“Lady Lufton is very kind,” said Mrs. Crawley, “and so are you, Mrs. Robarts. I know how good you both are, and for how much it behoves me to be grateful.” These words were very cold, and the voice in which they were spoken was very cold. They made Lady Lufton feel that it was beyond her power to proceed with the work of her mission in its intended spirit. It is ever so much easier to proffer kindness graciously than to receive it with grace. Lady Lufton had intended to say, “Let us be women together;—women bound by humanity, and not separated by rank, and let us open our hearts freely. Let us see how we may be of comfort to each other.” And could she have succeeded in this, she would have spread out her little plans of succour with so loving a hand that she would have conquered the woman before her. But the suffering spirit cannot descend from its dignity of reticence. It has a nobility of its own, made sacred by many tears, by the flowing of streams of blood from unseen wounds, which cannot descend from its dais to receive pity and kindness. A consciousness of undeserved woe produces a grandeur of its own, with which the high-souled sufferer will not easily part. Baskets full of eggs, pounds of eleemosynary butter, quarters of given pork, even secondhand clothing from the wardrobe of some richer sister—even money, unsophisticated money, she could accept. She had learned to know that it was a portion of her allotted misery to take such things—for the sake of her children and her husband—and to be thankful for them. She did take them, and was thankful; and in the taking she submitted herself to the rod of cruel circumstances; but she could not even yet bring herself to accept spoken pity from a stranger, and to kiss the speaker.
“Can we not do something to help you?” said Mrs. Robarts. She would not have spoken but that she perceived that Lady Lufton had completed her appeal, and that Mrs. Crawley did not seem prepared to answer it.
“You have done much to help us,” said Mrs. Crawley. “The things you have sent to us have been very serviceable.”
“But we mean something more than that,” said Lady Lufton.
“I do not know what there is more,” said Mrs. Crawley. “A bit to eat and something to wear;—that seems to be all that we have to care for now.”
“But we were afraid that this coming trial must cause you so much anxiety.”
“Of course it causes anxiety;—but what can we do? It must be so. It cannot be put off, or avoided. We have made up our minds to it now, and almost wish that it would come quicker. If it were once over I think that he would be better whatever the result might be.”
Then there was another lull in the conversation, and Lady Lufton began to be afraid that her visit would be a failure. She thought that perhaps she might get on better if Grace were not in the room, and she turned over in her mind various schemes for sending her away. And perhaps her task would be easier if Mrs. Robarts also could be banished for a time. “Fanny, my dear,” she said at last, boldly, “I know you have a little plan to arrange with Miss Crawley. Perhaps you will be more likely to be successful if you can take a turn with her alone.” There was not much subtlety in her ladyship’s scheme; but it answered the proposed purpose, and the two elder ladies were soon left face to face, so that Lady Lufton had a fair pretext for making another attempt. “Dear Mrs. Crawley,” she said, “I do so long to say a word to you, but I fear that I may be thought to interfere.”
“Oh, no, Lady Lufton; I have no feeling of that kind.”
“I have asked your daughter and Mrs. Robarts to go out because I can speak more easily to you alone. I wish I could teach you to trust me.”
“I do trust you.”
“As a friend, I mean;—as a real friend. If it should be the case, Mrs. Crawley, that a jury should give a verdict against your husband—what will you do then? Perhaps I ought not to suppose that it is possible.”
“Of course we know that is possible,” said Mrs. Crawley. Her voice was stern, and there was in it a tone almost of offence. As she spoke she did not look at her visitor, but sat with her face averted and her arms akimbo on the table.
“Yes;—it is possible,” said Lady Lufton. “I suppose there is not one in the county who does not truly wish that it may not be so. But it is right to be prepared for all alternatives. In such case have you thought what you will do?”
“I do not know what they would do to him,” said she.
“I suppose that for some time he would be—”
“Put in prison,” said Mrs. Crawley, speaking very quickly, bringing out the words with a sharp eagerness that was quite unusual to her. “They will send him to gaol. Is it not so, Lady Lufton?”
“I suppose it would be so; not for long I should hope; but I presume that such would be the sentence for some short period.”
“And I might not go with him?”
“No; that would be impossible.”
“And the house, and the living; would they let him have them again when he came out?”
“Ah; that I cannot say. That will depend much, probably, on what these clergymen will report. I hope he will not put himself in opposition to them.”
“I do not know. I cannot say. It is probable that he may do so. It is not
