Framley Parsonage (42 page)

Miss Dunstable’s fortune would do all this and ever so much more, and then, moreover, Miss Dunstable was a woman whom he really liked. She was not soft, feminine,
or pretty, nor was she very young; but she was clever, self-possessed, and quite able to hold her own in any class; and as to age, Mr Sowerby was not very young himself. In making such a match he would have no cause of shame. He could speak of it before his friends without fear of their grimaces, and ask them to his house, with the full assurance that the head of his table would not disgrace
him. And then as the scheme grew clearer and clearer to him, he declared to himself that if he should be successful, he would use her well, and not rob her of her money – beyond what was absolutely necessary.

He had intended to have laid his fortunes at her feet at Chaldicotes; but the lady had been coy. Then the deed was to have been done at Gatherum Castle, but the lady ran away from Gatherum
Castle just at the time on which he had fixed. And since that, one circumstance after another had postponed the affair in London, till now at last he was resolved that he would know his fate, let it be what it might. If he could not contrive that things should speedily be arranged, it might come to pass that he would be altogether debarred from presenting himself to the lady as Mr Sowerby of Chaldicotes.
Tidings had reached him, through Mr Fothergill, that the duke would be glad to have matters arranged; and Mr Sowerby well knew the meaning of that message.

Mr Sowerby was not fighting this campaign alone, without the aid of any ally. Indeed, no man ever had a more trusty ally in any campaign than he had in this. And it was this ally, the only faithful comrade that clung to him through good and
ill during his whole life, who first put it into his head that Miss Dunstable was a woman and might be married.

‘A hundred needy adventurers have attempted it, and failed
already,’ Mr Sowerby had said, when the plan was first proposed to him.

‘But, nevertheless, she will some day marry some one; and why not you as well as another?’ his sister had answered. For Mrs Harold Smith was the ally of
whom I have spoken.

Mrs Harold Smith, whatever may have been her faults, could boast of this virtue – that she loved her brother. He was probably the only human being that she did love. Children she had none; and as for her husband, it had never occurred to her to love him. She had married him for a position; and being a clever woman, with a good digestion and command of her temper, had managed
to get through the world without much of that unhappiness which usually follows ill-assorted marriages. At home she managed to keep the upper hand, but she did so in an easy, good-humoured way that made her rule bearable; and away from home she assisted her lord’s political standing, though she laughed more keenly than any one else at his foibles. But the lord of her heart was her brother; and
in all his scrapes, all his extravagance, and all his recklessness, she had ever been willing to assist him. With the view of doing this she had sought the intimacy of Miss Dunstable, and for the last year past had indulged every caprice of that lady. Or rather, she had had the wit to learn that Miss Dunstable was to be won, not by the indulgence of caprices, but by free and easy intercourse, with
a dash of fun, and, at any rate, a semblance of honesty. Mrs Harold Smith was not, perhaps, herself very honest by disposition; but in these latter days she had taken up a theory of honesty for the sake of Miss Dunstable – not altogether in vain, for Miss Dunstable and Mrs Harold Smith were certainly very intimate.

‘If I am to do it at all, I must not wait any longer,’ said Mr Sowerby to his
sister a day or two after the final break-down of the gods. The affection of the sister for the brother may be imagined from the fact that at such a time she could give up her mind to such a subject. But, in truth, her husband’s position as a cabinet minister was as nothing to her compared with her brother’s position as a county gentleman.

‘One time is as good as another,’ said Mrs Harold Smith.

‘You mean that you would advise me to ask her at once.’

‘Certainly. But you must remember, Nat, that you will have no easy task. It will not do for you to kneel down and swear that you love her.’

‘If I do it at all, I shall certainly do it without kneeling – you may be sure of that, Harriett.’

‘Yes, and without swearing that you love her. There is only one way in which you can be successful
with Miss Dunstable – you must tell her the truth.’

‘What! – tell her that I am ruined, horse, foot, and dragoons, and then bid her help me out of the mire?’

‘Exactly: that will be your only chance, strange as it may appear.’

‘This is very different from what you used to say, down at Chaldicotes.’

‘So it is; but I know her much better than I did when we were there. Since then I have done but
little else than study the freaks of her character. If she really likes you – and I think she does -she could forgive you any other crime but that of swearing that you loved her.’

‘I should hardly know how to propose without saying something about it.’

‘But you must say nothing – not a word; you must tell her that you are a gentleman of good blood and high station, but sadly out at elbows.’

‘She knows that already.’

‘Of course she does; but she must know it as coming directly from your own mouth. And then tell her that you propose to set yourself right by marrying her – by marrying her for the sake of her money.’

‘That will hardly win her, I should say.’

‘If it does not, no other way, that I know of, will do so. As I told you before, it will be no easy task. Of course you must
make her understand that her happiness shall be cared for; but that must not be put prominently forward as your object. Your first object is her money, and your only chance for success is in telling the truth.’

‘It is very seldom that a man finds himself in such a position as that,’ said Sowerby, walking up and down his sister’s room;
‘and, upon my word, I don’t think I am up to the task. I should
certainly break down. I don’t believe there’s a man in London could go to a woman with such a story as that, and then ask her to marry him.’

‘If you cannot, you may as well give it up,’ said Mrs Harold Smith. ‘But if you can do it – if you can go through with it in that manner – my own opinion is that your chance of success would not be bad. The fact is,’ added the sister after a while, during
which her brother was continuing his walk and meditating on the difficulties of his position – ‘the fact is, you men never understand a woman; you give her credit neither for her strength, nor for her weakness. You are too bold, and too timid: you think she is a fool and tell her so, and yet never can trust her to do a kind action. Why should she not marry you with the intention of doing you a good
turn? After all, she would lose very little: there is the estate, and if she redeemed it, it would belong to her as well as to you.’

‘It would be a good turn, indeed. I fear I should be too modest to put it to her in that way.’

‘Her position would be much better as your wife than it is at present. You are good-humoured and good-tempered, you would intend to treat her well, and, on the whole,
she would be much happier as Mrs Sowerby, of Chaldicotes, than she can be in her present position.’

‘If she cared about being married, I suppose she could be a peer’s wife to-morrow.’

‘But I don’t think she cares about being a peer’s wife. A needy peer might perhaps win her in the way that I propose to you; but then a needy peer would not know how to set about it. Needy peers have tried – half-a-dozen
I have no doubt – and have failed because they have pretended that they were in love with her. It may be difficult, but your only chance is to tell her the truth.’

‘And where shall I do it?’

‘Here if you choose; but her own house will be better.’

‘But I never can see her there – at least, not alone. I believe that she never is alone. She always keeps a lot of people round her in order to stave
off her lovers. Upon my word, Harriett, I
think I’ll give it up. It is impossible that I should make such a declaration to her as that you propose.’

‘Faint heart, Nat – you know the rest.’

‘But the poet never alluded to such wooing as that you have suggested. I suppose I had better begin with a schedule of my debts, and make reference, if she doubts me, to Fothergill, the sheriff’s officers,
and the Tozer family.’

‘She will not doubt you, on that head; nor will she be a bit surprised.’

Then there was again a pause, during which Mr Sowerby still walked up and down the room, thinking whether or no he might possibly have any chance of success in so hazardous an enterprise.

‘I tell you what, Harriett,’ at last he said; ‘I wish you’d do it for me.’

‘Well,’ said she, ‘if you really
mean it, I will make the attempt.’

‘I am sure of this, that I shall never make it myself. I positively should not have the courage to tell her in so many words, that I wanted to marry her for her money.’

‘Well, Nat, I will attempt it. At any rate, I am not afraid of her. She and I are excellent friends, and, to tell the truth, I think I like her better than any other woman that I know; but I
never should have been intimate with her, had it not been for your sake.’

‘And now you will have to quarrel with her, also for my sake?’

‘Not at all. You’ll find that whether she accedes to my proposition or not, we shall continue friends. I do not think that she would die for me – nor I for her. But as the world goes we suit each other. Such a little trifle as this will not break our loves.’

And so it was settled. On the following day Mrs Harold Smith was to find an opportunity of explaining the whole matter to Miss Dunstable, and was to ask that lady to share her fortune – some incredible number of thousands of pounds – with the bankrupt member for West Barsetshire, who in return was to bestow on her – himself and his debts.

Mrs Harold Smith had spoken no more than the truth in
saying that she and Miss Dunstable suited one another. And she had
not improperly described their friendship. They were not prepared to die, one for the sake of the other. They had said nothing to each other of mutual love and affection. They never kissed, or cried, or made speeches, when they met or when they parted. There was no great benefit for which either had to be grateful to the other;
no terrible injury which either had forgiven. But they suited each other; and this, I take it, is the secret of most of our pleasantest intercourse in the world.

And it was almost grievous that they should suit each other, for Miss Dunstable was much the worthier of the two, had she but known it herself. It was almost to be lamented that she should have found herself able to live with Mrs Harold
Smith on terms that were perfectly satisfactory to herself. Mrs Harold Smith was worldly, heartless – to all the world but her brother – and, as has been above hinted, almost dishonest. Miss Dunstable was not worldly, though it was possible that her present style of life might make her so; she was affectionate, fond of truth, and prone to honesty, if those around would but allow her to exercise
it. But she was fond of ease and humour, sometimes of wit that might almost be called broad, and she had a thorough love of ridiculing the world’s humbugs. In all these propensities Mrs Harold Smith indulged her.

Under these circumstances they were now together almost every day. It had become quite a habit with Mrs Harold Smith to have herself driven early in the forenoon to Miss Dunstable’s
house; and that lady, though she could never be found alone by Mr Sowerby, was habitually so found by his sister. And after that they would go out together, or each separately, as fancy or the business of the day might direct them. Each was easy to the other in this alliance, and they so managed that they never trod on each other’s corns.

On the day following the agreement made between Mr Sowerby
and Mrs Harold Smith, that lady as usual called on Miss Dunstable, and soon found herself alone with her friend in a small room which the heiress kept solely for her own purposes. On special occasions persons of various sorts were there admitted; occasionally a parson who had a church to build, or a dowager laden with the last morsel of town slander, or a poor author who could
not get due payment
for the efforts of his brain, or a poor governess on whose feeble stamina the weight of the world had borne too hardly. But men who by possibility could be lovers did not make their way thither, nor women who could be bores. In these latter days, that is, during the present London season, the doors of it had been oftener opened to Mrs Harold Smith than to any other person.

And now the effort
was to be made with the object of which all this intimacy had been effected. As she came thither in her carriage, Mrs Harold Smith herself was not altogether devoid of that sinking of the heart which is so frequently the forerunner of any difficult and hazardous undertaking. She had declared that she would feel no fear in making the little proposition. But she did feel something very like it; and
when she made her entrance into the little room she certainly wished that the work was done and over.

‘How is poor Mr Smith to-day?’ asked Miss Dunstable, with an air of mock condolence, as her friend seated herself in her accustomed easy-chair. The downfall of the gods was as yet a history hardly three days old, and it might well be supposed that the late lord of the Petty Bag had hardly recovered
from his misfortune.

‘Well, he is better, I think, this morning; at least I should judge so from the manner in which he confronted his eggs. But still I don’t like the way he handles the carving-knife. I am sure he is always thinking of Mr Supplehouse at those moments.’

‘Poor man! I mean Supplehouse. After all, why shouldn’t he follow his trade as well as another? Live and let live, that’s what
I say.’

‘Ay, but it’s kill and let kill with him. That is what Harold
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says. However, I am tired of all that now, and I came here to-day to talk about something else.’

‘I rather like Mr Supplehouse myself,’ exclaimed Miss Dunstable. ‘He never makes any bones about the matter. He has a certain work to do, and a certain cause to serve – namely, his own; and in order to do that work, and serve
that cause, he uses such weapons as God has placed in his hands.’