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

yet would have impressed everybody by the majesty of her presence. Then again Lucy had no money⁠—and, again, Lucy was only the sister of her own parish clergyman. People are rarely prophets in their own country, and Lucy was no prophet at Framley; she was none, at least, in the eyes of Lady Lufton. Once before, as may be remembered, she had had fears on this subject⁠—fears, not so much for her son, whom she could hardly bring herself to suspect of such a folly, but for Lucy, who might be foolish enough to fancy that the lord was in love with her. Alas! alas! her son’s question fell upon the poor woman at the present moment with the weight of a terrible blow.

“Is there anything about her which makes her unfit to be my wife?”

Those were her son’s last words.

“Dearest Ludovic, dearest Ludovic!” and she got up and came over to him, “I do think so; I do, indeed.”

“Think what?” said he, in a tone that was almost angry.

“I do think that she is unfit to be your wife. She is not of that class from which I would wish to see you choose.”

“She is of the same class as Griselda Grantly.”

“No, dearest. I think you are in error there. The Grantlys have moved in a different sphere of life. I think you must feel that they are⁠—”

“Upon my word, mother, I don’t. One man is Rector of Plumstead, and the other is Vicar of Framley. But it is no good arguing that. I want you to take to Lucy Robarts. I have come to you on purpose to ask it of you as a favour.”

“Do you mean as your wife, Ludovic?”

“Yes; as my wife.”

“Am I to understand that you are⁠—are engaged to her?”

“Well, I cannot say that I am⁠—not actually engaged to her. But you may take this for granted, that, as far as it lies in my power, I intend to become so. My mind is made up, and I certainly shall not alter it.”

“And the young lady knows all this?”

“Certainly.”

“Horrid, sly, detestable, underhand girl,” Lady Lufton said to herself, not being by any means brave enough to speak out such language before her son. What hope could there be if Lord Lufton had already committed himself by a positive offer? “And her brother, and Mrs. Robarts; are they aware of it?”

“Yes; both of them.”

“And both approve of it?”

“Well, I cannot say that. I have not seen Mrs. Robarts, and do not know what may be her opinion. To speak my mind honestly about Mark, I do not think he does cordially approve. He is afraid of you, and would be desirous of knowing what you think.”

“I am glad, at any rate, to hear that,” said Lady Lufton, gravely. “Had he done anything to encourage this, it would have been very base.” And then there was another short period of silence.

Lord Lufton had determined not to explain to his mother the whole state of the case. He would not tell her that everything depended on her word⁠—that Lucy was ready to marry him only on condition that she, Lady Lufton, would desire her to do so. He would not let her know that everything depended on her⁠—according to Lucy’s present verdict. He had a strong disinclination to ask his mother’s permission to get married; and he would have to ask it were he to tell her the whole truth. His object was to make her think well of Lucy, and to induce her to be kind, and generous, and affectionate down at Framley. Then things would all turn out comfortably when he again visited that place, as he intended to do on his return from Norway. So much he thought it possible he might effect, relying on his mother’s probable calculation that it would be useless for her to oppose a measure which she had no power of stopping by authority. But were he to tell her that she was to be the final judge, that everything was to depend on her will, then, so thought Lord Lufton, that permission would in all probability be refused.

“Well, mother, what answer do you intend to give me?” he said. “My mind is positively made up. I should not have come to you had not that been the case. You will now be going down home, and I would wish you to treat Lucy as you yourself would wish to treat any girl to whom you knew that I was engaged.”

“But you say that you are not engaged.”

“No, I am not; but I have made my offer to her, and I have not been rejected. She has confessed that she⁠—loves me⁠—not to myself, but to her brother. Under these circumstances, may I count upon your obliging me?”

There was something in his manner which almost frightened his mother, and made her think that there was more behind than was told to her. Generally speaking, his manner was open, gentle, and unguarded; but now he spoke as though he had prepared his words, and was resolved on being harsh as well as obstinate.

“I am so much taken by surprise, Ludovic, that I can hardly give you an answer. If you ask me whether I approve of such a marriage, I must say that I do not; I think that you would be throwing yourself away in marrying Miss Robarts.”

“That is because you do not know her.”

“May it not be possible that I know her better than you do, dear Ludovic? You have been flirting with her⁠—”

“I hate that word; it always sounds to me to be vulgar.”

“I will say making love to her, if you like it better; and gentlemen under these circumstances will sometimes become infatuated.”

“You would not have a man marry a girl without making love to her. The fact is, mother, that your tastes and mine are not exactly the same; you like silent beauty, whereas I like talking beauty, and then⁠—”

“Do you call Miss Robarts beautiful?”

“Yes, I do; very beautiful;