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

the day after tomorrow then.⁠—Mind we must not spare you any longer, because it will be right that you should be at home now. He would think it very hard if you were to be so near, and he was not to be allowed to look at you. And there will be someone else who will want to see you. I shall want to have you very near to me, for I shall be wretched, Lucy, if I cannot teach you to love me.” In answer to which Lucy did find voice enough to make sundry promises.

And then she was put out of the carriage at the little wicket gate, and Lady Lufton was driven back to Framley. I wonder whether the servant when he held the door for Miss Robarts was conscious that he was waiting on his future mistress. I fancy that he was, for these sort of people always know everything, and the peculiar courtesy of his demeanour as he let down the carriage steps was very observable.

Lucy felt almost beside herself as she returned upstairs, not knowing what to do, or how to look, and with what words to speak. It behoved her to go at once to Mrs. Crawley’s room, and yet she longed to be alone. She knew that she was quite unable either to conceal her thoughts or express them; nor did she wish at the present moment to talk to anyone about her happiness⁠—seeing that she could not at the present moment talk to Fanny Robarts. She went, however, without delay into Mrs. Crawley’s room, and with that little eager way of speaking quickly which is so common with people who know that they are confused, said that she feared she had been a very long time away.

“And was it Lady Lufton?”

“Yes; it was Lady Lufton.”

“Why, Lucy; I did not know that you and her ladyship were such friends.”

“She had something particular she wanted to say,” said Lucy, avoiding the question, and avoiding also Mrs. Crawley’s eyes; and then she sat down in her usual chair.

“It was nothing unpleasant, I hope.”

“No, nothing at all unpleasant; nothing of that kind.⁠—Oh, Mrs. Crawley, I’ll tell you some other time, but pray do not ask me now.” And then she got up and escaped, for it was absolutely necessary that she should be alone.

When she reached her own room⁠—that in which the children usually slept⁠—she made a great effort to compose herself, but not altogether successfully. She got out her paper and blotting-book intending, as she said to herself, to write to Fanny, knowing, however, that the letter when written would be destroyed; but she was not able even to form a word. Her hand was unsteady and her eyes were dim and her thoughts were incapable of being fixed. She could only sit, and think, and wonder, and hope; occasionally wiping the tears from her eyes, and asking herself why her present frame of mind was so painful to her? During the last two or three months she had felt no fear of Lord Lufton, had always carried herself before him on equal terms, and had been signally capable of doing so when he made his declaration to her at the parsonage; but now she looked forward with an undefined dread to the first moment in which she should see him.

And then she thought of a certain evening she had passed at Framley Court, and acknowledged to herself that there was some pleasure in looking back to that. Griselda Grantly had been there, and all the constitutional powers of the two families had been at work to render easy a process of lovemaking between her and Lord Lufton. Lucy had seen and understood it all, without knowing that she understood it, and had, in a certain degree, suffered from beholding it. She had placed herself apart, not complaining⁠—painfully conscious of some inferiority, but, at the same time, almost boasting to herself that in her own way she was the superior. And then he had come behind her chair, whispering to her, speaking to her his first words of kindness and good-nature, and she had resolved that she would be his friend⁠—his friend, even though Griselda Grantly might be his wife. What those resolutions were worth had soon become manifest to her. She had soon confessed to herself the result of that friendship, and had determined to bear her punishment with courage. But now⁠—

She sat so for about an hour, and would fain have so sat out the day. But as this could not be, she got up, and having washed her face and eyes returned to Mrs. Crawley’s room. There she found Mr. Crawley also, to her great joy, for she knew that while he was there no questions would be asked of her. He was always very gentle to her, treating her with an old-fashioned polished respect⁠—except when compelled on that one occasion by his sense of duty to accuse her of mendacity respecting the purveying of victuals⁠—, but he had never become absolutely familiar with her as his wife had done; and it was well for her now that he had not done so, for she could not have talked about Lady Lufton.

In the evening, when the three were present, she did manage to say that she expected Mrs. Robarts would come over on the following day.

“We shall part with you, Miss Robarts, with the deepest regret,” said Mr. Crawley; “but we would not on any account keep you longer. Mrs. Crawley can do without you now. What she would have done, had you not come to us, I am at a loss to think.”

“I did not say that I should go,” said Lucy.

“But you will,” said Mrs. Crawley. “Yes, dear, you will. I know that it is proper now that you should return. Nay, but we will not have you any longer. And the poor dear children, too⁠—they may return. How am I to thank Mrs. Robarts for what she has done for us?”

It was settled that if Mrs. Robarts came on the