Framley Parsonage (37 page)

It must be remembered that our gallant, gay Lothario had passed some considerable number of days with Miss Grantly in his mother’s house, and the danger of such contiguity must be remembered also. Lord Lufton was by no means a man capable of seeing beauty unmoved or of spending hours with a young
lady without some approach to tenderness. Had there been no such approach, it is probable that Lady Lufton would not have pursued the matter. But, according to her ideas on such subjects, her son Ludovic had on some occasions shown quite sufficient partiality for Miss Grantly to justify her in her hopes, and to lead her to think that nothing but opportunity was wanted. Now, at this ball of Mrs Smith’s,
he did, for a while, seem to be taking advantage of such opportunity, and his mother’s heart was glad. If things should turn out well on this evening she would forgive Mrs Harold Smith all her sins.

And for a while it looked as though things would turn out well. Not that it must be supposed that Lord Lufton had come there with any intention of making love to Griselda, or that he ever had any
fixed thought that he was doing so. Young men in such matters are so often without any fixed thoughts! They are such absolute moths. They amuse themselves with the light of the beautiful candle, fluttering about, on and off, in and out of the flame with dazzled eyes, till in a rash moment they rush in too near the wick, and then fall with singed wings and crippled legs, burnt up and reduced to tinder
by the consuming fire of matrimony. Happy marriages, men say, are made in heaven, and I believe it. Most marriages are fairly happy, in spite of Sir Cresswell Cresswell;
³
and yet how little care is taken on earth towards such a result!

‘I hope my mother is using you well?’ said Lord Lufton to Griselda, as they were standing together in a doorway between the dances.

‘Oh, yes: she is very kind.’

‘You have been rash to trust yourself in the hands of so very staid and demure a person. And, indeed, you owe your presence here at Mrs Harold Smith’s first cabinet ball altogether to me. I don’t know whether you are aware of that.’

‘Oh, yes: Lady Lufton told me.’

‘And are you grateful or otherwise? Have I done you an injury or a benefit? Which do you find best, sitting with a novel in the corner
of a sofa in Bruton Street, or pretending to dance polkas here with Lord Dumbello?’

‘I don’t know what you mean. I haven’t stood up with Lord Dumbello all the evening. We were going to dance a quadrille, but we didn’t.’

‘Exactly; just what I say; – pretending to do it. Even that’s a good deal for Lord Dumbello; isn’t it?’ And then Lord Lufton, not being a pretender himself, put his arm round
her waist, and away they went up and down the room, and across and about, with an energy which showed that what Griselda lacked in her tongue she made up with her feet. Lord Dumbello, in the meantime, stood by, observant, thinking to himself that Lord Lufton was a glib-tongued, empty-headed ass, and reflecting that if his rival were to break the tendons of his leg in one of those rapid evolutions,
or suddenly come by any other dreadful misfortune, such as the loss of all his property, absolute blindness, or chronic lumbago, it would only serve him right. And in that frame of mind he went to bed, in spite of the prayer which no doubt he said as to his forgiveness of other people’s trespasses.

And then, when they were again standing, Lord Lufton, in the little intervals between his violent
gasps for fresh breath, asked Griselda if she liked London. ‘Pretty well,’ said Griselda, gasping also a little herself.

‘I am afraid – you were very dull – down at Framley.’

‘Oh, no; –I liked it – particularly.’

‘It was a great bore when you went – away, I know. There wasn’t a soul – about the house worth speaking to.’ And they remained silent for a minute till their lungs had become quiescent.

‘Not a soul,’ he continued – not of falsehood prepense, for he was not in fact thinking of what he was saying. It did not occur
to him at the moment that he had truly found Griselda’s going a great relief, and that he had been able to do more in the way of conversation with Lucy Robarts in one hour than with Miss Grantly during a month of intercourse in the same house. But, nevertheless, we should
not be hard upon him. All is fair in love and war; and if this was not love, it was the usual thing that stands as a counterpart for it.

‘Not a soul,’ said Lord Lufton. ‘I was very nearly hanging myself in the park next morning; – only it rained.’

‘What nonsensel You had your mother to talk to.’

‘Oh, my mother, – yes; and you may tell me too, if you please, that Captain Culpepper was there.
I do love my mother dearly; but do you think that she could make up for your absence?’ And his voice was very tender, and so were his eyes.

‘And, Miss Robarts; I thought you admired her very much?’

‘What, Lucy Robarts?’ said Lord Lufton, feeling that Lucy’s name was more than he at present knew how to manage. Indeed that name destroyed all the life there was in that little flirtation. ‘I do
like Lucy Robarts, certainly. She is very clever; but it so happened that I saw little or nothing of her after you were gone.’

To this Griselda made no answer, but drew herself up, and looked as cold as Diana when she froze Orion in the cave. Nor could she be got to give more than monosyllabic answers to the three or four succeeding attempts at conversation which Lord Lufton made. And then they
danced again, but Griselda’s steps were by no means so lively as before.

What took place between them on that occasion was very little more than what has been here related. There may have been an ice or a glass of lemonade into the bargain, and perhaps the faintest possible attempt at hand-pressing. But if so, it was all on one side. To such overtures as that Griselda Grantly was as cold as any
Diana.

But little as all this was, it was sufficient to fill Lady Lufton’s mind and heart. No mother with six daughters was ever more anxious to get them off her hands, than Lady Lufton was to see her son married, – married, that is, to some girl of the right sort. And now it really did seem as though he were actually going to comply with her wishes. She had watched him during the whole
evening,
painfully endeavouring not to be observed in doing so. She had seen Lord Dumbello’s failure and wrath, and she had seen her son’s victory and pride. Could it be the case that he had already said something, which was still allowed to be indecisive only through Griselda’s coldness? Might it not be the case, that by some judicious aid on her part, that indecision might be turned into certainty, and
that coldness into warmth? But then any such interference requires so delicate a touch, – as Lady Lufton was well aware.

‘Have you had a pleasant evening?’ Lady Lufton said, when she and Griselda were seated together with their feet on the fender of her ladyship’s dressing-room. Lady Lufton had especially invited her guest into this, her most private sanctum, to which as a rule none had admittance
but her daughter, and sometimes Fanny Robarts. But to what sanctum might not such a daughter-in-law as Griselda have admittance?

‘Oh, yes – very,’ said Griselda.

‘It seemed to me that you bestowed most of your smiles upon Ludovic.’ And Lady Lufton put on a look of good pleasure that such should have been the case.

‘Oh! I don’t know,’ said Griselda; ‘I did dance with him two or three times.’

‘Not once too often to please me, my dear. I like to see Ludovic dancing with my friends.’

‘I am sure I am very much obliged to you, Lady Lufton.’

‘Not at all, my dear. I don’t know where he could get so nice a partner.’ And then she paused a moment, not feeling how far she might go. In the meantime Griselda sat still, staring at the hot coals. ‘Indeed, I know that he admires you very much,’
continued Lady Lufton.

‘Oh! no, I am sure he doesn’t,’ said Griselda; and then there was another pause.

‘I can only say this,’ said Lady Lufton, ‘that if he does do so – and I believe he does – it would give me very great pleasure. For you know, my dear, that I am very fond of you myself.’

‘Oh! thank you,’ said Griselda, and stared at the coals more perseveringly than before.

‘He is a young
man of a most excellent disposition – though
he is my own son, I will say that – and if there should be anything between you and him –’

‘There isn’t, indeed, Lady Lufton.’

‘But if there ever should be, I should be delighted to think that Ludovic had made so good a choice.’

‘But there will never be anything of the sort, I’m sure, Lady Lufton. He is not thinking of such a thing in the least.’

‘Well, perhaps he may, some day. And now, good-night, my dear.’

‘Good-night, Lady Lufton.’ And Griselda kissed her with the utmost composure, and betook herself to her own bedroom. Before she retired to sleep she looked carefully to her different articles of dress, discovering what amount of damage the evening’s wear and tear might have inflicted.

M
ARK
ROBARTS
returned home the day after the scene at the Albany, considerably relieved in spirit. He now felt that he might accept the stall without discredit to himself as a clergyman in doing so. Indeed, after what Mr Sowerby had said, and after Lord Lufton’s assent to it, it would have been madness, he considered, to decline it. And then, too, Mr Sowerby’s
promise about the bills was very comfortable to him. After all, might it not be possible that he might get rid of all these troubles with no other drawback than that of having to pay 130
l
. for a horse that was well worth the money?

On the day after his return he received proper authentic tidings of his presentation to the prebend. He was, in fact, already prebendary, or would be as soon as the
dean and chapter had gone through the form of instituting him in his stall. The income was already his own; and the house also would be given up to him in a week’s time – a part of the arrangement with which he would most willingly have dispensed had it been at all possible to do
so. His wife congratulated him nicely, with open affection, and apparent satisfaction at the arrangement. The enjoyment
of one’s own happiness at such windfalls depends so much on the free and freely expressed enjoyment of others! Lady Lufton’s congratulations had nearly made him throw up the whole thing; but his wife’s smiles re-encouraged him; and Lucy’s warm and eager joy made him feel quite delighted with Mr Sowerby and the Duke of Omnium. And then that splendid animal, Dandy, came home to the parsonage stables,
much to the delight of the groom and gardener, and of the assistant stable boy who had been allowed to creep into the establishment, unawares as it were, since ‘master’ had taken so keenly to hunting. But this satisfaction was not shared in the drawing-room. The horse was seen on his first journey round to the stable gate, and questions were immediately asked. It was a horse, Mark said, ‘which
he had bought from Mr Sowerby some little time since with the object of obliging him. He, Mark, intended to sell him again, as soon as he could do so judiciously.’ This, as I have said above, was not satisfactory. Neither of the two ladies at Framley Parsonage knew much about horses, or of the manner in which one gentleman might think it proper to oblige another by purchasing the superfluities
of his stable; but they did both feel that there were horses enough in the parsonage stable without Dandy, and that the purchasing of a hunter with the view of immediately selling him again, was, to say the least of it, an operation hardly congenial with the usual tastes and pursuits of a clergyman.

‘I hope you did not give very much money for him, Mark,’ said Fanny.

‘Not more than I shall get
again,’ said Mark; and Fanny saw from the form of his countenance that she had better not pursue the subject any further at that moment.

‘I suppose I shall have to go into residence almost immediately,’ said Mark, recurring to the more agreeable subject of the stall.

‘And shall we all have to go and live at Barchester at once?’ asked Lucy.

‘The house will not be furnished, will it, Mark?’ said
his wife. ‘I don’t know how we shall get on.’

‘Don’t frighten yourselves. I shall take lodgings in Barchester.’

‘And we shall not see you all the time,’ said Mrs Robarts with dismay. But the prebendary explained that he would be backwards and forwards at Framley every week, and that in all probability he would only sleep at Barchester on the Saturdays and Sundays – and, perhaps, not always then.

‘It does not seem very hard work, that of a prebendary,’ said Lucy.

‘But it is very dignified,’ said Fanny. ‘Prebendaries are dignitaries of the Church – are they not, Mark?’

‘Decidedly,’ said he; ‘and their wives also, by special canon law. The worst of it is that both of them are obliged to wear wigs.’

‘Shall you have a hat, Mark, with curly things at the side, and strings through to hold
them up?’ asked Lucy.

‘I fear that does not come within my perquisites.’

‘Nor a rosette? Then I shall never believe that you are a dignitary. Do you mean to say that you will wear a hat like a common parson – like Mr Crawley, for instance?’

‘Well – I believe I may give a twist to the leaf; but I am by no means sure till I shall have consulted the dean in chapter.’

And thus at the parsonage
they talked over the good things that were coming to them, and endeavoured to forget the new horse, and the hunting boots that had been used so often during the last winter, and Lady Lufton’s altered countenance. It might be that the evils would vanish away, and the good things alone remain to them.

It was now the month of April, and the fields were beginning to look green, and the wind had got
itself out of the east and was soft and genial, and the early spring flowers were showing their bright colours in the parsonage garden, and all things were sweet and pleasant. This was a period of the year that was usually dear to Mrs Robarts. Her husband was always a better parson when the warm months came than he had been during the winter. The distant county friends whom she did not know and
of whom she did not approve went away when the spring came, leaving their houses innocent and empty. The parish duty was better attended to, and perhaps domestic duties also. At such period he was a pattern parson and a pattern husband, atoning to his own conscience for past shortcomings by present zeal. And then,
though she had never acknowledged it to herself, the absence of her dear friend
Lady Lufton was perhaps in itself not disagreeable. Mrs Robarts did love Lady Lufton heartily; but it must be acknowledged of her ladyship, that, with all her good qualities, she was inclined to be masterful. She liked to rule, and she made people feel that she liked it. Mrs Robarts would never have confessed that she laboured under a sense of thraldom; but perhaps she was mouse enough to enjoy the
temporary absence of her kind-hearted cat. When Lady Lufton was away Mrs Robarts herself had more play in the parish.