Framley Parsonage - Anthony Trollope (mobi reader android .txt) 📗

rumour flies, making herself common through all the cities. That Mrs. Proudie should have known more of the facts connected with the Hartletop family than anyone else in Barchester was not surprising, seeing that she was so much more conversant with the great world in which such people lived. She knew, and was therefore correct enough in declaring, that Lord Dumbello had already jilted one other young lady⁠—the Lady Julia Mac Mull, to whom he had been engaged three seasons back, and that therefore his character in such matters was not to be trusted. That Lady Julia had been a terrible flirt and greatly given to waltzing with a certain German count, with whom she had since gone off⁠—that, I suppose, Mrs. Proudie did not know, much as she was conversant with the great world⁠—seeing that she said nothing about it to any of her ecclesiastical listeners on the present occasion.

“It will be a terrible warning, Mrs. Quiverful, to us all; a most useful warning to us⁠—not to trust to the things of this world. I fear they made no inquiry about this young nobleman before they agreed that his name should be linked with that of their daughter.” This she said to the wife of the present warden of Hiram’s Hospital, a lady who had received favours from her, and was therefore bound to listen attentively to her voice.

“But I hope it may not be true,” said Mrs. Quiverful, who, in spite of the allegiance due by her to Mrs. Proudie, had reasons of her own for wishing well to the Grantly family.

“I hope so, indeed,” said Mrs. Proudie, with a slight tinge of anger in her voice; “but I fear that there is no doubt. And I must confess that it is no more than we had a right to expect. I hope that it may be taken by all of us as a lesson, and an ensample, and a teaching of the Lord’s mercy. And I wish you would request your husband⁠—from me, Mrs. Quiverful⁠—to dwell on this subject in morning and evening lecture at the hospital on Sabbath next, showing how false is the trust which we put in the good things of this world;” which behest, to a certain extent, Mr. Quiverful did obey, feeling that a quiet life in Barchester was of great value to him; but he did not go so far as to caution his hearers, who consisted of the aged bedesmen of the hospital, against matrimonial projects of an ambitious nature.

In this case, as in all others of the kind, the report was known to all the chapter before it had been heard by the archdeacon or his wife. The dean heard it, and disregarded it; as did also the dean’s wife⁠—at first; and those who generally sided with the Grantlys in the diocesan battles pooh-poohed the tidings, saying to each other that both the archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly were very well able to take care of their own affairs. But dripping water hollows a stone; and at last it was admitted on all sides that there was ground for fear⁠—on all sides, except at Plumstead.

“I am sure there is nothing in it; I really am sure of it,” said Mrs. Arabin, whispering to her sister; “but after turning it over in my mind, I thought it right to tell you. And yet I don’t know now but I am wrong.”

“Quite right, dearest Eleanor,” said Mrs. Grantly. “And I am much obliged to you. But we understand it, you know. It comes, of course, like all other Christian blessings, from the palace.” And then there was nothing more said about it between Mrs. Grantly and her sister.

But on the following morning there arrived a letter by post, addressed to Mrs. Grantly, bearing the postmark of Littlebath. The letter ran:⁠—

Madam,

It is known to the writer that Lord Dumbello has arranged with certain friends how he may escape from his present engagement. I think, therefore, that it is my duty as a Christian to warn you of this.

Yours truly,

A Wellwisher.

Now it had happened that the embryo Mrs. Tickler’s most intimate bosom friend and confidante was known at Plumstead to live at Littlebath, and it had also happened⁠—most unfortunately⁠—that the embryo Mrs. Tickler, in the warmth of her neighbourly regard, had written a friendly line to her friend Griselda Grantly, congratulating her with all female sincerity on her splendid nuptials with the Lord Dumbello.

“It is not her natural hand,” said Mrs. Grantly, talking the matter over with her husband, “but you may be sure it has come from her. It is a part of the new Christianity which we learn day by day from the palace teaching.”

But these things had some effect on the archdeacon’s mind. He had learned lately the story of Lady Julia Mac Mull, and was not sure that his son-in-law⁠—as ought to be about to be⁠—had been entirely blameless in that matter. And then in these days Lord Dumbello made no great sign. Immediately on Griselda’s return to Plumstead he had sent her a magnificent present of emeralds, which, however, had come to her direct from the jewellers, and might have been⁠—and probably was⁠—ordered by his man of business. Since that he had neither come, nor sent, nor written. Griselda did not seem to be in any way annoyed by this absence of the usual sign of love, and went on steadily with her great duties. “Nothing,” as she told her mother, “had been said about writing, and, therefore, she did not expect it.” But the archdeacon was not quite at his ease. “Keep Dumbello up to his P’s and Q’s, you know,” a friend of his had whispered to him at his club. By heavens, yes. The archdeacon was not a man to bear with indifference a wrong in such a quarter. In spite of his clerical profession, few men were more inclined to fight against personal wrongs⁠—and few men more able.

“Can there be anything wrong, I wonder?” said he to his wife. “Is it worth while that I should