Framley Parsonage (73 page)

After breakfast Lady Lufton got up from her chair, but hung about the room without making any show of leaving. In accordance with her usual custom she would have asked her son what he was going to do; but she did not dare so to inquire now. Had he not declared, only a few minutes since, whither he would go? ‘I suppose I shall see you at lunch?’ at last she said.

‘At lunch? Well, I don’t know.
Look here, mother. What am I to say to Miss Robarts when I see her?’ and he leaned with his back against the chimney-piece as he interrogated his mother.

‘What are you to say to her, Ludovic?’

‘Yes; what am I to say, – as coming from you? Am I to tell her that you will receive her as your daughter-in-law?’

‘Ludovic, I have explained all that to Miss Robarts herself.’

‘Explained what?’

‘I
have told her that I did not think that such a marriage would make either you or her happy.’

‘And why have you told her so? Why have you taken upon yourself to judge for me in such a matter, as though I were a child? Mother, you must unsay what you have said.’

Lord Lufton, as he spoke, looked full into his mother’s face; and he did so, not as though he were begging from her a favour, but issuing
to her a command. She stood near him, with one hand on the breakfast-table, gazing at him almost furtively, not quite daring to meet the full view of his eye. There was only one thing on earth which Lady Lufton feared, and that was her son’s displeasure. The sun of her earthly heaven shone upon her through the medium of his existence. If she were driven to quarrel with him, as some ladies of
her acquaintance were driven to quarrel with their sons, the world to her would be over. Not but what facts might be so strong as to make it absolutely necessary that she should do this. As some people resolve that, under certain circumstances, they will commit suicide, so she could see that, under certain circumstances, she must consent even to be separated from him. She would not do wrong, – not
that which she knew to be wrong, – even for his sake. If it were necessary that all her happiness should collapse and be crushed in ruin around her, she must endure it, and wait God’s time to relieve her from so dark a world. The light of the sun was very dear to her, but even that might be purchased at too dear a cost.

‘I told you before, mother, that my choice was made, and I asked you then
to give your consent; you have now had time to think about it, and therefore I have come to ask you again. I have reason to know that there will be no impediment to my marriage if you will frankly hold out your hand to Lucy.’

The matter was altogether in Lady Lufton’s hands, but, fond as she was of power, she absolutely wished that it were not so. Had her son married without asking her and then
brought Lucy home as his wife, she would undoubtedly have forgiven him; and much as she might have disliked the match, she would, ultimately, have embraced the bride. But now she was compelled to exercise her judgment. If he married imprudently, it would be
her doing. How was she to give her expressed consent to that which she believed to be wrong?

‘Do you know anything against her; any reason
why she should not be my wife?’ continued he.

‘If you mean as regards her moral conduct, certainly not,’ said Lady Lufton. ‘But I could say as much as that in favour of a great many young ladies whom I should regard as very ill suited for such a marriage.’

‘Yes; some might be vulgar, some might be ill-tempered, some might be ugly; others might be burdened with disagreeable connections. I can
understand that you should object to a daughter-in-law under any of these circumstances. But none of these things can be said of Miss Robarts. I defy you to say that she is not in all respects what a lady should be.’

But her father was a doctor of medicine, she is the sister of the parish clergyman, she is only five feet two in height, and is so uncommonly brown! Had Lady Lufton dared to give
a catalogue of her objections, such would have been its extent and nature. But she did not dare to do this.

‘I cannot say, Ludovic, that she is possessed of all that you should seek in a wife.’ Such was her answer.

‘Do you mean that she has not got money?’

‘No, not that; I should be very sorry to see you making money your chief object, or indeed any essential object. If it chanced that your
wife did have money, no doubt you would find it a convenience. But pray understand me, Ludovic; I would not for a moment advise you to subject your happiness to such a necessity as that. It is not because she is without fortune –’

‘Then why is it? At breakfast you were singing her praises, and saying how excellent she is.’

‘If I were forced to put my objection into one word, I should say –’
and then she paused, hardly daring to encounter the frown which was already gathering itself on her son’s brow.

‘You would say what?’ said Lord Lufton, almost roughly.

‘Don’t be angry with me, Ludovic; all that I think, and all that I say on this subject, I think and say with only one object – that of your happiness. What other motive can I have for anything in this world?’ And then she came
close to him and kissed him.

‘But tell me, mother, what is this objection; what is this terrible word that is to sum up the list of all poor Lucy’s sins, and prove that she is unfit for married life?’

‘Ludovic, I did not say that. You know that I did not.’

‘What is the word, mother?’

And then at last Lady Lufton spoke it out. ‘She is – insignificant. I believe her to be a very good girl, but
she is not qualified to fill the high position to which you would exalt her.’

‘Insignificant!’

‘Yes, Ludovic, I think so.’

‘Then, mother, you do not know her. You must permit me to say that you are talking of a girl whom you do not know. Of all the epithets of opprobrium which the English language could give you, that would be nearly the last which she would deserve.’

‘I have not intended
any opprobrium.’

‘Insignificant!’

‘Perhaps you do not quite understand me, Ludovic’

‘I know what insignificant means, mother.’

‘I think that she would not worthily fill the position which your wife should take in the world.’

‘I understand what you say.’

‘She would not do you honour at the head of your table.’

‘Ah, I understand. You want me to marry some bouncing Amazon, some pink and white
giantess of fashion who would frighten the little people into their proprieties.’

‘Oh, Ludovic! you are intending to laugh at me now.’

‘I was never less inclined to laugh in my life – never, I can assure you. And now I am more certain than ever that your objection to Miss Robarts arises from your not knowing her. You will find, I think, when you do know her, that she is as well able to hold
her own as any lady of your acquaintance; – ay, and to maintain her husband’s position, too. I can assure you that I shall have no fear of her on that score.’

‘I think, dearest, that perhaps you hardly –’

‘I think this, mother, that in such a matter as this I must choose for myself. I have chosen; and I now ask you, as my mother, to go to her and bid her welcome. Dear mother, I will own this,
that I should not be happy if I thought that you did not love
my wife.’ These last words he said in a tone of affection that went to his mother’s heart, and then he left the room.

Poor Lady Lufton, when she was alone, waited till she heard her son’s steps retreating through the hall, and then betook herself upstairs to her customary morning work. She sat down at last as though about so to occupy
herself; but her mind was too full to allow of her taking up her pen. She had often said to herself, in days which to her were not as yet long gone by, that she would choose a bride for her son, and that then she would love the chosen one with all her heart. She would dethrone herself in favour of this new queen, sinking with joy into her dowager state, in order that her son’s wife might shine
with the greater splendour. The fondest day-dreams of her life had all had reference to the time when her son should bring home a new Lady Lufton, selected by herself from the female excellence of England, and in which she might be the first to worship her new idol. But could she dethrone herself for Lucy Robarts? Could she give up her chair of state in order to place thereon the little girl from
the parsonage? Could she take to her heart, and treat with absolute loving confidence, with the confidence of an almost idolatrous mother, that little chit who, a few months since, had sat awkwardly in one corner of her drawing-room, afraid to speak to any one? And yet it seemed that it must come to this – to this: – or else those day-dreams of hers would in nowise come to pass.

She sat herself
down, trying to think whether it were possible that Lucy might fill the throne; for she had begun to recognize it as probable that her son’s will would be too strong for her; but her thoughts would fly away to Griselda Grantly. In her first and only matured attempt to realize her day-dreams, she had chosen Griselda for her queen. She had failed there, seeing that the fates had destined Miss Grantly
for another throne; – for another and a higher one, as far as the world goes. She would have made Griselda the wife of a baron, but fate was about to make that young lady the wife of a marquis. Was there cause of grief in this? Did she really regret that Miss Grantly, with all her virtues, should be made over to the house of Hartletop? Lady Lufton was a woman who did not bear disappointment lightly;
but nevertheless she did almost feel herself to have been relieved
from a burden when she thought of the termination of the Lufton-Grantly marriage treaty. What if she had been successful, and, after all, the prize had been other than she had expected? She was sometimes prone to think that that prize was not exactly all that she had once hoped. Griselda looked the very thing that Lady Lufton wanted
for a queen; – but how would a queen reign who trusted only to her looks? In that respect it was perhaps well for her that destiny had interposed. Griselda, she was driven to admit, was better suited to Lord Dumbello than to her son.

But still – such a queen as Lucy! Could it ever come to pass that the lieges of the kingdom would bow the knee in proper respect before so puny a sovereign? And
then there was that feeling which, in still higher quarters, prevents the marriage of princes with the most noble of their people. Is it not a recognized rule of these realms that none of the blood royal shall raise to royal honours those of the subjects who are by birth un-royal! Lucy was a subject of the house of Lufton in that she was the sister of the parson and a resident denizen of the parsonage.
Presuming that Lucy herself might do for queen – granting that she might have some faculty to reign, the crown having been duly placed on her brow – how, then, about that clerical brother near the throne? Would it not come to this, that there would no longer be a queen at Framley?

And yet she knew that she must yield. She did not say so to herself. She did not as yet acknowledge that she must
put out her hand to Lucy, calling her by name as her daughter. She did not absolutely say as much to her own heart; – not as yet. But she did begin to bethink herself of Lucy’s high qualities, and to declare to herself that the girl, if not fit to be a queen, was at any rate fit to be a woman. That there was a spirit within that body, insignificant though the body might be. Lady Lufton was prepared
to admit. That she had acquired the power – the chief of all powers in this world – of sacrificing herself for the sake of others; that, too, was evident enough. That she was a good girl, in the usual acceptation of the word good, Lady Lufton had never doubted. She was ready-witted too, prompt in action, gifted with a certain fire. It was that gift of fire which had won for
her, so unfortunately,
Lord Lufton’s love. It was quite possible for her also to love Lucy Robarts; Lady Lufton admitted that to herself; – but then who could bow the knee before her, and serve her as a queen? Was it not a pity that she should be so insignificant?

But, nevertheless, we may say that as Lady Lufton sat that morning in her own room for two hours without employment, the star of Lucy Robarts was gradually
rising in the firmament. After all, love was the food chiefly necessary for the nourishment of Lady Lufton, – the only food absolutely necessary. She was not aware of this herself, nor probably would those who knew her best have so spoken of her. They would have declared that family pride was her daily pabulum, and she herself would have said so too, calling it, however, by some less offensive
name. Her son’s honour, and the honour of her house! – of those she would have spoken as the things dearest to her in this world. And this was partly true, for had her son been dishonoured, she would have sunk with sorrow to the grave. But the one thing necessary to her daily life was the power of loving those who were near to her.

Lord Lufton, when he left the dining-room, intended at once to
go up to the parsonage, but he first strolled round the garden in order that he might make up his mind what he would say there. He was angry with his mother, having not had the wit to see that she was about to give way and yield to him, and he was determined to make it understood that in this matter he would have his own way. He had learned that which it was necessary that he should know as to Lucy’s
heart, and such being the case he would not conceive it possible that he should be debarred by his mother’s opposition. ‘There is no son in England loves his mother better than I do,’ he said to himself; ‘but there are some things which a man cannot stand. She would have married me to that block of stone if I would have let her; and now, because she is disappointed there – Insignificant! I never
in my life heard anything so absurd, so untrue, so uncharitable, so – She’d like me to bring a dragon home, I suppose. It would serve her right if I did, – some creature that would make the house intolerable to her.’ ‘She must do it though,’ he said again,
‘or she and I will quarrel,’ and then he turned off towards the gate, preparing to go to the parsonage.

‘My lord, have you heard what has
happened?’ said the gardener, coming to him at the gate. The man was out of breath and almost overwhelmed by the greatness of his own tidings.