“I wonder whether he will come up here,” Mrs. Robarts had said.
“Probably not,” said the vicar. “He said he was going home early.”
“I hope he will not come—for Grace’s sake,” said Mrs. Robarts. She hesitated whether she should tell her husband. She always did tell him everything. But on this occasion she thought she had no right to do so, and she kept the secret. “Don’t do anything to bring him up, dear.”
“You needn’t be afraid. He won’t come,” said the vicar. On the following morning, as soon as Mr. Oriel was gone, Mr. Robarts went out—about his parish he would probably have called it; but in half an hour he might have been seen strolling about the Court stable-yard with Lord Lufton. “Where is Grantly?” asked the vicar. “I don’t know where he is,” said his lordship. “He has sloped off somewhere.” The major had sloped off to the parsonage, well knowing in what nest his dove was lying hid; and he and the vicar had passed each other. The major had gone out at the front gate, and the vicar had gone in at the stable entrance.
The two clergymen had hardly taken their departure when Major Grantly knocked at the parsonage door. He had come so early that Mrs. Robarts had taken no precautions—even had there been any precautions which she would have thought it right to take. Grace was in the act of coming down the stairs, not having heard the knock at the door, and thus she found her lover in the hall. He had asked, of course, for Mrs. Robarts, and thus they two entered the drawing-room together. They had not had time to speak when the servant opened the drawing-room door to announce the visitor. There had been no word spoken between Mrs. Robarts and Grace about Major Grantly, but the mother had told the daughter of what she had said to Mrs. Robarts.
“Grace,” said the major, “I am so glad to find you!” Then he turned to Mrs. Robarts with his open hand. “You won’t take it uncivil of me if I say that my visit is not entirely to yourself? I think I may take upon myself to say that I and Miss Crawley are old friends. May I not?”
Grace could not answer a word. “Mrs. Crawley told me that you had known her at Silverbridge,” said Mrs. Robarts, driven to say something, but feeling that she was blundering.
“I came over to Framley yesterday because I heard that she was here. Am I wrong to come up here to see her?”
“I think she must answer that for herself, Major Grantly.”
“Am I wrong, Grace?” Grace thought that he was the finest gentleman and the noblest lover that had ever shown his devotion to a woman, and was stirred by a mighty resolve that if it ever should be in her power to reward him after any fashion, she would pour out the reward with a very full hand indeed. But what was she to say on the present moment? “Am I wrong, Grace?” he said, repeating his question with so much emphasis, that she was positively driven to answer it.
“I do not think you are wrong at all. How can I say you are wrong when you are so good? If I could be your servant I would serve you. But I can be nothing to you, because of papa’s disgrace. Dear Mrs. Robarts, I cannot stay. You must answer him for me.” And having thus made her speech she escaped from the room.
It may suffice to say further now that the major did not see Grace again during that visit at Framley.
LVI
The Archdeacon Goes to Framley
By some of those unseen telegraphic wires which carry news about the country and make no charge for the conveyance, Archdeacon Grantly heard that his son the major was at Framley. Now in that itself there would have been nothing singular. There had been for years much intimacy between the Lufton family and the Grantly family—so much that an alliance between the two houses had once been planned, the elders having considered it expedient that the young lord should marry that Griselda who had since mounted higher in the world even than the elders had then projected for her. There had come no such alliance; but the intimacy had not ceased, and there was nothing in itself surprising in the fact that Major Grantly should be staying at Framley Court. But the archdeacon, when he heard the news, bethought him at once of Grace Crawley. Could it be possible that his old friend Lady Lufton—Lady Lufton whom he had known and trusted all his life, whom he had ever regarded as a pillar of the church in Barsetshire—should now be untrue to him in a matter so closely affecting his interests? Men when they are worried by fears and teased by adverse circumstances become suspicious of those on whom suspicion should never rest. It was hardly possible, the archdeacon thought, that Lady Lufton should treat him so unworthily—but the circumstances were strong against his friend. Lady Lufton had induced Miss Crawley to go to Framley, much against his advice, at a time when such a visit seemed to him to be very improper; and it now appeared that his son was to be there at the same time—a fact of which Lady Lufton had made no mention to him whatever. Why had not Lady Lufton told him that Henry Grantly was coming to Framley Court? The reader, whose interest in the matter will be less keen than was the archdeacon’s, will know very well why Lady Lufton had said nothing about the major’s visit. The reader will remember that Lady Lufton, when she saw the archdeacon, was as ignorant as to the intended visit as was the archdeacon himself. But the archdeacon was
