THE STORY OF KING COPHETUA.
Lucy as she drove herself home had much as to which it was necessary
that she should arouse her thoughts. That she would go back and nurse
Mrs. Crawley through her fever she was resolved. She was free agent
enough to take so much on herself, and to feel sure that she could
carry it through. But how was she to redeem her promise about the
children? Twenty plans ran through her mind, as to farm-houses in
which they might be placed, or cottages which might be hired for
them; but all these entailed the want of money; and at the present
moment, were not all the inhabitants of the parsonage pledged to a
dire economy? This use of the pony-carriage would have been illicit
under any circumstances less pressing than the present, for it had
been decided that the carriage, and even poor Puck himself, should
be sold. She had, however, given her promise about the children, and
though her own stock of money was very low, that promise should be
redeemed.
When she reached the parsonage she was of course full of her schemes,
but she found that another subject of interest had come up in her
absence, which prevented her from obtaining the undivided attention
of her sister-in-law to her present plans. Lady Lufton had returned
that day, and immediately on her return had sent up a note addressed
to Miss Lucy Robarts, which note was in Fanny’s hands when Lucy
stepped out of the pony-carriage. The servant who brought it had
asked for an answer, and a verbal answer had been sent, saying that
Miss Robarts was away from home, and would herself send a reply when
she returned. It cannot be denied that the colour came to Lucy’s
face, and that her hand trembled when she took the note from Fanny in
the drawing-room. Everything in the world to her might depend on what
that note contained; and yet she did not open it at once, but stood
with it in her hand, and when Fanny pressed her on the subject, still
endeavoured to bring back the conversation to the subject of Mrs.
Crawley.
But yet her mind was intent on the letter, and she had already
augured ill from the handwriting and even from the words of the
address. Had Lady Lufton intended to be propitious, she would have
directed her letter to Miss Robarts, without the Christian name; so
at least argued Lucy,—quite unconsciously, as one does argue in such
matters. One forms half the conclusions of one’s life without any
distinct knowledge that the premises have even passed through one’s
mind.
They were now alone together, as Mark was out.
“Won’t you open her letter?” said Mrs. Robarts.
“Yes, immediately; but, Fanny, I must speak to you about Mrs. Crawley
first. I must go back there this evening, and stay there; I have
promised to do so, and shall certainly keep my promise. I have
promised also that the children shall be taken away, and we must
arrange about that. It is dreadful, the state she is in. There is no
one to see to her but Mr. Crawley, and the children are altogether
left to themselves.”
“Do you mean that you are going back to stay?”
“Yes, certainly; I have made a distinct promise that I would do
so. And about the children; could not you manage for the children,
Fanny,—not perhaps in the house; at least not at first perhaps?”
And yet during all the time that she was thus speaking and pleading
for the Crawleys, she was endeavouring to imagine what might be the
contents of that letter which she held between her fingers.
“And is she so very ill?” asked Mrs. Robarts.
“I cannot say how ill she may be, except this, that she certainly has
typhus fever. They have had some doctor or doctor’s assistant from
Silverbridge; but it seems to me that they are greatly in want of
better advice.”
“But, Lucy, will you not read your letter? It is astonishing to me
that you should be so indifferent about it.”
Lucy was anything but indifferent, and now did proceed to tear the
envelope. The note was very short, and ran in these words,—
MY DEAR MISS ROBARTS,—I am particularly anxious to see
you, and shall feel much obliged to you if you can step
over to me here, at Framley Court. I must apologize for
taking this liberty with you, but you will probably feel
that an interview here would suit us both better than one
at the parsonage. Truly yours,
M. LUFTON.
“There; I am in for it now,” said Lucy, handing the note over to Mrs.
Robarts. “I shall have to be talked to as never poor girl was talked
to before; and when one thinks of what I have done, it is hard.”
“Yes; and of what you have not done.”
“Exactly; and of what I have not done. But I suppose I must go,” and
she proceeded to re-tie the strings of her bonnet, which she had
loosened.
“Do you mean that you are going over at once?”
“Yes; immediately. Why not? it will be better to have it over, and
then I can go to the Crawleys. But, Fanny, the pity of it is that I
know it all as well as though it had been already spoken; and what
good can there be in my having to endure it? Can’t you fancy the
tone in which she will explain to me the conventional inconveniences
which arose when King Cophetua would marry the beggar’s daughter? how
she will explain what Griselda went through;—not the archdeacon’s
daughter, but the other Griselda?”
“But it all came right with her.”
“Yes; but then I am not Griselda, and she will explain how it would
certainly all go wrong with me. But what’s the good when I know it
all beforehand? Have I not desired King Cophetua to take himself and
sceptre elsewhere?”
And then she started, having first said another word or two about
the Crawley children, and obtained a promise of Puck and the
pony-carriage for the afternoon. It was also almost agreed that
Puck on his return to Framley should bring back the four children
with him; but on this subject it was necessary that Mark should be
consulted. The present scheme was to prepare for them a room outside
the house, once the dairy, at present occupied by the groom and his
wife; and to bring them into the house as soon as it was manifest
that there was no danger from infection. But all this was to be
matter for deliberation.
Fanny wanted her to send over a note, in reply to Lady Lufton’s, as
harbinger of her coming; but Lucy marched off, hardly answering this
proposition.
“What’s the use of such a deal of ceremony?” she said. “I know she’s
at home; and if she is not, I shall only lose ten minutes in going.”
And so she went, and on reaching the door of Framley Court house
found that her ladyship was at home. Her heart almost came to her
mouth as she was told so, and then, in two minutes’ time, she found
herself in the little room upstairs. In that little room we found
ourselves once before,—you, and I, O my reader;—but Lucy had never
before visited that hallowed precinct. There was something in its
air calculated to inspire awe in those who first saw Lady Lufton
sitting bolt upright in the cane-bottomed arm-chair, which she always
occupied when at work at her books and papers; and this she knew when
she determined to receive Lucy in that apartment. But there was there
another arm-chair, an easy, cozy chair, which stood by the fireside;
and for those who had caught Lady Lufton napping in that chair of an
afternoon, some of this awe had perhaps been dissipated.
“Miss Robarts,” she said, not rising from her chair, but holding out
her hand to her visitor; “I am much obliged to you for having come
over to me here. You, no doubt, are aware of the subject on which I
wish to speak to you, and will agree with me that it is better that
we should meet here than over at the parsonage.”
In answer to which Lucy merely bowed her head, and took her seat on
the chair which had been prepared for her.
“My son,” continued her ladyship, “has spoken to me on the subject
of—I think I understand, Miss Robarts, that there has been no
engagement between you and him?”
“None whatever,” said Lucy. “He made me an offer and I refused
him.” This she said very sharply;—more so undoubtedly than the
circumstances required; and with a brusqueness that was injudicious
as well as uncourteous. But at the moment, she was thinking of her
own position with reference to Lady Lufton—not to Lord Lufton; and
of her feelings with reference to the lady—not to the gentleman.
“Oh,” said Lady Lufton, a little startled by the manner of the
communication. “Then I am to understand that there is nothing now
going on between you and my son;—that the whole affair is over?”
“That depends entirely upon you.”
“On me! does it?”
“I do not know what your son may have told you, Lady Lufton. For
myself, I do not care to have any secrets from you in this matter;
and as he has spoken to you about it, I suppose that such is his
wish also. Am I right in presuming that he has spoken to you on the
subject?”
“Yes, he has; and it is for that reason that I have taken the liberty
of sending for you.”
“And may I ask what he has told you? I mean, of course, as regards
myself,” said Lucy.
Lady Lufton, before she answered this question, began to reflect
that the young lady was taking too much of the initiative in this
conversation, and was, in fact, playing the game in her own fashion,
which was not at all in accordance with those motives which had
induced Lady Lufton to send for her.
“He has told me that he made you an offer of marriage,” replied Lady
Lufton; “a matter which, of course, is very serious to me, as his
mother; and I have thought, therefore, that I had better see you,
and appeal to your own good sense and judgment and high feeling. Of
course you are aware—”
Now was coming the lecture to be illustrated by King Cophetua and
Griselda, as Lucy had suggested to Mrs. Robarts; but she succeeded in
stopping it for awhile.
“And did Lord Lufton tell you what was my answer?”
“Not in words. But you yourself now say that you refused him; and I
must express my admiration for your good—”
“Wait half a moment, Lady Lufton. Your son did make me an offer. He
made it to me in person, up at the parsonage, and I then refused
him;—foolishly, as I now believe, for I dearly love him. But I did
so from a mixture of feelings which I need not, perhaps, explain;
that most prominent, no doubt, was a fear of your displeasure. And
then he came again, not to me but to my brother, and urged his suit
to him. Nothing can have been kinder to me, more noble, more loving,
more generous, than his conduct. At first I thought, when he was
speaking to myself, that he was led on thoughtlessly to say all that
he did say. I did not trust his love, though I saw that he did trust
it himself. But I could not but trust it when he came again—to my
brother, and made his proposal to him. I don’t know whether you will
understand me, Lady Lufton; but a girl placed as I am feels ten times
more assurance in such a tender of affection as that, than in one
made to herself, at the spur of the moment, perhaps. And then you
must remember that I—I myself—I loved him from the first. I was
foolish enough to think that I could know him and not love him.”
“I saw all that going on,” said Lady Lufton, with a certain
assumption of wisdom about her; “and took steps which I hoped would
have put a stop to it in time.”
“Everybody saw it. It was a matter of course,” said Lucy, destroying
her ladyship’s wisdom at a blow. “Well; I did learn to love him, not
meaning to do so; and I do love him with all my heart. It is no use
my striving to think that I do not; and I could stand with him at the
altar to-morrow and give him my hand, feeling that I was doing my
duty by him, as a woman should do. And now he has told you of his
love, and I believe in that as I do in my own—” And then for a
moment she paused.
“But, my dear Miss Robarts—” began Lady Lufton.
Lucy, however, had now worked herself up into a condition of power,
and would not allow her ladyship to interrupt her in her speech.
“I beg your pardon, Lady Lufton; I shall have done directly, and then
I will hear you. And so my brother came to me, not urging this suit,
expressing no wish for such a marriage, but allowing me to judge
for myself, and proposing that I should see your son again on the
following morning. Had I done so, I could not but have accepted him.
Think of it, Lady Lufton. How could I have done other than accept
him, seeing that in my heart I had accepted his love already?”
“Well?” said Lady Lufton, not wishing now to put in any speech of her
own.
“I did not see him—I refused to do so—because I was a coward. I
could not endure to come into this house as your son’s wife, and be
coldly looked on by your son’s mother. Much as I loved him, much as I
do love him, dearly as I prize the generous offer which he came down
here to repeat to me, I could not live with him to be made the object
of your scorn. I sent him word, therefore, that I would have him when
you would ask me, and not before.”
And then, having thus pleaded her cause—and pleaded as she believed
the cause of her lover also—she ceased from speaking, and prepared
herself to listen to the story of King Cophetua.
But Lady Lufton felt considerable difficulty in commencing her
speech. In the first place she was by no means a hard-hearted or
a selfish woman; and were it not that her own son was concerned,
and all the glory which was reflected upon her from her son, her
sympathies would have been given to Lucy Robarts. As it was, she did
sympathize with her, and admire her, and to a certain extent like
her. She began also to understand what it was that had brought
about her son’s love, and to feel that but for certain unfortunate
concomitant circumstances the girl before her might have made
a fitting Lady Lufton. Lucy had grown bigger in her eyes while
sitting there and talking, and had lost much of that missish want
of importance—that lack of social weight which Lady Lufton in her
own opinion had always imputed to her. A girl that could thus speak
up and explain her own position now, would be able to speak up and
explain her own, and perhaps some other positions at any future time.
But not for all or any of these reasons did Lady Lufton think of
giving way. The power of making or marring this marriage was placed
in her hands, as was very fitting, and that power it behoved her
to use, as best she might use it, to her son’s advantage. Much as
she might admire Lucy, she could not sacrifice her son to that
admiration. The unfortunate concomitant circumstances still remained,
and were of sufficient force, as she thought, to make such a marriage
inexpedient. Lucy was the sister of a gentleman, who by his peculiar
position as parish clergyman of Framley was unfitted to be the
brother-in-law of the owner of Framley. Nobody liked clergymen better
than Lady Lufton, or was more willing to live with them on terms
of affectionate intimacy, but she could not get over the feeling
that the clergyman of her own parish,—or of her son’s,—was a part
of her own establishment, of her own appanage,—or of his,—and
that it could not be well that Lord Lufton should marry among his
own—dependants. Lady Lufton would not have used the word, but she
did think it. And then, too, Lucy’s education had been so deficient.
She had had no one about her in early life accustomed to the ways
of,—of what shall I say, without making Lady Lufton appear more
worldly than she was? Lucy’s wants in this respect, not to be defined
in words, had been exemplified by the very way in which she had just
now stated her case. She had shown talent, good temper, and sound
judgment; but there had been no quiet, no repose about her. The
species of power in young ladies which Lady Lufton most admired was
the _vis inertiæ_ belonging to beautiful and dignified reticence; of
this poor Lucy had none. Then, too, she had no fortune, which, though
a minor evil, was an evil; and she had no birth, in the high-life
sense of the word, which was a greater evil. And then, though her
eyes had sparkled when she confessed her love, Lady Lufton was not
prepared to admit that she was possessed of positive beauty. Such
were the unfortunate concomitant circumstances which still induced
Lady Lufton to resolve that the match must be marred.
But the performance of her part in this play was much more difficult
than she had imagined, and she found herself obliged to sit silent
for a minute or two, during which, however, Miss Robarts made no
attempt at further speech.
“I am greatly struck,” Lady Lufton said at last, “by the excellent
sense you have displayed in the whole of this affair; and you must
allow me to say, Miss Robarts, that I now regard you with very
different feelings from those which I entertained when I left
London.” Upon this Lucy bowed her head, slightly but very stiffly;
acknowledging rather the former censure implied than the present
eulogium expressed.
“But my feelings,” continued Lady Lufton, “my strongest feelings in
this matter, must be those of a mother. What might be my conduct if
such a marriage did take place, I need not now consider. But I must
confess that I should think such a marriage very—very ill-judged.
A better hearted young man than Lord Lufton does not exist, nor one
with better principles, or a deeper regard for his word; but he is
exactly the man to be mistaken in any hurried outlook as to his
future life. Were you and he to become man and wife, such a marriage
would tend to the happiness neither of him nor of you.”
It was clear that the whole lecture was now coming; and as Lucy
had openly declared her own weakness, and thrown all the power of
decision into the hands of Lady Lufton, she did not see why she
should endure this.
“We need not argue about that, Lady Lufton,” she said. “I have told
you the only circumstances under which I would marry your son; and
you, at any rate, are safe.”
“No; I was not wishing to argue,” answered Lady Lufton, almost
humbly; “but I was desirous of excusing myself to you, so that you
should not think me cruel in withholding my consent. I wished to make
you believe that I was doing the best for my son.”
“I am sure that you think you are, and therefore no excuse is
necessary.”
“No; exactly; of course it is a matter of opinion, and I do think so.
I cannot believe that this marriage would make either of you happy,
and therefore I should be very wrong to express my consent.”
“Then, Lady Lufton,” said Lucy, rising from her chair, “I suppose we
have both now said what is necessary, and I will therefore wish you
good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Miss Robarts. I wish I could make you understand how very
highly I regard your conduct in this matter. It has been above all
praise, and so I shall not hesitate to say when speaking of it to
your relatives.” This was disagreeable enough to Lucy, who cared
but little for any praise which Lady Lufton might express to her
relatives in this matter. “And pray,” continued Lady Lufton, “give
my best love to Mrs. Robarts, and tell her that I shall hope to see
her over here very soon, and Mr. Robarts also. I would name a day for
you all to dine, but perhaps it will be better that I should have a
little talk with Fanny first.”
Lucy muttered something, which was intended to signify that any
such dinner-party had better not be made up with the intention of
including her, and then took her leave. She had decidedly had the
best of the interview, and there was a consciousness of this in her
heart as she allowed Lady Lufton to shake hands with her. She had
stopped her antagonist short on each occasion on which an attempt had
been made to produce the homily which had been prepared, and during
the interview had spoken probably three words for every one which
her ladyship had been able to utter. But, nevertheless, there was
a bitter feeling of disappointment about her heart as she walked
back home; and a feeling, also, that she herself had caused her own
unhappiness. Why should she have been so romantic and chivalrous and
self-sacrificing, seeing that her romance and chivalry had all been
to his detriment as well as to hers,—seeing that she sacrificed
him as well as herself? Why should she have been so anxious to play
into Lady Lufton’s hands? It was not because she thought it right,
as a general social rule, that a lady should refuse a gentleman’s
hand, unless the gentleman’s mother were a consenting party to the
marriage. She would have held any such doctrine as absurd. The lady,
she would have said, would have had to look to her own family and no
further. It was not virtue but cowardice which had influenced her,
and she had none of that solace which may come to us in misfortune
from a consciousness that our own conduct has been blameless. Lady
Lufton had inspired her with awe, and any such feeling on her part
was mean, ignoble, and unbecoming the spirit with which she wished to
think that she was endowed. That was the accusation which she brought
against herself, and it forbade her to feel any triumph as to the
result of her interview.
When she reached the parsonage, Mark was there, and they were of
course expecting her. “Well,” said she, in her short, hurried manner,
“is Puck ready again? I have no time to lose, and I must go and pack
up a few things. Have you settled about the children, Fanny?”
“Yes; I will tell you directly; but you have seen Lady Lufton?”
“Seen her! Oh, yes, of course I have seen her. Did she not send for
me? and in that case it was not on the cards that I should disobey
her.”
“And what did she say?”
“How green you are, Mark; and not only green, but impolite also, to
make me repeat the story of my own disgrace. Of course she told me
that she did not intend that I should marry my lord, her son; and of
course I said that under those circumstances I should not think of
doing such a thing.”
“Lucy, I cannot understand you,” said Fanny, very gravely. “I am
sometimes inclined to doubt whether you have any deep feeling in the
matter or not. If you have, how can you bring yourself to joke about
it?”
“Well, it is singular; and sometimes I doubt myself whether I have.
I ought to be pale, ought I not? and very thin, and to go mad by
degrees? I have not the least intention of doing anything of the
kind, and, therefore, the matter is not worth any further notice.”
“But was she civil to you, Lucy?” asked Mark; “civil in her manner,
you know?”
“Oh, uncommonly so. You will hardly believe it, but she actually
asked me to dine. She always does, you know, when she wants to
show her good-humour. If you’d broken your leg, and she wished to
commiserate you, she’d ask you to dinner.”
“I suppose she meant to be kind,” said Fanny, who was not disposed to
give up her old friend, though she was quite ready to fight Lucy’s
battle, if there were any occasion for a battle to be fought.
“Lucy is so perverse,” said Mark, “that it is impossible to learn
from her what really has taken place.”
“Upon my word, then, you know it all as well as I can tell you. She
asked me if Lord Lufton had made me an offer. I said, yes. She asked
next, if I meant to accept it. Not without her approval, I said. And
then she asked us all to dinner. That is exactly what took place, and
I cannot see that I have been perverse at all.” After that she threw
herself into a chair, and Mark and Fanny stood looking at each other.
“Mark,” she said, after a while, “don’t be unkind to me. I make as
little of it as I can, for all our sakes. It is better so, Fanny,
than that I should go about moaning, like a sick cow;” and then they
looked at her, and saw that the tears were already brimming over from
her eyes.
“Dearest, dearest Lucy,” said Fanny, immediately going down on her
knees before her, “I won’t be unkind to you again.” And then they had
a great cry together.