Robarts, after sitting for an hour with his wife, did return again to Framley Court; and, after a considerable search, found Lord Lufton returning home to a late dinner.
“Unless my mother asks her,” said he, when the story had been told him. “That is nonsense. Surely you told her that such is not the way of the world.”
Robarts endeavoured to explain to him that Lucy could not endure to think that her husband’s mother should look on her with disfavour.
“Does she think that my mother dislikes her—her specially?” asked Lord Lufton.
No; Robarts could not suppose that that was the case; but Lady Lufton might probably think that a marriage with a clergyman’s sister would be a mésalliance.
“That is out of the question,” said Lord Lufton; “as she has especially wanted me to marry a clergyman’s daughter for some time past. But, Mark, it is absurd talking about my mother. A man in these days is not to marry as his mother bids him.”
Mark could only assure him, in answer to all this, that Lucy was very firm in what she was doing, that she had quite made up her mind, and that she altogether absolved Lord Lufton from any necessity to speak to his mother, if he did not think well of doing so. But all this was to very little purpose.
“She does love me then?” said Lord Lufton.
“Well,” said Mark, “I will not say whether she does or does not. I can only repeat her own message. She cannot accept you, unless she does so at your mother’s request.” And having said that again, he took his leave, and went back to the parsonage.
Poor Lucy, having finished her interview with so much dignity, having fully satisfied her brother, and declined any immediate consolation from her sister-in-law, betook herself to her own bedroom. She had to think over what she had said and done, and it was necessary that she should be alone to do so. It might be that, when she came to reconsider the matter, she would not be quite so well satisfied as was her brother. Her grandeur of demeanour and slow propriety of carriage lasted her till she was well into her own room. There are animals who, when they are ailing in any way, contrive to hide themselves, ashamed, as it were, that the weakness of their suffering should be witnessed. Indeed, I am not sure whether all dumb animals do not do so more or less; and in this respect Lucy was like a dumb animal. Even in her confidences with Fanny she made a joke of her own misfortunes, and spoke of her heart ailments with self-ridicule. But now, having walked up the staircase with no hurried step, and having deliberately locked the door, she turned herself round to suffer in silence and solitude—as do the beasts and birds.
She sat herself down on a low chair, which stood at the foot of her bed, and, throwing back her head, held her handkerchief across her eyes and forehead, holding it tight in both her hands; and then she began to think. She began to think and also to cry, for the tears came running down from beneath the handkerchief; and low sobs were to be heard—only that the animal had taken itself off, to suffer in solitude.
Had she not thrown from her all her chances of happiness? Was it possible that he should come to her yet again—a third time? No; it was not possible. The very mode and pride of this, her second rejection of him, made it impossible. In coming to her determination, and making her avowal, she had been actuated by the knowledge that Lady Lufton would regard such a marriage with abhorrence. Lady Lufton would not, and could not ask her to condescend to be her son’s bride. Her chance of happiness, of glory, of ambition, of love, was all gone. She had sacrificed everything, not to virtue, but to pride. And she had sacrificed not only herself, but him. When first he came there—when she had meditated over his first visit—she had hardly given him credit for deep love; but now—there could be no doubt that he loved her now. After his season in London, his days and nights passed with all that was beautiful, he had returned there, to that little country parsonage, that he might again throw himself at her feet. And she—she had refused to see him, though she loved him with all her heart, she had refused to see him because she was so vile a coward that she could not bear the sour looks of an old woman!
“I will come down directly,” she said, when Fanny at last knocked at the door, begging to be admitted. “I won’t open it, love, but I will be with you in ten minutes; I will, indeed.” And so she was; not, perhaps, without traces of tears, discernible by the experienced eye of Mrs. Robarts, but yet with a smooth brow, and voice under her own command.
“I wonder whether she really loves him,” Mark said to his wife that night.
“Love him!” his wife had answered: “indeed she does; and, Mark, do not be led away by the stern quiet of her demeanour. To my thinking she is a girl who might almost die for love.”
On the next day Lord Lufton left Framley; and started, according to his arrangements, for the Norway salmon fishing.
CHAPTER XXXII
The Goat and Compasses
Harold Smith had been made unhappy by that rumour of a dissolution; but the misfortune to him would be as nothing compared to the severity with which it would fall on Mr. Sowerby. Harold Smith might or might not lose his borough, but Mr. Sowerby would undoubtedly lose his county; and, in losing that, he would lose everything. He felt very certain now that the duke would not support him again, let who would be master of Chaldicotes; and as he reflected on these things he found it very hard to keep up his spirits.
Tom Towers, it seems, had known all about it, as he always does. The little remark which had dropped from him at Miss Dunstable’s, made, no doubt, after mature deliberation, and with profound political motives, was the forerunner, only by twelve hours, of a very general report that the giants were going to the country. It was manifest that the giants had not a majority in Parliament, generous as had been the promises of support disinterestedly made to them by the gods. This indeed was manifest, and therefore they were going to the country, although they had been deliberately warned by a very prominent scion of Olympus that if they did do so that disinterested support must be withdrawn. This threat did not seem to weigh much, and by two o’clock on the day following Miss Dunstable’s party, the fiat was presumed to have gone forth. The rumour had begun with Tom Towers, but by that time it had reached Buggins at the Petty Bag Office.
“It won’t make no difference to hus, sir; will it, Mr. Robarts?” said Buggins, as he leaned respectfully against the wall near the door, in the room of the private secretary at that establishment.
A good deal of conversation, miscellaneous, special, and political, went on between young Robarts and Buggins in the course of the day; as was natural, seeing that they were thrown in these evil times very much upon each other. The Lord Petty Bag of the present ministry was not such a one as Harold Smith. He was a giant indifferent to his private notes, and careless as to the duties even of patronage; he rarely visited the office, and as there were no other clerks in the establishment—owing to a root and branch reform carried out in the short reign of Harold Smith—to whom could young Robarts talk, if not to Buggins?
“No; I suppose not,” said Robarts, as he completed on his blotting-paper an elaborate picture of a Turk seated on his divan.
“‘Cause, you see, sir, we’re in the Upper ‘Ouse, now—as I always thinks we hought to be. I don’t think it ain’t constitutional for the Petty Bag to be in the Commons, Mr. Robarts. Hany ways, it never usen’t.”
“They’re changing all those sort of things nowadays, Buggins,” said Robarts, giving the final touch to the Turk’s smoke.
“Well; I’ll tell you what it is, Mr. Robarts: I think I’ll go. I can’t stand all these changes. I’m turned of sixty now, and don’t want any ‘stifflicates. I think I’ll take my pension and walk. The hoffice ain’t the same place at all since it come down among the Commons.” And then Buggins retired sighing, to console himself with a pot of porter behind a large open office ledger, set up on end on a small table in the little lobby outside the private secretary’s room. Buggins sighed again as he saw that the date made visible in the open book was almost as old as his own appo
intment; for such a book as this lasted long in the Petty Bag Office. A peer of high degree had been Lord Petty Bag in those days; one whom a messenger’s heart could respect with infinite veneration, as he made his unaccustomed visits to the office with much solemnity—perhaps four times during the session. The Lord Petty Bag then was highly regarded by his staff, and his coming among them was talked about for some hours previously and for some days afterwards; but Harold Smith had bustled in and out like the managing clerk in a Manchester house. “The service is going to the dogs,” said Buggins to himself, as he put down the porter pot, and looked up over the book at a gentleman who presented himself at the door.
“Mr. Robarts in his room?” said Buggins, repeating the gentleman’s words. “Yes, Mr. Sowerby; you’ll find him there—first door to the left.” And then, remembering that the visitor was a county member—a position which Buggins regarded as next to that of a peer—he got up, and, opening the private secretary’s door, ushered in the visitor.
Young Robarts and Mr. Sowerby had, of course, become acquainted in the days of Harold Smith’s reign. During that short time the member for West Barset had on most days dropped in at the Petty Bag Office for a minute or two, finding out what the energetic Cabinet minister was doing, chatting on semi-official subjects, and teaching the private secretary to laugh at his master. There was nothing, therefore, in his present visit which need appear to be singular, or which required any immediate special explanation. He sat himself down in his ordinary way, and began to speak of the subject of the day.
“We’re all to go,” said Sowerby.
“So I hear,” said the private secretary. “It will give me no trouble, for, as the respectable Buggins says, we’re in the Upper House now.”
“What a delightful time those lucky dogs of lords do have!” said Sowerby. “No constituents, no turning out, no fighting, no necessity for political opinions—and, as a rule, no such opinions at all!”
“I suppose you’re tolerably safe in West Barsetshire?” said Robarts. “The duke has it pretty much his own way there.”
“Yes; the duke does have it pretty much his own way. By-the-by, where is your brother?”
“At home,” said Robarts; “at least I presume so.”
“At Framley or at Barchester? I believe he was in residence at Barchester not long since.”
“He’s at Framley now, I know. I got a letter only yesterday from his wife, with a commission. He was there, and Lord Lufton had just left.”
“Yes; Lufton was down. He started for Norway this morning. I want to see your brother. You have not heard from him yourself, have you?”
“No; not lately. Mark is a bad correspondent. He would not do at all for a private secretary.”
“At any rate, not to Harold Smith. But you are sure I should not catch him at Barchester?”
“Send down by telegraph, and he would meet you.”
“I don’t want to do that. A telegraph message makes such a fuss in the country, frightening people’s wives, and setting all the horses about the place galloping.”
“What is it about?”
“Nothing of any great consequence. I didn’t know whether he might have told you. I’ll write down by to-night’s post, and then he can meet me at Barchester to-morrow. Or do you write. There’s nothing I hate so much as letter-writing; just tell him that I called, and that I shall be much obliged if he can meet me at the Dragon of Wantly—say at two to-morrow. I will go down by the express.”
Mark Robarts, in talking over this coming money trouble with Sowerby, had once mentioned that if it were necessary to take up the bill for a short time he might be able to borrow the money from his brother. So much of the father’s legacy still remained in the hands of the private secretary as would enable him to produce the amount of the latter bill, and there could be no doubt that he would lend it if asked. Mr. Sowerby’s visit to the Petty Bag Office had been caused by a desire to learn whether any such request had been made—and also by a half-formed resolution to make the request himself if he should find that the clergyman had not done so. It seemed to him to be a pity that such a sum should be lying about, as it were, within reach, and that he should not stoop to put his hands upon it. Such abstinence would be so contrary to all the practice of his life that it was as difficult to him as it is for a sportsman to let pass a cock-pheasant. But yet something like remorse touched his heart as he sat there balancing himself on his chair in the private secretary’s room, and looking at the young man’s open face.
“Yes; I’ll write to him,” said John Robarts; “but he hasn’t said anything to me about anything particular.”
“Hasn’t he? It does not much signify. I only mentioned it because I thought I understood him to say that he would.” And then Mr. Sowerby went on swinging himself. How was it that he felt so averse to mention that little sum of £500 to a young man like John Robarts, a fellow without wife or children or calls on him of any sort, who would not even be injured by the loss of the money, seeing that he had an ample salary on which to live? He wondered at his own weakness. The want of the money was urgent on him in the extreme. He had reasons for supposing that Mark would find it very difficult to renew the bills, but he, Sowerby, could stop their presentation if he could get this money at once into his own hands.
“Can I do anything for you?” said the innocent lamb, offering his throat to the butcher.
But some unwonted feeling numbed the butcher’s fingers, and blunted his knife. He sat still for half a minute after the question, and then jumping from his seat, declined the offer. “No, no; nothing, thank you. Only write to Mark, and say that I shall be there to-morrow,” and then, taking his hat, he hurried out of the office. “What an ass I am,” he said to himself as he went: “as if it were of any use now to be particular!”
He then got into a cab and had himself driven half-way up Portman Street towards the New Road, and walking from thence a few hundred yards down a cross-street he came to a public-house. It was called the “Goat and Compasses,”—a very meaningless name, one would say; but the house boasted of being a place of public entertainment very long established on that site, having been a tavern out in the country in the days of Cromwell. At that time the pious landlord, putting up a pious legend for the benefit of his pious customers, had declared that—”God encompasseth us.” The “Goat and Compasses” in these days does quite as well; and, considering the present character of the house, was perhaps less unsuitable than the old legend.
“Is Mr. Austen here?” asked Mr. Sowerby of the man at the bar.
“Which on ‘em? Not Mr. John; he ain’t here. Mr. Tom is in—the little room on the left-hand side.” The man whom Mr. Sowerby would have preferred to see was the elder brother, John; but as he was not to be found, he did go into the little room. In that room he found—Mr. Austen, junior, according to one arrangement of nomenclature, and Mr. Tom Tozer according to another. To gentlemen of the legal profession he generally chose to introduce himself as belonging to the respectable family of the Austens; but among his intimates he had always been—Tozer.
Mr. Sowerby, though he was intimate with the family, did not love the Tozers: but he especially hated Tom Tozer. Tom Tozer was a bull-necked, beetle-browed fellow, the expression of whose face was eloquent with acknowledged roguery. “I am a rogue,” it seemed to say. “I know it; all the world knows it: but you’re another. All the world don’t know that, but I do. Men are all rogues, pretty nigh. Some are soft rogues, and some are ‘cute rogues. I am a ‘cute one; so mind your eye.” It was with such words that Tom Tozer’s face spoke out; and though a thorough liar in his heart, he was not a liar in his face.
“Well, Tozer,” said Mr. Sowerby, absolutely shaking hands with the dirty miscreant, “I wanted to see your brother.”
“John ain’t here, and ain’t like; but it’s all as one.”
“Yes, yes; I suppose it is. I know you two hunt in couples.”
“I don’t know what you mean about hunting, Mr. S
owerby. You gents ‘as all the hunting, and we poor folk ‘as all the work. I hope you’re going to make up this trifle of money we’re out of so long.”
“It’s about that I’ve called. I don’t know what you call long, Tozer; but the last bill was only dated in February.”
“It’s overdue; ain’t it?”
“Oh, yes; it’s overdue. There’s no doubt about that.”
“Well; when a bit of paper is come round, the next thing is to take it up. Them’s my ideas. And to tell you the truth, Mr. Sowerby, we don’t think as ‘ow you’ve been treating us just on the square lately. In that matter of Lord Lufton’s you was down on us uncommon.”
“You know I couldn’t help myself.”
“Well; and we can’t help ourselves now. That’s where it is, Mr. Sowerby. Lord love you; we know what’s what, we do. And so, the fact is we’re uncommon low as to the ready just at present, and we must have them few hundred pounds. We must have them at once, or we must sell up that clerical gent. I’m dashed if it ain’t as hard to get money from a parson as it is to take a bone from a dog. ‘E’s ‘ad ‘is account, no doubt, and why don’t ‘e pay?”
Mr. Sowerby had called with the intention of explaining that he was about to proceed to Barchester on the following day with the express view of “making arrangements” about this bill; and had he seen John Tozer, John would have been compelled to accord to him some little extension of time. Both Tom and John knew this; and, therefore, John—the soft-hearted one—kept out of the way. There was no danger that Tom would be weak; and, after some half-hour of parley, he was again left by Mr. Sowerby, without having evinced any symptom of weakness.
“It’s the dibs as we want, Mr. Sowerby; that’s all,” were the last words which he spoke as the member of Parliament left the room.
The Chronicles of Barsetshire Page 183
