Framley Parsonage (68 page)

But then there arose the subject of clothes
– of the wedding
trousseau!
Sarcastic people are wont to say that the tailor makes the man. Were I such a one, I might certainly assert that the milliner makes the bride. As regarding her bridehood, in distinction either to her girlhood or her wifehood – as being a line of plain demarcation between those two periods of a woman’s life – the milliner does do much to make her. She would be hardly
a bride if the
trousseau
were not there. A girl married without some such appendage would seem to pass into the condition of a wife without any such line of demarcation. In that moment in which she finds herself in the first fruition of her marriage finery she becomes a bride; and in that other moment, when she begins to act upon the finest of these things as clothes to be packed up, she becomes
a wife.

When this subject was discussed Griselda displayed no lack of a becoming interest. She went to work steadily, slowly, and almost with solemnity, as though the business in hand were one which it would be wicked to treat with impatience. She even struck her mother with awe by the grandeur of her ideas and the depth of her theories. Nor let it be supposed that she rushed away at once to
the consideration of the great fabric which was to be the ultimate sign and mark of her status, the quintessence of her briding, the outer veil, as it were, of the tabernacle – namely, her wedding-dress. As a great poet works himself up by degrees to that inspiration which is necessary for the grand turning point of his epic, so did she slowly approach the hallowed ground on which she would sit, with
her ministers around her, when about to discuss the nature, the extent, the design, the colouring, the structure, and the ornamentation of that momentous piece of
apparel. No; there was much indeed to be done before she came to this; and as the poet, to whom I have already alluded, first invokes his muse, and then brings his smaller events gradually out upon his stage, so did Miss Grantly with
sacred fervour ask her mother’s aid, and then prepare her list of all those articles of underclothing which must be the substratum for the visible magnificence of her
trousseau
.

Money was no object. We all know what that means; and frequently understand, when the words are used, that a blaze of splendour is to be attained at the cheapest possible price. But, in this instance, money was no object;
– such an amount of money, at least, as could by any possibility be spent on a lady’s clothes, independently of her jewels. With reference to diamonds and such like, the archdeacon at once declared his intention of taking the matter into his own hands – except in so far as Lord Dumbello, or the Hartletop interest, might be pleased to participate in the selection. Nor was Mrs Grantly sorry for
such a decision. She was not an imprudent woman, and would have dreaded the responsibility of trusting herself on such an occasion among the dangerous temptations of a jeweller’s shop. But as far as silks and satins went – in the matter of French bonnets, muslins, velvets, hats, riding-habits, artificial flowers, head-gilding, curious nettings, enamelled buckles, golden tagged bobbins, and mechanical
petticoats – as regarded shoes, and gloves, and corsets, and stockings, and linen, and flannel, and calico – money, I may conscientiously assert, was no object. And, under these circumstances, Griselda Grantly went to work with a solemn industry and a steady perseverance that was beyond all praise.

‘I hope she will be happy,’ Mrs Arabin said to her sister, as the two were sitting together in
the dean’s drawing-room.

‘Oh, yes; I think she will. Why should she not?’ said the mother.

‘Oh, no; I know of no reason. But she is going up into a station so much above her own in the eyes of the world that one cannot but feel anxious for her.’

‘I should feel much more anxious if she were going to marry a poor man,’ said Mrs Grantly. ‘It has always seemed to me that Griselda was fitted for
a high position; that nature intended her for rank and state. You see that she is not a bit elated. She takes
it all as if it were her own by right. I do not think that there is any danger that her head will be turned, if you mean that.’

‘I was thinking rather of her heart,’ said Mrs Arabin.

‘She never would have taken Lord Dumbello without loving him,’ said Mrs Grantly, speaking rather quickly.

‘That is not quite what I mean either, Susan. I am sure she would not have accepted him had she not loved him. But it is so hard to keep the heart fresh among all the grandeurs of high rank; and it is harder for a girl to do so who has not been born to it, than for one who has enjoyed it as her birthright.’

‘I don’t quite understand about fresh hearts,’ said Mrs Grantly, pettishly. ‘If she does
her duty, and loves her husband, and fills the position in which God has placed her with propriety, I don’t know that we need look for anything more. I don’t at all approve of the plan of frightening a young girl when she is making her first outset into the world.’

‘No; I would not frighten her. I think it would be almost difficult to frighten Griselda.’

‘I hope it would. The great matter with
a girl is whether she has been brought up with proper notions as to a woman’s duty. Of course it is not for me to boast on this subject. Such as she is, I, of course, am responsible. But I must own that I do not see occasion to wish for any change.’ And then the subject was allowed to drop.

Among those of her relations who wondered much at the girl’s fortune, but allowed themselves to say but
little, was her grandfather, Mr Harding. He was an old clergyman, plain and simple in his manners, and not occupying a very prominent position, seeing that he was only precentor to the chapter.
¹
He was loved by his daughter, Mrs Grantly, and was treated by the archdeacon, if not invariably with the highest respect, at least always with consideration and regard. But, old and plain as he was, the
young people at Plumstead did not hold him in any great reverence. He was poorer than their other relatives, and made no attempt to hold his head high in Barsetshire circles. Moreover, in these latter days, the home of his heart had been at the deanery. He had, indeed, a lodging of his own in the city, but was gradually allowing himself to be weaned away from it. He had his own
bedroom in the
dean’s house, his own arm-chair in the dean’s library, and his own corner on a sofa in Mrs Dean’s drawing-room. It was not, therefore, necessary that he should interfere greatly in this coming marriage; but still it became his duty to say a word of congratulation to his grand-daughter, – and perhaps to say a word of advice.

‘Grizzy, my dear,’ he said to her – he always called her Grizzy, but
the endearment of the appellation had never been appreciated by the young lady – ‘come and kiss me, and let me congratulate you on your great promotion. I do so very heartily.’

‘Thank you, grandpapa,’ she said, touching his forehead with her lips, thus being, as it were, very sparing with her kiss. But those lips now were august and reserved for nobler foreheads than that of an old cathedral
hack. For Mr Harding still chanted the Litany from Sunday to Sunday, unceasingly, standing at that well known desk in the cathedral choir; and Griselda had a thought in her mind that when the Hartletop people should hear of the practice they would not be delighted. Dean and archdeacon might be very well, and if her grandfather had even been a prebendary, she might have put up with him; but he had,
she thought, almost disgraced his family in being, at his age, one of the working menial clergy of the cathedral. She kissed him, therefore, sparingly, and resolved that her words with him should be few.

‘You are going to be a great lady, Grizzy,’ said he.

‘Umph!’ said she.

What was she to say when so addressed?

‘And I hope you will be happy, – and make others happy.’

‘I hope I shall,’ said
she.

‘But always think most about the latter, my dear. Think about the happiness of those around you, and your own will come without thinking. You understand that; do you not?’

‘Oh, yes, I understand,’ she said.

As they were speaking Mr Harding still held her hand, but Griselda left it with him unwillingly, and therefore ungraciously, looking as though she were dragging it from him.

‘And Grizzy
– I believe it is quite as easy for a rich countess to be happy, as for a dairymaid –’

Griselda 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 grand-daughter’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 heart-broken, 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 semi-tone 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,
²
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 a speech as this. Any allusion to Mr Slope acted on Mrs Proudie as a red cloth is supposed to act on a bull; but when that allusion connected the name of Mr Slope in a friendly bracket with that of Mrs Proudie’s future son-in-law it might be certain that the effect would be terrific. And there was more than this: for that very Mr Slope had once entertained audacious
hopes – hopes not thought to be audacious by the young lady herself- with reference to Miss Olivia Proudie. All this Mrs Grantly knew, and, knowing it, still dared to mention his name.