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

gave her head a little chuck which was produced by two different operations of her mind. The first was a reflection that her grandpapa was robbing her of her rank. She was to be a rich marchioness. And the second was a feeling of anger at the old man for comparing her lot to that of a dairymaid.

“Quite as easy, I believe,” continued he; “though others will tell you that it is not so. But with the countess as with the dairymaid, it must depend on the woman herself. Being a countess⁠—that fact alone won’t make you happy.”

“Lord Dumbello at present is only a viscount,” said Griselda. “There is no earl’s title in the family.”

“Oh! I did not know,” said Mr. Harding, relinquishing his granddaughter’s hand; and, after that, he troubled her with no further advice.

Both Mrs. Proudie and the bishop had called at Plumstead since Mrs. Grantly had come back from London, and the ladies from Plumstead, of course, returned the visit. It was natural that the Grantlys and Proudies should hate each other. They were essentially church people, and their views on all church matters were antagonistic. They had been compelled to fight for supremacy in the diocese, and neither family had so conquered the other as to have become capable of magnanimity and good-humour. They did hate each other, and this hatred had, at one time, almost produced an absolute disseverance of even the courtesies which are so necessary between a bishop and his clergy. But the bitterness of this rancour had been overcome, and the ladies of the families had continued on visiting terms.

But now this match was almost more than Mrs. Proudie could bear. The great disappointment which, as she well knew, the Grantlys had encountered in that matter of the proposed new bishopric had for the moment mollified her. She had been able to talk of poor dear Mrs. Grantly! “She is heartbroken, you know, in this matter, and the repetition of such misfortunes is hard to bear,” she had been heard to say, with a complacency which had been quite becoming to her. But now that complacency was at an end. Olivia Proudie had just accepted a widowed preacher at a district church in Bethnal Green⁠—a man with three children, who was dependent on pew-rents; and Griselda Grantly was engaged to the eldest son of the Marquis of Hartletop! When women are enjoined to forgive their enemies it cannot be intended that such wrongs as these should be included.

But Mrs. Proudie’s courage was nothing daunted. It may be boasted of her that nothing could daunt her courage. Soon after her return to Barchester, she and Olivia⁠—Olivia being very unwilling⁠—had driven over to Plumstead, and, not finding the Grantlys at home, had left their cards; and now, at a proper interval, Mrs. Grantly and Griselda returned the visit. It was the first time that Miss Grantly had been seen by the Proudie ladies since the fact of her engagement had become known.

The first bevy of compliments that passed might be likened to a crowd of flowers on a hedge rosebush. They were beautiful to the eye but were so closely environed by thorns that they could not be plucked without great danger. As long as the compliments were allowed to remain on the hedge⁠—while no attempt was made to garner them and realize their fruits for enjoyment⁠—they did no mischief; but the first finger that was put forth for such a purpose was soon drawn back, marked with spots of blood.

“Of course it is a great match for Griselda,” said Mrs. Grantly, in a whisper the meekness of which would have disarmed an enemy whose weapons were less firmly clutched than those of Mrs. Proudie; “but, independently of that, the connection is one which is gratifying in many ways.”

“Oh, no doubt,” said Mrs. Proudie.

“Lord Dumbello is so completely his own master,” continued Mrs. Grantly, and a slight, unintended semitone of triumph mingled itself with the meekness of that whisper.

“And is likely to remain so, from all I hear,” said Mrs. Proudie, and the scratched hand was at once drawn back.

“Of course the estab⁠—,” and then Mrs. Proudie, who was blandly continuing her list of congratulations, whispered her sentence close into the ear of Mrs. Grantly, so that not a word of what she said might be audible by the young people.

“I never heard a word of it,” said Mrs. Grantly, gathering herself up, “and I don’t believe it.”

“Oh, I may be wrong; and I’m sure I hope so. But young men will be young men, you know;⁠—and children will take after their parents. I suppose you will see a great deal of the Duke of Omnium now.”

But Mrs. Grantly was not a woman to be knocked down and trampled on without resistance; and though she had been lacerated by the rosebush she was not as yet placed altogether hors de combat. She said some word about the Duke of Omnium very tranquilly, speaking of him merely as a Barsetshire proprietor, and then, smiling with her sweetest smile, expressed a hope that she might soon have the pleasure of becoming acquainted with Mr. Tickler; and as she spoke she made a pretty little bow towards Olivia Proudie. Now Mr. Tickler was the worthy clergyman attached to the district church at Bethnal Green.

“He’ll be down here in August,” said Olivia, boldly, determined not to be shamefaced about her love affairs.

“You’ll be starring it about the Continent by that time, my dear,” said Mrs. Proudie to Griselda. “Lord Dumbello is well known at Homburg and Ems, and places of that sort; so you will find yourself quite at home.”

“We are going to Rome,” said Griselda, majestically.

“I suppose Mr. Tickler will come into the diocese soon,” said Mrs. Grantly. “I remember hearing him very favourably spoken of by Mr. Slope, who was a friend of his.”

Nothing short of a fixed resolve on the part of Mrs. Grantly that the time had now come in which she must throw away her shield and stand behind her sword, declare war to the knife, and neither give nor take quarter, could have justified such