<h3>CHAPTER XLIV.</h3>
<h4>THE PHILISTINES AT THE PARSONAGE.<br/> </h4>
<p>It has been already told how things went on between the Tozers, Mr.
Curling, and Mark Robarts during that month. Mr. Forrest had drifted
out of the business altogether, as also had Mr. Sowerby, as far as
any active participation in it went. Letters came frequently from Mr.
Curling to the parsonage, and at last came a message by special
mission to say that the evil day was at hand. As far as Mr. Curling's
professional experience would enable him to anticipate or foretell
the proceedings of such a man as Tom Tozer, he thought that the
sheriff's officers would be at Framley Parsonage on the following
morning. Mr. Curling's experience did not mislead him in this
respect.</p>
<p>"And what will you do, Mark?" said Fanny, speaking through her tears,
after she had read the letter which her husband handed to her.</p>
<p>"Nothing. What can I do? They must come."</p>
<p>"Lord Lufton came to-day. Will you not go to him?"</p>
<p>"No. If I were to do so it would be the same as asking him for the
money."</p>
<p>"Why not borrow it of him, dearest? Surely it would not be so much
for him to lend."</p>
<p>"I could not do it. Think of Lucy, and how she stands with him.
Besides I have already had words with Lufton about Sowerby and his
money matters. He thinks that I am to blame, and he would tell me so;
and then there would be sharp things said between us. He would
advance me the money if I pressed for it, but he would do so in a way
that would make it impossible that I should take it."</p>
<p>There was nothing more then to be said. If she had had her own way
Mrs. Robarts would have gone at once to Lady Lufton, but she could
not induce her husband to sanction such a proceeding. The objection
to seeking assistance from her ladyship was as strong as that which
prevailed as to her son. There had already been some little beginning
of ill-feeling, and under such circumstances it was impossible to ask
for pecuniary assistance. Fanny, however, had a prophetic assurance
that assistance out of these difficulties must in the end come to
them from that quarter, or not come at all; and she would fain, had
she been allowed, make everything known at the big house.</p>
<p>On the following morning they breakfasted at the usual hour, but in
great sadness. A maid-servant, whom Mrs. Robarts had brought with her
when she married, told her that a rumour of what was to happen had
reached the kitchen. Stubbs, the groom, had been in Barchester on the
preceding day, and, according to his account—so said Mary—everybody
in the city was talking about it. "Never mind, Mary," said Mrs.
Robarts, and Mary replied, "Oh, no, of course not, ma'am."</p>
<p>In these days Mrs. Robarts was ordinarily very busy, seeing that
there were six children in the house, four of whom had come to her
but ill supplied with infantine belongings; and now, as usual, she
went about her work immediately after breakfast. But she moved about
the house very slowly, and was almost unable to give her orders to
the servants, and spoke sadly to the children who hung about her
wondering what was the matter. Her husband at the same time took
himself to his book-room, but when there did not attempt any
employment. He thrust his hands into his pockets, and, leaning
against the fire-place, fixed his eyes upon the table before him
without looking at anything that was on it; it was impossible for him
to betake himself to his work. Remember what is the ordinary labour
of a clergyman in his study, and think how fit he must have been for
such employment! What would have been the nature of a sermon composed
at such a moment, and with what satisfaction could he have used the
sacred volume in referring to it for his arguments? He, in this
respect, was worse off than his wife; she did employ herself, but he
stood there without moving, doing nothing, with fixed eyes, thinking
what men would say of him.</p>
<p>Luckily for him this state of suspense was not long, for within half
an hour of his leaving the breakfast-table the footman knocked at his
door—that footman with whom at the beginning of his difficulties he
had made up his mind to dispense, but who had been kept on because of
the Barchester prebend.</p>
<p>"If you please, your reverence, there are two men outside," said the
footman.</p>
<p>Two men! Mark knew well enough what men they were, but he could
hardly take the coming of two such men to his quiet country parsonage
quite as a matter of course.</p>
<p>"Who are they, John?" said he, not wishing any answer, but because
the question was forced upon him.</p>
<p>"I'm afeard they're—bailiffs, sir."</p>
<p>"Very well, John; that will do; of course they must do what they
please about the place."</p>
<p>And then, when the servant left him, he still stood without moving,
exactly as he had stood before. There he remained for ten minutes,
but the time went by very slowly. When about noon some circumstance
told him what was the hour, he was astonished to find that the day
had not nearly passed away.</p>
<p>And then another tap was struck on the door,—a sound which he well
recognized,—and his wife crept silently into the room. She came
close up to him before she spoke, and put her arm within his:</p>
<p>"Mark," she said, "the men are here; they are in the yard."</p>
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<p>"I know it," he answered gruffly.</p>
<p>"Will it be better that you should see them, dearest?"</p>
<p>"See them; no; what good can I do by seeing them? But I shall see
them soon enough; they will be here, I suppose, in a few minutes."</p>
<p>"They are taking an inventory, cook says; they are in the stable
now."</p>
<p>"Very well; they must do as they please; I cannot help them."</p>
<p>"Cook says that if they are allowed their meals and some beer, and if
nobody takes anything away, they will be quite civil."</p>
<p>"Civil! But what does it matter? Let them eat and drink what they
please, as long as the food lasts. I don't suppose the butcher will
send you more."</p>
<p>"But, Mark, there's nothing due to the butcher,—only the regular
monthly bill."</p>
<p>"Very well; you'll see."</p>
<p>"Oh, Mark, don't look at me in that way. Do not turn away from me.
What is to comfort us if we do not cling to each other now?"</p>
<p>"Comfort us! God help you! I wonder, Fanny, that you can bear to stay
in the room with me."</p>
<p>"Mark, dearest Mark, my own dear, dearest husband! who is to be true
to you, if I am not? You shall not turn from me. How can anything
like this make a difference between you and me?" And then she threw
her arms round his neck and embraced him.</p>
<p>It was a terrible morning to him, and one of which every incident
will dwell on his memory to the last day of his life. He had been so
proud in his position—had assumed to himself so prominent a
standing—had contrived, by some trick which he had acquired, to
carry his head so high above the heads of neighbouring parsons. It
was this that had taken him among great people, had introduced him to
the Duke of Omnium, had procured for him the stall at Barchester. But
how was he to carry his head now? What would the Arabins and Grantlys
say? How would the bishop sneer at him, and Mrs. Proudie and her
daughters tell of him in all their quarters? How would Crawley look
at him—Crawley, who had already once had him on the hip? The stern
severity of Crawley's face loomed upon him now. Crawley, with his
children half naked, and his wife a drudge, and himself half starved,
had never had a bailiff in his house at Hogglestock! And then his own
curate, Evans, whom he had patronized, and treated almost as a
dependant—how was he to look his curate in the face and arrange with
him for the sacred duties of the next Sunday?</p>
<p>His wife still stood by him, gazing into his face; and as he looked
at her and thought of her misery, he could not control his heart with
reference to the wrongs which Sowerby had heaped on him. It was
Sowerby's falsehood and Sowerby's fraud which had brought upon him
and his wife this terrible anguish. "If there be justice on earth he
will suffer for it yet," he said at last, not speaking intentionally
to his wife, but unable to repress his feelings.</p>
<p>"Do not wish him evil, Mark; you may be sure he has his own sorrows."</p>
<p>"His own sorrows! No; he is callous to such misery as this. He has
become so hardened in dishonesty that all this is mirth to him. If
there be punishment in heaven for
<span class="nowrap">falsehood—"</span></p>
<p>"Oh, Mark, do not curse him!"</p>
<p>"How am I to keep myself from cursing when I see what he has brought
upon you?"</p>
<p>"'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,'" answered the young wife, not
with solemn, preaching accent, as though bent on reproof, but with
the softest whisper into his ear. "Leave that to Him, Mark; and for
us, let us pray that He may soften the hearts of us all;—of him who
has caused us to suffer, and of our own."</p>
<p>Mark was not called upon to reply to this, for he was again disturbed
by a servant at the door. It was the cook this time herself, who had
come with a message from the men of the law. And she had come, be it
remembered, not from any necessity that she as cook should do this
line of work; for the footman, or Mrs. Robarts' maid, might have come
as well as she. But when things are out of course servants are always
out of course also. As a rule, nothing will induce a butler to go
into a stable, or persuade a housemaid to put her hand to a
frying-pan. But now that this new excitement had come upon the
household—seeing that the bailiffs were in possession, and that the
chattels were being entered in a catalogue, everybody was willing to
do everything—everything but his or her own work. The gardener was
looking after the dear children; the nurse was doing the rooms before
the bailiffs should reach them; the groom had gone into the kitchen
to get their lunch ready for them; and the cook was walking about
with an inkstand, obeying all the orders of these great potentates.
As far as the servants were concerned, it may be a question whether
the coming of the bailiffs had not hitherto been regarded as a treat.</p>
<p>"If you please, ma'am," said Jemima cook, "they wishes to know in
which room you'd be pleased to have the inmin-tory took fust. 'Cause,
ma'am, they wouldn't disturb you nor master more than can be avoided.
For their line of life, ma'am, they is very civil—very civil
indeed."</p>
<p>"I suppose they may go into the drawing-room," said Mrs. Robarts, in
a sad low voice. All nice women are proud of their drawing-rooms, and
she was very proud of hers. It had been furnished when money was
plenty with them, immediately after their marriage, and everything in
it was pretty, good, and dear to her. O ladies, who have
drawing-rooms in which the things are pretty, good, and dear to you,
think of what it would be to have two bailiffs rummaging among them
with pen and inkhorn, making a catalogue preparatory to a sheriff's
auction; and all without fault or extravagance of your own! There
were things there that had been given to her by Lady Lufton, by Lady
Meredith, and other friends, and the idea did occur to her that it
might be possible to save them from contamination; but she would not
say a word, lest by so saying she might add to Mark's misery.</p>
<p>"And then the dining-room," said Jemima cook, in a tone almost of
elation.</p>
<p>"Yes; if they please."</p>
<p>"And then master's book-room here; or perhaps the bedrooms, if you
and master be still here."</p>
<p>"Any way they please, cook; it does not much signify," said Mrs.
Robarts. But for some days after that Jemima was by no means a
favourite with her.</p>
<p>The cook was hardly out of the room before a quick footstep was heard
on the gravel before the window, and the hall door was immediately
opened.</p>
<p>"Where is your master?" said the well-known voice of Lord Lufton; and
then in half a minute he also was in the book-room.</p>
<p>"Mark, my dear fellow, what's all this?" said he, in a cheery tone
and with a pleasant face. "Did not you know that I was here? I came
down yesterday; landed from Hamburg only yesterday morning. How do
you do, Mrs. Robarts? This is a terrible bore, isn't it?"</p>
<p>Robarts, at the first moment, hardly knew how to speak to his old
friend. He was struck dumb by the disgrace of his position; the more
so as his misfortune was one which it was partly in the power of Lord
Lufton to remedy. He had never yet borrowed money since he had filled
a man's position, but he had had words about money with the young
peer, in which he knew that his friend had wronged him; and for this
double reason he was now speechless.</p>
<p>"Mr. Sowerby has betrayed him," said Mrs. Robarts, wiping the tears
from her eyes. Hitherto she had said no word against Sowerby, but now
it was necessary to defend her husband.</p>
<p>"No doubt about it. I believe he has always betrayed every one who
has ever trusted him. I told you what he was, some time since; did I
not? But, Mark, why on earth have you let it go so far as this? Would
not Forrest help you?"</p>
<p>"Mr. Forrest wanted him to sign more bills, and he would not do
that," said Mrs. Robarts, sobbing.</p>
<p>"Bills are like dram-drinking," said the discreet young lord: "when
one once begins, it is very hard to leave off. Is it true that the
men are here now, Mark?"</p>
<p>"Yes, they are in the next room."</p>
<p>"What, in the drawing-room?"</p>
<p>"They are making out a list of the things," said Mrs. Robarts.</p>
<p>"We must stop that at any rate," said his lordship, walking off
towards the scene of the operations; and as he left the room Mrs.
Robarts followed him, leaving her husband by himself.</p>
<p>"Why did you not send down to my mother?" said he, speaking hardly
above a whisper, as they stood together in the hall.</p>
<p>"He would not let me."</p>
<p>"But why not go yourself? or why not have written to me,—considering
how intimate we are?"</p>
<p>Mrs. Robarts could not explain to him that the peculiar intimacy
between him and Lucy must have hindered her from doing so, even if
otherwise it might have been possible; but she felt such was the
case.</p>
<p>"Well, my men, this is bad work you're doing here," said he, walking
into the drawing-room. Whereupon the cook curtseyed low, and the
bailiffs, knowing his lordship, stopped from their business and put
their hands to their foreheads. "You must stop this, if you
please,—at once. Come, let's go out into the kitchen, or some place
outside. I don't like to see you here with your big boots and the pen
and ink among the furniture."</p>
<p>"We ain't a-done no harm, my lord, so please your lordship," said
Jemima cook.</p>
<p>"And we is only a-doing our bounden dooties," said one of the
bailiffs.</p>
<p>"As we is sworn to do, so please your lordship," said the other.</p>
<p>"And is wery sorry to be unconwenient, my lord, to any gen'leman or
lady as is a gen'leman or lady. But accidents will happen, and then
what can the likes of us do?" said the first.</p>
<p>"Because we is sworn, my lord," said the second. But, nevertheless,
in spite of their oaths, and in spite also of the stern necessity
which they pleaded, they ceased their operations at the instance of
the peer. For the name of a lord is still great in England.</p>
<p>"And now leave this, and let Mrs. Robarts go into her drawing-room."</p>
<p>"And, please your lordship, what is we to do? Who is we to look to?"</p>
<p>In satisfying them absolutely on this point Lord Lufton had to use
more than his influence as a peer. It was necessary that he should
have pen and paper. But with pen and paper he did satisfy
them;—satisfy them so far that they agreed to return to Stubbs'
room, the former hospital, due stipulation having been made for the
meals and beer, and there await the order to evacuate the premises
which would no doubt, under his lordship's influence, reach them on
the following day. The meaning of all which was that Lord Lufton had
undertaken to bear upon his own shoulder the whole debt due by Mr.
Robarts.</p>
<p>And then he returned to the book-room where Mark was still standing
almost on the spot in which he had placed himself immediately after
breakfast. Mrs. Robarts did not return, but went up among the
children to counter-order such directions as she had given for the
preparation of the nursery for the Philistines. "Mark," he said, "do
not trouble yourself about this more than you can help. The men have
ceased doing anything, and they shall leave the place to-morrow
morning."</p>
<p>"And how will the money—be paid?" said the poor clergyman.</p>
<p>"Do not bother yourself about that at present. It shall so be managed
that the burden shall fall ultimately on yourself—not on any one
else. But I am sure it must be a comfort to you to know that your
wife need not be driven out of her drawing-room."</p>
<p>"But, Lufton, I cannot allow you—after what has passed—and at the
present <span class="nowrap">moment—"</span></p>
<p>"My dear fellow, I know all about it, and I am coming to that just
now. You have employed Curling, and he shall settle it; and upon my
word, Mark, you shall pay the bill. But, for the present emergency,
the money is at my banker's."</p>
<p>"But, Lufton—"</p>
<p>"And to deal honestly, about Curling's bill I mean, it ought to be as
much my affair as your own. It was I that brought you into this mess
with Sowerby, and I know now how unjust about it I was to you up in
London. But the truth is that Sowerby's treachery had nearly driven
me wild. It has done the same to you since, I have no doubt."</p>
<p>"He has ruined me," said Robarts.</p>
<p>"No, he has not done that. No thanks to him though; he would not have
scrupled to do it had it come in his way. The fact is, Mark, that you
and I cannot conceive the depth of fraud in such a man as that. He is
always looking for money; I believe that in all his hours of most
friendly intercourse,—when he is sitting with you over your wine,
and riding beside you in the field,—he is still thinking how he can
make use of you to tide him over some difficulty. He has lived in
that way till he has a pleasure in cheating, and has become so clever
in his line of life that if you or I were with him again to-morrow he
would again get the better of us. He is a man that must be absolutely
avoided; I, at any rate, have learned to know so much."</p>
<p>In the expression of which opinion Lord Lufton was too hard upon poor
Sowerby; as indeed we are all apt to be too hard in forming an
opinion upon the rogues of the world. That Mr. Sowerby had been a
rogue, I cannot deny. It is roguish to lie, and he had been a great
liar. It is roguish to make promises which the promiser knows he
cannot perform, and such had been Mr. Sowerby's daily practice. It is
roguish to live on other men's money, and Mr. Sowerby had long been
doing so. It is roguish, at least so I would hold it, to deal
willingly with rogues; and Mr. Sowerby had been constant in such
dealings. I do not know whether he had not at times fallen even into
more palpable roguery than is proved by such practices as those
enumerated. Though I have for him some tender feeling, knowing that
there was still a touch of gentle bearing round his heart, an abiding
taste for better things within him, I cannot acquit him from the
great accusation. But, for all that, in spite of his acknowledged
roguery, Lord Lufton was too hard upon him in his judgment. There was
yet within him the means of repentance, could a <i>locus penitentiæ</i>
have been supplied to him. He grieved bitterly over his own ill
doings, and knew well what changes gentlehood would have demanded
from him. Whether or no he had gone too far for all changes—whether
the <i>locus penitentiæ</i> was for him still a possibility—that was
between him and a higher power.</p>
<p>"I have no one to blame but myself," said Mark, still speaking in the
same heart-broken tone and with his face averted from his friend.</p>
<p>The debt would now be paid, and the bailiffs would be expelled; but
that would not set him right before the world. It would be known to
all men—to all clergymen in the diocese—that the sheriff's officers
had been in charge of Framley Parsonage, and he could never again
hold up his head in the close of Barchester.</p>
<p>"My dear fellow, if we were all to make ourselves miserable for such
a trifle as <span class="nowrap">this—"</span> said
Lord Lufton, putting his arm affectionately
on his friend's shoulder.</p>
<p>"But we are not all clergymen," said Mark, and as he spoke he turned
away to the window and Lord Lufton knew that the tears were on his
cheek.</p>
<p>Nothing was then said between them for some moments, after which Lord
Lufton again <span class="nowrap">spoke,—</span></p>
<p>"Mark, my dear fellow!"</p>
<p>"Well," said Mark, with his face still turned towards the window.</p>
<p>"You must remember one thing; in helping you over this stile, which
will be really a matter of no inconvenience to me, I have a better
right than that even of an old friend; I look upon you now as my
brother-in-law."</p>
<p>Mark turned slowly round, plainly showing the tears upon his face.</p>
<p>"Do you mean," said he, "that anything more has taken place?"</p>
<p>"I mean to make your sister my wife; she sent me word by you to say
that she loved me, and I am not going to stand upon any nonsense
after that. If she and I are both willing no one alive has a right to
stand between us; and, by heavens, no one shall. I will do nothing
secretly, so I tell you that, exactly as I have told her ladyship."</p>
<p>"But what does she say?"</p>
<p>"She says nothing; but it cannot go on like that. My mother and I
cannot live here together if she opposes me in this way. I do not
want to frighten your sister by going over to her at Hogglestock, but
I expect you to tell her so much as I now tell you, as coming from
me; otherwise she will think that I have forgotten her."</p>
<p>"She will not think that."</p>
<p>"She need not; good-bye, old fellow. I'll make it all right between
you and her ladyship about this affair of Sowerby's."</p>
<p>And then he took his leave and walked off to settle about the payment
of the money.</p>
<p>"Mother," said he to Lady Lufton that evening, "you must not bring
this affair of the bailiffs up against Robarts. It has been more my
fault than his."</p>
<p>Hitherto not a word had been spoken between Lady Lufton and her son
on the subject. She had heard with terrible dismay of what had
happened, and had heard also that Lord Lufton had immediately gone to
the parsonage. It was impossible, therefore, that she should now
interfere. That the necessary money would be forthcoming she was
aware, but that would not wipe out the terrible disgrace attached to
an execution in a clergyman's house. And then, too, he was her
clergyman,—her own clergyman, selected, and appointed, and brought
to Framley by herself, endowed with a wife of her own choosing,
filled with good things by her own hand! It was a terrible
misadventure, and she began to repent that she had ever heard the
name of Robarts. She would not, however, have been slow to put forth
the hand to lessen the evil by giving her own money, had this been
either necessary or possible. But how could she interfere between
Robarts and her son, especially when she remembered the proposed
connection between Lucy and Lord Lufton?</p>
<p>"Your fault, Ludovic?"</p>
<p>"Yes, mother. It was I who introduced him to Mr. Sowerby; and, to
tell the truth, I do not think he would ever have been intimate with
Sowerby if I had not given him some sort of a commission with
reference to money matters then pending between Mr. Sowerby and me.
They are all over now,—thanks to you, indeed."</p>
<p>"Mr. Robarts' character as a clergyman should have kept him from such
troubles, if no other feeling did so."</p>
<p>"At any rate, mother, oblige me by letting it pass by."</p>
<p>"Oh, I shall say nothing to him."</p>
<p>"You had better say something to her, or otherwise it will be
strange; and even to him I would say a word or two,—a word in
kindness, as you so well know how. It will be easier to him in that
way, than if you were to be altogether silent."</p>
<p>No further conversation took place between them at the time, but
later in the evening she brushed her hand across her son's forehead,
sweeping the long silken hairs into their place, as she was wont to
do when moved by any special feeling of love. "Ludovic," she said,
"no one, I think, has so good a heart as you. I will do exactly as
you would have me about this affair of Mr. Robarts and the money."
And then there was nothing more said about it.</p>
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