LADY LUFTON’S REQUEST.
The bailiffs on that day had their meals regular,—and their beer,
which state of things, together with an absence of all duty in the
way of making inventories and the like, I take to be the earthly
paradise of bailiffs; and on the next morning they walked off with
civil speeches and many apologies as to their intrusion. “They was
very sorry,” they said, “to have troubled a gen’leman as were a
gen’leman, but in their way of business what could they do?” To
which one of them added a remark that, “business is business.” This
statement I am not prepared to contradict, but I would recommend
all men in choosing a profession to avoid any that may require an
apology at every turn;—either an apology or else a somewhat violent
assertion of right. Each younger male reader may perhaps reply that
he has no thought of becoming a sheriff’s officer; but then are there
not other cognate lines of life to which perhaps the attention of
some such may be attracted?
On the evening of the day on which they went Mark received a note
from Lady Lufton begging him to call early on the following morning,
and immediately after breakfast he went across to Framley Court. It
may be imagined that he was not in a very happy frame of mind, but he
felt the truth of his wife’s remark that the first plunge into cold
water was always the worst. Lady Lufton was not a woman who would
continually throw his disgrace into his teeth, however terribly cold
might be the first words with which she spoke of it. He strove hard
as he entered her room to carry his usual look and bearing, and to
put out his hand to greet her with his customary freedom, but he knew
that he failed. And it may be said that no good man who has broken
down in his goodness can carry the disgrace of his fall without some
look of shame. When a man is able to do that, he ceases to be in any
way good.
“This has been a distressing affair,” said Lady Lufton after her
first salutation.
“Yes, indeed,” said he. “It has been very sad for poor Fanny.”
“Well; we must all have our little periods of grief; and it may
perhaps be fortunate if none of us have worse than this. She will not
complain, herself, I am sure.”
“She complain!”
“No, I am sure she will not. And now all I’ve got to say, Mr.
Robarts, is this: I hope you and Lufton have had enough to do with
black sheep to last you your lives; for I must protest that your late
friend Mr. Sowerby is a black sheep.”
In no possible way could Lady Lufton have alluded to the matter with
greater kindness than in thus joining Mark’s name with that of her
son. It took away all the bitterness of the rebuke, and made the
subject one on which even he might have spoken without difficulty.
But now, seeing that she was so gentle to him, he could not but lean
the more hardly on himself.
“I have been very foolish,” said he, “very foolish and very wrong,
and very wicked.”
“Very foolish, I believe, Mr. Robarts—to speak frankly and once for
all; but, as I also believe, nothing worse. I thought it best for
both of us that we should just have one word about it, and now I
recommend that the matter be never mentioned between us again.”
“God bless you, Lady Lufton,” he said. “I think no man ever had such
a friend as you are.”
She had been very quiet during the interview, and almost subdued, not
speaking with the animation that was usual to her; for this affair
with Mr. Robarts was not the only one she had to complete that day,
nor, perhaps, the one most difficult of completion. But she cheered
up a little under the praise now bestowed on her, for it was the
sort of praise she loved best. She did hope, and, perhaps, flatter
herself, that she was a good friend.
“You must be good enough, then, to gratify my friendship by coming up
to dinner this evening; and Fanny, too, of course. I cannot take any
excuse, for the matter is completely arranged. I have a particular
reason for wishing it.” These last violent injunctions had been added
because Lady Lufton had seen a refusal rising in the parson’s face.
Poor Lady Lufton! Her enemies—for even she had enemies—used to
declare of her, that an invitation to dinner was the only method of
showing itself of which her good-humour was cognizant. But let me ask
of her enemies whether it is not as good a method as any other known
to be extant? Under such orders as these obedience was of course a
necessity, and he promised that he, with his wife, would come across
to dinner. And then, when he went away, Lady Lufton ordered her
carriage.
During these doings at Framley, Lucy Robarts still remained at
Hogglestock, nursing Mrs. Crawley. Nothing occurred to take her back
to Framley, for the same note from Fanny which gave her the first
tidings of the arrival of the Philistines told her also of their
departure—and also of the source from whence relief had reached
them. “Don’t come, therefore, for that reason,” said the note, “but,
nevertheless, do come as quickly as you can, for the whole house is
sad without you.”
On the morning after the receipt of this note Lucy was sitting, as
was now usual with her, beside an old arm-chair to which her patient
had lately been promoted. The fever had gone, and Mrs. Crawley was
slowly regaining her strength—very slowly, and with frequent caution
from the Silverbridge doctor that any attempt at being well too fast
might again precipitate her into an abyss of illness and domestic
inefficiency.
“I really think I can get about to-morrow,” said she; “and then, dear
Lucy, I need not keep you longer from your home.”
“You are in a great hurry to get rid of me, I think. I suppose Mr.
Crawley has been complaining again about the cream in his tea.”
Mr. Crawley had on one occasion stated his assured conviction that
surreptitious daily supplies were being brought into the house,
because he had detected the presence of cream instead of milk in his
own cup. As, however, the cream had been going for sundry days before
this, Miss Robarts had not thought much of his ingenuity in making
the discovery.
“Ah, you do not know how he speaks of you when your back is turned.”
“And how does he speak of me? I know you would not have the courage
to tell me the whole.”
“No, I have not; for you would think it absurd coming from one
who looks like him. He says that if he were to write a poem about
womanhood, he would make you the heroine.”
“With a cream-jug in my hand, or else sewing buttons on to a
shirt-collar. But he never forgave me about the mutton broth. He told
me, in so many words, that I was a—storyteller. And for the matter
of that, my dear, so I was.”
“He told me that you were an angel.”
“Goodness gracious!”
“A ministering angel. And so you have been. I can almost feel it in
my heart to be glad that I have been ill, seeing that I have had you
for my friend.”
“But you might have had that good fortune without the fever.”
“No, I should not. In my married life I have made no friends till my
illness brought you to me; nor should I ever really have known you
but for that. How should I get to know any one?”
“You will now, Mrs. Crawley; will you not? Promise that you will.
You will come to us at Framley when you are well? You have promised
already, you know.”
“You made me do so when I was too weak to refuse.”
“And I shall make you keep your promise too. He shall come, also,
if he likes; but you shall come whether he likes or no. And I won’t
hear a word about your old dresses. Old dresses will wear as well at
Framley as at Hogglestock.”
From all which it will appear that Mrs. Crawley and Lucy Robarts had
become very intimate during this period of the nursing; as two women
always will, or, at least should do, when shut up for weeks together
in the same sick room.
The conversation was still going on between them when the sound of
wheels was heard upon the road. It was no highway that passed before
the house, and carriages of any sort were not frequent there.
“It is Fanny, I am sure,” said Lucy, rising from her chair.
“There are two horses,” said Mrs. Crawley, distinguishing the noise
with the accurate sense of hearing which is always attached to
sickness; “and it is not the noise of the pony-carriage.”
“It is a regular carriage,” said Lucy, speaking from the window, “and
stopping here. It is somebody from Framley Court, for I know the
servant.”
As she spoke a blush came to her forehead. Might it not be Lord
Lufton, she thought to herself,—forgetting at the moment that Lord
Lufton did not go about the country in a close chariot with a fat
footman. Intimate as she had become with Mrs. Crawley she had said
nothing to her new friend on the subject of her love affair.
The carriage stopped and down came the footman, but nobody spoke to
him from the inside.
“He has probably brought something from Framley,” said Lucy, having
cream and such like matters in her mind; for cream and such like
matters had come from Framley Court more than once during her sojourn
there. “And the carriage, probably, happened to be coming this way.”
But the mystery soon elucidated itself partially, or, perhaps, became
more mysterious in another way. The red-armed little girl who had
been taken away by her frightened mother in the first burst of the
fever had now returned to her place, and at the present moment
entered the room, with awestruck face, declaring that Miss Robarts
was to go at once to the big lady in the carriage.
“I suppose it’s Lady Lufton,” said Mrs. Crawley.
Lucy’s heart was so absolutely in her mouth that any kind of speech
was at the moment impossible to her. Why should Lady Lufton have
come thither to Hogglestock, and why should she want to see her,
Lucy Robarts, in the carriage? Had not everything between them been
settled? And yet—! Lucy, in the moment for thought that was allowed
to her, could not determine what might be the probable upshot of such
an interview. Her chief feeling was a desire to postpone it for the
present instant. But the red-armed little girl would not allow that.
“You are to come at once,” said she.
And then Lucy, without having spoken a word, got up and left the
room. She walked downstairs, along the little passage, and out
through the small garden, with firm steps, but hardly knowing whither
she went, or why. Her presence of mind and self-possession had all
deserted her. She knew that she was unable to speak as she should do;
she felt that she would have to regret her present behaviour, but yet
she could not help herself. Why should Lady Lufton have come to her
there? She went on, and the big footman stood with the carriage door
open. She stepped up almost unconsciously, and, without knowing how
she got there, she found herself seated by Lady Lufton.
To tell the truth her ladyship also was a little at a loss to know
how she was to carry through her present plan of operations. The duty
of beginning, however, was clearly with her, and therefore, having
taken Lucy by the hand, she spoke.
“Miss Robarts,” she said, “my son has come home. I don’t know whether
you are aware of it.”
She spoke with a low, gentle voice, not quite like herself, but Lucy
was much too confused to notice this.
“I was not aware of it,” said Lucy.
She had, however, been so informed in Fanny’s letter, but all that
had gone out of her head.
“Yes; he has come back. He has been in Norway, you know,—fishing.”
“Yes,” said Lucy.
“I am sure you will remember all that took place when you came to me,
not long ago, in my little room upstairs at Framley Court.”
In answer to which, Lucy, quivering in every nerve, and wrongly
thinking that she was visibly shaking in every limb, timidly answered
that she did remember. Why was it that she had then been so bold, and
now was so poor a coward?
“Well, my dear, all that I said to you then I said to you thinking
that it was for the best. You, at any rate, will not be angry with me
for loving my own son better than I love any one else.”
“Oh, no,” said Lucy.
“He is the best of sons, and the best of men, and I am sure that he
will be the best of husbands.”
Lucy had an idea, by instinct, however, rather than by sight, that
Lady Lufton’s eyes were full of tears as she spoke. As for herself
she was altogether blinded and did not dare to lift her face or to
turn her head. As for the utterance of any sound, that was quite out
of the question.
“And now I have come here, Lucy, to ask you to be his wife.”
She was quite sure that she heard the words. They came plainly to
her ears, leaving on her brain their proper sense, but yet she could
not move or make any sign that she had understood them. It seemed
as though it would be ungenerous in her to take advantage of such
conduct and to accept an offer made with so much self-sacrifice. She
had not time at the first moment to think even of his happiness,
let alone her own, but she thought only of the magnitude of the
concession which had been made to her. When she had constituted Lady
Lufton the arbiter of her destiny she had regarded the question of
her love as decided against herself. She had found herself unable to
endure the position of being Lady Lufton’s daughter-in-law while Lady
Lufton would be scorning her, and therefore she had given up the
game. She had given up the game, sacrificing herself, and, as far as
it might be a sacrifice, sacrificing him also. She had been resolute
to stand to her word in this respect, but she had never allowed
herself to think it possible that Lady Lufton should comply with the
conditions which she, Lucy, had laid upon her. And yet such was the
case, as she so plainly heard. “And now I have come here, Lucy, to
ask you to be his wife.”
How long they sat together silent, I cannot say; counted by minutes
the time would not probably have amounted to many, but to each of
them the duration seemed considerable. Lady Lufton, while she was
speaking, had contrived to get hold of Lucy’s hand, and she sat,
still holding it, trying to look into Lucy’s face,—which, however,
she could hardly see, so much was it turned away. Neither, indeed,
were Lady Lufton’s eyes perfectly dry. No answer came to her
question, and therefore, after a while, it was necessary that she
should speak again.
“Must I go back to him, Lucy, and tell him that there is some other
objection—something besides a stern old mother; some hindrance,
perhaps, not so easily overcome?”
“No,” said Lucy, and it was all which at the moment she could say.
“What shall I tell him, then? Shall I say yes—simply yes?”
“Simply yes,” said Lucy.
“And as to the stern old mother who thought her only son too precious
to be parted with at the first word—is nothing to be said to her?”
“Oh, Lady Lufton!”
“No forgiveness to be spoken, no sign of affection to be given?
Is she always to be regarded as stern and cross, vexatious and
disagreeable?”
Lucy slowly turned round her head and looked up into her companion’s
face. Though she had as yet no voice to speak of affection she could
fill her eyes with love, and in that way make to her future mother
all the promises that were needed.
“Lucy, dearest Lucy, you must be very dear to me now.” And then they
were in each other’s arms, kissing each other.
Lady Lufton now desired her coachman to drive up and down for some
little space along the road while she completed her necessary
conversation with Lucy. She wanted at first to carry her back to
Framley that evening, promising to send her again to Mrs. Crawley
on the following morning—“till some permanent arrangement could be
made,” by which Lady Lufton intended the substitution of a regular
nurse for her future daughter-in-law, seeing that Lucy Robarts was
now invested in her eyes with attributes which made it unbecoming
that she should sit in attendance at Mrs. Crawley’s bedside. But Lucy
would not go back to Framley on that evening; no, nor on the next
morning. She would be so glad if Fanny would come to her there, and
then she would arrange about going home.
“But, Lucy, dear, what am I to say to Ludovic? Perhaps you would feel
it awkward if he were to come to see you here.”
“Oh, yes, Lady Lufton; pray tell him not to do that.”
“And is that all that I am to tell him?”
“Tell him—tell him—He won’t want you to tell him anything;—only I
should like to be quiet for a day, Lady Lufton.”
“Well, dearest, you shall be quiet; the day after to-morrow
then.—Mind we must not spare you any longer, because it will be
right that you should be at home now. He would think it very hard if
you were to be so near, and he was not to be allowed to look at you.
And there will be some one else who will want to see you. I shall
want to have you very near to me, for I shall be wretched, Lucy, if I
cannot teach you to love me.” In answer to which Lucy did find voice
enough to make sundry promises.
And then she was put out of the carriage at the little wicket gate,
and Lady Lufton was driven back to Framley. I wonder whether the
servant when he held the door for Miss Robarts was conscious that he
was waiting on his future mistress. I fancy that he was, for these
sort of people always know everything, and the peculiar courtesy of
his demeanour as he let down the carriage steps was very observable.
Lucy felt almost beside herself as she returned upstairs, not knowing
what to do, or how to look, and with what words to speak. It behoved
her to go at once to Mrs. Crawley’s room, and yet she longed to be
alone. She knew that she was quite unable either to conceal her
thoughts or express them; nor did she wish at the present moment to
talk to any one about her happiness,—seeing that she could not at
the present moment talk to Fanny Robarts. She went, however, without
delay into Mrs. Crawley’s room, and with that little eager way of
speaking quickly which is so common with people who know that they
are confused, said that she feared she had been a very long time
away.
“And was it Lady Lufton?”
“Yes; it was Lady Lufton.”
“Why, Lucy; I did not know that you and her ladyship were such
friends.”
“She had something particular she wanted to say,” said Lucy, avoiding
the question, and avoiding also Mrs. Crawley’s eyes; and then she
sate down in her usual chair.
“It was nothing unpleasant, I hope.”
“No, nothing at all unpleasant; nothing of that kind.—Oh, Mrs.
Crawley, I’ll tell you some other time, but pray do not ask me now.”
And then she got up and escaped, for it was absolutely necessary that
she should be alone.
When she reached her own room—that in which the children usually
slept—she made a great effort to compose herself, but not altogether
successfully. She got out her paper and blotting-book intending, as
she said to herself, to write to Fanny, knowing, however, that the
letter when written would be destroyed; but she was not able even
to form a word. Her hand was unsteady and her eyes were dim and her
thoughts were incapable of being fixed. She could only sit, and
think, and wonder, and hope; occasionally wiping the tears from her
eyes, and asking herself why her present frame of mind was so painful
to her? During the last two or three months she had felt no fear
of Lord Lufton, had always carried herself before him on equal
terms, and had been signally capable of doing so when he made his
declaration to her at the parsonage; but now she looked forward with
an undefined dread to the first moment in which she should see him.
And then she thought of a certain evening she had passed at Framley
Court, and acknowledged to herself that there was some pleasure in
looking back to that. Griselda Grantly had been there, and all the
constitutional powers of the two families had been at work to render
easy a process of love-making between her and Lord Lufton. Lucy had
seen and understood it all, without knowing that she understood it,
and had, in a certain degree, suffered from beholding it. She had
placed herself apart, not complaining—painfully conscious of some
inferiority, but, at the same time, almost boasting to herself that
in her own way she was the superior. And then he had come behind
her chair, whispering to her, speaking to her his first words of
kindness and good-nature, and she had resolved that she would be his
friend—his friend, even though Griselda Grantly might be his wife.
What those resolutions were worth had soon become manifest to her.
She had soon confessed to herself the result of that friendship, and
had determined to bear her punishment with courage. But now—
She sate so for about an hour, and would fain have so sat out the
day. But as this could not be, she got up, and having washed her face
and eyes returned to Mrs. Crawley’s room. There she found Mr. Crawley
also, to her great joy, for she knew that while he was there no
questions would be asked of her. He was always very gentle to her,
treating her with an old-fashioned polished respect—except when
compelled on that one occasion by his sense of duty to accuse her of
mendacity respecting the purveying of victuals—, but he had never
become absolutely familiar with her as his wife had done; and it was
well for her now that he had not done so, for she could not have
talked about Lady Lufton.
In the evening, when the three were present, she did manage to say
that she expected Mrs. Robarts would come over on the following day.
“We shall part with you, Miss Robarts, with the deepest regret,” said
Mr. Crawley; “but we would not on any account keep you longer. Mrs.
Crawley can do without you now. What she would have done, had you not
come to us, I am at a loss to think.”
“I did not say that I should go,” said Lucy.
“But you will,” said Mrs. Crawley. “Yes, dear, you will. I know that
it is proper now that you should return. Nay, but we will not have
you any longer. And the poor dear children, too,—they may return.
How am I to thank Mrs. Robarts for what she has done for us?”
It was settled that if Mrs. Robarts came on the following day Lucy
should go back with her; and then, during the long watches of the
night—for on this last night Lucy would not leave the bed-side of
her new friend till long after the dawn had broken—she did tell Mrs.
Crawley what was to be her destiny in life. To herself there seemed
nothing strange in her new position; but to Mrs. Crawley it was
wonderful that she—she, poor as she was—should have an embryo
peeress at her bedside, handing her her cup to drink, and smoothing
her pillow that she might be at rest. It was strange, and she could
hardly maintain her accustomed familiarity. Lucy felt this, at the
moment.
“It must make no difference, you know,” said she, eagerly; “none at
all, between you and me. Promise me that it shall make no
difference.”
The promise was, of course, exacted; but it was not possible that
such a promise should be kept.
Very early on the following morning—so early that it woke her while
still in her first sleep—there came a letter for her from the
parsonage. Mrs. Robarts had written it, after her return home from
Lady Lufton’s dinner.
The letter said:—
MY OWN OWN DARLING,
How am I to congratulate you, and be eager enough in
wishing you joy? I do wish you joy, and am so very happy.
I write now chiefly to say that I shall be over with
you about twelve to-morrow, and that I _must_ bring you
away with me. If I did not some one else, by no means so
trustworthy, would insist on doing it.
But this, though it was thus stated to be the chief part of the
letter, and though it might be so in matter, was by no means so in
space. It was very long, for Mrs. Robarts had sat writing it till
past midnight.
I will not say anything about him [she went on to say,
after two pages had been filled with his name], but I must
tell you how beautifully she has behaved. You will own
that she is a dear woman; will you not?
Lucy had already owned it many times since the visit of yesterday,
and had declared to herself, as she has continued to declare ever
since, that she had never doubted it.
She took us by surprise when we got into the drawing-room
before dinner, and she told us first of all that she had
been to see you at Hogglestock. Lord Lufton, of course,
could not keep the secret, but brought it out instantly.
I can’t tell you now how he told it all, but I am sure you
will believe that he did it in the best possible manner.
He took my hand and pressed it half a dozen times, and
I thought he was going to do something else; but he did
not, so you need not be jealous. And she was so nice to
Mark, saying such things in praise of you, and paying all
manner of compliments to your father. But Lord Lufton
scolded her immensely for not bringing you. He said it was
lackadaisical and nonsensical; but I could see how much he
loved her for what she had done; and she could see it too,
for I know her ways, and know that she was delighted with
him. She could not keep her eyes off him all the evening,
and certainly I never did see him look so well.
And then while Lord Lufton and Mark were in the
dining-room, where they remained a terribly long time, she
would make me go through the house that she might show
me your rooms, and explain how you were to be mistress
there. She has got it all arranged to perfection, and I am
sure she has been thinking about it for years. Her great
fear at present is that you and he should go and live at
Lufton. If you have any gratitude in you, either to her or
me, you will not let him do this. I consoled her by saying
that there are not two stones upon one another at Lufton
as yet; and I believe such is the case. Besides, everybody
says that it is the ugliest spot in the world. She went
on to declare, with tears in her eyes, that if you were
content to remain at Framley, she would never interfere in
anything. I do think that she is the best woman that ever
lived.
So much as I have given of this letter formed but a small portion of
it, but it comprises all that it is necessary that we should know.
Exactly at twelve o’clock on that day Puck the pony appeared, with
Mrs. Robarts and Grace Crawley behind him, Grace having been brought
back as being capable of some service in the house. Nothing that was
confidential, and very little that was loving, could be said at the
moment, because Mr. Crawley was there, waiting to bid Miss Robarts
adieu; and he had not as yet been informed of what was to be the
future fate of his visitor. So they could only press each other’s
hands and embrace, which to Lucy was almost a relief; for even to
her sister-in-law she hardly as yet knew how to speak openly on this
subject.
“May God Almighty bless you, Miss Robarts,” said Mr. Crawley, as
he stood in his dingy sitting-room ready to lead her out to the
pony-carriage. “You have brought sunshine into this house, even in
the time of sickness, when there was no sunshine; and He will bless
you. You have been the Good Samaritan, binding up the wounds of the
afflicted, pouring in oil and balm. To the mother of my children
you have given life, and to me you have brought light, and comfort,
and good words,—making my spirit glad within me as it had not been
gladdened before. All this hath come of charity, which vaunteth not
itself and is not puffed up. Faith and hope are great and beautiful,
but charity exceedeth them all.” And having so spoken, instead of
leading her out, he went away and hid himself.
How Puck behaved himself as Fanny drove him back to Framley, and
how those two ladies in the carriage behaved themselves—of that,
perhaps, nothing further need be said.