MRS. PODGENS’ BABY.
The hunting season had now nearly passed away, and the great ones
of the Barsetshire world were thinking of the glories of London. Of
these glories Lady Lufton always thought with much inquietude of
mind. She would fain have remained throughout the whole year at
Framley Court, did not certain grave considerations render such a
course on her part improper in her own estimation. All the Lady
Luftons of whom she had heard, dowager and ante-dowager, had always
had their seasons in London, till old age had incapacitated them for
such doings—sometimes for clearly long after the arrival of such
period. And then she had an idea, perhaps not altogether erroneous,
that she annually imported back with her into the country somewhat of
the passing civilization of the times:—may we not say an idea that
certainly was not erroneous? for how otherwise is it that the forms
of new caps and remodelled shapes for women’s waists find their
way down into agricultural parts, and that the rural eye learns
to appreciate grace and beauty? There are those who think that
remodelled waists and new caps had better be kept to the towns; but
such people, if they would follow out their own argument, would wish
to see ploughboys painted with ruddle and milkmaids covered with
skins.
For these and other reasons Lady Lufton always went to London in
April, and stayed there till the beginning of June. But for her this
was usually a period of penance. In London she was no very great
personage. She had never laid herself out for greatness of that sort,
and did not shine as a lady-patroness or state secretary in the
female cabinet of fashion. She was dull and listless, and without
congenial pursuits in London, and spent her happiest moments in
reading accounts of what was being done at Framley, and in writing
orders for further local information of the same kind.
But on this occasion there was a matter of vital import to give
an interest of its own to her visit to town. She was to entertain
Griselda Grantly, and as far as might be possible to induce her son
to remain in Griselda’s society. The plan of the campaign was to be
as follows:—Mrs. Grantly and the archdeacon were in the first place
to go up to London for a month, taking Griselda with them; and then,
when they returned to Plumstead, Griselda was to go to Lady Lufton.
This arrangement was not at all points agreeable to Lady Lufton, for
she knew that Mrs. Grantly did not turn her back on the Hartletop
people quite as cordially as she should do, considering the terms of
the Lufton-Grantly family treaty. But then Mrs. Grantly might have
alleged in excuse the slow manner in which Lord Lufton proceeded in
the making and declaring of his love, and the absolute necessity
which there is for two strings to one’s bow, when one string may be
in any way doubtful. Could it be possible that Mrs. Grantly had heard
anything of that unfortunate Platonic friendship with Lucy Robarts?
There came a letter from Mrs. Grantly just about the end of March,
which added much to Lady Lufton’s uneasiness, and made her more
than ever anxious to be herself on the scene of action and to have
Griselda in her own hands. After some communications of mere ordinary
importance with reference to the London world in general and the
Lufton-Grantly world in particular, Mrs. Grantly wrote confidentially
about her daughter:
“It would be useless to deny,” she said, with a mother’s pride and a
mother’s humility, “that she is very much admired. She is asked out a
great deal more than I can take her, and to houses to which I myself
by no means wish to go. I could not refuse her as to Lady Hartletop’s
first ball, for there will be nothing else this year like them; and
of course when with you, dear Lady Lufton, that house will be out
of the question. So indeed would it be with me, were I myself only
concerned. The duke was there, of course, and I really wonder Lady
Hartletop should not be more discreet in her own drawing-room when
all the world is there. It is clear to me that Lord Dumbello admires
Griselda much more than I could wish. She, dear girl, has such
excellent sense that I do not think it likely that her head should
be turned by it; but with how many girls would not the admiration of
such a man be irresistible? The marquis, you know, is very feeble,
and I am told that since this rage for building has come on, the
Lancashire property is over two hundred thousand a year!! I do not
think that Lord Dumbello has said much to her. Indeed it seems to me
that he never does say much to any one. But he always stands up to
dance with her, and I see that he is uneasy and fidgety when she
stands up with any other partner whom he could care about. It was
really embarrassing to see him the other night at Miss Dunstable’s,
when Griselda was dancing with a certain friend of ours. But she did
look very well that evening, and I have seldom seen her more
animated!”
All this, and a great deal more of the same sort in the same letter,
tended to make Lady Lufton anxious to be in London. It was quite
certain—there was no doubt of that, at any rate—that Griselda would
see no more of Lady Hartletop’s meretricious grandeur when she had
been transferred to Lady Lufton’s guardianship. And she, Lady Lufton,
did wonder that Mrs. Grantly should have taken her daughter to such
a house. All about Lady Hartletop was known to all the world. It was
known that it was almost the only house in London at which the Duke
of Omnium was constantly to be met. Lady Lufton herself would almost
as soon think of taking a young girl to Gatherum Castle; and on these
accounts she did feel rather angry with her friend Mrs. Grantly. But
then perhaps she did not sufficiently calculate that Mrs. Grantly’s
letter had been written purposely to produce such feelings—with the
express view of awakening her ladyship to the necessity of action.
Indeed in such a matter as this Mrs. Grantly was a more able woman
than Lady Lufton—more able to see her way and to follow it out.
The Lufton-Grantly alliance was in her mind the best, seeing that
she did not regard money as everything. But failing that, the
Hartletop-Grantly alliance was not bad. Regarding it as a second
string to her bow, she thought that it was not at all bad.
Lady Lufton’s reply was very affectionate. She declared how happy
she was to know that Griselda was enjoying herself; she insinuated
that Lord Dumbello was known to the world as a fool, and his mother
as—being not a bit better than she ought to be; and then she added
that circumstances would bring herself up to town four days sooner
than she had expected, and that she hoped her dear Griselda would
come to her at once. Lord Lufton, she said, though he would not sleep
in Bruton Street—Lady Lufton lived in Bruton Street—had promised
to pass there as much of his time as his parliamentary duties would
permit.
O Lady Lufton! Lady Lufton! did it not occur to you, when you wrote
those last words, intending that they should have so strong an
effect on the mind of your correspondent, that you were telling
a—tarradiddle? Was it not the case that you had said to your son, in
your own dear, kind, motherly way: “Ludovic, we shall see something
of you in Bruton Street this year, shall we not? Griselda Grantly
will be with me, and we must not let her be dull—must we?” And then
had he not answered, “Oh, of course, mother,” and sauntered out of
the room, not altogether graciously? Had he, or you, said a word
about his parliamentary duties? Not a word! O Lady Lufton! have you
not now written a tarradiddle to your friend?
In these days we are becoming very strict about truth with our
children; terribly strict occasionally, when we consider the natural
weakness of the moral courage at the ages of ten, twelve, and
fourteen. But I do not know that we are at all increasing the measure
of strictness with which we, grown-up people, regulate our own truth
and falsehood. Heaven forbid that I should be thought to advocate
falsehood in children; but an untruth is more pardonable in them than
in their parents. Lady Lufton’s tarradiddle was of a nature that
is usually considered excusable—at least with grown people; but,
nevertheless, she would have been nearer to perfection could she have
confined herself to the truth. Let us suppose that a boy were to
write home from school, saying that another boy had promised to come
and stay with him, that other having given no such promise—what a
very naughty boy would that first boy be in the eyes of his pastors
and masters!
That little conversation between Lord Lufton and his mother—in which
nothing was said about his lordship’s parliamentary duties—took
place on the evening before he started for London. On that occasion
he certainly was not in his best humour, nor did he behave to his
mother in his kindest manner. He had then left the room when she
began to talk about Miss Grantly; and once again in the course of the
evening, when his mother, not very judiciously, said a word or two
about Griselda’s beauty, he had remarked that she was no conjuror,
and would hardly set the Thames on fire.
“If she were a conjuror!” said Lady Lufton, rather piqued, “I should
not now be going to take her out in London. I know many of those sort
of girls whom you call conjurors; they can talk for ever, and always
talk either loudly or in a whisper. I don’t like them, and I am sure
that you do not in your heart.”
“Oh, as to liking them in my heart—that is being very particular.”
“Griselda Grantly is a lady, and as such I shall be happy to have her
with me in town. She is just the girl that Justinia will like to have
with her.”
“Exactly,” said Lord Lufton. “She will do exceedingly well for
Justinia.”
Now this was not good-natured on the part of Lord Lufton; and his
mother felt it the more strongly, inasmuch as it seemed to signify
that he was setting his back up against the Lufton-Grantly alliance.
She had been pretty sure that he would do so in the event of his
suspecting that a plot was being laid to catch him; and now it almost
appeared that he did suspect such a plot. Why else that sarcasm as to
Griselda doing very well for his sister?
And now we must go back and describe a little scene at Framley which
will account for his lordship’s ill-humour and suspicions, and
explain how it came to pass that he so snubbed his mother. This scene
took place about ten days after the evening on which Mrs. Robarts
and Lucy were walking together in the parsonage garden, and during
those ten days Lucy had not once allowed herself to be entrapped
into any special conversation with the young peer. She had dined at
Framley Court during that interval, and had spent a second evening
there; Lord Lufton had also been up at the parsonage on three or
four occasions, and had looked for her in her usual walks; but,
nevertheless, they had never come together in their old familiar
way, since the day on which Lady Lufton had hinted her fears to Mrs.
Robarts.
Lord Lufton had very much missed her. At first he had not attributed
this change to a purposed scheme of action on the part of any one;
nor, indeed, had he much thought about it, although he had felt
himself to be annoyed. But as the period fixed for his departure
grew near, it did occur to him as very odd that he should never hear
Lucy’s voice unless when she said a few words to his mother, or to
her sister-in-law. And then he made up his mind that he would speak
to her before he went, and that the mystery should be explained to
him.
And he carried out his purpose, calling at the parsonage on one
special afternoon; and it was on the evening of the same day that
his mother sang the praises of Griselda Grantly so inopportunely.
Robarts, he knew, was then absent from home, and Mrs. Robarts was
with his mother down at the house, preparing lists of the poor people
to be specially attended to in Lady Lufton’s approaching absence.
Taking advantage of this, he walked boldly in through the parsonage
garden; asked the gardener, with an indifferent voice, whether either
of the ladies were at home, and then caught poor Lucy exactly on the
doorstep of the house.
“Were you going in or out, Miss Robarts?”
“Well, I was going out,” said Lucy; and she began to consider how
best she might get quit of any prolonged encounter.
“Oh, going out, were you? I don’t know whether I may offer to—”
“Well, Lord Lufton, not exactly, seeing that I am about to pay a
visit to our near neighbour, Mrs. Podgens. Perhaps you have no
particular call towards Mrs. Podgens’ just at present, or to her new
baby?”
“And have you any very particular call that way?”
“Yes, and especially to Baby Podgens. Baby Podgens is a real little
duck—only just two days old.” And Lucy, as she spoke, progressed
a step or two, as though she were determined not to remain there
talking on the doorstep.
A slight cloud came across his brow as he saw this, and made him
resolve that she should not gain her purpose. He was not going to be
foiled in that way by such a girl as Lucy Robarts. He had come there
to speak to her, and speak to her he would. There had been enough of
intimacy between them to justify him in demanding, at any rate, as
much as that.
“Miss Robarts,” he said, “I am starting for London to-morrow, and if
I do not say good-bye to you now, I shall not be able to do so at
all.”
“Good-bye, Lord Lufton,” she said, giving him her hand, and smiling
on him with her old genial, good-humoured, racy smile. “And mind you
bring into Parliament that law which you promised me for defending my
young chickens.”
He took her hand, but that was not all that he wanted. “Surely Mrs.
Podgens and her baby can wait ten minutes. I shall not see you again
for months to come, and yet you seem to begrudge me two words.”
“Not two hundred if they can be of any service to you,” said she,
walking cheerily back into the drawing-room; “only I did not think it
worth while to waste your time, as Fanny is not here.”
She was infinitely more collected, more master of herself than he
was. Inwardly, she did tremble at the idea of what was coming, but
outwardly she showed no agitation—none as yet; if only she could so
possess herself as to refrain from doing so, when she heard what he
might have to say to her.
He hardly knew what it was for the saying of which he had so
resolutely come thither. He had by no means made up his mind that he
loved Lucy Robarts; nor had he made up his mind that, loving her, he
would, or that, loving her, he would not, make her his wife. He had
never used his mind in the matter in any way, either for good or
evil. He had learned to like her and to think that she was very
pretty. He had found out that it was very pleasant to talk to her;
whereas, talking to Griselda Grantly, and, indeed, to some other
young ladies of his acquaintance, was often hard work. The half-hours
which he had spent with Lucy had always been satisfactory to him. He
had found himself to be more bright with her than with other people,
and more apt to discuss subjects worth discussing; and thus it had
come about that he thoroughly liked Lucy Robarts. As to whether his
affection was Platonic or anti-Platonic he had never asked himself;
but he had spoken words to her, shortly before that sudden cessation
of their intimacy, which might have been taken as anti-Platonic by
any girl so disposed to regard them. He had not thrown himself at
her feet, and declared himself to be devoured by a consuming passion;
but he had touched her hand as lovers touch those of women whom they
love; he had had his confidences with her, talking to her of his own
mother, of his sister, and of his friends; and he had called her his
own dear friend Lucy.
All this had been very sweet to her, but very poisonous also. She had
declared to herself very frequently that her liking for this young
nobleman was as purely a feeling of mere friendship as was that of
her brother; and she had professed to herself that she would give
the lie to the world’s cold sarcasms on such subjects. But she had
now acknowledged that the sarcasms of the world on that matter,
cold though they may be, are not the less true; and having so
acknowledged, she had resolved that all close alliance between
herself and Lord Lufton must be at an end. She had come to a
conclusion, but he had come to none; and in this frame of mind he
was now there with the object of reopening that dangerous friendship
which she had had the sense to close.
“And so you are going to-morrow?” she said, as soon as they were both
within the drawing-room.
“Yes: I’m off by the early train to-morrow morning, and Heaven knows
when we may meet again.”
“Next winter, shall we not?”
“Yes, for a day or two, I suppose. I do not know whether I shall pass
another winter here. Indeed, one can never say where one will be.”
“No, one can’t; such as you, at least, cannot. I am not of a
migratory tribe myself.”
“I wish you were.”
“I’m not a bit obliged to you. Your nomade life does not agree with
young ladies.”
“I think they are taking to it pretty freely, then. We have
unprotected young women all about the world.”
“And great bores you find them, I suppose?”
“No; I like it. The more we can get out of old-fashioned grooves the
better I am pleased. I should be a radical to-morrow—a regular man
of the people,—only I should break my mother’s heart.”
“Whatever you do, Lord Lufton, do not do that.”
“That is why I have liked you so much,” he continued, “because you
get out of the grooves.”
“Do I?”
“Yes; and go along by yourself, guiding your own footsteps; not
carried hither and thither, just as your grandmother’s old tramway
may chance to take you.”
“Do you know I have a strong idea that my grandmother’s old tramway
will be the safest and the best after all? I have not left it very
far, and I certainly mean to go back to it.”
“That’s impossible! An army of old women, with coils of ropes made
out of time-honoured prejudices, could not drag you back.”
“No, Lord Lufton, that is true. But one—” and then she stopped
herself. She could not tell him that one loving mother, anxious for
her only son, had sufficed to do it. She could not explain to him
that this departure from the established tramway had already broken
her own rest, and turned her peaceful happy life into a grievous
battle.
“I know that you are trying to go back,” he said. “Do you think that
I have eyes and cannot see? Come, Lucy, you and I have been friends,
and we must not part in this way. My mother is a paragon among women.
I say it in earnest;—a paragon among women: and her love for me is
the perfection of motherly love.”
“It is, it is; and I am so glad that you acknowledge it.”
“I should be worse than a brute did I not do so; but, nevertheless, I
cannot allow her to lead me in all things. Were I to do so, I should
cease to be a man.”
“Where can you find any one who will counsel you so truly?”
“But, nevertheless, I must rule myself. I do not know whether my
suspicions may be perfectly just, but I fancy that she has created
this estrangement between you and me. Has it not been so?”
“Certainly not by speaking to me,” said Lucy, blushing ruby-red
through every vein of her deep-tinted face. But though she could not
command her blood, her voice was still under her control—her voice
and her manner.
“But has she not done so? You, I know, will tell me nothing but the
truth.”
“I will tell you nothing on this matter, Lord Lufton, whether true or
false. It is a subject on which it does not concern me to speak.”
“Ah! I understand,” he said; and rising from his chair, he stood
against the chimney-piece with his back to the fire. “She cannot
leave me alone to choose for myself my own friends, and my own—;”
but he did not fill up the void.
“But why tell me this, Lord Lufton?”
“No! I am not to choose my own friends, though they be among the best
and purest of God’s creatures. Lucy, I cannot think that you have
ceased to have a regard for me. That you had a regard for me, I am
sure.”
She felt that it was almost unmanly of him thus to seek her out,
and hunt her down, and then throw upon her the whole weight of
the explanation that his coming thither made necessary. But,
nevertheless, the truth must be told, and with God’s help she would
find strength for the telling of it.
“Yes, Lord Lufton, I had a regard for you—and have. By that word you
mean something more than the customary feeling of acquaintance which
may ordinarily prevail between a gentleman and lady of different
families, who have known each other so short a time as we have done.”
“Yes, something much more,” said he, with energy.
“Well, I will not define the much—something closer than that.”
“Yes, and warmer, and dearer, and more worthy of two human creatures
who value each other’s minds and hearts.”
“Some such closer regard I have felt for you—very foolishly. Stop!
You have made me speak, and do not interrupt me now. Does not your
conscience tell you that in doing so I have unwisely deserted
those wise old grandmother’s tramways of which you spoke just now?
It has been pleasant to me to do so. I have liked the feeling of
independence with which I have thought that I might indulge in an
open friendship with such as you are. And your rank, so different
from my own, has doubtless made this more attractive.”
“Nonsense!”
“Ah! but it has. I know it now. But what will the world say of me as
to such an alliance?”
“The world!”
“Yes, the world! I am not such a philosopher as to disregard it,
though you may afford to do so. The world will say that I, the
parson’s sister, set my cap at the young lord, and that the young
lord had made a fool of me.”
“The world shall say no such thing!” said Lord Lufton, very
imperiously.
“Ah! but it will. You can no more stop it, than King Canute could the
waters. Your mother has interfered wisely to spare me from this; and
the only favour that I can ask you is, that you will spare me also.”
And then she got up as though she intended at once to walk forth to
her visit to Mrs. Podgens’ baby.
“Stop, Lucy!” he said, putting himself between her and the door.
“It must not be Lucy any longer, Lord Lufton; I was madly foolish
when I first allowed it.”
“By heavens! but it shall be Lucy—Lucy before all the world. My
Lucy, my own Lucy—my heart’s best friend, and chosen love. Lucy,
there is my hand. How long you may have had my heart, it matters not
to say now.”
The game was at her feet now, and no doubt she felt her triumph. Her
ready wit and speaking lip, not her beauty, had brought him to her
side; and now he was forced to acknowledge that her power over him
had been supreme. Sooner than leave her he would risk all. She did
feel her triumph; but there was nothing in her face to tell him that
she did so.
As to what she would now do she did not for a moment doubt. He had
been precipitated into the declaration he had made, not by his love,
but by his embarrassment. She had thrown in his teeth the injury
which he had done her, and he had then been moved by his generosity
to repair that injury by the noblest sacrifice which he could make.
But Lucy Robarts was not the girl to accept a sacrifice.
He had stepped forward as though he were going to clasp her round the
waist, but she receded, and got beyond the reach of his hand. “Lord
Lufton!” she said, “when you are more cool you will know that this is
wrong. The best thing for both of us now is to part.”
“Not the best thing, but the very worst, till we perfectly understand
each other.”
“Then perfectly understand me, that I cannot be your wife.”
“Lucy! do you mean that you cannot learn to love me?”
“I mean that I shall not try. Do not persevere in this, or you will
have to hate yourself for your own folly.”
“But I will persevere till you accept my love, or say with your hand
on your heart that you cannot and will not love me.”
“Then I must beg you to let me go,” and having so said, she paused
while he walked once or twice hurriedly up and down the room. “And,
Lord Lufton,” she continued, “if you will leave me now, the words
that you have spoken shall be as though they had never been uttered.”
“I care not who knows that they have been uttered. The sooner that
they are known to all the world, the better I shall be pleased,
unless indeed—”
“Think of your mother, Lord Lufton.”
“What can I do better than give her as a daughter the best and
sweetest girl I have ever met? When my mother really knows you, she
will love you as I do. Lucy, say one word to me of comfort.”
“I will say no word to you that shall injure your future comfort. It
is impossible that I should be your wife.”
“Do you mean that you cannot love me?”
“You have no right to press me any further,” she said; and sat down
upon the sofa, with an angry frown upon her forehead.
“By heavens,” he said, “I will take no such answer from you till you
put your hand upon your heart, and say that you cannot love me.”
“Oh, why should you press me so, Lord Lufton?”
“Why! because my happiness depends upon it; because it behoves me to
know the very truth. It has come to this, that I love you with my
whole heart, and I must know how your heart stands towards me.”
She had now again risen from the sofa, and was looking steadily in
his face.
“Lord Lufton,” she said, “I cannot love you,” and as she spoke she
did put her hand, as he had desired, upon her heart.
“Then God help me! for I am very wretched. Good-bye, Lucy,” and he
stretched out his hand to her.
“Good-bye, my lord. Do not be angry with me.”
“No, no, no!” and without further speech he left the room and the
house, and hurried home. It was hardly surprising that he should that
evening tell his mother that Griselda Grantly would be a companion
sufficiently good for his sister. He wanted no such companion.
And when he was well gone—absolutely out of sight from the
window—Lucy walked steadily up to her room, locked the door, and
then threw herself on the bed. Why—oh! why had she told such
a falsehood? Could anything justify her in a lie? Was it not a
lie—knowing as she did that she loved him with all her loving heart?
[Illustration: “Was it not a lie?”]
But, then, his mother! and the sneers of the world, which would have
declared that she had set her trap, and caught the foolish young
lord! Her pride would not have submitted to that. Strong as her love
was, yet her pride was, perhaps, stronger—stronger at any rate
during that interview.
But how was she to forgive herself the falsehood she had told?