LADY LUFTON IS TAKEN BY SURPRISE.
Lord Lufton, as he returned to town, found some difficulty in
resolving what step he would next take. Sometimes, for a minute or
two, he was half inclined to think—or rather to say to himself—that
Lucy was perhaps not worth the trouble which she threw in his way.
He loved her very dearly, and would willingly make her his wife,
he thought or said at such moments; but— Such moments, however,
were only moments. A man in love seldom loves less because his love
becomes difficult. And thus, when those moments were over, he would
determine to tell his mother at once, and urge her to signify her
consent to Miss Robarts. That she would not be quite pleased he knew;
but if he were firm enough to show that he had a will of his own in
this matter, she would probably not gainsay him. He would not ask
this humbly, as a favour, but request her ladyship to go through the
ceremony as though it were one of those motherly duties which she
as a good mother could not hesitate to perform on behalf of her son.
Such was the final resolve with which he reached his chambers in the
Albany.
On the next day he did not see his mother. It would be well, he
thought, to have his interview with her immediately before he started
for Norway, so that there might be no repetition of it; and it was on
the day before he did start that he made his communication, having
invited himself to breakfast in Brook Street on the occasion.
“Mother,” he said, quite abruptly, throwing himself into one of the
dining-room arm-chairs, “I have a thing to tell you.”
His mother at once knew that the thing was important, and with her
own peculiar motherly instinct imagined that the question to be
discussed had reference to matrimony. Had her son desired to speak
to her about money, his tone and look would have been different; as
would also have been the case—in a different way—had he entertained
any thought of a pilgrimage to Pekin, or a prolonged fishing
excursion to the Hudson Bay territories.
“A thing, Ludovic! well; I am quite at liberty.”
“I want to know what you think of Lucy Robarts?”
Lady Lufton became pale and frightened, and the blood ran cold to her
heart. She had feared more than rejoiced in conceiving that her son
was about to talk of love, but she had feared nothing so bad as this.
“What do I think of Lucy Robarts?” she said, repeating her son’s
words in a tone of evident dismay.
“Yes, mother; you have said once or twice lately that you thought I
ought to marry, and I am beginning to think so too. You selected one
clergyman’s daughter for me, but that lady is going to do much better
with herself—”
“Indeed she is not,” said Lady Lufton sharply.
“And therefore I rather think I shall select for myself another
clergyman’s sister. You don’t dislike Miss Robarts, I hope?”
“Oh, Ludovic!”
It was all that Lady Lufton could say at the spur of the moment.
“Is there any harm in her? Have you any objection to her? Is there
anything about her that makes her unfit to be my wife?”
For a moment or two Lady Lufton sat silent, collecting her thoughts.
She thought that there was very great objection to Lucy Robarts,
regarding her as the possible future Lady Lufton. She could hardly
have stated all her reasons, but they were very cogent. Lucy Robarts
had, in her eyes, neither beauty, nor style, nor manner, nor even the
education which was desirable. Lady Lufton was not herself a worldly
woman. She was almost as far removed from being so as a woman could
be in her position. But, nevertheless, there were certain worldly
attributes which she regarded as essential to the character of any
young lady who might be considered fit to take the place which she
herself had so long filled. It was her desire in looking for a wife
for her son to combine these with certain moral excellences which
she regarded as equally essential. Lucy Robarts might have the moral
excellences, or she might not; but as to the other attributes Lady
Lufton regarded her as altogether deficient. She could never look
like a Lady Lufton, or carry herself in the county as a Lady Lufton
should do. She had not that quiet personal demeanour—that dignity of
repose—which Lady Lufton loved to look upon in a young married woman
of rank. Lucy, she would have said, could be nobody in a room except
by dint of her tongue, whereas Griselda Grantly would have held her
peace for a whole evening, and yet would have impressed everybody
by the majesty of her presence. Then again Lucy had no money—and,
again, Lucy was only the sister of her own parish clergyman. People
are rarely prophets in their own country, and Lucy was no prophet
at Framley; she was none, at least, in the eyes of Lady Lufton.
Once before, as may be remembered, she had had fears on this
subject—fears, not so much for her son, whom she could hardly bring
herself to suspect of such a folly, but for Lucy, who might be
foolish enough to fancy that the lord was in love with her. Alas!
alas! her son’s question fell upon the poor woman at the present
moment with the weight of a terrible blow.
“Is there anything about her which makes her unfit to be my wife?”
Those were her son’s last words.
“Dearest Ludovic, dearest Ludovic!” and she got up and came over to
him, “I do think so; I do, indeed.”
“Think what?” said he, in a tone that was almost angry.
“I do think that she is unfit to be your wife. She is not of that
class from which I would wish to see you choose.”
“She is of the same class as Griselda Grantly.”
“No, dearest. I think you are in error there. The Grantlys have moved
in a different sphere of life. I think you must feel that they are—”
“Upon my word, mother, I don’t. One man is Rector of Plumstead, and
the other is Vicar of Framley. But it is no good arguing that. I want
you to take to Lucy Robarts. I have come to you on purpose to ask it
of you as a favour.”
“Do you mean as your wife, Ludovic?”
“Yes; as my wife.”
“Am I to understand that you are—are engaged to her?”
“Well, I cannot say that I am—not actually engaged to her. But you
may take this for granted, that, as far as it lies in my power, I
intend to become so. My mind is made up, and I certainly shall not
alter it.”
“And the young lady knows all this?”
“Certainly.”
“Horrid, sly, detestable, underhand girl,” Lady Lufton said to
herself, not being by any means brave enough to speak out such
language before her son. What hope could there be if Lord Lufton had
already committed himself by a positive offer? “And her brother, and
Mrs. Robarts; are they aware of it?”
“Yes; both of them.”
“And both approve of it?”
“Well, I cannot say that. I have not seen Mrs. Robarts, and do not
know what may be her opinion. To speak my mind honestly about Mark,
I do not think he does cordially approve. He is afraid of you, and
would be desirous of knowing what you think.”
“I am glad, at any rate, to hear that,” said Lady Lufton, gravely.
“Had he done anything to encourage this, it would have been very
base.” And then there was another short period of silence.
Lord Lufton had determined not to explain to his mother the whole
state of the case. He would not tell her that everything depended
on her word—that Lucy was ready to marry him only on condition
that she, Lady Lufton, would desire her to do so. He would not
let her know that everything depended on her—according to Lucy’s
present verdict. He had a strong disinclination to ask his mother’s
permission to get married; and he would have to ask it were he to
tell her the whole truth. His object was to make her think well of
Lucy, and to induce her to be kind, and generous, and affectionate
down at Framley. Then things would all turn out comfortably when he
again visited that place, as he intended to do on his return from
Norway. So much he thought it possible he might effect, relying on
his mother’s probable calculation that it would be useless for her
to oppose a measure which she had no power of stopping by authority.
But were he to tell her that she was to be the final judge, that
everything was to depend on her will, then, so thought Lord Lufton,
that permission would in all probability be refused.
“Well, mother, what answer do you intend to give me?” he said. “My
mind is positively made up. I should not have come to you had not
that been the case. You will now be going down home, and I would wish
you to treat Lucy as you yourself would wish to treat any girl to
whom you knew that I was engaged.”
“But you say that you are not engaged.”
“No, I am not; but I have made my offer to her, and I have not been
rejected. She has confessed that she—loves me,—not to myself, but
to her brother. Under these circumstances, may I count upon your
obliging me?”
There was something in his manner which almost frightened his mother,
and made her think that there was more behind than was told to her.
Generally speaking, his manner was open, gentle, and unguarded; but
now he spoke as though he had prepared his words, and was resolved on
being harsh as well as obstinate.
“I am so much taken by surprise, Ludovic, that I can hardly give you
an answer. If you ask me whether I approve of such a marriage, I must
say that I do not; I think that you would be throwing yourself away
in marrying Miss Robarts.”
“That is because you do not know her.”
“May it not be possible that I know her better than you do, dear
Ludovic? You have been flirting with her—”
“I hate that word; it always sounds to me to be vulgar.”
“I will say making love to her, if you like it better; and gentlemen
under these circumstances will sometimes become infatuated.”
“You would not have a man marry a girl without making love to her.
The fact is, mother, that your tastes and mine are not exactly the
same; you like silent beauty, whereas I like talking beauty, and
then—”
“Do you call Miss Robarts beautiful?”
“Yes, I do; very beautiful; she has the beauty that I admire.
Good-bye now, mother; I shall not see you again before I start. It
will be no use writing, as I shall be away so short a time, and I
don’t quite know where we shall be. I shall come down to Framley
immediately I return, and shall learn from you how the land lies. I
have told you my wishes, and you will consider how far you think it
right to fall in with them.” He then kissed her, and without waiting
for her reply he took his leave.
Poor Lady Lufton, when she was left to herself, felt that her
head was going round and round. Was this to be the end of all her
ambition,—of all her love for her son? and was this to be the result
of all her kindness to the Robartses? She almost hated Mark Robarts
as she reflected that she had been the means of bringing him and his
sister to Framley. She thought over all his sins, his absences from
the parish, his visit to Gatherum Castle, his dealings with reference
to that farm which was to have been sold, his hunting, and then his
acceptance of that stall, given, as she had been told, through the
Omnium interest. How could she love him at such a moment as this?
And then she thought of his wife. Could it be possible that Fanny
Robarts, her own friend Fanny, would be so untrue to her as to
lend any assistance to such a marriage as this; as not to use all
her power in preventing it? She had spoken to Fanny on this very
subject,—not fearing for her son, but with a general idea of the
impropriety of intimacies between such girls as Lucy and such men as
Lord Lufton, and then Fanny had agreed with her. Could it be possible
that even she must be regarded as an enemy?
And then by degrees Lady Lufton began to reflect what steps she had
better take. In the first place, should she give in at once, and
consent to the marriage? The only thing quite certain to her was
this, that life would be not worth having if she were forced into a
permanent quarrel with her son. Such an event would probably kill
her. When she read of quarrels in other noble families—and the
accounts of such quarrels will sometimes, unfortunately, force
themselves upon the attention of unwilling readers—she would hug
herself, with a spirit that was almost pharisaical, reflecting that
her destiny was not like that of others. Such quarrels and hatreds
between fathers and daughters, and mothers and sons, were in her eyes
disreputable to all the persons concerned. She had lived happily with
her husband, comfortably with her neighbours, respectably with the
world, and, above all things, affectionately with her children.
She spoke everywhere of Lord Lufton as though he were nearly
perfect,—and in so speaking, she had not belied her convictions.
Under these circumstances, would not any marriage be better than a
quarrel?
But then, again, how much of the pride of her daily life would be
destroyed by such a match as that! And might it not be within her
power to prevent it without any quarrel? That her son would be
sick of such a chit as Lucy before he had been married to her six
months—of that Lady Lufton entertained no doubt, and therefore her
conscience would not be disquieted in disturbing the consummation of
an arrangement so pernicious. It was evident that the matter was not
considered as settled even by her son; and also evident that he
regarded the matter as being in some way dependent on his mother’s
consent. On the whole, might it not be better for her—better for
them all—that she should think wholly of her duty, and not of the
disagreeable results to which that duty might possibly lead? It
could not be her duty to accede to such an alliance; and therefore
she would do her best to prevent it. Such, at least, should be her
attempt in the first instance.
Having so decided, she next resolved on her course of action.
Immediately on her arrival at Framley, she would send for Lucy
Robarts, and use all her eloquence—and perhaps also a little of that
stern dignity for which she was so remarkable—in explaining to that
young lady how very wicked it was on her part to think of forcing
herself into such a family as that of the Luftons. She would explain
to Lucy that no happiness could come of it, that people placed by
misfortune above their sphere are always miserable; and, in short,
make use of all those excellent moral lessons which are so customary
on such occasions. The morality might, perhaps, be thrown away;
but Lady Lufton depended much on her dignified sternness. And then,
having so resolved, she prepared for her journey home.
Very little had been said at Framley Parsonage about Lord Lufton’s
offer after the departure of that gentleman; very little, at least,
in Lucy’s presence. That the parson and his wife should talk about it
between themselves was a matter of course; but very few words were
spoken on the matter either by or to Lucy. She was left to her own
thoughts, and possibly to her own hopes.
And then other matters came up at Framley which turned the current of
interest into other tracks. In the first place there was the visit
made by Mr. Sowerby to the Dragon of Wantly, and the consequent
revelation made by Mark Robarts to his wife. And while that latter
subject was yet new, before Fanny and Lucy had as yet made up their
minds as to all the little economies which might be practised in the
household without serious detriment to the master’s comfort, news
reached them that Mrs. Crawley of Hogglestock had been stricken with
fever. Nothing of the kind could well be more dreadful than this.
To those who knew the family it seemed impossible that their most
ordinary wants could be supplied if that courageous head were even
for a day laid low; and then the poverty of poor Mr. Crawley was
such that the sad necessities of a sick bed could hardly be supplied
without assistance.
“I will go over at once,” said Fanny.
“My dear!” said her husband, “it is typhus, and you must first think
of the children. I will go.”
“What on earth could you do, Mark?” said his wife. “Men on such
occasions are almost worse than useless; and then they are so much
more liable to infection.”
“I have no children, nor am I a man,” said Lucy, smiling; “for both
of which exemptions I am thankful. I will go, and when I come back
I will keep clear of the bairns.”
So it was settled, and Lucy started in the pony-carriage, carrying
with her such things from the parsonage storehouse as were thought
to be suitable to the wants of the sick lady at Hogglestock. When
she arrived there, she made her way into the house, finding the door
open, and not being able to obtain the assistance of the servant
girl in ushering her in. In the parlour she found Grace Crawley,
the eldest child, sitting demurely in her mother’s chair nursing an
infant. She, Grace herself, was still a young child, but not the
less, on this occasion of well-understood sorrow, did she go through
her task not only with zeal but almost with solemnity. Her brother,
a boy of six years old, was with her, and he had the care of
another baby. There they sat in a cluster, quiet, grave, and silent,
attending on themselves, because it had been willed by fate that no
one else should attend on them.
“How is your mamma, dear Grace?” said Lucy, walking up to her, and
holding out her hand.
“Poor mamma is very ill, indeed,” said Grace.
“And papa is very unhappy,” said Bobby, the boy.
“I can’t get up because of baby,” said Grace; “but Bobby can go and
call papa out.”
“I will knock at the door,” said Lucy, and so saying she walked up to
the bedroom door, and tapped against it lightly. She repeated this
for the third time before she was summoned in by a low hoarse voice,
and then on entering she saw Mr. Crawley standing by the bedside with
a book in his hand. He looked at her uncomfortably, in a manner which
seemed to show that he was annoyed by this intrusion, and Lucy was
aware that she had disturbed him while at prayers by the bedside of
his wife. He came across the room, however, and shook hands with her,
and answered her inquiries in his ordinary grave and solemn voice.
“Mrs. Crawley is very ill,” he said, “very ill. God has stricken us
heavily, but His will be done. But you had better not go to her, Miss
Robarts. It is typhus.”
The caution, however, was too late; for Lucy was already by the
bedside, and had taken the hand of the sick woman, which had been
extended on the coverlid to greet her. “Dear Miss Robarts,” said a
weak voice; “this is very good of you; but it makes me unhappy to see
you here.”
Lucy lost no time in taking sundry matters into her own hands, and
ascertaining what was most wanted in that wretched household. For
it was wretched enough. Their only servant, a girl of sixteen, had
been taken away by her mother as soon as it became known that Mrs.
Crawley was ill with fever. The poor mother, to give her her due,
had promised to come down morning and evening herself, to do such
work as might be done in an hour or so; but she could not, she said,
leave her child to catch the fever. And now, at the period of Lucy’s
visit, no step had been taken to procure a nurse, Mr. Crawley having
resolved to take upon himself the duties of that position. In his
absolute ignorance of all sanatory measures, he had thrown himself on
his knees to pray; and if prayers—true prayers—might succour his
poor wife, of such succour she might be confident. Lucy, however,
thought that other aid also was wanting to her.
“If you can do anything for us,” said Mrs. Crawley, “let it be for
the poor children.”
“I will have them all moved from this till you are better,” said
Lucy, boldly.
“Moved!” said Mr. Crawley, who even now—even in his present
strait—felt a repugnance to the idea that any one should relieve him
of any portion of his burden.
“Yes,” said Lucy; “I am sure it will be better that you should lose
them for a week or two, till Mrs. Crawley may be able to leave her
room.”
“But where are they to go?” said he, very gloomily.
As to this Lucy was not as yet able to say anything. Indeed when she
left Framley Parsonage there had been no time for discussion. She
would go back and talk it all over with Fanny, and find out in what
way the children might be best put out of danger. Why should they
not all be harboured at the parsonage, as soon as assurance could
be felt that they were not tainted with the poison of the fever? An
English lady of the right sort will do all things but one for a sick
neighbour; but for no neighbour will she wittingly admit contagious
sickness within the precincts of her own nursery.
Lucy unloaded her jellies and her febrifuges, Mr. Crawley frowning
at her bitterly the while. It had come to this with him, that food
had been brought into his house, as an act of charity, in his very
presence, and in his heart of hearts he disliked Lucy Robarts in that
she had brought it. He could not cause the jars and the pots to be
replaced in the pony-carriage, as he would have done had the position
of his wife been different. In her state it would have been barbarous
to refuse them, and barbarous also to have created the _fracas_ of a
refusal; but each parcel that was introduced was an additional weight
laid on the sore withers of his pride, till the total burden became
almost intolerable. All this his wife saw and recognized even in her
illness, and did make some slight ineffectual efforts to give him
ease; but Lucy in her new power was ruthless, and the chicken to make
the chicken-broth was taken out of the basket under his very nose.
But Lucy did not remain long. She had made up her mind what it
behoved her to do herself, and she was soon ready to return to
Framley. “I shall be back again, Mr. Crawley,” she said, “probably
this evening, and I shall stay with her till she is better.” “Nurses
don’t want rooms,” she went on to say, when Mr. Crawley muttered
something as to there being no bed-chamber. “I shall make up some
sort of a litter near her; you’ll see that I shall be very snug.” And
then she got into the pony-chaise, and drove herself home.