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

say;⁠—pretending to do it. Even that’s a good deal for Lord Dumbello; isn’t it?” And then Lord Lufton, not being a pretender himself, put his arm round her waist, and away they went up and down the room, and across and about, with an energy which showed that what Griselda lacked in her tongue she made up with her feet. Lord Dumbello, in the meantime, stood by, observant, thinking to himself that Lord Lufton was a glib-tongued, empty-headed ass, and reflecting that if his rival were to break the tendons of his leg in one of those rapid evolutions, or suddenly come by any other dreadful misfortune, such as the loss of all his property, absolute blindness, or chronic lumbago, it would only serve him right. And in that frame of mind he went to bed, in spite of the prayer which no doubt he said as to his forgiveness of other people’s trespasses.

And then, when they were again standing, Lord Lufton, in the little intervals between his violent gasps for fresh breath, asked Griselda if she liked London. “Pretty well,” said Griselda, gasping also a little herself.

“I am afraid⁠—you were very dull⁠—down at Framley.”

“Oh, no;⁠—I liked it⁠—particularly.”

“It was a great bore when you went⁠—away, I know. There wasn’t a soul⁠—about the house worth speaking to.” And they remained silent for a minute till their lungs had become quiescent.

“Not a soul,” he continued⁠—not of falsehood prepense, for he was not in fact thinking of what he was saying. It did not occur to him at the moment that he had truly found Griselda’s going a great relief, and that he had been able to do more in the way of conversation with Lucy Robarts in one hour than with Miss Grantly during a month of intercourse in the same house. But, nevertheless, we should not be hard upon him. All is fair in love and war; and if this was not love, it was the usual thing that stands as a counterpart for it.

“Not a soul,” said Lord Lufton. “I was very nearly hanging myself in the park next morning;⁠—only it rained.”

“What nonsense! You had your mother to talk to.”

“Oh, my mother⁠—yes; and you may tell me too, if you please, that Captain Culpepper was there. I do love my mother dearly; but do you think that she could make up for your absence?” And his voice was very tender, and so were his eyes.

“And Miss Robarts; I thought you admired her very much?”

“What, Lucy Robarts?” said Lord Lufton, feeling that Lucy’s name was more than he at present knew how to manage. Indeed that name destroyed all the life there was in that little flirtation. “I do like Lucy Robarts, certainly. She is very clever; but it so happened that I saw little or nothing of her after you were gone.”

To this Griselda made no answer, but drew herself up, and looked as cold as Diana when she froze Orion in the cave. Nor could she be got to give more than monosyllabic answers to the three or four succeeding attempts at conversation which Lord Lufton made. And then they danced again, but Griselda’s steps were by no means so lively as before.

What took place between them on that occasion was very little more than what has been here related. There may have been an ice or a glass of lemonade into the bargain, and perhaps the faintest possible attempt at hand-pressing. But if so, it was all on one side. To such overtures as that Griselda Grantly was as cold as any Diana.

But little as all this was, it was sufficient to fill Lady Lufton’s mind and heart. No mother with six daughters was ever more anxious to get them off her hands, than Lady Lufton was to see her son married⁠—married, that is, to some girl of the right sort. And now it really did seem as though he were actually going to comply with her wishes. She had watched him during the whole evening, painfully endeavouring not to be observed in doing so. She had seen Lord Dumbello’s failure and wrath, and she had seen her son’s victory and pride. Could it be the case that he had already said something, which was still allowed to be indecisive only through Griselda’s coldness? Might it not be the case, that by some judicious aid on her part, that indecision might be turned into certainty, and that coldness into warmth? But then any such interference requires so delicate a touch⁠—as Lady Lufton was well aware.

“Have you had a pleasant evening?” Lady Lufton said, when she and Griselda were seated together with their feet on the fender of her ladyship’s dressing-room. Lady Lufton had especially invited her guest into this, her most private sanctum, to which as a rule none had admittance but her daughter, and sometimes Fanny Robarts. But to what sanctum might not such a daughter-in-law as Griselda have admittance?

“Oh, yes⁠—very,” said Griselda.

“It seemed to me that you bestowed most of your smiles upon Ludovic.” And Lady Lufton put on a look of good pleasure that such should have been the case.

“Oh! I don’t know,” said Griselda: “I did dance with him two or three times.”

“Not once too often to please me, my dear. I like to see Ludovic dancing with my friends.”

“I am sure I am very much obliged to you, Lady Lufton.”

“Not at all, my dear. I don’t know where he could get so nice a partner.” And then she paused a moment, not feeling how far she might go. In the meantime Griselda sat still, staring at the hot coals. “Indeed, I know that he admires you very much,” continued Lady Lufton.

“Oh! no, I am sure he doesn’t,” said Griselda; and then there was another pause.

“I can only say this,” said Lady Lufton, “that if he does do so⁠—and I believe he does⁠—it would give me very great pleasure. For you know, my dear, that I am very fond of you myself.”

“Oh! thank you,”