The Small House at Allington
"I don't know. I wish that I had none."
"And, John;--I can understand her feeling now; and indeed, I thought
all through that you were asking her too soon; but the time may yet
come when she will think better of your wishes."
"No, no; never. I begin to know her now."
"If you can be constant in your love you may win her yet. Remember
how young she is; and how young you both are. Come again in two
years' time, and then, when you have won her, you shall tell me that
I have been a good old woman to you both."
"I shall never win her, Lady Julia." As he spoke these last words
the tears were running down his cheeks, and he was weeping openly in
presence of his companion. It was well for him that she had come upon
him in his sorrow. When he once knew that she had seen his tears, he
could pour out to her the whole story of his grief; and as he did so
she led him back quietly to the house.
CHAPTER LV.
NOT VERY FIE FIE AFTER ALL.
It will perhaps be remembered that terrible things had been foretold
as about to happen between the Hartletop and Omnium families. Lady
Dumbello had smiled whenever Mr. Plantagenet Palliser had spoken
to her. Mr. Palliser had confessed to himself that politics were
not enough for him, and that Love was necessary to make up the full
complement of his happiness. Lord Dumbello had frowned latterly when
his eyes fell on the tall figure of the duke's heir; and the duke
himself,--that potentate, generally so mighty in his silence,--the
duke himself had spoken. Lady De Courcy and Lady Clandidlem were,
both of them, absolutely certain that the thing had been fully
arranged. I am, therefore, perfectly justified in stating that
the world was talking about the loves,--the illicit loves,--of Mr.
Palliser and Lady Dumbello.
And the talking of the world found its way down to that respectable
country parsonage in which Lady Dumbello had been born, and from
which she had been taken away to those noble halls which she now
graced by her presence. The talking of the world was heard at
Plumstead Episcopi, where still lived Archdeacon Grantly, the lady's
father; and was heard also at the deanery of Barchester, where lived
the lady's aunt and grandfather. By whose ill-mannered tongue the
rumour was spread in these ecclesiastical regions it boots not now to
tell. But it may be remembered that Courcy Castle was not far from
Barchester, and that Lady De Courcy was not given to hide her lights
under a bushel.
It was a terrible rumour. To what mother must not such a rumour
respecting her daughter be very terrible? In no mother's ears
could it have sounded more frightfully than it did in those of Mrs.
Grantly. Lady Dumbello, the daughter, might be altogether worldly;
but Mrs. Grantly had never been more than half worldly. In one moiety
of her character, her habits, and her desires, she had been wedded
to things good in themselves,--to religion, to charity, and to
honest-hearted uprightness. It is true that the circumstances of
her life had induced her to serve both God and Mammon, and that,
therefore, she had gloried greatly in the marriage of her daughter
with the heir of a marquis. She had revelled in the aristocratic
elevation of her child, though she continued to dispense books and
catechisms with her own hands to the children of the labourers of
Plumstead Episcopi. When Griselda first became Lady Dumbello the
mother feared somewhat lest her child should find herself unequal to
the exigencies of her new position. But the child had proved herself
more than equal to them, and had mounted up to a dizzy height of
success, which brought to the mother great glory and great fear also.
She delighted to think that her Griselda was great even among the
daughters of marquises; but she trembled as she reflected how deadly
would be the fall from such a height--should there ever be a fall!
But she had never dreamed of such a fall as this! She would have
said,--indeed, she often had said,--to the archdeacon that Griselda's
religious principles were too firmly fixed to be moved by outward
worldly matters; signifying, it may be, her conviction that that
teaching of Plumstead Episcopi had so fastened her daughter into a
groove, that all the future teaching of Hartlebury would not suffice
to undo the fastenings. When she had thus boasted no such idea as
that of her daughter running from her husband's house had ever come
upon her; but she had alluded to vices of a nature kindred to that
vice,--to vices into which other aristocratic ladies sometimes fell,
who had been less firmly grooved; and her boastings had amounted to
this,--that she herself had so successfully served God and Mammon
together, that her child might go forth and enjoy all worldly things
without risk of damage to things heavenly. Then came upon her this
rumour. The archdeacon told her in a hoarse whisper that he had been
recommended to look to it, that it was current through the world that
Griselda was about to leave her husband.
"Nothing on earth shall make me believe it," said Mrs. Grantly. But
she sat alone in her drawing-room afterwards and trembled. Then came
her sister, Mrs. Arabin, the dean's wife, over to the parsonage, and
in half-hidden words told the same story. She had heard it from Mrs.
Proudie, the bishop's wife. "That woman is as false as the father of
falsehoods," said Mrs. Grantly. But she trembled the more; and as
she prepared her parish work, could think of nothing but her child.
What would be all her life to come, what would have been all that
was past of her life, if this thing should happen to her? She would
not believe it; but yet she trembled the more as she thought of her
daughter's exaltation, and remembered that such things had been done
in that world to which Griselda now belonged. Ah! would it not have
been better for them if they had not raised their heads so high! And
she walked out alone among the tombs of the neighbouring churchyard,
and stood over the grave in which had been laid the body of her other
daughter. Could be it that the fate of that one had been the happier.
Very few words were spoken on the subject between her and the
archdeacon, and yet it seemed agreed among them that something should
be done. He went up to London, and saw his daughter,--not daring,
however, to mention such a subject. Lord Dumbello was cross with him,
and very uncommunicative. Indeed both the archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly
had found that their daughter's house was not comfortable to them,
and as they were sufficiently proud among their own class they had
not cared to press themselves on the hospitality of their son-in-law.
But he had been able to perceive that all was not right in the house
in Carlton Gardens. Lord Dumbello was not gracious with his wife, and
there was something in the silence, rather than in the speech, of
men, which seemed to justify the report which had reached him.
"He is there oftener than he should be," said the archdeacon. "And I
am sure of this, at least, that Dumbello does not like it."
"I will write to her," said Mrs. Grantly at last. "I am still her
mother;--I will write to her. It may be that she does not know what
people say of her."
And Mrs. Grantly did write.
Plumstead, April, 186--.
DEAREST GRISELDA,
It seems sometimes that you have been moved so far away
from me that I have hardly a right to concern myself more
in the affairs of your daily life, and I know that it
is impossible that you should refer to me for advice or
sympathy, as you would have done had you married some
gentleman of our own standing. But I am quite sure that
my child does not forget her mother, or fail to look back
upon her mother's love; and that she will allow me to
speak to her if she be in trouble, as I would to any other
child whom I had loved and cherished. I pray God that I
may be wrong in supposing that such trouble is near you.
If I am so you will forgive me my solicitude.
Rumours have reached us from more than one quarter
that--Oh! Griselda, I hardly know in what words to conceal
and yet to declare that which I have to write. They say
that you are intimate with Mr. Palliser, the nephew of
the duke, and that your husband is much offended. Perhaps
I had better tell you all, openly, cautioning you not
to suppose that I have believed it. They say that it
is thought that you are going to put yourself under Mr.
Palliser's protection. My dearest child, I think you can
imagine with what an agony I write these words,--with what
terrible grief I must have been oppressed before I could
have allowed myself to entertain the thoughts which have
produced them. Such things are said openly in Barchester,
and your father, who has been in town and has seen you,
feels himself unable to tell me that my mind may be at
rest.
I will not say to you a word as to the injury in a worldly
point of view which would come to you from any rupture
with your husband. I believe that you can see what would
be the effect of so terrible a step quite as plainly as I
can show it you. You would break the heart of your father,
and send your mother to her grave;--but it is not even
on that that I may most insist. It is this,--that you
would offend your God by the worst sin that a woman can
commit, and cast yourself into a depth of infamy in which
repentance before God is almost impossible, and from which
escape before man is not permitted.
I do not believe it, my dearest, dearest child,--my only
living daughter; I do not believe what they have said to
me. But as a mother I have not dared to leave the slander
unnoticed. If you will write to me and say that it is not
so, you will make me happy again, even though you should
rebuke me for my suspicion.
Believe that at all times, and under all circumstances,
I am still your loving mother, as I was in other days.
SUSAN GRANTLY.
We will now go back to Mr. Palliser as he sat in his chambers at the
Albany, thinking of his love. The duke had cautioned him, and the
duke's agent had cautioned him; and he, in spite of his high feeling
of independence, had almost been made to tremble. All his thousands
a year were in the balance, and perhaps everything on which depended
his position before the world. But, nevertheless, though he did
tremble, he resolved to persevere. Statistics were becoming dry to
him, and love was very sweet. Statistics, he thought, might be made
as enchanting as ever, if only they could be mingled with love. The
mere idea of loving Lady Dumbello had seemed to give a salt to his
life of which he did not now know how to rob himself. It is true that
he had not as yet enjoyed many of the absolute blessings of love,
seeing that his conversations with Lady Dumbello had never been
warmer than those which have been repeated in these pages; but his
imagination had been at work; and now that Lady Dumbello was fully
established at her house in Carlton Gardens, he was determined to
declare his passion on the first convenient opportunity. It was
sufficiently manifest to him that the world expected him to do so,
and that the world was already a little disposed to find fault with
the slowness of his proceedings.
He had been once at Carlton Gardens since the season had commenced,
and the lady had favoured him with her sweetest smile. But he had
only been half a minute alone with her, and during that half-minute
had only time to remark that he supposed she would now remain in
London for the season.
"Oh, yes," she had answered, "we shall not leave till July."
Nor could he leave till July, because of the exigencies of his
statistics. He therefore had before him two, if not three, clear