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

the time before the beef and pudding were served⁠—while Lucy was still at the parsonage, and Lord Lufton still staying at Framley Court. He had come up one morning, as was now frequently his wont, and, after a few minutes’ conversation, Mrs. Robarts had left the room⁠—as not unfrequently on such occasions was her wont. Lucy was working and continued her work, and Lord Lufton for a moment or two sat looking at her; then he got up abruptly, and standing before her, thus questioned her:⁠—

“Lucy,” said he.

“Well, what of Lucy now? Any particular fault this morning?”

“Yes, a most particular fault. When I asked you, here, in this room, on this very spot, whether it was possible that you should love me⁠—why did you say that it was impossible?”

Lucy, instead of answering at the moment, looked down upon the carpet, to see if his memory were as good as hers. Yes; he was standing on the exact spot where he had stood before. No spot in all the world was more frequently clear before her own eyes.

“Do you remember that day, Lucy?” he said again.

“Yes, I remember it,” she said.

“Why did you say it was impossible?”

“Did I say impossible?”

She knew that she had said so. She remembered how she had waited till he had gone, and that then, going to her own room, she had reproached herself with the cowardice of the falsehood. She had lied to him then; and now⁠—how was she punished for it?

“Well, I suppose it was possible,” she said.

“But why did you say so when you knew it would make me so miserable?”

“Miserable! nay, but you went away happy enough! I thought I had never seen you look better satisfied.”

“Lucy!”

“You had done your duty and had had such a lucky escape! What astonishes me is that you should have ever come back again. But the pitcher may go to the well once too often, Lord Lufton.”

“But will you tell me the truth now?”

“What truth?”

“That day, when I came to you⁠—did you love me at all then?”

“We’ll let bygones be bygones, if you please.”

“But I swear you shall tell me. It was such a cruel thing to answer me as you did, unless you meant it. And yet you never saw me again till after my mother had been over for you to Mrs. Crawley’s.”

“It was absence that made me⁠—care for you.”

“Lucy, I swear I believe you loved me then.”

“Ludovic, some conjuror must have told you that.”

She was standing as she spoke, and, laughing at him, she held up her hands and shook her head. But she was now in his power, and he had his revenge⁠—his revenge for her past falsehood and her present joke. How could he be more happy when he was made happy by having her all his own, than he was now?

And in these days there again came up that petition as to her riding⁠—with very different result now than on that former occasion. There were ever so many objections, then. There was no habit, and Lucy was⁠—or said that she was⁠—afraid; and then, what would Lady Lufton say? But now Lady Lufton thought it would be quite right; only were they quite sure about the horse? Was Ludovic certain that the horse had been ridden by a lady? And Lady Meredith’s habits were dragged out as a matter of course, and one of them chipped and snipped and altered, without any compunction. And as for fear, there could be no bolder horsewoman than Lucy Robarts. It was quite clear to all Framley that riding was the very thing for her. “But I never shall be happy, Ludovic, till you have got a horse properly suited for her,” said Lady Lufton.

And then, also, came the affair of her wedding garments, of her trousseau⁠—as to which I cannot boast that she showed capacity or steadiness at all equal to that of Lady Dumbello. Lady Lufton, however, thought it a very serious matter; and as, in her opinion, Mrs. Robarts did not go about it with sufficient energy, she took the matter mainly into her own hands, striking Lucy dumb by her frowns and nods, deciding on everything herself, down to the very tags of the boot-ties.

“My dear, you really must allow me to know what I am about;” and Lady Lufton patted her on the arm as she spoke. “I did it all for Justinia, and she never had reason to regret a single thing that I bought. If you’ll ask her, she’ll tell you so.”

Lucy did not ask her future sister-in-law, seeing that she had no doubt whatever as to her future mother-in-law’s judgment on the articles in question. Only the money! And what could she want with six dozen pocket-handkerchiefs all at once? There was no question of Lord Lufton’s going out as governor-general to India! But twelve dozen pocket-handkerchiefs had not been too many for Griselda’s imagination.

And Lucy would sit alone in the drawing-room at Framley Court, filling her heart with thoughts of that evening when she had first sat there. She had then resolved, painfully, with inward tears, with groanings of her spirit, that she was wrongly placed in being in that company. Griselda Grantly had been there, quite at her ease, petted by Lady Lufton, admired by Lord Lufton; while she had retired out of sight, sore at heart, because she felt herself to be no fit companion to those around her. Then he had come to her, making matters almost worse by talking to her, bringing the tears into her eyes by his good-nature, but still wounding her by the feeling that she could not speak to him at her ease.

But things were at a different pass with her now. He had chosen her⁠—her out of all the world, and brought her there to share with him his own home, his own honours, and all that he had to give. She was the apple of his eye, and the pride of his heart. And the stern mother, of whom she