eh, Justinia?
“Oh, mamma, do be moderate.”
“Moderate! That’s all very well. How is one to moderate one’s feelings when one has been betrayed?”
“You do not mean that Mr. Robarts has betrayed you?” said the wife.
“Oh, no; of course not.” And then she went on reading the letter: “‘Seem to have been standing in judgement upon the duke.’ Might he not use the same argument as to going into any house in the kingdom, however infamous? We must all stand in judgement one upon another in that sense. ‘Crawley!’ Yes; if he were a little more like Mr. Crawley it would be a good thing for me, and for the parish, and for you too, my dear. God forgive me for bringing him here; that’s all.”
“Lady Lufton, I must say that you are very hard upon him—very hard. I did not expect it from such a friend.”
“My dear, you ought to know me well enough to be sure that I shall speak my mind. ‘Written to Jones’—yes; it is easy enough to write to poor Jones. He had better write to Jones, and bid him do the whole duty. Then he can go and be the duke’s domestic chaplain.”
“I believe my husband does as much of his own duty as any clergyman in the whole diocese,” said Mrs. Robarts, now again in tears.
“And you are to take his work in the school; you and Mrs. Podgens. What with his curate and his wife and Mrs. Podgens, I don’t see why he should come back at all.”
“Oh, mamma,” said Justinia, “pray, pray don’t be so harsh to her.”
“Let me finish it, my dear;—oh, here I come. ‘Tell her ladyship my whereabouts.’ He little thought you’d show me this letter.”
“Didn’t he?” said Mrs. Robarts, putting out her hand to get it back, but in vain. “I thought it was for the best; I did indeed.”
“I had better finish it now, if you please. What is this? How does he dare send his ribald jokes to me in such a matter? No, I do not suppose I ever shall like Dr. Proudie; I have never expected it. A matter of conscience with him! Well—well, well. Had I not read it myself, I could not have believed it of him. I would not positively have believed it. ‘Coming from my parish he could not go to the Duke of Omnium!’ And it is what I would wish to have said. People fit for this parish should not be fit for the Duke of Omnium’s house. And I had trusted that he would have this feeling more strongly than any one else in it. I have been deceived—that’s all.”
“He has done nothing to deceive you, Lady Lufton.”
“I hope he will not have deceived you, my dear. ‘More money;’ yes, it is probable that he will want more money. There is your letter, Fanny. I am very sorry for it. I can say nothing more.” And she folded up the letter and gave it back to Mrs. Robarts.
“I thought it right to show it to you,” said Mrs. Robarts.
“It did not much matter whether you did or no; of course I must have been told.”
“He especially begs me to tell you.
“Why, yes; he could not very well have kept me in the dark in such a matter. He could not neglect his own work, and go and live with gamblers and adulterers at the Duke of Omnium’s without my knowing it.” And now Fanny Robarts’s cup was full, full to the overflowing. When she heard these words she forgot all about Lady Lufton, all about Lady Meredith, and remembered only her husband—that he was her husband, and, in spite of his faults, a good and loving husband;—and that other fact also she remembered, that she was his wife.
“Lady Lufton,” she said, “you forget yourself in speaking in that way of my husband.”
“What!” said her ladyship; “you are to show me such a letter as that, and I am not to tell you what I think?”
“Not if you think such hard things as that. Even you are not justified in speaking to me in that way, and I will not hear it.”
“Heighty-tighty!” said her ladyship.
“Whether or no he is right in going to the Duke of Omnium’s, I will not pretend to judge. He is the judge of his own actions, and neither you nor I.”
“And when he leaves you with the butcher’s bill unpaid and no money to buy shoes for the children, who will be the judge then?”
“Not you, Lady Lufton. If such bad days should ever come—and neither you nor I have a right to expect them—I will not come to you in my troubles; not after this.”
“Very well, my dear. You may go to the Duke of Omnium if that suits you better.”
“Fanny, come away,” said Lady Meredith. “Why should you try to anger my mother?”
“I don’t want to anger her; but I won’t hear him abused in that way without speaking up for him. If I don’t defend him, who will? Lady Lufton has said terrible things about him; and they are not true.”
“Oh, Fanny!” said Justinia.
“Very well, very well!” said Lady Lufton. “This is the sort of return that one gets.”
“I don’t know what you mean by return, Lady Lufton: but would you wish me to stand by quietly and hear such things said of my husband? He does not live with such people as you have named. He does not neglect his duties. If every clergyman were as much in his parish, it would be well for some of them. And in going to such a house as the Duke of Omnium’s it does make a difference that he goes there in company with the bishop. I can’t explain why, but I know that it does.”
“Especially when the bishop is coupled up with the devil, as Mr. Robarts has done,” said Lady Lufton; “he can join the duke with them and then they’ll stand for the three Graces, won’t they, Justinia?” And Lady Lufton laughed a bitter little laugh at her own wit.
“I suppose I may go now, Lady Lufton.”
“Oh, yes, certainly, my dear.”
“I am sorry if I have made you angry with me; but I will not allow any one to speak against Mr. Robarts without answering them. You have been very unjust to him; and even though I do anger you, I must say so.”
“Come, Fanny; this is too bad,” said Lady Lufton. “You have been scolding me for the last half-hour because I would not congratulate you on this new friend that your husband has made, and now you are going to begin it all over again. That is more than I can stand. If you have nothing else particular to say, you might as well leave me.” And Lady Lufton’s face as she spoke was unbending, severe, and harsh. Mrs. Robarts had never before been so spoken to by her old friend; indeed, she had never been so spoken to by any one, and she hardly knew how to bear herself.
“Very well, Lady Lufton,” she said; “then I will go. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye,” said Lady Lufton, and turning herself to her table she began to arrange her papers. Fanny had never before left Framley Court to go back to her own parsonage without a warm embrace. Now she was to do so without even having her hand taken. Had it come to this, that there was absolutely to be a quarrel between them—a quarrel for ever?
“Fanny is going, you know, mamma,” said Lady Meredith. “She will be home before you are down again.”
“I cannot help it, my dear. Fanny must do as she pleases. I am not to be the judge of her actions. She has just told me so.” Mrs. Robarts had said nothing of the kind, but she was far too proud to point this out. So with a gentle step she retreated through the door, and then Lady Meredith, having tried what a conciliatory whisper with her mother would do, followed her. Alas, the conciliatory whisper was altogether ineffectual.
The two ladies said nothing as they descended the stairs, but when they had regained the drawing-room they looked with blank horror into each other’s faces. What were they to do now? Of such a tragedy as this they had had no remotest preconception. Was it absolutely the case that Fanny Robarts was to walk out of Lady Lufton’s