INTERNECINE.
It must be conceived that there was some feeling of triumph at
Plumstead Episcopi, when the wife of the rector returned home with
her daughter, the bride elect of the Lord Dumbello. The heir of the
Marquis of Hartletop was, in wealth, the most considerable unmarried
young nobleman of the day; he was noted, too, as a man difficult to
be pleased, as one who was very fine and who gave himself airs,—and
to have been selected as the wife of such a man as this was a great
thing for the daughter of a parish clergyman. We have seen in what
manner the happy girl’s mother communicated the fact to Lady Lufton,
hiding, as it were, her pride under a veil; and we have seen also how
meekly the happy girl bore her own great fortune, applying herself
humbly to the packing of her clothes, as though she ignored her own
glory.
But nevertheless there was triumph at Plumstead Episcopi. The mother,
when she returned home, began to feel that she had been thoroughly
successful in the great object of her life. While she was yet in
London she had hardly realized her satisfaction, and there were
doubts then whether the cup might not be dashed from her lips before
it was tasted. It might be that even the son of the Marquis of
Hartletop was subject to parental authority, and that barriers should
spring up between Griselda and her coronet; but there had been
nothing of the kind. The archdeacon had been closeted with the
marquis, and Mrs. Grantly had been closeted with the marchioness;
and though neither of those noble persons had expressed themselves
gratified by their son’s proposed marriage, so also neither of them
had made any attempt to prevent it. Lord Dumbello was a man who had
a will of his own,—as the Grantlys boasted amongst themselves. Poor
Griselda! the day may perhaps come when this fact of her lord’s
masterful will may not to her be matter of much boasting. But in
London, as I was saying, there had been no time for an appreciation
of the family joy. The work to be done was nervous in its nature,
and self-glorification might have been fatal; but now, when they
were safe at Plumstead, the great truth burst upon them in all its
splendour.
Mrs. Grantly had but one daughter, and the formation of that child’s
character and her establishment in the world had been the one main
object of the mother’s life. Of Griselda’s great beauty the Plumstead
household had long been conscious; of her discretion also, of her
conduct, and of her demeanour there had been no doubt. But the father
had sometimes hinted to the mother that he did not think that Grizzy
was quite so clever as her brothers. “I don’t agree with you at all,”
Mrs. Grantly had answered. “Besides, what you call cleverness is not
at all necessary in a girl; she is perfectly ladylike; even you won’t
deny that.” The archdeacon had never wished to deny it, and was now
fain to admit that what he had called cleverness was not necessary in
a young lady.
At this period of the family glory the archdeacon himself was kept a
little in abeyance, and was hardly allowed free intercourse with his
own magnificent child. Indeed, to give him his due, it must be said
of him that he would not consent to walk in the triumphal procession
which moved with stately step, to and fro, through the Barchester
regions. He kissed his daughter and blessed her, and bade her love
her husband and be a good wife; but such injunctions as these,
seeing how splendidly she had done her duty in securing to herself a
marquis, seemed out of place and almost vulgar. Girls about to marry
curates or sucking barristers should be told to do their duty in that
station of life to which God might be calling them; but it seemed to
be almost an impertinence in a father to give such an injunction to a
future marchioness.
“I do not think that you have any ground for fear on her behalf,”
said Mrs. Grantly, “seeing in what way she has hitherto conducted
herself.”
“She has been a good girl,” said the archdeacon, “but she is about to
be placed in a position of great temptation.”
“She has a strength of mind suited for any position,” replied Mrs.
Grantly, vain-gloriously.
But nevertheless even the archdeacon moved about through the close
at Barchester with a somewhat prouder step since the tidings of this
alliance had become known there. The time had been—in the latter
days of his father’s lifetime—when he was the greatest man of the
close. The dean had been old and infirm, and Dr. Grantly had wielded
the bishop’s authority. But since that things had altered. A new
bishop had come there, absolutely hostile to him. A new dean had
also come, who was not only his friend, but the brother-in-law of
his wife; but even this advent had lessened the authority of the
archdeacon. The vicars choral did not hang upon his words as they
had been wont to do, and the minor canons smiled in return to
his smile less obsequiously when they met him in the clerical
circles of Barchester. But now it seemed that his old supremacy was
restored to him. In the minds of many men an archdeacon, who was the
father-in-law of a marquis, was himself as good as any bishop. He did
not say much of his new connection to others beside the dean, but he
was conscious of the fact, and conscious also of the reflected glory
which shone around his own head.
But as regards Mrs. Grantly it may be said that she moved in an
unending procession of stately ovation. It must not be supposed that
she continually talked to her friends and neighbours of Lord Dumbello
and the marchioness. She was by far too wise for such folly as that.
The coming alliance having been once announced, the name of Hartletop
was hardly mentioned by her out of her own domestic circle. But she
assumed, with an ease that was surprising even to herself, the airs
and graces of a mighty woman. She went through her work of morning
calls as though it were her business to be affable to the country
gentry. She astonished her sister, the dean’s wife, by the simplicity
of her grandeur; and condescended to Mrs. Proudie in a manner which
nearly broke that lady’s heart. “I shall be even with her yet,” said
Mrs. Proudie to herself, who had contrived to learn various very
deleterious circumstances respecting the Hartletop family since the
news about Lord Dumbello and Griselda had become known to her.
Griselda herself was carried about in the procession, taking but
little part in it of her own, like an Eastern god. She suffered her
mother’s caresses and smiled in her mother’s face as she listened to
her own praises, but her triumph was apparently within. To no one did
she say much on the subject, and greatly disgusted the old family
housekeeper by declining altogether to discuss the future Dumbello
_ménage_. To her aunt, Mrs. Arabin, who strove hard to lead her
into some open-hearted speech as to her future aspirations, she was
perfectly impassive. “Oh, yes, aunt, of course,” and “I’ll think
about it, aunt Eleanor,” or “Of course I shall do that if Lord
Dumbello wishes it.” Nothing beyond this could be got from her; and
so, after half-a-dozen ineffectual attempts, Mrs. Arabin abandoned
the matter.
But then there arose the subject of clothes—of the wedding
_trousseau_! Sarcastic people are wont to say that the tailor makes
the man. Were I such a one, I might certainly assert that the
milliner makes the bride. As regarding her bridehood, in distinction
either to her girlhood or her wifehood—as being a line of plain
demarcation between those two periods of a woman’s life—the milliner
does do much to make her. She would be hardly a bride if the
_trousseau_ were not there. A girl married without some such
appendage would seem to pass into the condition of a wife without any
such line of demarcation. In that moment in which she finds herself
in the first fruition of her marriage finery she becomes a bride; and
in that other moment, when she begins to act upon the finest of these
things as clothes to be packed up, she becomes a wife.
When this subject was discussed Griselda displayed no lack of a
becoming interest. She went to work steadily, slowly, and almost with
solemnity, as though the business in hand were one which it would be
wicked to treat with impatience. She even struck her mother with awe
by the grandeur of her ideas and the depth of her theories. Nor let
it be supposed that she rushed away at once to the consideration of
the great fabric which was to be the ultimate sign and mark of her
status, the quintessence of her briding, the outer veil, as it were,
of the tabernacle—namely, her wedding-dress. As a great poet works
himself up by degrees to that inspiration which is necessary for
the grand turning point of his epic, so did she slowly approach the
hallowed ground on which she would sit, with her ministers around
her, when about to discuss the nature, the extent, the design, the
colouring, the structure, and the ornamentation of that momentous
piece of apparel. No; there was much indeed to be done before she
came to this; and as the poet, to whom I have already alluded, first
invokes his muse, and then brings his smaller events gradually out
upon his stage, so did Miss Grantly with sacred fervour ask her
mother’s aid, and then prepare her list of all those articles
of under-clothing which must be the substratum for the visible
magnificence of her _trousseau_.
Money was no object. We all know what that means; and frequently
understand, when the words are used, that a blaze of splendour is to
be attained at the cheapest possible price. But, in this instance,
money was no object;—such an amount of money, at least, as could by
any possibility be spent on a lady’s clothes, independently of her
jewels. With reference to diamonds and such like, the archdeacon
at once declared his intention of taking the matter into his own
hands—except in so far as Lord Dumbello, or the Hartletop interest,
might be pleased to participate in the selection. Nor was Mrs.
Grantly sorry for such a decision. She was not an imprudent woman,
and would have dreaded the responsibility of trusting herself on
such an occasion among the dangerous temptations of a jeweller’s
shop. But as far as silks and satins went—in the matter of
French bonnets, muslins, velvets, hats, riding-habits, artificial
flowers, head-gilding, curious nettings, enamelled buckles, golden
tagged bobbins, and mechanical petticoats—as regarded shoes, and
gloves, and corsets, and stockings, and linen, and flannel, and
calico—money, I may conscientiously assert, was no object. And,
under these circumstances, Griselda Grantly went to work with a
solemn industry and a steady perseverance that was beyond all praise.
“I hope she will be happy,” Mrs. Arabin said to her sister, as the
two were sitting together in the dean’s drawing-room.
“Oh, yes; I think she will. Why should she not?” said the mother.
“Oh, no; I know of no reason. But she is going up into a station so
much above her own in the eyes of the world that one cannot but feel
anxious for her.”
“I should feel much more anxious if she were going to marry a poor
man,” said Mrs. Grantly. “It has always seemed to me that Griselda
was fitted for a high position; that nature intended her for rank and
state. You see that she is not a bit elated. She takes it all as if
it were her own by right. I do not think that there is any danger
that her head will be turned, if you mean that.”
“I was thinking rather of her heart,” said Mrs. Arabin.
“She never would have taken Lord Dumbello without loving him,” said
Mrs. Grantly, speaking rather quickly.
“That is not quite what I mean either, Susan. I am sure she would not
have accepted him had she not loved him. But it is so hard to keep
the heart fresh among all the grandeurs of high rank; and it is
harder for a girl to do so who has not been born to it, than for one
who has enjoyed it as her birthright.”
“I don’t quite understand about fresh hearts,” said Mrs. Grantly,
pettishly. “If she does her duty, and loves her husband, and fills
the position in which God has placed her with propriety, I don’t know
that we need look for anything more. I don’t at all approve of the
plan of frightening a young girl when she is making her first outset
into the world.”
“No; I would not frighten her. I think it would be almost difficult
to frighten Griselda.”
“I hope it would. The great matter with a girl is whether she has
been brought up with proper notions as to a woman’s duty. Of course
it is not for me to boast on this subject. Such as she is, I, of
course, am responsible. But I must own that I do not see occasion to
wish for any change.” And then the subject was allowed to drop.
Among those of her relations who wondered much at the girl’s fortune,
but allowed themselves to say but little, was her grandfather, Mr.
Harding. He was an old clergyman, plain and simple in his manners,
and not occupying a very prominent position, seeing that he was only
precentor to the chapter. He was loved by his daughter, Mrs. Grantly,
and was treated by the archdeacon, if not invariably with the highest
respect, at least always with consideration and regard. But, old
and plain as he was, the young people at Plumstead did not hold him
in any great reverence. He was poorer than their other relatives,
and made no attempt to hold his head high in Barsetshire circles.
Moreover, in these latter days, the home of his heart had been at the
deanery. He had, indeed, a lodging of his own in the city, but was
gradually allowing himself to be weaned away from it. He had his own
bedroom in the dean’s house, his own arm-chair in the dean’s library,
and his own corner on a sofa in Mrs. Dean’s drawing-room. It was
not, therefore, necessary that he should interfere greatly in this
coming marriage; but still it became his duty to say a word of
congratulation to his granddaughter,—and perhaps to say a word of
advice.
“Grizzy, my dear,” he said to her—he always called her Grizzy, but
the endearment of the appellation had never been appreciated by the
young lady—“come and kiss me, and let me congratulate you on your
great promotion. I do so very heartily.”
“Thank you, grandpapa,” she said, touching his forehead with her
lips, thus being, as it were, very sparing with her kiss. But those
lips now were august and reserved for nobler foreheads than that of
an old cathedral hack. For Mr. Harding still chanted the Litany from
Sunday to Sunday, unceasingly, standing at that well-known desk in
the cathedral choir; and Griselda had a thought in her mind that
when the Hartletop people should hear of the practice they would not
be delighted. Dean and archdeacon might be very well, and if her
grandfather had even been a prebendary, she might have put up with
him; but he had, she thought, almost disgraced his family in being,
at his age, one of the working menial clergy of the cathedral. She
kissed him, therefore, sparingly, and resolved that her words with
him should be few.
“You are going to be a great lady, Grizzy,” said he.
“Umph!” said she.
What was she to say when so addressed?
“And I hope you will be happy,—and make others happy.”
“I hope I shall,” said she.
“But always think most about the latter, my dear. Think about the
happiness of those around you, and your own will come without
thinking. You understand that; do you not?”
“Oh, yes, I understand,” she said.
As they were speaking Mr. Harding still held her hand, but Griselda
left it with him unwillingly, and therefore ungraciously, looking as
though she were dragging it from him.
“And Grizzy—I believe it is quite as easy for a rich countess to be
happy, as for a dairymaid—”
Griselda gave her head a little chuck which was produced by two
different operations of her mind. The first was a reflection that
her grandpapa was robbing her of her rank. She was to be a rich
marchioness. And the second was a feeling of anger at the old man for
comparing her lot to that of a dairymaid.
“Quite as easy, I believe,” continued he; “though others will tell
you that it is not so. But with the countess as with the dairymaid,
it must depend on the woman herself. Being a countess—that fact
alone won’t make you happy.”
“Lord Dumbello at present is only a viscount,” said Griselda. “There
is no earl’s title in the family.”
“Oh! I did not know,” said Mr. Harding, relinquishing his
granddaughter’s hand; and, after that, he troubled her with no
further advice.
Both Mrs. Proudie and the bishop had called at Plumstead since Mrs.
Grantly had come back from London, and the ladies from Plumstead,
of course, returned the visit. It was natural that the Grantlys and
Proudies should hate each other. They were essentially church people,
and their views on all church matters were antagonistic. They had
been compelled to fight for supremacy in the diocese, and neither
family had so conquered the other as to have become capable of
magnanimity and good-humour. They did hate each other, and this
hatred had, at one time, almost produced an absolute disseverance of
even the courtesies which are so necessary between a bishop and his
clergy. But the bitterness of this rancour had been overcome, and the
ladies of the families had continued on visiting terms.
But now this match was almost more than Mrs. Proudie could bear.
The great disappointment which, as she well knew, the Grantlys had
encountered in that matter of the proposed new bishopric had for
the moment mollified her. She had been able to talk of poor dear
Mrs. Grantly! “She is heartbroken, you know, in this matter, and the
repetition of such misfortunes is hard to bear,” she had been heard
to say, with a complacency which had been quite becoming to her. But
now that complacency was at an end. Olivia Proudie had just accepted
a widowed preacher at a district church in Bethnal Green,—a man with
three children, who was dependent on pew-rents; and Griselda Grantly
was engaged to the eldest son of the Marquis of Hartletop! When women
are enjoined to forgive their enemies it cannot be intended that such
wrongs as these should be included.
But Mrs. Proudie’s courage was nothing daunted. It may be boasted of
her that nothing could daunt her courage. Soon after her return to
Barchester, she and Olivia—Olivia being very unwilling—had driven
over to Plumstead, and, not finding the Grantlys at home, had left
their cards; and now, at a proper interval, Mrs. Grantly and Griselda
returned the visit. It was the first time that Miss Grantly had been
seen by the Proudie ladies since the fact of her engagement had
become known.
The first bevy of compliments that passed might be likened to a crowd
of flowers on a hedge rosebush. They were beautiful to the eye but
were so closely environed by thorns that they could not be plucked
without great danger. As long as the compliments were allowed to
remain on the hedge—while no attempt was made to garner them and
realize their fruits for enjoyment—they did no mischief; but the
first finger that was put forth for such a purpose was soon drawn
back, marked with spots of blood.
“Of course it is a great match for Griselda,” said Mrs. Grantly, in
a whisper the meekness of which would have disarmed an enemy whose
weapons were less firmly clutched than those of Mrs. Proudie; “but,
independently of that, the connection is one which is gratifying in
many ways.”
“Oh, no doubt,” said Mrs. Proudie.
“Lord Dumbello is so completely his own master,” continued Mrs.
Grantly, and a slight, unintended semi-tone of triumph mingled itself
with the meekness of that whisper.
“And is likely to remain so, from all I hear,” said Mrs. Proudie, and
the scratched hand was at once drawn back.
“Of course the estab—,” and then Mrs. Proudie, who was blandly
continuing her list of congratulations, whispered her sentence close
into the ear of Mrs. Grantly, so that not a word of what she said
might be audible by the young people.
“I never heard a word of it,” said Mrs. Grantly, gathering herself
up, “and I don’t believe it.”
“Oh, I may be wrong; and I’m sure I hope so. But young men will be
young men, you know;—and children will take after their parents. I
suppose you will see a great deal of the Duke of Omnium now.”
But Mrs. Grantly was not a woman to be knocked down and trampled on
without resistance; and though she had been lacerated by the rosebush
she was not as yet placed altogether _hors de combat_. She said some
word about the Duke of Omnium very tranquilly, speaking of him merely
as a Barsetshire proprietor, and then, smiling with her sweetest
smile, expressed a hope that she might soon have the pleasure of
becoming acquainted with Mr. Tickler; and as she spoke she made a
pretty little bow towards Olivia Proudie. Now Mr. Tickler was the
worthy clergyman attached to the district church at Bethnal Green.
“He’ll be down here in August,” said Olivia, boldly, determined not
to be shamefaced about her love affairs.
“You’ll be starring it about the Continent by that time, my dear,”
said Mrs. Proudie to Griselda. “Lord Dumbello is well known at
Homburg and Ems, and places of that sort; so you will find yourself
quite at home.”
“We are going to Rome,” said Griselda, majestically.
“I suppose Mr. Tickler will come into the diocese soon,” said Mrs.
Grantly. “I remember hearing him very favourably spoken of by Mr.
Slope, who was a friend of his.”
Nothing short of a fixed resolve on the part of Mrs. Grantly that the
time had now come in which she must throw away her shield and stand
behind her sword, declare war to the knife, and neither give nor take
quarter, could have justified such a speech as this. Any allusion to
Mr. Slope acted on Mrs. Proudie as a red cloth is supposed to act on
a bull; but when that allusion connected the name of Mr. Slope in
a friendly bracket with that of Mrs. Proudie’s future son-in-law
it might be certain that the effect would be terrific. And there
was more than this: for that very Mr. Slope had once entertained
audacious hopes—hopes not thought to be audacious by the young lady
herself—with reference to Miss Olivia Proudie. All this Mrs. Grantly
knew, and, knowing it, still dared to mention his name.
The countenance of Mrs. Proudie became darkened with black anger,
and the polished smile of her company manners gave place before the
outraged feelings of her nature.
“The man you speak of, Mrs. Grantly,” said she, “was never known as a
friend by Mr. Tickler.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Mrs. Grantly. “Perhaps I have made a mistake. I am
sure I have heard Mr. Slope mention him.”
“When Mr. Slope was running after your sister, Mrs. Grantly, and was
encouraged by her as he was, you perhaps saw more of him than I did.”
“Mrs. Proudie, that was never the case.”
“I have reason to know that the archdeacon conceived it to be so, and
that he was very unhappy about it.” Now this, unfortunately, was a
fact which Mrs. Grantly could not deny.
“The archdeacon may have been mistaken about Mr. Slope,” she said,
“as were some other people at Barchester. But it was you, I think,
Mrs. Proudie, who were responsible for bringing him here.”
Mrs. Grantly, at this period of the engagement, might have inflicted
a fatal wound by referring to poor Olivia’s former love affairs, but
she was not destitute of generosity. Even in the extremest heat of
the battle she knew how to spare the young and tender.
“When I came here, Mrs. Grantly, I little dreamed what a depth of
wickedness might be found in the very close of a cathedral city,”
said Mrs. Proudie.
“Then, for dear Olivia’s sake, pray do not bring poor Mr. Tickler to
Barchester.”
“Mr. Tickler, Mrs. Grantly, is a man of assured morals and of a
highly religious tone of thinking. I wish every one could be so safe
as regards their daughters’ future prospects as I am.”
“Yes, I know he has the advantage of being a family man,” said Mrs.
Grantly, getting up. “Good morning, Mrs. Proudie; good day, Olivia.”
“A great deal better that than—” But the blow fell upon the empty
air; for Mrs. Grantly had already escaped on to the staircase while
Olivia was ringing the bell for the servant to attend the front-door.
Mrs. Grantly, as she got into her carriage, smiled slightly, thinking
of the battle, and as she sat down she gently pressed her daughter’s
hand. But Mrs. Proudie’s face was still dark as Acheron when her
enemy withdrew, and with angry tone she sent her daughter to her
work. “Mr. Tickler will have great reason to complain if, in your
position, you indulge such habits of idleness,” she said. Therefore
I conceive that I am justified in saying that in that encounter Mrs.
Grantly was the conqueror.