DON QUIXOTE.
On the day on which Lucy had her interview with Lady Lufton the dean
dined at Framley Parsonage. He and Robarts had known each other
since the latter had been in the diocese, and now, owing to Mark’s
preferment in the chapter, had become almost intimate. The dean was
greatly pleased with the manner in which poor Mr. Crawley’s children
had been conveyed away from Hogglestock, and was inclined to open his
heart to the whole Framley household. As he still had to ride home
he could only allow himself to remain half an hour after dinner, but
in that half-hour he said a great deal about Crawley, complimented
Robarts on the manner in which he was playing the part of the Good
Samaritan, and then by degrees informed him that it had come to his,
the dean’s, ears, before he left Barchester, that a writ was in the
hands of certain persons in the city, enabling them to seize—he did
not know whether it was the person or the property of the vicar of
Framley.
The fact was that these tidings had been conveyed to the dean with
the express intent that he might put Robarts on his guard; but the
task of speaking on such a subject to a brother clergyman had been so
unpleasant to him that he had been unable to introduce it till the
last five minutes before his departure.
“I hope you will not put it down as an impertinent interference,”
said the dean, apologizing.
“No,” said Mark; “no, I do not think that.” He was so sad at heart
that he hardly knew how to speak of it.
“I do not understand much about such matters,” said the dean; “but I
think, if I were you, I should go to a lawyer. I should imagine that
anything so terribly disagreeable as an arrest might be avoided.”
“It is a hard case,” said Mark, pleading his own cause. “Though these
men have this claim against me I have never received a shilling
either in money or money’s worth.”
“And yet your name is to the bills!” said the dean.
“Yes, my name is to the bills, certainly, but it was to oblige a
friend.”
And then the dean, having given his advice, rode away. He could not
understand how a clergyman, situated as was Mr. Robarts, could find
himself called upon by friendship to attach his name to accommodation
bills which he had not the power of liquidating when due!
On that evening they were both wretched enough at the parsonage.
Hitherto Mark had hoped that perhaps, after all, no absolutely
hostile steps would be taken against him with reference to these
bills. Some unforeseen chance might occur in his favour, or the
persons holding them might consent to take small instalments of
payment from time to time; but now it seemed that the evil day was
actually coming upon him at a blow. He had no longer any secrets from
his wife. Should he go to a lawyer? and if so, to what lawyer? And
when he had found his lawyer, what should he say to him? Mrs. Robarts
at one time suggested that everything should be told to Lady Lufton.
Mark, however, could not bring himself to do that. “It would seem,”
he said, “as though I wanted her to lend me the money.”
On the following morning Mark did ride into Barchester, dreading,
however, lest he should be arrested on his journey, and he did see a
lawyer. During his absence two calls were made at the parsonage—one
by a very rough-looking individual, who left a suspicious document
in the hands of the servant, purporting to be an invitation—not to
dinner—from one of the judges of the land; and the other call was
made by Lady Lufton in person.
Mrs. Robarts had determined to go down to Framley Court on that day.
In accordance with her usual custom she would have been there within
an hour or two of Lady Lufton’s return from London, but things
between them were not now as they usually had been. This affair of
Lucy’s must make a difference, let them both resolve to the contrary
as they might. And, indeed, Mrs. Robarts had found that the closeness
of her intimacy with Framley Court had been diminishing from day to
day since Lucy had first begun to be on friendly terms with Lord
Lufton. Since that she had been less at Framley Court than usual;
she had heard from Lady Lufton less frequently by letter during her
absence than she had done in former years, and was aware that she was
less implicitly trusted with all the affairs of the parish. This had
not made her angry, for she was in a manner conscious that it must be
so. It made her unhappy, but what could she do? She could not blame
Lucy, nor could she blame Lady Lufton. Lord Lufton she did blame, but
she did so in the hearing of no one but her husband.
Her mind, however, was made up to go over and bear the first brunt
of her ladyship’s arguments, when she was stopped by her ladyship’s
arrival. If it were not for this terrible matter of Lucy’s love—a
matter on which they could not now be silent when they met—there
would be twenty subjects of pleasant, or, at any rate, not unpleasant
conversation. But even then there would be those terrible bills
hanging over her conscience, and almost crushing her by their weight.
At the moment in which Lady Lufton walked up to the drawing-room
window, Mrs. Robarts held in her hand that ominous invitation from
the judge. Would it not be well that she should make a clean breast
of it all, disregarding what her husband had said? It might be well:
only this—she had never yet done anything in opposition to her
husband’s wishes. So she hid the slip within her desk, and left the
matter open to consideration.
The interview commenced with an affectionate embrace, as was a matter
of course. “Dear Fanny,” and “Dear Lady Lufton,” was said between
them with all the usual warmth. And then the first inquiry was made
about the children, and the second about the school. For a minute or
two Mrs. Robarts thought that, perhaps, nothing was to be said about
Lucy. If it pleased Lady Lufton to be silent she, at least, would not
commence the subject.
Then there was a word or two spoken about Mrs. Podgens’ baby, after
which Lady Lufton asked whether Fanny were alone.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Robarts. “Mark has gone over to Barchester.”
“I hope he will not be long before he lets me see him. Perhaps he can
call to-morrow. Would you both come and dine to-morrow?”
“Not to-morrow, I think, Lady Lufton; but Mark, I am sure, will go
over and call.”
“And why not come to dinner? I hope there is to be no change among
us, eh, Fanny?” and Lady Lufton as she spoke looked into the other’s
face in a manner which almost made Mrs. Robarts get up and throw
herself on her old friend’s neck. Where was she to find a friend
who would give her such constant love as she had received from Lady
Lufton? And who was kinder, better, more honest than she?
“Change! no, I hope not, Lady Lufton;” and as she spoke the tears
stood in her eyes.
“Ah, but I shall think there is if you will not come to me as you
used to do. You always used to come and dine with me the day I came
home, as a matter of course.”
What could she say, poor woman, to this?
“We were all in confusion yesterday about poor Mrs. Crawley, and the
dean dined here; he had been over at Hogglestock to see his friend.”
“I have heard of her illness, and will go over and see what ought
to be done. Don’t you go, do you hear, Fanny? You with your young
children! I should never forgive you if you did.”
And then Mrs. Robarts explained how Lucy had gone there, had sent
the four children back to Framley, and was herself now staying at
Hogglestock with the object of nursing Mrs. Crawley. In telling the
story she abstained from praising Lucy with all the strong language
which she would have used had not Lucy’s name and character been
at the present moment of peculiar import to Lady Lufton; but
nevertheless she could not tell it without dwelling much on Lucy’s
kindness. It would have been ungenerous to Lady Lufton to make much
of Lucy’s virtue at this present moment, but unjust to Lucy to make
nothing of it.
“And she is actually with Mrs. Crawley now?” asked Lady Lufton.
“Oh, yes; Mark left her there yesterday afternoon.”
“And the four children are all here in the house?”
“Not exactly in the house—that is, not as yet. We have arranged a
sort of quarantine hospital over the coach-house.”
“What, where Stubbs lives?”
“Yes; Stubbs and his wife have come into the house, and the children
are to remain up there till the doctor says that there is no danger
of infection. I have not even seen my visitors myself as yet,” said
Mrs. Robarts with a slight laugh.
“Dear me!” said Lady Lufton. “I declare you have been very prompt.
And so Miss Robarts is over there! I should have thought Mr. Crawley
would have made a difficulty about the children.”
“Well, he did; but they kidnapped them,—that is, Lucy and Mark did.
The dean gave me such an account of it. Lucy brought them out by twos
and packed them in the pony-carriage, and then Mark drove off at a
gallop while Mr. Crawley stood calling to them in the road. The dean
was there at the time and saw it all.”
“That Miss Lucy of yours seems to be a very determined young lady
when she takes a thing into her head,” said Lady Lufton, now sitting
down for the first time.
“Yes, she is,” said Mrs. Robarts, having laid aside all her pleasant
animation, for the discussion which she dreaded was now at hand.
“A very determined young lady,” continued Lady Lufton. “Of course, my
dear Fanny, you know all this about Ludovic and your sister-in-law?”
“Yes, she has told me about it.”
“It is very unfortunate—very.”
“I do not think Lucy has been to blame,” said Mrs. Robarts; and as
she spoke the blood was already mounting to her cheeks.
“Do not be too anxious to defend her, my dear, before any one accuses
her. Whenever a person does that it looks as though their cause were
weak.”
“But my cause is not weak as far as Lucy is concerned; I feel quite
sure that she has not been to blame.”
“I know how obstinate you can be, Fanny, when you think it necessary
to dub yourself any one’s champion. Don Quixote was not a better
knight-errant than you are. But is it not a pity to take up your
lance and shield before an enemy is within sight or hearing? But that
was ever the way with your Don Quixotes.”
“Perhaps there may be an enemy in ambush.” That was Mrs. Robarts’
thought to herself, but she did not dare to express it, so she
remained silent.
“My only hope is,” continued Lady Lufton, “that when my back is
turned you fight as gallantly for me.”
“Ah, you are never under a cloud, like poor Lucy.”
“Am I not? But, Fanny, you do not see all the clouds. The sun does
not always shine for any of us, and the down-pouring rain and the
heavy wind scatter also my fairest flowers,—as they have done hers,
poor girl. Dear Fanny, I hope it may be long before any cloud comes
across the brightness of your heaven. Of all the creatures I know you
are the one most fitted for quiet continued sunshine.”
And then Mrs. Robarts did get up and embrace her friend, thus hiding
the tears which were running down her face. Continued sunshine
indeed! A dark spot had already gathered on her horizon which was
likely to fall in a very waterspout of rain. What was to come of that
terrible notice which was now lying in the desk under Lady Lufton’s
very arm?
“But I am not come here to croak like an old raven,” continued Lady
Lufton, when she had brought this embrace to an end. “It is probable
that we all may have our sorrows; but I am quite sure of this,—that
if we endeavour to do our duties honestly, we shall all find our
consolation and all have our joys also. And now, my dear, let you
and I say a few words about this unfortunate affair. It would not be
natural if we were to hold our tongues to each other; would it?”
“I suppose not,” said Mrs. Robarts.
“We should always be conceiving worse than the truth,—each as to the
other’s thoughts. Now, some time ago, when I spoke to you about your
sister-in-law and Ludovic—I daresay you remember—”
“Oh, yes, I remember.”
“We both thought then that there would really be no danger. To tell
you the plain truth I fancied, and indeed hoped, that his affections
were engaged elsewhere; but I was altogether wrong then; wrong in
thinking it, and wrong in hoping it.”
Mrs. Robarts knew well that Lady Lufton was alluding to Griselda
Grantly, but she conceived that it would be discreet to say nothing
herself on that subject at present. She remembered, however, Lucy’s
flashing eye when the possibility of Lord Lufton making such a
marriage was spoken of in the pony-carriage, and could not but feel
glad that Lady Lufton had been disappointed.
“I do not at all impute any blame to Miss Robarts for what has
occurred since,” continued her ladyship. “I wish you distinctly to
understand that.”
“I do not see how any one could blame her. She has behaved so nobly.”
“It is of no use inquiring whether any one can. It is sufficient that
I do not.”
“But I think that is hardly sufficient,” said Mrs. Robarts,
pertinaciously.
“Is it not?” asked her ladyship, raising her eyebrows.
“No. Only think what Lucy has done and is doing. If she had chosen to
say that she would accept your son I really do not know how you could
have justly blamed her. I do not by any means say that I would have
advised such a thing.”
“I am glad of that, Fanny.”
“I have not given any advice; nor is it needed. I know no one more
able than Lucy to see clearly, by her own judgment, what course she
ought to pursue. I should be afraid to advise one whose mind is so
strong, and who, of her own nature, is so self-denying as she is.
She is sacrificing herself now, because she will not be the means of
bringing trouble and dissension between you and your son. If you ask
me, Lady Lufton, I think you owe her a deep debt of gratitude. I do,
indeed. And as for blaming her—what has she done that you possibly
could blame?”
“Don Quixote on horseback!” said Lady Lufton. “Fanny, I shall always
call you Don Quixote, and some day or other I will get somebody to
write your adventures. But the truth is this, my dear: there has been
imprudence. You may call it mine, if you will—though I really hardly
see how I am to take the blame. I could not do other than ask Miss
Robarts to my house, and I could not very well turn my son out of it.
In point of fact, it has been the old story.”
“Exactly; the story that is as old as the world, and which will
continue as long as people are born into it. It is a story of God’s
own telling!”
“But, my dear child, you do not mean that every young gentleman and
every young lady should fall in love with each other directly they
meet! Such a doctrine would be very inconvenient.”
“No, I do not mean that. Lord Lufton and Miss Grantly did not fall in
love with each other, though you meant them to do so. But was it not
quite as natural that Lord Lufton and Lucy should do so instead?”
“It is generally thought, Fanny, that young ladies should not give
loose to their affections until they have been certified of their
friends’ approval.”
“And that young gentlemen of fortune may amuse themselves as they
please! I know that is what the world teaches, but I cannot agree to
the justice of it. The terrible suffering which Lucy has to endure
makes me cry out against it. She did not seek your son. The moment
she began to suspect that there might be danger she avoided him
scrupulously. She would not go down to Framley Court, though her not
doing so was remarked by yourself. She would hardly go out about the
place lest she should meet him. She was contented to put herself
altogether in the background till he should have pleased to leave the
place. But he—he came to her here, and insisted on seeing her. He
found her when I was out, and declared himself determined to speak to
her. What was she to do? She did try to escape, but he stopped her at
the door. Was it her fault that he made her an offer?”
“My dear, no one has said so.”
“Yes, but you do say so when you tell me that young ladies should not
give play to their affections without permission. He persisted in
saying to her, here, all that it pleased him, though she implored him
to be silent. I cannot tell the words she used, but she did implore
him.”
“I do not doubt that she behaved well.”
“But he—he persisted, and begged her to accept his hand. She refused
him then, Lady Lufton—not as some girls do, with a mock reserve, not
intending to be taken at their words—but steadily, and, God forgive
her, untruly. Knowing what your feelings would be, and knowing what
the world would say, she declared to him that he was indifferent to
her. What more could she do in your behalf?” And then Mrs. Robarts
paused.
“I shall wait till you have done, Fanny.”
“You spoke of girls giving loose to their affections. She did not do
so. She went about her work exactly as she had done before. She did
not even speak to me of what had passed—not then, at least. She
determined that it should all be as though it had never been. She
had learned to love your son; but that was her misfortune and she
would get over it as she might. Tidings came to us here that he was
engaged, or about to engage himself, to Miss Grantly.”
“Those tidings were untrue.”
“Yes, we know that now; but she did not know it then. Of course she
could not but suffer; but she suffered within herself.” Mrs. Robarts,
as she said this, remembered the pony-carriage and how Puck had been
beaten. “She made no complaint that he had ill-treated her—not even
to herself. She had thought it right to reject his offer; and there,
as far as he was concerned, was to be an end of it.”
“That would be a matter of course, I should suppose.”
“But it was not a matter of course, Lady Lufton. He returned from
London to Framley on purpose to repeat his offer. He sent for her
brother— You talk of a young lady waiting for her friends’ approval.
In this matter who would be Lucy’s friends?”
“You and Mr. Robarts, of course.”
“Exactly; her only friends. Well, Lord Lufton sent for Mark and
repeated his offer to him. Mind you, Mark had never heard a word of
this before, and you may guess whether or no he was surprised. Lord
Lufton repeated his offer in the most formal manner and claimed
permission to see Lucy. She refused to see him. She has never seen
him since that day when, in opposition to all her efforts, he made
his way into this room. Mark,—as I think very properly,—would have
allowed Lord Lufton to come up here. Looking at both their ages and
position he could have had no right to forbid it. But Lucy positively
refused to see your son, and sent him a message instead, of the
purport of which you are now aware—that she would never accept him
unless she did so at your request.”
“It was a very proper message.”
“I say nothing about that. Had she accepted him I would not have
blamed her:—and so I told her, Lady Lufton.”
“I cannot understand your saying that, Fanny.”
“Well; I did say so. I don’t want to argue now about myself,—whether
I was right or wrong, but I did say so. Whatever sanction I could
give she would have had. But she again chose to sacrifice herself,
although I believe she regards him with as true a love as ever a girl
felt for a man. Upon my word I don’t know that she is right. Those
considerations for the world may perhaps be carried too far.”
“I think that she was perfectly right.”
“Very well, Lady Lufton; I can understand that. But after such
sacrifice on her part—a sacrifice made entirely to you—how can you
talk of ‘not blaming her’? Is that the language in which you speak
of those whose conduct from first to last has been superlatively
excellent? If she is open to blame at all, it is—it is—”
But here Mrs. Robarts stopped herself. In defending her sister she
had worked herself almost into a passion; but such a state of feeling
was not customary to her, and now that she had spoken her mind she
sank suddenly into silence.
“It seems to me, Fanny, that you almost regret Miss Robarts’
decision,” said Lady Lufton.
“My wish in this matter is for her happiness, and I regret anything
that may mar it.”
“You think nothing then of our welfare, and yet I do not know to whom
I might have looked for hearty friendship and for sympathy in
difficulties, if not to you?”
Poor Mrs. Robarts was almost upset by this. A few months ago, before
Lucy’s arrival, she would have declared that the interests of Lady
Lufton’s family would have been paramount with her, after and next to
those of her own husband. And even now, it seemed to argue so black
an ingratitude on her part—this accusation that she was indifferent
to them! From her childhood upwards she had revered and loved Lady
Lufton, and for years had taught herself to regard her as an epitome
of all that was good and gracious in woman. Lady Lufton’s theories of
life had been accepted by her as the right theories, and those whom
Lady Lufton had liked she had liked. But now it seemed that all these
ideas which it had taken a life to build up were to be thrown to the
ground, because she was bound to defend a sister-in-law whom she had
only known for the last eight months. It was not that she regretted a
word that she had spoken on Lucy’s behalf. Chance had thrown her and
Lucy together, and, as Lucy was her sister, she should receive from
her a sister’s treatment. But she did not the less feel how terrible
would be the effect of any disseverance from Lady Lufton.
“Oh, Lady Lufton,” she said, “do not say that.”
“But, Fanny, dear, I must speak as I find. You were talking about
clouds just now, and do you think that all this is not a cloud in my
sky? Ludovic tells me that he is attached to Miss Robarts, and you
tell me that she is attached to him; and I am called upon to decide
between them. Her very act obliges me to do so.”
“Dear Lady Lufton,” said Mrs. Robarts, springing from her seat. It
seemed to her at the moment as though the whole difficulty were to be
solved by an act of grace on the part of her old friend.
“And yet I cannot approve of such a marriage,” said Lady Lufton.
Mrs. Robarts returned to her seat, saying nothing further.
“Is not that a cloud on one’s horizon?” continued her ladyship. “Do
you think that I can be basking in the sunshine while I have such a
weight upon my heart as that? Ludovic will soon be home, but instead
of looking to his return with pleasure I dread it. I would prefer
that he should remain in Norway. I would wish that he should stay
away for months. And, Fanny, it is a great addition to my misfortune
to feel that you do not sympathize with me.”
Having said this, in a slow, sorrowful, and severe tone, Lady Lufton
got up and took her departure. Of course Mrs. Robarts did not let her
go without assuring her that she did sympathize with her,—did love
her as she ever had loved her. But wounds cannot be cured as easily
as they may be inflicted, and Lady Lufton went her way with much real
sorrow at her heart. She was proud and masterful, fond of her own
way, and much too careful of the worldly dignities to which her lot
had called her: but she was a woman who could cause no sorrow to
those she loved without deep sorrow to herself.