IS SHE NOT INSIGNIFICANT?
And now a month went by at Framley without any increase of comfort to
our friends there, and also without any absolute development of the
ruin which had been daily expected at the parsonage. Sundry letters
had reached Mr. Robarts from various personages acting in the Tozer
interest, all of which he referred to Mr. Curling, of Barchester.
Some of these letters contained prayers for the money, pointing out
how an innocent widow lady had been induced to invest her all on
the faith of Mr. Robarts’ name, and was now starving in a garret,
with her three children, because Mr. Robarts would not make good
his own undertakings. But the majority of them were filled with
threats;—only two days longer would be allowed and then the
sheriff’s officers would be enjoined to do their work; then one day
of grace would be added, at the expiration of which the dogs of war
would be unloosed. These, as fast as they came, were sent to Mr.
Curling, who took no notice of them individually, but continued his
endeavour to prevent the evil day. The second bill Mr. Robarts would
take up—such was Mr. Curling’s proposition; and would pay by two
instalments of £250 each, the first in two months, and the second
in four. If this were acceptable to the Tozer interest—well; if it
were not, the sheriff’s officers must do their worst and the Tozer
interest must look for what it could get. The Tozer interest would
not declare itself satisfied with these terms, and so the matter went
on. During which the roses faded from day to day on the cheeks of
Mrs. Robarts, as under such circumstances may easily be conceived.
In the meantime Lucy still remained at Hogglestock and had there
become absolute mistress of the house. Poor Mrs. Crawley had been
at death’s door; for some days she was delirious, and afterwards
remained so weak as to be almost unconscious; but now the worst
was over, and Mr. Crawley had been informed, that as far as human
judgment might pronounce, his children would not become orphans nor
would he become a widower. During these weeks Lucy had not once been
home nor had she seen any of the Framley people. “Why should she
incur the risk of conveying infection for so small an object?” as she
herself argued, writing by letters, which were duly fumigated before
they were opened at the parsonage. So she remained at Hogglestock,
and the Crawley children, now admitted to all the honours of the
nursery, were kept at Framley. They were kept at Framley, although it
was expected from day to day that the beds on which they lay would be
seized for the payment of Mr. Sowerby’s debts.
Lucy, as I have said, became mistress of the house at Hogglestock
and made herself absolutely ascendant over Mr. Crawley. Jellies, and
broth, and fruit, and even butter, came from Lufton Court, which she
displayed on the table, absolutely on the cloth before him, and yet
he bore it. I cannot say that he partook of these delicacies with any
freedom himself, but he did drink his tea when it was given to him
although it contained Framley cream;—and, had he known it, Bohea
itself from the Framley chest. In truth, in these days, he had given
himself over to the dominion of this stranger; and he said nothing
beyond, “Well, well,” with two uplifted hands, when he came upon her
as she was sewing the buttons on to his own shirts—sewing on the
buttons and perhaps occasionally applying her needle elsewhere,—not
without utility.
He said to her at this period very little in the way of thanks. Some
protracted conversations they did have, now and again, during the
long evenings; but even in these he did not utter many words as to
their present state of life. It was on religion chiefly that he
spoke, not lecturing her individually, but laying down his ideas as
to what the life of a Christian should be, and especially what should
be the life of a minister. “But though I can see this, Miss Robarts,”
he said, “I am bound to say that no one has fallen off so frequently
as myself. I have renounced the devil and all his works; but it is by
word of mouth only—by word of mouth only. How shall a man crucify
the old Adam that is within him, unless he throw himself prostrate in
the dust and acknowledge that all his strength is weaker than water?”
To this, often as it might be repeated, she would listen patiently,
comforting him by such words as her theology would supply; but then,
when this was over, she would again resume her command and enforce
from him a close obedience to her domestic behests.
At the end of the month Lord Lufton came back to Framley Court. His
arrival there was quite unexpected; though, as he pointed out when
his mother expressed some surprise, he had returned exactly at the
time named by him before he started.
“I need not say, Ludovic, how glad I am to have you,” said she,
looking to his face and pressing his arm; “the more so, indeed,
seeing that I hardly expected it.”
He said nothing to his mother about Lucy the first evening, although
there was some conversation respecting the Robarts family.
“I am afraid Mr. Robarts has embarrassed himself,” said Lady Lufton,
looking very seriously. “Rumours reach me which are most distressing.
I have said nothing to anybody as yet—not even to Fanny; but I can
see in her face, and hear in the tones of her voice, that she is
suffering some great sorrow.”
“I know all about it,” said Lord Lufton.
“You know all about it, Ludovic?”
“Yes; it is through that precious friend of mine, Mr. Sowerby, of
Chaldicotes. He has accepted bills for Sowerby; indeed, he told me
so.”
“What business had he at Chaldicotes? What had he to do with such
friends as that? I do not know how I am to forgive him.”
“It was through me that he became acquainted with Sowerby. You must
remember that, mother.”
“I do not see that that is any excuse. Is he to consider that
all your acquaintances must necessarily be his friends also? It
is reasonable to suppose that you in your position must live
occasionally with a great many people who are altogether unfit
companions for him as a parish clergyman. He will not remember this,
and he must be taught it. What business had he to go to Gatherum
Castle?”
“He got his stall at Barchester by going there.”
“He would be much better without his stall, and Fanny has the sense
to know this. What does he want with two houses? Prebendal stalls are
for older men than he—for men who have earned them, and who at the
end of their lives want some ease. I wish with all my heart that he
had never taken it.”
“Six hundred a year has its charms all the same,” said Lufton,
getting up and strolling out of the room.
“If Mark really be in any difficulty,” he said, later in the evening,
“we must put him on his legs.”
“You mean, pay his debts?”
“Yes; he has no debts except these acceptances of Sowerby’s.”
“How much will it be, Ludovic?”
“A thousand pounds, perhaps, more or less. I’ll find the money,
mother; only I shan’t be able to pay you quite as soon as I
intended.” Whereupon his mother got up, and throwing her arms round
his neck declared that she would never forgive him if he ever said
a word more about her little present to him. I suppose there is no
pleasure a mother can have more attractive than giving away her money
to an only son.
Lucy’s name was first mentioned at breakfast the next morning. Lord
Lufton had made up his mind to attack his mother on the subject early
in the morning—before he went up to the parsonage; but as matters
turned out Miss Robarts’ doings were necessarily brought under
discussion without reference to Lord Lufton’s special aspirations
regarding her. The fact of Mrs. Crawley’s illness had been mentioned,
and Lady Lufton had stated how it had come to pass that all the
Crawleys’ children were at the parsonage.
“I must say that Fanny has behaved excellently,” said Lady Lufton.
“It was just what might have been expected from her. And indeed,” she
added, speaking in an embarrassed tone, “so has Miss Robarts. Miss
Robarts has remained at Hogglestock and nursed Mrs. Crawley through
the whole.”
“Remained at Hogglestock—through the fever!” exclaimed his lordship.
“Yes, indeed,” said Lady Lufton.
“And is she there now?”
“Oh, yes; I am not aware that she thinks of leaving just yet.”
“Then I say that it is a great shame—a scandalous shame!”
“But, Ludovic, it was her own doing.”
“Oh, yes; I understand. But why should she be sacrificed? Were there
no nurses in the country to be hired, but that she must go and remain
there for a month at the bedside of a pestilent fever? There is no
justice in it.”
“Justice, Ludovic? I don’t know about justice, but there was great
Christian charity. Mrs. Crawley has probably owed her life to Miss
Robarts.”
“Has she been ill? Is she ill? I insist upon knowing whether she
is ill. I shall go over to Hogglestock myself immediately after
breakfast.”
To this Lady Lufton made no reply. If Lord Lufton chose to go to
Hogglestock she could not prevent him. She thought, however, that it
would be much better that he should stay away. He would be quite as
open to the infection as Lucy Robarts; and, moreover, Mrs. Crawley’s
bedside would be as inconvenient a place as might be selected for
any interview between two lovers. Lady Lufton felt at the present
moment that she was cruelly treated by circumstances with reference
to Miss Robarts. Of course it would have been her part to lessen,
if she could do so without injustice, that high idea which her
son entertained of the beauty and worth of the young lady; but,
unfortunately, she had been compelled to praise her and to load her
name with all manner of eulogy. Lady Lufton was essentially a true
woman, and not even with the object of carrying out her own views in
so important a matter would she be guilty of such deception as she
might have practised by simply holding her tongue; but nevertheless
she could hardly reconcile herself to the necessity of singing Lucy’s
praises.
After breakfast Lady Lufton got up from her chair, but hung about the
room without making any show of leaving. In accordance with her usual
custom she would have asked her son what he was going to do; but
she did not dare so to inquire now. Had he not declared, only a few
minutes since, whither he would go? “I suppose I shall see you at
lunch?” at last she said.
“At lunch? Well, I don’t know. Look here, mother. What am I to say to
Miss Robarts when I see her?” and he leaned with his back against the
chimney-piece as he interrogated his mother.
“What are you to say to her, Ludovic?”
“Yes; what am I to say,—as coming from you? Am I to tell her that
you will receive her as your daughter-in-law?”
“Ludovic, I have explained all that to Miss Robarts herself.”
“Explained what?”
“I have told her that I did not think that such a marriage would make
either you or her happy.”
“And why have you told her so? Why have you taken upon yourself to
judge for me in such a matter, as though I were a child? Mother, you
must unsay what you have said.”
Lord Lufton, as he spoke, looked full into his mother’s face; and
he did so, not as though he were begging from her a favour, but
issuing to her a command. She stood near him, with one hand on the
breakfast-table, gazing at him almost furtively, not quite daring
to meet the full view of his eye. There was only one thing on earth
which Lady Lufton feared, and that was her son’s displeasure. The
sun of her earthly heaven shone upon her through the medium of his
existence. If she were driven to quarrel with him, as some ladies of
her acquaintance were driven to quarrel with their sons, the world
to her would be over. Not but what facts might be so strong as to
make it absolutely necessary that she should do this. As some people
resolve that, under certain circumstances, they will commit suicide,
so she could see that, under certain circumstances, she must consent
even to be separated from him. She would not do wrong,—not that
which she knew to be wrong,—even for his sake. If it were necessary
that all her happiness should collapse and be crushed in ruin around
her, she must endure it, and wait God’s time to relieve her from so
dark a world. The light of the sun was very dear to her, but even
that might be purchased at too dear a cost.
“I told you before, mother, that my choice was made, and I asked you
then to give your consent; you have now had time to think about it,
and therefore I have come to ask you again. I have reason to know
that there will be no impediment to my marriage if you will frankly
hold out your hand to Lucy.”
The matter was altogether in Lady Lufton’s hands, but, fond as she
was of power, she absolutely wished that it were not so. Had her son
married without asking her and then brought Lucy home as his wife,
she would undoubtedly have forgiven him; and much as she might have
disliked the match, she would, ultimately, have embraced the bride.
But now she was compelled to exercise her judgment. If he married
imprudently, it would be her doing. How was she to give her expressed
consent to that which she believed to be wrong?
“Do you know anything against her; any reason why she should not be
my wife?” continued he.
“If you mean as regards her moral conduct, certainly not,” said Lady
Lufton. “But I could say as much as that in favour of a great many
young ladies whom I should regard as very ill suited for such a
marriage.”
“Yes; some might be vulgar, some might be ill-tempered, some might be
ugly; others might be burdened with disagreeable connections. I can
understand that you should object to a daughter-in-law under any of
these circumstances. But none of these things can be said of Miss
Robarts. I defy you to say that she is not in all respects what a
lady should be.”
But her father was a doctor of medicine, she is the sister of the
parish clergyman, she is only five feet two in height, and is so
uncommonly brown! Had Lady Lufton dared to give a catalogue of her
objections, such would have been its extent and nature. But she did
not dare to do this.
“I cannot say, Ludovic, that she is possessed of all that you should
seek in a wife.” Such was her answer.
“Do you mean that she has not got money?”
“No, not that; I should be very sorry to see you making money your
chief object, or indeed any essential object. If it chanced that your
wife did have money, no doubt you would find it a convenience. But
pray understand me, Ludovic; I would not for a moment advise you to
subject your happiness to such a necessity as that. It is not because
she is without fortune—”
“Then why is it? At breakfast you were singing her praises, and
saying how excellent she is.”
“If I were forced to put my objection into one word, I should say—”
and then she paused, hardly daring to encounter the frown which was
already gathering itself on her son’s brow.
“You would say what?” said Lord Lufton, almost roughly.
“Don’t be angry with me, Ludovic; all that I think, and all that I
say on this subject, I think and say with only one object—that of
your happiness. What other motive can I have for anything in this
world?” And then she came close to him and kissed him.
“But tell me, mother, what is this objection; what is this terrible
word that is to sum up the list of all poor Lucy’s sins, and prove
that she is unfit for married life?”
“Ludovic, I did not say that. You know that I did not.”
“What is the word, mother?”
And then at last Lady Lufton spoke it out. “She is—insignificant. I
believe her to be a very good girl, but she is not qualified to fill
the high position to which you would exalt her.”
“Insignificant!”
“Yes, Ludovic, I think so.”
“Then, mother, you do not know her. You must permit me to say that
you are talking of a girl whom you do not know. Of all the epithets
of opprobrium which the English language could give you, that would
be nearly the last which she would deserve.”
“I have not intended any opprobrium.”
“Insignificant!”
“Perhaps you do not quite understand me, Ludovic.”
“I know what insignificant means, mother.”
“I think that she would not worthily fill the position which your
wife should take in the world.”
“I understand what you say.”
“She would not do you honour at the head of your table.”
“Ah, I understand. You want me to marry some bouncing Amazon, some
pink and white giantess of fashion who would frighten the little
people into their proprieties.”
“Oh, Ludovic! you are intending to laugh at me now.”
“I was never less inclined to laugh in my life—never, I can assure
you. And now I am more certain than ever that your objection to Miss
Robarts arises from your not knowing her. You will find, I think,
when you do know her, that she is as well able to hold her own as
any lady of your acquaintance;—ay, and to maintain her husband’s
position, too. I can assure you that I shall have no fear of her on
that score.”
“I think, dearest, that perhaps you hardly—”
“I think this, mother, that in such a matter as this I must choose
for myself. I have chosen; and I now ask you, as my mother, to go to
her and bid her welcome. Dear mother, I will own this, that I should
not be happy if I thought that you did not love my wife.” These last
words he said in a tone of affection that went to his mother’s heart,
and then he left the room.
Poor Lady Lufton, when she was alone, waited till she heard her son’s
steps retreating through the hall, and then betook herself up-stairs
to her customary morning work. She sat down at last as though about
so to occupy herself; but her mind was too full to allow of her
taking up her pen. She had often said to herself, in days which
to her were not as yet long gone by, that she would choose a bride
for her son, and that then she would love the chosen one with all
her heart. She would dethrone herself in favour of this new queen,
sinking with joy into her dowager state, in order that her son’s wife
might shine with the greater splendour. The fondest day-dreams of her
life had all had reference to the time when her son should bring home
a new Lady Lufton, selected by herself from the female excellence of
England, and in which she might be the first to worship her new idol.
But could she dethrone herself for Lucy Robarts? Could she give up
her chair of state in order to place thereon the little girl from
the parsonage? Could she take to her heart, and treat with absolute
loving confidence, with the confidence of an almost idolatrous
mother, that little chit who, a few months since, had sat awkwardly
in one corner of her drawing-room, afraid to speak to any one? And
yet it seemed that it must come to this—to this—or else those
day-dreams of hers would in nowise come to pass.
She sat herself down, trying to think whether it were possible that
Lucy might fill the throne; for she had begun to recognize it as
probable that her son’s will would be too strong for her; but her
thoughts would fly away to Griselda Grantly. In her first and only
matured attempt to realize her day-dreams, she had chosen Griselda
for her queen. She had failed there, seeing that the fates had
destined Miss Grantly for another throne;—for another and a higher
one, as far as the world goes. She would have made Griselda the wife
of a baron, but fate was about to make that young lady the wife of a
marquis. Was there cause of grief in this? Did she really regret that
Miss Grantly, with all her virtues, should be made over to the house
of Hartletop? Lady Lufton was a woman who did not bear disappointment
lightly; but nevertheless she did almost feel herself to have been
relieved from a burden when she thought of the termination of the
Lufton-Grantly marriage treaty. What if she had been successful, and,
after all, the prize had been other than she had expected? She was
sometimes prone to think that that prize was not exactly all that
she had once hoped. Griselda looked the very thing that Lady Lufton
wanted for a queen;—but how would a queen reign who trusted only to
her looks? In that respect it was perhaps well for her that destiny
had interposed. Griselda, she was driven to admit, was better suited
to Lord Dumbello than to her son.
But still—such a queen as Lucy! Could it ever come to pass that the
lieges of the kingdom would bow the knee in proper respect before so
puny a sovereign? And then there was that feeling which, in still
higher quarters, prevents the marriage of princes with the most noble
of their people. Is it not a recognized rule of these realms that
none of the blood royal shall raise to royal honours those of the
subjects who are by birth un-royal! Lucy was a subject of the house
of Lufton in that she was the sister of the parson and a resident
denizen of the parsonage. Presuming that Lucy herself might do for
queen—granting that she might have some faculty to reign, the crown
having been duly placed on her brow—how, then, about that clerical
brother near the throne? Would it not come to this, that there would
no longer be a queen at Framley?
And yet she knew that she must yield. She did not say so to herself.
She did not as yet acknowledge that she must put out her hand to
Lucy, calling her by name as her daughter. She did not absolutely say
as much to her own heart;—not as yet. But she did begin to bethink
herself of Lucy’s high qualities, and to declare to herself that the
girl, if not fit to be a queen, was at any rate fit to be a woman.
That there was a spirit within that body, insignificant though the
body might be, Lady Lufton was prepared to admit. That she had
acquired the power—the chief of all powers in this world—of
sacrificing herself for the sake of others; that, too, was evident
enough. That she was a good girl, in the usual acceptation of the
word good, Lady Lufton had never doubted. She was ready-witted too,
prompt in action, gifted with a certain fire. It was that gift of
fire which had won for her, so unfortunately, Lord Lufton’s love. It
was quite possible for her also to love Lucy Robarts; Lady Lufton
admitted that to herself;—but then who could bow the knee before
her, and serve her as a queen? Was it not a pity that she should be
so insignificant?
But, nevertheless, we may say that as Lady Lufton sate that morning
in her own room for two hours without employment, the star of Lucy
Robarts was gradually rising in the firmament. After all, love was
the food chiefly necessary for the nourishment of Lady Lufton,—the
only food absolutely necessary. She was not aware of this herself,
nor probably would those who knew her best have so spoken of her.
They would have declared that family pride was her daily pabulum, and
she herself would have said so too, calling it, however, by some less
offensive name. Her son’s honour, and the honour of her house!—of
those she would have spoken as the things dearest to her in this
world. And this was partly true, for had her son been dishonoured,
she would have sunk with sorrow to the grave. But the one thing
necessary to her daily life was the power of loving those who were
near to her.
Lord Lufton, when he left the dining-room, intended at once to go up
to the parsonage, but he first strolled round the garden in order
that he might make up his mind what he would say there. He was angry
with his mother, having not had the wit to see that she was about
to give way and yield to him, and he was determined to make it
understood that in this matter he would have his own way. He had
learned that which it was necessary that he should know as to Lucy’s
heart, and such being the case he would not conceive it possible that
he should be debarred by his mother’s opposition. “There is no son
in England loves his mother better than I do,” he said to himself;
“but there are some things which a man cannot stand. She would have
married me to that block of stone if I would have let her; and now,
because she is disappointed there— Insignificant! I never in my life
heard anything so absurd, so untrue, so uncharitable, so— She’d like
me to bring a dragon home, I suppose. It would serve her right if I
did,—some creature that would make the house intolerable to her.”
“She must do it though,” he said again, “or she and I will quarrel,”
and then he turned off towards the gate, preparing to go to the
parsonage.
“My lord, have you heard what has happened?” said the gardener,
coming to him at the gate. The man was out of breath and almost
overwhelmed by the greatness of his own tidings.
“No; I have heard nothing. What is it?”
“The bailiffs have taken possession of everything at the parsonage.”