Framley Parsonage (69 page)

The countenance of Mrs Proudie became darkened with black anger and the polished smile of her company manners gave place before the outraged feelings of her nature.

‘The man you speak of, Mrs Grantly,’ said she,
‘was never known as a friend by Mr Tickler.’

‘Oh, indeed,’ said Mrs Grantly. ‘Perhaps I have made a mistake. I am sure I have heard Mr Slope mention him.’

‘When Mr Slope was running after your sister, Mrs Grantly, and was encouraged by her as he was, you perhaps saw more of him than I did.’

‘Mrs Proudie, that was never the case.’

‘I have reason to know that the archdeacon conceived it to be
so, and that he was very unhappy about it.’ Now this, unfortunately, was a fact which Mrs Grantly could not deny.

‘The archdeacon may have been mistaken about Mr Slope,’ she said, ‘as were some other people at Barchester. But it was you, I think, Mrs Proudie, who were responsible for bringing him here.’

Mrs Grantly, at this period of the engagement, might have inflicted a fatal wound by referring
to poor Olivia’s former love affairs, but she was not destitute of generosity. Even in the extremest heat of the battle she knew how to spare the young and tender.

‘When I came here, Mrs Grantly, I little dreamed what a depth of wickedness might be found in the very close of a cathedral city,’ said Mrs Proudie.

‘Then, for dear Olivia’s sake, pray do not bring poor Mr Tickler to Barchester.’

‘Mr Tickler, Mrs Grantly, is a man of assured morals and of a highly religious tone of thinking. I wish every one could be so safe as regards their daughters’ future prospects as I am.’

‘Yes, I know he has the advantage of being a family man,’ said Mrs Grantly, getting up. ‘Good morning, Mrs Proudie; good day, Olivia.’

‘A great deal better that than –’ But the blow fell upon the empty air; for
Mrs Grantly had already escaped on to the staircase while Olivia was ringing the bell for the servant to attend the front-door.

Mrs Grantly, as she got into her carriage, smiled slightly, thinking of the battle, and as she sat down she gently pressed her daughter’s hand. But Mrs Proudie’s face was still dark as
Acheron when her enemy withdrew, and with angry tone she sent her daughter to her
work. ‘Mr Tickler will have great reason to complain if, in your position, you indulge such habits of idleness,’ she said. Therefore I conceive that I am justified in saying that in that encounter Mrs Grantly was the conqueror.

O
N
the day on which Lucy had her interview with Lady Lufton the dean dined at Framley Parsonage. He and Robarts had known each other since the latter had been in the diocese, and now, owing to Mark’s preferment in the chapter, had become almost intimate. The dean was greatly pleased with the manner in which poor Mr Crawley’s children had been conveyed away from Hogglestock,
and was inclined to open his heart to the whole Framley household. As he still had to ride home he could only allow himself to remain half an hour after dinner, but in that half-hour he said a great deal about Crawley, complimented Robarts on the manner in which he was playing the part of the Good Samaritan, and then by degrees informed him that it had come to his, the dean’s ears, before he left
Barchester, that a writ was in the hands of certain persons in the city, enabling them to seize – he did not know whether it was the person or the property of the Vicar of Framley.

The fact was that these tidings had been conveyed to the dean with the express intent that he might put Robarts on his guard; but the task of speaking on such a subject to a brother clergyman had been so unpleasant
to him that he had been unable to introduce it till the last five minutes before his departure.

‘I hope you will not put it down as an impertinent interference,’ said the dean, apologizing.

‘No,’ said Mark; ‘no, I do not think that.’ He was so sad at heart that he hardly knew how to speak of it.

‘I do not understand much about such matters,’ said the dean; ‘but I think, if I were you, I should
go to a lawyer. I should imagine
that anything so terribly disagreeable as an arrest might be avoided.’

‘It is a hard case,’ said Mark, pleading his own cause. ‘Though these men have this claim against me I have never received a shilling either in money or money’s worth.’

‘And yet your name is to the bills!’ said the dean.

‘Yes, my name is to the bills, certainly, but it was to oblige a friend.’

And then the dean, having given his advice, rode away. He could not understand how a clergyman, situated as was Mr Robarts, could find himself called upon by friendship to attach his name to accommodation bills which he had not the power of liquidating when duel

On that evening they were both wretched enough at the parsonage. Hitherto Mark had hoped that perhaps, after all, no absolutely hostile
steps would be taken against him with reference to these bills. Some unforeseen chance might occur in his favour, or the persons holding them might consent to take small instalments of payment from time to time; but now it seemed that the evil day was actually coming upon him at a blow. He had no longer any secrets from his wife. Should he go to a lawyer? and if so, to what lawyer? And when he
had found his lawyer, what should he say to him? Mrs Robarts at one time suggested that everything should be told to Lady Lufton. Mark, however, could not bring himself to do that. ‘It would seem,’ he said, ‘as though I wanted her to lend me the money.’

On the following morning Mark did ride into Barchester, dreading, however, lest he should be arrested on his journey, and he did see a lawyer.
During his absence two calls were made at the parsonage – one by a very rough-looking individual, who left a suspicious document in the hands of the servant, purporting to be an invitation – not to dinner – from one of the judges of the land; and the other call was made by Lady Lufton in person.

Mrs Robarts had determined to go down to Framley Court on that day. In accordance with her usual custom
she would have been there within an hour or two of Lady Lufton’s return from London, but things between them were not now as they usually had been. This affair of Lucy’s must make a difference, let them
both resolve to the contrary as they might. And, indeed, Mrs Robarts had found that the closeness of her intimacy with Framley Court had been diminishing from day to day since Lucy had first begun
to be on friendly terms with Lord Lufton. Since that she had been less at Framley Court than usual; she had heard from Lady Lufton less frequently by letter during her absence than she had done in former years, and was aware that she was less implicitly trusted with all the affairs of the parish. This had not made her angry, for she was in a manner conscious that it must be so. It made her unhappy,
but what could she do? She could not blame Lucy, nor could she blame Lady Lufton. Lord Lufton she did blame, but she did so in the hearing of no one but her husband.

Her mind, however, was made up to go over and bear the first brunt of her ladyship’s arguments, when she was stopped by her ladyship’s arrival. If it were not for this terrible matter of Lucy’s love – a matter on which they could
not now be silent when they met – there would be twenty subjects of pleasant, or, at any rate, not unpleasant conversation. But even then there would be those terrible bills hanging over her conscience, and almost crushing her by their weight. At the moment in which Lady Lufton walked up to the drawing-room window, Mrs Robarts held in her hand that ominous invitation from the judge. Would it not
be well that she should make a clean breast of it all, disregarding what her husband had said? It might be well: only this – she had never yet done anything in opposition to her husband’s wishes. So she hid the slip within her desk, and left the matter open to consideration.

The interview commenced with an affectionate embrace, as was a matter of course. ‘Dear Fanny,’ and ‘Dear Lady Lufton,’
was said between them with all the usual warmth. And then the first inquiry was made about the children, and the second about the school. For a minute or two Mrs Robarts thought that, perhaps, nothing was to be said about Lucy. If it pleased Lady Lufton to be silent she, at least, would not commence the subject.

Then there was a word or two spoken about Mrs Podgens’ baby, after which Lady Lufton
asked whether Fanny were alone.

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Robarts. ‘Mark has gone over to Barchester.’

‘I hope he will not be long before he lets me see him. Perhaps he can call to-morrow. Would you both come and dine tomorrow?’

‘Not to-morrow, I think, Lady Lufton; but Mark, I am sure, will go over and call.’

‘And why not come to dinner? I hope there is to be no change among us, eh, Fanny?’ and Lady
Lufton as she spoke looked into the other’s face in a manner which almost made Mrs Robarts get up and throw herself on her old friend’s neck. Where was she to find a friend who would give her such constant love as she had received from Lady Lufton? And who was kinder, better, more honest than she?

‘Change! no, I hope not, Lady Lufton;’ and as she spoke the tears stood in her eyes.

‘Ah, but I
shall think there is if you will not come to me as you used to do. You always used to come and dine with me the day I came home, as a matter of course.’

What could she say, poor woman, to this?

‘We were all in confusion yesterday about poor Mrs Crawley, and the dean dined here; he had been over at Hogglestock to see his friend.’

‘I have heard of her illness, and will go over and see what ought
to be done. Don’t you go, do you hear, Fanny? You with your young children! I should never forgive you if you did.’

And then Mrs Robarts explained how Lucy had gone there, had sent the four children back to Framley, and was herself now staying at Hogglestock with the object of nursing Mrs Crawley. In telling the story she abstained from praising Lucy with all the strong language which she would
have used had not Lucy’s name and character been at the present moment of peculiar import to Lady Lufton; but nevertheless she could not tell it without dwelling much on Lucy’s kindness. It would have been ungenerous to Lady Lufton to make much of Lucy’s virtue at this present moment, but unjust to Lucy to make nothing of it.

‘And she is actually with Mrs Crawley now?’ asked Lady Lufton.

‘Oh,
yes; Mark left her there yesterday afternoon.’

‘And the four children are all here in the house?’

‘Not exactly in the house – that is, not as yet. We have arranged a sort of quarantine hospital over the coach-house.’

‘What, where Stubbs lives?’

‘Yes; Stubbs and his wife have come into the house, and the children are to remain up there till the doctor says that there is no danger of infection.
I have not even seen my visitors myself as yet,’ said Mrs Robarts with a slight laugh.

‘Dear me!’ said Lady Lufton. ‘I declare you have been very prompt. And so Miss Robarts is over there! I should have thought Mr Crawley would have made a difficulty about the children.’

‘Well, he did; but they kidnapped them, – that is, Lucy and Mark did. The dean gave me such an account of it. Lucy brought
them out by two’s and packed them in the pony-carriage, and then Mark drove off at a gallop while Mr Crawley stood calling to them in the road. The dean was there at the time and saw it all.’

‘That Miss Lucy of yours seems to be a very determined young lady when she takes a thing into her head,’ said Lady Lufton, now sitting down for the first time.

‘Yes, she is,’ said Mrs Robarts, having laid
aside all her pleasant animation, for the discussion which she dreaded was now at hand.

‘A very determined young lady,’ continued Lady Lufton. ‘Of course, my dear Fanny, you know all this about Ludovic and your sister-in-law?’

‘Yes, she has told me about it.’

‘It is very unfortunate – very.’

‘I do not think Lucy has been to blame,’ said Mrs Robarts; and as she spoke the blood was already mounting
to her cheeks.

‘Do not be too anxious to defend her, my dear, before any one accuses her. Whenever a person does that it looks as though their cause were weak.’

‘But my cause is not weak as far as Lucy is concerned; I feel quite sure that she has not been to blame.’

‘I know how obstinate you can be, Fanny, when you think it necessary to dub yourself any one’s champion. Don Quixote was not a
better knight-errant than you are. But is it not a pity
to take up your lance and shield before an enemy is within sight or hearing? But that was ever the way with your Don Quixotes.’

‘Perhaps there may be an enemy in ambush.’ That was Mrs Robarts’ thought to herself, but she did not dare to express it, so she remained silent.

‘My only hope is,’ continued Lady Lufton, ‘that when my back is turned
you fight as gallantly for me.’

‘Ah, you are never under a cloud, like poor Lucy.’

‘Am I not? But, Fanny, you do not see all the clouds. The sun does not always shine for any of us, and the down-pouring rain and the heavy wind scatter also my fairest flowers, – as they have done hers, poor girl. Dear Fanny, I hope it may be long before any cloud comes across the brightness of your heaven. Of
all the creatures I know you are the one most fitted for quiet continued sunshine.’

And then Mrs Robarts did get up and embrace her friend, thus hiding the tears which were running down her face. Continued sunshine indeed! A dark spot had already gathered on her horizon which was likely to fall in a very waterspout of rain. What was to come of that terrible notice which was now lying in the desk
under Lady Lufton’s very arm?

‘But I am not come here to croak like an old raven,’ continued Lady Lufton, when she had brought this embrace to an end. ‘It is probable that we all may have our sorrows; but I am quite sure of this, – that if we endeavour to do our duties honestly, we shall all find our consolation and all have our joys also. And now, my dear, let you and I say a few words about
this unfortunate affair. It would not be natural if we were to hold our tongues to each other; would it?’

‘I suppose not,’ said Mrs Robarts.

‘We should always be conceiving worse than the truth, – each as to the other’s thoughts. Now, some time ago, when I spoke to you about your sister-in-law and Ludovic – I daresay you remember –’