“OMNES OMNIA BONA DICERE.”
When young Mark Robarts was leaving college, his father might well
declare that all men began to say all good things to him, and to
extol his fortune in that he had a son blessed with so excellent a
disposition.
This father was a physician living at Exeter. He was a gentleman
possessed of no private means, but enjoying a lucrative practice,
which had enabled him to maintain and educate a family with all the
advantages which money can give in this country. Mark was his eldest
son and second child; and the first page or two of this narrative must
be consumed in giving a catalogue of the good things which chance and
conduct together had heaped upon this young man’s head.
His first step forward in life had arisen from his having been sent,
while still very young, as a private pupil to the house of a clergyman,
who was an old friend and intimate friend of his father’s. This
clergyman had one other, and only one other, pupil--the young Lord
Lufton, and, between the two boys, there had sprung up a close alliance.
While they were both so placed, Lady Lufton had visited her son, and
then invited young Robarts to pass his next holidays at Framley Court.
This visit was made; and it ended in Mark going back to Exeter with a
letter full of praise from the widowed peeress. She had been delighted,
she said, in having such a companion for her son, and expressed a
hope that the boys might remain together during the course of their
education. Dr. Robarts was a man who thought much of the breath of
peers and peeresses, and was by no means inclined to throw away any
advantage which might arise to his child from such a friendship. When,
therefore, the young lord was sent to Harrow, Mark Robarts went there
also.
That the lord and his friend often quarrelled, and occasionally
fought,--the fact even that for one period of three months they never
spoke to each other--by no means interfered with the doctor’s hopes.
Mark again and again stayed a fortnight at Framley Court, and Lady
Lufton always wrote about him in the highest terms.
And then the lads went together to Oxford, and here Mark’s good fortune
followed him, consisting rather in the highly respectable manner in
which he lived, than in any wonderful career of collegiate success. His
family was proud of him, and the doctor was always ready to talk of him
to his patients; not because he was a prizeman, and had gotten medals
and scholarships, but on account of the excellence of his general
conduct. He lived with the best set--he incurred no debts--he was fond
of society, but able to avoid low society--liked his glass of wine, but
was never known to be drunk; and, above all things, was one of the most
popular men in the university.
Then came the question of a profession for this young Hyperion, and on
this subject, Dr. Robarts was invited himself to go over to Framley
Court to discuss the matter with Lady Lufton. Dr. Robarts returned with
a very strong conception that the Church was the profession best suited
to his son.
Lady Lufton had not sent for Dr. Robarts all the way from Exeter for
nothing. The living of Framley was in the gift of the Lufton family,
and the next presentation would be in Lady Lufton’s hands, if it should
fall vacant before the young lord was twenty-five years of age, and in
the young lord’s hands if it should fall afterwards. But the mother and
the heir consented to give a joint promise to Dr. Robarts. Now, as the
present incumbent was over seventy, and as the living was worth 900_l_.
a year, there could be no doubt as to the eligibility of the clerical
profession.
And I must further say, that the dowager and the doctor were justified
in their choice by the life and principles of the young man--as far
as any father can be justified in choosing such a profession for his
son, and as far as any lay impropriator can be justified in making
such a promise. Had Lady Lufton had a second son, that second son
would probably have had the living, and no one would have thought it
wrong;--certainly not if that second son had been such a one as Mark
Robarts.
Lady Lufton herself was a woman who thought much on religious matters,
and would by no means have been disposed to place any one in a living,
merely because such a one had been her son’s friend. Her tendencies
were High Church, and she was enabled to perceive that those of young
Mark Robarts ran in the same direction. She was very desirous that her
son should make an associate of his clergyman, and by this step she
would insure, at any rate, that. She was anxious that the parish vicar
should be one with whom she could herself fully co-operate, and was
perhaps unconsciously wishful that he might in some measure be subject
to her influence. Should she appoint an older man, this might probably
not be the case to the same extent; and should her son have the gift,
it might probably not be the case at all.
And therefore it was resolved that the living should be given to young
Robarts.
He took his degree--not with any brilliancy, but quite in the manner
that his father desired; he then travelled for eight or ten months with
Lord Lufton and a college don, and almost immediately after his return
home was ordained.
The living of Framley is in the diocese of Barchester; and, seeing
what were Mark’s hopes with reference to that diocese, it was by no
means difficult to get him a curacy within it. But this curacy he was
not allowed long to fill. He had not been in it above a twelvemonth,
when poor old Dr. Stopford, the then vicar of Framley, was gathered
to his fathers, and the full fruition of his rich hopes fell upon his
shoulders.
But even yet more must be told of his good fortune before we can
come to the actual incidents of our story. Lady Lufton, who, as I
have said, thought much of clerical matters, did not carry her High
Church principles so far as to advocate celibacy for the clergy. On
the contrary, she had an idea that a man could not be a good parish
parson without a wife. So, having given to her favourite a position in
the world, and an income sufficient for a gentleman’s wants, she set
herself to work to find him a partner in those blessings.
And here also, as in other matters, he fell in with the views of his
patroness--not, however, that they were declared to him in that marked
manner in which the affair of the living had been broached. Lady Lufton
was much too highly gifted with woman’s craft for that. She never told
the young vicar that Miss Monsell accompanied her ladyship’s married
daughter to Framley Court expressly that he, Mark, might fall in love
with her; but such was in truth the case.
Lady Lufton had but two children. The eldest, a daughter, had been
married some four or five years to Sir George Meredith, and this
Miss Monsell was a dear friend of hers. And now looms before me the
novelist’s great difficulty. Miss Monsell,--or, rather, Mrs. Mark
Robarts,--must be described. As Miss Monsell, our tale will have to
take no prolonged note of her. And yet we will call her Fanny Monsell,
when we declare that she was one of the pleasantest companions that
could be brought near to a man, as the future partner of his home, and
owner of his heart. And if high principles without asperity, female
gentleness without weakness, a love of laughter without malice, and a
true loving heart, can qualify a woman to be a parson’s wife, then was
Fanny Monsell qualified to fill that station.
In person she was somewhat larger than common. Her face would have been
beautiful but that her mouth was large. Her hair, which was copious,
was of a bright brown; her eyes also were brown, and, being so, were
the distinctive feature of her face, for brown eyes are not common.
They were liquid, large, and full either of tenderness or of mirth.
Mark Robarts still had his accustomed luck, when such a girl as this
was brought to Framley for his wooing.
And he did woo her--and won her. For Mark himself was a handsome
fellow. At this time the vicar was about twenty-five years of age, and
the future Mrs. Robarts was two or three years younger. Nor did she
come quite empty-handed to the vicarage. It cannot be said that Fanny
Monsell was an heiress, but she had been left with a provision of some
few thousand pounds. This was so settled, that the interest of his
wife’s money paid the heavy insurance on his life which young Robarts
effected, and there was left to him, over and above, sufficient to
furnish his parsonage in the very best style of clerical comfort,--and
to start him on the road of life rejoicing.
So much did Lady Lufton do for her _protégé_, and it may well be
imagined that the Devonshire physician, sitting meditative over his
parlour fire, looking back, as men will look back on the upshot of
their life, was well contented with that upshot, as regarded his eldest
offshoot, the Rev. Mark Robarts, the vicar of Framley.
But little has as yet been said, personally, as to our hero himself,
and perhaps it may not be necessary to say much. Let us hope that by
degrees he may come forth upon the canvas, showing to the beholder
the nature of the man inwardly and outwardly. Here it may suffice to
say that he was no born heaven’s cherub, neither was he a born fallen
devil’s spirit. Such as his training made him, such he was. He had
large capabilities for good--and aptitudes also for evil, quite enough:
quite enough to make it needful that he should repel temptation as
temptation only can be repelled. Much had been done to spoil him, but
in the ordinary acceptation of the word he was not spoiled. He had too
much tact, too much common sense, to believe himself to be the paragon
which his mother thought him. Self-conceit was not, perhaps, his
greatest danger. Had he possessed more of it, he might have been a less
agreeable man, but his course before him might on that account have
been the safer.
In person he was manly, tall, and fair-haired, with a square forehead,
denoting intelligence rather than thought, with clear white hands,
filbert nails, and a power of dressing himself in such a manner that
no one should ever observe of him that his clothes were either good or
bad, shabby or smart.
Such was Mark Robarts when at the age of twenty-five, or a little
more, he married Fanny Monsell. The marriage was celebrated in his own
church, for Miss Monsell had no home of her own, and had been staying
for the last three months at Framley Court. She was given away by Sir
George Meredith, and Lady Lufton herself saw that the wedding was what
it should be, with almost as much care as she had bestowed on that of
her own daughter. The deed of marrying, the absolute tying of the knot,
was performed by the Very Reverend the Dean of Barchester, an esteemed
friend of Lady Lufton’s. And Mrs. Arabin, the Dean’s wife, was of the
party, though the distance from Barchester to Framley is long, and the
roads deep, and no railway lends its assistance. And Lord Lufton was
there of course; and people protested that he would surely fall in love
with one of the four beautiful bridesmaids, of whom Blanche Robarts,
the vicar’s second sister, was by common acknowledgment by far the most
beautiful.
And there was there another and a younger sister of Mark’s--who did
not officiate at the ceremony, though she was present--and of whom no
prediction was made, seeing that she was then only sixteen, but of whom
mention is made here, as it will come to pass that my readers will know
her hereafter. Her name was Lucy Robarts.
And then the vicar and his wife went off on their wedding tour, the old
curate taking care of the Framley souls the while.
And in due time they returned; and after a further interval, in due
course, a child was born to them; and then another; and after that came
the period at which we will begin our story. But before doing so, may
not assert that all men were right in saying all manner of good things
to the Devonshire physician, and in praising his luck in having such a
son?
“You were up at the house to-day, I suppose?” said Mark to his wife, as
he sat stretching himself in an easy chair in the drawing-room, before
the fire, previously to his dressing for dinner. It was a November
evening, and he had been out all day, and on such occasions the
aptitude for delay in dressing is very powerful. A strong-minded man
goes direct from the hall-door to his chamber without encountering the
temptation of the drawing-room fire.
“No; but Lady Lufton was down here.”
“Full of arguments in favour of Sarah Thompson?”
“Exactly so, Mark.”
“And what did you say about Sarah Thompson?”
“Very little as coming from myself; but I did hint that you thought,
or that I thought that you thought, that one of the regular trained
schoolmistresses would be better.”
“But her ladyship did not agree?”
“Well, I won’t exactly say that;--though I think that perhaps she did
not.”
“I am sure she did not. When she has a point to carry, she is very fond
of carrying it.”
“But then, Mark, her points are generally so good.”
“But, you see, in this affair of the school she is thinking more of her
_protégée_ than she does of the children.”
“Tell her that, and I am sure she will give way.”
And then again they were both silent. And the vicar having thoroughly
warmed himself, as far as this might be done by facing the fire, turned
round and began the operation _à tergo_.
“Come, Mark, it is twenty minutes past six. Will you go and dress?”
“I’ll tell you what, Fanny: she must have her way about Sarah Thompson.
You can see her to-morrow and tell her so.”
“I am sure, Mark, I would not give way, if I thought it wrong. Nor
would she expect it.”
“If I persist this time, I shall certainly have to yield the next; and
then the next may probably be more important.”
“But if it’s wrong, Mark?”
“I didn’t say it was wrong. Besides, if it is wrong, wrong in some
infinitesimal degree, one must put up with it. Sarah Thompson is very
respectable; the only question is whether she can teach.”
The young wife, though she did not say so, had some idea that her
husband was in error. It is true that one must put up with wrong, with
a great deal of wrong. But no one need put up with wrong that he can
remedy. Why should he, the vicar, consent to receive an incompetent
teacher for the parish children, when he was able to procure one
that was competent? In such a case,--so thought Mrs. Robarts to
herself,--she would have fought the matter out with Lady Lufton.
On the next morning, however, she did as she was bid, and signified to
the dowager that all objection to Sarah Thompson would be withdrawn.
“Ah! I was sure he would agree with me,” said her ladyship, “when he
learned what sort of person she is. I know I had only to explain;”--and
then she plumed her feathers, and was very gracious; for, to tell the
truth, Lady Lufton did not like to be opposed in things which concerned
the parish nearly.
“And, Fanny,” said Lady Lufton, in her kindest manner, “you are not
going anywhere on Saturday, are you?”
“No, I think not.”
“Then you must come to us. Justinia is to be here, you know”--Lady
Meredith was named Justinia--“and you and Mr. Robarts had better stay
with us till Monday. He can have the little book-room all to himself on
Sunday. The Merediths go on Monday; and Justinia won’t be happy if you
are not with her.”
It would be unjust to say that Lady Lufton had determined not to invite
the Robarts’s if she were not allowed to have her own way about Sarah
Thompson. But such would have been the result. As it was, however, she
was all kindness; and when Mrs. Robarts made some little excuse, saying
that she was afraid she must return home in the evening, because of the
children, Lady Lufton declared that there was room enough at Framley
Court for baby and nurse, and so settled the matter in her own way,
with a couple of nods and three taps of her umbrella.
This was on a Tuesday morning, and on the same evening, before
dinner, the vicar again seated himself in the same chair before the
drawing-room fire, as soon as he had seen his horse led into the stable.
“Mark,” said his wife, “the Merediths are to be at Framley on Saturday
and Sunday; and I have promised that we will go up and stay over till
Monday.”
“You don’t mean it! Goodness gracious, how provoking!”
“Why? I thought you wouldn’t mind it. And Justinia would think it
unkind if I were not there.”
“You can go, my dear, and of course will go. But as for me, it is
impossible.”
“But why, love?”
“Why? Just now, at the school-house, I answered a letter that was
brought to me from Chaldicotes. Sowerby insists on my going over there
for a week or so; and I have said that I would.”
“Go to Chaldicotes for a week, Mark?”
“I believe I have even consented to ten days.”
“And be away two Sundays?”
“No, Fanny, only one. Don’t be so censorious.”
“Don’t call me censorious, Mark; you know I am not so. But I am so
sorry. It is just what Lady Lufton won’t like. Besides, you were away
in Scotland two Sundays last month.”
“In September, Fanny. And that is being censorious.”
“Oh, but, Mark, dear Mark! don’t say so. You know I don’t mean it.
But Lady Lufton does not like those Chaldicotes people. You know Lord
Lufton was with you the last time you were there; and how annoyed she
was!”
“Lord Lufton won’t be with me now, for he is still in Scotland. And
the reason why I am going is this: Harold Smith and his wife will be
there, and I am very anxious to know more of them. I have no doubt that
Harold Smith will be in the government some day, and I cannot afford to
neglect such a man’s acquaintance.”
“But, Mark, what do you want of any government?”
“Well, Fanny, of course I am bound to say that I want nothing; neither
in one sense do I; but nevertheless, I shall go and meet the Harold
Smiths.”
“Could you not be back before Sunday?”
“I have promised to preach at Chaldicotes. Harold Smith is going to
lecture at Barchester, about the Australasian archipelago, and I am to
preach a charity sermon on the same subject. They want to send out more
missionaries.”
“A charity sermon at Chaldicotes!”
“And why not? The house will be quite full, you know; and I dare say
the Arabins will be there.”
“I think not; Mrs. Arabin may get on with Mrs. Harold Smith, though
I doubt that; but I’m sure she’s not fond of Mrs. Smith’s brother. I
don’t think she would stay at Chaldicotes.”
“And the bishop will probably be there for a day or two.”
“That is much more likely, Mark. If the pleasure of meeting Mrs.
Proudie is taking you to Chaldicotes, I have not a word more to say.”
“I am not a bit more fond of Mrs. Proudie, than you are, Fanny,” said
the vicar, with something like vexation in the tone of his voice,
for he thought that his wife was hard upon him. “But it is generally
thought that a parish clergyman does well to meet his bishop now and
then. And as I was invited there, especially to preach while all these
people are staying at the place, I could not well refuse.” And then he
got up, and taking his candlestick, escaped to his dressing-room.
“But what am I to say to Lady Lufton?” his wife said to him, in the
course of the evening.
“Just write her a note, and tell her that you find I had promised to
preach at Chaldicotes next Sunday. You’ll go, of course?”
“Yes: but I know she’ll be annoyed. You were away the last time she had
people there.”
“It can’t be helped. She must put it down against Sarah Thompson. She
ought not to expect to win always.”
“I should not have minded it, if she had lost, as you call it, about
Sarah Thompson. That was a case in which you ought to have had your own
way.”
“And this other is a case in which I shall have it. It’s a pity that
there should be such a difference; isn’t it?”
Then the wife perceived that, vexed as she was, it would be better that
she should say nothing further; and before she went to bed, she wrote
the note to Lady Lufton, as her husband recommended.