Framley Parsonage (Unabridged). Anthony Trollope
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Meredith. “You saw that she was vexed, She had other things to vex her besides this about Mr. Robarts.”
“And would not you answer any one who attacked Sir George?”
“No, not my own mother. I would let her say what she pleased, and leave Sir George to fight his own battles.”
“Ah, but it is different with you. You are her daughter, and Sir George—she would not dare to speak in that way as to Sir George’s doings.”
“Indeed she would, if it pleased her. I am sorry I let you go up to her.”
“It is as well that it should be over, Justinia. As those are her thoughts about Mr. Robarts, it is quite as well that we should know them. Even for all that I owe to her, and all the love I bear to you, I will not come to this house if I am to hear my husband abused—not into any house.”
“My dearest Fanny, we all know what happens when two angry people get together.”
“I was not angry when I went up to her; not in the least.”
“It is no good looking back. What are we to do now, Fanny?”
“I suppose I had better go home,” said Mrs. Robarts. “I will go and put my things up, and then I will send James for them.”
“Wait till after lunch, and then you will be able to kiss my mother before you leave us.”
“No, Justinia; I cannot wait. I must answer Mr. Robarts by this post, and I must think what I have to say to him. I could not write that letter here, and the post goes at four.” And Mrs. Robarts got up from her chair, preparatory to her final departure.
“I shall come to you before dinner,” said Lady Meredith; “and if I can bring you good tidings, I shall expect you to come back here with me. It is out of the question that I should go away from Framley leaving you and my mother at enmity with each other.” To this Mrs. Robarts made no answer; and in a very few minutes afterwards she was in her own nursery, kissing her children, and teaching the elder one to say something about papa. But, even as she taught him, the tears stood in her eyes, and the little fellow knew that everything was not right. And there she sat till about two, doing little odds and ends of things for the children, and allowing that occupation to stand as an excuse to her for not commencing her letter. But then there remained only two hours to her, and it might be that the letter would be difficult in the writing—would require thought and changes, and must needs be copied, perhaps, more than once. As to the money, that she had in the house—as much, at least, as Mark now wanted, though the sending of it would leave her nearly penniless. She could, however, in case of personal need, resort to Davis as desired by him.
So she got out her desk in the drawing-room and sat down and wrote her letter. It was difficult, though she found that it hardly took so long as she expected. It was difficult, for she felt bound to tell him the truth; and yet she was anxious not to spoil all his pleasure among his friends. She told him, however, that Lady Lufton was very angry, “unreasonably angry, I must say,” she put in, in order to show that she had not sided against him. “And, indeed, we have quite quarrelled, and this has made me unhappy, as it will you, dearest; I know that. But we both know how good she is at heart, and Justinia thinks that she had other things to trouble her; and I hope it will all be made up before you come home; only, dearest Mark, pray do not be longer than you said in your last letter.” And then there were three or four paragraphs about the babies, and two about the schools, which I may as well omit. She had just finished her letter, and was carefully folding it for its envelope, with the two whole five-pound notes imprudently placed within it, when she heard a footstep on the gravel path which led up from a small wicket to the front door. The path ran near the drawing-room window, and she was just in time to catch a glimpse of the last fold of a passing cloak. “It is Justinia,” she said to herself; and her heart became disturbed at the idea of again discussing the morning’s adventure. “What am I to do,” she had said to herself before, “if she wants me to beg her pardon? I will not own before her that he is in the wrong.”
And then the door opened—for the visitor made her entrance without the aid of any servant—and Lady Lufton herself stood before her. “Fanny,” she said at once, “I have come to beg your pardon.”
“Oh, Lady Lufton!”
“I was very much harassed when you came to me just now;—by more things than one, my dear. But, nevertheless, I should not have spoken to you of your husband as I did, and so I have come to beg your pardon.” Mrs. Robarts was past answering by the time that this was said, past answering at least in words; so she jumped up, and with her eyes full of tears, threw herself into her old friend’s arms. “Oh, Lady Lufton!” she sobbed forth again.
“You will forgive me, won’t you?” said her ladyship, as she returned her young friend’s caress. “Well, that’s right. I have not been at all happy since you left my den this morning, and I don’t suppose you have. But, Fanny, dearest, we love each other too well, and know each other too thoroughly, to have a long quarrel, don’t we?”
“Oh, yes, Lady Lufton.”
“Of course we do. Friends are not to be picked up on the roadside every day; nor are they to be thrown away lightly. And now sit down, my love, and let us have a little talk. There, I must take my bonnet off. You have pulled the strings so that you have almost choked me.” And Lady Lufton deposited her bonnet on the table, and seated herself comfortably in the corner of the sofa.
“My dear,” she said, “there is no duty which any woman owes to any other human being at all equal to that which she owes to her husband, and, therefore, you were quite right to stand up for Mr. Robarts this morning.” Upon this Mrs. Robarts said nothing, but she got her hand within that of her ladyship and gave it a slight squeeze.
“And I loved you for what you were doing all the time. I did, my dear; though you were a little fierce, you know. Even Justinia admits that, and she has been at me ever since you went away. And, indeed, I did not know that it was in you to look in that way out of those pretty eyes of yours.”
“Oh, Lady Lufton!”
“But I looked fierce enough too myself, I dare say; so we’ll say nothing more about that; will we? But now, about this good man of yours?”
“Dear Lady Lufton, you must forgive him.”
“Well, as you ask me, I will. We’ll have nothing more said about the duke, either now or when he comes back; not a word. Let me see—he’s to be back;—when is it?”
“Wednesday week, I think.”
“Ah, Wednesday. Well, tell him to come and dine up at the house on Wednesday. He’ll be in time, I suppose, and there shan’t be a word said about this horrid duke.”
“I am so much obliged to you, Lady Lufton.”
“But look here, my dear; believe me, he’s better off without such friends.”
“Oh, I know he is; much better off.”
“Well, I’m glad you admit that, for I thought you seemed to be in favour of the duke.”
“Oh, no, Lady Lufton.”
“That’s right, then. And now, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll use your influence, as a good, dear sweet wife as you are, to prevent his going there any more. I’m an old woman and he is a young man, and it’s very natural that he should think me behind the times. I’m not angry at that. But he’ll find that it’s better for him, better for him in every way, to stick to his old friends. It will be better for his peace of mind, better for his character as a clergyman, better for his pocket, better for his children and for you,—and better for his eternal welfare. The duke is not such a companion as he should seek;—nor, if he is sought, should he allow himself to be led away.” And then Lady Lufton ceased, and Fanny Robarts kneeling at her feet sobbed, with her face hidden on her friend’s knees. She had not a word now to say as to her husband’s capability of judging for himself.
“And now I must be going again;