Framley Parsonage (20 page)

And now I must say a word about Lucy Robarts. If one might only go on without those descriptions, how pleasant it would all be! But Lucy Robarts has to play a forward part in this little drama, and those who care for such matters must be made to understand something of her form and likeness. When last we mentioned her as appearing, though not in any prominent
position, at her brother’s wedding, she was only sixteen; but now, at the time of her father’s death, somewhat over two years having since elapsed, she was nearly nineteen. Laying aside for the sake of clearness that indefinite term of girl – for girls are girls from the age of three up to forty-three, if not previously married – dropping that generic word, we may say that then, at that wedding of
her brother, she was a child; and now, at the death of her father, she was a woman.

Nothing, perhaps, adds so much to womanhood, turns the child so quickly into a woman, as such death-bed scenes as these. Hitherto but little had fallen to Lucy to do in the way of woman’s duties. Of money transactions she had known nothing, beyond a jocose attempt to make her annual allowance of twenty-five pounds
cover all her personal wants – an attempt which was made jocose by the loving bounty of her father. Her sister, who was three years her elder – for John came in between them – had managed the house; that is, she had made the tea and talked to the housekeeper about the dinners. But Lucy had sat at her father’s elbow, had read to him of evenings when he went to sleep, had brought him his slippers
and looked after the comforts of his easy-chair. All this she had done as a child; but when she stood at the coffin head, and knelt at the coffin side, then she was a woman.

She was smaller in stature than either of her three sisters, to all of whom had been acceded the praise of being fine women – a eulogy which the people of Exeter, looking back at the elder sisters, and the general remembrance
of them which pervaded the city, were not willing to extend to Lucy. ‘Dear – dear!’ had been said of her; ‘poor Lucy is not like a Robarts at all; is she, now, Mrs Pole?’ – for as the daughters had become fine women, so had the sons grown into stalwart men. And then Mrs Pole had answered: ‘Not a bit; is she, now? Only think what Blanche was at her age. But she has fine eyes, for all that; and
they do say she is the cleverest of them all.’

And that, too, is so true a description of her, that I do not know that I can add much to it. She was not like Blanche; for Blanche had a bright complexion, and a fine neck, and a noble bust,
et vera incessu patuit Dea
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– a true goddess, that is, as far as the eye went. She had a grand idea, moreover, of an apple-pie, and had not reigned eighteen
months at Creamclotted Hall before she knew all the mysteries of pigs and milk, and most of those appertaining to cider and green geese. Lucy had no neck at all worth speaking of, – no neck, I mean, that ever produced eloquence; she was brown, too, and had addicted herself in nowise, as she undoubtedly should have done, to larder utility. In regard to the neck and colour, poor girl, she could not
help herself; but in that other respect she must be held as having wasted her opportunities.

But then what eyes she had! Mrs Pole was right there. They flashed upon you – not always softly; indeed not often softly, if you were a stranger to her; but whether softly or savagely, with a brilliancy that dazzled you as you looked at them. And who shall say of what colour they were? Green probably,
for most eyes are green – green or grey, if green be thought uncomely for an eye-colour. But it was not their colour, but their fire, which struck one with such surprise.

Lucy Robarts was thoroughly a brunette. Sometimes the dark tint of her cheek was exquisitely rich and lovely, and the fringes of her eyes were long and soft, and her small teeth, which one so seldom saw, were white as pearls,
and her hair, though short, was beautifully soft – by no means black, but yet of so dark a
shade of brown. Blanche, too, was noted for fine teeth. They were white and regular and lofty as a new row of houses in a French city. But then when she laughed she was all teeth; as she was all neck when she sat at the piano. But Lucy’s teeth! – it was only now and again, when in some sudden burst of wonder
she would sit for a moment with her lips apart, that the fine finished lines and dainty pearl-white colour of that perfect set of ivory could be seen. Mrs Pole would have said a word of her teeth also but that to her they had never been made visible.

‘But they do say that she is the cleverest of them all,’ Mrs Pole had added, very properly. The people of Exeter had expressed such an opinion,
and had been quite just in doing so. I do not know how it happens, but it always does happen, that everybody in every small town knows which is the brightest-witted in every family. In this respect Mrs Pole had only expressed public opinion, and public opinion was right. Lucy Robarts was blessed with an intelligence keener than that of her brothers or sisters.

‘To tell the truth, Mark, I admire
Lucy more than I do Blanche.’ This had been said by Mrs Robarts within a few hours of her having assumed that name. ‘She’s not a beauty, I know, but yet I do.’

‘My dearest Fanny!’ Mark had answered in a tone of surprise.

‘I do then; of course people won’t think so; but I never seem to care about regular beauties. Perhaps I envy them too much.’

What Mark said next need not be repeated, but everybody
may be sure that it contained some gross flattery for his young bride. He remembered this, however, and had always called Lucy his wife’s pet. Neither of the sisters had since that been at Framley; and though Fanny had spent a week at Exeter on the occasion of Blanche’s marriage, it could hardly be said that she was very intimate with them. Nevertheless, when it became expedient that one
of them should go to Framley, the remembrance of what his wife had said immediately induced Mark to make the offer to Lucy; and Jane, who was of a kindred soul with Blanche, was delighted to go to Creamclotted Hall. The acres of Heavybed House, down in that fat Totnes country, adjoined those of Creamclotted Hall, and Heavybed House still wanted a mistress.

Fanny was delighted when the news reached
her. It would
of course be proper that one of his sisters should live with Mark under their present circumstances, and she was happy to think that that quiet little bright-eyed creature was to come and nestle with her under the same roof. The children should so love her – only not quite so much as they loved mamma; and the snug little room that looks out over the porch, in which the chimney never
smokes, should be made ready for her; and she should be allowed her share of driving the pony – which was a great sacrifice of self on the part of Mrs Robarts, and Lady Lufton’s best good-will should be bespoken. In fact Lucy was not unfortunate in the destination that was laid out for her.

Lady Lufton had of course heard of the doctor’s death, and had sent all manner of kind messages to Mark,
advising him not to hurry home by any means until everything was settled at Exeter. And then she was told of the new-comer that was expected in the parish. When she heard that it was Lucy, the younger, she also was satisfied; for Blanche’s charms, though indisputable, had not been altogether to her taste. If a second Blanche were to arrive there what danger might there not be for young Lord Lufton!

‘Quite right,’ said her ladyship, ‘just what he ought to do. I think I remember the young lady; rather small, is she not, and very retiring?’

‘Rather small and very retiring. What a description!’ said Lord Lufton.

‘Never mind, Ludovic; some young ladies must be small, and some at least ought to be retiring. We shall be delighted to make her acquaintance.’

‘I remember your other sister-in-law
very well,’ said Lord Lufton. ‘She was a beautiful woman.’

‘I don’t think you will consider Lucy a beauty,’ said Mrs Robarts.

‘Small, retiring, and –’ so far Lord Lufton had gone, when Mrs Robarts finished by the word, ‘plain.’ She had liked Lucy’s face, but she had thought that others probably did not do so.

‘Upon my word,’ said Lady Lufton, ‘you don’t deserve to have a sister-in-law. I remember
her very well, and can say that she is not plain. I was very much taken with her manner at your wedding, my dear; and thought more of her than I did of the beauty, I can tell you.’

‘I must confess I do not remember her at all,’ said his lordship. And so the conversation ended.

And then at the end of the fortnight Mark arrived with his sister. They did not reach Framley till long after dark –
somewhere between six and seven, and by this time it was December. There was snow on the ground, and frost in the air, and no moon, and cautious men when they went on the roads had their horses’ shoes cocked.
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Such being the state of the weather Mark’s gig had been nearly filled with cloaks and shawls when it was sent over to Silverbridge. And a cart was sent for Lucy’s luggage, and all manner
of preparations had been made. Three times had Fanny gone herself to see that the fire burned brightly in the little room over the porch, and at the moment that the sound of the wheels was heard she was engaged in opening her son’s mind as to the nature of an aunt. Hitherto papa and mamma and Lady Lufton were all that he had known, excepting, of course, the satellites of the nursery.

And then
in three minutes Lucy was standing by the fire. Those three minutes had been taken up in embraces between the husband and the wife. Let who would be brought as a visitor to the house, after a fortnight’s absence, she would kiss him before she welcomed any one else. But then she turned to Lucy, and began to assist her with her cloaks.

‘Oh, thank you,’ said Lucy; ‘I’m not cold, – not very at least.
Don’t trouble yourself: I can do it.’ But here she had made a false boast, for her fingers had been so numbed that she could neither do nor undo anything.

They were all in black, of course; but the sombreness of Lucy’s clothes struck Fanny much more than her own. They seemed to have swallowed her up in their blackness, and to have made her almost an emblem of death. She did not look up, but kept
her face turned towards the fire, and seemed almost afraid of her position.

‘She may say what she likes, Fanny,’ said Mark, ‘but she is very cold. And so am I, – cold enough. You had better go up with her to her room. We won’t do much in the dressing way to-night; eh, Lucy?’

In the bedroom Lucy thawed a little, and Fanny, as she kissed
her, said to herself that she had been wrong as to that
word ‘plain.’ Lucy, at any rate, was not plain.

‘You will be used to us soon,’ said Fanny, ‘and then I hope we shall make you comfortable.’ And she took her sister-in-law’s hand and pressed it.

Lucy looked up at her, and her eyes then were tender enough. ‘I am sure I shall be happy here,’ she said, ‘with you. But – but – dear papa!’ And then they got into each other’s arms, and had a great bout
of kissing and crying. ‘Plain,’ said Fanny to herself, as at last she got her guest’s hair smoothed and the tears washed from her eyes – ‘plain! She has the loveliest countenance that I ever looked at in my life!’

‘Your sister is quite beautiful,’ she said to Mark, as they talked her over alone before they went to sleep that night.

‘No, she’s not beautiful; but she’s a very good girl, and clever
enough too, in her sort of way.’

‘I think her perfectly lovely. I never saw such eyes in my life before.’

‘I’ll leave her in your hands then; you shall get her a husband.’

‘That mayn’t be so easy. I don’t think she’d marry anybody.’

‘Well, I hope not. But she seems to me to be exactly cut out for an old maid; – to be aunt Lucy for ever and ever to your bairns.’

‘And so she shall, with all
my heart. But I don’t think she will, very long. I have no doubt she will be hard to please; but if I were a man I should fall in love with her at once. Did you ever observe her teeth, Mark?’

‘I don’t think I ever did.’

‘You wouldn’t know whether any one had a tooth in their head, I believe.’

‘No one, except you, my dear; and I know all yours by heart.’

‘You are a goose.’

‘And a very sleepy
one; so, if you please, I’ll go to roost.’ And thus there was nothing more said about Lucy’s beauty on that occasion.

For the first two days Mrs Robarts did not make much of her sister-in-law. Lucy, indeed, was not demonstrative; and she was, moreover, one of those few persons – for they are very few –
who are contented to go on with their existence without making themselves the centre of any
special outward circle. To the ordinary run of minds it is impossible not to do this. A man’s own dinner is to himself so important that he cannot bring himself to believe that it is a matter utterly indifferent to every one else. A lady’s collection of baby-clothes, in early years, and of house linen and curtain-fringes in later life, is so very interesting to her own eyes, that she cannot believe
but what other people will rejoice to behold it. I would not, however, be held as regarding this tendency as evil. It leads to conversation of some sort among people, and perhaps to a kind of sympathy. Mrs Jones will look at Mrs White’s linen-chest, hoping that Mrs White may be induced to look at hers. One can only pour out of a jug that which is in it. For the most of us, if we do not talk of
ourselves, or at any rate of the individual circles of which we are the centres, we can talk of nothing. I cannot hold with those who wish to put down the insignificant chatter of the world. As for myself, I am always happy to look at Mrs Jones’s linen, and never omit an opportunity of giving her the details of my own dinners.

But Lucy Robarts had not this gift. She had come there as a stranger
into her sister-in-law’s house, and at first seemed as though she would be contented in simply having her corner in the drawing-room and her place at the parlour table. She did not seem to need the comforts of condolence and open-hearted talking. I do not mean to say that she was moody, that she did not answer when she was spoken to, or that she took no notice of the children; but she did not at
once throw herself and all her hopes and sorrows into Fanny’s heart, as Fanny would have had her do.