyman among his parishioners?” And again he
paused for an answer.
“There are but few of us,” said Mark in a low tone, “who could safely
answer that question in the affirmative.”
“But are there many, think you, among us who would find the question
so unanswerable as yourself? And even were there many, would you,
young, enterprising, and talented as you are, be content to be
numbered among them? Are you satisfied to be a castaway after you
have taken upon yourself Christ’s armour? If you will say so, I am
mistaken in you, and will go my way.” There was again a pause, and
then he went on. “Speak to me, my brother, and open your heart if it
be possible.” And rising from his chair, he walked across the room,
and laid his hand tenderly on Mark’s shoulder.
Mark had been sitting lounging in his chair, and had at first, for a
moment only, thought to brazen it out. But all idea of brazening had
now left him. He had raised himself from his comfortable ease, and
was leaning forward with his elbow on the table; but now, when he
heard these words, he allowed his head to sink upon his arms, and he
buried his face between his hands.
“It is a terrible falling off,” continued Crawley: “terrible in the
fall, but doubly terrible through that difficulty of returning. But
it cannot be that it should content you to place yourself as one
among those thoughtless sinners, for the crushing of whose sin you
have been placed here among them. You become a hunting parson, and
ride with a happy mind among blasphemers and mocking devils—you,
whose aspirations were so high, who have spoken so often and so well
of the duties of a minister of Christ; you, who can argue in your
pride as to the petty details of your Church, as though the broad
teachings of its great and simple lessons were not enough for your
energies! It cannot be that I have had a hypocrite beside me in all
those eager controversies!”
“Not a hypocrite—not a hypocrite,” said Mark, in a tone which was
almost reduced to sobbing.
“But a castaway! Is it so that I must call you? No, Mr. Robarts,
not a castaway; neither a hypocrite, nor a castaway; but one who
in walking has stumbled in the dark and bruised his feet among
the stones. Henceforth let him take a lantern in his hand, and
look warily to his path, and walk cautiously among the thorns and
rocks,—cautiously, but yet boldly, with manly courage, but Christian
meekness, as all men should walk on their pilgrimage through this
vale of tears.” And then without giving his companion time to stop
him he hurried out of the room, and from the house, and without
again seeing any others of the family, stalked back on his road to
Hogglestock, thus tramping fourteen miles through the deep mud in
performance of the mission on which he had been sent.
It was some hours before Mr. Robarts left his room. As soon as he
found that Crawley was really gone, and that he should see him no
more, he turned the lock of his door, and sat himself down to think
over his present life. At about eleven his wife knocked, not knowing
whether that other strange clergyman were there or no, for none had
seen his departure. But Mark, answering cheerily, desired that he
might be left to his studies.
Let us hope that his thoughts and mental resolves were then of
service to him.