Framley Parsonage, Anthony Trollope [popular e readers txt] 📗

“By the by, Sowerby, what do you think of this threatened dissolution?” said Tom Towers.

“We are all in the hands of Providence,” said Mr. Sowerby, striving to take the matter without any outward show of emotion. But the question was one of terrible import to him, and up to this time he had heard of no such threat. Nor had Mrs. Harold Smith, nor Miss Dunstable, nor had a hundred others who now either listened to the vaticinations of Mr. Towers, or to the immediate report made of them. But it is given to some men to originate such tidings, and the performance of the prophecy is often brought about by the authority of the prophet. On the following morning the rumour that there would be a dissolution was current in all high circles. “They have no conscience in such matters; no conscience whatever,” said a small god, speaking of the giants⁠—a small god, whose constituency was expensive.

Mr. Towers stood there chatting for about twenty minutes, and then took his departure without making his way into the room. He had answered the purpose for which he had been invited, and left Miss Dunstable in a happy frame of mind.

“I am very glad that he came,” said Mrs. Harold Smith, with an air of triumph.

“Yes, I am glad,” said Miss Dunstable, “though I am thoroughly ashamed that I should be so. After all, what good has he done to me or to anyone?” And having uttered this moral reflection, she made her way into the rooms, and soon discovered Dr. Thorne standing by himself against the wall.

“Well, doctor,” she said, “where are Mary and Frank? You do not look at all comfortable, standing here by yourself.”

“I am quite as comfortable as I expected, thank you,” said he. “They are in the room somewhere, and, as I believe, equally happy.”

“That’s spiteful in you, doctor, to speak in that way. What would you say if you were called on to endure all that I have gone through this evening?”

“There is no accounting for tastes, but I presume you like it.”

“I am not so sure of that. Give me your arm, and let me get some supper. One always likes the idea of having done hard work, and one always likes to have been successful.”

“We all know that virtue is its own reward,” said the doctor.

“Well, that is something hard upon me,” said Miss Dunstable, as she sat down to table. “And you really think that no good of any sort can come from my giving such a party as this?”

“Oh, yes; some people, no doubt, have been amused.”

“It is all vanity in your estimation,” said Miss Dunstable; “vanity and vexation of spirit. Well; there is a good deal of the latter, certainly. Sherry, if you please. I would give anything for a glass of beer, but that is out of the question. Vanity and vexation of spirit! And yet I meant to do good.”

“Pray, do not suppose that I am condemning you, Miss Dunstable.”

“Ah, but I do suppose it. Not only you, but another also, whose judgment I care for perhaps more than yours; and that, let me tell you, is saying a great deal. You do condemn me, Dr. Thorne, and I also condemn myself. It is not that I have done wrong, but the game is not worth the candle.”

“Ah; that’s the question.”

“The game is not worth the candle. And yet it was a triumph to have both the duke and Tom Towers. You must confess that I have not managed badly.”

Soon after that the Greshams went away, and in an hour’s time or so, Miss Dunstable was allowed to drag herself to her own bed.

That is the great question to be asked on all such occasions, “Is the game worth the candle?”

It has been mentioned cursorily⁠—the reader, no doubt, will have forgotten it⁠—that Mrs. Grantly was not specially invited by her husband to go up to town with a view of being present at Miss Dunstable’s party. Mrs. Grantly said nothing on the subject, but she was somewhat chagrined; not on account of the loss she sustained with reference to that celebrated assembly, but because she felt that her daughter’s affairs required the supervision of a mother’s eye. She also doubted the final ratification of that Lufton-Grantly treaty, and, doubting it, she did not feel quite satisfied that her daughter should be left in Lady Lufton’s hands. She had said a word or two to the archdeacon before he went up, but only a word or two, for she hesitated to trust him in so delicate a matter. She was, therefore, not a little surprised at receiving, on the second morning after her husband’s departure, a letter from him desiring her immediate presence in London. She was surprised; but her heart was filled rather with hope than dismay, for she had full confidence in her daughter’s discretion.

On the morning after the party, Lady Lufton and Griselda had breakfasted together as usual, but each felt that the manner of the other was altered. Lady Lufton thought that her young friend was somewhat less attentive, and perhaps less meek in her demeanour, than usual; and Griselda felt that Lady Lufton was less affectionate. Very little, however, was said between them, and Lady Lufton expressed no surprise when Griselda begged to be left alone at home, instead of accompanying her ladyship when the carriage came to the door.

Nobody called in Bruton Street that afternoon⁠—no one, at least, was let in⁠—except the archdeacon. He came there late in the day, and remained with his daughter till Lady Lufton returned. Then he took his leave, with more abruptness than was usual with him, and without saying anything special to account for the duration of his visit. Neither did Griselda say anything special; and so the evening wore away, each feeling in some unconscious manner that she was on less intimate terms with the other than had previously been the case.

On the next day