THE GRANTLY TRIUMPH.
It has been mentioned cursorily—the reader, no doubt, will have
forgotten it—that Mrs. Grantly was not specially invited by her
husband to go up to town with a view of being present at Miss
Dunstable’s party. Mrs. Grantly said nothing on the subject, but she
was somewhat chagrined; not on account of the loss she sustained with
reference to that celebrated assembly, but because she felt that her
daughter’s affairs required the supervision of a mother’s eye. She
also doubted the final ratification of that Lufton-Grantly treaty,
and, doubting it, she did not feel quite satisfied that her daughter
should be left in Lady Lufton’s hands. She had said a word or two to
the archdeacon before he went up, but only a word or two, for she
hesitated to trust him in so delicate a matter. She was, therefore,
not a little surprised at receiving, on the second morning after
her husband’s departure, a letter from him desiring her immediate
presence in London. She was surprised; but her heart was filled
rather with hope than dismay, for she had full confidence in her
daughter’s discretion.
On the morning after the party, Lady Lufton and Griselda had
breakfasted together as usual, but each felt that the manner of the
other was altered. Lady Lufton thought that her young friend was
somewhat less attentive, and perhaps less meek in her demeanour, than
usual; and Griselda felt that Lady Lufton was less affectionate. Very
little, however, was said between them, and Lady Lufton expressed no
surprise when Griselda begged to be left alone at home, instead of
accompanying her ladyship when the carriage came to the door.
Nobody called in Bruton Street that afternoon—no one, at least, was
let in—except the archdeacon. He came there late in the day, and
remained with his daughter till Lady Lufton returned. Then he took
his leave, with more abruptness than was usual with him, and without
saying anything special to account for the duration of his visit.
Neither did Griselda say anything special; and so the evening wore
away, each feeling in some unconscious manner that she was on less
intimate terms with the other than had previously been the case.
On the next day also Griselda would not go out, but at four o’clock
a servant brought a letter to her from Mount Street. Her mother had
arrived in London and wished to see her at once. Mrs. Grantly sent
her love to Lady Lufton, and would call at half-past five, or at any
later hour at which it might be convenient for Lady Lufton to see
her. Griselda was to stay and dine in Mount Street; so said the
letter. Lady Lufton declared that she would be very happy to see
Mrs. Grantly at the hour named; and then, armed with this message,
Griselda started for her mother’s lodgings.
“I’ll send the carriage for you,” said Lady Lufton. “I suppose about
ten will do.”
“Thank you,” said Griselda, “that will do very nicely;” and then she
went.
Exactly at half-past five Mrs. Grantly was shown into Lady Lufton’s
drawing-room. Her daughter did not come with her, and Lady Lufton
could see by the expression of her friend’s face that business was
to be discussed. Indeed, it was necessary that she herself should
discuss business, for Mrs. Grantly must now be told that the family
treaty could not be ratified. The gentleman declined the alliance,
and poor Lady Lufton was uneasy in her mind at the nature of the task
before her.
“Your coming up has been rather unexpected,” said Lady Lufton, as
soon as her friend was seated on the sofa.
“Yes, indeed; I got a letter from the archdeacon only this morning,
which made it absolutely necessary that I should come.”
“No bad news, I hope?” said Lady Lufton.
“No; I can’t call it bad news. But, dear Lady Lufton, things won’t
always turn out exactly as one would have them.”
“No, indeed,” said her ladyship, remembering that it was incumbent
on her to explain to Mrs. Grantly now at this present interview the
tidings with which her mind was fraught. She would, however, let Mrs.
Grantly first tell her own story, feeling, perhaps, that the one
might possibly bear upon the other.
“Poor dear Griselda!” said Mrs. Grantly, almost with a sigh. “I need
not tell you, Lady Lufton, what my hopes were regarding her.”
“Has she told you anything—anything that—”
“She would have spoken to you at once—and it was due to you that she
should have done so—but she was timid; and not unnaturally so. And
then it was right that she should see her father and me before she
quite made up her own mind. But I may say that it is settled now.”
“What is settled?” asked Lady Lufton.
“Of course it is impossible for any one to tell beforehand how these
things will turn out,” continued Mrs. Grantly, beating about the bush
rather more than was necessary. “The dearest wish of my heart was to
see her married to Lord Lufton. I should so much have wished to have
her in the same county with me, and such a match as that would have
fully satisfied my ambition.”
“Well, I should rather think it might!” Lady Lufton did not say this
out loud, but she thought it. Mrs. Grantly was absolutely speaking of
a match between her daughter and Lord Lufton as though she would have
displayed some amount of Christian moderation in putting up with it!
Griselda Grantly might be a very nice girl; but even she—so thought
Lady Lufton at the moment—might possibly be priced too highly.
“Dear Mrs. Grantly,” she said, “I have foreseen for the last few days
that our mutual hopes in this respect would not be gratified. Lord
Lufton, I think;—but perhaps it is not necessary to explain— Had
you not come up to town I should have written to you,—probably
to-day. Whatever may be dear Griselda’s fate in life, I sincerely
hope that she may be happy.”
“I think she will,” said Mrs. Grantly, in a tone that expressed much
satisfaction.
“Has—has anything—”
“Lord Dumbello proposed to Griselda the other night, at Miss
Dunstable’s party,” said Mrs. Grantly, with her eyes fixed upon
the floor, and assuming on the sudden much meekness in her manner;
“and his lordship was with the archdeacon yesterday, and again this
morning. I fancy he is in Mount Street at the present moment.”
“Oh, indeed!” said Lady Lufton. She would have given worlds to have
possessed at the moment sufficient self-command to have enabled her
to express in her tone and manner unqualified satisfaction at the
tidings. But she had not such self-command, and was painfully aware
of her own deficiency.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Grantly. “And as it is all so far settled, and as
I know you are so kindly anxious about dear Griselda, I thought
it right to let you know at once. Nothing can be more upright,
honourable, and generous, than Lord Dumbello’s conduct; and, on the
whole, the match is one with which I and the archdeacon cannot but be
contented.”
“It is certainly a great match,” said Lady Lufton. “Have you seen
Lady Hartletop yet?”
Now Lady Hartletop could not be regarded as an agreeable connection,
but this was the only word which escaped from Lady Lufton that could
be considered in any way disparaging, and, on the whole, I think that
she behaved well.
“Lord Dumbello is so completely his own master that that has not been
necessary,” said Mrs. Grantly. “The marquis has been told, and the
archdeacon will see him either to-morrow or the day after.”
There was nothing left for Lady Lufton but to congratulate her
friend, and this she did in words perhaps not very sincere, but
which, on the whole, were not badly chosen.
“I am sure I hope she will be very happy,” said Lady Lufton, “and
I trust that the alliance”—the word was very agreeable to Mrs.
Grantly’s ear—“will give unalloyed gratification to you and to her
father. The position which she is called to fill is a very splendid
one, but I do not think that it is above her merits.”
This was very generous, and so Mrs. Grantly felt it. She had expected
that her news would be received with the coldest shade of civility,
and she was quite prepared to do battle if there were occasion. But
she had no wish for war, and was almost grateful to Lady Lufton for
her cordiality.
“Dear Lady Lufton,” she said, “it is so kind of you to say so. I have
told no one else, and of course would tell no one till you knew it.
No one has known her and understood her so well as you have done. And
I can assure you of this: that there is no one to whose friendship
she looks forward in her new sphere of life with half so much
pleasure as she does to yours.”
Lady Lufton did not say much further. She could not declare that
she expected much gratification from an intimacy with the future
Marchioness of Hartletop. The Hartletops and Luftons must, at any
rate for her generation, live in a world apart, and she had now said
all that her old friendship with Mrs. Grantly required. Mrs. Grantly
understood all this quite as well as did Lady Lufton; but then Mrs.
Grantly was much the better woman of the world.
It was arranged that Griselda should come back to Bruton Street for
that night, and that her visit should then be brought to a close.
“The archdeacon thinks that for the present I had better remain up in
town,” said Mrs. Grantly, “and under the very peculiar circumstances
Griselda will be—perhaps more comfortable with me.”
To this Lady Lufton entirely agreed; and so they parted, excellent
friends, embracing each other in a most affectionate manner.
That evening Griselda did return to Bruton Street, and Lady Lufton
had to go through the further task of congratulating her. This was
the more disagreeable of the two, especially so as it had to be
thought over beforehand. But the young lady’s excellent good sense
and sterling qualities made the task comparatively an easy one. She
neither cried, nor was impassioned, nor went into hysterics, nor
showed any emotion. She did not even talk of her noble Dumbello—her
generous Dumbello. She took Lady Lufton’s kisses almost in silence,
thanked her gently for her kindness, and made no allusion to her own
future grandeur.
“I think I should like to go to bed early,” she said, “as I must see
to my packing up.”
“Richards will do all that for you, my dear.”
“Oh, yes, thank you, nothing can be kinder than Richards. But I’ll
just see to my own dresses.” And so she went to bed early.
Lady Lufton did not see her son for the next two days, but when she
did, of course she said a word or two about Griselda.
“You have heard the news, Ludovic?” she asked.
“Oh, yes: it’s at all the clubs. I have been overwhelmed with
presents of willow branches.”
“You, at any rate, have got nothing to regret,” she said.
“Nor you either, mother. I am sure that you do not think you have.
Say that you do not regret it. Dearest mother, say so for my sake. Do
you not know in your heart of hearts that she was not suited to be
happy as my wife,—or to make me happy?”
“Perhaps not,” said Lady Lufton, sighing. And then she kissed her
son, and declared to herself that no girl in England could be good
enough for him.