Framley Parsonage (23 page)

‘Dear Lady Lufton!’ said Griselda, putting up her hand so as to press the end of her ladyship’s fingers. It was the first piece of animation she had shown, and Lucy Robarts watched it all.

And then there was music. Lucy neither played
nor sang; Fanny did both, and for an amateur did both well. Griselda did not sing, but she played; and did so in a manner that showed that neither her own labour nor her father’s money had been spared in her instruction. Lord Lufton sang also, a little, and Captain Culpepper a very little; so that they got up a concert among them. In the meantime the doctor and Mark stood talking together on the
rug before the fire; the two mothers sat contented, watching the billings and the cooings of their offspring – and Lucy sat alone, turning over the leaves of a book of pictures. She made up her
mind fully, then and there, that she was quite unfitted by disposition for such work as this. She cared for no one, and no one cared for her. Well, she must go through with it now; but another time she
would know better. With her own book and a fireside she never felt herself to be miserable as she was now.

She had turned her back to the music, for she was sick of seeing Lord Lufton watch the artistic motion of Miss Grantly’s fingers, and was sitting at a small table as far away from the piano as a long room would permit, when she was suddenly roused from a reverie of self-reproach by a voice
close behind her: ‘Miss Robarts,’ said the voice, ‘why have you cut us all?’ and Lucy felt that though she heard the words plainly, nobody else did. Lord Lufton was now speaking to her as he had before spoken to Miss Grantly.

‘I don’t play, my lord,’ said Lucy, ‘nor yet sing.’

‘That would have made your company so much more valuable to us, for we are terribly badly off for listeners. Perhaps
you don’t like music?’

‘I do like it, – sometimes very much.’

‘And when are the sometimes? But we shall find it all out in time. We shall have unravelled all your mysteries, and read all your riddles, by – when shall I say? – by the end of the winter. Shall we not?’

‘I do not know that I have got any mysteries.’

‘Oh, but you have! It is very mysterious in you to come and sit here, with your
back to us all –’

‘Oh, Lord Lufton; if I have done wrong – I’ and poor Lucy almost started from her chair, and a deep flush came across her dark cheek.

‘No – no; you have done no wrong. I was only joking. It is we who have done wrong in leaving you to yourself – you who are the greatest stranger among us.’

‘I have been very well, thank you. I don’t care about being left alone. I have always
been used to it.’

‘Ah! but we must break you of the habit. We won’t allow you to make a hermit of yourself. But the truth is, Miss Robarts, you don’t know us yet, and therefore you are not quite happy among us.’

‘Oh! yes, I am; you are all very good to me.’

‘You must let us be good to you. At any rate, you must let me be so. You know, don’t you, that Mark and I have been dear friends since
we were seven years old. His wife has been my sister’s dearest friend almost as long; and now that you are with them, you must be a dear friend too. You won’t refuse the offer; will you?’

‘Oh, no,’ she said, quite in a whisper; and, indeed, she could hardly raise her voice above a whisper, fearing that tears would fall from her tell-tale eyes.

‘Dr and Mrs Grantly will have gone in a couple of
days, and then we must get you down here. Miss Grantly is to remain for Christmas, and you two must become bosom friends.’

Lucy smiled, and tried to look pleased, but she felt that she and Griselda Grantly could never be bosom friends – could never have anything in common between them. She felt sure that Griselda despised her, little, brown, plain, and unimportant as she was. She herself could
not despise Griselda in turn; indeed she could not but admire Miss Grantly’s great beauty and dignity of demeanour; but she knew that she could never love her. It is hardly possible that the proud-hearted should love those who despise them; and Lucy Robarts was very proud-hearted.

‘Don’t you think she is very handsome?’ said Lord Lufton.

‘Oh, very,’ said Lucy. ‘Nobody can doubt that.’

‘Ludovic,’
said Lady Lufton – not quite approving of her son’s remaining so long at the back of Lucy’s chair – ‘won’t you give us another song – Mrs Robarts and Miss Grantly are still at the piano?’

‘I have sung away all that I knew, mother. There’s Culpepper has not had a chance yet. He has got to give us his dream – how he “dreamt that he dwelt in marble halls!” ’
²

‘I sang that an hour ago,’ said the
captain, not over pleased.

‘But you certainly have not told us how “your little lovers came!” ’
³

The captain, however, would not sing any more. And then the party was broken up, and the Robartses went home to their parsonage.

L
UCY,
during those last fifteen minutes of her sojourn in the Framley Court drawing-room, somewhat modified the very strong opinion she had before formed as to her unfitness for such society. It was very pleasant sitting there in that easy-chair, while Lord Lufton stood at the back of it saying nice, soft, good-natured words to her. She was sure that in a little time
she could feel a true friendship for him, and that she could do so without any risk of falling in love with him. But then she had a glimmering of an idea that such a friendship would be open to all manner of remarks, and would hardly be compatible with the world’s ordinary ways. At any rate it would be pleasant to be at Framley Court, if he would come and occasionally notice her. But she did not
admit to herself that such a visit would be intolerable if his whole time were devoted to Griselda Grantly. She neither admitted it, nor thought it; but nevertheless, in a strange unconscious way, such a feeling did find entrance in her bosom.

And then the Christmas holidays passed away. How much of this enjoyment fell to her share, and how much of this suffering she endured, we will not attempt
accurately to describe. Miss Grantly remained at Framley Court up to Twelfth Night, and the Robartses also spent most of the season at the house. Lady Lufton, no doubt, had hoped that everything might have been arranged on this occasion in accordance with her wishes, but such had not been the case. Lord Lufton had evidently admired Miss Grantly very much; indeed, he had said so to his mother half-a-dozen
times; but it may almost be questioned whether the pleasure Lady Lufton derived from this was not more than neutralized by an opinion he once put forward that Griselda Grantly wanted some of the fire of Lucy Robarts.

‘Surely, Ludovic, you would never compare the two girls,’ said Lady Lufton.

‘Of course not. They are the very antipodes to each other. Miss
Grantly would probably be more to my
taste; but then I am wise enough to know that it is so because my taste is a bad taste.’

‘I know no man with a more accurate or refined taste in such matters,’ said Lady Lufton. Beyond this she did not dare to go. She knew very well that her strategy would be vain should her son once learn that she had a strategy. To tell the truth, Lady Lufton was becoming somewhat indifferent to Lucy Robarts.
She had been very kind to the little girl; but the little girl seemed hardly to appreciate the kindness as she should do – and then Lord Lufton would talk to Lucy, ‘which was so unnecessary, you know;’ and Lucy had got into a way of talking quite freely with Lord Lufton, having completely dropped that short, spasmodic, ugly exclamation of ‘my lord.’

And so the Christmas festivities were at an
end, and January wore itself away. During the greater part of this month Lord Lufton did not remain at Framley, but was nevertheless in the county, hunting with the hounds of both divisions, and staying at various houses. Two or three nights he spent at Chaldicotes; and one – let it only be told in an under voice – at Gatherum Castle! Of this he said nothing to Lady Lufton. ‘Why make her unhappy?’
as he said to Mark. But Lady Lufton knew it, though she said not a word to him – knew it, and was unhappy. ‘If he would only marry Griselda, there would be an end of that danger,’ she said to herself.

But now we must go back for a while to the vicar and his little bill. It will be remembered, that his first idea with reference to that trouble, after the reading of his father’s will, was to borrow
the money from his brother John. John was down at Exeter at the time, and was to stay one night at the parsonage on his way to London. Mark would broach the matter to him on the journey, painful though it would be to him to tell the story of his own folly to a brother so much younger than himself, and who had always looked up to him, clergyman and full-blown vicar as he was, with a deference
greater than that which such difference in age required.

The story was told, however; but was told all in vain, as Mark found out before he reached Framley. His brother John immediately declared that he would lend him the money, of course –
eight hundred, if his brother wanted it. He, John, confessed that, as regarded the remaining two, he should like to feel the pleasure of immediate possession.
As for interest, he would not take any – take interest from a brother! of course not. Well, if Mark made such a fuss about it, he supposed he must take it; but would rather not. Mark should have his own way, and do just what he liked.

This was all very well, and Mark had fully made up his mind that his brother should not be kept long out of his money. But then arose the question, how was that
money to be reached? He, Mark, was executor, or one of the executors under his father’s will, and, therefore, no doubt, could put his hand upon it; but his brother wanted five months of being of age, and could not therefore as yet be put legally in possession of the legacy.

‘That’s a bore,’ said the assistant private secretary to the Lord Petty Bag, thinking, perhaps, as much of his own immediate
wish for ready cash as he did of his brother’s necessities. Mark felt that it was a bore, but there was nothing more to be done in that direction. He must now find out how far the bankers could assist him.

Some week or two after his return to Framley he went over to Barchester, and called there on a certain Mr Forrest, the manager of one of the banks, with whom he was acquainted; and with many
injunctions as to secrecy told this manager the whole of his story. At first, he concealed the name of his friend Sowerby, but it soon appeared that no such concealment was of any avail. ‘That’s Sowerby, of course,’ said Mr Forrest. ‘I know you are intimate with him; and all his friends go through that, sooner or later.’

It seemed to Mark as though Mr Forrest made very light of the whole transaction.

‘I cannot possibly pay the bill when it falls due,’ said Mark.

‘Oh, no, of course not,’ said Mr Forrest. ‘It’s never very convenient to hand out four hundred pounds at a blow. Nobody will expect you to pay it!’

‘But I suppose I shall have to do it sooner or later?’

‘Well, that’s as may be. It will depend partly on how you manage with Sowerby, and partly on the hands it gets into. As
the bill
has your name on it, they’ll have patience as long as the interest is paid, and the commissions on renewal. But no doubt it will have to be met some day by somebody.’

Mr Forrest said that he was sure that the bill was not in Barchester; Mr Sowerby would not, he thought, have brought it to a Barchester bank. The bill was probably in London, but, doubtless, would be sent to Barchester for collection.
‘If it comes in my way,’ said Mr Forrest, ‘I will give you plenty of time, so that you may manage about the renewal with Sowerby. I suppose he’ll pay the expense of doing that.’

Mark’s heart was somewhat lighter as he left the bank. Mr Forrest had made so little of the whole transaction that he felt himself justified in making little of it also. ‘It may be as well,’ said he to himself, as he
drove home, ‘not to tell Fanny anything about it till the three months have run round. I must make some arrangement then.’ And in this way his mind was easier during the last of those three months than it had been during the two former. That feeling of overdue bills, of bills coming due, of accounts overdrawn, of tradesmen unpaid, of general money cares, is very dreadful at first; but it is astonishing
how soon men get used to it. A load which would crush a man at first becomes, by habit, not only endurable, but easy and comfortable to the bearer. The habitual debtor goes along jaunty and with elastic step, almost enjoying the excitement of his embarrassments. There was Mr Sowerby himself; who ever saw a cloud on his brow? It made one almost in love with ruin to be in his company. And even
now, already, Mark Robarts was thinking to himself quite comfortably about this bill; – how very pleasantly those bankers managed these things. Pay it! No; no one will be so unreasonable as to expect you to do that! And then Mr Sowerby certainly was a pleasant fellow, and gave a man something in return for his money. It was still a question with Mark whether Lord Lufton had not been too hard on Sowerby.
Had that gentleman fallen across his clerical friend at the present moment, he might no doubt have gotten from him an acceptance for another four hundred pounds.

One is almost inclined to believe that there is something pleasurable in the excitement of such embarrassments, as there is also
in the excitement of drink. But then, at last, the time does come when the excitement is over, and when
nothing but the misery is left. If there be an existence of wretchedness on earth it must be that of the elderly, worn-out
roué
, who has run this race of debt and bills of accommodation and acceptances, – of what, if we were not in these days somewhat afraid of good broad English, we might call lying and swindling, falsehood and fraud – and who, having ruined all whom he should have loved, having
burnt up every one who would trust him much, and scorched all who would trust him a little, is at last left to finish his life with such bread and water as these men get, without one honest thought to strengthen his sinking heart, or one honest friend to hold his shivering hand! If a man could only think of that, as he puts his name to the first little bill, as to which he is so good-naturedly
assured that it can easily be renewed!