WHY PUCK, THE PONY, WAS BEATEN.
Mark Robarts returned home the day after the scene at the Albany,
considerably relieved in spirit. He now felt that he might accept
the stall without discredit to himself as a clergyman in doing so.
Indeed, after what Mr. Sowerby had said, and after Lord Lufton’s
assent to it, it would have been madness, he considered, to decline
it. And then, too, Mr. Sowerby’s promise about the bills was very
comfortable to him. After all, might it not be possible that he might
get rid of all these troubles with no other drawback than that of
having to pay £130 for a horse that was well worth the money?
On the day after his return he received proper authentic tidings of
his presentation to the prebend. He was, in fact, already prebendary,
or would be as soon as the dean and chapter had gone through the form
of instituting him in his stall. The income was already his own; and
the house also would be given up to him in a week’s time—a part of
the arrangement with which he would most willingly have dispensed had
it been at all possible to do so. His wife congratulated him nicely,
with open affection, and apparent satisfaction at the arrangement.
The enjoyment of one’s own happiness at such windfalls depends so
much on the free and freely expressed enjoyment of others! Lady
Lufton’s congratulations had nearly made him throw up the whole
thing; but his wife’s smiles re-encouraged him; and Lucy’s warm and
eager joy made him feel quite delighted with Mr. Sowerby and the Duke
of Omnium. And then that splendid animal, Dandy, came home to the
parsonage stables, much to the delight of the groom and gardener,
and of the assistant stable boy who had been allowed to creep into
the establishment, unawares as it were, since “master” had taken so
keenly to hunting. But this satisfaction was not shared in the
drawing-room. The horse was seen on his first journey round to the
stable gate, and questions were immediately asked. It was a horse,
Mark said, “which he had bought from Mr. Sowerby some little time
since with the object of obliging him. He, Mark, intended to sell him
again, as soon as he could do so judiciously.” This, as I have said
above, was not satisfactory. Neither of the two ladies at Framley
Parsonage knew much about horses, or of the manner in which one
gentleman might think it proper to oblige another by purchasing the
superfluities of his stable; but they did both feel that there were
horses enough in the parsonage stable without Dandy, and that the
purchasing of a hunter with the view of immediately selling him
again, was, to say the least of it, an operation hardly congenial
with the usual tastes and pursuits of a clergyman.
“I hope you did not give very much money for him, Mark,” said Fanny.
“Not more than I shall get again,” said Mark; and Fanny saw from the
form of his countenance that she had better not pursue the subject
any further at that moment.
“I suppose I shall have to go into residence almost immediately,”
said Mark, recurring to the more agreeable subject of the stall.
“And shall we all have to go and live at Barchester at once?” asked
Lucy.
“The house will not be furnished, will it, Mark?” said his wife. “I
don’t know how we shall get on.”
“Don’t frighten yourselves. I shall take lodgings in Barchester.”
“And we shall not see you all the time,” said Mrs. Robarts with
dismay. But the prebendary explained that he would be backwards and
forwards at Framley every week, and that in all probability he would
only sleep at Barchester on the Saturdays and Sundays—and, perhaps,
not always then.
“It does not seem very hard work, that of a prebendary,” said Lucy.
“But it is very dignified,” said Fanny. “Prebendaries are dignitaries
of the Church—are they not, Mark?”
“Decidedly,” said he; “and their wives also, by special canon law.
The worst of it is that both of them are obliged to wear wigs.”
“Shall you have a hat, Mark, with curly things at the side, and
strings through to hold them up?” asked Lucy.
“I fear that does not come within my perquisites.”
“Nor a rosette? Then I shall never believe that you are a dignitary.
Do you mean to say that you will wear a hat like a common
parson—like Mr. Crawley, for instance?”
“Well—I believe I may give a twist to the leaf; but I am by no means
sure till I shall have consulted the dean in chapter.”
And thus at the parsonage they talked over the good things that were
coming to them, and endeavoured to forget the new horse, and the
hunting boots that had been used so often during the last winter, and
Lady Lufton’s altered countenance. It might be that the evils would
vanish away, and the good things alone remain to them.
It was now the month of April, and the fields were beginning to look
green, and the wind had got itself out of the east and was soft
and genial, and the early spring flowers were showing their bright
colours in the parsonage garden, and all things were sweet and
pleasant. This was a period of the year that was usually dear to Mrs.
Robarts. Her husband was always a better parson when the warm months
came than he had been during the winter. The distant county friends
whom she did not know and of whom she did not approve went away when
the spring came, leaving their houses innocent and empty. The parish
duty was better attended to, and perhaps domestic duties also. At
such period he was a pattern parson and a pattern husband, atoning to
his own conscience for past shortcomings by present zeal. And then,
though she had never acknowledged it to herself, the absence of her
dear friend Lady Lufton was perhaps in itself not disagreeable. Mrs.
Robarts did love Lady Lufton heartily; but it must be acknowledged of
her ladyship, that, with all her good qualities, she was inclined to
be masterful. She liked to rule, and she made people feel that she
liked it. Mrs. Robarts would never have confessed that she laboured
under a sense of thraldom; but perhaps she was mouse enough to enjoy
the temporary absence of her kind-hearted cat. When Lady Lufton was
away Mrs. Robarts herself had more play in the parish.
And Mark also was not unhappy, though he did not find it practicable
immediately to turn Dandy into money. Indeed, just at this moment,
when he was a good deal over at Barchester, going through those deep
mysteries and rigid ecclesiastical examinations which are necessary
before a clergyman can become one of a chapter, Dandy was rather a
thorn in his side. Those wretched bills were to come due early in
May, and before the end of April Sowerby wrote to him saying that he
was doing his utmost to provide for the evil day; but that if the
price of Dandy could be remitted to him _at once_, it would greatly
facilitate his object. Nothing could be more different than Mr.
Sowerby’s tone about money at different times. When he wanted to
raise the wind, everything was so important; haste and superhuman
efforts, and men running to and fro with blank acceptances in their
hands, could alone stave off the crack of doom; but at other times,
when retaliatory applications were made to him, he could prove with
the easiest voice and most jaunty manner that everything was quite
serene. Now, at this period, he was in that mood of superhuman
efforts, and he called loudly for the hundred and thirty pounds for
Dandy. After what had passed, Mark could not bring himself to say
that he would pay nothing till the bills were safe; and therefore
with the assistance of Mr. Forrest of the Bank, he did remit the
price of Dandy to his friend Sowerby in London.
And Lucy Robarts—we must now say a word of her. We have seen how, on
that occasion, when the world was at her feet, she had sent her noble
suitor away, not only dismissed, but so dismissed that he might be
taught never again to offer to her the sweet incense of his vows. She
had declared to him plainly that she did not love him and could not
love him, and had thus thrown away not only riches and honour and
high station, but more than that—much worse than that—she had flung
away from her the lover to whose love her warm heart clung. That her
love did cling to him, she knew even then, and owned more thoroughly
as soon as he was gone. So much her pride had done for her, and that
strong resolve that Lady Lufton should not scowl on her and tell her
that she had entrapped her son.
I know it will be said of Lord Lufton himself that, putting aside his
peerage and broad acres, and handsome, sonsy face, he was not worth
a girl’s care and love. That will be said because people think that
heroes in books should be so much better than heroes got up for the
world’s common wear and tear. I may as well confess that of absolute,
true heroism there was only a moderate admixture in Lord Lufton’s
composition; but what would the world come to if none but absolute
true heroes were to be thought worthy of women’s love? What would the
men do? and what—oh! what would become of the women? Lucy Robarts
in her heart did not give her dismissed lover credit for much more
heroism than did truly appertain to him;—did not, perhaps, give
him full credit for a certain amount of heroism which did really
appertain to him; but, nevertheless, she would have been very glad to
take him could she have done so without wounding her pride.
That girls should not marry for money we are all agreed. A lady who
can sell herself for a title or an estate, for an income or a set
of family diamonds, treats herself as a farmer treats his sheep and
oxen—makes hardly more of herself, of her own inner self, in which
are comprised a mind and soul, than the poor wretch of her own sex
who earns her bread in the lowest stage of degradation. But a title,
and an estate, and an income, are matters which will weigh in the
balance with all Eve’s daughters—as they do with all Adam’s sons.
Pride of place, and the power of living well in front of the world’s
eye, are dear to us all;—are, doubtless, intended to be dear. Only
in acknowledging so much, let us remember that there are prices at
which these good things may be too costly. Therefore, being desirous,
too, of telling the truth in this matter, I must confess that Lucy
did speculate with some regret on what it would have been to be Lady
Lufton. To have been the wife of such a man, the owner of such a
heart, the mistress of such a destiny—what more or what better could
the world have done for her? And now she had thrown all that aside
because she would not endure that Lady Lufton should call her a
scheming, artful girl! Actuated by that fear she had repulsed him
with a falsehood, though the matter was one on which it was so
terribly expedient that she should tell the truth.
And yet she was cheerful with her brother and sister-in-law. It
was when she was quite alone, at night in her own room, or in her
solitary walks, that a single silent tear would gather in the corner
of her eye and gradually moisten her eyelids. “She never told
her love,” nor did she allow concealment to “feed on her damask
cheek.” In all her employments, in her ways about the house, and her
accustomed quiet mirth, she was the same as ever. In this she showed
the peculiar strength which God had given her. But not the less did
she in truth mourn for her lost love and spoiled ambition.
“We are going to drive over to Hogglestock this morning,” Fanny said
one day at breakfast. “I suppose, Mark, you won’t go with us?”
“Well, no; I think not. The pony-carriage is wretched for three.”
“Oh, as for that, I should have thought the new horse might have been
able to carry you as far as that. I heard you say you wanted to see
Mr. Crawley.”
“So I do; and the new horse, as you call him, shall carry me there
to-morrow. Will you say that I’ll be over about twelve o’clock?”
“You had better say earlier, as he is always out about the parish.”
“Very well, say eleven. It is parish business about which I am going,
so it need not irk his conscience to stay in for me.”
“Well, Lucy, we must drive ourselves, that’s all. You shall be
charioteer going, and then we’ll change coming back.” To all which
Lucy agreed, and as soon as their work in the school was over they
started.
Not a word had been spoken between them about Lord Lufton since that
evening, now more than a month ago, on which they had been walking
together in the garden. Lucy had so demeaned herself on that occasion
as to make her sister-in-law quite sure that there had been no love
passages up to that time; and nothing had since occurred which had
created any suspicion in Mrs. Robarts’ mind. She had seen at once
that all the close intimacy between them was over, and thought that
everything was as it should be.
“Do you know, I have an idea,” she said in the pony-carriage that
day, “that Lord Lufton will marry Griselda Grantly.” Lucy could
not refrain from giving a little check at the reins which she was
holding, and she felt that the blood rushed quickly to her heart. But
she did not betray herself. “Perhaps he may,” she said, and then gave
the pony a little touch with her whip.
“Oh, Lucy, I won’t have Puck beaten. He was going very nicely.”
“I beg Puck’s pardon. But you see when one is trusted with a whip one
feels such a longing to use it.”
“Oh, but you should keep it still. I feel almost certain that Lady
Lufton would like such a match.”
“I daresay she might. Miss Grantly will have a large fortune, I
believe.”
“It is not that altogether: but she is the sort of young lady that
Lady Lufton likes. She is ladylike and very beautiful—”
“Come, Fanny!”
“I really think she is; not what I should call lovely, you know, but
very beautiful. And then she is quiet and reserved; she does not
require excitement, and I am sure is conscientious in the performance
of her duties.”
“Very conscientious, I have no doubt,” said Lucy, with something like
a sneer in her tone. “But the question, I suppose, is, whether Lord
Lufton likes her.”
“I think he does,—in a sort of way. He did not talk to her so much
as he did to you—”
“Ah! that was all Lady Lufton’s fault, because she didn’t have him
properly labelled.”
“There does not seem to have been much harm done?”
“Oh! by God’s mercy, very little. As for me, I shall get over it in
three or four years I don’t doubt—that’s if I can get ass’s milk and
change of air.”
“We’ll take you to Barchester for that. But as I was saying, I really
do think Lord Lufton likes Griselda Grantly.”
“Then I really do think that he has uncommon bad taste,” said Lucy,
with a reality in her voice differing much from the tone of banter
she had hitherto used.
“What, Lucy!” said her sister-in-law, looking at her. “Then I fear we
shall really want the ass’s milk.”
“Perhaps, considering my position, I ought to know nothing of Lord
Lufton, for you say that it is very dangerous for young ladies to
know young gentlemen. But I do know enough of him to understand that
he ought not to like such a girl as Griselda Grantly. He ought to
know that she is a mere automaton, cold, lifeless, spiritless, and
even vapid. There is, I believe, nothing in her mentally, whatever
may be her moral excellences. To me she is more absolutely like a
statue than any other human being I ever saw. To sit still and be
admired is all that she desires; and if she cannot get that, to sit
still and not be admired would almost suffice for her. I do not
worship Lady Lufton as you do; but I think quite well enough of her
to wonder that she should choose such a girl as that for her son’s
wife. That she does wish it, I do not doubt. But I shall indeed be
surprised if he wishes it also.” And then as she finished her speech,
Lucy again flogged the pony. This she did in vexation, because she
felt that the tell-tale blood had suffused her face.
“Why, Lucy, if he were your brother you could not be more eager about
it.”
“No, I could not. He is the only man friend with whom I was ever
intimate, and I cannot bear to think that he should throw himself
away. It’s horridly improper to care about such a thing, I have no
doubt.”
“I think we might acknowledge that if he and his mother are both
satisfied, we may be satisfied also.”
“I shall not be satisfied. It’s no use your looking at me, Fanny. You
will make me talk of it, and I won’t tell a lie on the subject. I do
like Lord Lufton very much; and I do dislike Griselda Grantly almost
as much. Therefore I shall not be satisfied if they become man and
wife. However, I do not suppose that either of them will ask my
consent; nor is it probable that Lady Lufton will do so.” And then
they went on for perhaps a quarter of a mile without speaking.
“Poor Puck!” at last Lucy said. “He shan’t be whipped any more, shall
he, because Miss Grantly looks like a statue? And, Fanny, don’t tell
Mark to put me into a lunatic asylum. I also know a hawk from a
heron, and that’s why I don’t like to see such a very unfitting
marriage.” There was then nothing more said on the subject, and in
two minutes they arrived at the house of the Hogglestock clergyman.
Mrs. Crawley had brought two children with her when she came from the
Cornish curacy to Hogglestock, and two other babies had been added to
her cares since then. One of these was now ill with croup, and it was
with the object of offering to the mother some comfort and solace,
that the present visit was made. The two ladies got down from their
carriage, having obtained the services of a boy to hold Puck, and
soon found themselves in Mrs. Crawley’s single sitting-room. She was
sitting there with her foot on the board of a child’s cradle, rocking
it, while an infant about three months old was lying in her lap. For
the elder one, who was the sufferer, had in her illness usurped the
baby’s place. Two other children, considerably older, were also in
the room. The eldest was a girl, perhaps nine years of age, and the
other a boy three years her junior. These were standing at their
father’s elbow, who was studiously endeavouring to initiate them in
the early mysteries of grammar. To tell the truth Mrs. Robarts would
much have preferred that Mr. Crawley had not been there, for she had
with her and about her certain contraband articles, presents for the
children, as they were to be called, but in truth relief for that
poor, much-tasked mother, which they knew it would be impossible to
introduce in Mr. Crawley’s presence.
She, as we have said, was not quite so gaunt, not altogether so
haggard as in the latter of those dreadful Cornish days. Lady Lufton
and Mrs. Arabin between them, and the scanty comfort of their
improved, though still wretched income, had done something towards
bringing her back to the world in which she had lived in the soft
days of her childhood. But even the liberal stipend of a hundred
and thirty pounds a-year—liberal according to the scale by which
the incomes of clergymen in some of our new districts are now
apportioned—would not admit of a gentleman with his wife and four
children living with the ordinary comforts of an artisan’s family. As
regards the mere eating and drinking, the amounts of butcher’s meat
and tea and butter, they of course were used in quantities which any
artisan would have regarded as compatible only with demi-starvation.
Better clothing for her children was necessary, and better clothing
for him. As for her own raiment, the wives of few artisans would have
been content to put up with Mrs. Crawley’s best gown. The stuff of
which it was made had been paid for by her mother when she with much
difficulty bestowed upon her daughter her modest wedding _trousseau_.
Lucy had never seen Mrs. Crawley. These visits to Hogglestock were
not frequent, and had generally been made by Lady Lufton and Mrs.
Robarts together. It was known that they were distasteful to Mr.
Crawley, who felt a savage satisfaction in being left to himself.
It may almost be said of him that he felt angry with those who
relieved him, and he had certainly never as yet forgiven the Dean
of Barchester for paying his debts. The dean had also given him his
present living; and consequently his old friend was not now so dear
to him as when in old days he would come down to that farm-house,
almost as penniless as the curate himself. Then they would walk
together for hours along the rock-bound shore, listening to the
waves, discussing deep polemical mysteries, sometimes with hot fury,
then again with tender, loving charity, but always with a mutual
acknowledgment of each other’s truth. Now they lived comparatively
near together, but no opportunities arose for such discussions. At
any rate once a quarter Mr. Crawley was pressed by his old friend to
visit him at the deanery, and Dr. Arabin had promised that no one
else should be in the house if Mr. Crawley objected to society. But
this was not what he wanted. The finery and grandeur of the deanery,
and the comfort of that warm, snug library, would silence him at
once. Why did not Dr. Arabin come out there to Hogglestock, and tramp
with him through the dirty lanes as they used to tramp? Then he could
have enjoyed himself; then he could have talked; then old days would
have come back to them. But now!—“Arabin always rides on a sleek,
fine horse, now-a-days,” he once said to his wife with a sneer. His
poverty had been so terrible to himself that it was not in his heart
to love a rich friend.