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

dispose of the pot of guava jelly and box of bonbons, which were still in her muff; or how distribute the packet of oranges with which the pony-carriage was laden? And there was jelly for the sick child, and chicken broth, which was, indeed, another jelly; and, to tell the truth openly, there was also a joint of fresh pork and a basket of eggs from the Framley Parsonage farmyard, which Mrs. Robarts was to introduce, should she find herself capable of doing so; but which would certainly be cast out with utter scorn by Mr. Crawley, if tendered in his immediate presence. There had also been a suggestion as to adding two or three bottles of port; but the courage of the ladies had failed them on that head, and the wine was not now added to their difficulties.

Lucy found it very difficult to keep up a conversation with Mr. Crawley⁠—the more so, as Mrs. Robarts and Mrs. Crawley presently withdrew into a bedroom, taking the two younger children with them. “How unlucky,” thought Lucy, “that she has not got my muff with her!” But the muff lay in her lap, ponderous with its rich enclosures.

“I suppose you will live in Barchester for a portion of the year now,” said Mr. Crawley.

“I really do not know as yet; Mark talks of taking lodgings for his first month’s residence.”

“But he will have the house, will he not?”

“Oh, yes; I suppose so.”

“I fear he will find it interfere with his own parish⁠—with his general utility there: the schools, for instance.”

“Mark thinks that, as he is so near, he need not be much absent from Framley, even during his residence. And then Lady Lufton is so good about the schools.”

“Ah! yes; but Lady Lufton is not a clergyman, Miss Robarts.”

It was on Lucy’s tongue to say that her ladyship was pretty nearly as bad, but she stopped herself.

At this moment Providence sent great relief to Miss Robarts in the shape of Mrs. Crawley’s red-armed maid-of-all-work, who, walking up to her master, whispered into his ear that he was wanted. It was the time of day at which his attendance was always required in his parish school; and that attendance being so punctually given, those who wanted him looked for him there at this hour, and if he were absent, did not scruple to send for him.

“Miss Robarts, I am afraid you must excuse me,” said he, getting up and taking his hat and stick. Lucy begged that she might not be at all in the way, and already began to speculate how she might best unload her treasures. “Will you make my compliments to Mrs. Robarts, and say that I am sorry to miss the pleasure of wishing her goodbye? But I shall probably see her as she passes the schoolhouse.” And then, stick in hand, he walked forth, and Lucy fancied that Bobby’s eyes immediately rested on the bag of gingerbread-nuts.

“Bob,” said she, almost in a whisper, “do you like sugarplums?”

“Very much indeed,” said Bob, with exceeding gravity, and with his eye upon the window to see whether his father had passed.

“Then come here,” said Lucy. But as she spoke the door again opened, and Mr. Crawley reappeared. “I have left a book behind me,” he said; and, coming back through the room, he took up the well-worn prayerbook which accompanied him in all his wanderings through the parish. Bobby, when he saw his father, had retreated a few steps back, as also did Grace, who, to confess the truth, had been attracted by the sound of sugarplums, in spite of the irregular verbs. And Lucy withdrew her hand from her muff, and looked guilty. Was she not deceiving the good man⁠—nay, teaching his own children to deceive him? But there are men made of such stuff that an angel could hardly live with them without some deceit.

“Papa’s gone now,” whispered Bobby; “I saw him turn round the corner.” He, at any rate, had learned his lesson⁠—as it was natural that he should do.

Someone else, also, had learned that papa was gone; for while Bob and Grace were still counting the big lumps of sugar-candy, each employed the while for inward solace with an inch of barley-sugar, the front-door opened, and a big basket, and a bundle done up in a kitchen-cloth, made surreptitious entrance into the house, and were quickly unpacked by Mrs. Robarts herself on the table in Mrs. Crawley’s bedroom.

“I did venture to bring them,” said Fanny, with a look of shame, “for I know how a sick child occupies the whole house.”

“Ah! my friend,” said Mrs. Crawley, taking hold of Mrs. Robarts’ arm and looking into her face, “that sort of shame is over with me. God has tried us with want, and for my children’s sake I am glad of such relief.”

“But will he be angry?”

“I will manage it. Dear Mrs. Robarts, you must not be surprised at him. His lot is sometimes very hard to bear: such things are so much worse for a man than for a woman.”

Fanny was not quite prepared to admit this in her own heart, but she made no reply on that head. “I am sure I hope we may be able to be of use to you,” she said, “if you will only look upon me as an old friend, and write to me if you want me. I hesitate to come frequently for fear that I should offend him.”

And then, by degrees, there was confidence between them, and the poverty-stricken helpmate of the perpetual curate was able to speak of the weight of her burden to the well-to-do young wife of the Barchester prebendary. “It was hard,” the former said, “to feel herself so different from the wives of other clergymen around her⁠—to know that they lived softly, while she, with all the work of her hands, and unceasing struggle of her energies, could hardly manage to place wholesome food before her husband and children. It was a terrible thing⁠—a grievous thing to think of, that all the work of her mind