Very few words were spoken on the subject between her and the archdeacon, and yet it seemed agreed among them that something should be done.  He went up to London, and saw his daughter,—­not daring, however, to mention such a subject.  Lord Dumbello was cross with him, and very uncommunicative.  Indeed both the archdeacon and Mrs Grantly had found that their daughter’s house was not comfortable to them, and as they were sufficiently proud among their own class they had not cared to press themselves on the hospitality of their son-in-law.  But he had been able to perceive that all was not right in the house in Carlton Gardens.  Lord Dumbello was not gracious with his wife, and there was something in the silence, rather than in the speech, of men, which seemed to justify the report which had reached him.

“He is there oftener than he should be,” said the archdeacon.  “And I am sure of this, at least, that Dumbello does not like it.”

“I will write to her,” said Mrs Grantly at last.  “I am still her mother;—­I will write to her.  It may be that she does not know what people say of her.”

And Mrs Grantly did write.

   PLUMSTEAD, April, 186—.

   DEAREST GRISELDA,

It seems sometimes that you have been moved so far away from me that I have hardly a right to concern myself more in the affairs of your daily life, and I know that it is impossible that you should refer to me for advice or sympathy, as you would have done had you married some gentleman of our own standing.  But I am quite sure that my child does not forget her mother, or fail to look back upon her mother’s love; and that she will allow me to speak to her if she be in trouble, as I would to any other child whom I had loved and cherished.  I pray God that I may be wrong in supposing that such trouble is near you.  If I am so you will forgive me my solicitude.

Rumours have reached us from more than one quarter that—­oh!  Griselda, I hardly know in what words to conceal and yet to declare that which I have to write.  They say that you are intimate with Mr Palliser, the nephew of the duke, and that your husband is much offended.  Perhaps I had better tell you all, openly, cautioning you not to suppose that I have believed it.  They say that it is thought that you are going to put yourself under Mr Palliser’s protection.  My dearest child, I think you can imagine with what agony I write these words,—­with what terrible grief I must have been oppressed before I could have allowed myself to entertain the thoughts which have produced them.  Such things are said openly in Barchester, and your father, who has been in town and has seen you, feels himself unable to tell me that my mind may be at rest.

I will not say to you a word as to the injury in a worldly point of view which would come to you from any rupture with your husband.  I believe that you can see what would be the effect