Solution Manual for Principles and Labs for Physical

Fitness 10th Edition Hoeger 1305251407 9781305251403

Full download link at:
Solution manual: https://testbankpack.com/p/solution-manual-for-principles-and-labs-for-physical-
fitness-10th-edition-hoeger-1305251407-9781305251403/
Test bank: https://testbankpack.com/p/test-bank-for-principles-and-labs-for-physical-fitness-10th-edition-
hoeger-1305251407-9781305251403/
Instructor's Manual1 for
Principles & Labs for Physical Fitness 10e
Chapter 5 – Weight Management
Objectives
5.1 Describe the health consequences of obesity.
5.2 Expose some popular fad diets and myths and fallacies regarding weight control.
5.3 Describe eating disorders and their associated medical problems and behavior patterns,
and outline the need for professional help in treating these conditions.
5.4 Explain the physiology of weight loss, including the setpoint theory and the effects of diet
on basal metabolic rate.
5.5 Explain the key role of a lifetime exercise program in a successful weight loss and weight
maintenance program.
5.6 Be able to implement a physiologically sound weight reduction and weight maintenance
program.
5.7 Describe behavior modification techniques that help support adherence to a lifetime weight
maintenance program.

CENGAGEbrain
Visit www.cengagebrain.com to access course materials and companion resources for this text,
including digital labs, quiz questions designed to check your understanding of the chapter
contents, and more! See the preface for more information.

Expanded Chapter Outline

I. INTRODUCTION
A. Obesity
1. Affects an estimated 35 percent of the adult population in industrialized nations.
2. Is a point at which excess fat can lead to serious health problems
3. Defined as a body mass index (BMI) of 30 or greater
4. Results from physical inactivity and poor dietary habits (Figure 5.2).
a. The average weight of American adults has increased by about 15 pounds in the
last 10 years.
b. By 2012, nine states and the District of Columbia had an obesity rate between
20–25 percent; nine states had an obesity rate above 30 percent, no state was
below 20 percent.
5. Affects 35 percent adults in the U.S. (Figure 5.1).
6. Has a higher prevalence in African Americans and Hispanic Americans
7. Costs $117 billion each year treating obesity-related disease.

1 By Paul A. Smith, McMurry University (Abilene, Texas).

5-1
 8. Is second leading cause of preventable death in the U.S.
9. Is more prevalent than smoking (19 percent), poverty (14 percent), and problem
drinking (6 percent).
10. Is associated with poor health status
a. Is a risk factor for cardiovascular disease, cancer, and many physical ailments
b. Causes psychological maladjustment
c. Leads to a higher accidental death rate
d. Leads to worse mental health-related quality of life

II. OVERWEIGHT VERSUS OBESITY

A. Overweight and obesity are not the same thing.
1. A few pounds of excess weight
a. May not be harmful to people who are healthy and physically active, exercise
regularly, and eat a healthy diet
b. Is harmful for those who have type 2 diabetes and other cardiovascular risk
factors
2. Obesity puts people at greater risk for early death
a. Being 30 or more pounds overweight during middle age (30 to 49 years of age)
causes loss of about 7 years of life
b. Severe obesity (BMI greater than 45) at a young age may cut up to 20 years off
one's life
3. Obesity decreases the quality of life and increases illness and disability throughout
the years
B. A primary objective to achieve overall physical fitness and enhanced quality of life is to
attain recommended body composition.
1. Permits the freedom for physical enjoyment of life by not being overweight
a. Recreational activities with efficiency
b. Sports participation
c. Independence in later stages of life
2. Combats social pressures to be underweight that can result in:
a. Eating disorders (bulimia and anorexia nervosa)
b. Heart damage
c. Gastrointestinal problems
d. Shrinkage of internal organs
e. Immune system abnormalities
f. Reproductive system dysfunction
g. Loss of muscle tissue
h. Nervous system damage
i. Death
3. Underweight affects about 14 percent of people in the United States.

III. TOLERABLE WEIGHT

A. Hereditary factors determine body shape and type.
1. Most people cannot attain the "perfect body."
2. Extreme discipline is required for the few who can.
B. Ask "Am I happy with my weight?"
1. Being happy with self is part of enjoying a higher quality of life.
2. If one is not happy with the current body weight, either
a. Do something about it, or
b. Learn to live with it
C. The moderate category in Table 4.10 indicates adequate body fatness according to
disease risk.

IV. THE WEIGHT LOSS DILEMMA

A. Yo-yo dieting carries as great a health risk as being overweight.

5-2
 1. Frequent fluctuations in weight (up or down) markedly increase the risk of dying of
cardiovascular disease.
2. Quick-fix diets should be replaced by a slow but permanent weight-loss program.
3. Traditional diets have failed because few incorporate permanent behavioral changes.
4. Failing to lose weight often is related to misreports of actual food intake and level of
physical activity.
B. Diet crazes
1. Many diets are very low in calories and deprive the body of certain nutrients,
generating a metabolic imbalance.
a. A lot of the weight lost is in the form of water and protein, not fat.
b. Most fad diets create a nutritional deficiency, which can be detrimental to
health.
c. When fasting or on a crash diet (defined as less than 800 calories per day), most
of the weight lost is in the form of water.
i. Glycogen storage can be completely depleted in just a few days; on average, a
150-pound person stores about 1.3 pounds of glycogen and about 3.4
pounds of water.
ii. Close to half the weight loss is in lean (protein) tissue; one-fifth of protein is
mixed with four-fifths water.
d. Long-term crash dieting increases the risk for heart attacks by reducing heart
tissue, cardiac arrhythmias by limiting nutrients, and hypotension when
limiting sodium.
e. It doesn't matter what diet plan you follow: if caloric intake is lower than your
caloric output, weight will come off.
2. Low-c diets
a. Low-carbohydrate/high-protein (LCHP) diet plans are the most popular diets on
the market today.
b. Limit the intake of carbohydrate-rich foods, but allow all the protein-rich foods.
c. During digestion, carbohydrates are converted into glucose, whose level in the
bloodstream is regulated by insulin.
i. Excess glucose is converted to and stored as body fat.
d. The glycemic index is used to classify carbohydrates according to their effect on
blood glucose (Table 5.1)
i. Foods with a high glycemic index cause a quick rise in blood glucose.
ii. Processed foods generally have a high glycemic index, whereas high-fiber
foods tend to have a lower index.
iii. Combining high- with low-glycemic index items or with some fat and protein
brings down the average index.
iv. Keeping blood sugar levels constant by including low-glycemic foods in the
diet helps stave off hunger, appetite, and overeating (Figure 5.5).
3. Low-carb diets are contrary to the nutrition advice of most national leading health
organizations.
a. Proponents of LCHP diets base their diets on the faulty premise that high insulin
leads to obesity.
b. Without fruits, vegetables, and whole grains, high-protein diets lack many
nutrients that protect against an array of ailments and diseases.
c. Long-term adherence to LCHP diets could increase the risk of
i. Heart disease because high-protein foods are also high in fat content.
ii. Cancer because phytochemicals found in fruits, vegetables, and whole grains
protect against certain types of cancer.
iii. Losing vitamin B, calcium, and potassium.
iv. Weakness, nausea, bad breath, constipation, irritability, lightheadedness,
and fatigue.
4. Many of these diets succeed because

5-3
a. A large number of foods are restricted on the diet; thus, people tend to eat less
food overall.
b. A few diets recommend exercise along with caloric restrictions; this is the best
method for weight reduction.

5-4
V. EATING DISORDERS
A. Eating disorders are medical illnesses.
1. Critical disturbances in eating behaviors
2. Stemming from some combination of environmental pressures
a. Most people who suffer from eating disorders are afflicted by significant family
and/or social problems.
b. Disordered eating becomes the coping mechanism.
3. Although frequently seen in young women, the disorder is most prevalent among
individuals between the ages of 25 and 50.
4. One in 10 cases is seen in men.
5. Genetics may play a role in the development of eating disorders, but most cases are
environmentally related.
a. Emotional issues or a stressful life event and the uncertainty about the ability to
cope efficiently may trigger the syndrome.
6. Eating disorders develop in stages.
a. The syndrome typically emerges following emotional issues or a stressful life
event and the uncertainty about one’s ability to cope efficiently.
B. Anorexia nervosa
1. Affects one percent of the U.S. population
2. Self-imposed starvation to lose and maintain very low body weight
3. Weight gain is feared more than death from starvation.
4. There is a distorted image of the body; it is viewed as being fat when it is actually
emaciated.
5. Anorexics are preoccupied with food, meal planning, and grocery shopping, and they
have unusual eating habits.
6. Undesirable side effects:
a. Malnutrition
b. Amenorrhea (stopping menstruation)
c. Digestive problems
d. Extreme sensitivity to cold due to low body temperature
e. Hair and skin problems (growth of fine body hair, dry skin)
f. Fluid and electrolyte abnormalities which may lead to an irregular heartbeat and
sudden stopping of the heart
g. Injuries to nerves and tendons
h. Immune function abnormalities
i. Anemia
j. Mental confusion
k. Inability to concentrate, lethargy and depression
l. Lower skin and body temperature
m. Osteoporosis
n. 20 percent of anorexics die as a result of their condition.
7. Diagnostic criteria of anorexia
a. Refusal to maintain body weight over a minimal normal weight
b. Intense fear of gaining weight or becoming fat, even though underweight
c. Disturbance in the perception of body weight, size or shape
d. Amenorrhea in postmenarcheal females
8. Treatment for anorexia nervosa
a. The disorder is 100 percent curable, but treatment almost always requires
professional help.
b. The sooner it is started, the better are the chances for reversibility and cure.
c. Treatment consists of a combination of medical and psychological techniques to
restore proper nutrition, prevent medical complications, and modify the
environment or events that triggered the syndrome.

5-5
Another document from Scribd.com that is
random and unrelated content:
asserted; and, in spite of five years of almost unvaried success in the
Peninsula, and of the crowning glory of Waterloo, a fantastically dressed,
luxurious, and unpopular body it became under the royal auspices. To the
present day, regimental officers, fond of their glass, bless his Majesty for
what is called “the Prince Regent’s allowance,” a boon which daily
ensures to them a cheap after-dinner bottle of wine, at a cost to their
more abstemious brother officers, and to taxpayers in general, of 27,000l.
a year.
Happily for the present generation, matters have changed since those
corrupt times, in many—many respects for the better. The British army is
no longer looked upon by the people as a costly and not very useful toy,
chiefly maintained for the diversion of royalty; we now recognize and
respect in it an important national engine, for the proper condition and
conduct of which—as for that of the navy—a Secretary of State is
directly responsible to Parliament. But a change of such magnitude has
not been carried out without much peevish remonstrance and factious
opposition on the part of the many whose patronage it has diminished,
and whose power it has curtailed; and there are still not a few who offer
what opposition they dare to its harmonious consummation.
It is to be feared that a slight leaven of the same spirit which, sixty
years ago, wasted the resources and paralyzed the energies of this
powerful nation, may, perchance, still linger around the precincts of
Whitehall and St. James’s,—and it is not impossible that when the S
E of the twentieth century present to the public their first
editions of the Panmure Papers and the Herbert Memoirs, facts, bearing
on the disasters of the Crimean war, and on the invasion panic of 1859–
60, may for the first time be made known—not entirely different from
those with which we have recently become acquainted through The
Cornwallis Correspondence.

FOOTNOTES:
5
“The duke has very unwisely taken over three or four boys
of the Guards as his aides-de-camp: which will be of great
disservice to him, and can be of no use to them.”—Lord
Cornwallis to Lt.-Col. Ross, 1784.
6
Three or four of the Prince of Wales’s letters are given at
length. They all prove “the first gentleman and scholar of
his day” to have been a very illiterate and unscrupulous
jobber. In one of them he proposed to the Governor-
General to displace “a black, named Alii Cann,” who was
chief criminal judge of Benares, in order that a youth,
named Pellegrine Treves, the son of a notorious London
money-lender, might be appointed to that office.
Lord Cornwallis replied, that Ali Ibrahim Khan, though
a native, was one of the most able and respected public
servants in India, and that it would be a most difficult and
unpopular step to remove him; and that even if his post
were vacant, the youth and inexperience of the money-
lender’s son rendered him utterly ineligible for such an
important trust. One of the causes of complaint which
H. R. H. urged against his royal parent was, that he, also,
was not intrusted with high military command.
7
The sufferings of the British soldiers in Holland, in 1794–
5, from the incompetence and negligence of their superior
officers, and the waste of public money from the same
causes, have scarcely been exceeded during the Crimean
war. In Lord Malmesbury’s Diary we find the following
entry on the 7th Dec. 1793: “Lord Herbert came to see me.
Complained much of the insubordination of the army; that
it was greater than could be believed, and that the Guards
were so beyond measure. Condemned the conduct of Gage,
who had resigned on being refused leave of absence.” On
the 16th of Feb. 1794, the Duke of Portland writes to Lord
Malmesbury: “The Duke of York will return to the army
the latter end of next week. But I cannot help saying that
unless the licentious, not to say mutinous, spirit which
prevails among our troops, and which originated in, I am
sorry to say, and is cultivated by the Guards, is not subdued
and extinguished, there is an end of the army.”
8
His lordship’s country seat.
9
The Duke.
10
The following letter, addressed by a subaltern to his
commanding officer, is given by the editor of the
Cornwallis Papers, as a specimen of the habits, education
and discipline of the British army about the year 1800:—
“To Lieut.-Col. ——, — Foot.
“S ,—I believe (I am a member of the —— mess), if so, I will take the
liberty to submit the following argument, viz., every gentleman under the
immediate propensity of liquor has different propensities; to prove which,
I have only to mention the present instance with respect to myself and
Lieut. ——. My propensity is noise and riot—his sleep.
“I ever conceived that in a public mess-room, three things were certain:
first, that it was open to every officer who chose to pay the subscription;
second, that he might indulge himself with liquor as much as he pleased;
and third, that if a gentleman and a member of the mess chose to get
intoxicated in the mess-room, that no other officer (however high his rank
in the regiment) had a right, or dare order to restrain (not being president)
his momentary propensity in the mess-room.
“As such, and this being the case, I must inform you that you have
acted in a most unprecedented and unknown (not to say ungentlemanlike)
way, in presuming to enter the mess-room as a commanding officer, and to
bring a sentry at your back (which you asserted you had) to turn out the
amusement (a hand organ) of the company (a stranger being present), and
thereby prevent the harmony which it is supposed ought to exist in a
mess-room.
“I appeal to you as a gentleman, and if you will answer this letter as
such, you at all times know how to direct to
“—— ——,
“Lieut. ——, — Foot.”

11
Mr. Tierney’s speech in the House of Commons.
12
Lieut.-Col. Gordon (Sir Willoughby), Military Secretary to
the Duke of York, speaks of Lord Cornwallis as “an officer
whose estimation in the army could not be exceeded.”—
Lieut.-Col. Gordon to Sir A. Wellesley, 1807.
13
“The staff in Kent seems to be calculated solely for the
purpose of placing the defence of the country in the hands
of Sir D. Dundas. However he may succeed with other
people, I think he cannot persuade Mr. Pitt and Lord
Melville that he is a clever fellow; and surely they must
have too much sense to believe that it is possible that a
man without talents, and who can neither write nor talk
 intelligibly, can be a good general.”—Lord C. to Lt.-Gen.
Ross.
14
“April 12, 1800. The king much improved. Saw the Duke
of York for two hours yesterday, on military matters.
“April 13. The king not so well. Over-excited himself
yesterday.”—Diary of the Right Hon. Sir George Rose.
15
“The Duke of York is certainly in a bad way. All that we
can do will be to acquit him of corruption; and indeed I
doubt whether we shall be able to carry him so far as to
acquit him of suspecting Mrs. Clarke’s practices and
allowing them to go on. If we should succeed in both these
objects, the question will then turn upon the point whether
it is proper that a prince of the blood, who has manifested
so much weakness as he has, and has led such a life (for
that is material in these days), is a proper person to be
intrusted with the duties of a responsible office.
“We shall be beat upon this question, I think. If we
should carry it by a small majority, the duke will equally be
obliged to resign his office, and most probably the
consequence of such a victory must be that the government
will be broken up.”—Sir A. Wellesley to the Duke of
Richmond, 1809.
16
“General Dundas is, I understand, appointed commander-
in-chief, I should imagine much against the inclination of
the king’s ministers; but I understand that it is expected that
the Duke of York will be able to resume his situation by the
time Sir David is quite superannuated, and it might not be
so easy to get a younger or a better man out of office at so
early a period.”—Sir A. W. to the Duke of R., 1809.
 To Goldenhair.
(FROM HORACE.)

A , Pyrrha—tell me, whose the happy lot

To woo thee on a couch of lavish roses—
Who, bathed in odorous dews, in his fond arms encloses
Thee, in some happy grot?

For whom those nets of golden-gloried hair

Dost thou entwine in cunning carelessnesses?
Alas, poor boy! Who thee, in fond belief, caresses
Deeming thee wholly fair!

How oft shall he thy fickleness bemoan,

When fair to foul shall change—and he, unskilful
In pilotage, beholds—with tempests wildly wilful—
The happy calm o’erthrown!

He, who now hopes that thou wilt ever prove

All void of care, and full of fond endearing,
Knows not that varies more, than Zephyrs ever-veering,
The fickle breath of Love.

Ah, hapless he, to whom, like seas untried,

Thou seemest fair! That my sea-going’s ended
My votive tablet proves, to those dark Gods suspended,
Who o’er the waves preside.
T H .
 Framley Parsonage.

CHAPTER IV.
A M C .

I is no doubt very wrong to long after a naughty thing. But nevertheless

we all do so. One may say that hankering after naughty things is the very
essence of the evil into which we have been precipitated by Adam’s fall.
When we confess that we are all sinners, we confess that we all long
after naughty things.
And ambition is a great vice—as Mark Antony told us a long time
ago—a great vice, no doubt, if the ambition of the man be with reference
to his own advancement, and not to the advancement of others. But then,
how many of us are there who are not ambitious in this vicious manner?
And there is nothing viler than the desire to know great people—
people of great rank I should say; nothing worse than the hunting of titles
and worshipping of wealth. We all know this, and say it every day of our
lives. But presuming that a way into the society of Park Lane was open
to us, and a way also into that of Bedford Row, how many of us are there
who would prefer Bedford Row because it is so vile to worship wealth
and title?
I am led into these rather trite remarks by the necessity of putting
forward some sort of excuse for that frame of mind in which the Rev.
Mark Robarts awoke on the morning after his arrival at Chaldicotes. And
I trust that the fact of his being a clergyman will not be allowed to press
against him unfairly. Clergymen are subject to the same passions as other
men; and, as far as I can see, give way to them, in one line or in another,
almost as frequently. Every clergyman should, by canonical rule, feel a
personal disinclination to a bishopric; but yet we do not believe that such
personal disinclination is generally very strong.
Mark’s first thoughts when he woke on that morning flew back to
Mr. Fothergill’s invitation. The duke had sent a special message to say
how peculiarly glad he, the duke, would be to make acquaintance with
him, the parson! How much of this message had been of Mr. Fothergill’s
own manufacture, that Mark Robarts did not consider.
He had obtained a living at an age when other young clergymen are
beginning to think of a curacy, and he had obtained such a living as
middle-aged parsons in their dreams regard as a possible Paradise for
their old years. Of course he thought that all these good things had been
the results of his own peculiar merits. Of course he felt that he was
different from other parsons,—more fitted by nature for intimacy with
great persons, more urbane, more polished, and more richly endowed
with modern clerical well-to-do aptitudes. He was grateful to Lady
Lufton for what she had done for him; but perhaps not so grateful as he
should have been.
At any rate he was not Lady Lufton’s servant, nor even her
dependant. So much he had repeated to himself on many occasions, and
had gone so far as to hint the same idea to his wife. In his career as
parish priest he must in most things be the judge of his own actions—and
in many also it was his duty to be the judge of those of his patroness. The
fact of Lady Lufton having placed him in the living, could by no means
make her the proper judge of his actions. This he often said to himself;
and he said as often that Lady Lufton certainly had a hankering after
such a judgment-seat.
Of whom generally did prime ministers and official bigwigs think it
expedient to make bishops and deans? Was it not, as a rule, of those
clergymen who had shown themselves able to perform their clerical
duties efficiently, and able also to take their place with ease in high
society? He was very well off certainly at Framley; but he could never
hope for anything beyond Framley, if he allowed himself to regard Lady
Lufton as a bugbear. Putting Lady Lufton and her prejudices out of the
question, was there any reason why he ought not to accept the duke’s
invitation? He could not see that there was any such reason. If any one
could be a better judge on such a subject than himself, it must be his
bishop. And it was clear that the bishop wished him to go to Gatherum
Castle.
The matter was still left open to him. Mr. Fothergill had especially
explained that; and therefore his ultimate decision was as yet within his
own power. Such a visit would cost him some money, for he knew that a
man does not stay at great houses without expense; and then, in spite of
his good income, he was not very flush of money. He had been down this
year with Lord Lufton in Scotland. Perhaps it might be more prudent for
him to return home.
But then an idea came to him that it behoved him as a man and a
priest to break through that Framley thraldom under which he felt that he
did to a certain extent exist. Was it not the fact that he was about to
decline this invitation from fear of Lady Lufton? and if so, was that a
motive by which he ought to be actuated? It was incumbent on him to rid
himself of that feeling. And in this spirit he got up and dressed.
There was hunting again on that day; and as the hounds were to meet
near Chaldicotes, and to draw some coverts lying on the verge of the
chase, the ladies were to go in carriages through the drives of the forest,
and Mr. Robarts was to escort them on horseback. Indeed it was one of
those hunting-days got up rather for the ladies than for the sport. Great
nuisances they are to steady, middle-aged hunting men; but the young
fellows like them because they have thereby an opportunity of showing
off their sporting finery, and of doing a little flirtation on horseback. The
bishop, also, had been minded to be of the party; so, at least, he had said
on the previous evening; and a place in one of the carriages had been set
apart for him: but since that, he and Mrs. Proudie had discussed the
matter in private, and at breakfast his lordship declared that he had
changed his mind.
Mr. Sowerby was one of those men who are known to be very poor
—as poor as debt can make a man—but who, nevertheless, enjoy all the
luxuries which money can give. It was believed that he could not live in
England out of jail but for his protection as a member of Parliament; and
yet it seemed that there was no end to his horses and carriages, his
servants and retinue. He had been at this work for a great many years,
and practice, they say, makes perfect. Such companions are very
dangerous. There is no cholera, no yellow-fever, no small-pox more
contagious than debt. If one lives habitually among embarrassed men,
one catches it to a certainty. No one had injured the community in this
way more fatally than Mr. Sowerby. But still he carried on the game
himself; and now on this morning carriages and horses thronged at his
gate, as though he were as substantially rich as his friend the Duke of
Omnium.
“Robarts, my dear fellow,” said Mr. Sowerby, when they were well
under way down one of the glades of the forest,—for the place where the
hounds met was some four or five miles from the house of Chaldicotes,
—“ride on with me a moment. I want to speak to you; and if I stay
behind we shall never get to the hounds.” So Mark, who had come
expressly to escort the ladies, rode on alongside of Mr. Sowerby in his
pink coat.
“My dear fellow, Fothergill tells me that you have some hesitation
about going to Gatherum Castle.”
“Well, I did decline, certainly. You know I am not a man of pleasure,
as you are. I have some duties to attend to.”
“Gammon!” said Mr. Sowerby; and as he said it he looked with a
kind of derisive smile into the clergyman’s face.
“It is easy enough to say that, Sowerby; and perhaps I have no right
to expect that you should understand me.”
“Ah, but I do understand you; and I say it is gammon. I would be the
last man in the world to ridicule your scruples about duty, if this
hesitation on your part arose from any such scruple. But answer me
honestly, do you not know that such is not the case?”
“I know nothing of the kind.”
“Ah, but I think you do. If you persist in refusing this invitation will
it not be because you are afraid of making Lady Lufton angry? I do not
know what there can be in that woman that she is able to hold both you
and Lufton in leading-strings.”
Robarts, of course, denied the charge and protested that he was not
to be taken back to his own parsonage by any fear of Lady Lufton. But
though he made such protest with warmth, he knew that he did so
ineffectually. Sowerby only smiled and said that the proof of the pudding
was in the eating.
“What is the good of a man keeping a curate if it be not to save him
from that sort of drudgery?” he asked.
“Drudgery! If I were a drudge how could I be here to-day?”
“Well, Robarts, look here. I am speaking now, perhaps, with more of
the energy of an old friend than circumstances fully warrant; but I am an
older man than you, and as I have a regard for you I do not like to see
you throw up a good game when it is in your hands.”
“Oh, as far as that goes, Sowerby, I need hardly tell you that I
appreciate your kindness.”
 “If you are content,” continued the man of the world, “to live at
Framley all your life, and to warm yourself in the sunshine of the
dowager there, why, in such case, it may perhaps be useless for you to
extend the circle of your friends; but if you have higher ideas than these,
I think you will be very wrong to omit the present opportunity of going
to the duke’s. I never knew the duke go so much out of his way to be
civil to a clergyman as he has done in this instance.”
“I am sure I am very much obliged to him.”
“The fact is, that you may, if you please, make yourself popular in
the county; but you cannot do it by obeying all Lady Lufton’s behests.
She is a dear old woman, I am sure.”
“She is, Sowerby; and you would say so, if you knew her.”
“I don’t doubt it; but it would not do for you or me to live exactly
according to her ideas. Now, here, in this case, the bishop of the diocese
is to be one of the party, and he has, I believe, already expressed a wish
that you should be another.”
“He asked me if I were going.”
“Exactly; and Archdeacon Grantley will be there.”
“Will he?” asked Mark. Now, that would be a great point gained, for
Archdeacon Grantley was a close friend of Lady Lufton.
“So I understand from Fothergill. Indeed, it will be very wrong of
you not to go, and I tell you so plainly; and what is more, when you talk
about your duty—you having a curate as you have—why, it is gammon.”
These last words he spoke looking back over his shoulder as he stood up
in his stirrups, for he had caught the eye of the huntsman who was
surrounded by his hounds, and was now trotting on to join him.
During a great portion of the day, Mark found himself riding by the
side of Mrs. Proudie, as that lady leaned back in her carriage. And Mrs.
Proudie smiled on him graciously though her daughter would not do so.
Mrs. Proudie was fond of having an attendant clergyman; and as it was
evident that Mr. Robarts lived among nice people—titled dowagers,
members of parliament, and people of that sort—she was quite willing to
instal him as a sort of honorary chaplain pro tem.
“I’ll tell you what we have settled, Mrs. Harold Smith and I,” said
Mrs. Proudie to him. “This lecture at Barchester will be so late on
Saturday evening, that you had all better come and dine with us.”
 Mark bowed and thanked her, and declared that he should be very
happy to make one of such a party. Even Lady Lufton could not object to
this, although she was not especially fond of Mrs. Proudie.
“And then they are to sleep at the hotel. It will really be too late for
ladies to think of going back so far at this time of the year. I told Mrs.
Harold Smith, and Miss Dunstable too, that we could manage to make
room at any rate for them. But they will not leave the other ladies; so
they go to the hotel for that night. But, Mr. Robarts, the bishop will never
allow you to stay at the inn, so of course you will take a bed at the
palace.”
It immediately occurred to Mark that as the lecture was to be given
on Saturday evening, the next morning would be Sunday; and, on that
Sunday, he would have to preach at Chaldicotes. “I thought they were all
going to return the same night,” said he.
“Well, they did intend it; but you see Mrs. Smith is afraid.”
“I should have to get back here on the Sunday morning, Mrs.
Proudie.”
“Ah, yes, that is bad—very bad, indeed. No one dislikes any
interference with the Sabbath more than I do. Indeed, if I am particular
about anything it is about that. But some works are works of necessity,
Mr. Robarts; are they not? Now you must necessarily be back at
Chaldicotes on Sunday morning!” and so the matter was settled. Mrs.
Proudie was very firm in general in the matter of Sabbath-day
observances; but when she had to deal with such persons as Mrs. Harold
Smith, it was expedient that she should give way a little. “You can start
as soon as it’s daylight, you know, if you like it, Mr. Robarts,” said Mrs.
Proudie.
There was not much to boast of as to the hunting, but it was a very
pleasant day for the ladies. The men rode up and down the grass roads
through the chase, sometimes in the greatest possible hurry as though
they never could go quick enough; and then the coachmen would drive
very fast also though they did not know why, for a fast pace of
movement is another of those contagious diseases. And then again the
sportsmen would move at an undertaker’s pace, when the fox had
traversed and the hounds would be at a loss to know which was the hunt
and which was the heel; and then the carriage also would go slowly, and
the ladies would stand up and talk. And then the time for lunch came;
and altogether the day went by pleasantly enough.
“And so that’s hunting, is it?” said Miss Dunstable.
“Yes, that’s hunting,” said Mr. Sowerby.
“I did not see any gentleman do anything that I could not do myself,
except there was one young man slipped off into the mud; and I
shouldn’t like that.”
“But there was no breaking of bones, was there, my dear?” said Mrs.
Harold Smith.
“And nobody caught any foxes,” said Miss Dunstable. “The fact is,
Mrs. Smith, that I don’t think much more of their sport than I do of their
business. I shall take to hunting a pack of hounds myself after this.”
“Do, my dear, and I’ll be your whipper-in. I wonder whether Mrs.
Proudie would join us.”
“I shall be writing to the duke to-night,” said Mr. Fothergill to Mark,
as they were all riding up to the stable-yard together. “You will let me
tell his grace that you will accept his invitation—will you not?”
“Upon my word, the duke is very kind,” said Mark.
“He is very anxious to know you, I can assure you,” said Fothergill.
What could a young flattered fool of a parson do, but say that he
would go? Mark did say that he would go; and, in the course of the
evening his friend Mr. Sowerby congratulated him, and the bishop joked
with him and said that he knew that he would not give up good company
so soon; and Miss Dunstable said she would make him her chaplain as
soon as parliament would allow quack doctors to have such articles—an
allusion which Mark did not understand, till he learned that Miss
Dunstable was herself the proprietress of the celebrated Oil of Lebanon,
invented by her late respected father, and patented by him with such
wonderful results in the way of accumulated fortune; and Mrs. Proudie
made him quite one of their party, talking to him about all manner of
church subjects; and then at last, even Miss Proudie smiled on him, when
she learned that he had been thought worthy of a bed at a duke’s castle.
And all the world seemed to be open to him.
But he could not make himself happy that evening. On the next
morning he must write to his wife; and he could already see the look of
painful sorrow which would fall upon his Fanny’s brow when she
learned that her husband was going to be a guest at the Duke of
Omnium’s. And he must tell her to send him money, and money was
scarce. And then, as to Lady Lufton, should he send her some message,
or should he not? In either case he must declare war against her. And
then did he not owe everything to Lady Lufton? And thus in spite of all
his triumphs he could not get himself to bed in a happy frame of mind.
On the next day, which was Friday, he postponed the disagreeable
task of writing. Saturday would do as well; and on Saturday morning,
before they all started for Barchester, he did write. And his letter ran as
follows:—

“Chaldicotes,—November, 185—.
“D L ,—You will be astonished when I tell you how
gay we all are here, and what further dissipations are in store for us.
The Arabins, as you supposed, are not of our party; but the Proudies
are,—as you supposed also. Your suppositions are always right. And
what will you think when I tell you that I am to sleep at the palace
on Saturday? You know that there is to be a lecture in Barchester on
that day. Well; we must all go, of course, as Harold Smith, one of
our set here, is to give it. And now it turns out that we cannot get
back the same night because there is no moon; and Mrs. Bishop
would not allow that my cloth should be contaminated by an hotel;
—very kind and considerate, is it not?
“But I have a more astounding piece of news for you than this.
There is to be a great party at Gatherum Castle next week, and they
have talked me over into accepting an invitation which the duke sent
expressly to me. I refused at first; but everybody here said that my
doing so would be so strange; and then they all wanted to know my
reason. When I came to render it, I did not know what reason I had
to give. The bishop is going, and he thought it very odd that I should
not go also, seeing that I was asked.
“I know what my own darling will think, and I know that she
will not be pleased, and I must put off my defence till I return to her
from this ogre-land,—if ever I do get back alive. But joking apart,
Fanny, I think that I should have been wrong to stand out, when so
much was said about it. I should have been seeming to take upon
myself to sit in judgment upon the duke. I doubt if there be a single
 clergyman in the diocese, under fifty years of age, who would have
refused the invitation under such circumstances,—unless it be
Crawley, who is so mad on the subject that he thinks it almost wrong
to take a walk out of his own parish.
“I must stay at Gatherum Castle over Sunday week—indeed, we
only go there on Friday. I have written to Jones about the duties. I
can make it up to him, as I know he wishes to go into Wales at
Christmas. My wanderings will all be over then, and he may go for a
couple of months if he pleases. I suppose you will take my classes in
the school on Sunday, as well as your own; but pray make them have
a good fire. If this is too much for you, make Mrs. Podgens take the
boys. Indeed I think that will be better.
“Of course you will tell her ladyship of my whereabouts. Tell
her from me, that as regards the bishop, as well as regarding another
great personage, the colour has been laid on perhaps a little too
thickly. Not that Lady Lufton would ever like him. Make her
understand that my going to the duke’s has almost become a matter
of conscience with me. I have not known how to make it appear that
it would be right for me to refuse, without absolutely making a party
matter of it. I saw that it would be said, that I, coming from Lady
Lufton’s parish, could not go to the Duke of Omnium’s. This I did
not choose.
“I find that I shall want a little more money before I leave here,
five or ten pounds—say ten pounds. If you cannot spare it, get it
from Davis. He owes me more than that, a good deal.
“And now, God bless and preserve you, my own love. Kiss my
darling bairns for papa, and give them my blessing.
“Always and ever your own,
“M. R.”

And then there was written, on an outside scrap which was folded
round the full-written sheet of paper, “Make it as smooth at Framley
Court as possible.”
However strong, and reasonable, and unanswerable the body of
Mark’s letter may have been, all his hesitation, weakness, doubt, and
fear, were expressed in this short postscript.
 CHAPTER V.
A I A I .

And now, with my reader’s consent, I will follow the postman with
that letter to Framley; not by its own circuitous route indeed, or by the
same mode of conveyance; for that letter went into Barchester by the
Courcy night mail-cart, which, on its road, passes through the villages of
Uffley and Chaldicotes, reaching Barchester in time for the up mail-train
to London. By that train, the letter was sent towards the metropolis as far
as the junction of the Barset branch line, but there it was turned in its
course, and came down again by the main line as far as Silverbridge; at
which place, between six and seven in the morning, it was shouldered by
the Framley footpost messenger, and in due course delivered at the
Framley Parsonage exactly as Mrs. Robarts had finished reading prayers
to the four servants. Or, I should say rather, that such would in its usual
course have been that letter’s destiny. As it was, however, it reached
Silverbridge on Sunday, and lay there till the Monday, as the Framley
people have declined their Sunday post. And then again, when the letter
was delivered at the parsonage, on that wet Monday morning, Mrs.
Robarts was not at home. As we are all aware, she was staying with her
ladyship at Framley Court.
“Oh, but it’s mortial wet,” said the shivering postman as he handed
in that and the vicar’s newspaper. The vicar was a man of the world, and
took the Jupiter.
“Come in, Robin postman, and warm theeself awhile,” said Jemima
the cook, pushing a stool a little to one side, but still well in front of the
big kitchen fire.
“Well, I dudna jist know how it’ll be. The wery ’edges ’as eyes and
tells on me in Silverbridge, if I so much as stops to pick a blackberry.”
“There bain’t no hedges here, mon, nor yet no blackberries; so sit
thee down and warm theeself. That’s better nor blackberries I’m
thinking,” and she handed him a bowl of tea with a slice of buttered
toast.
Robin postman took the proffered tea, put his dripping hat on the
ground, and thanked Jemima cook. “But I dudna jist know how it’ll be,”
said he; “only it do pour so tarnation heavy.” Which among us, O my
readers, could have withstood that temptation?
 Such was the circuitous course of Mark’s letter; but as it left
Chaldicotes on Saturday evening, and reached Mrs. Robarts on the
following morning, or would have done, but for that intervening Sunday,
doing all its peregrinations during the night, it may be held that its course
of transport was not inconveniently arranged. We, however, will travel
by a much shorter route.
Robin, in the course of his daily travels, passed, first the post-office
at Framley, then the Framley Court back entrance, and then the vicar’s
house, so that on this wet morning Jemima cook was not able to make
use of his services in transporting this letter back to her mistress; for
Robin had got another village before him, expectant of its letters.
“Why didn’t thee leave it, mon, with Mr. Applejohn at the Court?”
Mr. Applejohn was the butler who took the letter-bag. “Thee know’st as
how missus was there.”
And then Robin, mindful of the tea and toast, explained to her
courteously how the law made it imperative on him to bring the letter to
the very house that was indicated, let the owner of the letter be where she
might; and he laid down the law very satisfactorily with sundry long-
worded quotations. Not to much effect, however, for the housemaid
called him an oaf; and Robin would decidedly have had the worst of it
had not the gardener come in and taken his part. “They women knows
nothin’, and understands nothin’,” said the gardener. “Give us hold of the
letter. I’ll take it up to the house. It’s the master’s fist.” And then Robin
postman went on one way, and the gardener, he went the other. The
gardener never disliked an excuse for going up to the Court gardens,
even on so wet a day as this.
Mrs. Robarts was sitting over the drawing-room fire with Lady
Meredith, when her husband’s letter was brought to her. The Framley
Court letter-bag had been discussed at breakfast; but that was now nearly
an hour since, and Lady Lufton, as was her wont, was away in her own
room writing her own letters, and looking after her own matters; for
Lady Lufton was a person who dealt in figures herself, and understood
business almost as well as Harold Smith. And on that morning she also
had received a letter which had displeased her not a little. Whence arose
this displeasure neither Mrs. Robarts nor Lady Meredith knew; but her
ladyship’s brow had grown black at breakfast time; she had bundled up
an ominous-looking epistle into her bag without speaking of it, and had
left the room immediately that breakfast was over.
 “There’s something wrong,” said Sir George.
“Mamma does fret herself so much about Ludovic’s money
matters,” said Lady Meredith. Ludovic was Lord Lufton,—Ludovic
Lufton, Baron Lufton of Lufton, in the county of Oxfordshire.
“And yet I don’t think Lufton gets much astray,” said Sir George, as
he sauntered out of the room. “Well, Justy; we’ll put off going then till
to-morrow; but remember, it must be the first train.” Lady Meredith said
she would remember, and then they went into the drawing-room, and
there Mrs. Robarts received her letter.
Fanny, when she read it, hardly at first realized to herself the idea
that her husband, the clergyman of Framley, the family clerical friend of
Lady Lufton’s establishment, was going to stay with the Duke of
Omnium. It was so thoroughly understood at Framley Court that the
duke and all belonging to him was noxious and damnable. He was a
Whig, he was a bachelor, he was a gambler, he was immoral in every
way, he was a man of no church principle, a corrupter of youth, a sworn
foe of young wives, a swallower up of small men’s patrimonies; a man
whom mothers feared for their sons, and sisters for their brothers; and
worse again, whom fathers had cause to fear for their daughters, and
brothers for their sisters;—a man who, with his belongings, dwelt, and
must dwell, poles asunder from Lady Lufton and her belongings!
And it must be remembered that all these evil things were fully
believed by Mrs. Robarts. Could it really be that her husband was going
to dwell in the halls of Apollyon, to shelter himself beneath the wings of
this very Lucifer? A cloud of sorrow settled upon her face, and then she
read the letter again very slowly, not omitting the tell-tale postscript.
“Oh, Justinia!” at last she said.
“What, have you got bad news, too?”
“I hardly know how to tell you what has occurred. There; I suppose
you had better read it;” and she handed her husband’s epistle to Lady
Meredith,—keeping back, however, the postscript.
“What on earth will her ladyship say now?” said Lady Meredith, as
she folded the paper, and replaced it in the envelope.
“What had I better do, Justinia? how had I better tell her?” And then
the two ladies put their heads together, bethinking themselves how they
might best deprecate the wrath of Lady Lufton. It had been arranged that
Mrs. Robarts should go back to the parsonage after lunch, and she had
persisted in her intention after it had been settled that the Merediths were
to stay over that evening. Lady Meredith now advised her friend to carry
out this determination without saying anything about her husband’s
terrible iniquities, and then to send the letter up to Lady Lufton as soon
as she reached the parsonage. “Mamma will never know that you
received it here,” said Lady Meredith.
But Mrs. Robarts would not consent to this. Such a course seemed to
her to be cowardly. She knew that her husband was doing wrong; she felt
that he knew it himself; but still it was necessary that she should defend
him. However terrible might be the storm, it must break upon her own
head. So she at once went up and tapped at Lady Lufton’s private door;
and as she did so Lady Meredith followed her.
“Come in,” said Lady Lufton, and the voice did not sound soft and
pleasant. When they entered, they found her sitting at her little writing
table, with her head resting on her arm, and that letter which she had
received that morning was lying open on the table before her. Indeed
there were two letters now there, one from a London lawyer to herself,
and the other from her son to that London lawyer. It needs only be
explained that the subject of those letters was the immediate sale of that
outlying portion of the Lufton property in Oxfordshire, as to which Mr.
Sowerby once spoke. Lord Lufton had told the lawyer that the thing must
be done at once, adding that his friend Robarts would have explained the
whole affair to his mother. And then the lawyer had written to Lady
Lufton, as indeed was necessary; but unfortunately Lady Lufton had not
hitherto heard a word of the matter.
In her eyes, the sale of family property was horrible; the fact that a
young man with some fifteen or twenty thousand a year should require
subsidiary money was horrible; that her own son should have not written
to her himself was horrible; and it was also horrible that her own pet, the
clergyman whom she had brought there to be her son’s friend, should be
mixed up in the matter,—should be cognizant of it while she was not
cognizant,—should be employed in it as a go-between and agent in her
son’s bad courses. It was all horrible, and Lady Lufton was sitting there
with a black brow and an uneasy heart. As regarded our poor parson, we
may say that in this matter he was blameless, except that he had hitherto
lacked the courage to execute his friend’s commission.
 “What is it, Fanny?” said Lady Lufton as soon as the door was
opened; “I should have been down in half-an-hour, if you wanted me,
Justinia.”
“Fanny has received a letter which makes her wish to speak to you at
once,” said Lady Meredith.
“What letter, Fanny?”
Poor Fanny’s heart was in her mouth; she held it in her hand, but had
not yet quite made up her mind whether she would show it bodily to
Lady Lufton.
“From Mr. Robarts,” she said.
“Well; I suppose he is going to stay another week at Chaldicotes. For
my part I should be as well pleased;” and Lady Lufton’s voice was not
friendly, for she was thinking of that farm in Oxfordshire. The
imprudence of the young is very sore to the prudence of their elders. No
woman could be less covetous, less grasping than Lady Lufton; but the
sale of a portion of the old family property was to her as the loss of her
own heart’s blood.
“Here is the letter, Lady Lufton; perhaps you had better read it;” and
Fanny handed it to her, again keeping back the postscript. She had read
and re-read the letter downstairs, but could not make out whether her
husband had intended her to show it. From the line of the argument she
thought that he must have done so. At any rate he said for himself more
than she could say for him, and so, probably, it was best that her ladyship
should see it.
Lady Lufton took it, and read it, and her face grew blacker and
blacker. Her mind was set against the writer before she began it, and
every word in it tended to make her feel more estranged from him. “Oh,
he is going to the palace, is he—well; he must choose his own friends.
Harold Smith one of his party! It’s a pity, my dear, he did not see Miss
Proudie before he met you, he might have lived to be the bishop’s
chaplain. Gatherum Castle! You don’t mean to tell me that he is going
there? Then I tell you fairly, Fanny, that I have done with him.”
“Oh, Lady Lufton, don’t say that,” said Mrs. Robarts, with tears in
her eyes.
“Mamma, mamma, don’t speak in that way,” said Lady Meredith.
 “But my dear, what am I to say? I must speak in that way. You
would not wish me to speak falsehoods, would you? A man must choose
for himself, but he can’t live with two different sets of people; at least,
not if I belong to one and the Duke of Omnium to the other. The bishop
going indeed! If there be anything that I hate it is hypocrisy.”
“There is no hypocrisy in that, Lady Lufton.”
“But I say there is, Fanny. Very strange, indeed! ‘Put off his
defence!’ Why should a man need any defence to his wife if he acts in a
straightforward way. His own language condemns him: ‘Wrong to stand
out!’ Now, will either of you tell me that Mr. Robarts would really have
thought it wrong to refuse that invitation? I say that that is hypocrisy.
There is no other word for it.”
By this time the poor wife, who had been in tears, was wiping them
away and preparing for action. Lady Lufton’s extreme severity gave her
courage. She knew that it behoved her to fight for her husband when he
was thus attacked. Had Lady Lufton been moderate in her remarks Mrs.
Robarts would not have had a word to say.
“My husband may have been ill-judged,” she said, “but he is no
hypocrite.”
“Very well, my dear, I dare say you know better than I; but to me it
looks extremely like hypocrisy: eh, Justinia?”
“Oh, mamma, do be moderate.”
“Moderate! That’s all very well. How is one to moderate one’s
feelings when one has been betrayed?”
“You do not mean that Mr. Robarts has betrayed you?” said the wife.
“Oh, no; of course not.” And then she went on reading the letter:
“‘Seem to have been standing in judgment upon the duke.’ Might he not
use the same argument as to going into any house in the kingdom,
however infamous? We must all stand in judgment one upon another in
that sense. ‘Crawley!’ Yes; if he were a little more like Mr. Crawley it
would be a good thing for me, and for the parish, and for you too, my
dear. God forgive me for bringing him here; that’s all.”
“Lady Lufton, I must say that you are very hard upon him—very
hard. I did not expect it from such a friend.”
 “My dear, you ought to know me well enough to be sure that I shall
speak my mind. ‘Written to Jones’—yes; it is easy enough to write to
poor Jones. He had better write to Jones, and bid him do the whole duty.
Then he can go and be the duke’s domestic chaplain.”
“I believe my husband does as much of his own duty as any
clergyman in the whole diocese,” said Mrs. Robarts, now again in tears.
“And you are to take his work in the school; you and Mrs. Podgens.
What with his curate and his wife and Mrs. Podgens, I don’t see why he
should come back at all.”
“Oh, mamma,” said Justinia, “pray, pray don’t be so harsh to her.”
“Let me finish it, my dear,—oh, here I come. ‘Tell her ladyship my
whereabouts.’ He little thought you’d show me this letter.”
“Didn’t he?” said Mrs. Robarts, putting out her hand to get it back,
but in vain. “I thought it was for the best; I did indeed.”
“I had better finish it now, if you please. What is this? How does he
dare send his ribald jokes to me in such a matter? No, I do not suppose I
ever shall like Dr. Proudie; I have never expected it. A matter of
conscience with him! Well—well, well. Had I not read it myself, I could
not have believed it of him; I would not positively have believed it.
‘Coming from my parish he could not go to the Duke of Omnium!’ And
it is what I would wish to have said. People fit for this parish should not
be fit for the Duke of Omnium’s house. And I had trusted that he would
have this feeling more strongly than any one else in it. I have been
deceived—that’s all.”
“He has done nothing to deceive you, Lady Lufton.”
“I hope he will not have deceived you, my dear. ‘More money;’ yes,
it is probable that he will want more money. There is your letter, Fanny. I
am very sorry for it. I can say nothing more.” And she folded up the
letter and gave it back to Mrs. Robarts.
“I thought it right to show it you,” said Mrs. Robarts.
“It did not much matter whether you did or no; of course I must have
been told.”
“He especially begs me to tell you.”
“Why, yes; he could not very well have kept me in the dark in such a
matter. He could not neglect his own work, and go and live with
gamblers and adulterers at the Duke of Omnium’s without my knowing
it.”
And now Fanny Robarts’s cup was full, full to the overflowing.
When she heard these words she forgot all about Lady Lufton, all about
Lady Meredith, and remembered only her husband,—that he was her
husband, and, in spite of his faults, a good and loving husband;—and
that other fact also she remembered, that she was his wife.
“Lady Lufton,” she said, “you forget yourself in speaking in that
way of my husband.”
“What!” said her ladyship; “you are to show me such a letter as that,
and I am not to tell you what I think?”
“Not if you think such hard things as that. Even you are not justified
in speaking to me in that way, and I will not hear it.”
“Heighty-tighty,” said her ladyship.
“Whether or no he is right in going to the Duke of Omnium’s, I will
not pretend to judge. He is the judge of his own actions, and neither you
nor I.”
“And when he leaves you with the butcher’s bill unpaid and no
money to buy shoes for the children, who will be the judge then?”
“Not you, Lady Lufton. If such bad days should ever come—and
neither you nor I have a right to expect them—I will not come to you in
my troubles; not after this.”
“Very well, my dear. You may go to the Duke of Omnium if that
suits you better.”
“Fanny, come away,” said Lady Meredith. “Why should you try to
anger my mother?”
“I don’t want to anger her; but I won’t hear him abused in that way
without speaking up for him. If I don’t defend him, who will? Lady
Lufton has said terrible things about him; and they are not true.”
“Oh, Fanny!” said Justinia.
“Very well, very well!” said Lady Lufton. “This is the sort of return
that one gets.”
“I don’t know what you mean by return, Lady Lufton: but would
you wish me to stand by quietly and hear such things said of my
husband? He does not live with such people as you have named. He does
not neglect his duties. If every clergyman were as much in his parish, it
would be well for some of them. And in going to such a house as the
Duke of Omnium’s it does make a difference that he goes there in
company with the bishop. I can’t explain why, but I know that it does.”
“Especially when the bishop is coupled up with the devil, as Mr.
Robarts has done,” said Lady Lufton; “he can join the duke with them
and then they’ll stand for the three Graces, won’t they, Justinia?” And
Lady Lufton laughed a bitter little laugh at her own wit.
“I suppose I may go now, Lady Lufton.”
“Oh, yes, certainly, my dear.”
“I am sorry if I have made you angry with me; but I will not allow
any one to speak against Mr. Robarts without answering them. You have
been very unjust to him; and even though I do anger you, I must say so.”
“Come, Fanny; this is too bad,” said Lady Lufton. “You have been
scolding me for the last half-hour because I would not congratulate you
on this new friend that your husband has made, and now you are going to
begin it all over again. That is more than I can stand. If you have nothing
else particular to say, you might as well leave me.” And Lady Lufton’s
face as she spoke was unbending, severe, and harsh.
Mrs. Robarts had never before been so spoken to by her old friend;
indeed she had never been so spoken to by any one, and she hardly knew
how to bear herself.
“Very well, Lady Lufton,” she said; “then I will go. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” said Lady Lufton, and turning herself to her table she
began to arrange her papers. Fanny had never before left Framley Court
to go back to her own parsonage without a warm embrace. Now she was
to do so without even having her hand taken. Had it come to this, that
there was absolutely to be a quarrel between them,—a quarrel for ever?
“Fanny is going, you know, mamma,” said Lady Meredith. “She will
be home before you are down again.”
“I cannot help it, my dear. Fanny must do as she pleases. I am not to
be the judge of her actions. She has just told me so.”
Mrs. Robarts had said nothing of the kind, but she was far too proud
to point this out. So with a gentle step she retreated through the door, and
then Lady Meredith, having tried what a conciliatory whisper with her
mother would do, followed her. Alas, the conciliatory whisper was
altogether ineffectual!
The two ladies said nothing as they descended the stairs, but when
they had regained the drawing-room they looked with blank horror into
each other’s faces. What were they to do now? Of such a tragedy as this
they had had no remotest preconception. Was it absolutely the case that
Fanny Robarts was to walk out of Lady Lufton’s house as a declared
enemy,—she who, before her marriage as well as since, had been almost
treated as an adopted daughter of the family?
“Oh, Fanny, why did you answer my mother in that way?” said Lady
Meredith. “You saw that she was vexed. She had other things to vex her
besides this about Mr. Robarts.”
“And would not you answer any one who attacked Sir George?”
“No, not my own mother. I would let her say what she pleased, and
leave Sir George to fight his own battles.”
“Ah, but it is different with you. You are her daughter, and Sir
George——she would not dare to speak in that way as to Sir George’s
doings.”
“Indeed she would, if it pleased her. I am sorry I let you go up to
her.”
“It is as well that it should be over, Justinia. As those are her
thoughts about Mr. Roberts, it is quite as well that we should know them.
Even for all that I owe to her, and all the love I bear to you, I will not
come to this house if I am to hear my husband abused;—not into any
house.”
“My dearest Fanny, we all know what happens when two angry
people get together.”
“I was not angry when I went up to her; not in the least.”
“It is no good looking back. What are we to do now, Fanny?”
“I suppose I had better go home,” said Mrs. Robarts. “I will go and
put my things up, and then I will send James for them.”
“Wait till after lunch, and then you will be able to kiss my mother
before you leave us.”
 “No, Justinia; I cannot wait. I must answer Mr. Robarts by this post,
and I must think what I have to say to him. I could not write that letter
here, and the post goes at four.” And Mrs. Robarts got up from her chair,
preparatory to her final departure.
“I shall come to you before dinner,” said Lady Meredith; “and if I
can bring you good tidings, I shall expect you to come back here with
me. It is out of the question that I should go away from Framley leaving
you and my mother at enmity with each other.”
To this Mrs. Robarts made no answer; and in a very few minutes
afterwards she was in her own nursery, kissing her children, and teaching
the elder one to say something about papa. But, even as she taught him,
the tears stood in her eyes, and the little fellow knew that everything was
not right.
And there she sat till about two, doing little odds and ends of things
for the children, and allowing that occupation to stand as an excuse to
her for not commencing her letter. But then there remained only two
hours to her, and it might be that the letter would be difficult in the
writing—would require thought and changes, and must needs be copied,
perhaps more than once. As to the money, that she had in the house—as
much, at least, as Mark now wanted, though the sending of it would
leave her nearly penniless. She could, however, in case of personal need,
resort to Davis as desired by him.
So she got out her desk in the drawing-room and sat down and wrote
her letter. It was difficult, though she found that it hardly took so long as
she expected. It was difficult, for she felt bound to tell him the truth; and
yet she was anxious not to spoil all his pleasure among his friends. She
told him, however, that Lady Lufton was very angry, “unreasonably
angry I must say,” she put in, in order to show that she had not sided
against him. “And indeed we have quite quarrelled, and this has made
me unhappy, as it will you, dearest; I know that. But we both know how
good she is at heart, and Justinia thinks that she had other things to
trouble her; and I hope it will all be made up before you come home;
only, dearest Mark, pray do not be longer than you said in your last
letter.” And then there were three or four paragraphs about the babies and
two about the schools, which I may as well omit.
She had just finished her letter, and was carefully folding it for its
envelope, with the two whole five-pound notes imprudently placed
within it, when she heard a footstep on the gravel path which led up from
a small wicket to the front door. The path ran near the drawing-room
window, and she was just in time to catch a glimpse of the last fold of a
passing cloak. “It is Justinia,” she said to herself; and her heart became
disturbed at the idea of again discussing the morning’s adventure. “What
am I to do,” she had said to herself before, “if she wants me to beg her
pardon? I will not own before her that he is in the wrong.”
And then the door opened—for the visitor made her entrance
without the aid of any servant—and Lady Lufton herself stood before
her. “Fanny,” she said at once, “I have come to beg your pardon.”
“Oh, Lady Lufton!”
“I was very much harassed when you came to me just now;—by
more things than one, my dear, But, nevertheless, I should not have
spoken to you of your husband as I did, and so I have come to beg your
pardon.”
Mrs. Robarts was past answering by the time that this was said,—
past answering at least in words; so she jumped up and, with her eyes
full of tears, threw herself into her old friend’s arms. “Oh, Lady Lufton!”
she sobbed forth again.
“You will forgive me, won’t you?” said her ladyship, as she returned
her young friend’s caress. “Well, that’s right. I have not been at all happy
since you left my den this morning, and I don’t suppose you have. But,
Fanny, dearest, we love each other too well and know each other too
thoroughly, to have a long quarrel, don’t we?”
“Oh, yes, Lady Lufton.”
“Of course we do. Friends are not to be picked up on the road-side
every day; nor are they to be thrown away lightly. And now sit down, my
love, and let us have a little talk. There, I must take my bonnet off. You
have pulled the strings so that you have almost choked me.” And Lady
Lufton deposited her bonnet on the table and seated herself comfortably
in the corner of the sofa.
“My dear,” she said, “there is no duty which any woman owes to
any other human being at all equal to that which she owes to her
husband, and, therefore, you were quite right to stand up for Mr. Robarts
this morning.”
Upon this Mrs. Robarts said nothing, but she got her hand within
that of her ladyship and gave it a slight squeeze.
 “And I loved you for what you were doing all the time. I did, my
dear; though you were a little fierce, you know. Even Justinia admits
that, and she has been at me ever since you went away. And indeed, I did
not know that it was in you to look in that way out of those pretty eyes of
yours.”
“Oh, Lady Lufton!”
“But I looked fierce enough too myself, I dare say; so we’ll say
nothing more about that; will we? But now, about this good man of
yours?”
“Dear Lady Lufton, you must forgive him.”
“Well: as you ask me, I will. We’ll have nothing more said about the
duke, either now or when he comes back; not a word. Let me see—he’s
to be back;—when is it?”
“Wednesday week, I think.”
“Ah, Wednesday. Well, tell him to come and dine up at the house on
Wednesday. He’ll be in time, I suppose, and there shan’t be a word said
about this horrid duke.”
“I am so much obliged to you, Lady Lufton.”
“But look here, my dear; believe me, he’s better off without such
friends.”
“Oh, I know he is; much better off.”
“Well, I’m glad you admit that, for I thought you seemed to be in
favour of the duke.”
“Oh, no, Lady Lufton.”
“That’s right, then. And now, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll use
your influence, as a good, dear sweet wife as you are, to prevent his
going there any more. I’m an old woman and he is a young man, and it’s
very natural that he should think me behind the times. I’m not angry at
that. But he’ll find that it’s better for him, better for him in every way, to
stick to his old friends. It will be better for his peace of mind, better for
his character as a clergyman, better for his pocket, better for his children
and for you,—and better for his eternal welfare. The duke is not such a
companion as he should seek;—nor if he is sought, should he allow
himself to be led away.”
 And then Lady Lufton ceased, and Fanny Robarts kneeling at her
feet sobbed, with her face hidden on her friend’s knees. She had not a
word now to say as to her husband’s capability of judging for himself.
“And now I must be going again; but Justinia has made me promise,
—promise, mind you, most solemnly, that I would have you back to
dinner to-night,—by force if necessary. It was the only way I could make
my peace with her; so you must not leave me in the lurch.” Of course,
Fanny said that she would go and dine at Framley Court.
“And you must not send that letter, by any means,” said her ladyship
as she was leaving the room, poking with her umbrella at the epistle
which lay directed on Mrs. Robarts’s desk. “I can understand very well
what it contains. You must alter it altogether, my dear.” And then Lady
Lufton went.
Mrs. Robarts instantly rushed to her desk and tore open her letter.
She looked at her watch and it was past four. She had hardly begun
another when the postman came. “Oh, Mary,” she said, “do make him
wait. If he’ll wait a quarter of an hour I’ll give him a shilling.”
“There’s no need of that, ma’am. Let him have a glass of beer.”
“Very well, Mary; but don’t give him too much, for fear he should
drop the letters about. I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
And in five minutes she had scrawled a very different sort of a letter.
But he might want the money immediately, so she would not delay it for
a day.

CHAPTER VI.
M . H S ’ L .

On the whole the party at Chaldicotes was very pleasant and the
time passed away quickly enough. Mr. Robarts’s chief friend there,
independently of Mr. Sowerby, was Miss Dunstable, who seemed to take
a great fancy to him, whereas she was not very accessible to the
blandishments of Mr. Supplehouse, nor more specially courteous even to
her host than good manners required of her. But then Mr. Supplehouse
and Mr. Sowerby were both bachelors, while Mark Robarts was a
married man.
 With Mr. Sowerby Robarts had more than one communication
respecting Lord Lufton and his affairs, which he would willingly have
avoided had it been possible. Sowerby was one of those men who are
always mixing up business with pleasure, and who have usually some
scheme in their mind which requires forwarding. Men of this class have,
as a rule, no daily work, no regular routine of labour; but it may be
doubted whether they do not toil much more incessantly than those who
have.
“Lufton is so dilatory,” Mr. Sowerby said. “Why did he not arrange
this at once, when he promised it? And then he is so afraid of that old
woman at Framley Court. Well, my dear fellow, say what you will; she is
an old woman and she’ll never be younger. But do write to Lufton and
tell him that this delay is inconvenient to me; he’ll do anything for you, I
know.”
Mark said that he would write, and, indeed, did do so; but he did not
at first like the tone of the conversation into which he was dragged. It
was very painful to him to hear Lady Lufton called an old woman, and
hardly less so to discuss the propriety of Lord Lufton’s parting with his
property. This was irksome to him, till habit made it easy. But by degrees
his feelings became less acute and he accustomed himself to his friend
Sowerby’s mode of talking.
And then on the Saturday afternoon they all went over to Barchester.
Harold Smith during the last forty-eight hours had become crammed to
overflowing with Sarawak, Labuan, New Guinea, and the Salomon
Islands. As is the case with all men labouring under temporary
specialities, he for the time had faith in nothing else, and was not content
that any one near him should have any other faith. They called him
Viscount Papua and Baron Borneo; and his wife, who headed the joke
against him, insisted on having her title. Miss Dunstable swore that she
would wed none but a South Sea islander; and to Mark was offered the
income and duties of Bishop of Spices. Nor did the Proudie family set
themselves against these little sarcastic quips with any overwhelming
severity. It is sweet to unbend oneself at the proper opportunity, and this
was the proper opportunity for Mrs. Proudie’s unbending. No mortal can
be seriously wise at all hours; and in these happy hours did that usually
wise mortal, the bishop, lay aside for awhile his serious wisdom.
“We think of dining at five to-morrow, my Lady Papua,” said the
facetious bishop; “will that suit his lordship and the affairs of State? he!
he! he!” And the good prelate laughed at the fun.
How pleasantly young men and women of fifty or thereabouts can
joke and flirt and poke their fun about, laughing and holding their sides,
dealing in little innuendoes and rejoicing in nicknames when they have
no Mentors of twenty-five or thirty near them to keep them in order. The
vicar of Framley might perhaps have been regarded as such a Mentor,
were it not for that capability of adapting himself to the company
immediately around him on which he so much piqued himself. He
therefore also talked to my Lady Papua, and was jocose about the Baron,
—not altogether to the satisfaction of Mr. Harold Smith himself.
For Mr. Harold Smith was in earnest and did not quite relish these
jocundities. He had an idea that he could in about three months talk the
British world into civilizing New Guinea, and that the world of
Barsetshire would be made to go with him by one night’s efforts. He did
not understand why others should be less serious, and was inclined to
resent somewhat stiffly the amenities of our friend Mark.
“We must not keep the Baron waiting,” said Mark, as they were
preparing to start for Barchester.
“I don’t know what you mean by the Baron, sir,” said Harold Smith.
“But perhaps the joke will be against you, when you are getting up into
your pulpit to-morrow and sending the hat round among the clodhoppers
of Chaldicotes.”
“Those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones; eh, Baron?”
said Miss Dunstable. “Mr. Robarts’s sermon will be too near akin to your
lecture to allow of his laughing.”
“If we can do nothing towards instructing the outer world till it’s
done by the parsons,” said Harold Smith, “the outer world will have to
wait a long time, I fear.”
“Nobody can do anything of that kind short of a member of
parliament and a would-be minister,” whispered Mrs. Harold.
And so they were all very pleasant together, in spite of a little
fencing with edge tools; and at three o’clock the cortége of carriages
started for Barchester, that of the bishop, of course, leading the way. His
lordship, however, was not in it.
“Mrs. Proudie, I’m sure you’ll let me go with you,” said Miss
Dunstable, at the last moment, as she came down the big stone steps. “I