Framley Parsonage by Anthony Trollope (good books to read for young adults TXT) 📕

may do; I must first see what steps others take.” And then he took his hat and went off; and mounting his horse in the yard of the Dragon of Wantly⁠—that horse which he had now so many reasons to dislike⁠—he slowly rode back home.

Many thoughts passed through his mind during that ride, but only one resolution obtained for itself a fixture there. He must now tell his wife everything. He would not be so cruel as to let it remain untold until a bailiff were at the door, ready to walk him off to the county gaol, or until the bed on which they slept was to be sold from under them. Yes, he would tell her everything⁠—immediately, before his resolution could again have faded away. He got off his horse in the yard, and seeing his wife’s maid at the kitchen door, desired her to beg her mistress to come to him in the book-room. He would not allow one half-hour to pass towards the waning of his purpose. If it be ordained that a man shall drown, had he not better drown and have done with it?

Mrs. Robarts came to him in his room, reaching him in time to touch his arm as he entered it.

“Mary says you want me. I have been gardening, and she caught me just as I came in.”

“Yes, Fanny, I do want you. Sit down for a moment.” And walking across the room, he placed his whip in its proper place.

“Oh, Mark, is there anything the matter?”

“Yes, dearest; yes. Sit down, Fanny; I can talk to you better if you will sit.”

But she, poor lady, did not wish to sit. He had hinted at some misfortune, and therefore she felt a longing to stand by him and cling to him.

“Well, there; I will if I must; but, Mark, do not frighten me. Why is your face so very wretched?”

“Fanny, I have done very wrong,” he said. “I have been very foolish. I fear that I have brought upon you great sorrow and trouble.” And then he leaned his head upon his hand and turned his face away from her.

“Oh, Mark, dearest Mark, my own Mark! what is it?” and then she was quickly up from her chair, and went down on her knees before him. “Do not turn from me. Tell me, Mark! tell me, that we may share it.”

“Yes, Fanny, I must tell you now; but I hardly know what you will think of me when you have heard it.”

“I will think that you are my own husband, Mark; I will think that⁠—that chiefly, whatever it may be.” And then she caressed his knees, and looked up in his face, and, getting hold of one of his hands, pressed it between her own. “Even if you have been foolish, who should forgive you if I cannot?”

And then he told it her all, beginning from that evening when Mr. Sowerby had got him into his bedroom, and going on gradually, now about the bills, and now about the horses, till his poor wife was utterly lost in the complexity of the accounts. She could by no means follow him in the details of his story; nor could she quite sympathize with him in his indignation against Mr. Sowerby, seeing that she did not comprehend at all the nature of the renewing of a bill. The only part to her of importance in the matter was the amount of money which her husband would be called upon to pay;⁠—that and her strong hope, which was already a conviction, that he would never again incur such debts.

“And how much is it, dearest, altogether?”

“These men claim nine hundred pounds of me.”

“Oh, dear! that is a terrible sum.”

“And then there is the hundred and fifty which I have borrowed from the bank⁠—the price of the horse, you know; and there are some other debts⁠—not a great deal, I think; but people will now look for every shilling that is due to them. If I have to pay it all, it will be twelve or thirteen hundred pounds.”

“That will be as much as a year’s income, Mark; even with the stall.”

That was the only word of reproach she said⁠—if that could be called a reproach.

“Yes,” he said; “and it is claimed by men who will have no pity in exacting it at any sacrifice, if they have the power. And to think that I should have incurred all this debt without having received anything for it. Oh, Fanny, what will you think of me!”

But she swore to him that she would think nothing of it;⁠—that she would never bear it in her mind against him⁠—that it could have no effect in lessening her trust in him. Was he not her husband? She was so glad she knew it, that she might comfort him. And she did comfort him, making the weight seem lighter and lighter on his shoulders as he talked of it. And such weights do thus become lighter. A burden that will crush a single pair of shoulders will, when equally divided⁠—when shared by two, each of whom is willing to take the heavier part⁠—become light as a feather. Is not that sharing of the mind’s burdens one of the chief purposes for which a man wants a wife? For there is no folly so great as keeping one’s sorrows hidden.

And this wife cheerfully, gladly, thankfully took her share. To endure with her lord all her lord’s troubles was easy to her; it was the work to which she had pledged herself. But to have thought that her lord had troubles not communicated to her⁠—that would have been to her the one thing not to be borne.

And then they discussed their plans;⁠—what mode of escape they might have out of this terrible money difficulty. Like a true woman, Mrs. Robarts proposed at once to abandon all superfluities. They would sell all their horses; they would not sell their cows, but would sell the butter that came from them; they