HOW THEY WERE ALL MARRIED, HAD TWO CHILDREN,
AND LIVED HAPPY EVER AFTER.
Dear, affectionate, sympathetic readers, we have four couple of
sighing lovers with whom to deal in this our last chapter, and I,
as leader of the chorus, disdain to press you further with doubts
as to the happiness of any of that quadrille. They were all made
happy, in spite of that little episode which so lately took place at
Barchester; and in telling of their happiness—shortly, as is now
necessary—we will take them chronologically, giving precedence to
those who first appeared at the hymeneal altar.
In July, then, at the cathedral, by the father of the bride, assisted
by his examining chaplain, Olivia Proudie, the eldest daughter of
the Bishop of Barchester, was joined in marriage to the Rev. Tobias
Tickler, incumbent of the Trinity district church in Bethnal Green.
Of the bridegroom, in this instance, our acquaintance has been so
short, that it is not, perhaps, necessary to say much. When coming to
the wedding he proposed to bring his three darling children with him;
but in this measure he was, I think prudently, stopped by advice,
rather strongly worded, from his future valued mother-in-law. Mr.
Tickler was not an opulent man, nor had he hitherto attained any
great fame in his profession; but, at the age of forty-three he still
had sufficient opportunity before him, and now that his merit has
been properly viewed by high ecclesiastical eyes the refreshing dew
of deserved promotion will no doubt fall upon him. The marriage was
very smart, and Olivia carried herself through the trying ordeal with
an excellent propriety of conduct.
Up to that time, and even for a few days longer, there was doubt at
Barchester as to that strange journey which Lord Dumbello undoubtedly
did take to France. When a man so circumstanced will suddenly go to
Paris, without notice given even to his future bride, people must
doubt; and grave were the apprehensions expressed on this occasion by
Mrs. Proudie, even at her child’s wedding-breakfast. “God bless you,
my dear children,” she said, standing up at the head of her table as
she addressed Mr. Tickler and his wife; “when I see your perfect
happiness—perfect, that is, as far as human happiness can be made
perfect in this vale of tears—and think of the terrible calamity
which has fallen on our unfortunate neighbours, I cannot but
acknowledge His infinite mercy and goodness. The Lord giveth, and the
Lord taketh away.” By which she intended, no doubt, to signify that
whereas Mr. Tickler had been given to her Olivia, Lord Dumbello had
been taken away from the archdeacon’s Griselda. The happy couple
then went in Mrs. Proudie’s carriage to the nearest railway station
but one, and from thence proceeded to Malvern, and there spent the
honeymoon.
And a great comfort it was, I am sure, to Mrs. Proudie when
authenticated tidings reached Barchester that Lord Dumbello had
returned from Paris, and that the Hartletop-Grantly alliance was
to be carried to its completion. She still, however, held her
opinion—whether correctly or not, who shall say?—that the young
lord had intended to escape. “The archdeacon has shown great firmness
in the way in which he has done it,” said Mrs. Proudie; “but whether
he has consulted his child’s best interests in forcing her into
a marriage with an unwilling husband, I for one must take leave
to doubt. But then, unfortunately, we all know how completely the
archdeacon is devoted to worldly matters.”
In this instance the archdeacon’s devotion to worldly matters was
rewarded by that success which he no doubt desired. He did go up
to London, and did see one or two of Lord Dumbello’s friends. This
he did, not obtrusively, as though in fear of any falsehood or
vacillation on the part of the viscount, but with that discretion
and tact for which he has been so long noted. Mrs. Proudie declares
that during the few days of his absence from Barsetshire he himself
crossed to France and hunted down Lord Dumbello at Paris. As to this
I am not prepared to say anything; but I am quite sure, as will be
all those who knew the archdeacon, that he was not a man to see his
daughter wronged as long as any measure remained by which such wrong
might be avoided.
But, be that as it may—that mooted question as to the archdeacon’s
journey to Paris—Lord Dumbello was forthcoming at Plumstead on the
5th of August, and went through his work like a man. The Hartletop
family, when the alliance was found to be unavoidable, endeavoured to
arrange that the wedding should be held at Hartletop Priory, in order
that the clerical dust and dinginess of Barchester Close might not
soil the splendour of the marriage gala doings; for, to tell the
truth, the Hartletopians, as a rule, were not proud of their new
clerical connections. But on this subject Mrs. Grantly was very
properly inexorable; nor, when an attempt was made on the bride to
induce her to throw over her mamma at the last moment and pronounce
for herself that she would be married at the priory, was it attended
with any success. The Hartletopians knew nothing of the Grantly fibre
and calibre, or they would have made no such attempt. The marriage
took place at Plumstead, and on the morning of the day Lord Dumbello
posted over from Barchester to the rectory. The ceremony was
performed by the archdeacon, without assistance, although the dean,
and the precentor, and two other clergymen, were at the ceremony.
Griselda’s propriety of conduct was quite equal to that of Olivia
Proudie; indeed, nothing could exceed the statuesque grace and fine
aristocratic bearing with which she carried herself on the occasion.
The three or four words which the service required of her she said
with ease and dignity; there was neither sobbing nor crying to
disturb the work or embarrass her friends, and she signed her name in
the church books as “Griselda Grantly” without a tremor—and without
a regret.
Mrs. Grantly kissed her and blessed her in the hall as she was about
to step forward to her travelling carriage, leaning on her father’s
arm, and the child put up her face to her mother for a last whisper.
“Mamma,” she said, “I suppose Jane can put her hand at once on the
moire antique when we reach Dover?” Mrs. Grantly smiled and nodded,
and again blessed her child. There was not a tear shed—at least, not
then—nor a sign of sorrow to cloud for a moment the gay splendour
of the day. But the mother did bethink herself, in the solitude of
her own room, of those last words, and did acknowledge a lack of
something for which her heart had sighed. She had boasted to her
sister that she had nothing to regret as to her daughter’s education;
but now, when she was alone after her success, did she feel that she
could still support herself with that boast? For, be it known, Mrs.
Grantly had a heart within her bosom and a faith within her heart.
The world, it is true, had pressed upon her sorely with all its
weight of accumulated clerical wealth, but it had not utterly crushed
her—not her, but only her child. For the sins of the father, are
they not visited on the third and fourth generation?
But if any such feeling of remorse did for awhile mar the fulness
of Mrs. Grantly’s joy, it was soon dispelled by the perfect success
of her daughter’s married life. At the end of the autumn the bride
and bridegroom returned from their tour, and it was evident to all
the circle at Hartletop Priory that Lord Dumbello was by no means
dissatisfied with his bargain. His wife had been admired everywhere
to the top of his bent. All the world at Ems, and at Baden, and
at Nice, had been stricken by the stately beauty of the young
viscountess. And then, too, her manner, style, and high dignity
of demeanour altogether supported the reverential feeling which
her grace and form at first inspired. She never derogated from her
husband’s honour by the fictitious liveliness of gossip, or allowed
any one to forget the peeress in the woman. Lord Dumbello soon found
that his reputation for discretion was quite safe in her hands, and
that there were no lessons as to conduct in which it was necessary
that he should give instruction.
Before the winter was over she had equally won the hearts of all
the circle at Hartletop Priory. The duke was there and declared to
the marchioness that Dumbello could not possibly have done better.
“Indeed, I do not think he could,” said the happy mother. “She sees
all that she ought to see, and nothing that she ought not.”
And then, in London, when the season came, all men sang all manner
of praises in her favour, and Lord Dumbello was made aware that he
was reckoned among the wisest of his age. He had married a wife who
managed everything for him, who never troubled him, whom no woman
disliked, and whom every man admired. As for feast of reason and
for flow of soul, is it not a question whether any such flows and
feasts are necessary between a man and his wife? How many men can
truly assert that they ever enjoy connubial flows of soul, or that
connubial feasts of reason are in their nature enjoyable? But a
handsome woman at the head of your table, who knows how to dress, and
how to sit, and how to get in and out of her carriage—who will not
disgrace her lord by her ignorance, or fret him by her coquetry, or
disparage him by her talent—how beautiful a thing it is! For my own
part I think that Griselda Grantly was born to be the wife of a great
English peer.
“After all, then,” said Miss Dunstable, speaking of Lady
Dumbello—she was Mrs. Thorne at this time—“after all, there is some
truth in what our quaint latter-day philosopher tells us—‘Great are
thy powers, O Silence!’”
The marriage of our old friends Dr. Thorne and Miss Dunstable was the
third on the list, but that did not take place till the latter end of
September. The lawyers on such an occasion had no inconsiderable work
to accomplish, and though the lady was not coy, nor the gentleman
slow, it was not found practicable to arrange an earlier wedding. The
ceremony was performed at St. George’s, Hanover Square, and was not
brilliant in any special degree. London at the time was empty, and
the few persons whose presence was actually necessary were imported
from the country for the occasion. The bride was given away by Dr.
Easyman, and the two bridesmaids were ladies who had lived with Miss
Dunstable as companions. Young Mr. Gresham and his wife were there,
as was also Mrs. Harold Smith, who was not at all prepared to drop
her old friend in her new sphere of life.
“We shall call her Mrs. Thorne instead of Miss Dunstable, and I
really think that that will be all the difference,” said Mrs. Harold
Smith.
To Mrs. Harold Smith that probably was all the difference, but it was
not so to the persons most concerned.
According to the plan of life arranged between the doctor and his
wife she was still to keep up her house in London, remaining there
during such period of the season as she might choose, and receiving
him when it might appear good to him to visit her; but he was to be
the master in the country. A mansion at the Chace was to be built,
and till such time as that was completed, they would keep on the old
house at Greshamsbury. Into this, small as it was, Mrs. Thorne,—in
spite of her great wealth,—did not disdain to enter. But subsequent
circumstances changed their plans. It was found that Mr. Sowerby
could not or would not live at Chaldicotes; and, therefore, in the
second year of their marriage, that place was prepared for them.
They are now well known to the whole county as Dr. and Mrs. Thorne
of Chaldicotes,—of Chaldicotes, in distinction to the well-known
Thornes of Ullathorne in the eastern division. Here they live
respected by their neighbours, and on terms of alliance both with
the Duke of Omnium and with Lady Lufton. “Of course those dear old
avenues will be very sad to me,” said Mrs. Harold Smith, when at the
end of a London season she was invited down to Chaldicotes; and as
she spoke she put her handkerchief up to her eyes.
“Well, dear, what can I do?” said Mrs. Thorne. “I can’t cut them
down; the doctor would not let me.”
“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Harold Smith, sighing; and in spite of her
feelings she did visit Chaldicotes.
But it was October before Lord Lufton was made a happy man;—that
is, if the fruition of his happiness was a greater joy than the
anticipation of it. I will not say that the happiness of marriage is
like the Dead Sea fruit,—an apple which, when eaten, turns to bitter
ashes in the mouth. Such pretended sarcasm would be very false.
Nevertheless, is it not the fact that the sweetest morsel of love’s
feast has been eaten, that the freshest, fairest blush of the flower
has been snatched and has passed away, when the ceremony at the altar
has been performed, and legal possession has been given? There is an
aroma of love, an undefinable delicacy of flavour, which escapes and
is gone before the church portal is left, vanishing with the maiden
name, and incompatible with the solid comfort appertaining to the
rank of wife. To love one’s own spouse, and to be loved by her, is
the ordinary lot of man, and is a duty exacted under penalties. But
to be allowed to love youth and beauty that is not one’s own—to know
that one is loved by a soft being who still hangs cowering from the
eye of the world as though her love were all but illicit—can it be
that a man is made happy when a state of anticipation such as this is
brought to a close? No; when the husband walks back from the altar,
he has already swallowed the choicest dainties of his banquet. The
beef and pudding of married life are then in store for him;—or
perhaps only the bread and cheese. Let him take care lest hardly a
crust remain,—or perhaps not a crust.
But before we finish, let us go back for one moment to the
dainties,—to the time before the beef and pudding were
served,—while Lucy was still at the parsonage, and Lord Lufton still
staying at Framley Court. He had come up one morning, as was now
frequently his wont, and, after a few minutes’ conversation, Mrs.
Robarts had left the room,—as not unfrequently on such occasions was
her wont. Lucy was working and continued her work, and Lord Lufton
for a moment or two sat looking at her; then he got up abruptly, and
standing before her, thus questioned her:—
“Lucy,” said he.
“Well, what of Lucy now? Any particular fault this morning?”
“Yes, a most particular fault. When I asked you, here, in this room,
on this very spot, whether it was possible that you should love
me—why did you say that it was impossible?”
Lucy, instead of answering at the moment, looked down upon the
carpet, to see if his memory were as good as hers. Yes; he was
standing on the exact spot where he had stood before. No spot in all
the world was more frequently clear before her own eyes.
“Do you remember that day, Lucy?” he said again.
“Yes, I remember it,” she said.
“Why did you say it was impossible?”
“Did I say impossible?”
She knew that she had said so. She remembered how she had waited till
he had gone, and that then, going to her own room, she had reproached
herself with the cowardice of the falsehood. She had lied to him
then; and now—how was she punished for it?
“Well, I suppose it was possible,” she said.
“But why did you say so when you knew it would make me so miserable?”
“Miserable! nay, but you went away happy enough! I thought I had
never seen you look better satisfied.”
“Lucy!”
“You had done your duty and had had such a lucky escape! What
astonishes me is that you should have ever come back again. But the
pitcher may go to the well once too often, Lord Lufton.”
“But will you tell me the truth now?”
“What truth?”
“That day, when I came to you,—did you love me at all then?”
“We’ll let bygones be bygones, if you please.”
“But I swear you shall tell me. It was such a cruel thing to answer
me as you did, unless you meant it. And yet you never saw me again
till after my mother had been over for you to Mrs. Crawley’s.”
“It was absence that made me—care for you.”
“Lucy, I swear I believe you loved me then.”
“Ludovic, some conjuror must have told you that.”
She was standing as she spoke, and, laughing at him, she held up her
hands and shook her head. But she was now in his power, and he had
his revenge,—his revenge for her past falsehood and her present
joke. How could he be more happy when he was made happy by having her
all his own, than he was now?
And in these days there again came up that petition as to her
riding—with very different result now than on that former occasion.
There were ever so many objections, then. There was no habit, and
Lucy was—or said that she was—afraid; and then, what would Lady
Lufton say? But now Lady Lufton thought it would be quite right;
only were they quite sure about the horse? Was Ludovic certain that
the horse had been ridden by a lady? And Lady Meredith’s habits
were dragged out as a matter of course, and one of them chipped and
snipped and altered, without any compunction. And as for fear, there
could be no bolder horsewoman than Lucy Robarts. It was quite clear
to all Framley that riding was the very thing for her. “But I never
shall be happy, Ludovic, till you have got a horse properly suited
for her,” said Lady Lufton.
And then, also, came the affair of her wedding garments, of her
_trousseau_,—as to which I cannot boast that she showed capacity
or steadiness at all equal to that of Lady Dumbello. Lady Lufton,
however, thought it a very serious matter; and as, in her opinion,
Mrs. Robarts did not go about it with sufficient energy, she took the
matter mainly into her own hands, striking Lucy dumb by her frowns
and nods, deciding on everything herself, down to the very tags of
the boot-ties.
“My dear, you really must allow me to know what I am about;” and
Lady Lufton patted her on the arm as she spoke. “I did it all for
Justinia, and she never had reason to regret a single thing that
I bought. If you’ll ask her, she’ll tell you so.”
Lucy did not ask her future sister-in-law, seeing that she had no
doubt whatever as to her future mother-in-law’s judgment on the
articles in question. Only the money! And what could she want with
six dozen pocket-handkerchiefs all at once? There was no question
of Lord Lufton’s going out as governor-general to India! But twelve
dozen pocket-handkerchiefs had not been too many for Griselda’s
imagination.
And Lucy would sit alone in the drawing-room at Framley Court,
filling her heart with thoughts of that evening when she had first
sat there. She had then resolved, painfully, with inward tears, with
groanings of her spirit, that she was wrongly placed in being in that
company. Griselda Grantly had been there, quite at her ease, petted
by Lady Lufton, admired by Lord Lufton; while she had retired out of
sight, sore at heart, because she felt herself to be no fit companion
to those around her. Then he had come to her, making matters almost
worse by talking to her, bringing the tears into her eyes by his
good-nature, but still wounding her by the feeling that she could not
speak to him at her ease.
But things were at a different pass with her now. He had chosen
her—her out of all the world, and brought her there to share with
him his own home, his own honours, and all that he had to give. She
was the apple of his eye, and the pride of his heart. And the stern
mother, of whom she had stood so much in awe, who at first had
passed her by as a thing not to be noticed, and had then sent out
to her that she might be warned to keep herself aloof, now hardly
knew in what way she might sufficiently show her love, regard, and
solicitude.
I must not say that Lucy was not proud in these moments—that her
heart was not elated at these thoughts. Success does beget pride, as
failure begets shame. But her pride was of that sort which is in no
way disgraceful to either man or woman, and was accompanied by pure
true love, and a full resolution to do her duty in that state of life
to which it had pleased her God to call her. She did rejoice greatly
to think that she had been chosen, and not Griselda. Was it possible
that having loved she should not so rejoice, or that, rejoicing, she
should not be proud of her love?
They spent the whole winter abroad, leaving the dowager Lady Lufton
to her plans and preparations for their reception at Framley Court;
and in the following spring they appeared in London, and there set
up their staff. Lucy had some inner tremblings of the spirit, and
quiverings about the heart, at thus beginning her duty before the
great world, but she said little or nothing to her husband on the
matter. Other women had done as much before her time, and by courage
had gone through with it. It would be dreadful enough, that position
in her own house with lords and ladies bowing to her, and stiff
members of Parliament for whom it would be necessary to make small
talk; but, nevertheless, it was to be endured. The time came, and she
did endure it. The time came, and before the first six weeks were
over she found that it was easy enough. The lords and ladies got into
their proper places and talked to her about ordinary matters in a
way that made no effort necessary, and the members of Parliament
were hardly more stiff than the clergymen she had known in the
neighbourhood of Framley.
She had not been long in town before she met Lady Dumbello. At this
interview also she had to overcome some little inward emotion. On the
few occasions on which she had met Griselda Grantly at Framley they
had not much progressed in friendship, and Lucy had felt that she had
been despised by the rich beauty. She also in her turn had disliked,
if she had not despised, her rival. But how would it be now? Lady
Dumbello could hardly despise her, and yet it did not seem possible
that they should meet as friends. They did meet, and Lucy came
forward with a pretty eagerness to give her hand to Lady Lufton’s
late favourite. Lady Dumbello smiled slightly—the same old smile
which had come across her face when they two had been first
introduced in the Framley drawing-room; the same smile without the
variation of a line,—took the offered hand, muttered a word or
two, and then receded. It was exactly as she had done before. She
had never despised Lucy Robarts. She had accorded to the parson’s
sister the amount of cordiality with which she usually received her
acquaintance; and now she could do no more for the peer’s wife. Lady
Dumbello and Lady Lufton have known each other ever since, and have
occasionally visited at each other’s houses, but the intimacy between
them has never gone beyond this.
The dowager came up to town for about a month, and while there was
contented to fill a second place. She had no desire to be the great
lady in London. But then came the trying period when they commenced
their life together at Framley Court. The elder lady formally
renounced her place at the top of the table,—formally persisted in
renouncing it though Lucy with tears implored her to resume it. She
said also, with equal formality—repeating her determination over and
over again to Mrs. Robarts with great energy—that she would in no
respect detract by interference of her own from the authority of the
proper mistress of the house; but, nevertheless, it is well known to
every one at Framley that old Lady Lufton still reigns paramount in
the parish.
“Yes, my dear; the big room looking into the little garden to the
south was always the nursery; and if you ask my advice, it will still
remain so. But, of course, any room you please—”
And the big room looking into the little garden to the south is still
the nursery at Framley Court.