THE ARCHDEACON GOES TO FRAMLEY.
[Illustration]
By some of those unseen telegraphic wires which carry news about the
country and make no charge for the conveyance, Archdeacon Grantly
heard that his son the major was at Framley. Now in that itself there
would have been nothing singular. There had been for years much
intimacy between the Lufton family and the Grantly family,--so much
that an alliance between the two houses had once been planned, the
elders having considered it expedient that the young lord should
marry that Griselda who had since mounted higher in the world even
than the elders had then projected for her. There had come no such
alliance; but the intimacy had not ceased, and there was nothing in
itself surprising in the fact that Major Grantly should be staying at
Framley Court. But the archdeacon, when he heard the news, bethought
him at once of Grace Crawley. Could it be possible that his old
friend Lady Lufton,--Lady Lufton whom he had known and trusted all
his life, whom he had ever regarded as a pillar of the church in
Barsetshire,--should now be untrue to him in a matter so closely
affecting his interests? Men when they are worried by fears and
teased by adverse circumstances become suspicious of those on whom
suspicion should never rest. It was hardly possible, the archdeacon
thought, that Lady Lufton should treat him so unworthily,--but the
circumstances were strong against his friend. Lady Lufton had induced
Miss Crawley to go to Framley, much against his advice, at a time
when such a visit seemed to him to be very improper; and it now
appeared that his son was to be there at the same time,--a fact of
which Lady Lufton had made no mention to him whatever. Why had not
Lady Lufton told him that Henry Grantly was coming to Framley Court?
The reader, whose interest in the matter will be less keen than
was the archdeacon's, will know very well why Lady Lufton had said
nothing about the major's visit. The reader will remember that Lady
Lufton, when she saw the archdeacon, was as ignorant as to the
intended visit as was the archdeacon himself. But the archdeacon was
uneasy, troubled, and suspicious;--and he suspected his old friend
unworthily.
He spoke to his wife about it within a very few hours of the arrival
of the tidings by those invisible wires. He had already told her that
Miss Crawley was to go to Framley parsonage, and that he thought that
Mrs. Robarts was wrong to receive her at such a time. "It is only
intended for good-nature," Mrs. Grantly had said. "It is misplaced
good-nature at the present moment," the archdeacon had replied. Mrs.
Grantly had not thought it worth her while to undertake at the moment
any strong defence of the Framley people. She knew well how odious
was the name of Crawley in her husband's ears, and she felt that the
less that was said at present about the Crawleys the better for the
peace of the rectory at Plumstead. She had therefore allowed the
expression of his disapproval to pass unchallenged. But now he came
upon her with a more bitter grievance, and she was obliged to argue
the matter with him.
"What do you think?" said he; "Henry is at Framley."
"He can hardly be staying there," said Mrs. Grantly, "because I know
that he is so very busy at home." The business at home of which the
major's mother was speaking was his projected moving from Cosby
Lodge, a subject which was also very odious to the archdeacon. He did
not wish his son to move from Cosby Lodge. He could not endure the
idea that his son should be known throughout the county to be giving
up a residence because he could not afford to keep it. The archdeacon
could have afforded to keep up two Cosby Lodges for his son, and
would have been well pleased to do so, if only his son would not
misbehave against him so shamefully! He could not bear that his
son should be punished, openly, before the eyes of all Barsetshire.
Indeed he did not wish that his son should be punished at all. He
simply desired that his son should recognize his father's power to
inflict punishment. It would be henbane to Archdeacon Grantly to have
a poor son,--a son living at Pau,--among Frenchmen!--because he could
not afford to live in England. Why had the archdeacon been careful of
his money, adding house to house and field to field? He himself was
contented,--so he told himself,--to die as he had lived in a country
parsonage, working with the collar round his neck up to the day of
his death, if God would allow him so to do. He was ambitious of
no grandeur for himself. So he would tell himself,--being partly
oblivious of certain episodes in his own life. All his wealth had
been got together for his children. He desired that his sons should
be fitting brothers for their August sister. And now the son who was
nearest to him, whom he was bent upon making a squire in his own
county, wanted to marry the daughter of a man who had stolen twenty
pounds, and when objection was made to so discreditable a connexion,
replied by packing up all his things and saying that he would go and
live--at Pau! The archdeacon therefore did not like to hear of his
son being very busy at home.
"I don't know whether he's busy or not," said the archdeacon, "but I
tell you he is staying at Framley."
"From whom have you heard it?"
"What matter does that make if it is so? I heard it from Flurry."
"Flurry may have been mistaken," said Mrs. Grantly.
"It is not at all likely. Those people always know about such things.
He heard it from the Framley keeper. I don't doubt but it's true, and
I think that it's a great shame."
"A great shame that Henry should be at Framley! He has been there two
or three times every year since he has lived in the county."
"It is a great shame that he should be had over there just at the
time when that girl is there also. It is impossible to believe that
such a thing is an accident."
"But, archdeacon, you do not mean to say that you think that Lady
Lufton has arranged it?"
"I don't know who has arranged it. Somebody has arranged it. If it is
Robarts, that is almost worse. One could forgive a woman in such a
matter better than one could a man."
"Psha!" Mrs. Grantly's temper was never bitter, but at this moment it
was not sweetened by her husband's very uncivil reference to her sex.
"The whole idea is nonsense, and you should get it out of your head."
"Am I to get it out of my head that Henry wants to make this girl his
wife, and that the two are at this moment at Framley together?" In
this the archdeacon was wrong as to his facts. Major Grantly had left
Framley on the previous day, having stayed there only one night.
"It is coming to that that one can trust no one--no one--literally
no one." Mrs. Grantly perfectly understood that the archdeacon,
in the agony of the moment, intended to exclude even herself from
his confidence by that "no one;" but to this she was indifferent,
understanding accurately when his words should be accepted as
expressing his thoughts, and when they should be supposed to express
only his anger.
"The probability is that no one at Lufton knew anything about Henry's
partiality for Miss Crawley," said Mrs. Grantly.
"I tell you I think they are both at Framley together."
"And I tell you that if they are, which I doubt, they are there
simply by an accident. Besides, what does it matter? If they choose
to marry each other, you and I cannot prevent them. They don't want
any assistance from Lady Lufton, or anybody else. They have simply
got to make up their own minds, and then no one can hinder them."
"And, therefore, you would like to see them brought together?"
"I say nothing about that, archdeacon; but I do say that we must take
these things as they come. What can we do? Henry may go and stay with
Lady Lufton if he pleases. You and I cannot prevent him."
After this the archdeacon walked away, and would not argue the matter
any further with his wife at that moment. He knew very well that he
could not get the better of her, and was apt at such moments to think
that she took an unfair advantage of him by keeping her temper. But
he could not get out of his head the idea that perhaps on this very
day things were being arranged between his son and Grace Crawley at
Framley; and he resolved that he himself would go over and see what
might be done. He would, at any rate, tell all his trouble to Lady
Lufton, and beg his old friend to assist him. He could not think that
such a one as he had always known Lady Lufton to be would approve of
a marriage between Henry Grantly and Grace Crawley. At any rate, he
would learn the truth. He had once been told that Grace Crawley had
herself refused to marry his son, feeling that she would do wrong to
inflict so great an injury upon any gentleman. He had not believed
in so great a virtue. He could not believe in it now,--now, when he
heard that Miss Crawley and his son were staying together in the
same parish. Somebody must be doing him an injury. It could hardly
be chance. But his presence at Framley might even yet have a good
effect, and he would at least learn the truth. So he had himself
driven to Barchester, and from Barchester he took post-horses to
Framley.
As he came near to the village, he grew to be somewhat ashamed of
himself, or, at least, nervous as to the mode in which he would
proceed. The driver, turning round to him, had suggested that he
supposed he was to drive to "My lady's." This injustice to Lord
Lufton, to whom the house belonged, and with whom his mother lived
as a guest, was very common in the county; for old Lady Lufton had
lived at Framley Court through her son's long minority, and had kept
the house there till his marriage; and even since his marriage she
had been recognized as its presiding genius. It certainly was not
the fault of old Lady Lufton, as she always spoke of everything as
belonging either to her son or to her daughter-in-law. The archdeacon
had been in doubt whether he would go to the Court or to the
parsonage. Could he have done exactly as he wished, he would have
left the chaise and walked to the parsonage, so as to reach it
without the noise and fuss incidental to a postilion's arrival. But
that was impossible. He could not drop into Framley as though he had
come from the clouds, and, therefore, he told the man to do as he
had suggested. "To my lady's?" said the postilion. The archdeacon
assented, and the man, with loud cracks of his whip, and with a
spasmodic gallop along the short avenue, took the archdeacon up to
the door of Lord Lufton's house. He asked for Lord Lufton first,
putting on his pleasantest smile, so that the servant should not
suspect the purpose, of which he was somewhat ashamed. Was Lord
Lufton at home? Lord Lufton was not at home. Lord Lufton had gone up
to London that morning, intending to return the day after to-morrow;
but both my ladies were at home. So the archdeacon was shown into the
room where both my ladies were sitting,--and with them he found Mrs.
Robarts. Any one who had become acquainted with the habits of the
Framley ladies would have known that this might very probably be the
case. The archdeacon himself was as well aware as any one of the
modes of life at Framley. The lord's wife was the parson's sister,
and the parson's wife had from her infancy been the petted friend of
the old lady. Of course they all lived very much together. Of course
Mrs. Robarts was as much at home in the drawing-room of Framley Court
as she was in her own drawing-room at the parsonage. Nevertheless,
the archdeacon thought himself to be hardly used when he found that
Mrs. Robarts was at the house.
"My dear archdeacon, who ever expected to see you?" said old Lady
Lufton. Then the two younger women greeted him. And they all smiled
on him pleasantly, and seemed overjoyed to see him. He was, in truth,
a great favourite at Framley, and each of the three was glad to
welcome him. They believed in the archdeacon at Framley, and felt for
him that sort of love which ladies in the country do feel for their
elderly male friends. There was not one of the three who would not
have taken much trouble to get anything for the archdeacon which
they had thought the archdeacon would like. Even old Lady Lufton
remembered what was his favourite soup, and always took care that he
should have it when he dined at the Court. Young Lady Lufton would
bring his tea to him as he sat in his chair. He was petted in the
house, was allowed to poke the fire if he pleased, and called the
servants by their names as though he were at home. He was compelled,
therefore, to smile and to seem pleased; and it was not till after
he had eaten his lunch, and had declared that he must return home
to dinner, that the dowager gave him an opportunity of having the
private conversation which he desired.
"Can I have a few minutes' talk with you?" he said to her, whispering
into her ear as they left the drawing-room together. So she led the
way into her own sitting-room, telling him, as she asked him to
be seated, that she had supposed that something special must have
brought him over to Framley. "I should have asked you to come up
here, even if you had not spoken," she said.
"Then perhaps you know what has brought me over?" said the
archdeacon.
"Not in the least," said Lady Lufton. "I have not an idea. But I
did not flatter myself that you would come so far on a morning
call, merely to see us three ladies. I hope you did not want to see
Ludovic, because he will not be back till to-morrow?"
"I wanted to see you, Lady Lufton."
"That is lucky, as here I am. You may be pretty sure to find me here
any day in the year."
After this there was a little pause. The archdeacon hardly knew how
to begin his story. In the first place he was in doubt whether Lady
Lufton had ever heard of the preposterous match which his son had
proposed to himself to make. In his anger at Plumstead he had felt
sure that she knew all about it, and that she was assisting his son.
But this belief had dwindled as his anger had dwindled; and as the
chaise had entered the parish of Framley he had told himself that
it was quite impossible that she should know anything about it. Her
manner had certainly been altogether in her favour since he had been
in her house. There had been nothing of the consciousness of guilt in
her demeanour. But, nevertheless, there was the coincidence! How had
it come to pass that Grace Crawley and his son should be at Framley
together? It might, indeed, be just possible that Flurry might have
been wrong, and that his son had not been there at all.
"I suppose Miss Crawley is at the parsonage?" he said at last.
"Oh, yes; she is still there, and will remain there I should think
for the next ten days."
"Oh; I did not know," said the archdeacon very coldly.
It seemed to Lady Lufton, who was as innocent as an unborn babe
in the matter of the projected marriage, that her old friend the
archdeacon was in a mind to persecute the Crawleys. He had on a
former occasion taken upon himself to advise that Grace Crawley
should not be entertained at Framley, and now it seemed that he had
come all the way from Plumstead to say something further in the same
strain. Lady Lufton, if he had anything further to say of that kind,
would listen to him as a matter of course. She would listen to him
and reply to him without temper. But she did not approve of it. She
told herself silently that she could not approve of persecution or of
interference. She therefore drew herself up, and pursed her mouth,
and put on something of that look of severity which she could assume
very visibly, if it so pleased her.
"Yes; she is still there, and I think that her visit will do her a
great deal of good," said Lady Lufton.
"When we talk of doing good to people," said the archdeacon, "we
often make terrible mistakes. It so often happens that we don't know
when we are doing good and when we are doing harm."
"That is true, of course, Dr. Grantly, and must be so necessarily,
as our wisdom here below is so very limited. But I should think,--as
far as I can see, that is,--that the kindness which my friend Mrs.
Robarts is showing to this young lady must be beneficial. You know,
archdeacon, I explained to you before that I could not quite agree
with you in what you said as to leaving these people alone till after
the trial. I thought that help was necessary to them at once."
The archdeacon sighed deeply. He ought to have been somewhat
renovated in spirit by the tone in which Lady Lufton spoke to him,
as it conveyed to him almost an absolute conviction that his first
suspicion was incorrect. But any comfort which might have come to him
from this source was marred by the feeling that he must announce his
own disgrace. At any rate he must do so, unless he were contented to
go back to Plumstead without having learned anything by his journey.
He changed the tone of his voice, however, and asked a question,--as
it might be altogether on a different subject. "I heard yesterday,"
he said, "that Henry was over here."
"He was here yesterday. He came the evening before, and dined and
slept here, and went home yesterday morning."
"Was Miss Crawley with you that evening?"
"Miss Crawley? No; she would not come. She thinks it best not to go
out while her father is in his present unfortunate position; and she
is right."
"She is quite right in that," said the archdeacon; and then he paused
again. He thought that it would be best for him to make a clean
breast of it, and to trust to Lady Lufton's sympathy. "Did Henry go
up to the parsonage?" he asked.
But still Lady Lufton did not suspect the truth. "I think he did,"
she replied, with an air of surprise. "I think I heard that he went
up there to call on Mrs. Robarts after breakfast."
"No, Lady Lufton, he did not go up there to call on Mrs. Robarts. He
went up there because he is making a fool of himself about that Miss
Crawley. That is the truth. Now you understand it all. I hope that
Mrs. Robarts does not know it. I do hope for her own sake that Mrs.
Robarts does not know it."
The archdeacon certainly had no longer any doubt as to Lady Lufton's
innocence when he looked at her face as she heard these tidings. She
had predicted that Grace Crawley would "make havoc," and could not,
therefore, be altogether surprised at the idea that some gentleman
should have fallen in love with her; but she had never supposed
that the havoc might be made so early in her days, or on so great a
quarry. "You don't mean to tell me that Henry Grantly is in love with
Grace Crawley?" she replied.
"I mean to say that he says he is."
"Dear, dear, dear! I'm sure, archdeacon, that you will believe me
when I say that I knew nothing about it."
"I am quite sure of that," said the archdeacon dolefully.
"Or I certainly should not have been glad to see him here. But the
house, you know, is not mine, Dr. Grantly. I could have done nothing
if I had known it. But only to think--; well, to be sure. She has not
lost time, at any rate."
Now this was not at all the light in which the archdeacon wished that
the matter should be regarded. He had been desirous that Lady Lufton
should be horror-stricken by the tidings, but it seemed to him that
she regarded the iniquity almost as a good joke. What did it matter
how young or how old the girl might be? She came of poor people,--of
people who had no friends,--of disgraced people; and Lady Lufton
ought to feel that such a marriage would be a terrible misfortune and
a terrible crime. "I need hardly tell you, Lady Lufton," said the
archdeacon, "that I shall set my face against it as far as it is in
my power to do so."
"If they both be resolved I suppose you can hardly prevent it."
"Of course I cannot prevent it. Of course I cannot prevent it. If he
will break my heart and his mother's,--and his sister's,--of course
I cannot prevent it. If he will ruin himself, he must have his own
way."
"Ruin himself, Dr. Grantly!"
"They will have enough to live upon,--somewhere in Spain or France."
The scorn expressed in the archdeacon's voice as he spoke of Pau as
being "somewhere in Spain or France," should have been heard to be
understood. "No doubt they will have enough to live upon."
"Do you mean to say that it will make a difference as to your own
property, Dr. Grantly?"
"Certainly it will, Lady Lufton. I told Henry when I first heard
of the thing,--before he had definitely made any offer to the
girl,--that I should withdraw from him altogether the allowance that
I now make him, if he married her. And I told him also, that if he
persisted in his folly I should think it my duty to alter my will."
"I am sorry for that, Dr. Grantly."
"Sorry! And am not I sorry? Sorrow is no sufficient word. I am
broken-hearted. Lady Lufton, it is killing me. It is indeed. I love
him; I love him;--I love him as you have loved your son. But what is
the use? What can he be to me when he shall have married the daughter
of such a man as that?"
Lady Lufton sat for a while silent, thinking of a certain episode
in her own life. There had been a time when her son was desirous
of making a marriage which she had thought would break her heart.
She had for a time moved heaven and earth,--as far as she knew
how to move them,--to prevent the marriage. But at last she had
yielded,--not from lack of power, for the circumstances had been such
that at the moment of yielding she had still the power in her hand of
staying the marriage,--but she had yielded because she had perceived
that her son was in earnest. She had yielded, and had kissed the
dust; but from the moment in which her lips had so touched the
ground, she had taken great joy in the new daughter whom her son
had brought into the house. Since that she had learned to think
that young people might perhaps be right, and that old people might
perhaps be wrong. This trouble of her friend the archdeacon's was
very like her own old trouble. "And he is engaged to her now?" she
said, when those thoughts had passed through her mind.
"Yes;--that is, no. I am not sure. I do not know how to make myself
sure."
"I am sure Major Grantly will tell you all the truth as it exists."
"Yes; he'll tell me the truth,--as far as he knows it. I do not see
that there is much anxiety to spare me in the matter. He is desirous
rather of making me understand that I have no power of saving him
from his own folly. Of course I have no power of saving him."
"But is he engaged to her?"
"He says that she has refused him. But of course that means nothing."
Again the archdeacon's position was very like Lady Lufton's position,
as it had existed before her son's marriage. In that case also the
young lady, who was now Lady Lufton's own daughter and dearest
friend, had refused the lover who proposed to her, although the
marriage was so much to her advantage,--loving him, too, the while,
with her whole heart, as it was natural to suppose that Grace Crawley
might so love her lover. The more she thought of the similarity of
the stories, the stronger were her sympathies on the side of poor
Grace. Nevertheless, she would comfort her old friend if she knew
how; and of course she could not but admit to herself that the match
was one which must be a cause of real sorrow to him. "I don't know
why her refusal should mean nothing," said Lady Lufton.
"Of course a girl refuses at first,--a girl, I mean, in such
circumstances as hers. She can't but feel that more is offered to
her than she ought to take, and that she is bound to go through the
ceremony of declining. But my anger is not with her, Lady Lufton."
"I do not see how it can be."
"No; it is not with her. If she becomes his wife I trust that I may
never see her."
"Oh, Dr. Grantly!"
"I do; I do. How can it be otherwise with me? But I shall have no
quarrel with her. With him I must quarrel."
"I do not see why," said Lady Lufton.
"You do not? Does he not set me at defiance?"
"At his age surely a son has a right to marry as he pleases."
"If he took her out of the streets, then it would be the same?" said
the archdeacon with bitter anger.
"No;--for such a one would herself be bad."
"Or if she were the daughter of a huxter out of the city?"
"No again;--for in that case her want of education would probably
unfit her for your society."
"Her father's disgrace, then, should be a matter of indifference to
me, Lady Lufton?"
"I did not say so. In the first place, her father is not
disgraced,--not as yet; and we do not know whether he may ever be
disgraced. You will hardly be disposed to say that persecution from
the palace disgraces a clergyman in Barsetshire."
"All the same, I believe that the man was guilty," said the
archdeacon.
"Wait and see, my friend, before you condemn him altogether. But, be
that as it may, I acknowledge that the marriage is one which must
naturally be distasteful to you."
"Oh, Lady Lufton! if you only knew! If you only knew!"
"I do know; and I feel for you. But I think that your son has a
right to expect that you should not show the same repugnance to such
a marriage as this as you would have had a right to show had he
suggested to himself such a wife as those at which you just now
hinted. Of course you can advise him, and make him understand your
feelings; but I cannot think you will be justified in quarrelling
with him, or in changing your views towards him as regards money,
seeing that Miss Crawley is an educated lady, who has done nothing to
forfeit your respect." A heavy cloud came upon the archdeacon's brow
as he heard these words, but he did not make any immediate answer.
"Of course, my friend," continued Lady Lufton, "I should not have
ventured to say so much to you, had you not come to me, as it were,
for my opinion."
"I came here because I thought Henry was here," said the archdeacon.
"If I have said too much I beg your pardon."
"No; you have not said too much. It is not that. You and I are such
old friends that either may say almost anything to the other."
"Yes;--just so. And therefore I have ventured to speak my mind," said
Lady Lufton.
"Of course;--and I am obliged to you. But, Lady Lufton, you do not
understand yet how this hits me. Everything in life that I have done,
I have done for my children. I am wealthy, but I have not used my
wealth for myself, because I have desired that they should be able
to hold their heads high in the world. All my ambition has been for
them, and all the pleasure which I have anticipated for myself in
my old age is that which I have hoped to receive from their credit.
As for Henry, he might have had anything he wanted from me in the
way of money. He expressed a wish, a few months since, to go into
Parliament, and I promised to help him as far as ever I could go. I
have kept up the game altogether for him. He, the younger son of a
working parish parson, has had everything that could be given to the
eldest son of a country gentleman,--more than is given to the eldest
son of many a peer. I have hoped that he would marry again, but I
have never cared that he should marry for money. I have been willing
to do anything for him myself. But, Lady Lufton, a father does feel
that he should have some return for all this. No one can imagine
that Henry ever supposed that a bride from that wretched place at
Hogglestock could be welcomed among us. He knew that he would break
our hearts, and he did not care for it. That is what I feel. Of
course he has the power to do as he likes;--and of course I have the
power to do as I like also with what is my own."
Lady Lufton was a very good woman, devoted to her duties,
affectionate and just to those about her, truly religious, and
charitable from her nature; but I doubt whether the thorough
worldliness of the archdeacon's appeal struck her as it will strike
the reader. People are so much more worldly in practice than they
are in theory, so much keener after their own gratification in
detail than they are in the abstract, that the narrative of many an
adventure would shock us, though the same adventure would not shock
us in the action. One girl tells another how she has changed her mind
in love; and the friend sympathizes with the friend, and perhaps
applauds. Had the story been told in print, the friend who had
listened with equanimity would have read of such vacillation with
indignation. She who vacillated herself would have hated her own
performance when brought before her judgment as a matter in which
she had no personal interest. Very fine things are written every day
about honesty and truth, and men read them with a sort of external
conviction that a man, if he be anything of a man at all, is of
course honest and true. But when the internal convictions are
brought out between two or three who are personally interested
together,--between two or three who feel that their little gathering
is, so to say, "tiled,"--those internal convictions differ very much
from the external convictions. This man, in his confidences, asserts
broadly that he does not mean to be thrown over, and that man has a
project for throwing over somebody else; and the intention of each is
that scruples are not to stand in the way of his success. The "Ruat
coelum, fiat justitia," was said, no doubt, from an outside balcony
to a crowd, and the speaker knew that he was talking buncombe. The
"Rem, si possis recte, si non, quocunque modo," was whispered into
the ear in a club smoking-room, and the whisperer intended that his
words should prevail.
Lady Lufton had often heard her friend the archdeacon preach, and
she knew well the high tone which he could take as to the necessity
of trusting to our hopes for the future for all our true happiness;
and yet she sympathized with him when he told her that he was
broken-hearted because his son would take a step which might possibly
interfere with his worldly prosperity. Had the archdeacon been
preaching about matrimony, he would have recommended young men, in
taking wives to themselves, especially to look for young women who
feared the Lord. But in talking about his own son's wife, no word
as to her eligibility or non-eligibility in this respect escaped
his lips. Had he talked on the subject till nightfall no such word
would have been spoken. Had any friend of his own, man or woman,
in discussing such a matter with him and asking his advice upon
it, alluded to the fear of the Lord, the allusion would have been
distasteful to him and would have smacked to his palate of hypocrisy.
Lady Lufton, who understood as well as any woman what it was to be
"tiled" with a friend, took all this in good part. The archdeacon
had spoken out of his heart what was in his heart. One of his
children had married a marquis. Another might probably become
a bishop,--perhaps an archbishop. The third might be a county
squire,--high among county squires. But he could only so become
by walking warily;--and now he was bent on marrying the penniless
daughter of an impoverished half-mad country curate, who was about to
be tried for stealing twenty pounds! Lady Lufton, in spite of all her
arguments, could not refuse her sympathy to her old friend.
"After all, from what you say, I suppose they are not engaged."
"I do not know," said the archdeacon. "I cannot tell!"
"And what do you wish me to do?"
"Oh,--nothing. I came over, as I said before, because I thought
he was here. I think it right, before he has absolutely committed
himself, to take every means in my power to make him understand that
I shall withdraw from him all pecuniary assistance,--now and for the
future."
"My friend, that threat seems to me to be so terrible."
"It is the only power I have left to me."
"But you, who are so affectionate by nature, would never adhere to
it."
"I will try. I will do my best to be firm. I will at once put
everything beyond my control after my death." The archdeacon, as
he uttered these terrible words,--words which were awful to Lady
Lufton's ears,--resolved that he would endeavour to nurse his own
wrath; but, at the same time, almost hated himself for his own
pusillanimity, because he feared that his wrath would die away before
he should have availed himself of its heat.
"I would do nothing rash of that kind," said Lady Lufton. "Your
object is to prevent the marriage,--not to punish him for it when
once he has made it."
"He is not to have his own way in everything, Lady Lufton."
"But you should first try to prevent it."
"What can I do to prevent it?"
Lady Lufton paused for a couple of minutes before she replied. She
had a scheme in her head, but it seemed to her to savour of cruelty.
And yet at present it was her chief duty to assist her old friend,
if any assistance could be given. There could hardly be a doubt that
such a marriage as this, of which they were speaking, was in itself
an evil. In her case, the case of her son, there had been no question
of a trial, of money stolen, of aught that was in truth disgraceful.
"I think if I were you, Dr. Grantly," she said, "that I would see the
young lady while I was here."
"See her myself?" said the archdeacon. The idea of seeing Grace
Crawley himself had, up to this moment, never entered his head.
"I think I would do so."
"I think I will," said the archdeacon, after a pause. Then he got up
from his chair. "If I am to do it, I had better do it at once."
"Be gentle with her, my friend." The archdeacon paused again. He
certainly had entertained the idea of encountering Miss Crawley with
severity rather than gentleness. Lady Lufton rose from her seat, and
coming up to him, took one of his hands between her own two. "Be
gentle to her," she said. "You have owned that she has done nothing
wrong." The archdeacon bowed his head in token of assent and left the
room.
Poor Grace Crawley!