CHAPTER I
Who Will Be the New Bishop?
In the latter days of July in the year 185––, a most
important question was for ten days hourly asked in the
cathedral city of Barchester, and answered every hour in
various ways—Who was to be the new bishop?
The death of old Dr. Grantly, who had for many years
filled that chair with meek authority, took place exactly as
the ministry of Lord –––– was going to give place to that of
Lord ––––. The illness of the good old man was long and
lingering, and it became at last a matter of intense
interest to those concerned whether the new appointment
should be made by a conservative or liberal government.
It was pretty well understood that the outgoing premier
had made his selection and that if the question rested with
him, the mitre would descend on the head of Archdeacon
Grantly, the old bishop's son. The archdeacon had long
managed the affairs of the diocese, and for some months
previous to the demise of his father rumour had confidently
assigned to him the reversion of his father's honours.
Bishop Grantly died as he had lived, peaceably, slowly,
without pain and without excitement. The breath ebbed from
him almost imperceptibly, and for a month before his death
it was a question whether he were alive or dead.
A trying time was this for the archdeacon, for whom was
designed the reversion of his father's see by those who then
had the giving away of episcopal thrones. I would not be
understood to say that the prime minister had in so many
words promised the bishopric to Dr. Grantly. He was too
discreet a man for that. There is a proverb with reference
to the killing of cats, and those who know anything either
of high or low government places will be well aware that a
promise may be made without positive words and that an
expectant may be put into the highest state of
encouragement, though the great man on whose breath he hangs
may have done no more than whisper that "Mr. So-and-So is
certainly a rising man."
Such a whisper had been made, and was known by those who
heard it to signify that the cures of the diocese of
Barchester should not be taken out of the hands of the
archdeacon. The then prime minister was all in all at
Oxford, and had lately passed a night at the house of the
Master of Lazarus. Now the Master of Lazarus—which is, by
the by, in many respects the most comfortable as well as the
richest college at Oxford—was the archdeacon's most intimate
friend and most trusted counsellor. On the occasion of the
prime minister's visit, Dr. Grantly was of course present,
and the meeting was very gracious. On the following morning
Dr. Gwynne, the master, told the archdeacon that in his
opinion the thing was settled.
At this time the bishop was quite on his last legs; but
the ministry also were tottering. Dr. Grantly returned from
Oxford, happy and elated, to resume his place in the palace
and to continue to perform for the father the last duties of
a son, which, to give him his due, he performed with more
tender care than was to be expected from his usual somewhat
worldly manners.
A month since, the physicians had named four weeks as the
outside period during which breath could be supported within
the body of the dying man. At the end of the month the
physicians wondered, and named another fortnight. The old
man lived on wine alone, but at the end of the fortnight he
still lived, and the tidings of the fall of the ministry
became more frequent. Sir Lamda Mewnew and Sir Omicron Pie,
the two great London doctors, now came down for the fifth
time and declared, shaking their learned heads, that another
week of life was impossible; and as they sat down to lunch
in the episcopal dining-room, whispered to the archdeacon
their own private knowledge that the ministry must fall
within five days. The son returned to his father's room and,
after administering with his own hands the sustaining
modicum of madeira, sat down by the bedside to calculate his
chances.
The ministry were to be out within five days: his father
was to be dead within—no, he rejected that view of the
subject. The ministry were to be out, and the diocese might
probably be vacant at the same period. There was much doubt
as to the names of the men who were to succeed to power, and
a week must elapse before a cabinet was formed. Would not
vacancies be filled by the outgoing men during this week?
Dr. Grantly had a kind of idea that such would be the case
but did not know, and then he wondered at his own ignorance
on such a question.
He tried to keep his mind away from the subject, but he
could not. The race was so very close, and the stakes were
so very high. He then looked at the dying man's impassive,
placid face. There was no sign there of death or disease; it
was something thinner than of yore, somewhat grayer, and the
deep lines of age more marked; but, as far as he could
judge, life might yet hang there for weeks to come. Sir
Lamda Mewnew and Sir Omicron Pie had thrice been wrong, and
might yet be wrong thrice again. The old bishop slept during
twenty of the twenty-four hours, but during the short
periods of his waking moments, he knew both his son and his
dear old friend, Mr. Harding, the archdeacon's
father-in-law, and would thank them tenderly for their care
and love. Now he lay sleeping like a baby, resting easily on
his back, his mouth just open, and his few gray hairs
straggling from beneath his cap; his breath was perfectly
noiseless, and his thin, wan hand, which lay above the
coverlid, never moved. Nothing could be easier than the old
man's passage from this world to the next.
But by no means easy were the emotions of him who sat
there watching. He knew it must be now or never. He was
already over fifty, and there was little chance that his
friends who were now leaving office would soon return to it.
No probable British prime minister but he who was now in, he
who was so soon to be out, would think of making a bishop of
Dr. Grantly. Thus he thought long and sadly, in deep
silence, and then gazed at that still living face, and then
at last dared to ask himself whether he really longed for
his father's death.
The effort was a salutary one, and the question was
answered in a moment. The proud, wishful, worldly man sank
on his knees by the bedside and, taking the bishop's hand
within his own, prayed eagerly that his sins might be
forgiven him.
His face was still buried in the clothes when the door of
the bedroom opened noiselessly and Mr. Harding entered with
a velvet step. Mr. Harding's attendance at that bedside had
been nearly as constant as that of the archdeacon, and his
ingress and egress was as much a matter of course as that of
his son-in-law. He was standing close beside the archdeacon
before he was perceived, and would also have knelt in prayer
had he not feared that his doing so might have caused some
sudden start and have disturbed the dying man. Dr. Grantly,
however, instantly perceived him and rose from his knees. As
he did so Mr. Harding took both his hands and pressed them
warmly. There was more fellowship between them at that
moment than there had ever been before, and it so happened
that after circumstances greatly preserved the feeling. As
they stood there pressing each other's hands, the tears
rolled freely down their cheeks.
"God bless you, my dears," said the bishop with feeble
voice as he woke. "God bless you—may God bless you both, my
dear children." And so he died.
There was no loud rattle in the throat, no dreadful
struggle, no palpable sign of death, but the lower jaw fell
a little from its place, and the eyes which had been so
constantly closed in sleep now remained fixed and open.
Neither Mr. Harding nor Dr. Grantly knew that life was gone,
though both suspected it.
"I believe it's all over," said Mr. Harding, still
pressing the other's hands. "I think—nay, I hope it is."
"I will ring the bell," said the other, speaking all but
in a whisper. "Mrs. Phillips should be here."
Mrs. Phillips, the nurse, was soon in the room, and
immediately, with practised hand, closed those staring eyes.
"It's all over, Mrs. Phillips?" asked Mr. Harding.
"My lord's no more," said Mrs. Phillips, turning round
and curtseying low with solemn face; "his lordship's gone
more like a sleeping babby than any that I ever saw."
"It's a great relief, Archdeacon," said Mr. Harding, "a
great relief—dear, good, excellent old man. Oh that our last
moments may be as innocent and as peaceful as his!"
"Surely," said Mrs. Phillips. "The Lord be praised for
all his mercies; but, for a meek, mild, gentle-spoken
Christian, his lordship was—" and Mrs. Phillips, with
unaffected but easy grief, put up her white apron to her
flowing eyes.
"You cannot but rejoice that it is over," said Mr.
Harding, still consoling his friend. The archdeacon's mind,
however, had already travelled from the death chamber to the
closet of the prime minister. He had brought himself to pray
for his father's life, but now that that life was done,
minutes were too precious to be lost. It was now useless to
dally with the fact of the bishop's death—useless to lose
perhaps everything for the pretence of a foolish sentiment.
But how was he to act while his father-in-law stood there
holding his hand? How, without appearing unfeeling, was he
to forget his father in the bishop—to overlook what he had
lost, and think only of what he might possibly gain?
"No, I suppose not," said he, at last, in answer to Mr.
Harding. "We have all expected it so long."
Mr. Harding took him by the arm and led him from the
room. "We will see him again to-morrow morning," said he;
"we had better leave the room now to the women." And so they
went downstairs.
It was already evening and nearly dark. It was most
important that the prime minister should know that night
that the diocese was vacant. Everything might depend on it;
and so, in answer to Mr. Harding's further consolation, the
archdeacon suggested that a telegraph message should be
immediately sent off to London. Mr. Harding, who had really
been somewhat surprised to find Dr. Grantly, as he thought,
so much affected, was rather taken aback, but he made no
objection. He knew that the archdeacon had some hope of
succeeding to his father's place, though he by no means knew
how highly raised that hope had been.
"Yes," said Dr. Grantly, collecting himself and shaking
off his weakness, "we must send a message at once; we don't
know what might be the consequence of delay. Will you do
it?'
"I! Oh, yes; certainly. I'll do anything, only I don't
know exactly what it is you want."
Dr. Grantly sat down before a writing-table and, taking
pen and ink, wrote on a slip of paper as follows:—
By Electric Telegraph.
For the Earl of ––––, Downing Street, or
elsewhere.
The Bishop of Barchester is dead.
Message sent by the Rev. Septimus Harding.
|
"There," said he. "Just take that to the telegraph office
at the railway station and give it in as it is; they'll
probably make you copy it on to one of their own slips;
that's all you'll have to do; then you'll have to pay them
half a crown." And the archdeacon put his hand in his pocket
and pulled out the necessary sum.
Mr. Harding felt very much like an errand-boy, and also
felt that he was called on to perform his duties as such at
rather an unseemly time, but he said nothing, and took the
slip of paper and the proffered coin.
"But you've put my name into it, Archdeacon."
"Yes," said the other, "there should be the name of some
clergyman, you know, and what name so proper as that of so
old a friend as yourself? The earl won't look at the name,
you may be sure of that; but my dear Mr. Harding, pray don't
lose any time."
Mr. Harding got as far as the library door on his way to
the station, when he suddenly remembered the news with which
he was fraught when he entered the poor bishop's bedroom. He
had found the moment so inopportune for any mundane tidings,
that he had repressed the words which were on his tongue,
and immediately afterwards all recollection of the
circumstance was for the time banished by the scene which
had occurred.
"But, Archdeacon," said he, turning back, "I forgot to
tell you—the ministry are out."
"Out!" ejaculated the archdeacon, in a tone which too
plainly showed his anxiety and dismay, although under the
circumstances of the moment he endeavoured to control
himself. "Out! Who told you so?"
Mr. Harding explained that news to this effect had come
down by electric telegraph, and that the tidings had been
left at the palace door by Mr. Chadwick.
The archdeacon sat silent for awhile meditating, and Mr.
Harding stood looking at him. "Never mind," said the
archdeacon at last; "send the message all the same. The news
must be sent to someone, and there is at present no one else
in a position to receive it. Do it at once, my dear friend;
you know I would not trouble you, were I in a state to do it
myself. A few minutes' time is of the greatest importance."
Mr. Harding went out and sent the message, and it may be
as well that we should follow it to its destination. Within
thirty minutes of its leaving Barchester it reached the Earl
of –––– in his inner library. What elaborate letters, what
eloquent appeals, what indignant remonstrances he might
there have to frame, at such a moment, may be conceived but
not described! How he was preparing his thunder for
successful rivals, standing like a British peer with his
back to the sea-coal fire, and his hands in his breeches
pockets—how his fine eye was lit up with anger, and his
forehead gleamed with patriotism—how he stamped his foot as
he thought of his heavy associates—how he all but swore as
he remembered how much too clever one of them had been—my
creative readers may imagine. But was he so engaged? No:
history and truth compel me to deny it. He was sitting
easily in a lounging chair, conning over a Newmarket list,
and by his elbow on the table was lying open an uncut French
novel on which he was engaged.
He opened the cover in which the message was enclosed
and, having read it, he took his pen and wrote on the back
of it—
For the Earl of ––––,
With the Earl of ––––'s
compliments
and sent it off again on its journey.
Thus terminated our unfortunate friend's chances of
possessing the glories of a bishopric.
The names of many divines were given in the papers as
that of the bishop-elect. "The British Grandmother" declared
that Dr. Gwynne was to be the man, in compliment to the late
ministry. This was a heavy blow to Dr. Grantly, but he was
not doomed to see himself superseded by his friend. "The
Anglican Devotee" put forward confidently the claims of a
great London preacher of austere doctrines; and "The Eastern
Hemisphere," an evening paper supposed to possess much
official knowledge, declared in favour of an eminent
naturalist, a gentleman most completely versed in the
knowledge of rocks and minerals, but supposed by many to
hold on religious subjects no special doctrines whatever.
"The Jupiter," that daily paper which, as we all know, is
the only true source of infallibly correct information on
all subjects, for awhile was silent, but at last spoke out.
The merits of all these candidates were discussed and
somewhat irreverently disposed of, and then "The Jupiter"
declared that Dr. Proudie was to be the man.
Dr. Proudie was the man. Just a month after the demise of
the late bishop, Dr. Proudie kissed the Queen's hand as his
successor-elect.
We must beg to be allowed to draw a curtain over the
sorrows of the archdeacon as he sat, sombre and sad at
heart, in the study of his parsonage at Plumstead Episcopi.
On the day subsequent to the dispatch of the message he
heard that the Earl of –––– had consented to undertake the
formation of a ministry, and from that moment he knew that
his chance was over. Many will think that he was wicked to
grieve for the loss of episcopal power, wicked to have
coveted it, nay, wicked even to have thought about it, in
the way and at the moments he had done so.
With such censures I cannot profess that I completely
agree. The nolo episcopari, though still in use, is
so directly at variance with the tendency of all human
wishes, that it cannot be thought to express the true
aspirations of rising priests in the Church of England. A
lawyer does not sin in seeking to be a judge, or in
compassing his wishes by all honest means. A young diplomat
entertains a fair ambition when he looks forward to be the
lord of a first-rate embassy; and a poor novelist, when he
attempts to rival Dickens or rise above Fitzjeames, commits
no fault, though he may be foolish. Sydney Smith truly said
that in these recreant days we cannot expect to find the
majesty of St. Paul beneath the cassock of a curate. If we
look to our clergymen to be more than men, we shall probably
teach ourselves to think that they are less, and can hardly
hope to raise the character of the pastor by denying to him
the right to entertain the aspirations of a man.
Our archdeacon was worldly—who among us is not so? He was
ambitious—who among us is ashamed to own that "last
infirmity of noble minds!" He was avaricious, my readers
will say. No;—it was for no love of lucre that he wished to
be Bishop of Barchester. He was his father's only child, and
his father had left him great wealth. His preferment brought
him in nearly three thousand a year. The bishopric, as cut
down by the Ecclesiastical Commission, was only five. He
would be a richer man as archdeacon than he could be as
bishop. But he certainly did desire to play first fiddle; he
did desire to sit in full lawn sleeves among the peers of
the realm; and he did desire, if the truth must out, to be
called "My lord" by his reverend brethren.
His hopes, however, were they innocent or sinful, were
not fated to be realized, and Dr. Proudie was consecrated
Bishop of Barchester.
CHAPTER II
Hiram's Hospital According to Act of Parliament
It is hardly necessary that I should here give to the
public any lengthened biography of Mr. Harding up to the
period of the commencement of this tale. The public cannot
have forgotten how ill that sensitive gentleman bore the
attack that was made on him in the columns of "The Jupiter,"
with reference to the income which he received as warden of
Hiram's Hospital, in the city of Barchester. Nor can it yet
be forgotten that a lawsuit was instituted against him on
the matter of that charity by Mr. John Bold, who afterwards
married his, Mr. Harding's, younger and then only unmarried
daughter. Under pressure of these attacks, Mr. Harding had
resigned his wardenship, though strongly recommended to
abstain from doing so both by his friends and by his
lawyers. He did, however, resign it, and betook himself
manfully to the duties of the small parish of St.
Cuthbert's, in the city, of which he was vicar, continuing
also to perform those of precentor of the cathedral, a
situation of small emolument which had hitherto been
supposed to be joined, as a matter of course, to the
wardenship of the hospital above spoken of.
When he left the hospital from which he had been so
ruthlessly driven, and settled himself down in his own
modest manner in the High Street of Barchester, he had not
expected that others would make more fuss about it than he
was inclined to do himself; extent of his hope was, that the
movement might have been made in time to prevent any further
paragraphs in "The Jupiter." His affairs, however, were not
allowed to subside thus quietly, and people were quite as
much inclined to talk about the disinterested sacrifice he
had made, as they had before been to upbraid him for his
cupidity.
The most remarkable thing that occurred was the receipt
of an autographed letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury,
in which the primate very warmly praised his conduct, and
begged to know what his intentions were for the future. Mr.
Harding replied that he intended to be rector of St.
Cuthbert's, in Barchester, and so that matter dropped. Then
the newspapers took up his case, "The Jupiter" among the
rest, and wafted his name in eulogistic strains through
every reading-room in the nation. It was discovered also
that he was the author of that great musical work,
Harding's Church Music,—and a new edition was spoken of,
though, I believe, never printed. It is, however, certain
that the work was introduced into the Royal Chapel at St.
James's, and that a long criticism appeared in the "Musical
Scrutator," declaring that in no previous work of the kind
had so much research been joined with such exalted musical
ability, and asserting that the name of Harding would
henceforward be known wherever the arts were cultivated, or
religion valued.
This was high praise, and I will not deny that Mr.
Harding was gratified by such flattery; for if Mr. Harding
was vain on any subject, it was on that of music. But here
the matter rested. The second edition, if printed, was never
purchased; the copies which had been introduced into the
Royal Chapel disappeared again, and were laid by in peace,
with a load of similar literature. Mr. Towers of "The
Jupiter" and his brethren occupied themselves with other
names, and the undying fame promised to our friend was
clearly intended to be posthumous.
Mr. Harding had spent much of his time with his friend
the bishop; much with his daughter Mrs. Bold, now, alas, a
widow; and had almost daily visited the wretched remnant of
his former subjects, the few surviving bedesmen now left at
Hiram's Hospital. Six of them were still living. The number,
according to old Hiram's will, should always have been
twelve. But after the abdication of their warden, the bishop
had appointed no successor to him, no new occupants of the
charity had been nominated, and it appeared as though the
hospital at Barchester would fall into abeyance, unless the
powers that be should take some steps towards putting it
once more into working order.
During the past five years, the powers that be had not
overlooked Barchester Hospital, and sundry political doctors
had taken the matter in hand. Shortly after Mr. Harding's
resignation, "The Jupiter" had very clearly shown what ought
to be done. In about half a column it had distributed the
income, rebuilt the buildings, put an end to all bickerings,
regenerated kindly feeling, provided for Mr. Harding, and
placed the whole thing on a footing which could not but be
satisfactory to the city and Bishop of Barchester, and to
the nation at large. The wisdom of this scheme was testified
by the number of letters which "Common Sense," "Veritas,"
and "One that loves fair play" sent to "The Jupiter," all
expressing admiration and amplifying on the details given.
It is singular enough that no adverse letter appeared at
all, and, therefore, none of course was written.
But Cassandra was not believed, and even the wisdom of
"The Jupiter" sometimes falls on deaf ears. Though other
plans did not put themselves forward in the columns of "The
Jupiter," reformers of church charities were not slack to
make known in various places their different nostrums for
setting Hiram's Hospital on its feet again. A learned bishop
took occasion, in the Upper House, to allude to the matter,
intimating that he had communicated on the subject with his
right reverend brother of Barchester. The radical member for
Staleybridge had suggested that the funds should be
alienated for the education of the agricultural poor of the
country, and he amused the house by some anecdotes touching
the superstition and habits of the agriculturists in
question. A political pamphleteer had produced a few dozen
pages, which he called "Who are John Hiram's heirs?"
intending to give an infallible rule for the governance of
all such establishments; and, at last, a member of the
government promised that in the next session a short bill
should be introduced for regulating the affairs of
Barchester and other kindred concerns.
The next session came, and, contrary to custom, the bill
came also. Men's minds were then intent on other things. The
first threatenings of a huge war hung heavily over the
nation, and the question as to Hiram's heirs did not appear
to interest very many people either in or out of the house.
The bill, however, was read and re-read, and in some
undistinguished manner passed through its eleven stages
without appeal or dissent. What would John Hiram have said
in the matter, could he have predicted that some forty-five
gentlemen would take on themselves to make a law altering
the whole purport of his will, without in the least knowing
at the moment of their making it, what it was that they were
doing? It is however to be hoped that the under-secretary
for the Home Office knew, for to him had the matter been
confided.
The bill, however, did pass, and at the time at which
this history is supposed to commence, it had been ordained
that there should be, as heretofore, twelve old men in
Barchester Hospital, each with 1s. 4d. a day; that there
should also be twelve old women to be located in a house to
be built, each with 1s. 2d. a day; that there should be a
matron, with a house and £70 a year; a steward with £150 a
year; and latterly, a warden with £450 a year, who should
have the spiritual guidance of both establishments, and the
temporal guidance of that appertaining to the male sex. The
bishop, dean, and warden were, as formerly, to appoint in
turn the recipients of the charity, and the bishop was to
appoint the officers. There was nothing said as to the
wardenship being held by the precentor of the cathedral, nor
a word as to Mr. Harding's right to the situation.
It was not, however, till some months after the death of
the old bishop, and almost immediately consequent on the
installation of his successor, that notice was given that
the reform was about to be carried out. The new law and the
new bishop were among the earliest works of a new ministry,
or rather of a ministry who, having for awhile given place
to their opponents, had then returned to power; and the
death of Dr. Grantly occurred, as we have seen, exactly at
the period of the change.
Poor Eleanor Bold! How well does that widow's cap become
her, and the solemn gravity with which she devotes herself
to her new duties. Poor Eleanor!
Poor Eleanor! I cannot say that with me John Bold was
ever a favourite. I never thought him worthy of the wife he
had won. But in her estimation he was most worthy. Hers was
one of those feminine hearts which cling to a husband, not
with idolatry, for worship can admit of no defect in its
idol, but with the perfect tenacity of ivy. As the parasite
plant will follow even the defects of the trunk which it
embraces, so did Eleanor cling to and love the very faults
of her husband. She had once declared that whatever her
father did should in her eyes be right. She then transferred
her allegiance, and became ever ready to defend the worst
failings of her lord and master.
And John Bold was a man to be loved by a woman; he was
himself affectionate; he was confiding and manly; and that
arrogance of thought, unsustained by first-rate abilities,
that attempt at being better than his neighbours which
jarred so painfully on the feelings of his acquaintance, did
not injure him in the estimation of his wife.
Could she even have admitted that he had a fault, his
early death would have blotted out the memory of it. She
wept as for the loss of the most perfect treasure with which
mortal woman had ever been endowed; for weeks after he was
gone the idea of future happiness in this world was hateful
to her; consolation, as it is called, was insupportable, and
tears and sleep were her only relief.
But God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. She knew that
she had within her the living source of other cares. She
knew that there was to be created for her another subject of
weal or woe, of unutterable joy or despairing sorrow, as God
in his mercy might vouchsafe to her. At first this did but
augment her grief! To be the mother of a poor infant,
orphaned before it was born, brought forth to the sorrows of
an ever desolate hearth, nurtured amidst tears and wailing,
and then turned adrift into the world without the aid of a
father's care! There was at first no joy in this.
By degrees, however, her heart became anxious for another
object, and, before its birth, the stranger was expected
with all the eagerness of a longing mother. Just eight
months after the father's death a second John Bold was born,
and if the worship of one creature can be innocent in
another, let us hope that the adoration offered over the
cradle of the fatherless infant may not be imputed as a sin.
It will not be worth our while to define the character of
the child, or to point out in how far the faults of the
father were redeemed within that little breast by the
virtues of the mother. The baby, as a baby, was all that was
delightful, and I cannot foresee that it will be necessary
for us to inquire into the facts of his after-life. Our
present business at Barchester will not occupy us above a
year or two at the furthest, and I will leave it to some
other pen to produce, if necessary, the biography of John
Bold the Younger.
But, as a baby, this baby was all that could be desired.
This fact no one attempted to deny. "Is he not delightful?"
she would say to her father, looking up into his face from
her knees, her lustrous eyes overflowing with soft tears,
her young face encircled by her close widow's cap, and her
hands on each side of the cradle in which her treasure was
sleeping. The grandfather would gladly admit that the
treasure was delightful, and the uncle archdeacon himself
would agree, and Mrs. Grantly, Eleanor's sister, would
re-echo the word with true sisterly energy; and Mary
Bold—but Mary Bold was a second worshipper at the same
shrine.
The baby was really delightful; he took his food with a
will, struck out his toes merrily whenever his legs were
uncovered, and did not have fits. These are supposed to be
the strongest points of baby perfection, and in all these
our baby excelled.
And thus the widow's deep grief was softened, and a sweet
balm was poured into the wound which she had thought nothing
but death could heal. How much kinder is God to us than we
are willing to be to ourselves! At the loss of every dear
face, at the last going of every well-beloved one, we all
doom ourselves to an eternity of sorrow, and look to waste
ourselves away in an ever-running fountain of tears. How
seldom does such grief endure! How blessed is the goodness
which forbids it to do so! "Let me ever remember my living
friends, but forget them as soon as dead," was the prayer of
a wise man who understood the mercy of God. Few perhaps
would have the courage to express such a wish, and yet to do
so would only be to ask for that release from sorrow which a
kind Creator almost always extends to us.
I would not, however, have it imagined that Mrs. Bold
forgot her husband. She daily thought of him with all
conjugal love, and enshrined his memory in the innermost
centre of her heart. But yet she was happy in her baby. It
was so sweet to press the living toy to her breast, and feel
that a human being existed who did owe, and was to owe,
everything to her; whose daily food was drawn from herself;
whose little wants could all be satisfied by her; whose
little heart would first love her and her only; whose infant
tongue would make its first effort in calling her by the
sweetest name a woman can hear. And so Eleanor's bosom
became tranquil, and she set about her new duties eagerly
and gratefully.
As regards the concerns of the world, John Bold had left
his widow in prosperous circumstances. He had bequeathed to
her all that he possessed, and that comprised an income much
exceeding what she or her friends thought necessary for her.
It amounted to nearly a thousand a year; when she reflected
on its extent, her dearest hope was to hand it over, not
only unimpaired but increased, to her husband's son, to her
own darling, to the little man who now lay sleeping on her
knee, happily ignorant of the cares which were to be
accumulated in his behalf.
When John Bold died, she earnestly implored her father to
come and live with her, but this Mr. Harding declined,
though for some weeks he remained with her as a visitor. He
could not be prevailed upon to forego the possession of some
small home of his own, and so remained in the lodgings he
had first selected over a chemist's shop in the High Street
of Barchester.
CHAPTER III
Dr. and Mrs. Proudie
This narrative is supposed to commence immediately after
the installation of Dr. Proudie. I will not describe the
ceremony, as I do not precisely understand its nature. I am
ignorant whether a bishop be chaired like a member of
Parliament, or carried in a gilt coach like a lord mayor, or
sworn like a justice of peace, or introduced like a peer to
the upper house, or led between two brethren like a knight
of the garter; but I do know that everything was properly
done, and that nothing fit or becoming to a young bishop was
omitted on the occasion.
Dr. Proudie was not the man to allow anything to be
omitted that might be becoming to his new dignity. He
understood well the value of forms, and knew that the due
observance of rank could not be maintained unless the
exterior trappings belonging to it were held in proper
esteem. He was a man born to move in high circles; at least
so he thought himself, and circumstances had certainly
sustained him in this view. He was the nephew of an Irish
baron by his mother's side, and his wife was the niece of a
Scotch earl. He had for years held some clerical office
appertaining to courtly matters, which had enabled him to
live in London, and to entrust his parish to his curate. He
had been preacher to the royal beefeaters, curator of
theological manuscripts in the Ecclesiastical Courts,
chaplain to the Queen's yeomanry guard, and almoner to his
Royal Highness the Prince of Rappe-Blankenberg.
His residence in the metropolis, rendered necessary by
duties thus entrusted to him, his high connexions, and the
peculiar talents and nature of the man, recommended him to
persons in power, and Dr. Proudie became known as a useful
and rising clergyman.
Some few years since, even within the memory of many who
are not yet willing to call themselves old, a liberal
clergyman was a person not frequently to be met. Sydney
Smith was such and was looked on as little better than an
infidel; a few others also might be named, but they were
rarae aves and were regarded with doubt and distrust by
their brethren. No man was so surely a Tory as a country
rector—nowhere were the powers that be so cherished as at
Oxford.
When, however, Dr. Whately was made an archbishop, and
Dr. Hampden some years afterwards regius professor, many
wise divines saw that a change was taking place in men's
minds, and that more liberal ideas would henceforward be
suitable to the priests as well as to the laity. Clergymen
began to be heard of who had ceased to anathematize papists
on the one hand, or vilify dissenters on the other. It
appeared clear that High Church principles, as they are
called, were no longer to be surest claims to promotion with
at any rate one section of statesmen, and Dr. Proudie was
one among those who early in life adapted himself to the
views held by the Whigs on most theological and religious
subjects. He bore with the idolatry of Rome, tolerated even
the infidelity of Socinianism, and was hand and glove with
the Presbyterian Synods of Scotland and Ulster.
Such a man at such a time was found to be useful, and Dr.
Proudie's name began to appear in the newspapers. He was
made one of a commission who went over to Ireland to arrange
matters preparative to the working of the national board; he
became honorary secretary to another commission nominated to
inquire into the revenues of cathedral chapters; he had had
something to do with both the regium donum and the
Maynooth grant.
It must not on this account be taken as proved that Dr.
Proudie was a man of great mental powers, or even of much
capacity for business, for such qualities had not been
required in him. In the arrangement of those church reforms
with which he was connected, the ideas and original
conception of the work to be done were generally furnished
by the liberal statesmen of the day, and the labour of the
details was borne by officials of a lower rank. It was,
however, thought expedient that the name of some clergyman
should appear in such matters, and as Dr. Proudie had become
known as a tolerating divine, great use of this sort was
made of his name. If he did not do much active good, he
never did any harm; he was amenable to those who were really
in authority and, at the sittings of the various boards to
which he belonged, maintained a kind of dignity which had
its value.
He was certainly possessed of sufficient tact to answer
the purpose for which he was required without making himself
troublesome; but it must not therefore be surmised that he
doubted his own power, or failed to believe that he could
himself take a high part in high affairs when his own turn
came. He was biding his time, and patiently looking forward
to the days when he himself would sit authoritative at some
board, and talk and direct, and rule the roost, while lesser
stars sat round and obeyed, as he had so well accustomed
himself to do.
His reward and his time had now come. He was selected for
the vacant bishopric and, on the next vacancy which might
occur in any diocese, would take his place in the House of
Lords, prepared to give not a silent vote in all matters
concerning the weal of the church establishment. Toleration
was to be the basis on which he was to fight his battles,
and in the honest courage of his heart he thought no evil
would come to him in encountering even such foes as his
brethren of Exeter and Oxford.
Dr. Proudie was an ambitious man, and before he was well
consecrated Bishop of Barchester, he had begun to look up to
archiepiscopal splendour, and the glories of Lambeth, or at
any rate of Bishopsthorpe. He was comparatively young, and
had, as he fondly flattered himself, been selected as
possessing such gifts, natural and acquired, as must be sure
to recommend him to a yet higher notice, now that a higher
sphere was opened to him. Dr. Proudie was, therefore, quite
prepared to take a conspicuous part in all theological
affairs appertaining to these realms; and having such views,
by no means intended to bury himself at Barchester as his
predecessor had done. No! London should still be his ground:
a comfortable mansion in a provincial city might be well
enough for the dead months of the year. Indeed, Dr. Proudie
had always felt it necessary to his position to retire from
London when other great and fashionable people did so; but
London should still be his fixed residence, and it was in
London that he resolved to exercise that hospitality so
peculiarly recommended to all bishops by St. Paul. How
otherwise could he keep himself before the world? How else
give to the government, in matters theological, the full
benefit of his weight and talents?
This resolution was no doubt a salutary one as regarded
the world at large, but was not likely to make him popular
either with the clergy or people of Barchester. Dr. Grantly
had always lived there—in truth, it was hard for a bishop to
be popular after Dr. Grantly. His income had averaged £9,000
a year; his successor was to be rigidly limited to £5,000.
He had but one child on whom to spend his money; Dr. Proudie
had seven or eight. He had been a man of few personal
expenses, and they had been confined to the tastes of a
moderate gentleman; but Dr. Proudie had to maintain a
position in fashionable society, and had that to do with
comparatively small means. Dr. Grantly had certainly kept
his carriage as became a bishop, but his carriage, horses,
and coachman, though they did very well for Barchester,
would have been almost ridiculous at Westminster. Mrs.
Proudie determined that her husband's equipage should not
shame her, and things on which Mrs. Proudie resolved were
generally accomplished.
From all this it was likely to result that Dr. Proudie
would not spend much money at Barchester, whereas his
predecessor had dealt with the tradesmen of the city in a
manner very much to their satisfaction. The Grantlys, father
and son, had spent their money like gentlemen, but it soon
became whispered in Barchester that Dr. Proudie was not
unacquainted with those prudent devices by which the utmost
show of wealth is produced from limited means.
In person Dr. Proudie is a good-looking man; spruce and
dapper, and very tidy. He is somewhat below middle height,
being about five feet four; but he makes up for the inches
which he wants by the dignity with which he carries those
which he has. It is no fault of his own if he has not a
commanding eye, for he studies hard to assume it. His
features are well formed, though perhaps the sharpness of
his nose may give to his face in the eyes of some people an
air of insignificance. If so, it is greatly redeemed by his
mouth and chin, of which he is justly proud.
Dr. Proudie may well be said to have been a fortunate
man, for he was not born to wealth, and he is now Bishop of
Barchester; nevertheless, he has his cares. He has a large
family, of whom the three eldest are daughters, now all
grown up and fit for fashionable life;—and he has a wife. It
is not my intention to breathe a word against the character
of Mrs. Proudie, but still I cannot think that with all her
virtues she adds much to her husband's happiness. The truth
is that in matters domestic she rules supreme over her
titular lord, and rules with a rod of iron. Nor is this all.
Things domestic Dr. Proudie might have abandoned to her, if
not voluntarily, yet willingly. But Mrs. Proudie is not
satisfied with such home dominion, and stretches her power
over all his movements, and will not even abstain from
things spiritual. In fact, the bishop is hen-pecked.
The archdeacon's wife, in her happy home at Plumstead,
knows how to assume the full privileges of her rank and
express her own mind in becoming tone and place. But Mrs.
Grantly's sway, if sway she has, is easy and beneficent. She
never shames her husband; before the world she is a pattern
of obedience; her voice is never loud, nor her looks sharp:
doubtless she values power, and has not unsuccessfully
striven to acquire it; but she knows what should be the
limits of a woman's rule.
Not so Mrs. Proudie. This lady is habitually
authoritative to all, but to her poor husband she is
despotic. Successful as has been his career in the eyes of
the world, it would seem that in the eyes of his wife he is
never right. All hope of defending himself has long passed
from him; indeed he rarely even attempts self-justification,
and is aware that submission produces the nearest approach
to peace which his own house can ever attain.
Mrs. Proudie has not been able to sit at the boards and
committees to which her husband has been called by the
State, nor, as he often reflects, can she make her voice
heard in the House of Lords. It may be that she will refuse
to him permission to attend to this branch of a bishop's
duties; it may be that she will insist on his close
attendance to his own closet. He has never whispered a word
on the subject to living ears, but he has already made his
fixed resolve. Should such attempt be made he will rebel.
Dogs have turned against their masters, and even Neapolitans
against their rulers, when oppression has been too severe.
And Dr. Proudie feels within himself that if the cord be
drawn too tight, he also can muster courage and resist.
The state of vassalage in which our bishop has been kept
by his wife has not tended to exalt his character in the
eyes of his daughters, who assume in addressing their father
too much of that authority which is not properly belonging,
at any rate, to them. They are, on the whole, fine engaging
young ladies. They are tall and robust like their mother,
whose high cheek-bones, and—we may say auburn hair they all
inherit. They think somewhat too much of their grand-uncles,
who have not hitherto returned the compliment by thinking
much of them. But now that their father is a bishop, it is
probable that family ties will be drawn closer. Considering
their connexion with the church, they entertain but few
prejudices against the pleasures of the world, and have
certainly not distressed their parents, as too many English
girls have lately done, by any enthusiastic wish to devote
themselves to the seclusion of a Protestant nunnery. Dr.
Proudie's sons are still at school.
One other marked peculiarity in the character of the
bishop's wife must be mentioned. Though not averse to the
society and manners of the world, she is in her own way a
religious woman; and the form in which this tendency shows
itself in her is by a strict observance of Sabbatarian rule.
Dissipation and low dresses during the week are, under her
control, atoned for by three services, an evening sermon
read by herself, and a perfect abstinence from any cheering
employment on the Sunday. Unfortunately for those under her
roof to whom the dissipation and low dresses are not
extended, her servants namely and her husband, the
compensating strictness of the Sabbath includes all. Woe
betide the recreant housemaid who is found to have been
listening to the honey of a sweetheart in the Regent's park
instead of the soul-stirring evening discourse of Mr. Slope.
Not only is she sent adrift, but she is so sent with a
character which leaves her little hope of a decent place.
Woe betide the six-foot hero who escorts Mrs. Proudie to her
pew in red plush breeches, if he slips away to the
neighbouring beer-shop, instead of falling into the back
seat appropriated to his use. Mrs. Proudie has the eyes of
Argus for such offenders. Occasional drunkenness in the week
may be overlooked, for six feet on low wages are hardly to
be procured if the morals are always kept at a high pitch,
but not even for grandeur or economy will Mrs. Proudie
forgive a desecration of the Sabbath.
In such matters Mrs. Proudie allows herself to be often
guided by that eloquent preacher, the Rev. Mr. Slope, and as
Dr. Proudie is guided by his wife, it necessarily follows
that the eminent man we have named has obtained a good deal
of control over Dr. Proudie in matters concerning religion.
Mr. Slope's only preferment has hitherto been that of reader
and preacher in a London district church; and on the
consecration of his friend the new bishop, he readily gave
this up to undertake the onerous but congenial duties of
domestic chaplain to his lordship.
Mr. Slope, however, on his first introduction must not be
brought before the public at the tail of a chapter.
CHAPTER IV
The Bishop's Chaplain
Of the Rev. Mr. Slope's parentage I am not able to say
much. I have heard it asserted that he is lineally descended
from that eminent physician who assisted at the birth of Mr.
T. Shandy, and that in early years he added an "e" to his
name, for the sake of euphony, as other great men have done
before him. If this be so, I presume he was christened
Obadiah, for that is his name, in commemoration of the
conflict in which his ancestor so distinguished himself. All
my researches on the subject have, however, failed in
enabling me to fix the date on which the family changed its
religion.
He had been a sizar at Cambridge, and had there conducted
himself at any rate successfully, for in due process of time
he was an M.A., having university pupils under his care.
From thence he was transferred to London, and became
preacher at a new district church built on the confines of
Baker Street. He was in this position when congenial ideas
on religious subjects recommended him to Mrs. Proudie, and
the intercourse had become close and confidential.
Having been thus familiarly thrown among the Misses
Proudie, it was no more than natural that some softer
feeling than friendship should be engendered. There have
been some passages of love between him and the eldest hope,
Olivia, but they have hitherto resulted in no favourable
arrangement. In truth, Mr. Slope, having made a declaration
of affection, afterwards withdrew it on finding that the
doctor had no immediate worldly funds with which to endow
his child, and it may easily be conceived that Miss Proudie,
after such an announcement on his part, was not readily
disposed to receive any further show of affection. On the
appointment of Dr. Proudie to the bishopric of Barchester,
Mr. Slope's views were in truth somewhat altered. Bishops,
even though they be poor, can provide for clerical children,
and Mr. Slope began to regret that he had not been more
disinterested. He no sooner heard the tidings of the
doctor's elevation than he recommenced his siege, not
violently, indeed, but respectfully, and at a distance.
Olivia Proudie, however, was a girl of spirit: she had the
blood of two peers in her veins, and better still she had
another lover on her books, so Mr. Slope sighed in vain, and
the pair soon found it convenient to establish a mutual bond
of inveterate hatred.
It may be thought singular that Mrs. Proudie's friendship
for the young clergyman should remain firm after such an
affair, but, to tell the truth, she had known nothing of it.
Though very fond of Mr. Slope herself, she had never
conceived the idea that either of her daughters would become
so, and remembering their high birth and social advantages,
expected for them matches of a different sort. Neither the
gentleman nor the lady found it necessary to enlighten her.
Olivia's two sisters had each known of the affair, as had
all the servants, as had all the people living in the
adjoining houses on either side, but Mrs. Proudie had been
kept in the dark.
Mr. Slope soon comforted himself with the reflexion that,
as he had been selected as chaplain to the bishop, it would
probably be in his power to get the good things in the
bishop's gift without troubling himself with the bishop's
daughter, and he found himself able to endure the pangs of
rejected love. As he sat himself down in the railway
carriage, confronting the bishop and Mrs. Proudie as they
started on their first journey to Barchester, he began to
form in his own mind a plan of his future life. He knew well
his patron's strong points, but he knew the weak ones as
well. He understood correctly enough to what attempts the
new bishop's high spirit would soar, and he rightly guessed
that public life would better suit the great man's taste
than the small details of diocesan duty.
He, therefore,—he, Mr. Slope,—would in effect be Bishop
of Barchester. Such was his resolve, and to give Mr. Slope
his due, he had both courage and spirit to bear him out in
his resolution. He knew that he should have a hard battle to
fight, for the power and patronage of the see would be
equally coveted by another great mind—Mrs. Proudie would
also choose to be Bishop of Barchester. Mr. Slope, however,
flattered himself that he could outmanoeuvre the lady. She
must live much in London, while he would always be on the
spot. She would necessarily remain ignorant of much, while
he would know everything belonging to the diocese. At first,
doubtless, he must flatter and cajole, perhaps yield in some
things, but he did not doubt of ultimate triumph. If all
other means failed, he could join the bishop against his
wife, inspire courage into the unhappy man, lay an axe to
the root of the woman's power, and emancipate the husband.
Such were his thoughts as he sat looking at the sleeping
pair in the railway carriage, and Mr. Slope is not the man
to trouble himself with such thoughts for nothing. He is
possessed of more than average abilities, and is of good
courage. Though he can stoop to fawn, and stoop low indeed,
if need be, he has still within him the power to assume the
tyrant;—and with the power he has certainly the wish. His
acquirements are not of the highest order, but such as they
are, they are completely under control, and he knows the use
of them. He is gifted with a certain kind of pulpit
eloquence, not likely indeed to be persuasive with men, but
powerful with the softer sex. In his sermons he deals
greatly in denunciations, excites the minds of his weaker
hearers with a not unpleasant terror, and leaves an
impression on their minds that all mankind are in a perilous
state, and all womankind, too, except those who attend
regularly to the evening lectures in Baker Street. His looks
and tones are extremely severe, so much so that one cannot
but fancy that he regards the greater part of the world as
being infinitely too bad for his care. As he walks through
the streets his very face denotes his horror of the world's
wickedness, and there is always an anathema lurking in the
corner of his eye.
In doctrine he, like his patron, is tolerant of dissent,
if so strict a mind can be called tolerant of anything. With
Wesleyan-Methodists he has something in common, but his soul
trembles in agony at the iniquities of the Puseyites. His
aversion is carried to things outward as well as inward. His
gall rises at a new church with a high-pitched roof; a
full-breasted black silk waistcoat is with him a symbol of
Satan; and a profane jest-book would not, in his view, more
foully desecrate the church seat of a Christian than a book
of prayer printed with red letters and ornamented with a
cross on the back. Most active clergymen have their hobby,
and Sunday observances are his. Sunday, however, is a word
which never pollutes his mouth—it is always "the Sabbath."
The "desecration of the Sabbath," as he delights to call it,
is to him meat and drink: he thrives upon that as policemen
do on the general evil habits of the community. It is the
loved subject of all his evening discourses, the source of
all his eloquence, the secret of all his power over the
female heart. To him the revelation of God appears only in
that one law given for Jewish observance. To him the mercies
of our Saviour speak in vain, to him in vain has been
preached that sermon which fell from divine lips on the
mountain—"Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the
earth"—"Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain
mercy." To him the New Testament is comparatively of little
moment, for from it can he draw no fresh authority for that
dominion which he loves to exercise over at least a seventh
part of man's allotted time here below.
Mr. Slope is tall, and not ill-made. His feet and hands
are large, as has ever been the case with all his family,
but he has a broad chest and wide shoulders to carry off
these excrescences, and on the whole his figure is good. His
countenance, however, is not specially prepossessing. His
hair is lank and of a dull pale reddish hue. It is always
formed into three straight, lumpy masses, each brushed with
admirable precision and cemented with much grease; two of
them adhere closely to the sides of his face, and the other
lies at right angles above them. He wears no whiskers, and
is always punctiliously shaven. His face is nearly of the
same colour as his hair, though perhaps a little redder: it
is not unlike beef—beef, however, one would say, of a bad
quality. His forehead is capacious and high, but square and
heavy and unpleasantly shining. His mouth is large, though
his lips are thin and bloodless; and his big, prominent,
pale-brown eyes inspire anything but confidence. His nose,
however, is his redeeming feature: it is pronounced,
straight and well-formed; though I myself should have liked
it better did it not possess a somewhat spongy, porous
appearance, as though it had been cleverly formed out of a
red-coloured cork.
I never could endure to shake hands with Mr. Slope. A
cold, clammy perspiration always exudes from him, the small
drops are ever to be seen standing on his brow, and his
friendly grasp is unpleasant.
Such is Mr. Slope—such is the man who has suddenly fallen
into the midst of Barchester Close, and is destined there to
assume the station which has heretofore been filled by the
son of the late bishop. Think, oh, my meditative reader,
what an associate we have here for those comfortable
prebendaries, those gentlemanlike clerical doctors, those
happy, well-used, well-fed minor canons who have grown into
existence at Barchester under the kindly wings of Bishop
Grantly!
But not as a mere associate for these does Mr. Slope
travel down to Barchester with the bishop and his wife. He
intends to be, if not their master, at least the chief among
them. He intends to lead and to have followers; he intends
to hold the purse-strings of the diocese and draw round him
an obedient herd of his poor and hungry brethren.
And here we can hardly fail to draw a comparison between
the archdeacon and our new private chaplain, and despite the
manifold faults of the former, one can hardly fail to make
it much to his advantage.
Both men are eager, much too eager, to support and
increase the power of their order. Both are anxious that the
world should be priest-governed, though they have probably
never confessed so much, even to themselves. Both begrudge
any other kind of dominion held by man over man. Dr.
Grantly, if he admits the Queen's supremacy in things
spiritual, only admits it as being due to the
quasi-priesthood conveyed in the consecrating qualities of
her coronation, and he regards things temporal as being by
their nature subject to those which are spiritual. Mr.
Slope's ideas of sacerdotal rule are of quite a different
class. He cares nothing, one way or the other, for the
Queen's supremacy; these to his ears are empty words,
meaning nothing. Forms he regards but little, and such
titular expressions as supremacy, consecration, ordination,
and the like convey of themselves no significance to him.
Let him be supreme who can. The temporal king, judge, or
gaoler can work but on the body. The spiritual master, if he
have the necessary gifts and can duly use them, has a wider
field of empire. He works upon the soul. If he can make
himself be believed, he can be all powerful over those who
listen. If he be careful to meddle with none who are too
strong in intellect, or too weak in flesh, he may indeed be
supreme. And such was the ambition of Mr. Slope.
Dr. Grantly interfered very little with the worldly
doings of those who were in any way subject to him. I do not
mean to say that he omitted to notice misconduct among his
clergy, immorality in his parish, or omissions in his
family, but he was not anxious to do so where the necessity
could be avoided. He was not troubled with a propensity to
be curious, and as long as those around him were tainted
with no heretical leaning towards dissent, as long as they
fully and freely admitted the efficacy of Mother Church, he
was willing that that mother should be merciful and
affectionate, prone to indulgence, and unwilling to
chastise. He himself enjoyed the good things of this world
and liked to let it be known that he did so. He cordially
despised any brother rector who thought harm of
dinner-parties, or dreaded the dangers of a moderate
claret-jug; consequently, dinner-parties and claret-jugs
were common in the diocese. He liked to give laws and to be
obeyed in them implicitly, but he endeavoured that his
ordinances should be within the compass of the man and not
unpalatable to the gentleman. He had ruled among his
clerical neighbours now for sundry years, and as he had
maintained his power without becoming unpopular, it may be
presumed that he had exercised some wisdom.
Of Mr. Slope's conduct much cannot be said, as his grand
career is yet to commence, but it may be premised that his
tastes will be very different from those of the archdeacon.
He conceives it to be his duty to know all the private
doings and desires of the flock entrusted to his care. From
the poorer classes he exacts an unconditional obedience to
set rules of conduct, and if disobeyed he has recourse, like
his great ancestor, to the fulminations of an Ernulfus:
"Thou shalt be damned in thy going in and in thy coming
out—in thy eating and thy drinking," &c. &c. &c. With the
rich, experience has already taught him that a different
line of action is necessary. Men in the upper walks of life
do not mind being cursed, and the women, presuming that it
be done in delicate phrase, rather like it. But he has not,
therefore, given up so important a portion of believing
Christians. With the men, indeed, he is generally at
variance; they are hardened sinners, on whom the voice of
the priestly charmer too often falls in vain; but with the
ladies, old and young, firm and frail, devout and
dissipated, he is, as he conceives, all powerful. He can
reprove faults with so much flattery and utter censure in so
caressing a manner that the female heart, if it glow with a
spark of Low Church susceptibility, cannot withstand him. In
many houses he is thus an admired guest: the husbands, for
their wives' sake, are fain to admit him; and when once
admitted it is not easy to shake him off. He has, however, a
pawing, greasy way with him, which does not endear him to
those who do not value him for their souls' sake, and he is
not a man to make himself at once popular in a large circle
such as is now likely to surround him at Barchester.
CHAPTER V
A Morning Visit
It was known that Dr. Proudie would immediately have to
reappoint to the wardenship of the hospital under the act of
Parliament to which allusion has been made; no one imagined
that any choice was left to him—no one for a moment thought
that he could appoint any other than Mr. Harding. Mr.
Harding himself, when he heard how the matter had been
settled, without troubling himself much on the subject,
considered it as certain that he would go back to his
pleasant house and garden. And though there would be much
that was melancholy, nay, almost heartrending, in such a
return, he still was glad that it was to be so. His daughter
might probably be persuaded to return there with him. She
had, indeed, all but promised to do so, though she still
entertained an idea that that greatest of mortals, that
important atom of humanity, that little god upon earth,
Johnny Bold her baby, ought to have a house of his own over
his head.
Such being the state of Mr. Harding's mind in the matter,
he did not feel any peculiar personal interest in the
appointment of Dr. Proudie to the bishopric. He, as well as
others at Barchester, regretted that a man should be sent
among them who, they were aware, was not of their way of
thinking; but Mr. Harding himself was not a bigoted man on
points of church doctrine, and he was quite prepared to
welcome Dr. Proudie to Barchester in a graceful and becoming
manner. He had nothing to seek and nothing to fear; he felt
that it behoved him to be on good terms with his bishop, and
he did not anticipate any obstacle that would prevent it.
In such a frame of mind he proceeded to pay his respects
at the palace the second day after the arrival of the bishop
and his chaplain. But he did not go alone. Dr. Grantly
proposed to accompany him, and Mr. Harding was not sorry to
have a companion, who would remove from his shoulders the
burden of the conversation in such an interview. In the
affair of the consecration Dr. Grantly had been introduced
to the bishop, and Mr. Harding had also been there. He had,
however, kept himself in the background, and he was now to
be presented to the great man for the first time.
The archdeacon's feelings were of a much stronger nature.
He was not exactly the man to overlook his own slighted
claims, or to forgive the preference shown to another. Dr.
Proudie was playing Venus to his Juno, and he was prepared
to wage an internecine war against the owner of the
wished-for apple, and all his satellites, private chaplains,
and others.
Nevertheless, it behoved him also to conduct himself
towards the intruder as an old archdeacon should conduct
himself to an incoming bishop; and though he was well aware
of all Dr. Proudie's abominable opinions as regarded
dissenters, church reform, the hebdomadal council, and such
like; though he disliked the man, and hated the doctrines,
still he was prepared to show respect to the station of the
bishop. So he and Mr. Harding called together at the palace.
His lordship was at home, and the two visitors were shown
through the accustomed hall into the well-known room where
the good old bishop used to sit. The furniture had been
bought at a valuation, and every chair and table, every
bookshelf against the wall, and every square in the carpet
was as well known to each of them as their own bedrooms.
Nevertheless they at once felt that they were strangers
there. The furniture was for the most part the same, yet the
place had been metamorphosed. A new sofa had been
introduced, a horrid chintz affair, most unprelatical and
almost irreligious; such a sofa as never yet stood in the
study of any decent High Church clergyman of the Church of
England. The old curtains had also given way. They had, to
be sure, become dingy, and that which had been originally a
rich and goodly ruby had degenerated into a reddish brown.
Mr. Harding, however, thought the old reddish-brown much
preferable to the gaudy buff-coloured trumpery moreen which
Mrs. Proudie had deemed good enough for her husband's own
room in the provincial city of Barchester.
Our friends found Dr. Proudie sitting on the old bishop's
chair, looking very nice in his new apron; they found, too,
Mr. Slope standing on the hearth-rug, persuasive and eager,
just as the archdeacon used to stand; but on the sofa they
also found Mrs. Proudie, an innovation for which a precedent
might in vain be sought in all the annals of the Barchester
bishopric!
There she was, however, and they could only make the best
of her. The introductions were gone through in much form.
The archdeacon shook hands with the bishop, and named Mr.
Harding, who received such an amount of greeting as was due
from a bishop to a precentor. His lordship then presented
them to his lady wife; the archdeacon first, with
archidiaconal honours, and then the precentor with
diminished parade. After this Mr. Slope presented himself.
The bishop, it is true, did mention his name, and so did
Mrs. Proudie too, in a louder tone, but Mr. Slope took upon
himself the chief burden of his own introduction. He had
great pleasure in making himself acquainted with Dr.
Grantly; he had heard much of the archdeacon's good works in
that part of the diocese in which his duties as archdeacon
had been exercised (thus purposely ignoring the archdeacon's
hitherto unlimited dominion over the diocese at large). He
was aware that his lordship depended greatly on the
assistance which Dr. Grantly would be able to give him in
that portion of his diocese. He then thrust out his hand
and, grasping that of his new foe, bedewed it unmercifully.
Dr. Grantly in return bowed, looked stiff, contracted his
eyebrows, and wiped his hand with his pocket-handkerchief.
Nothing abashed, Mr. Slope then noticed the precentor and
descended to the grade of the lower clergy. He gave him a
squeeze of the hand, damp indeed, but affectionate, and was
very glad to make the acquaintance of Mr.—oh yes, Mr.
Harding; he had not exactly caught the name. "Precentor in
the cathedral," surmised Mr. Slope. Mr. Harding confessed
that such was the humble sphere of his work. "Some parish
duty as well," suggested Mr. Slope. Mr. Harding acknowledged
the diminutive incumbency of St. Cuthbert's. Mr. Slope then
left him alone, having condescended sufficiently, and joined
the conversation among the higher powers.
There were four persons there, each of whom considered
himself the most important personage in the diocese—himself,
indeed, or herself, as Mrs. Proudie was one of them—and with
such a difference of opinion it was not probable that they
would get on pleasantly together. The bishop himself
actually wore the visible apron, and trusted mainly to
that—to that and his title, both being facts which could not
be overlooked. The archdeacon knew his subject and really
understood the business of bishoping, which the others did
not, and this was his strong ground. Mrs. Proudie had her
sex to back her, and her habit of command, and was nothing
daunted by the high tone of Dr. Grantly's face and figure.
Mr. Slope had only himself and his own courage and tact to
depend on, but he nevertheless was perfectly self-assured,
and did not doubt but that he should soon get the better of
weak men who trusted so much to externals, as both bishop
and archdeacon appeared to do.
"Do you reside in Barchester, Dr. Grantly?" asked the
lady with her sweetest smile.
Dr. Grantly explained that he lived in his own parish of
Plumstead Episcopi, a few miles out of the city. Whereupon
the lady hoped that the distance was not too great for
country visiting, as she would be so glad to make the
acquaintance of Mrs. Grantly. She would take the earliest
opportunity, after the arrival of her horses at Barchester;
their horses were at present in London; their horses were
not immediately coming down, as the bishop would be obliged,
in a few days, to return to town. Dr. Grantly was no doubt
aware that the bishop was at present much called upon by the
"University Improvement Committee:" indeed, the committee
could not well proceed without him, as their final report
had now to be drawn up. The bishop had also to prepare a
scheme for the "Manufacturing Towns Morning and Evening
Sunday School Society," of which he was a patron, or
president, or director, and therefore the horses would not
come down to Barchester at present; but whenever the horses
did come down, she would take the earliest opportunity of
calling at Plumstead Episcopi, providing the distance was
not too great for country visiting.
The archdeacon made his fifth bow—he had made one at each
mention of the horses—and promised that Mrs. Grantly would
do herself the honour of calling at the palace on an early
day. Mrs. Proudie declared that she would be delighted: she
hadn't liked to ask, not being quite sure whether Mrs.
Grantly had horses; besides, the distance might have been,
&c. &c.
Dr. Grantly again bowed but said nothing. He could have
bought every individual possession of the whole family of
the Proudies and have restored them as a gift, without much
feeling the loss; and had kept a separate pair of horses for
the exclusive use of his wife since the day of his marriage,
whereas Mrs. Proudie had been hitherto jobbed about the
streets of London at so much a month, during the season, and
at other times had managed to walk, or hire a smart fly from
the livery stables.
"Are the arrangements with reference to the Sabbath-day
schools generally pretty good in your archdeaconry?" asked
Mr. Slope.
"Sabbath-day schools!" repeated the archdeacon with an
affectation of surprise. "Upon my word, I can't tell; it
depends mainly on the parson's wife and daughters. There is
none at Plumstead."
This was almost a fib on the part of the archdeacon, for
Mrs. Grantly has a very nice school. To be sure it is not a
Sunday-school exclusively, and is not so designated, but
that exemplary lady always attends there for an hour before
church, and hears the children say their catechism, and sees
that they are clean and tidy for church, with their hands
washed and their shoes tied; and Grisel and Florinda, her
daughters, carry thither a basket of large buns, baked on
the Saturday afternoon, and distribute them to all the
children not especially under disgrace, which buns are
carried home after church with considerable content, and
eaten hot at tea, being then split and toasted. The children
of Plumstead would indeed open their eyes if they heard
their venerated pastor declare that there was no
Sunday-school in his parish.
Mr. Slope merely opened his wide eyes wider and slightly
shrugged his shoulders. He was not, however, prepared to
give up his darling project.
"I fear there is a great deal of Sabbath travelling
here," said he. "On looking at the 'Bradshaw,' I see that
there are three trains in and three out every Sabbath. Could
nothing be done to induce the company to withdraw them?
Don't you think, Dr. Grantly, that a little energy might
diminish the evil?"
"Not being a director, I really can't say. But if you can
withdraw the passengers, the company I dare say will
withdraw the trains," said the doctor. "It's merely a
question of dividends."
"But surely, Dr. Grantly," said the lady; "surely we
should look at it differently. You and I, for instance, in
our position: surely we should do all that we can to control
so grievous a sin. Don't you think so, Mr. Harding?" and she
turned to the precentor, who was sitting mute and unhappy.
Mr. Harding thought that all porters and stokers, guards,
brakesmen, and pointsmen ought to have an opportunity of
going to church, and he hoped that they all had.
"But surely, surely," continued Mrs. Proudie, "surely
that is not enough. Surely that will not secure such an
observance of the Sabbath as we are taught to conceive is
not only expedient but indispensable; surely—"
Come what come might, Dr. Grantly was not to be forced
into a dissertation on a point of doctrine with Mrs.
Proudie, nor yet with Mr. Slope, so without much ceremony he
turned his back upon the sofa and began to hope that Dr.
Proudie had found that the palace repairs had been such as
to meet his wishes.
"Yes, yes," said his lordship; upon the whole he thought
so—upon the whole, he didn't know that there was much ground
for complaint; the architect, perhaps, might have—but his
double, Mr. Slope, who had sidled over to the bishop's
chair, would not allow his lordship to finish his ambiguous
speech.
"There is one point I would like to mention, Mr.
Archdeacon. His lordship asked me to step through the
premises, and I see that the stalls in the second stable are
not perfect."
"Why—there's standing there for a dozen horses," said the
archdeacon.
"Perhaps so," said the other; "indeed, I've no doubt of
it; but visitors, you know, often require so much
accommodation. There are so many of the bishop's relatives
who always bring their own horses."
Dr. Grantly promised that due provision for the
relatives' horses should be made, as far at least as the
extent of the original stable building would allow. He would
himself communicate with the architect.
"And the coach-house, Dr. Grantly," continued Mr. Slope;
"there is really hardly room for a second carriage in the
large coach-house, and the smaller one, of course, holds
only one."
"And the gas," chimed in the lady; "there is no gas
through the house, none whatever, but in the kitchen and
passages. Surely the palace should have been fitted through
with pipes for gas, and hot water too. There is no hot water
laid on anywhere above the ground-floor; surely there should
be the means of getting hot water in the bedrooms without
having it brought in jugs from the kitchen."
The bishop had a decided opinion that there should be
pipes for hot water. Hot water was very essential for the
comfort of the palace. It was, indeed, a requisite in any
decent gentleman's house.
Mr. Slope had remarked that the coping on the garden wall
was in many places imperfect.
Mrs. Proudie had discovered a large hole, evidently the
work of rats, in the servants' hall.
The bishop expressed an utter detestation of rats. There
was nothing, he believed, in this world that he so much
hated as a rat.
Mr. Slope had, moreover, observed that the locks of the
outhouses were very imperfect: he might specify the
coal-cellar and the woodhouse.
Mrs. Proudie had also seen that those on the doors of the
servants' bedrooms were in an-equally bad condition; indeed,
the locks all through the house were old-fashioned and
unserviceable.
The bishop thought that a great deal depended on a good
lock and quite as much on the key. He had observed that the
fault very often lay with the key, especially if the wards
were in any way twisted.
Mr. Slope was going on with his catalogue of grievances,
when he was somewhat loudly interrupted by the archdeacon,
who succeeded in explaining that the diocesan architect, or
rather his foreman, was the person to be addressed on such
subjects, and that he, Dr. Grantly, had inquired as to the
comfort of the palace merely as a point of compliment. He
was sorry, however, that so many things had been found
amiss: and then he rose from his chair to escape.
Mrs. Proudie, though she had contrived to lend her
assistance in recapitulating the palatial dilapidations, had
not on that account given up her hold of Mr. Harding, nor
ceased from her cross-examinations as to the iniquity of
Sabbatical amusements. Over and over again had she thrown
out her "Surely, surely," at Mr. Harding's devoted head, and
ill had that gentleman been able to parry the attack.
He had never before found himself subjected to such a
nuisance. Ladies hitherto, when they had consulted him on
religious subjects, had listened to what he might choose to
say with some deference, and had differed, if they differed,
in silence. But Mrs. Proudie interrogated him and then
lectured. "Neither thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy
manservant, nor thy maidservant," said she impressively, and
more than once, as though Mr. Harding had forgotten the
words. She shook her finger at him as she quoted the
favourite law, as though menacing him with punishment, and
then called upon him categorically to state whether he did
not think that travelling on the Sabbath was an abomination
and a desecration.
Mr. Harding had never been so hard pressed in his life.
He felt that he ought to rebuke the lady for presuming so to
talk to a gentleman and a clergyman many years her senior,
but he recoiled from the idea of scolding the bishop's wife,
in the bishop's presence, on his first visit to the palace;
moreover, to tell the truth, he was somewhat afraid of her.
She, seeing him sit silent and absorbed, by no means
refrained from the attack.
"I hope, Mr. Harding," said she, shaking her head slowly
and solemnly, "I hope you will not leave me to think that
you approve of Sabbath travelling," and she looked a look of
unutterable meaning into his eyes.
There was no standing this, for Mr. Slope was now looking
at him, and so was the bishop, and so was the archdeacon,
who had completed his adieux on that side of the room. Mr.
Harding therefore got up also and, putting out his hand to
Mrs. Proudie, said: "If you will come to St. Cuthbert's some
Sunday, I will preach you a sermon on that subject."
And so the archdeacon and the precentor took their
departure, bowing low to the lady, shaking hands with the
lord, and escaping from Mr. Slope in the best manner each
could. Mr. Harding was again maltreated, but Dr. Grantly
swore deeply in the bottom of his heart, that no earthly
consideration should ever again induce him to touch the paw
of that impure and filthy animal.
And now, had I the pen of a mighty poet, would I sing in
epic verse the noble wrath of the archdeacon. The palace
steps descend to a broad gravel sweep, from whence a small
gate opens out into the street, very near the covered
gateway leading into the close. The road from the palace
door turns to the left, through the spacious gardens, and
terminates on the London road, half a mile from the
cathedral.
Till they had both passed this small gate and entered the
close, neither of them spoke a word, but the precentor
clearly saw from his companion's face that a tornado was to
be expected, nor was he himself inclined to stop it. Though
by nature far less irritable than the archdeacon, even he
was angry: he even—that mild and courteous man—was inclined
to express himself in anything but courteous terms.
CHAPTER VI
War
"Good heavens!" exclaimed the archdeacon, as he placed
his foot on the gravel walk of the close, and raising his
hat with one hand, passed the other somewhat violently over
his now grizzled locks; smoke issued forth from the uplifted
beaver as it were a cloud of wrath, and the safety valve of
his anger opened, and emitted a visible steam, preventing
positive explosion and probable apoplexy. "Good
heavens!"—and the archdeacon looked up to the gray pinnacles
of the cathedral tower, making a mute appeal to that still
living witness which had looked down on the doings of so
many bishops of Barchester.
"I don't think I shall ever like that Mr. Slope," said
Mr. Harding.
"Like him!" roared the archdeacon, standing still for a
moment to give more force to his voice; "like him!" All the
ravens of the close cawed their assent. The old bells of the
tower, in chiming the hour, echoed the words, and the
swallows flying out from their nests mutely expressed a
similar opinion. Like Mr. Slope! Why no, it was not very
probable that any Barchester-bred living thing should like
Mr. Slope!
"Nor Mrs. Proudie either," said Mr. Harding.
The archdeacon hereupon forgot himself. I will not follow
his example, nor shock my readers by transcribing the term
in which he expressed his feeling as to the lady who had
been named. The ravens and the last lingering notes of the
clock bells were less scrupulous and repeated in
correspondent echoes the very improper exclamation. The
archdeacon again raised his hat, and another salutary escape
of steam was effected.
There was a pause, during which the precentor tried to
realize the fact that the wife of a Bishop of Barchester had
been thus designated, in the close of the cathedral, by the
lips of its own archdeacon; but he could not do it.
"The bishop seems to be a quiet man enough," suggested
Mr. Harding, having acknowledged to himself his own failure.
"Idiot!" exclaimed the doctor, who for the nonce was not
capable of more than such spasmodic attempts at utterance.
"Well, he did not seem very bright," said Mr. Harding,
"and yet he has always had the reputation of a clever man. I
suppose he's cautious and not inclined to express himself
very freely."
The new Bishop of Barchester was already so contemptible
a creature in Dr. Grantly's eyes that he could not
condescend to discuss his character. He was a puppet to be
played by others; a mere wax doll, done up in an apron and a
shovel hat, to be stuck on a throne or elsewhere, and pulled
about by wires as others chose. Dr. Grantly did not choose
to let himself down low enough to talk about Dr. Proudie,
but he saw that he would have to talk about the other
members of his household, the coadjutor bishops, who had
brought his lordship down, as it were, in a box, and were
about to handle the wires as they willed. This in itself was
a terrible vexation to the archdeacon. Could he have ignored
the chaplain and have fought the bishop, there would have
been, at any rate, nothing degrading in such a contest. Let
the Queen make whom she would Bishop of Barchester; a man,
or even an ape, when once a bishop, would be a respectable
adversary, if he would but fight, himself. But what was such
a person as Dr. Grantly to do when such another person as
Mr. Slope was put forward as his antagonist?
If he, our archdeacon, refused the combat, Mr. Slope
would walk triumphant over the field, and have the diocese
of Barchester under his heel.
If, on the other hand, the archdeacon accepted as his
enemy the man whom the new puppet bishop put before him as
such, he would have to talk about Mr. Slope, and write about
Mr. Slope, and in all matters treat with Mr. Slope, as a
being standing, in some degree, on ground similar to his
own. He would have to meet Mr. Slope, to—Bah! the idea was
sickening. He could not bring himself to have to do with Mr.
Slope.
"He is the most thoroughly bestial creature that ever I
set my eyes upon," said the archdeacon.
"Who—the bishop?" asked the other innocently.
"Bishop! no—I'm not talking about the bishop. How on
earth such a creature got ordained!—they'll ordain anybody
now, I know, but he's been in the church these ten years,
and they used to be a little careful ten years ago."
"Oh! You mean Mr. Slope."
"Did you ever see any animal less like a gentleman?"
asked Dr. Grantly.
"I can't say I felt myself much disposed to like him."
"Like him!" again shouted the doctor, and the assenting
ravens again cawed an echo; "of course, you don't like him:
it's not a question of liking. But what are we to do with
him?"
"Do with him?" asked Mr. Harding.
"Yes—what are we to do with him? How are we to treat him?
There he is, and there he'll stay. He has put his foot in
that palace, and he'll never take it out again till he's
driven. How are we to get rid of him?"
"I don't suppose he can do us much harm."
"Not do harm!—Well, I think you'll find yourself of a
different opinion before a month is gone. What would you say
now, if he got himself put into the hospital? Would that be
harm?"
Mr. Harding mused awhile and then said he didn't think
the new bishop would put Mr. Slope into the hospital.
"If he doesn't put him there, he'll put him somewhere
else where he'll be as bad. I tell you that that man, to all
intents and purposes, will be Bishop of Barchester!" And
again Dr. Grantly raised his hat and rubbed his hand
thoughtfully and sadly over his head.
"Impudent scoundrel!" he continued after a while. "To
dare to cross-examine me about the Sunday-schools in the
diocese, and Sunday travelling too: I never in my life met
his equal for sheer impudence. Why, he must have thought we
were two candidates for ordination!"
"I declare I thought Mrs. Proudie was the worst of the
two," said Mr. Harding.
"When a woman is impertinent, one must only put up with
it, and keep out of her way in future, but I am not inclined
to put up with Mr. Slope. 'Sabbath travelling!'" and the
doctor attempted to imitate the peculiar drawl of the man he
so much disliked: "'Sabbath travelling!' Those are the sort
of men who will ruin the Church of England and make the
profession of a clergyman disreputable. It is not the
dissenters or the papists that we should fear, but the set
of canting, low-bred hypocrites who are wriggling their way
in among us; men who have no fixed principle, no standard
ideas of religion or doctrine, but who take up some popular
cry, as this fellow has done about 'Sabbath travelling.'"
Dr. Grantly did not again repeat the question aloud, but
he did so constantly to himself: "What were they to do with
Mr. Slope?" How was he openly, before the world, to show
that he utterly disapproved of and abhorred such a man?
Hitherto Barchester had escaped the taint of any extreme
rigour of church doctrine. The clergymen of the city and
neighbourhood, though very well inclined to promote High
Church principles, privileges, and prerogatives, had never
committed themselves to tendencies which are somewhat too
loosely called Puseyite practices. They all preached in
their black gowns, as their fathers had done before them;
they wore ordinary black cloth waistcoats; they had no
candles on their altars, either lighted or unlighted; they
made no private genuflexions, and were contented to confine
themselves to such ceremonial observances as had been in
vogue for the last hundred years. The services were decently
and demurely read in their parish churches, chanting was
confined to the cathedral, and the science of intoning was
unknown. One young man who had come direct from Oxford as a
curate to Plumstead had, after the lapse of two or three
Sundays, made a faint attempt, much to the bewilderment of
the poorer part of the congregation. Dr. Grantly had not
been present on the occasion, but Mrs. Grantly, who had her
own opinion on the subject, immediately after the service
expressed a hope that the young gentleman had not been taken
ill, and offered to send him all kinds of condiments
supposed to be good for a sore throat. After that there had
been no more intoning at Plumstead Episcopi.
But now the archdeacon began to meditate on some strong
measures of absolute opposition. Dr. Proudie and his crew
were of the lowest possible order of Church of England
clergymen, and therefore it behoved him, Dr. Grantly, to be
of the very highest. Dr. Proudie would abolish all forms and
ceremonies, and therefore Dr. Grantly felt the sudden
necessity of multiplying them. Dr. Proudie would consent to
deprive the church of all collective authority and rule, and
therefore Dr. Grantly would stand up for the full power of
convocation and the renewal of all its ancient privileges.
It was true that he could not himself intone the service,
but he could procure the co-operation of any number of
gentlemanlike curates well trained in the mystery of doing
so. He would not willingly alter his own fashion of dress,
but he could people Barchester with young clergymen dressed
in the longest frocks and in the highest-breasted silk
waistcoats. He certainly was not prepared to cross himself,
or to advocate the real presence, but without going this
length there were various observances, by adopting which he
could plainly show his antipathy to such men as Dr. Proudie
and Mr. Slope.
All these things passed through his mind as he paced up
and down the close with Mr. Harding. War, war, internecine
war was in his heart. He felt that, as regarded himself and
Mr. Slope, one of the two must be annihilated as far as the
city of Barchester was concerned, and he did not intend to
give way until there was not left to him an inch of ground
on which he could stand. He still flattered himself that he
could make Barchester too hot to hold Mr. Slope, and he had
no weakness of spirit to prevent his bringing about such a
consummation if it were in his power.
"I suppose Susan must call at the palace," said Mr.
Harding.
"Yes, she shall call there, but it shall be once and once
only. I dare say 'the horses' won't find it convenient to
come out to Plumstead very soon, and when that once is done
the matter may drop."
"I don't suppose Eleanor need call. I don't think Eleanor
would get on at all well with Mrs. Proudie."
"Not the least necessity in life," replied the
archdeacon, not without the reflexion that a ceremony which
was necessary for his wife might not be at all binding on
the widow of John Bold. "Not the slightest reason on earth
why she should do so, if she doesn't like it. For myself, I
don't think that any decent young woman should be subjected
to the nuisance of being in the same room with that man."
And so the two clergymen parted, Mr. Harding going to his
daughter's house, and the archdeacon seeking the seclusion
of his brougham.
The new inhabitants of the palace did not express any
higher opinion of their visitors than their visitors had
expressed of them. Though they did not use quite such strong
language as Dr. Grantly had done, they felt as much personal
aversion, and were quite as well aware as he was that there
would be a battle to be fought, and that there was hardly
room for Proudieism in Barchester as long as Grantlyism was
predominant.
Indeed, it may be doubted whether Mr. Slope had not
already within his breast a better prepared system of
strategy, a more accurately defined line of hostile conduct
than the archdeacon. Dr. Grantly was going to fight because
he found that he hated the man. Mr. Slope had predetermined
to hate the man because he foresaw the necessity of fighting
him. When he had first reviewed the carte du pays
previous to his entry into Barchester, the idea had occurred
to him of conciliating the archdeacon, of cajoling and
flattering him into submission, and of obtaining the upper
hand by cunning instead of courage. A little inquiry,
however, sufficed to convince him that all his cunning would
fail to win over such a man as Dr. Grantly to such a mode of
action as that to be adopted by Mr. Slope, and then he
determined to fall back upon his courage. He at once saw
that open battle against Dr. Grantly and all Dr. Grantly's
adherents was a necessity of his position, and he
deliberately planned the most expedient methods of giving
offence.
Soon after his arrival the bishop had intimated to the
dean that, with the permission of the canon then in
residence, his chaplain would preach in the cathedral on the
next Sunday. The canon in residence happened to be the Hon.
and Rev. Dr. Vesey Stanhope, who at this time was very busy
on the shores of the Lake of Como, adding to that unique
collection of butterflies for which he is so famous. Or
rather, he would have been in residence but for the
butterflies and other such summer-day considerations; and
the vicar-choral, who was to take his place in the pulpit,
by no means objected to having his work done for him by Mr.
Slope.
Mr. Slope accordingly preached, and if a preacher can
have satisfaction in being listened to, Mr. Slope ought to
have been gratified. I have reason to think that he was
gratified, and that he left the pulpit with the conviction
that he had done what he intended to do when he entered it.
On this occasion the new bishop took his seat for the
first time in the throne alloted to him. New scarlet
cushions and drapery had been prepared, with new gilt
binding and new fringe. The old carved oak-wood of the
throne, ascending with its numerous grotesque pinnacles
half-way up to the roof of the choir, had been washed, and
dusted, and rubbed, and it all looked very smart. Ah! how
often sitting there, in happy early days, on those lowly
benches in front of the altar, have I whiled away the tedium
of a sermon in considering how best I might thread my way up
amidst those wooden towers and climb safely to the topmost
pinnacle!
All Barchester went to hear Mr. Slope; either for that or
to gaze at the new bishop. All the best bonnets of the city
were there, and moreover all the best glossy clerical hats.
Not a stall but had its fitting occupant, for though some of
the prebendaries might be away in Italy or elsewhere, their
places were filled by brethren who flocked into Barchester
on the occasion. The dean was there, a heavy old man, now
too old, indeed, to attend frequently in his place, and so
was the archdeacon. So also were the chancellor, the
treasurer, the precentor, sundry canons and minor canons,
and every lay member of the choir, prepared to sing the new
bishop in with due melody and harmonious expression of
sacred welcome.
The service was certainly very well performed. Such was
always the case at Barchester, as the musical education of
the choir had been good, and the voices had been carefully
selected. The psalms were beautifully chanted; the Te Deum
was magnificently sung; and the litany was given in a manner
which is still to be found at Barchester, but, if my taste
be correct, is to be found nowhere else. The litany in
Barchester cathedral has long been the special task to which
Mr. Harding's skill and voice have been devoted. Crowded
audiences generally make good performers, and though Mr.
Harding was not aware of any extraordinary exertion on his
part, yet probably he rather exceeded his usual mark. Others
were doing their best, and it was natural that he should
emulate his brethren. So the service went on, and at last
Mr. Slope got into the pulpit.
He chose for his text a verse from the precepts addressed
by St. Paul to Timothy, as to the conduct necessary in a
spiritual pastor and guide, and it was immediately evident
that the good clergy of Barchester were to have a lesson.
"Study to show thyself approved unto God, a workman that
needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of
truth." These were the words of his text, and with such a
subject in such a place, it may be supposed that such a
preacher would be listened to by such an audience. He was
listened to with breathless attention and not without
considerable surprise. Whatever opinion of Mr. Slope might
have been held in Barchester before he commenced his
discourse, none of his hearers, when it was over, could
mistake him either for a fool or a coward.
It would not be becoming were I to travesty a sermon, or
even to repeat the language of it in the pages of a novel.
In endeavouring to depict the characters of the persons of
whom I write, I am to a certain extent forced to speak of
sacred things. I trust, however, that I shall not be thought
to scoff at the pulpit, though some may imagine that I do
not feel all the reverence that is due to the cloth. I may
question the infallibility of the teachers, but I hope that
I shall not therefore be accused of doubt as to the thing to
be taught.
Mr. Slope, in commencing his sermon, showed no slight
tact in his ambiguous manner of hinting that, humble as he
was himself, he stood there as the mouth-piece of the
illustrious divine who sat opposite to him; and having
premised so much, he gave forth a very accurate definition
of the conduct which that prelate would rejoice to see in
the clergymen now brought under his jurisdiction. It is only
necessary to say that the peculiar points insisted upon were
exactly those which were most distasteful to the clergy of
the diocese, and most averse to their practice and opinions,
and that all those peculiar habits and privileges which have
always been dear to High Church priests, to that party which
is now scandalously called the "high and dry church," were
ridiculed, abused, and anathematized. Now, the clergymen of
the diocese of Barchester are all of the high and dry
church.
Having thus, according to his own opinion, explained how
a clergyman should show himself approved unto God, as a
workman that needeth not to be ashamed, he went on to
explain how the word of truth should be divided; and here he
took a rather narrow view of the question and fetched his
arguments from afar. His object was to express his
abomination of all ceremonious modes of utterance, to cry
down any religious feeling which might be excited, not by
the sense, but by the sound of words, and in fact to insult
cathedral practices. Had St. Paul spoken of rightly
pronouncing, instead of rightly dividing the word of truth,
this part of his sermon would have been more to the purpose,
but the preacher's immediate object was to preach Mr.
Slope's doctrine, and not St. Paul's, and he contrived to
give the necessary twist to the text with some skill.
He could not exactly say, preaching from a cathedral
pulpit, that chanting should be abandoned in cathedral
services. By such an assertion he would have overshot his
mark and rendered himself absurd, to the delight of his
hearers. He could, however, and did, allude with heavy
denunciations to the practice of intoning in parish
churches, although the practice was all but unknown in the
diocese; and from thence he came round to the undue
preponderance which, he asserted, music had over meaning in
the beautiful service which they had just heard. He was
aware, he said, that the practices of our ancestors could
not be abandoned at a moment's notice; the feelings of the
aged would be outraged, and the minds of respectable men
would be shocked. There were many, he was aware, of not
sufficient calibre of thought to perceive, of not sufficient
education to know, that a mode of service which was
effective when outward ceremonies were of more moment than
inward feelings, had become all but barbarous at a time when
inward conviction was everything, when each word of the
minister's lips should fall intelligibly into the listener's
heart. Formerly the religion of the multitude had been an
affair of the imagination: now, in these latter days, it had
become necessary that a Christian should have a reason for
his faith—should not only believe, but digest—not only hear,
but understand. The words of our morning service, how
beautiful, how apposite, how intelligible they were, when
read with simple and distinct decorum! But how much of the
meaning of the words was lost when they were produced with
all the meretricious charms of melody! &c. &c.
Here was a sermon to be preached before Mr. Archdeacon
Grantly, Mr. Precentor Harding, and the rest of them! Before
a whole dean and chapter assembled in their own cathedral!
Before men who had grown old in the exercise of their
peculiar services, with a full conviction of their
excellence for all intended purposes! This too from such a
man, a clerical parvenu, a man without a cure, a mere
chaplain, an intruder among them; a fellow raked up, so said
Dr. Grantly, from the gutters of Marylebone! They had to sit
through it! None of them, not even Dr. Grantly, could close
his ears, nor leave the house of God during the hours of
service. They were under an obligation of listening, and
that too without any immediate power of reply.
There is, perhaps, no greater hardship at present
inflicted on mankind in civilized and free countries than
the necessity of listening to sermons. No one but a
preaching clergyman has, in these realms, the power of
compelling an audience to sit silent and be tormented. No
one but a preaching clergyman can revel in platitudes,
truisms, and untruisms, and yet receive, as his undisputed
privilege, the same respectful demeanour as though words of
impassioned eloquence, or persuasive logic, fell from his
lips. Let a professor of law or physics find his place in a
lecture-room, and there pour forth jejune words and useless
empty phrases, and he will pour them forth to empty benches.
Let a barrister attempt to talk without talking well, and he
will talk but seldom. A judge's charge need be listened to
perforce by none but the jury, prisoner, and gaoler. A
member of Parliament can be coughed down or counted out.
Town-councillors can be tabooed. But no one can rid himself
of the preaching clergyman. He is the bore of the age, the
old man whom we Sindbads cannot shake off, the nightmare
that disturbs our Sunday's rest, the incubus that overloads
our religion and makes God's service distasteful. We are not
forced into church! No: but we desire more than that. We
desire not to be forced to stay away. We desire, nay, we are
resolute, to enjoy the comfort of public worship, but we
desire also that we may do so without an amount of tedium
which ordinary human nature cannot endure with patience;
that we may be able to leave the house of God without that
anxious longing for escape which is the common consequence
of common sermons.
With what complacency will a young parson deduce false
conclusions from misunderstood texts, and then threaten us
with all the penalties of Hades if we neglect to comply with
the injunctions he has given us! Yes, my too self-confident
juvenile friend, I do believe in those mysteries which are
so common in your mouth; I do believe in the unadulterated
word which you hold there in your hand; but you must pardon
me if, in some things, I doubt your interpretation. The
Bible is good, the prayer-book is good, nay, you yourself
would be acceptable, if you would read to me some portion of
those time-honoured discourses which our great divines have
elaborated in the full maturity of their powers. But you
must excuse me, my insufficient young lecturer, if I yawn
over your imperfect sentences, your repeated phrases, your
false pathos, your drawlings and denouncings, your humming
and hawing, your oh-ing and ah-ing, your black gloves and
your white handkerchief. To me, it all means nothing; and
hours are too precious to be so wasted—if one could only
avoid it.
And here I must make a protest against the pretence, so
often put forward by the working clergy, that they are
overburdened by the multitude of sermons to be preached. We
are all too fond of our own voices, and a preacher is
encouraged in the vanity of making his heard by the
privilege of a compelled audience. His sermon is the
pleasant morsel of his life, his delicious moment of
self-exaltation. "I have preached nine sermons this week,"
said a young friend to me the other day, with hand languidly
raised to his brow, the picture of an overburdened martyr.
"Nine this week, seven last week, four the week before. I
have preached twenty-three sermons this month. It is really
too much."
"Too much, indeed," said I, shuddering; "too much for the
strength of any one."
"Yes," he answered meekly, "indeed it is; I am beginning
to feel it painfully."
"Would," said I, "you could feel it—would that you could
be made to feel it." But he never guessed that my heart was
wrung for the poor listeners.
There was, at any rate, no tedium felt in listening to
Mr. Slope on the occasion in question. His subject came too
home to his audience to be dull, and, to tell the truth, Mr.
Slope had the gift of using words forcibly. He was heard
through his thirty minutes of eloquence with mute attention
and open ears, but with angry eyes, which glared round from
one enraged parson to another, with wide-spread nostrils
from which already burst forth fumes of indignation, and
with many shufflings of the feet and uneasy motions of the
body, which betokened minds disturbed, and hearts not at
peace with all the world.
At last the bishop, who, of all the congregation, had
been most surprised, and whose hair almost stood on end with
terror, gave the blessing in a manner not at all equal to
that in which he had long been practising it in his own
study, and the congregation was free to go their way.
CHAPTER VII
The Dean and Chapter Take Counsel
All Barchester was in a tumult. Dr. Grantly could hardly
get himself out of the cathedral porch before he exploded in
his wrath. The old dean betook himself silently to his
deanery, afraid to speak, and there sat, half-stupefied,
pondering many things in vain. Mr. Harding crept forth
solitary and unhappy; and, slowly passing beneath the elms
of the close, could scarcely bring himself to believe that
the words which he had heard had proceeded from the pulpit
of Barchester cathedral. Was he again to be disturbed? Was
his whole life to be shown up as a useless sham a second
time? Would he have to abdicate his precentorship, as he had
his wardenship, and to give up chanting, as he had given up
his twelve old bedesmen? And what if he did! Some other
Jupiter, some other Mr. Slope, would come and turn him out
of St. Cuthbert's. Surely he could not have been wrong all
his life in chanting the litany as he had done! He began,
however, to have his doubts. Doubting himself was Mr.
Harding's weakness. It is not, however, the usual fault of
his order.
Yes! All Barchester was in a tumult. It was not only the
clergy who were affected. The laity also had listened to Mr.
Slope's new doctrine, all with surprise, some with
indignation, and some with a mixed feeling, in which dislike
of the preacher was not so strongly blended. The old bishop
and his chaplains, the dean and his canons and minor canons,
the old choir, and especially Mr. Harding who was at the
head of it, had all been popular in Barchester. They had
spent their money and done good; the poor had not been
ground down; the clergy in society had neither been
overbearing nor austere; and the whole repute of the city
was due to its ecclesiastical importance. Yet there were
those who had heard Mr. Slope with satisfaction.
It is so pleasant to receive a fillip of excitement when
suffering from the dull routine of everyday life! The
anthems and Te Deums were in themselves delightful, but they
had been heard so often! Mr. Slope was certainly not
delightful, but he was new, and, moreover, clever. They had
long thought it slow, so said now many of the
Barchesterians, to go on as they had done in their old
humdrum way, giving ear to none of the religious changes
which were moving the world without. People in advance of
the age now had new ideas, and it was quite time that
Barchester should go in advance. Mr. Slope might be right.
Sunday had certainly not been strictly kept in Barchester,
except as regarded the cathedral services. Indeed the two
hours between services had long been appropriated to morning
calls and hot luncheons. Then, Sunday-schools! Really more
ought to have been done as to Sunday-schools—Sabbath-day
schools Mr. Slope had called them. The late bishop had
really not thought of Sunday-schools as he should have done.
(These people probably did not reflect that catechisms and
collects are quite as hard work to the young mind as
bookkeeping is to the elderly, and that quite as little
feeling of worship enters into the one task as the other.)
And then, as regarded that great question of musical
services, there might be much to be said on Mr. Slope's side
of the question. It certainly was the fact that people went
to the cathedral to hear the music, &c. &c.
And so a party absolutely formed itself in Barchester on
Mr. Slope's side of the question! This consisted, among the
upper classes, chiefly of ladies. No man—that is, no
gentleman—could possibly be attracted by Mr. Slope, or
consent to sit at the feet of so abhorrent a Gamaliel.
Ladies are sometimes less nice in their appreciation of
physical disqualification; provided that a man speak to them
well, they will listen, though he speak from a mouth never
so deformed and hideous. Wilkes was most fortunate as a
lover, and the damp, sandy-haired, saucer-eyed, red-fisted
Mr. Slope was powerful only over the female breast.
There were, however, one or two of the neighbouring
clergy who thought it not quite safe to neglect the baskets
in which for the nonce were stored the loaves and fishes of
the diocese of Barchester. They, and they only, came to call
on Mr. Slope after his performance in the cathedral pulpit.
Among these Mr. Quiverful, the rector of Puddingdale, whose
wife still continued to present him from year to year with
fresh pledges of her love, and so to increase his cares and,
it is to be hoped, his happiness equally. Who can wonder
that a gentleman with fourteen living children and a bare
income of £400 a year should look after the loaves and
fishes, even when they are under the thumb of a Mr. Slope?
Very soon after the Sunday on which the sermon was
preached, the leading clergy of the neighbourhood held high
debate together as to how Mr. Slope should be put down. In
the first place, he should never again preach from the
pulpit of Barchester cathedral. This was Dr. Grantly's
earliest dictum, and they all agreed, providing only that
they had the power to exclude him. Dr. Grantly declared that
the power rested with the dean and chapter, observing that
no clergyman out of the chapter had a claim to preach there,
saving only the bishop himself. To this the dean assented,
but alleged that contests on such a subject would be
unseemly; to which rejoined a meagre little doctor, one of
the cathedral prebendaries, that the contest must be all on
the side of Mr. Slope if every prebendary were always there
ready to take his own place in the pulpit. Cunning little
meagre doctor, whom it suits well to live in his own cosy
house within Barchester close, and who is well content to
have his little fling at Dr. Vesey Stanhope and other
absentees, whose Italian villas, or enticing London homes,
are more tempting than cathedral stalls and residences!
To this answered the burly chancellor, a man rather
silent indeed, but very sensible, that absent prebendaries
had their vicars, and that in such case the vicar's right to
the pulpit was the same as that of the higher order. To
which the dean assented, groaning deeply at these truths.
Thereupon, however, the meagre doctor remarked that they
would be in the hands of their minor canons, one of whom
might at any hour betray his trust. Whereon was heard from
the burly chancellor an ejaculation sounding somewhat like
"Pooh, pooh, pooh!" but it might be that the worthy man was
but blowing out the heavy breath from his windpipe. Why
silence him at all? suggested Mr. Harding. Let them not be
ashamed to hear what any man might have to preach to them,
unless he preached false doctrine; in which case, let the
bishop silence him. So spoke our friend; vainly; for human
ends must be attained by human means. But the dean saw a ray
of hope out of those purblind old eyes of his. Yes, let them
tell the bishop how distasteful to them was this Mr. Slope:
a new bishop just come to his seat could not wish to insult
his clergy while the gloss was yet fresh on his first apron.
Then up rose Dr. Grantly and, having thus collected the
scattered wisdom of his associates, spoke forth with words
of deep authority. When I say up rose the archdeacon, I
speak of the inner man, which then sprang up to more
immediate action, for the doctor had bodily been standing
all along with his back to the dean's empty fire-grate, and
the tails of his frock coat supported over his two arms. His
hands were in his breeches pockets.
"It is quite clear that this man must not be allowed to
preach again in this cathedral. We all see that, except our
dear friend here, the milk of whose nature runs so softly
that he would not have the heart to refuse the Pope the loan
of his pulpit, if the Pope would come and ask it. We must
not, however, allow the man to preach again here. It is not
because his opinion on church matters may be different from
ours—with that one would not quarrel. It is because he has
purposely insulted us. When he went up into that pulpit last
Sunday, his studied object was to give offence to men who
had grown old in reverence of those things of which he dared
to speak so slightingly. What! To come here a stranger, a
young, unknown, and unfriended stranger, and tell us, in the
name of the bishop his master, that we are ignorant of our
duties, old-fashioned, and useless! I don't know whether
most to admire his courage or his impudence! And one thing I
will tell you: that sermon originated solely with the man
himself. The bishop was no more a party to it than was the
dean here. You all know how grieved I am to see a bishop in
this diocese holding the latitudinarian ideas by which Dr.
Proudie has made himself conspicuous. You all know how
greatly I should distrust the opinion of such a man. But in
this matter I hold him to be blameless. I believe Dr.
Proudie has lived too long among gentlemen to be guilty, or
to instigate another to be guilty, of so gross an outrage.
No! That man uttered what was untrue when he hinted that he
was speaking as the mouthpiece of the bishop. It suited his
ambitious views at once to throw down the gauntlet to us—at
once to defy us here in the quiet of our own religious
duties—here within the walls of our own loved cathedral—here
where we have for so many years exercised our ministry
without schism and with good repute. Such an attack upon us,
coming from such a quarter, is abominable."
"Abominable," groaned the dean. "Abominable," muttered
the meagre doctor. "Abominable," re-echoed the chancellor,
uttering the sound from the bottom of his deep chest. "I
really think it was," said Mr. Harding.
"Most abominable and most unjustifiable," continued the
archdeacon. "But, Mr. Dean, thank God, that pulpit is still
our own: your own, I should say. That pulpit belongs solely
to the dean and chapter of Barchester Cathedral, and as yet
Mr. Slope is no part of that chapter. You, Mr. Dean, have
suggested that we should appeal to the bishop to abstain
from forcing this man on us; but what if the bishop allow
himself to be ruled by his chaplain? In my opinion the
matter is in our own hands. Mr. Slope cannot preach there
without permission asked and obtained, and let that
permission be invariably refused. Let all participation in
the ministry of the cathedral service be refused to him.
Then, if the bishop choose to interfere, we shall know what
answer to make to the bishop. My friend here has suggested
that this man may again find his way into the pulpit by
undertaking the duty of some of your minor canons, but I am
sure that we may fully trust to these gentlemen to support
us, when it is known that the dean objects to any such
transfer."
"Of course you may," said the chancellor.
There was much more discussion among the learned
conclave, all of which, of course, ended in obedience to the
archdeacon's commands. They had too long been accustomed to
his rule to shake it off so soon, and in this particular
case they had none of them a wish to abet the man whom he
was so anxious to put down.
Such a meeting as that we have just recorded is not held
in such a city as Barchester unknown and untold of. Not only
was the fact of the meeting talked of in every respectable
house, including the palace, but the very speeches of the
dean, the archdeacon, and chancellor were repeated; not
without many additions and imaginary circumstances,
according to the tastes and opinions of the relaters.
All, however, agreed in saying that Mr. Slope was to be
debarred from opening his mouth in the cathedral of
Barchester; many believed that the vergers were to be
ordered to refuse him even the accommodation of a seat; and
some of the most far-going advocates for strong measures
declared that his sermon was looked upon as an indictable
offence, and that proceedings were to be taken against him
for brawling.
The party who were inclined to defend him—the
enthusiastically religious young ladies and the middle-aged
spinsters desirous of a move—of course took up his defence
the more warmly on account of this attack. If they could not
hear Mr. Slope in the cathedral, they would hear him
elsewhere; they would leave the dull dean, the dull old
prebendaries, and the scarcely less dull young minor canons
to preach to each other; they would work slippers and
cushions and hem bands for Mr. Slope, make him a happy
martyr, and stick him up in some new Sion or Bethesda, and
put the cathedral quite out of fashion.
Dr. and Mrs. Proudie at once returned to London. They
thought it expedient not to have to encounter any personal
application from the dean and chapter respecting the sermon
till the violence of the storm had expended itself; but they
left Mr. Slope behind them nothing daunted, and he went
about his work zealously, flattering such as would listen to
his flattery, whispering religious twaddle into the ears of
foolish women, ingratiating himself with the few clergy who
would receive him, visiting the houses of the poor,
inquiring into all people, prying into everything, and
searching with his minutest eye into all palatial
dilapidations. He did not, however, make any immediate
attempt to preach again in the cathedral.
And so all Barchester was by the ears.
CHAPTER VIII
The Ex-Warden Rejoices in His Probable Return to the
Hospital
Among the ladies in Barchester who have hitherto
acknowledged Mr. Slope as their spiritual director must not
be reckoned either the Widow Bold or her sister-in-law. On
the first outbreak of the wrath of the denizens of the
close, none had been more animated against the intruder than
these two ladies. And this was natural. Who could be so
proud of the musical distinction of their own cathedral as
the favourite daughter of the precentor? Who would be so
likely to resent an insult offered to the old choir? And in
such matters Miss Bold and her sister-in-law had but one
opinion.
This wrath, however, has in some degree been mitigated,
and I regret to say that these ladies allowed Mr. Slope to
be his own apologist. About a fortnight after the sermon had
been preached, they were both of them not a little surprised
by hearing Mr. Slope announced, as the page in buttons
opened Mrs. Bold's drawing-room door. Indeed, what living
man could, by a mere morning visit, have surprised them
more? Here was the great enemy of all that was good in
Barchester coming into their own drawing-room, and they had
no strong arm, no ready tongue, near at hand for their
protection. The widow snatched her baby out of its cradle
into her lap, and Mary Bold stood up ready to die manfully
in that baby's behalf, should, under any circumstances, such
a sacrifice become necessary.
In this manner was Mr. Slope received. But when he left,
he was allowed by each lady to take her hand and to make his
adieux as gentlemen do who have been graciously entertained!
Yes, he shook hands with them, and was curtseyed out
courteously, the buttoned page opening the door as he would
have done for the best canon of them all. He had touched the
baby's little hand and blessed him with a fervid blessing;
he had spoken to the widow of her early sorrows, and
Eleanor's silent tears had not rebuked him; he had told Mary
Bold that her devotion would be rewarded, and Mary Bold had
heard the praise without disgust. And how had he done all
this? How had he so quickly turned aversion into, at any
rate, acquaintance? How had he over-come the enmity with
which these ladies had been ready to receive him, and made
his peace with them so easily?
My readers will guess from what I have written that I
myself do not like Mr. Slope, but I am constrained to admit
that he is a man of parts. He knows how to say a soft word
in the proper place; he knows how to adapt his flattery to
the ears of his hearers; he knows the wiles of the serpent,
and he uses them. Could Mr. Slope have adapted his manners
to men as well as to women, could he ever have learnt the
ways of a gentleman, he might have risen to great things.
He commenced his acquaintance with Eleanor by praising
her father. He had, he said, become aware that he had
unfortunately offended the feelings of a man of whom he
could not speak too highly; he would not now allude to a
subject which was probably too serious for drawing-room
conversation, but he would say that it had been very far
from him to utter a word in disparagement of a man of whom
all the world, at least the clerical world, spoke so highly
as it did of Mr. Harding. And so he went on, unsaying a
great deal of his sermon, expressing his highest admiration
for the precentor's musical talents, eulogizing the father
and the daughter and the sister-in-law, speaking in that low
silky whisper which he always had specially prepared for
feminine ears, and, ultimately, gaining his object. When he
left, he expressed a hope that he might again be allowed to
call; and though Eleanor gave no verbal assent to this, she
did not express dissent: and so Mr. Slope's right to visit
at the widow's house was established.
The day after this visit Eleanor told her father of it
and expressed an opinion that Mr. Slope was not quite so
black as he had been painted. Mr. Harding opened his eyes
rather wider than usual when he heard what had occurred, but
he said little; he could not agree in any praise of Mr.
Slope, and it was not his practice to say much evil of
anyone. He did not, however, like the visit, and
simple-minded as he was, he felt sure that Mr. Slope had
some deeper motive than the mere pleasure of making soft
speeches to two ladies.
Mr. Harding, however, had come to see his daughter with
other purpose than that of speaking either good or evil of
Mr. Slope. He had come to tell her that the place of warden
in Hiram's Hospital was again to be filled up, and that in
all probability he would once more return to his old home
and his twelve bedesmen.
"But," said he, laughing, "I shall be greatly shorn of my
ancient glory."
"Why so, Papa?"
"This new act of Parliament that is to put us all on our
feet again," continued he, "settles my income at four
hundred and fifty pounds per annum."
"Four hundred and fifty," said she, "instead of eight
hundred! Well, that is rather shabby. But still, Papa,
you'll have the dear old house and the garden?"
"My dear," said he, "it's worth twice the money;" and as
he spoke he showed a jaunty kind of satisfaction in his tone
and manner and in the quick, pleasant way in which he paced
Eleanor's drawing-room. "It's worth twice the money. I shall
have the house and the garden and a larger income than I can
possibly want."
"At any rate, you'll have no extravagant daughter to
provide for;" and as she spoke, the young widow put her arm
within his, and made him sit on the sofa beside her; "at any
rate, you'll not have that expense."
"No, my dear, and I shall be rather lonely without her;
but we won't think of that now. As regards income, I shall
have plenty for all I want. I shall have my old house, and I
don't mind owning now that I have felt sometimes the
inconvenience of living in a lodging. Lodgings are very nice
for young men, but at my time of life there is a want of—I
hardly know what to call it, perhaps not respectability—"
"Oh, Papa! I'm sure there's been nothing like that.
Nobody has thought it; nobody in all Barchester has been
more respected than you have been since you took those rooms
in High Street. Nobody! Not the dean in his deanery, or the
archdeacon out at Plumstead."
"The archdeacon would not be much obliged to you if he
heard you," said he, smiling somewhat at the exclusive
manner in which his daughter confined her illustration to
the church dignitaries of the chapter of Barchester; "but at
any rate I shall be glad to get back to the old house. Since
I heard that it was all settled, I have begun to fancy that
I can't be comfortable without my two sitting-rooms."
"Come and stay with me, Papa, till it is settled—there's
a dear Papa."
"Thank ye, Nelly. But no, I won't do that. It would make
two movings. I shall be very glad to get back to my old men
again. Alas! alas! There have six of them gone in these few
last years. Six out of twelve! And the others I fear have
had but a sorry life of it there. Poor Bunce, poor old
Bunce!"
Bunce was one of the surviving recipients of Hiram's
charity, an old man, now over ninety, who had long been a
favourite of Mr. Harding's.
"How happy old Bunce will be," said Mrs. Bold, clapping
her soft hands softly. "How happy they all will be to have
you back again. You may be sure there will soon be
friendship among them again when you are there."
"But," said he, half-laughing, "I am to have new
troubles, which will be terrible to me. There are to be
twelve old women, and a matron. How shall I manage twelve
women and a matron!"
"The matron will manage the women, of course."
"And who'll manage the matron?" said he.
"She won't want to be managed. She'll be a great lady
herself, I suppose. But, Papa, where will the matron live?
She is not to live in the warden's house with you, is she?"
"Well, I hope not, my dear."
"Oh, Papa, I tell you fairly, I won't have a matron for a
new stepmother."
"You shan't, my dear; that is, if I can help it. But they
are going to build another house for the matron and the
women, and I believe they haven't even fixed yet on the site
of the building."
"And have they appointed the matron?" said Eleanor.
"They haven't appointed the warden yet," replied he.
"But there's no doubt about that, I suppose," said his
daughter.
Mr. Harding explained that he thought there was no doubt;
that the archdeacon had declared as much, saying that the
bishop and his chaplain between them had not the power to
appoint anyone else, even if they had the will to do so, and
sufficient impudence to carry out such a will. The
archdeacon was of opinion that, though Mr. Harding had
resigned his wardenship, and had done so unconditionally, he
had done so under circumstances which left the bishop no
choice as to his reappointment, now that the affair of the
hospital had been settled on a new basis by act of
Parliament. Such was the archdeacon's opinion, and his
father-in-law received it without a shadow of doubt.
Dr. Grantly had always been strongly opposed to Mr.
Harding's resignation of the place. He had done all in his
power to dissuade him from it. He had considered that Mr.
Harding was bound to withstand the popular clamour with
which he was attacked for receiving so large an income as
eight hundred a year from such a charity, and was not even
yet satisfied that his father-in-law's conduct had not been
pusillanimous and undignified. He looked also on this
reduction of the warden's income as a shabby, paltry scheme
on the part of government for escaping from a difficulty
into which it had been brought by the public press. Dr.
Grantly observed that the government had no more right to
dispose of a sum of four hundred and fifty pounds a year out
of the income of Hiram's legacy than of nine hundred;
whereas, as he said, the bishop, dean, and chapter clearly
had a right to settle what sum should be paid. He also
declared that the government had no more right to saddle the
charity with twelve old women than with twelve hundred; and
he was, therefore, very indignant on the matter. He probably
forgot when so talking that government had done nothing of
the kind, and had never assumed any such might or any such
right. He made the common mistake of attributing to the
government, which in such matters is powerless, the doings
of Parliament, which in such matters is omnipotent.
But though he felt that the glory and honour of the
situation of warden of Barchester Hospital were indeed
curtailed by the new arrangement; that the whole
establishment had to a certain degree been made vile by the
touch of Whig commissioners; that the place, with its
lessened income, its old women, and other innovations, was
very different from the hospital of former days; still the
archdeacon was too practical a man of the world to wish that
his father-in-law, who had at present little more than £200
per annum for all his wants, should refuse the situation,
defiled, undignified, and commission-ridden as it was.
Mr. Harding had, accordingly, made up his mind that he
would return to his old home at the hospital, and, to tell
the truth, had experienced almost a childish pleasure in the
idea of doing so. The diminished income was to him not even
the source of momentary regret. The matron and the old women
did rather go against the grain, but he was able to console
himself with the reflection that, after all, such an
arrangement might be of real service to the poor of the
city. The thought that he must receive his reappointment as
the gift of the new bishop, and probably through the hands
of Mr. Slope, annoyed him a little, but his mind was set at
rest by the assurance of the archdeacon that there would be
no favour in such a presentation. The reappointment of the
old warden would be regarded by all the world as a matter of
course. Mr. Harding, therefore, felt no hesitation in
telling his daughter that they might look upon his return to
his old quarters as a settled matter.
"And you won't have to ask for it, Papa?"
"Certainly not, my dear. There is no ground on which I
could ask for any favour from the bishop, whom, indeed, I
hardly know. Nor would I ask a favour, the granting of which
might possibly be made a question to be settled by Mr.
Slope. No," said he, moved for a moment by a spirit very
unlike his own, "I certainly shall be very glad to go back
to the hospital; but I should never go there if it were
necessary that my doing so should be the subject of a
request to Mr. Slope."
This little outbreak of her father's anger jarred on the
present tone of Eleanor's mind. She had not learnt to like
Mr. Slope, but she had learnt to think that he had much
respect for her father; and she would, therefore, willingly
use her efforts to induce something like good feeling
between them.
"Papa," said she, "I think you somewhat mistake Mr.
Slope's character."
"Do I?" said he placidly.
"I think you do, Papa. I think he intended no personal
disrespect to you when he preached the sermon which made the
archdeacon and the dean so angry!"
"I never supposed he did, my dear. I hope I never
inquired within myself whether he did or no. Such a matter
would be unworthy of any inquiry, and very unworthy of the
consideration of the chapter. But I fear he intended
disrespect to the ministration of God's services, as
conducted in conformity with the rules of the Church of
England."
"But might it not be that he thought it his duty to
express his dissent from that which you, and the dean, and
all of us here so much approve?"
"It can hardly be the duty of a young man rudely to
assail the religious convictions of his elders in the
church. Courtesy should have kept him silent, even if
neither charity nor modesty could do so."
"But Mr. Slope would say that on such a subject the
commands of his heavenly Master do not admit of his being
silent."
"Nor of his being courteous, Eleanor?"
"He did not say that, Papa."
"Believe me, my child, that Christian ministers are never
called on by God's word to insult the convictions, or even
the prejudices of their brethren, and that religion is at
any rate not less susceptible of urbane and courteous
conduct among men than any other study which men may take
up. I am sorry to say that I cannot defend Mr. Slope's
sermon in the cathedral. But come, my dear, put on your
bonnet and let us walk round the dear old gardens at the
hospital. I have never yet had the heart to go beyond the
courtyard since we left the place. Now I think I can venture
to enter."
Eleanor rang the bell and gave a variety of imperative
charges as to the welfare of the precious baby, whom, all
but unwillingly, she was about to leave for an hour or so,
and then sauntered forth with her father to revisit the old
hospital. It had been forbidden ground to her as well as to
him since the day on which they had walked forth together
from its walls.
CHAPTER IX
The Stanhope Family
It is now three months since Dr. Proudie began his reign,
and changes have already been effected in the diocese which
show at least the energy of an active mind. Among other
things absentee clergymen have been favoured with hints much
too strong to be overlooked. Poor dear old Bishop Grantly
had on this matter been too lenient, and the archdeacon had
never been inclined to be severe with those who were absent
on reputable pretences, and who provided for their duties in
a liberal way.
Among the greatest of the diocesan sinners in this
respect was Dr. Vesey Stanhope. Years had now passed since
he had done a day's duty, and yet there was no reason
against his doing duty except a want of inclination on his
own part. He held a prebendal stall in the diocese, one of
the best residences in the close, and the two large
rectories of Crabtree Canonicorum and Stogpingum. Indeed, he
had the cure of three parishes, for that of Eiderdown was
joined to Stogpingum. He had resided in Italy for twelve
years. His first going there had been attributed to a sore
throat, and that sore throat, though never repeated in any
violent manner, had stood him in such stead that it had
enabled him to live in easy idleness ever since.
He had now been summoned home—not, indeed, with rough
violence, or by any peremptory command, but by a mandate
which he found himself unable to disregard. Mr. Slope had
written to him by the bishop's desire. In the first place,
the bishop much wanted the valuable co-operation of Dr.
Vesey Stanhope in the diocese; in the next, the bishop
thought it his imperative duty to become personally
acquainted with the most conspicuous of his diocesan clergy;
then the bishop thought it essentially necessary for Dr.
Stanhope's own interests that Dr. Stanhope should, at any
rate for a time, return to Barchester; and lastly, it was
said that so strong a feeling was at the present moment
evinced by the hierarchs of the church with reference to the
absence of its clerical members, that it behoved Dr. Vesey
Stanhope not to allow his name to stand among those which
would probably in a few months be submitted to the councils
of the nation.
There was something so ambiguously frightful in this last
threat that Dr. Stanhope determined to spend two or three
summer months at his residence in Barchester. His rectories
were inhabited by his curates, and he felt himself from
disuse to be unfit for parochial duty; but his prebendal
home was kept empty for him, and he thought it probable that
he might be able now and again to preach a prebendal sermon.
He arrived, therefore, with all his family at Barchester,
and he and they must be introduced to my readers.
The great family characteristic of the Stanhopes might
probably be said to be heartlessness, but this want of
feeling was, in most of them, accompanied by so great an
amount of good nature as to make itself but little
noticeable to the world. They were so prone to oblige their
neighbours that their neighbours failed to perceive how
indifferent to them was the happiness and well-being of
those around them. The Stanhopes would visit you in your
sickness (provided it were not contagious), would bring you
oranges, French novels, and the last new bit of scandal, and
then hear of your death or your recovery with an equally
indifferent composure. Their conduct to each other was the
same as to the world; they bore and forbore; and there was
sometimes, as will be seen, much necessity for forbearing;
but their love among themselves rarely reached above this.
It is astonishing how much each of the family was able to
do, and how much each did, to prevent the well-being of the
other four.
For there were five in all; the doctor, namely, and Mrs.
Stanhope, two daughters, and one son. The doctor, perhaps,
was the least singular and most estimable of them all, and
yet such good qualities as he possessed were all negative.
He was a good-looking rather plethoric gentleman of about
sixty years of age. His hair was snow-white, very plentiful,
and somewhat like wool of the finest description. His
whiskers were very large and very white, and gave to his
face the appearance of a benevolent, sleepy old lion. His
dress was always unexceptionable. Although he had lived so
many years in Italy it was invariably of a decent clerical
hue, but it never was hyperclerical. He was a man not given
to much talking, but what little he did say was generally
well said. His reading seldom went beyond romances and
poetry of the lightest and not always most moral
description. He was thoroughly a bon vivant; an
accomplished judge of wine, though he never drank to excess;
and a most inexorable critic in all affairs touching the
kitchen. He had had much to forgive in his own family, since
a family had grown up around him, and had forgiven
everything—except inattention to his dinner. His weakness in
that respect was now fully understood, and his temper but
seldom tried. As Dr. Stanhope was a clergyman, it may be
supposed that his religious convictions made up a
considerable part of his character, but this was not so.
That he had religious convictions must be believed, but he
rarely obtruded them, even on his children. This abstinence
on his part was not systematic, but very characteristic of
the man. It was not that he had predetermined never to
influence their thoughts, but he was so habitually idle that
his time for doing so had never come till the opportunity
for doing so was gone forever. Whatever conviction the
father may have had, the children were at any rate but
indifferent members of the church from which he drew his
income.
Such was Dr. Stanhope. The features of Mrs. Stanhope's
character were even less plainly marked than those of her
lord. The far niente of her Italian life had entered
into her very soul, and brought her to regard a state of
inactivity as the only earthly good. In manner and
appearance she was exceedingly prepossessing. She had been a
beauty, and even now, at fifty-five, she was a handsome
woman. Her dress was always perfect: she never dressed but
once in the day, and never appeared till between three and
four; but when she did appear, she appeared at her best.
Whether the toil rested partly with her, or wholly with her
handmaid, it is not for such a one as the author even to
imagine. The structure of her attire was always elaborate
and yet never over-laboured. She was rich in apparel but not
bedizened with finery; her ornaments were costly, rare, and
such as could not fail to attract notice, but they did not
look as though worn with that purpose. She well knew the
great architectural secret of decorating her constructions,
and never descended to construct a decoration. But when we
have said that Mrs. Stanhope knew how to dress and used her
knowledge daily, we have said all. Other purpose in life she
had none. It was something, indeed, that she did not
interfere with the purposes of others. In early life she had
undergone great trials with reference to the doctor's
dinners, but for the last ten or twelve years her elder
daughter Charlotte had taken that labour off her hands, and
she had had little to trouble her—little, that is, till the
edict for this terrible English journey had gone forth:
since then, indeed, her life had been laborious enough. For
such a one, the toil of being carried from the shores of
Como to the city of Barchester is more than labour enough,
let the care of the carriers be ever so vigilant. Mrs.
Stanhope had been obliged to have every one of her dresses
taken in from the effects of the journey.
Charlotte Stanhope was at this time about thirty-five
years old, and whatever may have been her faults, she had
none of those which belong particularly to old young ladies.
She neither dressed young, nor talked young, nor indeed
looked young. She appeared to be perfectly content with her
time of life, and in no way affected the graces of youth.
She was a fine young woman, and had she been a man, would
have been a very fine young man. All that was done in the
house, and that was not done by servants, was done by her.
She gave the orders, paid the bills, hired and dismissed the
domestics, made the tea, carved the meat, and managed
everything in the Stanhope household. She, and she alone,
could ever induce her father to look into the state of his
worldly concerns. She, and she alone, could in any degree
control the absurdities of her sister. She, and she alone,
prevented the whole family from falling into utter disrepute
and beggary. It was by her advice that they now found
themselves very unpleasantly situated in Barchester.
So far, the character of Charlotte Stanhope is not
unprepossessing. But it remains to be said that the
influence which she had in her family, though it had been
used to a certain extent for their worldly well-being, had
not been used to their real benefit, as it might have been.
She had aided her father in his indifference to his
professional duties, counselling him that his livings were
as much his individual property as the estates of his elder
brother were the property of that worthy peer. She had for
years past stifled every little rising wish for a return to
England which the doctor had from time to time expressed.
She had encouraged her mother in her idleness, in order that
she herself might be mistress and manager of the Stanhope
household. She had encouraged and fostered the follies of
her sister, though she was always willing, and often able,
to protect her from their probable result. She had done her
best, and had thoroughly succeeded in spoiling her brother,
and turning him loose upon the world an idle man without a
profession and without a shilling that he could call his
own.
Miss Stanhope was a clever woman, able to talk on most
subjects, and quite indifferent as to what the subject was.
She prided herself on her freedom from English prejudice,
and, she might have added, from feminine delicacy. On
religion she was a pure free-thinker, and with much want of
true affection, delighted to throw out her own views before
the troubled mind of her father. To have shaken what
remained of his Church of England faith would have gratified
her much, but the idea of his abandoning his preferment in
the church had never once presented itself to her mind. How
could he indeed, when he had no income from any other
source?
But the two most prominent members of the family still
remain to be described. The second child had been christened
Madeline and had been a great beauty. We need not say had
been, for she was never more beautiful than at the time of
which we write, though her person for many years had been
disfigured by an accident. It is unnecessary that we should
give in detail the early history of Madeline Stanhope. She
had gone to Italy when about seventeen years of age, and had
been allowed to make the most of her surpassing beauty in
the salons of Milan and among the crowded villas along the
shores of the Lake of Como. She had become famous for
adventures in which her character was just not lost, and had
destroyed the hearts of a dozen cavaliers without once being
touched in her own. Blood had flowed in quarrels about her
charms, and she had heard of these encounters with
pleasurable excitement. It had been told of her that on one
occasion she had stood by in the disguise of a page and had
seen her lover fall.
As is so often the case, she had married the very worst
of those who sought her hand. Why she had chosen Paulo
Neroni, a man of no birth and no property, a mere captain in
the Pope's guard, one who had come up to Milan either simply
as an adventurer or else as a spy, a man of harsh temper and
oily manners, mean in figure, swarthy in face, and so false
in words as to be hourly detected, need not now be told.
When the moment for doing so came, she had probably no
alternative. He, at any rate, had become her husband, and
after a prolonged honeymoon among the lakes, they had gone
together to Rome, the papal captain having vainly
endeavoured to induce his wife to remain behind him.
Six months afterwards she arrived at her father's house a
cripple, and a mother. She had arrived without even notice,
with hardly clothes to cover her, and without one of those
many ornaments which had graced her bridal trousseau. Her
baby was in the arms of a poor girl from Milan, whom she had
taken in exchange for the Roman maid who had accompanied her
thus far, and who had then, as her mistress said, become
homesick and had returned. It was clear that the lady had
determined that there should be no witness to tell stories
of her life in Rome.
She had fallen, she said, in ascending a ruin, and had
fatally injured the sinews of her knee; so fatally that when
she stood, she lost eight inches of her accustomed height;
so fatally that when she essayed to move, she could only
drag herself painfully along, with protruded hip and
extended foot, in a manner less graceful than that of a
hunchback. She had consequently made up her mind, once and
forever, that she would never stand and never attempt to
move herself.
Stories were not slow to follow her, averring that she
had been cruelly ill-used by Neroni, and that to his
violence had she owed her accident. Be that as it may,
little had been said about her husband, but that little had
made it clearly intelligible to the family that Signor
Neroni was to be seen and heard of no more. There was no
question as to readmitting the poor, ill-used beauty to her
old family rights, no question as to adopting her infant
daughter beneath the Stanhope roof-tree. Though heartless,
the Stanhopes were not selfish. The two were taken in,
petted, made much of, for a time all but adored, and then
felt by the two parents to be great nuisances in the house.
But in the house the lady was, and there she remained,
having her own way, though that way was not very conformable
with the customary usages of an English clergyman.
Madame Neroni, though forced to give up all motion in the
world, had no intention whatever of giving up the world
itself. The beauty of her face was uninjured, and that
beauty was of a peculiar kind. Her copious rich brown hair
was worn in Grecian bandeaux round her head, displaying as
much as possible of her forehead and cheeks. Her forehead,
though rather low, was very beautiful from its perfect
contour and pearly whiteness. Her eyes were long and large,
and marvellously bright; might I venture to say bright as
Lucifer's, I should perhaps best express the depth of their
brilliancy. They were dreadful eyes to look at, such as
would absolutely deter any man of quiet mind and easy spirit
from attempting a passage of arms with such foes. There was
talent in them, and the fire of passion and the play of wit,
but there was no love. Cruelty was there instead, and
courage, a desire of masterhood, cunning, and a wish for
mischief. And yet, as eyes, they were very beautiful. The
eyelashes were long and perfect, and the long, steady,
unabashed gaze with which she would look into the face of
her admirer fascinated while it frightened him. She was a
basilisk from whom an ardent lover of beauty could make no
escape. Her nose and mouth and teeth and chin and neck and
bust were perfect, much more so at twenty-eight than they
had been at eighteen. What wonder that with such charms
still glowing in her face, and with such deformity
destroying her figure, she should resolve to be seen, but
only to be seen reclining on a sofa.
Her resolve had not been carried out without difficulty.
She had still frequented the opera at Milan; she had still
been seen occasionally in the salons of the noblesse; she
had caused herself to be carried in and out from her
carriage, and that in such a manner as in no wise to disturb
her charms, disarrange her dress, or expose her deformities.
Her sister always accompanied her and a maid, a manservant
also, and on state occasions, two. It was impossible that
her purpose could have been achieved with less; and yet,
poor as she was, she had achieved her purpose. And then
again the more dissolute Italian youths of Milan frequented
the Stanhope villa and surrounded her couch, not greatly to
her father's satisfaction. Sometimes his spirit would rise,
a dark spot would show itself on his cheek, and he would
rebel, but Charlotte would assuage him with some peculiar
triumph of her culinary art and all again would be smooth
for awhile.
Madeline affected all manner of rich and quaint devices
in the garniture of her room, her person, and her feminine
belongings. In nothing was this more apparent than in the
visiting card which she had prepared for her use. For such
an article one would say that she, in her present state,
could have but small need, seeing how improbable it was that
she should make a morning call: but not such was her own
opinion. Her card was surrounded by a deep border of
gilding; on this she had imprinted, in three lines
La Signora Madeline
Vesey Neroni.
—Nata Stanhope.
|
And over the name she had a bright gilt
coronet, which certainly looked very magnificent. How she
had come to concoct such a name for herself it would be
difficult to explain. Her father had been christened Vesey
as another man is christened Thomas, and she had no more
right to assume it than would have the daughter of a Mr.
Josiah Jones to call herself Mrs. Josiah Smith, on marrying
a man of the latter name. The gold coronet was equally out
of place, and perhaps inserted with even less excuse. Paulo
Neroni had had not the faintest title to call himself a
scion of even Italian nobility. Had the pair met in England
Neroni would probably have been a count, but they had met in
Italy, and any such pretence on his part would have been
simply ridiculous. A coronet, however, was a pretty
ornament, and if it could solace a poor cripple to have such
on her card, who would begrudge it to her?
Of her husband, or of his individual family, she never
spoke, but with her admirers she would often allude in a
mysterious way to her married life and isolated state, and,
pointing to her daughter, would call her the last of the
blood of the emperors, thus referring Neroni's extraction to
the old Roman family from which the worst of the Caesars
sprang.
The "signora" was not without talent and not without a
certain sort of industry; she was an indomitable
letter-writer, and her letters were worth the postage: they
were full of wit, mischief, satire, love, latitudinarian
philosophy, free religion, and, sometimes, alas, loose
ribaldry. The subject, however, depended entirely on the
recipient, and she was prepared to correspond with anyone
but moral young ladies or stiff old women. She wrote also a
kind of poetry, generally in Italian, and short romances,
generally in French. She read much of a desultory sort of
literature, and as a modern linguist had really made great
proficiency. Such was the lady who had now come to wound the
hearts of the men of Barchester.
Ethelbert Stanhope was in some respects like his younger
sister, but he was less inestimable as a man than she as a
woman. His great fault was an entire absence of that
principle which should have induced him, as the son of a man
without fortune, to earn his own bread. Many attempts had
been made to get him to do so, but these had all been
frustrated, not so much by idleness on his part as by a
disinclination to exert himself in any way not to his taste.
He had been educated at Eton and had been intended for the
Church, but he had left Cambridge in disgust after a single
term, and notified to his father his intention to study for
the bar. Preparatory to that, he thought it well that he
should attend a German university, and consequently went to
Leipzig. There he remained two years and brought away a
knowledge of German and a taste for the fine arts. He still,
however, intended himself for the bar, took chambers,
engaged himself to sit at the feet of a learned pundit, and
spent a season in London. He there found that all his
aptitudes inclined him to the life of an artist, and he
determined to live by painting. With this object he returned
to Milan, and had himself rigged out for Rome. As a painter
he might have earned his bread, for he wanted only diligence
to excel, but when at Rome his mind was carried away by
other things: he soon wrote home for money, saying that he
had been converted to the Mother Church, that he was already
an acolyte of the Jesuits, and that he was about to start
with others to Palestine on a mission for converting Jews.
He did go to Judea, but being unable to convert the Jews,
was converted by them. He again wrote home, to say that
Moses was the only giver of perfect laws to the world, that
the coming of the true Messiah was at hand, that great
things were doing in Palestine, and that he had met one of
the family of Sidonia, a most remarkable man, who was now on
his way to western Europe, and whom he had induced to
deviate from his route with the object of calling at the
Stanhope villa. Ethelbert then expressed his hope that his
mother and sisters would listen to this wonderful prophet.
His father he knew could not do so from pecuniary
considerations. This Sidonia, however, did not take so
strong a fancy to him as another of that family once did to
a young English nobleman. At least he provided him with no
heaps of gold as large as lions, so that the Judaized
Ethelbert was again obliged to draw on the revenues of the
Christian Church.
It is needless to tell how the father swore that he would
send no more money and receive no Jew, nor how Charlotte
declared that Ethelbert could not be left penniless in
Jerusalem, and how "La Signora Neroni" resolved to have
Sidonia at her feet. The money was sent, and the Jew did
come. The Jew did come, but he was not at all to the taste
of "La Signora." He was a dirty little old man, and though
he had provided no golden lions, he had, it seems, relieved
young Stanhope's necessities. He positively refused to leave
the villa till he had got a bill from the doctor on his
London bankers.
Ethelbert did not long remain a Jew. He soon reappeared
at the villa without prejudices on the subject of his
religion, and with a firm resolve to achieve fame and
fortune as a sculptor. He brought with him some models which
he had originated at Rome and which really gave such fair
promise that his father was induced to go to further expense
in furthering these views. Ethelbert opened an
establishment, or rather took lodgings and a workshop, at
Carrara, and there spoilt much marble and made some few
pretty images. Since that period, now four years ago, he had
alternated between Carrara and the villa, but his sojourns
at the workshop became shorter and shorter and those at the
villa longer and longer. 'Twas no wonder, for Carrara is not
a spot in which an Englishman would like to dwell.
When the family started for England, he had resolved not
to be left behind, and, with the assistance of his elder
sister, had carried his point against his father's wishes.
It was necessary, he said, that he should come to England
for orders. How otherwise was he to bring his profession to
account?
In personal appearance Ethelbert Stanhope was the most
singular of beings. He was certainly very handsome. He had
his sister Madeline's eyes, without their stare and without
their hard, cunning, cruel firmness. They were also very
much lighter, and of so light and clear a blue as to make
his face remarkable, if nothing else did so. On entering a
room with him, Ethelbert's blue eyes would be the first
thing you would see, and on leaving it almost the last you
would forget. His light hair was very long and silky, coming
down over his coat. His beard had been prepared in holy
land, and was patriarchal. He never shaved and rarely
trimmed it. It was glossy, soft, clean, and altogether not
unprepossessing. It was such that ladies might desire to
reel it off and work it into their patterns in lieu of floss
silk. His complexion was fair and almost pink; he was small
in height and slender in limb, but well-made; and his voice
was of peculiar sweetness.
In manner and dress he was equally remarkable. He had
none of the mauvaise honte of an Englishman. He
required no introduction to make himself agreeable to any
person. He habitually addressed strangers, ladies as well as
men, without any such formality, and in doing so never
seemed to meet with rebuke. His costume cannot be described
because it was so various, but it was always totally opposed
in every principle of colour and construction to the dress
of those with whom he for the time consorted.
He was habitually addicted to making love to ladies, and
did so without any scruples of conscience, or any idea that
such a practice was amiss. He had no heart to touch himself,
and was literally unaware that humanity was subject to such
an infliction. He had not thought much about it, but, had he
been asked, would have said that ill-treating a lady's heart
meant injuring her promotion in the world. His principles
therefore forbade him to pay attention to a girl if he
thought any man was present whom it might suit her to marry.
In this manner his good nature frequently interfered with
his amusement, but he had no other motive in abstaining from
the fullest declarations of love to every girl that pleased
his eye.
Bertie Stanhope, as he was generally called, was,
however, popular with both sexes—and with Italians as well
as English. His circle of acquaintance was very large and
embraced people of all sorts. He had no respect for rank,
and no aversion to those below him. He had lived on familiar
terms with English peers, German shopkeepers, and Roman
priests. All people were nearly alike to him. He was above,
or rather below, all prejudices. No virtue could charm him,
no vice shock him. He had about him a natural good manner,
which seemed to qualify him for the highest circles, and yet
he was never out of place in the lowest. He had no
principle, no regard for others, no self-respect, no desire
to be other than a drone in the hive, if only he could, as a
drone, get what honey was sufficient for him. Of honey, in
his latter days, it may probably be presaged, that he will
have but short allowance.
Such was the family of the Stanhopes, who, at this
period, suddenly joined themselves to the ecclesiastical
circle of Barchester close. Any stranger union it would be
impossible perhaps to conceive. And it was not as though
they all fell down into the cathedral precincts hitherto
unknown and untalked of. In such case, no amalgamation would
have been at all probable between the new-comers and either
the Proudie set or the Grantly set. But such was far from
being the case. The Stanhopes were all known by name in
Barchester, and Barchester was prepared to receive them with
open arms. The doctor was one of her prebendaries, one of
her rectors, one of her pillars of strength; and was,
moreover, counted on as a sure ally both by Proudies and
Grantlys.
He himself was the brother of one peer, and his wife was
the sister of another—and both these peers were lords of
Whiggish tendency, with whom the new bishop had some sort of
alliance. This was sufficient to give to Mr. Slope high hope
that he might enlist Dr. Stanhope on his side, before his
enemies could outmanoeuvre him. On the other hand, the old
dean had many many years ago, in the days of the doctor's
clerical energies, been instrumental in assisting him in his
views as to preferment; and many many years ago also, the
two doctors, Stanhope and Grantly, had, as young parsons,
been joyous together in the common-rooms of Oxford. Dr.
Grantly, consequently, did not doubt but that the newcomer
would range himself under his banners.
Little did any of them dream of what ingredients the
Stanhope family was now composed.
CHAPTER X
Mrs. Proudie's Reception—Commenced
The bishop and his wife had spent only three or four days
in Barchester on the occasion of their first visit. His
lordship had, as we have seen, taken his seat on his throne,
but his demeanour there, into which it had been his
intention to infuse much hierarchal dignity, had been a good
deal disarranged by the audacity of his chaplain's sermon.
He had hardly dared to look his clergy in the face, and to
declare by the severity of his countenance that in truth he
meant all that his factotum was saying on his behalf; nor
yet did he dare to throw Mr. Slope over, and show to those
around him that he was no party to the sermon, and would
resent it.
He had accordingly blessed his people in a shambling
manner, not at all to his own satisfaction, and had walked
back to his palace with his mind very doubtful as to what he
would say to his chaplain on the subject. He did not remain
long in doubt. He had hardly doffed his lawn when the
partner of all his toils entered his study and exclaimed
even before she had seated herself:
"Bishop, did you ever hear a more sublime, more
spirit-moving, more appropriate discourse than that?"
"Well, my love; ha—hum—he!" The bishop did not know what
to say.
"I hope, my lord, you don't mean to say you disapprove?"
There was a look about the lady's eye which did not admit
of my lord's disapproving at that moment. He felt that if he
intended to disapprove, it must be now or never; but he also
felt that it could not be now. It was not in him to say to
the wife of his bosom that Mr. Slope's sermon was ill-timed,
impertinent, and vexatious.
"No, no," replied the bishop. "No, I can't say I
disapprove—a very clever sermon and very well intended, and
I dare say will do a great deal of good." This last praise
was added, seeing that what he had already said by no means
satisfied Mrs. Proudie.
"I hope it will," said she. "And I am sure it was well
deserved. Did you ever in your life, bishop, hear anything
so like play-acting as the way in which Mr. Harding sings
the litany? I shall beg Mr. Slope to continue a course of
sermons on the subject till all that is altered. We will
have at any rate, in our cathedral, a decent, godly, modest
morning service. There must be no more play-acting here
now;" and so the lady rang for lunch.
The bishop knew more about cathedrals and deans and
precentors and church services than his wife did, and also
more of a bishop's powers. But he thought it better at
present to let the subject drop.
"My dear," said he, "I think we must go back to London on
Tuesday. I find my staying here will be very inconvenient to
the Government."
The bishop knew that to this proposal his wife would not
object, and he also felt that by thus retreating from the
ground of battle the heat of the fight might be got over in
his absence.
"Mr. Slope will remain here, of course?" said the lady.
"Oh, of course," said the bishop.
Thus, after less than a week's sojourn in his palace, did
the bishop fly from Barchester; nor did he return to it for
two months, the London season being then over. During that
time Mr. Slope was not idle, but he did not again essay to
preach in the cathedral. In answer to Mrs. Proudie's letters
advising a course of sermons, he had pleaded that he would
at any rate wish to put off such an undertaking till she was
there to hear them.
He had employed his time in consolidating a Proudie and
Slope party—or rather a Slope and Proudie party, and he had
not employed his time in vain. He did not meddle with the
dean and chapter, except by giving them little teasing
intimations of the bishop's wishes about this and the
bishop's feelings about that, in a manner which was to them
sufficiently annoying, but which they could not resent. He
preached once or twice in a distant church in the suburbs of
the city, but made no allusion to the cathedral service. He
commenced the establishment of two "Bishop's Barchester
Sabbath-day schools," gave notice of a proposed "Bishop's
Barchester Young Men's Sabbath Evening Lecture Room," and
wrote three or four letters to the manager of the Barchester
branch railway, informing him how anxious the bishop was
that the Sunday trains should be discontinued.
At the end of two months, however, the bishop and the
lady reappeared, and as a happy harbinger of their return,
heralded their advent by the promise of an evening party on
the largest scale. The tickets of invitation were sent out
from London—they were dated from Bruton Street, and were
dispatched by the odious Sabbath-breaking railway, in a huge
brown paper parcel to Mr. Slope. Everybody calling himself a
gentleman, or herself a lady, within the city of Barchester,
and a circle of two miles round it, was included. Tickets
were sent to all the diocesan clergy, and also to many other
persons of priestly note, of whose absence the bishop, or at
least the bishop's wife, felt tolerably confident. It was
intended, however, to be a thronged and noticeable affair,
and preparations were made for receiving some hundreds.
And now there arose considerable agitation among the
Grantlyites whether or no they would attend the episcopal
bidding. The first feeling with them all was to send the
briefest excuses both for themselves and their wives and
daughters. But by degrees policy prevailed over passion. The
archdeacon perceived that he would be making a false step if
he allowed the cathedral clergy to give the bishop just
ground of umbrage. They all met in conclave and agreed to
go. They would show that they were willing to respect the
office, much as they might dislike the man. They agreed to
go. The old dean would crawl in, if it were but for half an
hour. The chancellor, treasurer, archdeacon, prebendaries,
and minor canons would all go, and would all take their
wives. Mr. Harding was especially bidden to do so, resolving
in his heart to keep himself far removed from Mrs. Proudie.
And Mrs. Bold was determined to go, though assured by her
father that there was no necessity for such a sacrifice on
her part. When all Barchester was to be there, neither
Eleanor nor Mary Bold understood why they should stay away.
Had they not been invited separately? And had not a separate
little note from the chaplain, couched in the most
respectful language, been enclosed with the huge episcopal
card?
And the Stanhopes would be there, one and all. Even the
lethargic mother would so far bestir herself on such an
occasion. They had only just arrived. The card was at the
residence waiting for them. No one in Barchester had seen
them. What better opportunity could they have of showing
themselves to the Barchester world? Some few old friends,
such as the archdeacon and his wife, had called and had
found the doctor and his eldest daughter, but the élite
of the family were not yet known.
The doctor indeed wished in his heart to prevent the
signora from accepting the bishop's invitation, but she
herself had fully determined that she would accept it. If
her father was ashamed of having his daughter carried into a
bishop's palace, she had no such feeling.
"Indeed, I shall," she had said to her sister who had
gently endeavoured to dissuade her, by saying that the
company would consist wholly of parsons and parsons' wives.
"Parsons, I suppose, are much the same as other men, if you
strip them of their black coats; and as to their wives, I
dare say they won't trouble me. You may tell Papa I don't at
all mean to be left at home."
Papa was told, and felt that he could do nothing but
yield. He also felt that it was useless for him now to be
ashamed of his children. Such as they were, they had become
such under his auspices; as he had made his bed, so he must
lie upon it; as he had sown his seed, so must he reap his
corn. He did not indeed utter such reflexions in such
language, but such was the gist of his thought. It was not
because Madeline was a cripple that he shrank from seeing
her made one of the bishop's guests, but because he knew
that she would practise her accustomed lures, and behave
herself in a way that could not fail of being distasteful to
the propriety of Englishwomen. These things had annoyed but
not shocked him in Italy. There they had shocked no one; but
here in Barchester, here among his fellow parsons, he was
ashamed that they should be seen. Such had been his
feelings, but he repressed them. What if his brother
clergymen were shocked! They could not take from him his
preferment because the manners of his married daughter were
too free.
La Signora Neroni had, at any rate, no fear that she
would shock anybody. Her ambition was to create a sensation,
to have parsons at her feet, seeing that the manhood of
Barchester consisted mainly of parsons, and to send, if
possible, every parson's wife home with a green fit of
jealousy. None could be too old for her, and hardly any too
young. None too sanctified, and none too worldly. She was
quite prepared to entrap the bishop himself, and then to
turn up her nose at the bishop's wife. She did not doubt of
success, for she had always succeeded; but one thing was
absolutely necessary; she must secure the entire use of a
sofa.
The card sent to Dr. and Mrs. Stanhope and family had
been so sent in an envelope having on the cover Mr. Slope's
name. The signora soon learnt that Mrs. Proudie was not yet
at the palace and that the chaplain was managing everything.
It was much more in her line to apply to him than to the
lady, and she accordingly wrote him the prettiest little
billet in the world. In five lines she explained everything,
declared how impossible it was for her not to be desirous to
make the acquaintance of such persons as the Bishop of
Barchester and his wife, and she might add also of Mr.
Slope, depicted her own grievous state, and concluded by
being assured that Mrs. Proudie would forgive her extreme
hardihood in petitioning to be allowed to be carried to a
sofa. She then enclosed one of her beautiful cards. In
return she received as polite an answer from Mr. Slope—a
sofa should be kept in the large drawing-room, immediately
at the top of the grand stairs, especially for her use.
And now the day of the party had arrived. The bishop and
his wife came down from town only on the morning of the
eventful day, as behoved such great people to do, but Mr.
Slope had toiled day and night to see that everything should
be in right order. There had been much to do. No company had
been seen in the palace since heaven knows when. New
furniture had been required, new pots and pans, new cups and
saucers, new dishes and plates. Mrs. Proudie had at first
declared that she would condescend to nothing so vulgar as
eating and drinking, but Mr. Slope had talked, or rather
written her out of economy. Bishops should be given to
hospitality, and hospitality meant eating and drinking. So
the supper was conceded; the guests, however, were to stand
as they consumed it.
There were four rooms opening into each other on the
first floor of the house, which were denominated the
drawing-rooms, the reception-room, and Mrs. Proudie's
boudoir. In olden days one of these had been Bishop
Grantly's bedroom, and another his common sitting-room and
study. The present bishop, however, had been moved down into
a back parlour and had been given to understand that he
could very well receive his clergy in the dining-room,
should they arrive in too large a flock to be admitted into
his small sanctum. He had been unwilling to yield, but after
a short debate had yielded.
Mrs. Proudie's heart beat high as she inspected her suite
of rooms. They were really very magnificent, or at least
would be so by candlelight, and they had nevertheless been
got up with commendable economy. Large rooms when full of
people and full of light look well, because they are large,
and are full, and are light. Small rooms are those which
require costly fittings and rich furniture. Mrs. Proudie
knew this, and made the most of it; she had therefore a huge
gas lamp with a dozen burners hanging from each of the
ceilings.
People were to arrive at ten, supper was to last from
twelve till one, and at half-past one everybody was to be
gone. Carriages were to come in at the gate in the town and
depart at the gate outside. They were desired to take up at
a quarter before one. It was managed excellently, and Mr.
Slope was invaluable.
At half-past nine the bishop and his wife and their three
daughters entered the great reception-room, and very grand
and very solemn they were. Mr. Slope was downstairs giving
the last orders about the wine. He well understood that
curates and country vicars with their belongings did not
require so generous an article as the dignitaries of the
close. There is a useful gradation in such things, and
Marsala at 20s. a dozen did very well for the exterior
supplementary tables in the corner.
"Bishop," said the lady, as his lordship sat himself
down, "don't sit on that sofa, if you please; it is to be
kept separate for a lady."
The bishop jumped up and seated himself on a
cane-bottomed chair. "A lady?" he inquired meekly; "do you
mean one particular lady, my dear?"
"Yes, Bishop, one particular lady," said his wife,
disdaining to explain.
"She has got no legs, Papa," said the youngest daughter,
tittering.
"No legs!" said the bishop, opening his eyes.
"Nonsense, Netta, what stuff you talk," said Olivia. "She
has got legs, but she can't use them. She has always to be
kept lying down, and three or four men carry her about
everywhere."
"Laws, how odd!" said Augusta. "Always carried about by
four men! I'm sure I shouldn't like it. Am I right behind,
Mamma? I feel as if I was open;" and she turned her back to
her anxious parent.
"Open! To be sure you are," said she, "and a yard of
petticoat strings hanging out. I don't know why I pay such
high wages to Mrs. Richards if she can't take the trouble to
see whether or no you are fit to be looked at," and Mrs.
Proudie poked the strings here, and twitched the dress
there, and gave her daughter a shove and a shake, and then
pronounced it all right.
"But," rejoined the bishop, who was dying with curiosity
about the mysterious lady and her legs, "who is it that is
to have the sofa? What's her name, Netta?"
A thundering rap at the front door interrupted the
conversation. Mrs. Proudie stood up and shook herself
gently, and touched her cap on each side as she looked in
the mirror. Each of the girls stood on tiptoe and rearranged
the bows on their bosoms, and Mr. Slope rushed upstairs
three steps at a time.
"But who is it, Netta?" whispered the bishop to his
youngest daughter.
"La Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni," whispered back the
daughter; "and mind you don't let anyone sit upon the sofa."
"La Signora Madeline Vicinironi!" muttered to himself the
bewildered prelate. Had he been told that the Begum of Oude
was to be there, or Queen Pomara of the Western Isles, he
could not have been more astonished. La Signora Madeline
Vicinironi, who, having no legs to stand on, had bespoken a
sofa in his drawing-room! Who could she be? He however could
now make no further inquiry, as Dr. and Mrs. Stanhope were
announced. They had been sent on out of the way a little
before the time, in order that the signora might have plenty
of time to get herself conveniently packed into the
carriage.
The bishop was all smiles for the prebendary's wife, and
the bishop's wife was all smiles for the prebendary. Mr.
Slope was presented and was delighted to make the
acquaintance of one of whom he had heard so much. The doctor
bowed very low, and then looked as though he could not
return the compliment as regarded Mr. Slope, of whom,
indeed, he had heard nothing. The doctor, in spite of his
long absence, knew an English gentleman when he saw him.
And then the guests came in shoals: Mr. and Mrs.
Quiverful and their three grown daughters. Mr. and Mrs.
Chadwick and their three daughters. The burly chancellor and
his wife and clerical son from Oxford. The meagre little
doctor without incumbrance. Mr. Harding with Eleanor and
Miss Bold. The dean leaning on a gaunt spinster, his only
child now living with him, a lady very learned in stones,
ferns, plants, and vermin, and who had written a book about
petals. A wonderful woman in her way was Miss Trefoil. Mr.
Finnie, the attorney, with his wife, was to be seen, much to
the dismay of many who had never met him in a drawing-room
before. The five Barchester doctors were all there, and old
Scalpen, the retired apothecary and tooth-drawer, who was
first taught to consider himself as belonging to the higher
orders by the receipt of the bishop's card. Then came the
archdeacon and his wife with their elder daughter Griselda,
a slim, pale, retiring girl of seventeen who kept close to
her mother, and looked out on the world with quiet watchful
eyes, one who gave promise of much beauty when time should
have ripened it.
And so the rooms became full, and knots were formed, and
every newcomer paid his respects to my lord and passed on,
not presuming to occupy too much of the great man's
attention. The archdeacon shook hands very heartily with Dr.
Stanhope, and Mrs. Grantly seated herself by the doctor's
wife. And Mrs. Proudie moved about with well-regulated
grace, measuring out the quantity of her favours to the
quality of her guests, just as Mr. Slope had been doing with
the wine. But the sofa was still empty, and five-and-twenty
ladies and five gentlemen had been courteously warned off it
by the mindful chaplain.
"Why doesn't she come?" said the bishop to himself. His
mind was so preoccupied with the signora that he hardly
remembered how to behave himself en bishop.
At last a carriage dashed up to the hall steps with a
very different manner of approach from that of any other
vehicle that had been there that evening. A perfect
commotion took place. The doctor, who heard it as he was
standing in the drawing-room, knew that his daughter was
coming, and retired into the furthest corner, where he might
not see her entrance. Mrs. Proudie perked herself up,
feeling that some important piece of business was in hand.
The bishop was instinctively aware that La Signora
Vicinironi was come at last, and Mr. Slope hurried into the
hall to give his assistance.
He was, however, nearly knocked down and trampled on by
the cortège that he encountered on the hall steps. He got
himself picked up, as well as he could, and followed the
cortège upstairs. The signora was carried head foremost, her
head being the care of her brother and an Italian manservant
who was accustomed to the work; her feet were in the care of
the lady's maid and the lady's Italian page; and Charlotte
Stanhope followed to see that all was done with due grace
and decorum. In this manner they climbed easily into the
drawing-room, and a broad way through the crowd having been
opened, the signora rested safely on her couch. She had sent
a servant beforehand to learn whether it was a right- or a
left-hand sofa, for it required that she should dress
accordingly, particularly as regarded her bracelets.
And very becoming her dress was. It was white velvet,
without any other garniture than rich white lace worked with
pearls across her bosom, and the same round the armlets of
her dress. Across her brow she wore a band of red velvet, on
the centre of which shone a magnificent Cupid in mosaic, the
tints of whose wings were of the most lovely azure, and the
colour of his chubby cheeks the clearest pink. On the one
arm which her position required her to expose she wore three
magnificent bracelets, each of different stones. Beneath her
on the sofa, and over the cushion and head of it, was spread
a crimson silk mantle or shawl, which went under her whole
body and concealed her feet. Dressed as she was and looking
as she did, so beautiful and yet so motionless, with the
pure brilliancy of her white dress brought out and
strengthened by the colour beneath it, with that lovely
head, and those large, bold, bright, staring eyes, it was
impossible that either man or woman should do other than
look at her.
Neither man nor woman for some minutes did do other.
Her bearers too were worthy of note. The three servants
were Italian, and though perhaps not peculiar in their own
country, were very much so in the palace at Barchester. The
man especially attracted notice and created a doubt in the
mind of some whether he were a friend or a domestic. The
same doubt was felt as to Ethelbert. The man was attired in
a loose-fitting, common, black-cloth morning-coat. He had a
jaunty, fat, well-pleased, clean face on which no atom of
beard appeared, and he wore round his neck a loose, black
silk neck-handkerchief. The bishop essayed to make him a
bow, but the man, who was well trained, took no notice of
him and walked out of the room quite at his ease, followed
by the woman and the boy.
Ethelbert Stanhope was dressed in light blue from head to
foot. He had on the loosest possible blue coat, cut square
like a shooting coat, and very short. It was lined with silk
of azure blue. He had on a blue satin waistcoat, a blue
neck-handkerchief which was fastened beneath his throat with
a coral ring, and very loose blue trousers which almost
concealed his feet. His soft, glossy beard was softer and
more glossy than ever.
The bishop, who had made one mistake, thought that he
also was a servant and therefore tried to make way for him
to pass. But Ethelbert soon corrected the error.
CHAPTER XI
Mrs. Proudie's Reception—Concluded
"Bishop of Barchester, I presume?" said Bertie Stanhope,
putting out his hand frankly; "I am delighted to make your
acquaintance. We are in rather close quarters here, a'nt
we?"
In truth they were. They had been crowded up behind the
head of the sofa—the bishop in waiting to receive his guest,
and the other in carrying her—and they now had hardly room
to move themselves.
The bishop gave his hand quickly, made his little studied
bow, and was delighted to make—He couldn't go on, for he did
not know whether his friend was a signor, or a count or a
prince.
"My sister really puts you all to great trouble," said
Bertie.
"Not at all!" The bishop was delighted to have the
opportunity of welcoming La Signora Vicinironi—so at least
he said—and attempted to force his way round to the front of
the sofa. He had, at any rate, learnt that his strange
guests were brother and sister. The man, he presumed, must
be Signor Vicinironi—or count, or prince, as it might be. It
was wonderful what good English he spoke. There was just a
twang of foreign accent, and no more.
"Do you like Barchester, on the whole?" asked Bertie.
The bishop, looking dignified, said that he did like
Barchester.
"You've not been here very long, I believe," said Bertie.
"No—not long," said the bishop and tried again to make
his way between the back of the sofa and a heavy rector, who
was staring over it at the grimaces of the signora.
"You weren't a bishop before, were you?"
Dr. Proudie explained that this was the first diocese he
had held.
"Ah—I thought so," said Bertie, "but you are changed
about sometimes, a'nt you?"
"Translations are occasionally made," said Dr. Proudie,
"but not so frequently as in former days."
"They've cut them all down to pretty nearly the same
figure, haven't they?" said Bertie.
To this the bishop could not bring himself to make any
answer, but again attempted to move the rector.
"But the work, I suppose, is different?" continued
Bertie. "Is there much to do here, at Barchester?" This was
said exactly in the tone that a young Admiralty clerk might
use in asking the same question of a brother acolyte at the
Treasury.
"The work of a bishop of the Church of England," said Dr.
Proudie with considerable dignity, "is not easy. The
responsibility which he has to bear is very great indeed."
"Is it?" said Bertie, opening wide his wonderful blue
eyes. "Well, I never was afraid of responsibility. I once
had thoughts of being a bishop, myself."
"Had thoughts of being a bishop!" said Dr. Proudie, much
amazed.
"That is, a parson—a parson first, you know, and a bishop
afterwards. If I had once begun, I'd have stuck to it. But,
on the whole, I like the Church of Rome the best."
The bishop could not discuss the point, so he remained
silent.
"Now, there's my father," continued Bertie; "he hasn't
stuck to it. I fancy he didn't like saying the same thing
over so often. By the by, Bishop, have you seen my father?"
The bishop was more amazed than ever. Had he seen his
father? "No," he replied; he had not yet had the pleasure:
he hoped he might; and, as he said so, he resolved to bear
heavy on that fat, immovable rector, if ever he had the
power of doing so.
"He's in the room somewhere," said Bertie, "and he'll
turn up soon. By the by, do you know much about the Jews?"
At last the bishop saw a way out. "I beg your pardon,"
said he, "but I'm forced to go round the room."
"Well—I believe I'll follow in your wake," said Bertie.
"Terribly hot—isn't it?" This he addressed to the fat rector
with whom he had brought himself into the closest contact.
"They've got this sofa into the worst possible part of the
room; suppose we move it. Take care, Madeline."
The sofa had certainly been so placed that those who were
behind it found great difficulty in getting out; there was
but a narrow gangway, which one person could stop. This was
a bad arrangement, and one which Bertie thought it might be
well to improve.
"Take care, Madeline," said he, and turning to the fat
rector, added, "Just help me with a slight push."
The rector's weight was resting on the sofa and
unwittingly lent all its impetus to accelerate and increase
the motion which Bertie intentionally originated. The sofa
rushed from its moorings and ran half-way into the middle of
the room. Mrs. Proudie was standing with Mr. Slope in front
of the signora, and had been trying to be condescending and
sociable; but she was not in the very best of tempers, for
she found that, whenever she spoke to the lady, the lady
replied by speaking to Mr. Slope. Mr. Slope was a favourite,
no doubt, but Mrs. Proudie had no idea of being less thought
of than the chaplain. She was beginning to be stately,
stiff, and offended, when unfortunately the castor of the
sofa caught itself in her lace train, and carried away there
is no saying how much of her garniture. Gathers were heard
to go, stitches to crack, plaits to fly open, flounces were
seen to fall, and breadths to expose themselves; a long ruin
of rent lace disfigured the carpet, and still clung to the
vile wheel on which the sofa moved.
So, when a granite battery is raised, excellent to the
eyes of warfaring men, is its strength and symmetry admired.
It is the work of years. Its neat embrasures, its finished
parapets, its casemated stories show all the skill of modern
science. But, anon, a small spark is applied to the
treacherous fusee—a cloud of dust arises to the heavens—and
then nothing is to be seen but dirt and dust and ugly
fragments.
We know what was the wrath of Juno when her beauty was
despised. We know to what storms of passion even celestial
minds can yield. As Juno may have looked at Paris on Mount
Ida, so did Mrs. Proudie look on Ethelbert Stanhope when he
pushed the leg of the sofa into her lace train.
"Oh, you idiot, Bertie!" said the signora, seeing what
had been done, and what were to be the consequences.
"Idiot!" re-echoed Mrs. Proudie, as though the word were
not half strong enough to express the required meaning;
"I'll let him know—" and then looking round to learn, at a
glance, the worst, she saw that at present it behoved her to
collect the scattered débris of her dress.
Bertie, when he saw what he had done, rushed over the
sofa and threw himself on one knee before the offended lady.
His object, doubtless, was to liberate the torn lace from
the castor, but he looked as though he were imploring pardon
from a goddess.
"Unhand it, sir!" said Mrs. Proudie. From what scrap of
dramatic poetry she had extracted the word cannot be said,
but it must have rested on her memory, and now seemed
opportunely dignified for the occasion.
"I'll fly to the looms of the fairies to repair the
damage, if you'll only forgive me," said Ethelbert, still on
his knees.
"Unhand it, sir!" said Mrs. Proudie with redoubled
emphasis, and all but furious wrath. This allusion to the
fairies was a direct mockery and intended to turn her into
ridicule. So at least it seemed to her. "Unhand it, sir!"
she almost screamed.
"It's not me; it's the cursed sofa," said Bertie, looking
imploringly in her face and holding up both his hands to
show that he was not touching her belongings, but still
remaining on his knees.
Hereupon the Signora laughed; not loud, indeed, but yet
audibly. And as the tigress bereft of her young will turn
with equal anger on any within reach, so did Mrs. Proudie
turn upon her female guest.
"Madam!" she said—and it is beyond the power of prose to
tell of the fire which flashed from her eyes.
The signora stared her full in the face for a moment, and
then turning to her brother said playfully, "Bertie, you
idiot, get up."
By this time the bishop, and Mr. Slope, and her three
daughters were around her, and had collected together the
wide ruins of her magnificence. The girls fell into circular
rank behind their mother, and thus following her and
carrying out the fragments, they left the reception-rooms in
a manner not altogether devoid of dignity. Mrs. Proudie had
to retire and re-array herself.
As soon as the constellation had swept by, Ethelbert rose
from his knees and, turning with mock anger to the fat
rector, said: "After all it was your doing, sir—not mine.
But perhaps you are waiting for preferment, and so I bore
it."
Whereupon there was a laugh against the fat rector, in
which both the bishop and the chaplain joined, and thus
things got themselves again into order.
"Oh! my lord, I am so sorry for this accident," said the
signora, putting out her hand so as to force the bishop to
take it. "My brother is so thoughtless. Pray sit down, and
let me have the pleasure of making your acquaintance. Though
I am so poor a creature as to want a sofa, I am not so
selfish as to require it all." Madeline could always dispose
herself so as to make room for a gentleman, though, as she
declared, the crinoline of her lady friends was much too
bulky to be so accommodated.
"It was solely for the pleasure of meeting you that I
have had myself dragged here," she continued. "Of course,
with your occupation, one cannot even hope that you should
have time to come to us, that is, in the way of calling. And
at your English dinner-parties all is so dull and so
stately. Do you know, my lord, that in coming to England my
only consolation has been the thought that I should know
you;" and she looked at him with the look of a she-devil.
The bishop, however, thought that she looked very like an
angel and, accepting the proffered seat, sat down beside
her. He uttered some platitude as to his deep obligation for
the trouble she had taken, and wondered more and more who
she was.
"Of course you know my sad story?" she continued.
The bishop didn't know a word of it. He knew, however, or
thought he knew, that she couldn't walk into a room like
other people, and so made the most of that. He put on a look
of ineffable distress and said that he was aware how God had
afflicted her.
The signora just touched the corner of her eyes with the
most lovely of pocket-handkerchiefs. Yes, she said—she had
been sorely tried—tried, she thought, beyond the common
endurance of humanity; but while her child was left to her,
everything was left. "Oh! my lord," she exclaimed, "you must
see that infant—the last bud of a wondrous tree: you must
let a mother hope that you will lay your holy hands on her
innocent head and consecrate her for female virtues. May I
hope it?" said she, looking into the bishop's eye and
touching the bishop's arm with her hand.
The bishop was but a man and said she might. After all,
what was it but a request that he would confirm her
daughter?—a request, indeed, very unnecessary to make, as he
should do so as a matter of course if the young lady came
forward in the usual way.
"The blood of Tiberius," said the signora in all but a
whisper; "the blood of Tiberius flows in her veins. She is
the last of the Neros!"
The bishop had heard of the last of the Visigoths, and
had floating in his brain some indistinct idea of the last
of the Mohicans, but to have the last of the Neros thus
brought before him for a blessing was very staggering. Still
he liked the lady: she had a proper way of thinking and
talked with more propriety than her brother. But who were
they? It was now quite clear that that blue madman with the
silky beard was not a Prince Vicinironi. The lady was
married and was of course one of the Vicinironi's by right
of the husband. So the bishop went on learning.
"When will you see her? said the signora with a start.
"See whom?" said the bishop.
"My child," said the mother.
"What is the young lady's age?" asked the bishop.
"She is just seven," said the signora.
"Oh," said the bishop, shaking his head; "she is much too
young—very much too young."
"But in sunny Italy, you know, we do not count by years,"
and the signora gave the bishop one of her very sweetest
smiles.
"But indeed, she is a great deal too young," persisted
the bishop; "we never confirm before—"
"But you might speak to her; you might let her hear from
your consecrated lips that she is not a castaway because she
is a Roman; that she may be a Nero and yet a Christian; that
she may owe her black locks and dark cheeks to the blood of
the pagan Caesars, and yet herself be a child of grace; you
will tell her this, won't you, my friend?"
The friend said he would, and asked if the child could
say her catechism.
"No," said the signora, "I would not allow her to learn
lessons such as those in a land ridden over by priests and
polluted by the idolatry of Rome. It is here, here in
Barchester, that she must first be taught to lisp those holy
words. Oh, that you could be her instructor!"
Now, Dr. Proudie certainly liked the lady, but, seeing
that he was a bishop, it was not probable that he was going
to instruct a little girl in the first rudiments of her
catechism; so he said he'd send a teacher.
"But you'll see her yourself, my lord?"
The bishop said he would, but where should he call.
"At Papa's house," said the Signora with an air of some
little surprise at the question.
The bishop actually wanted the courage to ask her who was
her papa, so he was forced at last to leave her without
fathoming the mystery. Mrs. Proudie, in her second best, had
now returned to the rooms, and her husband thought it as
well that he should not remain in too close conversation
with the lady whom his wife appeared to hold in such slight
esteem. Presently he came across his youngest daughter.
"Netta," said he, "do you know who is the father of that
Signora Vicinironi?"
"It isn't Vicinironi, Papa," said Netta; "but Vesey
Neroni, and she's Doctor Stanhope's daughter. But I must go
and do the civil to Griselda Grantly; I declare nobody has
spoken a word to the poor girl this evening."
Dr. Stanhope! Dr. Vesey Stanhope! Dr. Vesey Stanhope's
daughter, of whose marriage with a dissolute Italian scamp
he now remembered to have heard something! And that
impertinent blue cub who had examined him as to his
episcopal bearings was old Stanhope's son, and the lady who
had entreated him to come and teach her child the catechism
was old Stanhope's daughter! The daughter of one of his own
prebendaries! As these things flashed across his mind, he
was nearly as angry as his wife had been. Nevertheless, he
could not but own that the mother of the last of the Neros
was an agreeable woman.
Dr. Proudie tripped out into the adjoining room, in which
were congregated a crowd of Grantlyite clergymen, among whom
the archdeacon was standing pre-eminent, while the old dean
was sitting nearly buried in a huge arm chair by the
fire-place. The bishop was very anxious to be gracious, and,
if possible, to diminish the bitterness which his chaplain
had occasioned. Let Mr. Slope do the fortiter in re,
he himself would pour in the suaviter in modo.
"Pray don't stir, Mr. Dean, pray don't stir," he said as
the old man essayed to get up; "I take it as a great
kindness, your coming to such an omnium gatherum as
this. But we have hardly got settled yet, and Mrs. Proudie
has not been able to see her friends as she would wish to
do. Well, Mr. Archdeacon, after all, we have not been so
hard upon you at Oxford."
"No," said the archdeacon, "you've only drawn our teeth
and cut out our tongues; you've allowed us still to breathe
and swallow."
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the bishop; "it's not quite so easy
to cut out the tongue of an Oxford magnate—and as for
teeth—ha, ha, ha! Why, in the way we've left the matter,
it's very odd if the heads of colleges don't have their own
way quite as fully as when the hebdomadal board was in all
its glory; what do you say, Mr. Dean?"
"An old man, my lord, never likes changes," said the
dean.
"You must have been sad bunglers if it is so," said the
archdeacon; "and indeed, to tell the truth, I think you have
bungled it. At any rate, you must own this; you have not
done the half what you boasted you would do."
"Now, as regards your system of professors—" began the
chancellor slowly. He was never destined to get beyond such
beginning.
"Talking of professors," said a soft clear voice, close
behind the chancellor's elbow; "how much you Englishmen
might learn from Germany; only you are all too proud."
The bishop, looking round, perceived that that abominable
young Stanhope had pursued him. The dean stared at him as
though he were some unearthly apparition; so also did two or
three prebendaries and minor canons. The archdeacon laughed.
"The German professors are men of learning," said Mr.
Harding, "but—"
"German professors!" groaned out the chancellor, as
though his nervous system had received a shock which nothing
but a week of Oxford air could cure.
"Yes," continued Ethelbert, not at all understanding why
a German professor should be contemptible in the eyes of an
Oxford don. "Not but what the name is best earned at Oxford.
In Germany the professors do teach; at Oxford, I believe,
they only profess to do so, and sometimes not even that.
You'll have those universities of yours about your ears
soon, if you don't consent to take a lesson from Germany."
There was no answering this. Dignified clergymen of sixty
years of age could not condescend to discuss such a matter
with a young man with such clothes and such a beard.
"Have you got good water out at Plumstead, Mr.
Archdeacon?" said the bishop by way of changing the
conversation.
"Pretty good," said Dr. Grantly.
"But by no means so good as his wine, my lord," said a
witty minor canon.
"Nor so generally used," said another; "that is, for
inward application."
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the bishop, "a good cellar of wine
is a very comfortable thing in a house."
"Your German professors, Sir, prefer beer, I believe,"
said the sarcastic little meagre prebendary.
"They don't think much of either," said Ethelbert, "and
that perhaps accounts for their superiority. Now the Jewish
professor—"
The insult was becoming too deep for the spirit of Oxford
to endure, so the archdeacon walked off one way and the
chancellor another, followed by their disciples, and the
bishop and the young reformer were left together on the
hearth-rug.
"I was a Jew once myself," began Bertie.
The bishop was determined not to stand another
examination, or be led on any terms into Palestine, so he
again remembered that he had to do something very
particular, and left young Stanhope with the dean. The dean
did not get the worst of it for Ethelbert gave him a true
account of his remarkable doings in the Holy Land.
"Oh, Mr. Harding," said the bishop, overtaking the
ci-devant warden; "I wanted to say one word about the
hospital. You know, of course, that it is to be filled up."
Mr. Harding's heart beat a little, and he said that he
had heard so.
"Of course," continued the bishop; "there can be only one
man whom I could wish to see in that situation. I don't know
what your own views may be, Mr. Harding—"
"They are very simply told, my lord," said the other; "to
take the place if it be offered me, and to put up with the
want of it should another man get it."
The bishop professed himself delighted to hear it; Mr.
Harding might be quite sure that no other man would get it.
There were some few circumstances which would in a slight
degree change the nature of the duties. Mr. Harding was
probably aware of this, and would, perhaps, not object to
discuss the matter with Mr. Slope. It was a subject to which
Mr. Slope had given a good deal of attention.
Mr. Harding felt, he knew not why, oppressed and annoyed.
What could Mr. Slope do to him? He knew that there were to
be changes. The nature of them must be communicated to the
warden through somebody, and through whom so naturally as
the bishop's chaplain? 'Twas thus he tried to argue himself
back to an easy mind, but in vain.
Mr. Slope in the meantime had taken the seat which the
bishop had vacated on the signora's sofa, and remained with
that lady till it was time to marshal the folk to supper.
Not with contented eyes had Mrs. Proudie seen this. Had not
this woman laughed at her distress, and had not Mr. Slope
heard it? Was she not an intriguing Italian woman, half wife
and half not, full of affectation, airs, and impudence? Was
she not horribly bedizened with velvet and pearls, with
velvet and pearls, too, which had not been torn off her
back? Above all, did she not pretend to be more beautiful
than her neighbours? To say that Mrs. Proudie was jealous
would give a wrong idea of her feelings. She had not the
slightest desire that Mr. Slope should be in love with
herself. But she desired the incense of Mr. Slope's
spiritual and temporal services, and did not choose that
they should be turned out of their course to such an object
as Signora Neroni. She considered also that Mr. Slope ought
in duty to hate the signora, and it appeared from his manner
that he was very far from hating her.
"Come, Mr. Slope," she said, sweeping by and looking all
that she felt, "can't you make yourself useful? Do pray take
Mrs. Grantly down to supper."
Mrs. Grantly heard and escaped. The words were hardly out
of Mrs. Proudie's mouth before the intended victim had stuck
her hand through the arm of one of her husband's curates and
saved herself. What would the archdeacon have said had he
seen her walking downstairs with Mr. Slope?
Mr. Slope heard also, but was by no means so obedient as
was expected. Indeed, the period of Mr. Slope's obedience to
Mrs. Proudie was drawing to a close. He did not wish yet to
break with her, nor to break with her at all, if it could be
avoided. But he intended to be master in that palace, and as
she had made the same resolution it was not improbable that
they might come to blows.
Before leaving the signora he arranged a little table
before her and begged to know what he should bring her. She
was quite indifferent, she said—nothing—anything. It was now
she felt the misery of her position, now that she must be
left alone. Well, a little chicken, some ham, and a glass of
champagne.
Mr. Slope had to explain, not without blushing for his
patron, that there was no champagne.
Sherry would do just as well. And then Mr. Slope
descended with the learned Miss Trefoil on his arm. Could
she tell him, he asked, whether the ferns of Barsetshire
were equal to those of Cumberland? His strongest worldly
passion was for ferns—and before she could answer him he
left her wedged between the door and the sideboard. It was
fifty minutes before she escaped, and even then unfed.
"You are not leaving us, Mr. Slope," said the watchful
lady of the house, seeing her slave escaping towards the
door, with stores of provisions held high above the heads of
the guests.
Mr. Slope explained that the Signora Neroni was in want
of her supper.
"Pray, Mr. Slope, let her brother take it to her," said
Mrs. Proudie, quite out loud. "It is out of the question
that you should be so employed. Pray, Mr. Slope, oblige me;
I am sure Mr. Stanhope will wait upon his sister."
Ethelbert was most agreeably occupied in the furthest
corner of the room, making himself both useful and agreeable
to Mrs. Proudie's youngest daughter.
"I couldn't get out, madam, if Madeline were starving for
her supper," said he; "I'm physically fixed, unless I could
fly."
The lady's anger was increased by seeing that her
daughter also had gone over to the enemy, and when she saw,
that in spite of her remonstrances, in the teeth of her
positive orders, Mr. Slope went off to the drawing-room, the
cup of her indignation ran over, and she could not restrain
herself. "Such manners I never saw," she said, muttering. "I
cannot and will not permit it;" and then, after fussing and
fuming for a few minutes, she pushed her way through the
crowd and followed Mr. Slope.
When she reached the room above, she found it absolutely
deserted, except by the guilty pair. The signora was sitting
very comfortably up to her supper, and Mr. Slope was leaning
over her and administering to her wants. They had been
discussing the merits of Sabbath-day schools, and the lady
had suggested that as she could not possibly go to the
children, she might be indulged in the wish of her heart by
having the children brought to her.
"And when shall it be, Mr. Slope?" said she.
Mr. Slope was saved the necessity of committing himself
to a promise by the entry of Mrs. Proudie. She swept close
up to the sofa so as to confront the guilty pair, stared
full at them for a moment, and then said, as she passed on
to the next room, "Mr. Slope, his lordship is especially
desirous of your attendance below; you will greatly oblige
me if you will join him." And so she stalked on.
Mr. Slope muttered something in reply, and prepared to go
downstairs. As for the bishop's wanting him, he knew his
lady patroness well enough to take that assertion at what it
was worth; but he did not wish to make himself the hero of a
scene, or to become conspicuous for more gallantry than the
occasion required.
"Is she always like this?" said the signora.
"Yes—always—madam," said Mrs. Proudie, returning; "always
the same—always equally adverse to impropriety of conduct of
every description;" and she stalked back through the room
again, following Mr. Slope out of the door.
The signora couldn't follow her, or she certainly would
have done so. But she laughed loud, and sent the sound of it
ringing through the lobby and down the stairs after Mrs.
Proudie's feet. Had she been as active as Grimaldi, she
could probably have taken no better revenge.
"Mr. Slope," said Mrs. Proudie, catching the delinquent
at the door, "I am surprised you should leave my company to
attend on such a painted Jezebel as that."
"But she's lame, Mrs. Proudie, and cannot move. Somebody
must have waited upon her."
"Lame," said Mrs. Proudie; "I'd lame her if she belonged
to me. What business had she here at all?—such
impertinence—such affectation."
In the hall and adjacent rooms all manner of cloaking and
shawling was going on, and the Barchester folk were getting
themselves gone. Mrs. Proudie did her best to smirk at each
and every one as they made their adieux, but she was hardly
successful. Her temper had been tried fearfully. By slow
degrees the guests went.
"Send back the carriage quick," said Ethelbert, as Dr.
and Mrs. Stanhope took their departure.
The younger Stanhopes were left to the very last, and an
uncomfortable party they made with the bishop's family. They
all went into the dining-room, and then the bishop observing
that "the lady" was alone in the drawing-room, they followed
him up. Mrs. Proudie kept Mr. Slope and her daughters in
close conversation, resolving that he should not be
indulged, nor they polluted. The bishop, in mortal dread of
Bertie and the Jews, tried to converse with Charlotte
Stanhope about the climate of Italy. Bertie and the signora
had no resource but in each other.
"Did you get your supper at last, Madeline?" said the
impudent or else mischievous young man.
"Oh, yes," said Madeline; "Mr. Slope was so very kind as
to bring it me. I fear, however, he put himself to more
inconvenience than I wished."
Mrs. Proudie looked at her but said nothing. The meaning
of her look might have been thus translated; "If ever you
find yourself within these walls again, I'll give you leave
to be as impudent and affected and as mischievous as you
please."
At last the carriage returned with the three Italian
servants, and La Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni was carried
out, as she had been carried in.
The lady of the palace retired to her chamber by no means
contented with the result of her first grand party at
Barchester.
CHAPTER XII
Slope versus Harding
Two or three days after the party, Mr. Harding received a
note begging him to call on Mr. Slope, at the palace, at an
early hour on the following morning. There was nothing
uncivil in the communication, and yet the tone of it was
thoroughly displeasing. It was as follows:
My dear Mr.
Harding,
Will you favour me by calling on me at the palace
to-morrow morning at 9:30 a.m.
The bishop wishes me to speak to you touching the
hospital. I hope you will excuse my naming so early an
hour. I do so as my time is greatly occupied. If,
however, it is positively inconvenient to you, I will
change it to 10. You will, perhaps, be kind enough to
let me have a note in reply.
Believe me to be,
My dear Mr. Harding,
Your assured friend,
Obh. Slope
The Palace, Monday morning,
20th August, 185––
Mr. Harding neither could nor would believe anything of
the sort, and he thought, moreover, that Mr. Slope was
rather impertinent to call himself by such a name. His
assured friend, indeed! How many assured friends generally
fall to the lot of a man in this world? And by what process
are they made? And how much of such process had taken place
as yet between Mr. Harding and Mr. Slope? Mr. Harding could
not help asking himself these questions as he read and
re-read the note before him. He answered it, however, as
follows:
Dear Sir,
I will call at the palace to-morrow at 9:30
a.m. as you desire.
Truly yours,
S. Harding
High Street, Barchester, Monday
And on the following morning, punctually
at half-past nine, he knocked at the palace door and asked
for Mr. Slope.
The bishop had one small room allotted to him on the
ground-floor, and Mr. Slope had another. Into this latter
Mr. Harding was shown and asked to sit down. Mr. Slope was
not yet there. The ex-warden stood up at the window looking
into the garden, and could not help thinking how very short
a time had passed since the whole of that house had been
open to him, as though he had been a child of the family,
born and bred in it. He remembered how the old servants used
to smile as they opened the door to him; how the familiar
butler would say, when he had been absent a few hours longer
than usual, "A sight of you, Mr. Harding, is good for sore
eyes;" how the fussy housekeeper would swear that he
couldn't have dined, or couldn't have breakfasted, or
couldn't have lunched. And then, above all, he remembered
the pleasant gleam of inward satisfaction which always
spread itself over the old bishop's face whenever his friend
entered his room.
A tear came into each eye as he reflected that all this
was gone. What use would the hospital be to him now? He was
alone in the world, and getting old; he would soon, very
soon have to go and leave it all, as his dear old friend had
gone; go, and leave the hospital, and his accustomed place
in the cathedral, and his haunts and pleasures, to younger
and perhaps wiser men. That chanting of his! Perhaps, in
truth, the time for it was gone by. He felt as though the
world were sinking from his feet; as though this, this was
the time for him to turn with confidence to those hopes
which he had preached with confidence to others. "What,"
said he to himself, "can a man's religion be worth if it
does not support him against the natural melancholy of
declining years?" And as he looked out through his dimmed
eyes into the bright parterres of the bishop's garden, he
felt that he had the support which he wanted.
Nevertheless, he did not like to be thus kept waiting. If
Mr. Slope did not really wish to see him at half-past nine
o'clock, why force him to come away from his lodgings with
his breakfast in his throat? To tell the truth, it was
policy on the part of Mr. Slope. Mr. Slope had made up his
mind that Mr. Harding should either accept the hospital with
abject submission, or else refuse it altogether, and had
calculated that he would probably be more quick to do the
latter, if he could be got to enter upon the subject in an
ill-humour. Perhaps Mr. Slope was not altogether wrong in
his calculation.
It was nearly ten when Mr. Slope hurried into the room
and, muttering something about the bishop and diocesan
duties, shook Mr. Harding's hand ruthlessly and begged him
to be seated.
Now the air of superiority which this man assumed did go
against the grain with Mr. Harding, and yet he did not know
how to resent it. The whole tendency of his mind and
disposition was opposed to any contra-assumption of grandeur
on his own part, and he hadn't the worldly spirit or
quickness necessary to put down insolent pretensions by
downright and open rebuke, as the archdeacon would have
done. There was nothing for Mr. Harding but to submit, and
he accordingly did so.
"About the hospital, Mr. Harding?" began Mr. Slope,
speaking of it as the head of a college at Cambridge might
speak of some sizarship which had to be disposed of.
Mr. Harding crossed one leg over another, and then one
hand over the other on the top of them, and looked Mr. Slope
in the face; but he said nothing.
"It's to be filled up again," said Mr. Slope. Mr. Harding
said that he had understood so.
"Of course, you know, the income will be very much
reduced," continued Mr. Slope. "The bishop wished to be
liberal, and he therefore told the government that he
thought it ought to be put at not less than £450. I think on
the whole the bishop was right, for though the services
required will not be of a very onerous nature, they will be
more so than they were before. And it is, perhaps, well that
the clergy immediately attached to the cathedral town should
be made as comfortable as the extent of the ecclesiastical
means at our disposal will allow. Those are the bishop's
ideas, and I must say mine also."
Mr. Harding sat rubbing one hand on the other, but said
not a word.
"So much for the income, Mr. Harding. The house will, of
course, remain to the warden, as before. It should, however,
I think, be stipulated that he should paint inside every
seven years, and outside every three years, and be subject
to dilapidations, in the event of vacating, either by death
or otherwise. But this is a matter on which the bishop must
yet be consulted."
Mr. Harding still rubbed his hands and still sat silent,
gazing up into Mr. Slope's unprepossessing face.
"Then, as to the duties," continued he, "I believe, if I
am rightly informed, there can hardly be said to have been
any duties hitherto," and he gave a sort of half-laugh, as
though to pass off the accusation in the guise of a
pleasantry.
Mr. Harding thought of the happy, easy years he had
passed in his old home; of the worn-out, aged men whom he
had succoured; of his good intentions; and of his work,
which had certainly been of the lightest. He thought of
these things, doubting for a moment whether he did or did
not deserve the sarcasm. He gave his enemy the benefit of
the doubt, and did not rebuke him. He merely observed, very
tranquilly, and perhaps with too much humility, that the
duties of the situation, such as they were, had, he
believed, been done to the satisfaction of the late bishop.
Mr. Slope again smiled, and this time the smile was
intended to operate against the memory of the late bishop
rather than against the energy of the ex-warden; so it was
understood by Mr. Harding. The colour rose to his cheeks,
and he began to feel very angry.
"You must be aware, Mr. Harding, that things are a good
deal changed in Barchester," said Mr. Slope.
Mr. Harding said that he was aware of it. "And not only
in Barchester, Mr. Harding, but in the world at large. It is
not only in Barchester that a new man is carrying out new
measures and casting away the useless rubbish of past
centuries. The same thing is going on throughout the
country. Work is now required from every man who receives
wages, and they who have to superintend the doing of work,
and the paying of wages, are bound to see that this rule is
carried out. New men, Mr. Harding, are now needed and are
now forthcoming in the church, as well as in other
professions."
All this was wormwood to our old friend. He had never
rated very high his own abilities or activity, but all the
feelings of his heart were with the old clergy, and any
antipathies of which his heart was susceptible were directed
against those new, busy, uncharitable, self-lauding men, of
whom Mr. Slope was so good an example.
"Perhaps," said he, "the bishop will prefer a new man at
the hospital?"
"By no means," said Mr. Slope. "The bishop is very
anxious that you should accept the appointment, but he
wishes you should understand beforehand what will be the
required duties. In the first place, a Sabbath-day school
will be attached to the hospital."
"What! For the old men?" asked Mr. Harding.
"No, Mr. Harding, not for the old men, but for the
benefit of the children of such of the poor of Barchester as
it may suit. The bishop will expect that you shall attend
this school, and that the teachers shall be under your
inspection and care."
Mr. Harding slipped his topmost hand off the other and
began to rub the calf of the leg which was supported.
"As to the old men," continued Mr. Slope, "and the old
women who are to form a part of the hospital, the bishop is
desirous that you shall have morning and evening service on
the premises every Sabbath, and one weekday service; that
you shall preach to them once at least on Sundays; and that
the whole hospital be always collected for morning and
evening prayer. The bishop thinks that this will render it
unnecessary that any separate seats in the cathedral should
be reserved for the hospital inmates."
Mr. Slope paused, but Mr. Harding still said nothing.
"Indeed, it would be difficult to find seats for the
women; on the whole, Mr. Harding, I may as well say at once,
that for people of that class the cathedral service does not
appear to me the most useful—even if it be so for any class
of people."
"We will not discuss that, if you please," said Mr.
Harding.
"I am not desirous of doing so; at least, not at the
present moment. I hope, however, you fully understand the
bishop's wishes about the new establishment of the hospital;
and if, as I do not doubt, I shall receive from you an
assurance that you accord with his lordship's views, it will
give me very great pleasure to be the bearer from his
lordship to you of the presentation to the appointment."
"But if I disagree with his lordship's views?" asked Mr.
Harding.
"But I hope you do not," said Mr. Slope.
"But if I do?" again asked the other.
"If such unfortunately should be the case, which I can
hardly conceive, I presume your own feelings will dictate to
you the propriety of declining the appointment."
"But if I accept the appointment and yet disagree with
the bishop, what then?"
This question rather bothered Mr. Slope. It was true that
he had talked the matter over with the bishop and had
received a sort of authority for suggesting to Mr. Harding
the propriety of a Sunday school and certain hospital
services, but he had no authority for saying that these
propositions were to be made peremptory conditions attached
to the appointment. The bishop's idea had been that Mr.
Harding would of course consent and that the school would
become, like the rest of those new establishments in the
city, under the control of his wife and his chaplain. Mr.
Slope's idea had been more correct. He intended that Mr.
Harding should refuse the situation, and that an ally of his
own should get it, but he had not conceived the possibility
of Mr. Harding openly accepting the appointment and as
openly rejecting the conditions.
"It is not, I presume, probable," said he, "that you will
accept from the hands of the bishop a piece of preferment
with a fixed predetermination to disacknowledge the duties
attached to it."
"If I become warden," said Mr. Harding, "and neglect my
duty, the bishop has means by which he can remedy the
grievance."
"I hardly expected such an argument from you, or I may
say the suggestion of such a line of conduct," said Mr.
Slope with a great look of injured virtue.
"Nor did I expect such a proposition."
"I shall be glad at any rate to know what answer I am to
make to his lordship," said Mr. Slope.
"I will take an early opportunity of seeing his lordship
myself," said Mr. Harding.
"Such an arrangement," said Mr. Slope, "will hardly give
his lordship satisfaction. Indeed, it is impossible that the
bishop should himself see every clergyman in the diocese on
every subject of patronage that may arise. The bishop, I
believe, did see you on the matter, and I really cannot see
why he should be troubled to do so again."
"Do you know, Mr. Slope, how long I have been officiating
as a clergyman in this city?" Mr. Slope's wish was now
nearly fulfilled. Mr. Harding had become angry, and it was
probable that he might commit himself.
"I really do not see what that has to do with the
question. You cannot think the bishop would be justified in
allowing you to regard as a sinecure a situation that
requires an active man, merely because you have been
employed for many years in the cathedral."
"But it might induce the bishop to see me, if I asked him
to do so. I shall consult my friends in this matter, Mr.
Slope; but I mean to be guilty of no subterfuge—you may tell
the bishop that as I altogether disagree with his views
about the hospital, I shall decline the situation if I find
that any such conditions are attached to it as those you
have suggested;" and so saying, Mr. Harding took his hat and
went his way.
Mr. Slope was contented. He considered himself at liberty
to accept Mr. Harding's last speech as an absolute refusal
of the appointment. At least, he so represented it to the
bishop and to Mrs. Proudie.
"That is very surprising," said the bishop.
"Not at all," said Mrs. Proudie; "you little know how
determined the whole set of them are to withstand your
authority."
"But Mr. Harding was so anxious for it," said the bishop.
"Yes," said Mr. Slope, "if he can hold it without the
slightest acknowledgement of your lordship's jurisdiction."
"That is out of the question," said the bishop.
"I should imagine it to be quite so," said the chaplain.
"Indeed, I should think so," said the lady.
"I really am sorry for it," said the bishop.
"I don't know that there is much cause for sorrow," said
the lady. "Mr. Quiverful is a much more deserving man, more
in need of it, and one who will make himself much more
useful in the close neighbourhood of the palace."
"I suppose I had better see Quiverful?" said the
chaplain.
"I suppose you had," said the bishop.
CHAPTER XIII
The Rubbish Cart
Mr. Harding was not a happy man as he walked down the
palace pathway and stepped out into the close. His
preferment and pleasant house were a second time gone from
him, but that he could endure. He had been schooled and
insulted by a man young enough to be his son, but that he
could put up with. He could even draw from the very injuries
which had been inflicted on him some of that consolation
which we may believe martyrs always receive from the
injustice of their own sufferings, and which is generally
proportioned in its strength to the extent of cruelty with
which martyrs are treated. He had admitted to his daughter
that he wanted the comfort of his old home, and yet he could
have returned to his lodgings in the High Street, if not
with exaltation, at least with satisfaction, had that been
all. But the venom of the chaplain's harangue had worked
into his blood, and sapped the life of his sweet
contentment.
"New men are carrying out new measures and are carting
away the useless rubbish of past centuries!" What cruel
words these had been; and how often are they now used with
all the heartless cruelty of a Slope! A man is sufficiently
condemned if it can only be shown that either in politics or
religion he does not belong to some new school established
within the last score of years. He may then regard himself
as rubbish and expect to be carted away. A man is nothing
now unless he has within him a full appreciation of the new
era, an era in which it would seem that neither honesty nor
truth is very desirable, but in which success is the only
touchstone of merit. We must laugh at everything that is
established. Let the joke be ever so bad, ever so untrue to
the real principles of joking; nevertheless we must laugh—or
else beware the cart. We must talk, think, and live up to
the spirit of the times, and write up to it too, if that
cacoethes be upon us, or else we are nought. New men and new
measures, long credit and few scruples, great success or
wonderful ruin, such are now the tastes of Englishmen who
know how to live. Alas, alas! Under such circumstances Mr.
Harding could not but feel that he was an Englishman who did
not know how to live. This new doctrine of Mr. Slope and the
rubbish cart, new at least at Barchester, sadly disturbed
his equanimity.
"The same thing is going on throughout the whole country!
Work is now required from every man who receives wages!" And
had he been living all his life receiving wages and doing no
work? Had he in truth so lived as to be now in his old age
justly reckoned as rubbish fit only to be hidden away in
some huge dust-hole? The school of men to whom he professes
to belong, the Grantlys, the Gwynnes, and the old high set
of Oxford divines, are afflicted with no such
self-accusations as these which troubled Mr. Harding. They,
as a rule, are as satisfied with the wisdom and propriety of
their own conduct as can be any Mr. Slope, or any Dr.
Proudie, with his own. But unfortunately for himself Mr.
Harding had little of this self-reliance. When he heard
himself designated as rubbish by the Slopes of the world, he
had no other resource than to make inquiry within his own
bosom as to the truth of the designation. Alas, alas! The
evidence seemed generally to go against him.
He had professed to himself in the bishop's parlour that
in these coming sources of the sorrow of age, in these fits
of sad regret from which the latter years of few reflecting
men can be free, religion would suffice to comfort him. Yes,
religion could console him for the loss of any worldly good,
but was his religion of that active sort which would enable
him so to repent of misspent years as to pass those that
were left to him in a spirit of hope for the future? And
such repentance itself, is it not a work of agony and of
tears? It is very easy to talk of repentance, but a man has
to walk over hot ploughshares before he can complete it; to
be skinned alive as was St. Bartholomew; to be stuck full of
arrows as was St. Sebastian; to lie broiling on a gridiron
like St. Lorenzo! How if his past life required such
repentance as this? Had he the energy to go through with it?
Mr. Harding, after leaving the palace, walked slowly for
an hour or so beneath the shady elms of the close and then
betook himself to his daughter's house. He had at any rate
made up his mind that he would go out to Plumstead to
consult Dr. Grantly, and that he would in the first instance
tell Eleanor what had occurred.
And now he was doomed to undergo another misery. Mr.
Slope had forestalled him at the widow's house. He had
called there on the preceding afternoon. He could not, he
had said, deny himself the pleasure of telling Mrs. Bold
that her father was about to return to the pretty house at
Hiram's Hospital. He had been instructed by the bishop to
inform Mr. Harding that the appointment would now be made at
once. The bishop was of course only too happy to be able to
be the means of restoring to Mr. Harding the preferment
which he had so long adorned. And then by degrees Mr. Slope
had introduced the subject of the pretty school which he
hoped before long to see attached to the hospital. He had
quite fascinated Mrs. Bold by his description of this
picturesque, useful, and charitable appendage, and she had
gone so far as to say that she had no doubt her father would
approve, and that she herself would gladly undertake a
class.
Anyone who had heard the entirely different tone and seen
the entirely different manner in which Mr. Slope had spoken
of this projected institution to the daughter and to the
father could not have failed to own that Mr. Slope was a man
of genius. He said nothing to Mrs. Bold about the hospital
sermons and services, nothing about the exclusion of the old
men from the cathedral, nothing about dilapidation and
painting, nothing about carting away the rubbish. Eleanor
had said to herself that certainly she did not like Mr.
Slope personally, but that he was a very active, zealous
clergyman and would no doubt be useful in Barchester. All
this paved the way for much additional misery to Mr.
Harding.
Eleanor put on her happiest face as she heard her father
on the stairs, for she thought she had only to congratulate
him; but directly she saw his face she knew that there was
but little matter for congratulation. She had seen him with
the same weary look of sorrow on one or two occasions
before, and remembered it well. She had seen him when he
first read that attack upon himself in "The Jupiter" which
had ultimately caused him to resign the hospital, and she
had seen him also when the archdeacon had persuaded him to
remain there against his own sense of propriety and honour.
She knew at a glance that his spirit was in deep trouble.
"Oh, Papa, what is it?" said she, putting down her boy to
crawl upon the floor.
"I came to tell you, my dear," said he, "that I am going
out to Plumstead: you won't come with me, I suppose?"
"To Plumstead, Papa? Shall you stay there?"
"I suppose I shall, to-night: I must consult the
archdeacon about this weary hospital. Ah me! I wish I had
never thought of it again."
"Why, Papa, what is the matter?"
"I've been with Mr. Slope, my dear, and he isn't the
pleasantest companion in the world, at least not to me."
Eleanor gave a sort of half-blush, but she was wrong if she
imagined that her father in any way alluded to her
acquaintance with Mr. Slope.
"Well, Papa."
"He wants to turn the hospital into a Sunday-school and a
preaching-house, and I suppose he will have his way. I do
not feel myself adapted for such an establishment, and
therefore, I suppose, I must refuse the appointment."
"What would be the harm of the school, Papa?"
"The want of a proper schoolmaster, my dear."
"But that would of course be supplied."
"Mr. Slope wishes to supply it by making me his
schoolmaster. But as I am hardly fit for such work, I intend
to decline."
"Oh, Papa! Mr. Slope doesn't intend that. He was here
yesterday, and what he intends—"
"He was here yesterday, was he?" asked Mr. Harding.
"Yes, Papa."
"And talking about the hospital?"
"He was saying how glad he would be, and the bishop too,
to see you back there again. And then he spoke about the
Sunday-school; and to tell the truth I agreed with him; and
I thought you would have done so too. Mr. Slope spoke of a
school, not inside the hospital, but just connected with it,
of which you would be the patron and visitor; and I thought
you would have liked such a school as that; and I promised
to look after it and to take a class—and it all seemed so
very—. But, oh, Papa! I shall be so miserable if I find I
have done wrong."
"Nothing wrong at all, my dear," said he gently, very
gently rejecting his daughter's caress. "There can be
nothing wrong in your wishing to make yourself useful;
indeed, you ought to do so by all means. Everyone must now
exert himself who would not choose to go to the wall." Poor
Mr. Harding thus attempted in his misery to preach the new
doctrine to his child. "Himself or herself, it's all the
same," he continued; "you will be quite right, my dear, to
do something of this sort; but—"
"Well, Papa."
"I am not quite sure that if I were you I would select
Mr. Slope for my guide."
"But I never have done so and never shall."
"It would be very wicked of me to speak evil of him, for
to tell the truth I know no evil of him; but I am not quite
sure that he is honest. That he is not gentlemanlike in his
manners, of that I am quite sure."
"I never thought of taking him for my guide, Papa."
"As for myself, my dear," continued he, "we know the old
proverb—'It's bad teaching an old dog tricks.' I must
decline the Sunday-school, and shall therefore probably
decline the hospital also. But I will first see your
brother-in-law." So he took up his hat, kissed the baby, and
withdrew, leaving Eleanor in as low spirits as himself.
All this was a great aggravation to his misery. He had so
few with whom to sympathize that he could not afford to be
cut off from the one whose sympathy was of the most value to
him. And yet it seemed probable that this would be the case.
He did not own to himself that he wished his daughter to
hate Mr. Slope, yet had she expressed such a feeling there
would have been very little bitterness in the rebuke he
would have given her for so uncharitable a state of mind.
The fact, however, was that she was on friendly terms with
Mr. Slope, that she coincided with his views, adhered at
once to his plans, and listened with delight to his
teaching. Mr. Harding hardly wished his daughter to hate the
man, but he would have preferred that to her loving him.
He walked away to the inn to order a fly, went home to
put up his carpet-bag, and then started for Plumstead. There
was, at any rate, no danger that the archdeacon would
fraternize with Mr. Slope; but then he would recommend
internecine war, public appeals, loud reproaches, and all
the paraphernalia of open battle. Now that alternative was
hardly more to Mr. Harding's taste than the other.
When Mr. Harding reached the parsonage, he found that the
archdeacon was out, and would not be home till dinnertime,
so he began his complaint to his elder daughter. Mrs.
Grantly entertained quite as strong an antagonism to Mr.
Slope as did her husband; she was also quite as alive to the
necessity of combating the Proudie faction, of supporting
the old church interest of the close, of keeping in her own
set such of the loaves and fishes as duly belonged to it;
and was quite as well prepared as her lord to carry on the
battle without giving or taking quarter. Not that she was a
woman prone to quarrelling, or ill-inclined to live at peace
with her clerical neighbours; but she felt, as did the
archdeacon, that the presence of Mr. Slope in Barchester was
an insult to everyone connected with the late bishop, and
that his assumed dominion in the diocese was a spiritual
injury to her husband. Hitherto people had little guessed
how bitter Mrs. Grantly could be. She lived on the best of
terms with all the rectors' wives around her. She had been
popular with all the ladies connected with the close. Though
much the wealthiest of the ecclesiastical matrons of the
county, she had so managed her affairs that her carriage and
horses had given umbrage to none. She had never thrown
herself among the county grandees so as to excite the envy
of other clergymen's wives. She never talked too loudly of
earls and countesses, or boasted that she gave her governess
sixty pounds a year, or her cook seventy. Mrs. Grantly had
lived the life of a wise, discreet, peace-making woman, and
the people of Barchester were surprised at the amount of
military vigour she displayed as general of the feminine
Grantlyite forces.
Mrs. Grantly soon learned that her sister Eleanor had
promised to assist Mr. Slope in the affairs of the hospital
school, and it was on this point that her attention first
fixed itself.
"How can Eleanor endure him?" said she.
"He is a very crafty man," said her father, "and his
craft has been successful in making Eleanor think that he is
a meek, charitable, good clergyman. God forgive me, if I
wrong him, but such is not his true character in my
opinion."
"His true character, indeed!" said she, with something
approaching scorn for her father's moderation. "I only hope
he won't have craft enough to make Eleanor forget herself
and her position."
"Do you mean marry him?" said he, startled out of his
usual demeanour by the abruptness and horror of so dreadful
a proposition.
"What is there so improbable in it? Of course that would
be his own object if he thought he had any chance of
success. Eleanor has a thousand a year entirely at her own
disposal, and what better fortune could fall to Mr. Slope's
lot than the transferring of the disposal of such a fortune
to himself?"
"But you can't think she likes him, Susan?"
"Why not?" said Susan. "Why shouldn't she like him? He's
just the sort of man to get on with a woman left, as she is,
with no one to look after her."
"Look after her!" said the unhappy father; "don't we look
after her?"
"Ah, Papa, how innocent you are! Of course it was to be
expected that Eleanor should marry again. I should be the
last to advise her against it, if she would only wait the
proper time, and then marry at least a gentleman."
"But you don't really mean to say that you suppose
Eleanor has ever thought of marrying Mr. Slope? Why, Mr.
Bold has only been dead a year."
"Eighteen months," said his daughter. "But I don't
suppose Eleanor has ever thought about it. It is very
probable, though, that he has; and that he will try and make
her do so; and that he will succeed too, if we don't take
care what we are about."
This was quite a new phase of the affair to poor Mr.
Harding. To have thrust upon him as his son-in-law, as the
husband of his favourite child, the only man in the world
whom he really positively disliked, would be a misfortune
which he felt he would not know how to endure patiently. But
then, could there be any ground for so dreadful a surmise?
In all worldly matters he was apt to look upon the opinion
of his eldest daughter as one generally sound and
trustworthy. In her appreciation of character, of motives,
and the probable conduct both of men and women, she was
usually not far wrong. She had early foreseen the marriage
of Eleanor and John Bold; she had at a glance deciphered the
character of the new bishop and his chaplain; could it
possibly be that her present surmise should ever come forth
as true?
"But you don't think that she likes him?" said Mr.
Harding again.
"Well, Papa, I can't say that I think she dislikes him as
she ought to do. Why is he visiting there as a confidential
friend, when he never ought to have been admitted inside the
house? Why is it that she speaks to him about your welfare
and your position, as she clearly has done? At the bishop's
party the other night I saw her talking to him for half an
hour at the stretch."
"I thought Mr. Slope seemed to talk to nobody there but
that daughter of Stanhope's," said Mr. Harding, wishing to
defend his child.
"Oh, Mr. Slope is a cleverer man than you think of, Papa,
and keeps more than one iron in the fire."
To give Eleanor her due, any suspicion as to the
slightest inclination on her part towards Mr. Slope was a
wrong to her. She had no more idea of marrying Mr. Slope
than she had of marrying the bishop, and the idea that Mr.
Slope would present himself as a suitor had never occurred
to her. Indeed, to give her her due again, she had never
thought about suitors since her husband's death. But
nevertheless it was true that she had overcome all that
repugnance to the man which was so strongly felt for him by
the rest of the Grantly faction. She had forgiven him his
sermon. She had forgiven him his Low Church tendencies, his
Sabbath-schools, and puritanical observances. She had
forgiven his pharisaical arrogance, and even his greasy face
and oily, vulgar manners. Having agreed to overlook such
offences as these, why should she not in time be taught to
regard Mr. Slope as a suitor?
And as to him, it must also be affirmed that he was
hitherto equally innocent of the crime imputed to him. How
it had come to pass that a man whose eyes were generally so
widely open to everything around him had not perceived that
this young widow was rich as well as beautiful, cannot
probably now be explained. But such was the fact. Mr. Slope
had ingratiated himself with Mrs. Bold, merely as he had
done with other ladies, in order to strengthen his party in
the city. He subsequently amended his error, but it was not
till after the interview between him and Mr. Harding.
CHAPTER XIV
The New Champion
The archdeacon did not return to the parsonage till close
upon the hour of dinner, and there was therefore no time to
discuss matters before that important ceremony. He seemed to
be in an especial good humour, and welcomed his
father-in-law with a sort of jovial earnestness that was
usual with him when things on which he was intent were going
on as he would have them.
"It's all settled, my dear," said he to his wife as he
washed his hands in his dressing-room, while she, according
to her wont, sat listening in the bedroom; "Arabin has
agreed to accept the living. He'll be here next week." And
the archdeacon scrubbed his hands and rubbed his face with a
violent alacrity, which showed that Arabin's coming was a
great point gained.
"Will he come here to Plumstead?" said the wife.
"He has promised to stay a month with us," said the
archdeacon, "so that he may see what his parish is like.
You'll like Arabin very much. He's a gentleman in every
respect, and full of humour."
"He's very queer, isn't he?" asked the lady.
"Well—he is a little odd in some of his fancies, but
there's nothing about him you won't like. He is as staunch a
churchman as there is at Oxford. I really don't know what we
should do without Arabin. It's a great thing for me to have
him so near me, and if anything can put Slope down, Arabin
will do it."
The Reverend Francis Arabin was a fellow of Lazarus, the
favoured disciple of the great Dr. Gwynne, a High Churchman
at all points—so high, indeed, that at one period of his
career he had all but toppled over into the cesspool of
Rome—a poet and also a polemical writer, a great pet in the
common-rooms at Oxford, an eloquent clergyman, a droll, odd,
humorous, energetic, conscientious man, and, as the
archdeacon had boasted of him, a thorough gentleman. As he
will hereafter be brought more closely to our notice, it is
now only necessary to add that he had just been presented to
the vicarage of St. Ewold by Dr. Grantly, in whose gift as
archdeacon the living lay. St. Ewold is a parish lying just
without the city of Barchester. The suburbs of the new town,
indeed, are partly within its precincts, and the pretty
church and parsonage are not much above a mile distant from
the city gate.
St. Ewold is not a rich piece of preferment—it is worth
some three or four hundred a year at most, and has generally
been held by a clergyman attached to the cathedral choir.
The archdeacon, however, felt, when the living on this
occasion became vacant, that it imperatively behoved him to
aid the force of his party with some tower of strength, if
any such tower could be got to occupy St. Ewold's. He had
discussed the matter with his brethren in Barchester, not in
any weak spirit as the holder of patronage to be used for
his own or his family's benefit, but as one to whom was
committed a trust on the due administration of which much of
the church's welfare might depend. He had submitted to them
the name of Mr. Arabin, as though the choice had rested with
them all in conclave, and they had unanimously admitted
that, if Mr. Arabin would accept St. Ewold's, no better
choice could possibly be made.
If Mr. Arabin would accept St. Ewold's! There lay the
difficulty. Mr. Arabin was a man standing somewhat
prominently before the world, that is, before the Church of
England world. He was not a rich man, it is true, for he
held no preferment but his fellowship; but he was a man not
over-anxious for riches, not married of course, and one
whose time was greatly taken up in discussing, both in print
and on platforms, the privileges and practices of the church
to which he belonged. As the archdeacon had done battle for
its temporalities, so did Mr. Arabin do battle for its
spiritualities, and both had done so conscientiously; that
is, not so much each for his own benefit as for that of
others.
Holding such a position as Mr. Arabin did, there was much
reason to doubt whether he would consent to become the
parson of St. Ewold's, and Dr. Grantly had taken the trouble
to go himself to Oxford on the matter. Dr. Gwynne and Dr.
Grantly together had succeeded in persuading this eminent
divine that duty required him to go to Barchester. There
were wheels within wheels in this affair. For some time past
Mr. Arabin had been engaged in a tremendous controversy with
no less a person than Mr. Slope, respecting the apostolic
succession. These two gentlemen had never seen each other,
but they had been extremely bitter in print. Mr. Slope had
endeavoured to strengthen his cause by calling Mr. Arabin an
owl, and Mr. Arabin had retaliated by hinting that Mr. Slope
was an infidel. This battle had been commenced in the
columns of "The Jupiter," a powerful newspaper, the manager
of which was very friendly to Mr. Slope's view of the case.
The matter, however, had become too tedious for the readers
of "The Jupiter," and a little note had therefore been
appended to one of Mr. Slope's most telling rejoinders, in
which it had been stated that no further letters from the
reverend gentlemen could be inserted except as
advertisements.
Other methods of publication were, however, found, less
expensive than advertisements in "The Jupiter," and the war
went on merrily. Mr. Slope declared that the main part of
the consecration of a clergyman was the self-devotion of the
inner man to the duties of the ministry. Mr. Arabin
contended that a man was not consecrated at all, had,
indeed, no single attribute of a clergyman, unless he became
so through the imposition of some bishop's hands, who had
become a bishop through the imposition of other hands, and
so on in a direct line to one of the apostles. Each had
repeatedly hung the other on the horns of a dilemma, but
neither seemed to be a whit the worse for the hanging; and
so the war went on merrily.
Whether or no the near neighbourhood of the foe may have
acted in any way as an inducement to Mr. Arabin to accept
the living of St. Ewold, we will not pretend to say; but it
had at any rate been settled in Dr. Gwynne's library, at
Lazarus, that he would accept it, and that he would lend his
assistance towards driving the enemy out of Barchester, or,
at any rate, silencing him while he remained there. Mr.
Arabin intended to keep his rooms at Oxford and to have the
assistance of a curate at St. Ewold, but he promised to give
as much time as possible to the neighbourhood of Barchester,
and from so great a man Dr. Grantly was quite satisfied with
such a promise. It was no small part of the satisfaction
derivable from such an arrangement that Bishop Proudie would
be forced to institute into a living immediately under his
own nose the enemy of his favourite chaplain.
All through dinner the archdeacon's good humour shone
brightly in his face. He ate of the good things heartily, he
drank wine with his wife and daughter, he talked pleasantly
of his doings at Oxford, told his father-in-law that he
ought to visit Dr. Gwynne at Lazarus, and launched out again
in praise of Mr. Arabin.
"Is Mr. Arabin married, Papa?" asked Griselda.
"No, my dear, the fellow of a college is never married."
"Is he a young man, Papa?"
"About forty, I believe," said the archdeacon.
"Oh!" said Griselda. Had her father said eighty, Mr.
Arabin would not have appeared to her to be very much older.
When the two gentlemen were left alone over their wine,
Mr. Harding told his tale of woe. But even this, sad as it
was, did not much diminish the archdeacon's good humour,
though it greatly added to his pugnacity.
"He can't do it," said Dr. Grantly over and over again,
as his father-in-law explained to him the terms on which the
new warden of the hospital was to be appointed; "he can't do
it. What he says is not worth the trouble of listening to.
He can't alter the duties of the place."
"Who can't?" asked the ex-warden.
"Neither the bishop nor the chaplain, nor yet the
bishop's wife, who, I take it, has really more to say to
such matters than either of the other two. The whole body
corporate of the palace together have no power to turn the
warden of the hospital into a Sunday-schoolmaster."
"But the bishop has the power to appoint whom he pleases,
and—"
"I don't know that; I rather think he'll find he has no
such power. Let him try it, and see what the press will say.
For once we shall have the popular cry on our side. But
Proudie, ass as he is, knows the world too well to get such
a hornet's nest about his ears."
Mr. Harding winced at the idea of the press. He had had
enough of that sort of publicity, and was unwilling to be
shown up a second time either as a monster or as a martyr.
He gently remarked that he hoped the newspapers would not
get hold of his name again, and then suggested that perhaps
it would be better that he should abandon his object. "I am
getting old," said he, "and after all I doubt whether I am
fit to undertake new duties."
"New duties?" said the archdeacon; "don't I tell you
there shall be no new duties?"
"Or perhaps old duties either," said Mr. Harding; "I
think I will remain content as I am." The picture of Mr.
Slope carting away the rubbish was still present to his
mind.
The archdeacon drank off his glass of claret and prepared
himself to be energetic. "I do hope," said he, "that you are
not going to be so weak as to allow such a man as Mr. Slope
to deter you from doing what you know it is your duty to do.
You know it is your duty to resume your place at the
hospital now that parliament has so settled the stipend as
to remove those difficulties which induced you to resign it.
You cannot deny this, and should your timidity now prevent
you from doing so, your conscience will hereafter never
forgive you," and as he finished this clause of his speech,
he pushed over the bottle to his companion.
"Your conscience will never forgive you," he continued.
"You resigned the place from conscientious scruples,
scruples which I greatly respected, though I did not share
them. All your friends respected them, and you left your old
house as rich in reputation as you were ruined in fortune.
It is now expected that you will return. Dr. Gwynne was
saying only the other day—"
"Dr. Gwynne does not reflect how much older a man I am
now than when he last saw me."
"Old—nonsense," said the archdeacon; "you never thought
yourself old till you listened to the impudent trash of that
coxcomb at the palace."
"I shall be sixty-five if I live till November," said Mr.
Harding.
"And seventy-five, if you live till November ten years,"
said the archdeacon. "And you bid fair to be as efficient
then as you were ten years ago. But for heaven's sake let us
have no pretence in this matter. Your plea of old age is a
pretence. But you're not drinking your wine. It is only a
pretence. The fact is, you are half-afraid of this Slope,
and would rather subject yourself to comparative poverty and
discomfort than come to blows with a man who will trample on
you, if you let him."
"I certainly don't like coming to blows, if I can help
it."
"Nor I neither—but sometimes we can't help it. This man's
object is to induce you to refuse the hospital, that he may
put some creature of his own into it; that he may show his
power and insult us all by insulting you, whose cause and
character are so intimately bound up with that of the
chapter. You owe it to us all to resist him in this, even if
you have no solicitude for yourself. But surely, for your
own sake, you will not be so lily-livered as to fall into
this trap which he has baited for you and let him take the
very bread out of your mouth without a struggle."
Mr. Harding did not like being called lily-livered, and
was rather inclined to resent it. "I doubt there is any true
courage," said he, "in squabbling for money."
"If honest men did not squabble for money, in this wicked
world of ours, the dishonest men would get it all, and I do
not see that the cause of virtue would be much improved.
No—we must use the means which we have. If we were to carry
your argument home, we might give away every shilling of
revenue which the church has, and I presume you are not
prepared to say that the church would be strengthened by
such a sacrifice." The archdeacon filled his glass and then
emptied it, drinking with much reverence a silent toast to
the well-being and permanent security of those temporalities
which were so dear to his soul.
"I think all quarrels between a clergyman and his bishop
should be avoided," said Mr. Harding.
"I think so too, but it is quite as much the duty of the
bishop to look to that as of his inferior. I tell you what,
my friend; I'll see the bishop in this matter—that is, if
you will allow me—and you may be sure I will not compromise
you. My opinion is that all this trash about the
Sunday-schools and the sermons has originated wholly with
Slope and Mrs. Proudie, and that the bishop knows nothing
about it. The bishop can't very well refuse to see me, and
I'll come upon him when he has neither his wife nor his
chaplain by him. I think you'll find that it will end in his
sending you the appointment without any condition whatever.
And as to the seats in the cathedral, we may safely leave
that to Mr. Dean. I believe the fool positively thinks that
the bishop could walk away with the cathedral if he
pleased."
And so the matter was arranged between them. Mr. Harding
had come expressly for advice, and therefore felt himself
bound to take the advice given him. He had known, moreover,
beforehand that the archdeacon would not hear of his giving
the matter up, and accordingly, though he had in perfect
good faith put forward his own views, he was prepared to
yield.
They therefore went into the drawing-room in good humour
with each other, and the evening passed pleasantly in
prophetic discussions on the future wars of Arabin and
Slope. The frogs and the mice would be nothing to them, nor
the angers of Agamemnon and Achilles. How the archdeacon
rubbed his hands and plumed himself on the success of his
last move. He could not himself descend into the arena with
Slope, but Arabin would have no such scruples. Arabin was
exactly the man for such work, and the only man whom he knew
that was fit for it.
The archdeacon's good humour and high buoyancy continued
till, when reclining on his pillow, Mrs. Grantly commenced
to give him her view of the state of affairs at Barchester.
And then certainly he was startled. The last words he said
that night were as follows:—
"If she does, by heaven I'll never speak to her again.
She dragged me into the mire once, but I'll not pollute
myself with such filth as that—" And the archdeacon gave a
shudder which shook the whole room, so violently was he
convulsed with the thought which then agitated his mind.
Now in this matter the widow Bold was scandalously
ill-treated by her relatives. She had spoken to the man
three or four times, and had expressed her willingness to
teach in a Sunday-school. Such was the full extent of her
sins in the matter of Mr. Slope. Poor Eleanor! But time will
show.
The next morning Mr. Harding returned to Barchester, no
further word having been spoken in his hearing respecting
Mr. Slope's acquaintance with his younger daughter. But he
observed that the archdeacon at breakfast was less cordial
than he had been on the preceding evening.
CHAPTER XV
The Widow's Suitors
Mr. Slope lost no time in availing himself of the
bishop's permission to see Mr. Quiverful, and it was in his
interview with this worthy pastor that he first learned that
Mrs. Bold was worth the wooing. He rode out to Puddingdale
to communicate to the embryo warden the goodwill of the
bishop in his favour, and during the discussion on the
matter it was not unnatural that the pecuniary resources of
Mr. Harding and his family should become the subject of
remark.
Mr. Quiverful, with his fourteen children and his four
hundred a year, was a very poor man, and the prospect of
this new preferment, which was to be held together with his
living, was very grateful to him. To what clergyman so
circumstanced would not such a prospect be very grateful?
But Mr. Quiverful had long been acquainted with Mr. Harding,
and had received kindness at his hands, so that his heart
misgave him as he thought of supplanting a friend at the
hospital. Nevertheless, he was extremely civil, cringingly
civil, to Mr. Slope; treated him quite as the great man;
entreated this great man to do him the honour to drink a
glass of sherry, at which, as it was very poor Marsala, the
now pampered Slope turned up his nose; and ended by
declaring his extreme obligation to the bishop and Mr. Slope
and his great desire to accept the hospital, if—if it were
certainly the case that Mr. Harding had refused it.
What man as needy as Mr. Quiverful would have been more
disinterested?
"Mr. Harding did positively refuse it," said Mr. Slope
with a certain air of offended dignity, "when he heard of
the conditions to which the appointment is now subjected. Of
course you understand, Mr. Quiverful, that the same
conditions will be imposed on yourself."
Mr. Quiverful cared nothing for the conditions. He would
have undertaken to preach any number of sermons Mr. Slope
might have chosen to dictate, and to pass every remaining
hour of his Sundays within the walls of a Sunday-school.
What sacrifices, or at any rate, what promises would have
been too much to make for such an addition to his income,
and for such a house! But his mind still recurred to Mr.
Harding.
"To be sure," said he; "Mr. Harding's daughter is very
rich, and why should he trouble himself with the hospital?"
"You mean Mrs. Grantly," said Slope.
"I meant his widowed daughter," said the other. "Mrs.
Bold has twelve hundred a year of her own, and I suppose Mr.
Harding means to live with her."
"Twelve hundred a year of her own!" said Slope, and very
shortly afterwards took his leave, avoiding, as far as it
was possible for him to do, any further allusion to the
hospital. "Twelve hundred a year!" said he to himself as he
rode slowly home. If it were the fact that Mrs. Bold had
twelve hundred a year of her own, what a fool would he be to
oppose her father's return to his old place. The train of
Mr. Slope's ideas will probably be plain to all my readers.
Why should he not make the twelve hundred a year his own?
And if he did so, would it not be well for him to have a
father-in-law comfortably provided with the good things of
this world? Would it not, moreover, be much more easy for
him to gain the daughter if he did all in his power to
forward the father's views?
These questions presented themselves to him in a very
forcible way, and yet there were many points of doubt. If he
resolved to restore to Mr. Harding his former place, he must
take the necessary steps for doing so at once; he must
immediately talk over the bishop, quarrel on the matter with
Mrs. Proudie, whom he knew he could not talk over, and let
Mr. Quiverful know that he had been a little too precipitate
as to Mr. Harding's positive refusal. That he could effect
all this he did not doubt, but he did not wish to effect it
for nothing. He did not wish to give way to Mr. Harding and
then be rejected by the daughter. He did not wish to lose
one influential friend before he had gained another.
And thus he rode home, meditating many things in his
mind. It occurred to him that Mrs. Bold was sister-in-law to
the archdeacon, and that not even for twelve hundred a year
would he submit to that imperious man. A rich wife was a
great desideratum to him, but success in his profession was
still greater; there were, moreover, other rich women who
might be willing to become wives; and after all, this twelve
hundred a year might, when inquired into, melt away into
some small sum utterly beneath his notice. Then also he
remembered that Mrs. Bold had a son.
Another circumstance also much influenced him, though it
was one which may almost be said to have influenced him
against his will. The vision of the Signora Neroni was
perpetually before his eyes. It would be too much to say
that Mr. Slope was lost in love, but yet he thought, and
kept continually thinking, that he had never seen so
beautiful a woman. He was a man whose nature was open to
such impulses, and the wiles of the Italianized charmer had
been thoroughly successful in imposing upon his thoughts. We
will not talk about his heart: not that he had no heart, but
because his heart had little to do with his present
feelings. His taste had been pleased, his eyes charmed, and
his vanity gratified. He had been dazzled by a sort of
loveliness which he had never before seen, and had been
caught by an easy, free, voluptuous manner which was
perfectly new to him. He had never been so tempted before,
and the temptation was now irresistible. He had not owned to
himself that he cared for this woman more than for others
around him, but yet he thought often of the time when he
might see her next, and made, almost unconsciously, little
cunning plans for seeing her frequently.
He had called at Dr. Stanhope's house the day after the
bishop's party, and then the warmth of his admiration had
been fed with fresh fuel. If the signora had been kind in
her manner and flattering in her speech when lying upon the
bishop's sofa, with the eyes of so many on her, she had been
much more so in her mother's drawing-room, with no one
present but her sister to repress either her nature or her
art. Mr. Slope had thus left her quite bewildered, and could
not willingly admit into his brain any scheme a part of
which would be the necessity of his abandoning all further
special friendship with this lady.
And so he slowly rode along, very meditative.
And here the author must beg it to be remembered that Mr.
Slope was not in all things a bad man. His motives, like
those of most men, were mixed, and though his conduct was
generally very different from that which we would wish to
praise, it was actuated perhaps as often as that of the
majority of the world by a desire to do his duty. He
believed in the religion which he taught, harsh,
unpalatable, uncharitable as that religion was. He believed
those whom he wished to get under his hoof, the Grantlys and
Gwynnes of the church, to be the enemies of that religion.
He believed himself to be a pillar of strength, destined to
do great things, and with that subtle, selfish, ambiguous
sophistry to which the minds of all men are so subject, he
had taught himself to think that in doing much for the
promotion of his own interests, he was doing much also for
the promotion of religion. But Mr. Slope had never been an
immoral man. Indeed, he had resisted temptations to
immorality with a strength of purpose that was creditable to
him. He had early in life devoted himself to works which
were not compatible with the ordinary pleasures of youth,
and he had abandoned such pleasures not without a struggle.
It must therefore be conceived that he did not admit to
himself that he warmly admired the beauty of a married woman
without heart-felt stings of conscience; and to pacify that
conscience he had to teach himself that the nature of his
admiration was innocent.
And thus he rode along meditative and ill at ease. His
conscience had not a word to say against his choosing the
widow and her fortune. That he looked upon as a godly work
rather than otherwise; as a deed which, if carried through,
would redound to his credit as a Christian. On that side lay
no future remorse, no conduct which he might probably have
to forget, no inward stings. If it should turn out to be
really the fact that Mrs. Bold had twelve hundred a year at
her own disposal, Mr. Slope would rather look upon it as a
duty which he owed his religion to make himself the master
of the wife and the money; as a duty too, in which some
amount of self-sacrifice would be necessary. He would have
to give up his friendship with the signora, his resistance
to Mr. Harding, his antipathy—no, he found on mature
self-examination that he could not bring himself to give up
his antipathy to Dr. Grantly. He would marry the lady as the
enemy of her brother-in-law if such an arrangement suited
her; if not, she must look elsewhere for a husband.
It was with such resolve as this that he reached
Barchester. He would at once ascertain what the truth might
be as to the lady's wealth, and having done this he would be
ruled by circumstances in his conduct respecting the
hospital. If he found that he could turn round and secure
the place for Mr. Harding without much self-sacrifice, he
would do so; but if not, he would woo the daughter in
opposition to the father. But in no case would he succumb to
the archdeacon.
He saw his horse taken round to the stable, and
immediately went forth to commence his inquiries. To give
Mr. Slope his due, he was not a man who ever let much grass
grow under his feet.
Poor Eleanor! She was doomed to be the intended victim of
more schemes than one.
About the time that Mr. Slope was visiting the vicar of
Puddingdale, a discussion took place respecting her charms
and wealth at Dr. Stanhope's house in the close. There had
been morning callers there, and people had told some truth
and also some falsehood respecting the property which John
Bold had left behind him. By degrees the visitors went, and
as the doctor went with them, and as the doctor's wife had
not made her appearance, Charlotte Stanhope and her brother
were left together. He was sitting idly at the table,
scrawling caricatures of Barchester notables, then yawning,
then turning over a book or two, and evidently at a loss how
to kill his time without much labour.
"You haven't done much, Bertie, about getting any
orders," said his sister.
"Orders!" said he; "who on earth is there at Barchester
to give one orders? Who among the people here could possibly
think it worth his while to have his head done into marble?"
"Then you mean to give up your profession," said she.
"No, I don't," said he, going on with some absurd
portrait of the bishop. "Look at that, Lotte; isn't it the
little man all over, apron and all? I'd go on with my
profession at once, as you call it, if the governor would
set me up with a studio in London; but as to sculpture at
Barchester—I suppose half the people here don't know what a
torso means."
"The governor will not give you a shilling to start you
in London," said Lotte. "Indeed, he can't give you what
would be sufficient, for he has not got it. But you might
start yourself very well, if you pleased."
"How the deuce am I to do it?" said he.
"To tell you the truth, Bertie, you'll never make a penny
by any profession."
"That's what I often think myself," said he, not in the
least offended. "Some men have a great gift of making money,
but they can't spend it. Others can't put two shillings
together, but they have a great talent for all sorts of
outlay. I begin to think that my genius is wholly in the
latter line."
"How do you mean to live then?" asked the sister.
"I suppose I must regard myself as a young raven and look
for heavenly manna; besides, we have all got something when
the governor goes."
"Yes—you'll have enough to supply yourself with gloves
and boots; that is, if the Jews have not got the possession
of it all. I believe they have the most of it already. I
wonder, Bertie, at your indifference; that you, with your
talents and personal advantages, should never try to settle
yourself in life. I look forward with dread to the time when
the governor must go. Mother, and Madeline, and I—we shall
be poor enough, but you will have absolutely nothing."
"Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof," said
Bertie.
"Will you take my advice?" said his sister.
"Cela dépend," said the brother.
"Will you marry a wife with money?"
"At any rate," said he, "I won't marry one without; wives
with money a'nt so easy to get now-a-days; the parsons pick
them all up."
"And a parson will pick up the wife I mean for you, if
you do not look quickly about it; the wife I mean is Mrs.
Bold."
"Whew-w-w-w!" whistled Bertie, "a widow!"
"She is very beautiful," said Charlotte.
"With a son and heir all ready to my hand," said Bertie.
"A baby that will very likely die," said Charlotte.
"I don't see that," said Bertie. "But however, he may
live for me—I don't wish to kill him; only, it must be owned
that a ready-made family is a drawback."
"There is only one after all," pleaded Charlotte.
"And that a very little one, as the maidservant said,"
rejoined Bertie.
"Beggars mustn't be choosers, Bertie; you can't have
everything."
"God knows I am not unreasonable," said he, "nor yet
opinionated, and if you'll arrange it all for me, Lotte,
I'll marry the lady. Only mark this: the money must be sure,
and the income at my own disposal, at any rate for the
lady's life."
Charlotte was explaining to her brother that he must make
love for himself if he meant to carry on the matter, and was
encouraging him to do so by warm eulogiums on Eleanor's
beauty, when the signora was brought into the drawing-room.
When at home, and subject to the gaze of none but her own
family, she allowed herself to be dragged about by two
persons, and her two bearers now deposited her on her sofa.
She was not quite so grand in her apparel as she had been at
the bishop's party, but yet she was dressed with much care,
and though there was a look of care and pain about her eyes,
she was, even by daylight, extremely beautiful.
"Well, Madeline, so I'm going to be married," Bertie
began as soon as the servants had withdrawn.
"There's no other foolish thing left that you haven't
done," said Madeline, "and therefore you are quite right to
try that."
"Oh, you think it's a foolish thing, do you?" said he.
"There's Lotte advising me to marry by all means. But on
such a subject your opinion ought to be the best; you have
experience to guide you."
"Yes, I have," said Madeline with a sort of harsh sadness
in her tone, which seemed to say—"What is it to you if I am
sad? I have never asked your sympathy."
Bertie was sorry when he saw that she was hurt by what he
said, and he came and squatted on the floor close before her
face to make his peace with her.
"Come, Mad, I was only joking; you know that. But in
sober earnest, Lotte is advising me to marry. She wants me
to marry this Mrs. Bold. She's a widow with lots of tin, a
fine baby, a beautiful complexion, and the George and Dragon
hotel up in the High Street. By Jove, Lotte, if I marry her,
I'll keep the public-house myself—it's just the life to suit
me."
"What," said Madeline, "that vapid, swarthy creature in
the widow's cap, who looked as though her clothes had been
stuck on her back with a pitchfork!" The signora never
allowed any woman to be beautiful.
"Instead of being vapid," said Lotte, "I call her a very
lovely woman. She was by far the loveliest woman in the
rooms the other night; that is, excepting you, Madeline."
Even the compliment did not soften the asperity of the
maimed beauty. "Every woman is charming according to Lotte,"
she said; "I never knew an eye with so little true
appreciation. In the first place, what woman on earth could
look well in such a thing as that she had on her head."
"Of course she wears a widow's cap, but she'll put that
off when Bertie marries her."
"I don't see any of course in it," said Madeline. "The
death of twenty husbands should not make me undergo such a
penance. It is as much a relic of paganism as the sacrifice
of a Hindu woman at the burning of her husband's body. If
not so bloody, it is quite as barbarous, and quite as
useless."
"But you don't blame her for that," said Bertie. "She
does it because it's the custom of the country. People would
think ill of her if she didn't do it."
"Exactly," said Madeline. "She is just one of those
English nonentities who would tie her head up in a bag for
three months every summer, if her mother and her grandmother
had tied up their heads before her. It would never occur to
her to think whether there was any use in submitting to such
a nuisance."
"It's very hard in a country like England, for a young
woman to set herself in opposition to prejudices of that
sort," said the prudent Charlotte.
"What you mean is that it's very hard for a fool not to
be a fool," said Madeline.
Bertie Stanhope had been so much knocked about the world
from his earliest years that he had not retained much
respect for the gravity of English customs; but even to his
mind an idea presented itself that, perhaps in a wife, true
British prejudice would not in the long run be less
agreeable than Anglo-Italian freedom from restraint. He did
not exactly say so, but he expressed the idea in another
way.
"I fancy," said he, "that if I were to die, and then
walk, I should think that my widow looked better in one of
those caps than any other kind of head-dress."
"Yes—and you'd fancy also that she could do nothing
better than shut herself up and cry for you, or else burn
herself. But she would think differently. She'd probably
wear one of those horrid she-helmets, because she'd want the
courage not to do so; but she'd wear it with a heart longing
for the time when she might be allowed to throw it off. I
hate such shallow false pretences. For my part I would let
the world say what it pleased, and show no grief if I felt
none—and perhaps not, if I did."
"But wearing a widow's cap won't lessen her fortune,"
said Charlotte.
"Or increase it," said Madeline. "Then why on earth does
she do it?"
"But Lotte's object is to make her put it off," said
Bertie.
"If it be true that she has got twelve hundred a year
quite at her own disposal, and she be not utterly vulgar in
her manners, I would advise you to marry her. I dare say
she's to be had for the asking: and as you are not going to
marry her for love, it doesn't much matter whether she is
good-looking or not. As to your really marrying a woman for
love, I don't believe you are fool enough for that."
"Oh, Madeline!" exclaimed her sister.
"And oh, Charlotte!" said the other.
"You don't mean to say that no man can love a woman
unless he be a fool?"
"I mean very much the same thing—that any man who is
willing to sacrifice his interest to get possession of a
pretty face is a fool. Pretty faces are to be had cheaper
than that. I hate your mawkish sentimentality, Lotte. You
know as well as I do in what way husbands and wives
generally live together; you know how far the warmth of
conjugal affection can withstand the trial of a bad dinner,
of a rainy day, or of the least privation which poverty
brings with it; you know what freedom a man claims for
himself, what slavery he would exact from his wife if he
could! And you know also how wives generally obey. Marriage
means tyranny on one side and deceit on the other. I say
that a man is a fool to sacrifice his interests for such a
bargain. A woman, too generally, has no other way of
living."
"But Bertie has no other way of living," said Charlotte.
"Then, in God's name, let him marry Mrs. Bold," said
Madeline. And so it was settled between them.
But let the gentle-hearted reader be under no
apprehension whatsoever. It is not destined that Eleanor
shall marry Mr. Slope or Bertie Stanhope. And here perhaps
it may be allowed to the novelist to explain his views on a
very important point in the art of telling tales. He
ventures to reprobate that system which goes so far to
violate all proper confidence between the author and his
readers by maintaining nearly to the end of the third volume
a mystery as to the fate of their favourite personage. Nay,
more, and worse than this, is too frequently done. Have not
often the profoundest efforts of genius been used to baffle
the aspirations of the reader, to raise false hopes and
false fears, and to give rise to expectations which are
never to be realized? Are not promises all but made of
delightful horrors, in lieu of which the writer produces
nothing but most commonplace realities in his final chapter?
And is there not a species of deceit in this to which the
honesty of the present age should lend no countenance?
And what can be the worth of that solicitude which a peep
into the third volume can utterly dissipate? What the value
of those literary charms which are absolutely destroyed by
their enjoyment? When we have once learnt what was that
picture before which was hung Mrs. Ratcliffe's solemn
curtain, we feel no further interest about either the frame
or the veil. They are to us merely a receptacle for old
bones, an inappropriate coffin, which we would wish to have
decently buried out of our sight.
And then how grievous a thing it is to have the pleasure
of your novel destroyed by the ill-considered triumph of a
previous reader. "Oh, you needn't be alarmed for Augusta; of
course she accepts Gustavus in the end." "How very
ill-natured you are, Susan," says Kitty with tears in her
eyes: "I don't care a bit about it now." Dear Kitty, if you
will read my book, you may defy the ill-nature of your
sister. There shall be no secret that she can tell you. Nay,
take the third volume if you please—learn from the last
pages all the results of our troubled story, and the story
shall have lost none of its interest, if indeed there be any
interest in it to lose.
Our doctrine is that the author and the reader should
move along together in full confidence with each other. Let
the personages of the drama undergo ever so complete a
comedy of errors among themselves, but let the spectator
never mistake the Syracusan for the Ephesian; otherwise he
is one of the dupes, and the part of a dupe is never
dignified.
I would not for the value of this chapter have it
believed by a single reader that my Eleanor could bring
herself to marry Mr. Slope, or that she should be sacrificed
to a Bertie Stanhope. But among the good folk of Barchester
many believed both the one and the other.
CHAPTER XVI
Baby Worship
"Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle, dum, dum, dum," said or
sung Eleanor Bold.
"Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle, dum, dum, dum,"
continued Mary Bold, taking up the second part in this
concerted piece.
The only audience at the concert was the baby, who
however gave such vociferous applause that the performers,
presuming it to amount to an encore, commenced again.
"Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle, dum, dum, dum: hasn't he
got lovely legs?" said the rapturous mother.
"H'm 'm 'm 'm 'm," simmered Mary, burying her lips in the
little fellow's fat neck, by way of kissing him.
"H'm 'm 'm 'm 'm," simmered the mamma, burying her lips
also in his fat, round, short legs. "He's a dawty little
bold darling, so he is; and he has the nicest little pink
legs in all the world, so he has;" and the simmering and the
kissing went on over again, as though the ladies were very
hungry and determined to eat him.
"Well, then, he's his own mother's own darling: well, he
shall—oh, oh—Mary, Mary—did you ever see? What am I to do?
My naughty, naughty, naughty, naughty little Johnny." All
these energetic exclamations were elicited by the delight of
the mother in finding that her son was strong enough and
mischievous enough to pull all her hair out from under her
cap. "He's been and pulled down all Mamma's hair, and he's
the naughtiest, naughtiest, naughtiest little man that ever,
ever, ever, ever, ever—"
A regular service of baby worship was going on. Mary Bold
was sitting on a low easy chair, with the boy in her lap,
and Eleanor was kneeling before the object of her idolatry.
As she tried to cover up the little fellow's face with her
long, glossy, dark brown locks, and permitted him to pull
them hither and thither as he would, she looked very
beautiful in spite of the widow's cap which she still wore.
There was a quiet, enduring, grateful sweetness about her
face which grew so strongly upon those who knew her, as to
make the great praise of her beauty which came from her old
friends appear marvellously exaggerated to those who were
only slightly acquainted with her. Her loveliness was like
that of many landscapes, which require to be often seen to
be fully enjoyed. There was a depth of dark clear brightness
in her eyes which was lost upon a quick observer, a
character about her mouth which only showed itself to those
with whom she familiarly conversed, a glorious form of head
the perfect symmetry of which required the eye of an artist
for its appreciation. She had none of that dazzling
brilliancy, of that voluptuous Rubens beauty, of that pearly
whiteness, and those vermilion tints which immediately
entranced with the power of a basilisk men who came within
reach of Madeline Neroni. It was all but impossible to
resist the signora, but no one was called upon for any
resistance towards Eleanor. You might begin to talk to her
as though she were your sister, and it would not be till
your head was on your pillow that the truth and intensity of
her beauty would flash upon you, that the sweetness of her
voice would come upon your ear. A sudden half-hour with the
Neroni was like falling into a pit, an evening spent with
Eleanor like an unexpected ramble in some quiet fields of
asphodel.
"We'll cover him up till there shan't be a morsel of his
little 'ittle 'ittle 'ittle nose to be seen," said the
mother, stretching her streaming locks over the infant's
face. The child screamed with delight, and kicked till Mary
Bold was hardly able to hold him.
At this moment the door opened, and Mr. Slope was
announced. Up jumped Eleanor and, with a sudden quick motion
of her hands, pushed back her hair over her shoulders. It
would have been perhaps better for her that she had not, for
she thus showed more of her confusion than she would have
done had she remained as she was. Mr. Slope, however,
immediately recognized her loveliness and thought to himself
that, irrespective of her fortune, she would be an inmate
that a man might well desire for his house, a partner for
his bosom's care very well qualified to make care lie easy.
Eleanor hurried out of the room to readjust her cap,
muttering some unnecessary apology about her baby. And while
she is gone, we will briefly go back and state what had been
hitherto the results of Mr. Slope's meditations on his
scheme of matrimony.
His inquiries as to the widow's income had at any rate
been so far successful as to induce him to determine to go
on with the speculation. As regarded Mr. Harding, he had
also resolved to do what he could without injury to himself.
To Mrs. Proudie he determined not to speak on the matter, at
least not at present. His object was to instigate a little
rebellion on the part of the bishop. He thought that such a
state of things would be advisable, not only in respect to
Messrs. Harding and Quiverful, but also in the affairs of
the diocese generally. Mr. Slope was by no means of opinion
that Dr. Proudie was fit to rule, but he conscientiously
thought it wrong that his brother clergy should be subjected
to petticoat government. He therefore made up his mind to
infuse a little of his spirit into the bishop, sufficient to
induce him to oppose his wife, though not enough to make him
altogether insubordinate.
He had therefore taken an opportunity of again speaking
to his lordship about the hospital, and had endeavoured to
make it appear that after all it would be unwise to exclude
Mr. Harding from the appointment. Mr. Slope, however, had a
harder task than he had imagined. Mrs. Proudie, anxious to
assume to herself as much as possible of the merit of
patronage, had written to Mrs. Quiverful, requesting her to
call at the palace, and had then explained to that matron,
with much mystery, condescension, and dignity, the good that
was in store for her and her progeny. Indeed, Mrs. Proudie
had been so engaged at the very time that Mr. Slope had been
doing the same with the husband at Puddingdale Vicarage, and
had thus in a measure committed herself. The thanks, the
humility, the gratitude, the surprise of Mrs. Quiverful had
been very overpowering; she had all but embraced the knees
of her patroness, and had promised that the prayers of
fourteen unprovided babes (so Mrs. Quiverful had described
her own family, the eldest of which was a stout young woman
of three-and-twenty) should be put up to heaven morning and
evening for the munificent friend whom God had sent to them.
Such incense as this was not unpleasing to Mrs. Proudie, and
she made the most of it. She offered her general assistance
to the fourteen unprovided babes, if, as she had no doubt,
she should find them worthy; expressed a hope that the
eldest of them would be fit to undertake tuition in her
Sabbath-schools; and altogether made herself a very great
lady in the estimation of Mrs. Quiverful.
Having done this, she thought it prudent to drop a few
words before the bishop, letting him know that she had
acquainted the Puddingdale family with their good fortune;
so that he might perceive that he stood committed to the
appointment. The husband well understood the ruse of his
wife, but he did not resent it. He knew that she was taking
the patronage out of his hands; he was resolved to put an
end to her interference and reassume his powers. But then he
thought this was not the best time to do it. He put off the
evil hour, as many a man in similar circumstances has done
before him.
Such having been the case, Mr. Slope naturally
encountered a difficulty in talking over the bishop, a
difficulty indeed which he found could not be overcome
except at the cost of a general outbreak at the palace. A
general outbreak at the present moment might be good policy,
but it also might not. It was at any rate not a step to be
lightly taken. He began by whispering to the bishop that he
feared that public opinion would be against him if Mr.
Harding did not reappear at the hospital. The bishop
answered with some warmth that Mr. Quiverful had been
promised the appointment on Mr. Slope's advice. "Not
promised?" said Mr. Slope. "Yes, promised," replied the
bishop, "and Mrs. Proudie has seen Mrs. Quiverful on the
subject." This was quite unexpected on the part of Mr.
Slope, but his presence of mind did not fail him, and he
turned the statement to his own account.
"Ah, my lord," said he, "we shall all be in scrapes if
the ladies interfere."
This was too much in unison with my lord's feelings to be
altogether unpalatable, and yet such an allusion to
interference demanded a rebuke. My lord was somewhat
astounded also, though not altogether made miserable, by
finding that there was a point of difference between his
wife and his chaplain.
"I don't know what you mean by interference," said the
bishop mildly. "When Mrs. Proudie heard that Mr. Quiverful
was to be appointed, it was not unnatural that she should
wish to see Mrs. Quiverful about the schools. I really
cannot say that I see any interference."
"I only speak, my lord, for your own comfort," said
Slope; "for your own comfort and dignity in the diocese. I
can have no other motive. As far as personal feelings go,
Mrs. Proudie is the best friend I have. I must always
remember that. But still, in my present position, my first
duty is to your lordship."
"I'm sure of that, Mr. Slope; I am quite sure of that;"
said the bishop, mollified: "and you really think that Mr.
Harding should have the hospital?"
"Upon my word, I'm inclined to think so. I am quite
prepared to take upon myself the blame of first suggesting
Mr. Quiverful's name. But since doing so, I have found that
there is so strong a feeling in the diocese in favour of Mr.
Harding that I think your lordship should give way. I hear
also that Mr. Harding has modified the objections he first
felt to your lordship's propositions. And as to what has
passed between Mrs. Proudie and Mrs. Quiverful, the
circumstance may be a little inconvenient, but I really do
not think that that should weigh in a matter of so much
moment."
And thus the poor bishop was left in a dreadfully
undecided step as to what he should do. His mind, however,
slightly inclined itself to the appointment of Mr. Harding,
seeing that by such a step he should have the assistance of
Mr. Slope in opposing Mrs. Proudie.
Such was the state of affairs at the palace, when Mr.
Slope called at Mrs. Bold's house and found her playing with
her baby. When she ran out of the room, Mr. Slope began
praising the weather to Mary Bold, then he praised the baby
and kissed him, and then he praised the mother, and then he
praised Miss Bold herself. Mrs. Bold, however, was not long
before she came back.
"I have to apologize for calling at so very early an
hour," began Mr. Slope, "but I was really so anxious to
speak to you that I hope you and Miss Bold will excuse me."
Eleanor muttered something in which the words
"certainly," and "of course," and "not early at all," were
just audible, and then apologized for her own appearance,
declaring, with a smile, that her baby was becoming such a
big boy that he was quite unmanageable.
"He's a great big naughty boy," said she to the child,
"and we must send him away to a great big rough romping
school, where they have great big rods and do terrible
things to naughty boys who don't do what their own mammas
tell them;" and she then commenced another course of
kissing, being actuated thereto by the terrible idea of
sending her child away which her own imagination had
depicted.
"And where the masters don't have such beautiful long
hair to be dishevelled," said Mr. Slope, taking up the joke
and paying a compliment at the same time.
Eleanor thought he might as well have left the compliment
alone, but she said nothing and looked nothing, being
occupied as she was with the baby.
"Let me take him," said Mary. "His clothes are nearly off
his back with his romping," and so saying she left the room
with the child. Miss Bold had heard Mr. Slope say he had
something pressing to say to Eleanor, and thinking that she
might be de trop, took this opportunity of getting
herself out of the room.
"Don't be long, Mary," said Eleanor as Miss Bold shut the
door.
"I am glad, Mrs. Bold, to have the opportunity of having
ten minutes' conversation with you alone," began Mr. Slope.
"Will you let me openly ask you a plain question?"
"Certainly," said she.
"And I am sure you will give me a plain and open answer."
"Either that, or none at all," said she, laughing.
"My question is this, Mrs. Bold: is your father really
anxious to go back to the hospital?"
"Why do you ask me?" said she. "Why don't you ask
himself?"
"My dear Mrs. Bold, I'll tell you why. There are wheels
within wheels, all of which I would explain to you, only I
fear that there is not time. It is essentially necessary
that I should have an answer to this question, otherwise I
cannot know how to advance your father's wishes; and it is
quite impossible that I should ask himself. No one can
esteem your father more than I do, but I doubt if this
feeling is reciprocal." It certainly was not. "I must be
candid with you as the only means of avoiding ultimate
consequences, which may be most injurious to Mr. Harding. I
fear there is a feeling—I will not even call it a
prejudice—with regard to myself in Barchester, which is not
in my favour. You remember that sermon—"
"Oh, Mr. Slope, we need not go back to that," said
Eleanor.
"For one moment, Mrs. Bold. It is not that I may talk of
myself, but because it is so essential that you should
understand how matters stand. That sermon may have been
ill-judged—it was certainly misunderstood; but I will say
nothing about that now; only this, that it did give rise to
a feeling against myself which your father shares with
others. It may be that he has proper cause, but the result
is that he is not inclined to meet me on friendly terms. I
put it to yourself whether you do not know this to be the
case."
Eleanor made no answer, and Mr. Slope, in the eagerness
of his address, edged his chair a little nearer to the
widow's seat, unperceived by her.
"Such being so," continued Mr. Slope, "I cannot ask him
this question as I can ask it of you. In spite of my
delinquencies since I came to Barchester you have allowed me
to regard you as a friend." Eleanor made a little motion
with her head which was hardly confirmatory, but Mr. Slope
if he noticed it, did not appear to do so. "To you I can
speak openly and explain the feelings of my heart. This your
father would not allow. Unfortunately, the bishop has
thought it right that this matter of the hospital should
pass through my hands. There have been some details to get
up with which he would not trouble himself, and thus it has
come to pass that I was forced to have an interview with
your father on the matter."
"I am aware of that," said Eleanor.
"Of course," said he. "In that interview Mr. Harding left
the impression on my mind that he did not wish to return to
the hospital."
"How could that be?" said Eleanor, at last stirred up to
forget the cold propriety of demeanour which she had
determined to maintain.
"My dear Mrs. Bold, I give you my word that such was the
case," said he, again getting a little nearer to her. "And
what is more than that, before my interview with Mr.
Harding, certain persons at the palace—I do not mean the
bishop—had told me that such was the fact. I own, I hardly
believed it; I own, I thought that your father would wish on
every account, for conscience' sake, for the sake of those
old men, for old association and the memory of dear days
long gone by, on every account I thought that he would wish
to resume his duties. But I was told that such was not his
wish, and he certainly left me with the impression that I
had been told the truth."
"Well!" said Eleanor, now sufficiently roused on the
matter.
"I hear Miss Bold's step," said Mr. Slope; "would it be
asking too great a favour to beg you to—I know you can
manage anything with Miss Bold."
Eleanor did not like the word manage, but still she went
out and asked Mary to leave them alone for another quarter
of an hour.
"Thank you, Mrs. Bold—I am so very grateful for this
confidence. Well, I left your father with this impression.
Indeed, I may say that he made me understand that he
declined the appointment."
"Not the appointment," said Eleanor. "I am sure he did
not decline the appointment. But he said that he would not
agree—that is, that he did not like the scheme about the
schools and the services and all that. I am quite sure he
never said that he wished to refuse the place."
"Oh, Mrs. Bold!" said Mr. Slope in a manner almost
impassioned. "I would not for the world say to so good a
daughter a word against so good a father. But you must, for
his sake, let me show you exactly how the matter stands at
present. Mr. Harding was a little flurried when I told him
of the bishop's wishes about the school. I did so perhaps
with the less caution because you yourself had so perfectly
agreed with me on the same subject. He was a little put out
and spoke warmly. 'Tell the bishop,' said he, 'that I quite
disagree with him—and shall not return to the hospital as
such conditions are attached to it.' What he said was to
that effect; indeed, his words were, if anything, stronger
than those. I had no alternative but to repeat them to his
lordship, who said that he could look on them in no other
light than a refusal. He also had heard the report that your
father did not wish for the appointment, and putting all
these things together, he thought he had no choice but to
look for someone else. He has consequently offered the place
to Mr. Quiverful."
"Offered the place to Mr. Quiverful!" repeated Eleanor,
her eyes suffused with tears. "Then, Mr. Slope, there is an
end of it."
"No, my friend—not so," said he. "It is to prevent such
being the end of it that I am now here. I may at any rate
presume that I have got an answer to my question, and that
Mr. Harding is desirous of returning."
"Desirous of returning—of course he is," said Eleanor;
"of course he wishes to have back his house and his income
and his place in the world; to have back what he gave up
with such self-denying honesty, if he can have them without
restraints on his conduct to which at his age it would be
impossible that he should submit. How can the bishop ask a
man of his age to turn schoolmaster to a pack of children?"
"Out of the question," said Mr. Slope, laughing slightly;
"of course no such demand shall be made on your father. I
can at any rate promise you that I will not be the medium of
any so absurd a requisition. We wished your father to preach
in the hospital, as the inmates may naturally be too old to
leave it, but even that shall not be insisted on. We wished
also to attach a Sabbath-day school to the hospital,
thinking that such an establishment could not but be useful
under the surveillance of so good a clergyman as Mr.
Harding, and also under your own. But, dear Mrs. Bold, we
won't talk of these things now. One thing is clear: we must
do what we can to annul this rash offer the bishop has made
to Mr. Quiverful. Your father wouldn't see Quiverful, would
he? Quiverful is an honourable man, and would not for a
moment stand in your father's way."
"What?" said Eleanor. "Ask a man with fourteen children
to give up his preferment! I am quite sure he will do no
such thing."
"I suppose not," said Slope, and he again drew near to
Mrs. Bold, so that now they were very close to each other.
Eleanor did not think much about it but instinctively moved
away a little. How greatly would she have increased the
distance could she have guessed what had been said about her
at Plumstead! "I suppose not. But it is out of the question
that Quiverful should supersede your father—quite out of the
question. The bishop has been too rash. An idea occurs to me
which may perhaps, with God's blessing, put us right. My
dear Mrs. Bold, would you object to seeing the bishop
yourself?"
"Why should not my father see him?" said Eleanor. She had
once before in her life interfered in her father's affairs,
and then not to much advantage. She was older now and felt
that she should take no step in a matter so vital to him
without his consent.
"Why, to tell the truth," said Mr. Slope with a look of
sorrow, as though he greatly bewailed the want of charity in
his patron, "the bishop fancies that he has cause of anger
against your father. I fear an interview would lead to
further ill-will."
"Why," said Eleanor, "my father is the mildest, the
gentlest man living."
"I only know," said Slope, "that he has the best of
daughters. So you would not see the bishop? As to getting an
interview, I could manage that for you without the slightest
annoyance to yourself."
"I could do nothing, Mr. Slope, without consulting my
father."
"Ah!" said he, "that would be useless; you would then
only be your father's messenger. Does anything occur to
yourself? Something must be done. Your father shall not be
ruined by so ridiculous a misunderstanding."
Eleanor said that nothing occurred to her, but that it
was very hard; the tears came to her eyes and rolled down
her cheeks. Mr. Slope would have given much to have had the
privilege of drying them, but he had tact enough to know
that he had still a great deal to do before he could even
hope for any privilege with Mrs. Bold.
"It cuts me to the heart to see you so grieved," said he.
"But pray let me assure you that your father's interests
shall not be sacrificed if it be possible for me to protect
them. I will tell the bishop openly what are the facts. I
will explain to him that he has hardly the right to appoint
any other than your father, and will show him that if he
does so he will be guilty of great injustice—and you, Mrs.
Bold, you will have the charity at any rate to believe this
of me, that I am truly anxious for your father's welfare—for
his and for your own."
The widow hardly knew what answer to make. She was quite
aware that her father would not be at all thankful to Mr.
Slope; she had a strong wish to share her father's feelings;
and yet she could not but acknowledge that Mr. Slope was
very kind. Her father, who was generally so charitable to
all men, who seldom spoke ill of anyone, had warned her
against Mr. Slope, and yet she did not know how to abstain
from thanking him. What interest could he have in the matter
but that which he professed? Nevertheless there was that in
his manner which even she distrusted. She felt, she did not
know why, that there was something about him which ought to
put her on her guard.
Mr. Slope read all this in her hesitating manner just as
plainly as though she had opened her heart to him. It was
the talent of the man that he could so read the inward
feelings of women with whom he conversed. He knew that
Eleanor was doubting him, and that, if she thanked him, she
would only do so because she could not help it, but yet this
did not make him angry or even annoy him. Rome was not built
in a day.
"I did not come for thanks," continued he, seeing her
hesitation, "and do not want them—at any rate before they
are merited. But this I do want, Mrs. Bold, that I may make
to myself friends in this fold to which it has pleased God
to call me as one of the humblest of his shepherds. If I
cannot do so, my task here must indeed be a sad one. I will
at any rate endeavour to deserve them."
"I'm sure," said she, "you will soon make plenty of
friends." She felt herself obliged to say something.
"That will be nothing unless they are such as will
sympathize with my feelings; unless they are such as I can
reverence and admire—and love. If the best and purest turn
away from me, I cannot bring myself to be satisfied with the
friendship of the less estimable. In such case I must live
alone."
"Oh, I'm sure you will not do that, Mr. Slope." Eleanor
meant nothing, but it suited him to appear to think some
special allusion had been intended.
"Indeed, Mrs. Bold, I shall live alone, quite alone as
far as the heart is concerned, if those with whom I yearn to
ally myself turn away from me. But enough of this; I have
called you my friend, and I hope you will not contradict me.
I trust the time may come when I may also call your father
so. May God bless you, Mrs. Bold, you and your darling boy.
And tell your father from me that what can be done for his
interest shall be done."
And so he took his leave, pressing the widow's hand
rather more closely than usual. Circumstances, however,
seemed just then to make this intelligible, and the lady did
not feel called on to resent it.
"I cannot understand him," said Eleanor to Mary Bold a
few minutes afterwards. "I do not know whether he is a good
man or a bad man—whether he is true or false."
"Then give him the benefit of the doubt," said Mary, "and
believe the best."
"On the whole, I think I do," said Eleanor. "I think I do
believe that he means well—and if so, it is a shame that we
should revile him and make him miserable while he is among
us. But, oh, Mary, I fear Papa will be disappointed in the
hospital."
CHAPTER XVII
Who Shall Be Cock of the Walk?
All this time things were going somewhat uneasily at the
palace. The hint or two which Mr. Slope had given was by no
means thrown away upon the bishop. He had a feeling that if
he ever meant to oppose the now almost unendurable despotism
of his wife, he must lose no further time in doing so; that
if he ever meant to be himself master in his own diocese,
let alone his own house, he should begin at once. It would
have been easier to have done so from the day of his
consecration than now, but easier now than when Mrs. Proudie
should have succeeded in thoroughly mastering the diocesan
details. Then the proffered assistance of Mr. Slope was a
great thing for him, a most unexpected and invaluable aid.
Hitherto he had looked on the two as allied forces and had
considered that, as allies, they were impregnable. He had
begun to believe that his only chance of escape would be by
the advancement of Mr. Slope to some distant and rich
preferment. But now it seemed that one of his enemies,
certainly the least potent of them, but nevertheless one
very important, was willing to desert his own camp. Assisted
by Mr. Slope what might he not do? He walked up and down his
little study, almost thinking that the time might come when
he would be able to appropriate to his own use the big room
upstairs in which his predecessor had always sat.
As he revolved these things in his mind a note was
brought to him from Archdeacon Grantly, in which that divine
begged his lordship to do him the honour of seeing him on
the morrow—would his lordship have the kindness to name an
hour? Dr. Grantly's proposed visit would have reference to
the reappointment of Mr. Harding to the wardenship of
Barchester Hospital. The bishop having read his note was
informed that the archdeacon's servant was waiting for an
answer.
Here at once a great opportunity offered itself to the
bishop of acting on his own responsibility. He bethought
himself however of his new ally and rang the bell for Mr.
Slope. It turned out that Mr. Slope was not in the house,
and then, greatly daring, the bishop with his own unassisted
spirit wrote a note to the archdeacon saving that he would
see him, and naming an hour for doing so. Having watched
from his study-window that the messenger got safely off from
the premises with this dispatch, he began to turn over in
his mind what step he should next take.
to-morrow he would have to declare to the archdeacon
either that Mr. Harding should have the appointment, or that
he should not have it. The bishop felt that he could not
honestly throw over the Quiverfuls without informing Mrs.
Proudie, and he resolved at last to brave the lioness in her
den and tell her that circumstances were such that it
behoved him to reappoint Mr. Harding. He did not feel that
he should at all derogate from his new courage by promising
Mrs. Proudie that the very first piece of available
preferment at his disposal should be given to Quiverful to
atone for the injury done to him. If he could mollify the
lioness with such a sop, how happy would he think his first
efforts to have been!
Not without many misgivings did he find himself in Mrs.
Proudie's boudoir. He had at first thought of sending for
her. But it was not at all impossible that she might choose
to take such a message amiss, and then also it might be some
protection to him to have his daughters present at the
interview. He found her sitting with her account-books
before her, nibbling the end of her pencil, evidently
immersed in pecuniary difficulties, and harassed in mind by
the multiplicity of palatial expenses and the heavy cost of
episcopal grandeur. Her daughters were around her. Olivia
was reading a novel, Augusta was crossing a note to her
bosom friend in Baker Street, and Netta was working
diminutive coach wheels for the bottom of a petticoat. If
the bishop could get the better of his wife in her present
mood, he would be a man indeed. He might then consider the
victory his own forever. After all, in such cases the matter
between husband and wife stands much the same as it does
between two boys at the same school, two cocks in the same
yard, or two armies on the same continent. The conqueror
once is generally the conqueror forever after. The prestige
of victory is everything.
"Ahem—my dear," began the bishop, "if you are disengaged,
I wished to speak to you." Mrs. Proudie put her pencil down
carefully at the point to which she had totted her figures,
marked down in her memory the sum she had arrived at, and
then looked up, sourly enough, into her helpmate's face. "If
you are busy, another time will do as well," continued the
bishop, whose courage, like Bob Acres', had oozed out now
that he found himself on the ground of battle.
"What is it about, Bishop?" asked the lady.
"Well—it was about those Quiverfuls—but I see you are
engaged. Another time will do just as well for me."
"What about the Quiverfuls? It is quite understood, I
believe, that they are to come to the hospital. There is to
be no doubt about that, is there?" and as she spoke she kept
her pencil sternly and vigorously fixed on the column of
figures before her.
"Why, my dear, there is a difficulty," said the bishop.
"A difficulty!" said Mrs. Proudie, "what difficulty? The
place has been promised to Mr. Quiverful, and of course he
must have it. He has made all his arrangements. He has
written for a curate for Puddingdale, he has spoken to the
auctioneer about selling his farm, horses, and cows, and in
all respects considers the place as his own. Of course he
must have it."
Now, Bishop, look well to thyself and call up all the
manhood that is in thee. Think how much is at stake. If now
thou art not true to thy guns, no Slope can hereafter aid
thee. How can he who deserts his own colours at the first
smell of gunpowder expect faith in any ally? Thou thyself
hast sought the battle-field: fight out the battle manfully
now thou art there. Courage, Bishop, courage! Frowns cannot
kill, nor can sharp words break any bones. After all, the
apron is thine own. She can appoint no wardens, give away no
benefices, nominate no chaplains, an' thou art but true to
thyself. Up, man, and at her with a constant heart.
Some little monitor within the bishop's breast so
addressed him. But then there was another monitor there
which advised him differently, and as follows. Remember,
Bishop, she is a woman, and such a woman too as thou well
knowest: a battle of words with such a woman is the very
mischief. Were it not better for thee to carry on this war,
if it must be waged, from behind thine own table in thine
own study? Does not every cock fight best on his own
dunghill? Thy daughters also are here, the pledges of thy
love, the fruits of thy loins: is it well that they should
see thee in the hour of thy victory over their mother? Nay,
is it well that they should see thee in the possible hour of
thy defeat? Besides, hast thou not chosen thy opportunity
with wonderful little skill, indeed with no touch of that
sagacity for which thou art famous? Will it not turn out
that thou art wrong in this matter and thine enemy right;
that thou hast actually pledged thyself in this matter of
the hospital, and that now thou wouldest turn upon thy wife
because she requires from thee but the fulfilment of thy
promise? Art thou not a Christian bishop, and is not thy
word to be held sacred whatever be the result? Return,
Bishop, to thy sanctum on the lower floor and postpone thy
combative propensities for some occasion in which at least
thou mayest fight the battle against odds less tremendously
against thee.
All this passed within the bishop's bosom while Mrs.
Proudie still sat with her fixed pencil, and the figures of
her sum still enduring on the tablets of her memory. "£4
17s. 7d." she said to herself. "Of course Mr. Quiverful must
have the hospital," she said out loud to her lord.
"Well, my dear, I merely wanted to suggest to you that
Mr. Slope seems to think that if Mr. Harding be not
appointed, public feeling in the matter would be against us,
and that the press might perhaps take it up."
"Mr. Slope seems to think!" said Mrs. Proudie in a tone
of voice which plainly showed the bishop that he was right
in looking for a breach in that quarter. "And what has Mr.
Slope to do with it? I hope, my lord, you are not going to
allow yourself to be governed by a chaplain." And now in her
eagerness the lady lost her place in her account.
"Certainly not, my dear. Nothing I can assure you is less
probable. But still, Mr. Slope may be useful in finding how
the wind blows, and I really thought that if we could give
something else as good to the Quiverfuls—"
"Nonsense," said Mrs. Proudie; "it would be years before
you could give them anything else that could suit them half
as well, and as for the press and the public and all that,
remember there are two ways of telling a story. If Mr.
Harding is fool enough to tell his tale, we can also tell
ours. The place was offered to him, and he refused it. It
has now been given to someone else, and there's an end of
it. At least I should think so."
"Well, my dear, I rather believe you are right," said the
bishop, and sneaking out of the room, he went downstairs,
troubled in his mind as to how he should receive the
archdeacon on the morrow. He felt himself not very well just
at present, and began to consider that he might, not
improbably, be detained in his room the next morning by an
attack of bile. He was, unfortunately, very subject to
bilious annoyances.
"Mr. Slope, indeed! I'll Slope him," said the indignant
matron to her listening progeny. "I don't know what has come
to Mr. Slope. I believe he thinks he is to be Bishop of
Barchester himself, because I've taken him by the hand and
got your father to make him his domestic chaplain."
"He was always full of impudence," said Olivia; "I told
you so once before, Mamma." Olivia, however, had not thought
him too impudent when once before he had proposed to make
her Mrs. Slope.
"Well, Olivia, I always thought you liked him," said
Augusta, who at that moment had some grudge against her
sister. "I always disliked the man, because I think him
thoroughly vulgar."
"There you're wrong," said Mrs. Proudie; "he's not vulgar
at all; and what is more, he is a soul-stirring, eloquent
preacher; but he must be taught to know his place if he is
to remain in this house."
"He has the horridest eyes I ever saw in a man's head,"
said Netta; "and I tell you what, he's terribly greedy; did
you see all the currant pie he ate yesterday?"
When Mr. Slope got home he soon learnt from the bishop,
as much from his manner as his words, that Mrs. Proudie's
behests in the matter of the hospital were to be obeyed. Dr.
Proudie let fall something as to "this occasion only" and
"keeping all affairs about patronage exclusively in his own
hands." But he was quite decided about Mr. Harding; and as
Mr. Slope did not wish to have both the prelate and the
prelatess against him, he did not at present see that he
could do anything but yield.
He merely remarked that he would of course carry out the
bishop's views and that he was quite sure that if the bishop
trusted to his own judgement things in the diocese would
certainly be well ordered. Mr. Slope knew that if you hit a
nail on the head often enough, it will penetrate at last.
He was sitting alone in his room on the same evening when
a light knock was made on his door, and before he could
answer it the door was opened, and his patroness appeared.
He was all smiles in a moment, but so was not she also. She
took, however, the chair that was offered to her, and thus
began her expostulation:
"Mr. Slope, I did not at all approve your conduct the
other night with that Italian woman. Anyone would have
thought that you were her lover."
"Good gracious, my dear madam," said Mr. Slope with a
look of horror. "Why, she is a married woman."
"That's more than I know," said Mrs. Proudie; "however
she chooses to pass for such. But married or not married,
such attention as you paid to her was improper. I cannot
believe that you would wish to give offence in my
drawing-room, Mr. Slope, but I owe it to myself and my
daughters to tell you that I disapprove of your conduct."
Mr. Slope opened wide his huge protruding eyes and stared
out of them with a look of well-feigned surprise. "Why, Mrs.
Proudie," said he, "I did but fetch her something to eat
when she said she was hungry."
"And you have called on her since," continued she,
looking at the culprit with the stern look of a detective
policeman in the act of declaring himself.
Mr. Slope turned over in his mind whether it would be
well for him to tell this termagant at once that he should
call on whom he liked and do what he liked, but he
remembered that his footing in Barchester was not yet
sufficiently firm, and that it would be better for him to
pacify her.
"I certainly called since at Dr. Stanhope's house, and
certainly saw Madame Neroni."
"Yes, and you saw her alone," said the episcopal Argus.
"Undoubtedly, I did," said Mr. Slope, "but that was
because nobody else happened to be in the room. Surely it
was no fault of mine if the rest of the family were out."
"Perhaps not, but I assure you, Mr. Slope, you will fall
greatly in my estimation if I find that you allow yourself
to be caught by the lures of that woman. I know women better
than you do, Mr. Slope, and you may believe me that that
signora, as she calls herself, is not a fitting companion
for a strict evangelical unmarried young clergyman."
How Mr. Slope would have liked to laugh at her, had he
dared! But he did not dare. So he merely said, "I can assure
you, Mrs. Proudie, the lady in question is nothing to me."
"Well, I hope not, Mr. Slope. But I have considered it my
duty to give you this caution. And now there is another
thing I feel myself called on to speak about: it is your
conduct to the bishop, Mr. Slope."
"My conduct to the bishop," said he, now truly surprised
and ignorant what the lady alluded to.
"Yes, Mr. Slope, your conduct to the bishop. It is by no
means what I would wish to see it."
"Has the bishop said anything, Mrs. Proudie?"
"No, the bishop has said nothing. He probably thinks that
any remarks on the matter will come better from me, who
first introduced you to his lordship's notice. The fact is,
Mr. Slope, you are a little inclined to take too much upon
yourself."
An angry spot showed itself on Mr. Slope's cheeks, and it
was with difficulty that he controlled himself. But he did
do so, and sat quite silent while the lady went on.
"It is the fault of many young men in your position, and
therefore the bishop is not inclined at present to resent
it. You will, no doubt, soon learn what is required from you
and what is not. If you will take my advice, however, you
will be careful not to obtrude advice upon the bishop in any
matter touching patronage. If his lordship wants advice, he
knows where to look for it." And then having added to her
counsel a string of platitudes as to what was desirable and
what not desirable in the conduct of a strictly evangelical
unmarried young clergyman, Mrs. Proudie retreated, leaving
the chaplain to his thoughts.
The upshot of his thoughts was this, that there certainly
was not room in the diocese for the energies of both himself
and Mrs. Proudie, and that it behoved him quickly to
ascertain whether his energies or hers were to prevail.
CHAPTER XVIII
The Widow's Persecution
Early on the following morning Mr. Slope was summoned to
the bishop's dressing-room, and went there fully expecting
that he should find his lordship very indignant and spirited
up by his wife to repeat the rebuke which she had
administered on the previous day. Mr. Slope had resolved
that at any rate from him he would not stand it, and entered
the dressing-room in rather a combative disposition; but he
found the bishop in the most placid and gentlest of humours.
His lordship complained of being rather unwell, had a slight
headache, and was not quite the thing in his stomach; but
there was nothing the matter with his temper.
"Oh, Slope," said he, taking the chaplain's proffered
hand, "Archdeacon Grantly is to call on me this morning, and
I really am not fit to see him. I fear I must trouble you to
see him for me;" and then Dr. Proudie proceeded to explain
what it was that must be said to Dr. Grantly. He was to be
told in fact, in the civilest words in which the tidings
could be conveyed, that Mr. Harding having refused the
wardenship, the appointment had been offered to Mr.
Quiverful and accepted by him.
Mr. Slope again pointed out to his patron that he thought
he was perhaps not quite wise in his decision, and this he
did sotto voce. But even with this precaution it was
not safe to say much, and during the little that he did say,
the bishop made a very slight, but still a very ominous
gesture with his thumb towards the door which opened from
his dressing-room to some inner sanctuary. Mr. Slope at once
took the hint and said no more, but he perceived that there
was to be confidence between him and his patron, that the
league desired by him was to be made, and that this
appointment of Mr. Quiverful was to be the last sacrifice
offered on the altar of conjugal obedience. All this Mr.
Slope read in the slight motion of the bishop's thumb, and
he read it correctly. There was no need of parchments and
seals, of attestations, explanations, and professions. The
bargain was understood between them, and Mr. Slope gave the
bishop his hand upon it. The bishop understood the little
extra squeeze, and an intelligible gleam of assent twinkled
in his eye.
"Pray be civil to the archdeacon, Mr. Slope," said he out
loud, "but make him quite understand that in this matter Mr.
Harding has put it out of my power to oblige him."
It would be a calumny on Mrs. Proudie to suggest that she
was sitting in her bedroom with her ear at the keyhole
during this interview. She had within her a spirit of
decorum which prevented her from descending to such
baseness. To put her ear to a keyhole, or to listen at a
chink, was a trick for a housemaid. Mrs. Proudie knew this,
and therefore did not do it; but she stationed herself as
near to the door as she well could, that she might, if
possible, get the advantage which the housemaid would have
had, without descending to the housemaid's artifice.
It was little, however, that she heard, and that little
was only sufficient to deceive her. She saw nothing of that
friendly pressure, perceived nothing of that concluded
bargain; she did not even dream of the treacherous resolves
which those two false men had made together to upset her in
the pride of her station, to dash the cup from her lip
before she had drunk of it, to sweep away all her power
before she had tasted its sweets! Traitors that they were,
the husband of her bosom and the outcast whom she had
fostered and brought to the warmth of the world's brightest
fireside! But neither of them had the magnanimity of this
woman. Though two men have thus leagued themselves together
against her, even yet the battle is not lost.
Mr. Slope felt pretty sure that Dr. Grantly would decline
the honour of seeing him, and such turned out to be the
case. The archdeacon, when the palace door was opened to
him, was greeted by a note. Mr. Slope presented his
compliments, &c. &c. The bishop was ill in his room and very
greatly regretted, &c. &c. Mr. Slope had been charged with
the bishop's views, and if agreeable to the archdeacon,
would do himself the honour, &c. &c. The archdeacon,
however, was not agreeable, and having read his note in the
hall, crumpled it up in his hand, and muttering something
about sorrow for his lordship's illness, took his leave,
without sending as much as a verbal message in answer to Mr.
Slope's note.
"Ill!" said the archdeacon to himself as he flung himself
into his brougham. "The man is absolutely a coward. He is
afraid to see me. Ill, indeed!" The archdeacon was never ill
himself, and did not therefore understand that anyone else
could in truth be prevented by illness from keeping an
appointment. He regarded all such excuses as subterfuges,
and in the present instance he was not far wrong.
Dr. Grantly desired to be driven to his father-in-law's
lodgings in the High Street, and hearing from the servant
that Mr. Harding was at his daughter's, followed him to Mrs.
Bold's house, and there found him. The archdeacon was fuming
with rage when he got into the drawing-room, and had by this
time nearly forgotten the pusillanimity of the bishop in the
villainy of the chaplain.
"Look at that," said he, throwing Mr. Slope's crumpled
note to Mr. Harding. "I am to be told that if I choose I may
have the honour of seeing Mr. Slope, and that too after a
positive engagement with the bishop."
"But he says the bishop is ill," said Mr. Harding.
"Pshaw! You don't mean to say that you are deceived by
such an excuse as that. He was well enough yesterday. Now I
tell you what, I will see the bishop, and I will tell him
also very plainly what I think of his conduct. I will see
him, or else Barchester will soon be too hot to hold him."
Eleanor was sitting in the room, but Dr. Grantly had
hardly noticed her in his anger. Eleanor now said to him
with the greatest innocence, "I wish you had seen Mr. Slope,
Dr. Grantly, because I think perhaps it might have done
good."
The archdeacon turned on her with almost brutal wrath.
Had she at once owned that she had accepted Mr. Slope for
her second husband, he could hardly have felt more convinced
of her belonging body and soul to the Slope and Proudie
party than he now did on hearing her express such a wish as
this. Poor Eleanor!
"See him!" said the archdeacon glaring at her. "And why
am I to be called on to lower myself in the world's esteem
and my own by coming in contact with such a man as that? I
have hitherto lived among gentlemen, and do not mean to be
dragged into other company by anybody."
Poor Mr. Harding well knew what the archdeacon meant, but
Eleanor was as innocent as her own baby. She could not
understand how the archdeacon could consider himself to be
dragged into bad company by condescending to speak to Mr.
Slope for a few minutes when the interests of her father
might be served by his doing so.
"I was talking for a full hour yesterday to Mr. Slope,"
said she with some little assumption of dignity, "and I did
not find myself lowered by it."
"Perhaps not," said he. "But if you'll be good enough to
allow me, I shall judge for myself in such matters. And I
tell you what, Eleanor; it will be much better for you if
you will allow yourself to be guided also by the advice of
those who are your friends. If you do not, you will be apt
to find that you have no friends left who can advise you."
Eleanor blushed up to the roots of her hair. But even now
she had not the slightest idea of what was passing in the
archdeacon's mind. No thought of love-making or
love-receiving had yet found its way to her heart since the
death of poor John Bold, and if it were possible that such a
thought should spring there, the man must be far different
from Mr. Slope that could give it birth.
Nevertheless Eleanor blushed deeply, for she felt she was
charged with improper conduct, and she did so with the more
inward pain because her father did not instantly rally to
her side—that father for whose sake and love she had
submitted to be the receptacle of Mr. Slope's confidence.
She had given a detailed account of all that had passed to
her father, and though he had not absolutely agreed with her
about Mr. Slope's views touching the hospital, yet he had
said nothing to make her think that she had been wrong in
talking to him.
She was far too angry to humble herself before her
brother-in-law. Indeed, she had never accustomed herself to
be very abject before him, and they had never been
confidential allies. "I do not the least understand what you
mean, Dr. Grantly," said she. "I do not know that I can
accuse myself of doing anything that my friends should
disapprove. Mr. Slope called here expressly to ask what
Papa's wishes were about the hospital, and as I believe he
called with friendly intentions, I told him."
"Friendly intentions!" sneered the archdeacon.
"I believe you greatly wrong Mr. Slope," continued
Eleanor, "but I have explained this to Papa already; and as
you do not seem to approve of what I say, Dr. Grantly, I
will with your permission leave you and Papa together;" so
saying, she walked slowly out of the room.
All this made Mr. Harding very unhappy. It was quite
clear that the archdeacon and his wife had made up their
minds that Eleanor was going to marry Mr. Slope. Mr. Harding
could not really bring himself to think that she would do
so, but yet he could not deny that circumstances made it
appear that the man's company was not disagreeable to her.
She was now constantly seeing him, and yet she received
visits from no other unmarried gentleman. She always took
his part when his conduct was canvassed, although she was
aware how personally objectionable he was to her friends.
Then, again, Mr. Harding felt that if she should choose to
become Mrs. Slope, he had nothing that he could justly urge
against her doing so. She had full right to please herself,
and he, as a father, could not say that she would disgrace
herself by marrying a clergyman who stood so well before the
world as Mr. Slope did. As for quarrelling with his daughter
on account of such a marriage, and separating himself from
her as the archdeacon had threatened to do, that, with Mr.
Harding, would be out of the question. If she should
determine to marry this man, he must get over his aversion
as best he could. His Eleanor, his own old companion in
their old happy home, must still be the friend of his bosom,
the child of his heart. Let who would cast her off, he would
not. If it were fated that he should have to sit in his old
age at the same table with that man whom of all men he
disliked the most, he would meet his fate as best he might.
Anything to him would be preferable to the loss of his
daughter.
Such being his feelings, he hardly knew how to take part
with Eleanor against the archdeacon, or with the archdeacon
against Eleanor. It will be said that he should never have
suspected her.—Alas! he never should have done so. But Mr.
Harding was by no means a perfect character. In his
indecision, his weakness, his proneness to be led by others,
his want of self-confidence, he was very far from being
perfect. And then it must be remembered that such a marriage
as that which the archdeacon contemplated with disgust,
which we who know Mr. Slope so well would regard with equal
disgust, did not appear so monstrous to Mr. Harding because
in his charity he did not hate the chaplain as the
archdeacon did, and as we do.
He was, however, very unhappy when his daughter left the
room, and he had recourse to an old trick of his that was
customary to him in his times of sadness. He began playing
some slow tune upon an imaginary violoncello, drawing one
hand slowly backwards and forwards as though he held a bow
in it, and modulating the unreal chords with the other.
"She'll marry that man as sure as two and two make four,"
said the practical archdeacon.
"I hope not, I hope not," said the father. "But if she
does, what can I say to her? I have no right to object to
him."
"No right!" exclaimed Dr. Grantly.
"No right as her father. He is in my own profession and,
for aught we know, a good man."
To this the archdeacon would by no means assent. It was
not well, however, to argue the case against Eleanor in her
own drawing-room, and so they both walked forth and
discussed the matter in all its bearings under the elm-trees
of the close. Mr. Harding also explained to his son-in-law
what had been the purport, at any rate the alleged purport,
of Mr. Slope's last visit to the widow. He, however, stated
that he could not bring himself to believe that Mr. Slope
had any real anxiety such as that he had pretended. "I
cannot forget his demeanour to myself," said Mr. Harding,
"and it is not possible that his ideas should have changed
so soon."
"I see it all," said the archdeacon. "The sly tartuffe!
He thinks to buy the daughter by providing for the father.
He means to show how powerful he is, how good he is, and how
much he is willing to do for her beaux yeux; yes, I
see it all now. But we'll be too many for him yet, Mr.
Harding;" he said, turning to his companion with some
gravity and pressing his hand upon the other's arm. "It
would, perhaps, be better for you to lose the hospital than
get it on such terms."
"Lose it!" said Mr. Harding; "why I've lost it already. I
don't want it. I've made up my mind to do without it. I'll
withdraw altogether. I'll just go and write a line to the
bishop and tell him that I withdraw my claim altogether."
Nothing would have pleased him better than to be allowed
to escape from the trouble and difficulty in such a manner.
But he was now going too fast for the archdeacon.
"No—no—no! We'll do no such thing," said Dr. Grantly.
"We'll still have the hospital. I hardly doubt but that
we'll have it. But not by Mr. Slope's assistance. If that be
necessary, we'll lose it; but we'll have it, spite of his
teeth, if we can. Arabin will be at Plumstead to-morrow; you
must come over and talk to him."
The two now turned into the cathedral library, which was
used by the clergymen of the close as a sort of
ecclesiastical club-room, for writing sermons and sometimes
letters; also for reading theological works and sometimes
magazines and newspapers. The theological works were not
disturbed, perhaps, quite as often as from the appearance of
the building the outside public might have been led to
expect. Here the two allies settled on their course of
action. The archdeacon wrote a letter to the bishop,
strongly worded, but still respectful, in which he put
forward his father-in-law's claim to the appointment and
expressed his own regret that he had not been able to see
his lordship when he called. Of Mr. Slope he made no mention
whatsoever. It was then settled that Mr. Harding should go
out to Plumstead on the following day, and after
considerable discussion on the matter the archdeacon
proposed to ask Eleanor there also, so as to withdraw her,
if possible, from Mr. Slope's attentions. "A week or two,"
said he, "may teach her what he is, and while she is there
she will be out of harm's way. Mr. Slope won't come there
after her."
Eleanor was not a little surprised when her
brother-in-law came back and very civilly pressed her to go
out to Plumstead with her father. She instantly perceived
that her father had been fighting her battles for her behind
her back. She felt thankful to him, and for his sake she
would not show her resentment to the archdeacon by refusing
his invitation. But she could not, she said, go on the
morrow; she had an invitation to drink tea at the Stanhopes,
which she had promised to accept. She would, she added, go
with her father on the next day, if he would wait; or she
would follow him.
"The Stanhopes!" said Dr. Grantly. "I did not know you
were so intimate with them."
"I did not know it myself," said she, "till Miss Stanhope
called yesterday. However, I like her very much, and I have
promised to go and play chess with some of them."
"Have they a party there?" said the archdeacon, still
fearful of Mr. Slope.
"Oh, no," said Eleanor; "Miss Stanhope said there was to
be nobody at all. But she had heard that Mary had left me
for a few weeks, and she had learnt from someone that I play
chess, and so she came over on purpose to ask me to go in."
"Well, that's very friendly," said the ex-warden. "They
certainly do look more like foreigners than English people,
but I dare say they are none the worse for that."
The archdeacon was inclined to look upon the Stanhopes
with favourable eyes, and had nothing to object on the
matter. It was therefore arranged that Mr. Harding should
postpone his visit to Plumstead for one day and then take
with him Eleanor, the baby, and the nurse.
Mr. Slope is certainly becoming of some importance in
Barchester.
CHAPTER XIX
Barchester by Moonlight
There was much cause for grief and occasional
perturbation of spirits in the Stanhope family, but yet they
rarely seemed to be grieved or to be disturbed. It was the
peculiar gift of each of them that each was able to bear his
or her own burden without complaint, and perhaps without
sympathy. They habitually looked on the sunny side of the
wall, if there was a gleam on either side for them to look
at; if there was none, they endured the shade with an
indifference which, if not stoical, answered the end at
which the Stoics aimed. Old Stanhope could not but feel that
he had ill-performed his duties as a father and a clergyman,
and could hardly look forward to his own death without grief
at the position in which he would leave his family. His
income for many years had been as high as £3,000 a year, and
yet they had among them no other provision than their
mother's fortune of £10,000. He had not only spent his
income, but was in debt. Yet with all this he seldom showed
much outward sign of trouble.
It was the same with the mother. If she added little to
the pleasures of her children, she detracted still less: she
neither grumbled at her lot, nor spoke much of her past or
future sufferings; as long as she had a maid to adjust her
dress, and had those dresses well made, nature with her was
satisfied. It was the same with the children. Charlotte
never rebuked her father with the prospect of their future
poverty, nor did it seem to grieve her that she was becoming
an old maid so quickly; her temper was rarely ruffled, and,
if we might judge by her appearance, she was always happy.
The signora was not so sweet-tempered, but she possessed
much enduring courage; she seldom complained—never, indeed,
to her family. Though she had a cause for affliction which
would have utterly broken down the heart of most women as
beautiful as she and as devoid of all religious support, yet
she bore her suffering in silence, or alluded to it only to
elicit the sympathy and stimulate the admiration of the men
with whom she flirted. As to Bertie, one would have imagined
from the sound of his voice and the gleam of his eye that he
had not a sorrow nor a care in the world. Nor had he. He was
incapable of anticipating to-morrow's griefs. The prospect
of future want no more disturbed his appetite than does that
of the butcher's knife disturb the appetite of the sheep.
Such was the usual tenor of their way; but there were
rare exceptions. Occasionally the father would allow an
angry glance to fall from his eye, and the lion would send
forth a low dangerous roar as though he meditated some deed
of blood. Occasionally also Madame Neroni would become
bitter against mankind, more than usually antagonistic to
the world's decencies, and would seem as though she was
about to break from her moorings and allow herself to be
carried forth by the tide of her feelings to utter ruin and
shipwreck. She, however, like the rest of them, had no real
feelings, could feel no true passion. In that was her
security. Before she resolved on any contemplated escapade
she would make a small calculation, and generally summed up
that the Stanhope villa or even Barchester close was better
than the world at large.
They were most irregular in their hours. The father was
generally the earliest in the breakfast-parlour, and
Charlotte would soon follow and give him his coffee, but the
others breakfasted anywhere, anyhow, and at any time. On the
morning after the archdeacon's futile visit to the palace,
Dr. Stanhope came downstairs with an ominously dark look
about his eyebrows; his white locks were rougher than usual,
and he breathed thickly and loudly as he took his seat in
his armchair. He had open letters in his hand, and when
Charlotte came into the room, he was still reading them. She
went up and kissed him as was her wont, but he hardly
noticed her as she did so, and she knew at once that
something was the matter.
"What's the meaning of that?" said he, throwing over the
table a letter with a Milan postmark. Charlotte was a little
frightened as she took it up, but her mind was relieved when
she saw that it was merely the bill of their Italian
milliner. The sum total was certainly large, but not so
large as to create an important row.
"It's for our clothes, Papa, for six months before we
came here. The three of us can't dress for nothing, you
know."
"Nothing, indeed!" said he, looking at the figures which,
in Milanese denominations, were certainly monstrous.
"The man should have sent it to me," said Charlotte.
"I wish he had with all my heart—if you would have paid
it. I see enough in it to know that three quarters of it are
for Madeline."
"She has little else to amuse her, sir," said Charlotte
with true good nature.
"And I suppose he has nothing else to amuse him," said
the doctor, throwing over another letter to his daughter. It
was from some member of the family of Sidonia, and politely
requested the father to pay a small trifle of £700, being
the amount of a bill discounted in favour of Mr. Ethelbert
Stanhope and now overdue for a period of nine months.
Charlotte read the letter, slowly folded it up, and put
it under the edge of the tea-tray.
"I suppose he has nothing to amuse him but discounting
bills with Jews. Does he think I'll pay that?"
"I am sure he thinks no such thing," said she.
"And who does he think will pay it?"
"As far as honesty goes I suppose it won't much matter if
it is never paid," said she. "I dare say he got very little
of it."
"I suppose it won't much matter either," said the father,
"if he goes to prison and rots there. It seems to me that
that's the other alternative."
Dr. Stanhope spoke of the custom of his youth. But his
daughter, though she had lived so long abroad, was much more
completely versed in the ways of the English world. "If the
man arrests him," said she, "he must go through the court."
It is thus, thou great family of Sidonia—it is thus that
we Gentiles treat thee, when, in our extremest need, thou
and thine have aided us with mountains of gold as big as
lions—and occasionally with wine-warrants and orders for
dozens of dressing-cases.
"What, and become an insolvent?" said the doctor.
"He's that already," said Charlotte, wishing always to
get over a difficulty.
"What a condition," said the doctor, "for the son of a
clergyman of the Church of England."
"I don't see why clergymen's sons should pay their debts
more than other young men," said Charlotte.
"He's had as much from me since he left school as is held
sufficient for the eldest son of many a nobleman," said the
angry father.
"Well, sir," said Charlotte, "give him another chance."
"What!" said the doctor, "do you mean that I am to pay
that Jew?"
"Oh, no! I wouldn't pay him, he must take his chance; and
if the worst comes to the worst, Bertie must go abroad. But
I want you to be civil to Bertie and let him remain here as
long as we stop. He has a plan in his head that may put him
on his feet after all."
"Has he any plan for following up his profession?"
"Oh, he'll do that too; but that must follow. He's
thinking of getting married."
Just at that moment the door opened, and Bertie came in
whistling. The doctor immediately devoted himself to his egg
and allowed Bertie to whistle himself round to his sister's
side without noticing him.
Charlotte gave a sign to him with her eye, first glancing
at her father, and then at the letter, the corner of which
peeped out from under the tea-tray. Bertie saw and
understood, and with the quiet motion of a cat he abstracted
the letter and made himself acquainted with its contents.
The doctor, however, had seen him, deep as he appeared to be
mersed in his egg-shell, and said in his harshest voice,
"Well, sir, do you know that gentleman?"
"Yes, sir," said Bertie. "I have a sort of acquaintance
with him, but none that can justify him in troubling you. If
you will allow me, sir, I will answer this."
"At any rate I shan't," said the father, and then he
added, after a pause, "Is it true, sir, that you owe the man
£700?"
"Well," said Bertie, "I think I should be inclined to
dispute the amount, if I were in a condition to pay him such
of it as I really do owe him."
"Has he your bill for £700?" said the father, speaking
very loudly and very angrily.
"Well, I believe he has," said Bertie, "but all the money
I ever got from him was £150."
"And what became of the £550?"
"Why, sir, the commission was £100 or so, and I took the
remainder in paving-stones and rocking-horses."
"Paving-stones and rocking-horses!" said the doctor.
"Where are they?"
"Oh, sir, I suppose they are in London somewhere—but I'll
inquire if you wish for them."
"He's an idiot," said the doctor, "and it's sheer folly
to waste more money on him. Nothing can save him from ruin,"
and so saying, the unhappy father walked out of the room.
"Would the governor like to have the paving-stones?" said
Bertie to his sister.
"I'll tell you what," said she. "If you don't take care,
you will find yourself loose upon the world without even a
house over your head; you don't know him as well as I do.
He's very angry."
Bertie stroked his big beard, sipped his tea, chatted
over his misfortunes in a half-comic, half-serious tone, and
ended by promising his sister that he would do his very best
to make himself agreeable to the Widow Bold. Then Charlotte
followed her father to his own room, softened down his
wrath, and persuaded him to say nothing more about the Jew
bill discounter, at any rate for a few weeks. He even went
so far as to say he would pay the £700, or at any rate
settle the bill, if he saw a certainty of his son's securing
for himself anything like a decent provision in life.
Nothing was said openly between them about poor Eleanor, but
the father and the daughter understood each other.
They all met together in the drawing-room at nine
o'clock, in perfect good humour with each other, and about
that hour Mrs. Bold was announced. She had never been in the
house before, though she had of course called, and now she
felt it strange to find herself there in her usual evening
dress, entering the drawing-room of these strangers in this
friendly, unceremonious way, as though she had known them
all her life. But in three minutes they made her at home.
Charlotte tripped downstairs and took her bonnet from her,
and Bertie came to relieve her from her shawl, and the
signora smiled on her as she could smile when she chose to
be gracious, and the old doctor shook hands with her in a
kind benedictory manner that went to her heart at once and
made her feel that he must be a good man.
She had not been seated for above five minutes when the
door again opened and Mr. Slope was announced. She felt
rather surprised, because she was told that nobody was to be
there, and it was very evident from the manner of some of
them that Mr. Slope was not unexpected. But still there was
not much in it. In such invitations a bachelor or two more
or less are always spoken of as nobodies, and there was no
reason why Mr. Slope should not drink tea at Dr. Stanhope's
as well as Eleanor herself. He, however, was very much
surprised and not very much gratified at finding that his
own embryo spouse made one of the party. He had come there
to gratify himself by gazing on Madame Neroni's beauty and
listening to and returning her flattery: and though he had
not owned as much to himself, he still felt that if he spent
the evening as he had intended to do, he might probably not
thereby advance his suit with Mrs. Bold.
The signora, who had no idea of a rival, received Mr.
Slope with her usual marks of distinction. As he took her
hand, she made some confidential communication to him in a
low voice, declaring that she had a plan to communicate to
him after tea, and was evidently prepared to go on with her
work of reducing the chaplain to a state of captivity. Poor
Mr. Slope was rather beside himself. He thought that Eleanor
could not but have learnt from his demeanour that he was an
admirer of her own, and he had also flattered himself that
the idea was not unacceptable to her. What would she think
of him if he now devoted himself to a married woman!
But Eleanor was not inclined to be severe in her
criticisms on him in this respect, and felt no annoyance of
any kind, when she found herself seated between Bertie and
Charlotte Stanhope. She had no suspicion of Mr. Slope's
intentions; she had no suspicion even of the suspicion of
other people; but still she felt well-pleased not to have
Mr. Slope too near to her.
And she was not ill-pleased to have Bertie Stanhope near
her. It was rarely indeed that he failed to make an
agreeable impression on strangers. With a bishop indeed who
thought much of his own dignity it was possible that he
might fail, but hardly with a young and pretty woman. He
possessed the tact of becoming instantly intimate with women
without giving rise to any fear of impertinence. He had
about him somewhat of the propensities of a tame cat. It
seemed quite natural that he should be petted, caressed, and
treated with familiar good nature, and that in return he
should purr, and be sleek and graceful, and above all never
show his claws. Like other tame cats, however, he had his
claws, and sometimes made them dangerous.
When tea was over, Charlotte went to the open window and
declared loudly that the full harvest moon was much too
beautiful to be disregarded, and called them all to look at
it. To tell the truth there was but one there who cared much
about the moon's beauty, and that one was not Charlotte, but
she knew how valuable an aid to her purpose the chaste
goddess might become, and could easily create a little
enthusiasm for the purpose of the moment. Eleanor and Bertie
were soon with her. The doctor was now quiet in his
armchair, and Mrs. Stanhope in hers, both prepared for
slumber.
"Are you a Whewellite or a Brewsterite, or a
t'othermanite, Mrs. Bold?" said Charlotte, who knew a little
about everything, and had read about a third of each of the
books to which she alluded.
"Oh!" said Eleanor; "I have not read any of the books,
but I feel sure that there is one man in the moon at least,
if not more."
"You don't believe in the pulpy gelatinous matter?" said
Bertie.
"I heard about that," said Eleanor, "and I really think
it's almost wicked to talk in such a manner. How can we
argue about God's power in the other stars from the laws
which he has given for our rule in this one?"
"How indeed!" said Bertie. "Why shouldn't there be a race
of salamanders in Venus? And even if there be nothing but
fish in Jupiter, why shouldn't the fish there be as wide
awake as the men and women here?"
"That would be saying very little for them," said
Charlotte. "I am for Dr. Whewell myself, for I do not think
that men and women are worth being repeated in such
countless worlds. There may be souls in other stars, but I
doubt their having any bodies attached to them. But come,
Mrs. Bold, let us put our bonnets on and walk round the
close. If we are to discuss sidereal questions, we shall do
so much better under the towers of the cathedral than stuck
in this narrow window."
Mrs. Bold made no objection, and a party was made to walk
out. Charlotte Stanhope well knew the rule as to three being
no company, and she had therefore to induce her sister to
allow Mr. Slope to accompany them.
"Come, Mr. Slope," she said, "I'm sure you'll join us. We
shall be in again in a quarter of an hour, Madeline."
Madeline read in her eye all that she had to say, knew
her object, and as she had to depend on her sister for so
many of her amusements, she felt that she must yield. It was
hard to be left alone while others of her own age walked out
to feel the soft influence of the bright night, but it would
be harder still to be without the sort of sanction which
Charlotte gave to all her flirtations and intrigues.
Charlotte's eye told her that she must give up just at
present for the good of the family, and so Madeline obeyed.
But Charlotte's eyes said nothing of the sort to Mr.
Slope. He had no objection at all to the tête-à-tête
with the signora which the departure of the other three
would allow him, and gently whispered to her, "I shall not
leave you alone."
"Oh, yes," said she; "go—pray go, pray go, for my sake.
Do not think that I am so selfish. It is understood that
nobody is kept within for me. You will understand this too
when you know me better. Pray join them, Mr. Slope, but when
you come in speak to me for five minutes before you leave
us."
Mr. Slope understood that he was to go, and he therefore
joined the party in the hall. He would have had no objection
at all to this arrangement, if he could have secured Mrs.
Bold's arm; but this of course was out of the question.
Indeed, his fate was very soon settled, for no sooner had he
reached the hall-door than Miss Stanhope put her hand within
his arm, and Bertie walked off with Eleanor just as
naturally as though she were already his own property.
And so they sauntered forth: first they walked round the
close, according to their avowed intent; then they went
under the old arched gateway below St. Cuthbert's little
church, and then they turned behind the grounds of the
bishop's palace, and so on till they came to the bridge just
at the edge of the town, from which passers-by can look down
into the gardens of Hiram's Hospital; and here Charlotte and
Mr. Slope, who were in advance, stopped till the other two
came up to them. Mr. Slope knew that the gable-ends and old
brick chimneys which stood up so prettily in the moonlight
were those of Mr. Harding's late abode, and would not have
stopped on such a spot, in such company, if he could have
avoided it; but Miss Stanhope would not take the hint which
he tried to give.
"This is a very pretty place, Mrs. Bold," said Charlotte;
"by far the prettiest place near Barchester. I wonder your
father gave it up."
It was a very pretty place, and now by the deceitful
light of the moon looked twice larger, twice prettier, twice
more antiquely picturesque than it would have done in
truth-telling daylight. Who does not know the air of complex
multiplicity and the mysterious interesting grace which the
moon always lends to old gabled buildings half-surrounded,
as was the hospital, by fine trees! As seen from the bridge
on the night of which we are speaking, Mr. Harding's late
abode did look very lovely, and though Eleanor did not
grieve at her father's having left it, she felt at the
moment an intense wish that he might be allowed to return.
"He is going to return to it almost immediately, is he
not?" asked Bertie.
Eleanor made no immediate reply. Many such a question
passes unanswered without the notice of the questioner, but
such was not now the case. They all remained silent as
though expecting her to reply, and after a moment or two,
Charlotte said, "I believe it is settled that Mr. Harding
returns to the hospital, is it not?"
"I don't think anything about it is settled yet," said
Eleanor.
"But it must be a matter of course," said Bertie; "that
is, if your father wishes it. Who else on earth could hold
it after what has occurred?"
Eleanor quietly made her companion understand that the
matter was one which she could not discuss in the present
company, and then they passed on. Charlotte said she would
go a short way up the hill out of the town so as to look
back upon the towers of the cathedral, and as Eleanor leant
upon Bertie's arm for assistance in the walk, she told him
how the matter stood between her father and the bishop.
"And, he," said Bertie, pointing on to Mr. Slope, "what
part does he take in it?"
Eleanor explained how Mr. Slope had at first endeavoured
to tyrannize over her father, but how he had latterly come
round and done all he could to talk the bishop over in Mr.
Harding's favour. "But my father," she said, "is hardly
inclined to trust him; they all say he is so arrogant to the
old clergymen of the city."
"Take my word for it," said Bertie, "your father is
right. If I am not very much mistaken, that man is both
arrogant and false."
They strolled up to the top of the hill and then returned
through the fields by a foot-path which leads by a small
wooden bridge, or rather a plank with a rustic rail to it,
over the river to the other side of the cathedral from that
at which they had started. They had thus walked round the
bishop's grounds, through which the river runs, and round
the cathedral and adjacent fields, and it was past eleven
before they reached the doctor's door.
"It is very late," said Eleanor; "it will be a shame to
disturb your mother again at such an hour."
"Oh"' said Charlotte, laughing, "you won't disturb Mamma;
I dare say she is in bed by this time, and Madeline would be
furious if you did not come in and see her. Come, Bertie,
take Mrs. Bold's bonnet from her."
They went upstairs and found the signora alone, reading.
She looked somewhat sad and melancholy, but not more so
perhaps than was sufficient to excite additional interest in
the bosom of Mr. Slope; and she was soon deep in whispered
intercourse with that happy gentleman, who was allowed to
find a resting-place on her sofa. The signora had a way of
whispering that was peculiarly her own, and was exactly the
reverse of that which prevails among great tragedians. The
great tragedian hisses out a positive whisper, made with
bated breath, and produced by inarticulated tongue-formed
sounds, but yet he is audible through the whole house. The
signora, however, used no hisses and produced all her words
in a clear, silver tone, but they could only be heard by the
ear into which they were poured.
Charlotte hurried and scurried about the room hither and
thither, doing, or pretending to do many things; then,
saying something about seeing her mother, ran upstairs.
Eleanor was thus left alone with Bertie, and she hardly felt
an hour fly by her. To give Bertie his due credit, he could
not have played his cards better. He did not make love to
her, nor sigh, nor look languishing, but he was amusing and
familiar, yet respectful; and when he left Eleanor at her
own door at one o'clock, which he did by the by with the
assistance of the now jealous Slope, she thought that he was
one of the most agreeable men and the Stanhopes decidedly
the most agreeable family that she had ever met.
CHAPTER XX
Mr. Arabin
The Rev. Francis Arabin, fellow of Lazarus, late
professor of poetry at Oxford, and present vicar of St.
Ewold, in the diocese of Barchester, must now be introduced
personally to the reader. He is worthy of a new volume, and
as he will fill a conspicuous place in it, it is desirable
that he should be made to stand before the reader's eye by
the aid of such portraiture as the author is able to
produce.
It is to be regretted that no mental method of
daguerreotype or photography has yet been discovered by
which the characters of men can be reduced to writing and
put into grammatical language with an unerring precision of
truthful description. How often does the novelist feel, ay,
and the historian also and the biographer, that he has
conceived within his mind and accurately depicted on the
tablet of his brain the full character and personage of a
man, and that nevertheless, when he flies to pen and ink to
perpetuate the portrait, his words forsake, elude,
disappoint, and play the deuce with him, till at the end of
a dozen pages the man described has no more resemblance to
the man conceived than the sign-board at the corner of the
street has to the Duke of Cambridge.
And yet such mechanical descriptive skill would hardly
give more satisfaction to the reader than the skill of the
photographer does to the anxious mother desirous to possess
an absolute duplicate of her beloved child. The likeness is
indeed true, but it is a dull, dead, unfeeling, inauspicious
likeness. The face is indeed there, and those looking at it
will know at once whose image it is, but the owner of the
face will not be proud of the resemblance.
There is no royal road to learning, no short cut to the
acquirement of any valuable art. Let photographers and
daguerreotypers do what they will, and improve as they may
with further skill on that which skill has already done,
they will never achieve a portrait of the human face divine.
Let biographers, novelists, and the rest of us groan as we
may under the burdens which we so often feel too heavy for
our shoulders; we must either bear them up like men, or own
ourselves too weak for the work we have undertaken. There is
no way of writing well and also of writing easily.
Labor omnia vincit improbus. Such should be the
chosen motto of every labourer, and it may be that labour,
if adequately enduring, may suffice at last to produce even
some not untrue resemblance of the Rev. Francis Arabin.
Of his doings in the world, and of the sort of fame which
he has achieved, enough has been already said. It has also
been said that he is forty years of age, and still
unmarried. He was the younger son of a country gentleman of
small fortune in the north of England. At an early age he
went to Winchester, and was intended by his father for New
College; but though studious as a boy, he was not studious
within the prescribed limits, and at the age of eighteen he
left school with a character for talent, but without a
scholarship. All that he had obtained, over and above the
advantage of his character, was a gold medal for English
verse, and hence was derived a strong presumption on the
part of his friends that he was destined to add another name
to the imperishable list of English poets.
From Winchester he went to Oxford, and was entered as a
commoner at Balliol. Here his special career very soon
commenced. He utterly eschewed the society of fast men, gave
no wine-parties, kept no horses, rowed no boats, joined no
rows, and was the pride of his college tutor. Such at least
was his career till he had taken his little go, and then he
commenced a course of action which, though not less
creditable to himself as a man, was hardly so much to the
taste of the tutor. He became a member of a vigorous
debating society, and rendered himself remarkable there for
humorous energy. Though always in earnest, yet his
earnestness was always droll. To be true in his ideas,
unanswerable in his syllogisms, and just in his aspirations
was not enough for him. He had failed, failed in his own
opinion as well as that of others when others came to know
him, if he could not reduce the arguments of his opponents
to an absurdity and conquer both by wit and reason. To say
that his object was ever to raise a laugh would be most
untrue. He hated such common and unnecessary evidence of
satisfaction on the part of his hearers. A joke that
required to be laughed at was, with him, not worth uttering.
He could appreciate by a keener sense than that of his ears
the success of his wit, and would see in the eyes of his
auditors whether or no he was understood and appreciated.
He had been a religious lad before he left school. That
is, he had addicted himself to a party in religion, and
having done so had received that benefit which most men do
who become partisans in such a cause. We are much too apt to
look at schism in our church as an unmitigated evil.
Moderate schism, if there may be such a thing, at any rate
calls attention to the subject, draws in supporters who
would otherwise have been inattentive to the matter, and
teaches men to think upon religion. How great an amount of
good of this description has followed that movement in the
Church of England which commenced with the publication of
Froude's Remains!
As a boy young Arabin took up the cudgels on the side of
the Tractarians, and at Oxford he sat for a while at the
feet of the great Newman. To this cause he lent all his
faculties. For it he concocted verses, for it he made
speeches, for it he scintillated the brightest sparks of his
quiet wit. For it he ate and drank and dressed and had his
being. In due process of time he took his degree and wrote
himself B.A., but he did not do so with any remarkable
amount of academical éclat. He had occupied himself too much
with High Church matters and the polemics, politics, and
outward demonstrations usually concurrent with High
Churchmanship to devote himself with sufficient vigour to
the acquisition of a double first. He was not a double
first, nor even a first class man, but he revenged himself
on the university by putting firsts and double firsts out of
fashion for the year and laughing down a species of pedantry
which, at the age of twenty-three, leaves no room in a man's
mind for graver subjects than conic sections or Greek
accents.
Greek accents, however, and conic sections were esteemed
necessaries at Balliol, and there was no admittance there
for Mr. Arabin within the list of its fellows. Lazarus,
however, the richest and most comfortable abode of Oxford
dons, opened its bosom to the young champion of a church
militant. Mr. Arabin was ordained, and became a fellow soon
after taking his degree, and shortly after that was chosen
professor of poetry.
And now came the moment of his great danger. After many
mental struggles, and an agony of doubt which may be well
surmised, the great prophet of the Tractarians confessed
himself a Roman Catholic. Mr. Newman left the Church of
England and with him carried many a waverer. He did not
carry off Mr. Arabin, but the escape which that gentleman
had was a very narrow one. He left Oxford for awhile that he
might meditate in complete peace on the step which appeared
to him to be all but unavoidable, and shut himself up in a
little village on the sea-shore of one of our remotest
counties, that he might learn by communing with his own soul
whether or no he could with a safe conscience remain within
the pale of his mother church.
Things would have gone badly with him there had he been
left entirely to himself. Everything was against him: all
his worldly interests required him to remain a Protestant,
and he looked on his worldly interests as a legion of foes,
to get the better of whom was a point of extremest honour.
In his then state of ecstatic agony such a conquest would
have cost him little; he could easily have thrown away all
his livelihood; but it cost him much to get over the idea
that by choosing the Church of England he should be open in
his own mind to the charge that he had been led to such a
choice by unworthy motives. Then his heart was against him:
he loved with a strong and eager love the man who had
hitherto been his guide, and yearned to follow his
footsteps. His tastes were against him: the ceremonies and
pomps of the Church of Rome, their august feasts and solemn
fasts, invited his imagination and pleased his eye. His
flesh was against him: how great an aid would it be to a
poor, weak, wavering man to be constrained to high moral
duties, self-denial, obedience, and chastity by laws which
were certain in their enactments, and not to be broken
without loud, palpable, unmistakable sin! Then his faith was
against him: he required to believe so much; panted so
eagerly to give signs of his belief; deemed it so
insufficient to wash himself simply in the waters of Jordan;
that some great deed, such as that of forsaking everything
for a true Church, had for him allurements almost past
withstanding.
Mr. Arabin was at this time a very young man, and when he
left Oxford for his far retreat was much too confident in
his powers of fence, and too apt to look down on the
ordinary sense of ordinary people, to expect aid in the
battle that he had to fight from any chance inhabitants of
the spot which he had selected. But Providence was good to
him; there, in that all but desolate place, on the
storm-beat shore of that distant sea, he met one who
gradually calmed his mind, quieted his imagination, and
taught him something of a Christian's duty. When Mr. Arabin
left Oxford, he was inclined to look upon the rural
clergymen of most English parishes almost with contempt. It
was his ambition, should he remain within the fold of their
church, to do somewhat towards redeeming and rectifying
their inferiority and to assist in infusing energy and faith
into the hearts of Christian ministers, who were, as he
thought, too often satisfied to go through life without much
show of either.
And yet it was from such a one that Mr. Arabin in his
extremest need received that aid which he so much required.
It was from the poor curate of a small Cornish parish that
he first learnt to know that the highest laws for the
governance of a Christian's duty must act from within and
not from without; that no man can become a serviceable
servant solely by obedience to written edicts; and that the
safety which he was about to seek within the gates of Rome
was no other than the selfish freedom from personal danger
which the bad soldier attempts to gain who counterfeits
illness on the eve of battle.
Mr. Arabin returned to Oxford a humbler but a better and
a happier man, and from that time forth he put his shoulder
to the wheel as a clergyman of the Church for which he had
been educated. The intercourse of those among whom he
familiarly lived kept him staunch to the principles of that
system of the Church to which he had always belonged. Since
his severance from Mr. Newman, no one had had so strong an
influence over him as the head of his college. During the
time of his expected apostasy Dr. Gwynne had not felt much
predisposition in favour of the young fellow. Though a High
Churchman himself within moderate limits, Dr. Gwynne felt no
sympathy with men who could not satisfy their faiths with
the Thirty-nine Articles. He regarded the enthusiasm of such
as Newman as a state of mind more nearly allied to madness
than to religion, and when he saw it evinced by very young
men, he was inclined to attribute a good deal of it to
vanity. Dr. Gwynne himself, though a religious man, was also
a thoroughly practical man of the world, and he regarded
with no favourable eye the tenets of anyone who looked on
the two things as incompatible. When he found that Mr.
Arabin was a half Roman, he began to regret all he had done
towards bestowing a fellowship on so unworthy a recipient;
and when again he learnt that Mr. Arabin would probably
complete his journey to Rome, he regarded with some
satisfaction the fact that in such case the fellowship would
be again vacant.
When, however, Mr. Arabin returned and professed himself
a confirmed Protestant, the Master of Lazarus again opened
his arms to him, and gradually he became the pet of the
college. For some little time he was saturnine, silent, and
unwilling to take any prominent part in university broils,
but gradually his mind recovered, or rather made its tone,
and he became known as a man always ready at a moment's
notice to take up the cudgels in opposition to anything that
savoured of an evangelical bearing. He was great in sermons,
great on platforms, great at after-dinner conversations, and
always pleasant as well as great. He took delight in
elections, served on committees, opposed tooth and nail all
projects of university reform, and talked jovially over his
glass of port of the ruin to be anticipated by the Church
and of the sacrilege daily committed by the Whigs. The
ordeal through which he had gone in resisting the
blandishments of the lady of Rome had certainly done much
towards the strengthening of his character. Although in
small and outward matters he was self-confident enough,
nevertheless in things affecting the inner man he aimed at a
humility of spirit which would never have been attractive to
him but for that visit to the coast of Cornwall. This visit
he now repeated every year.
Such is an interior view of Mr. Arabin at the time when
he accepted the living of St. Ewold. Exteriorly, he was not
a remarkable person. He was above the middle height,
well-made, and very active. His hair, which had been jet
black, was now tinged with gray, but his face bore no sign
of years. It would perhaps be wrong to say that he was
handsome, but his face was nevertheless pleasant to look
upon. The cheek-bones were rather too high for beauty, and
the formation of the forehead too massive and heavy: but the
eyes, nose, and mouth were perfect. There was a continual
play of lambent fire about his eyes, which gave promise of
either pathos or humour whenever he essayed to speak, and
that promise was rarely broken. There was a gentle play
about his mouth which declared that his wit never descended
to sarcasm, and that there was no ill-nature in his
repartee.
Mr. Arabin was a popular man among women, but more so as
a general than a special favourite. Living as a fellow at
Oxford, marriage with him had been out of the question, and
it may be doubted whether he had ever allowed his heart to
be touched. Though belonging to a church in which celibacy
is not the required lot of its ministers, he had come to
regard himself as one of those clergymen to whom to be a
bachelor is almost a necessity. He had never looked for
parochial duty, and his career at Oxford was utterly
incompatible with such domestic joys as a wife and nursery.
He looked on women, therefore, in the same light that one
sees them regarded by many Romish priests. He liked to have
near him that which was pretty and amusing, but women
generally were little more to him than children. He talked
to them without putting out all his powers, and listened to
them without any idea that what he should hear from them
could either actuate his conduct or influence his opinion.
Such was Mr. Arabin, the new vicar of St. Ewold, who is
going to stay with the Grantlys at Plumstead Episcopi.
Mr. Arabin reached Plumstead the day before Mr. Harding
and Eleanor, and the Grantly family were thus enabled to
make his acquaintance and discuss his qualifications before
the arrival of the other guests. Griselda was surprised to
find that he looked so young, but she told Florinda her
younger sister, when they had retired for the night, that he
did not talk at all like a young man: and she decided with
the authority that seventeen has over sixteen that he was
not at all nice, although his eyes were lovely. As usual,
sixteen implicitly acceded to the dictum of seventeen in
such a matter, and said that he certainly was not nice. They
then branched off on the relative merits of other clerical
bachelors in the vicinity, and both determined without any
feeling of jealousy between them that a certain Rev.
Augustus Green was by many degrees the most estimable of the
lot. The gentleman in question had certainly much in his
favour, as, having a comfortable allowance from his father,
he could devote the whole proceeds of his curacy to violet
gloves and unexceptionable neck ties. Having thus fixedly
resolved that the new-comer had nothing about him to shake
the pre-eminence of the exalted Green, the two girls went to
sleep in each other's arms, contented with themselves and
the world.
Mrs. Grantly at first sight came to much the same
conclusion about her husband's favourite as her daughters
had done, though, in seeking to measure his relative value,
she did not compare him to Mr. Green; indeed, she made no
comparison by name between him and anyone else; but she
remarked to her husband that one person's swans were very
often another person's geese, thereby clearly showing that
Mr. Arabin had not yet proved his qualifications in swanhood
to her satisfaction.
"Well, Susan," said he, rather offended at hearing his
friend spoken of so disrespectfully, "if you take Mr. Arabin
for a goose, I cannot say that I think very highly of your
discrimination."
"A goose! No, of course, he's not a goose. I've no doubt
he's a very clever man. But you're so matter-of-fact,
Archdeacon, when it suits your purpose, that one can't trust
oneself to any façon de parler. I've no doubt Mr.
Arabin is a very valuable man—at Oxford—and that he'll be a
good vicar at St. Ewold. All I mean is that, having passed
one evening with him, I don't find him to be absolutely a
paragon. In the first place, if I am not mistaken, he is a
little inclined to be conceited."
"Of all the men that I know intimately," said the
archdeacon, "Arabin is, in my opinion, the most free from
any taint of self-conceit. His fault is that he's too
diffident."
"Perhaps so," said the lady; "only I must own I did not
find it out this evening."
Nothing further was said about him. Dr. Grantly thought
that his wife was abusing Mr. Arabin merely because he had
praised him, and Mrs. Grantly knew that it was useless
arguing for or against any person in favour of or in
opposition to whom the archdeacon had already pronounced a
strong opinion.
In truth, they were both right. Mr. Arabin was a
diffident man in social intercourse with those whom he did
not intimately know; when placed in situations which it was
his business to fill, and discussing matters with which it
was his duty to be conversant, Mr. Arabin was from habit
brazen-faced enough. When standing on a platform in Exeter
Hall, no man would be less mazed than he by the eyes of the
crowd before him, for such was the work which his profession
had called on him to perform; but he shrank from a strong
expression of opinion in general society, and his doing so
not uncommonly made it appear that he considered the company
not worth the trouble of his energy. He was averse to
dictate when the place did not seem to him to justify
dictation, and as those subjects on which people wished to
hear him speak were such as he was accustomed to treat with
decision, he generally shunned the traps there were laid to
allure him into discussion, and, by doing so, not
infrequently subjected himself to such charges as those
brought against him by Mrs. Grantly.
Mr. Arabin, as he sat at his open window, enjoying the
delicious moonlight and gazing at the gray towers of the
church, which stood almost within the rectory grounds,
little dreamed that he was the subject of so many friendly
or unfriendly criticisms. Considering how much we are all
given to discuss the characters of others, and discuss them
often not in the strictest spirit of charity, it is singular
how little we are inclined to think that others can speak
ill-naturedly of us, and how angry and hurt we are when
proof reaches us that they have done so. It is hardly too
much to say that we all of us occasionally speak of our
dearest friends in a manner in which those dearest friends
would very little like to hear themselves mentioned, and
that we nevertheless expect that our dearest friends shall
invariably speak of us as though they were blind to all our
faults, but keenly alive to every shade of our virtues.
It did not occur to Mr. Arabin that he was spoken of at
all. It seemed to him, when he compared himself with his
host, that he was a person of so little consequence to any,
that he was worth no one's words or thoughts. He was utterly
alone in the world as regarded domestic ties and those inner
familiar relations which are hardly possible between others
than husbands and wives, parents and children, or brothers
and sisters. He had often discussed with himself the
necessity of such bonds for a man's happiness in this world,
and had generally satisfied himself with the answer that
happiness in this world is not a necessity. Herein he
deceived himself, or rather tried to do so. He, like others,
yearned for the enjoyment of whatever he saw enjoyable, and
though he attempted, with the modern stoicism of so many
Christians, to make himself believe that joy and sorrow were
matters which here should be held as perfectly indifferent,
these things were not indifferent to him. He was tired of
his Oxford rooms and his college life. He regarded the wife
and children of his friend with something like envy; he all
but coveted the pleasant drawing-room, with its pretty
windows opening on to lawns and flower-beds, the apparel of
the comfortable house, and—above all—the air of home which
encompassed it all.
It will be said that no time can have been so fitted for
such desires on his part as this, when he had just possessed
himself of a country parish, of a living among fields and
gardens, of a house which a wife would grace. It is true
there was a difference between the opulence of Plumstead and
the modest economy of St. Ewold, but surely Mr. Arabin was
not a man to sigh after wealth! Of all men, his friends
would have unanimously declared he was the last to do so.
But how little our friends know us! In his period of stoical
rejection of this world's happiness, he had cast from him as
utter dross all anxiety as to fortune. He had, as it were,
proclaimed himself to be indifferent to promotion, and those
who chiefly admired his talents, and would mainly have
exerted themselves to secure to them their deserved reward,
had taken him at his word. And now, if the truth must out,
he felt himself disappointed—disappointed not by them but by
himself. The daydream of his youth was over, and at the age
of forty he felt that he was not fit to work in the spirit
of an apostle. He had mistaken himself, and learned his
mistake when it was past remedy. He had professed himself
indifferent to mitres and diaconal residences, to rich
livings and pleasant glebes, and now he had to own to
himself that he was sighing for the good things of other men
on whom, in his pride, he had ventured to look down.
Not for wealth, in its vulgar sense, had he ever sighed;
not for the enjoyment of rich things had he ever longed; but
for the allotted share of worldly bliss which a wife, and
children, and happy home could give him, for that usual
amount of comfort which he had ventured to reject as
unnecessary for him, he did now feel that he would have been
wiser to have searched.
He knew that his talents, his position, and his friends
would have won for him promotion, had he put himself in the
way of winning it. Instead of doing so, he had allowed
himself to be persuaded to accept a living which would give
him an income of some £300 a year should he, by marrying,
throw up his fellowship. Such, at the age of forty, was the
worldly result of labour which the world had chosen to
regard as successful. The world also thought that Mr. Arabin
was, in his own estimation, sufficiently paid. Alas! Alas!
The world was mistaken, and Mr. Arabin was beginning to
ascertain that such was the case.
And here may I beg the reader not to be hard in his
judgement upon this man. Is not the state at which he has
arrived the natural result of efforts to reach that which is
not the condition of humanity? Is not modern stoicism, built
though it be on Christianity, as great an outrage on human
nature as was the stoicism of the ancients? The philosophy
of Zeno was built on true laws, but on true laws
misunderstood and therefore misapplied. It is the same with
our Stoics here, who would teach us that wealth and worldly
comfort and happiness on earth are not worth the search.
Alas, for a doctrine which can find no believing pupils and
no true teachers!
The case of Mr. Arabin was the more singular, as he
belonged to a branch of the Church of England well inclined
to regard its temporalities with avowed favour, and had
habitually lived with men who were accustomed to much
worldly comfort. But such was his idiosyncrasy that these
very facts had produced within him, in early life, a state
of mind that was not natural to him. He was content to be a
High Churchman, if he could be so on principles of his own
and could strike out a course showing a marked difference
from those with whom he consorted. He was ready to be a
partisan as long as he was allowed to have a course of
action and of thought unlike that of his party. His party
had indulged him, and he began to feel that his party was
right and himself wrong, just when such a conviction was too
late to be of service to him. He discovered, when such
discovery was no longer serviceable, that it would have been
worth his while to have worked for the usual pay assigned to
work in this world and have earned a wife and children, with
a carriage for them to sit in; to have earned a pleasant
dining-room, in which his friends could drink his wine, and
the power of walking up the high street of his country town,
with the knowledge that all its tradesmen would have gladly
welcomed him within their doors. Other men arrived at those
convictions in their start in life and so worked up to them.
To him they had come when they were too late to be of use.
It has been said that Mr. Arabin was a man of pleasantry,
and it may be thought that such a state of mind as that
described would be antagonistic to humour. But surely such
is not the case. Wit is the outward mental casing of the
man, and has no more to do with the inner mind of thoughts
and feelings than have the rich brocaded garments of the
priest at the altar with the asceticism of the anchorite
below them, whose skin is tormented with sackcloth and whose
body is half-flayed with rods. Nay, will not such a one
often rejoice more than any other in the rich show of his
outer apparel? Will it not be food for his pride to feel
that he groans inwardly while he shines outwardly? So it is
with the mental efforts which men make. Those which they
show forth daily to the world are often the opposites of the
inner workings of the spirit.
In the archdeacon's drawing-room, Mr. Arabin had sparkled
with his usual unaffected brilliancy, but when he retired to
his bedroom, he sat there sad, at his open window, repining
within himself that he also had no wife, no bairns, no soft
sward of lawn duly mown for him to lie on, no herd of
attendant curates, no bowings from the banker's clerks, no
rich rectory. That apostleship that he had thought of had
evaded his grasp, and he was now only vicar of St. Ewold's,
with a taste for a mitre. Truly he had fallen between two
stools.
CHAPTER XXI
St. Ewold's Parsonage
When Mr. Harding and Mrs. Bold reached the rectory on the
following morning, the archdeacon and his friend were at St.
Ewold's. They had gone over that the new vicar might inspect
his church and be introduced to the squire, and were not
expected back before dinner. Mr. Harding rambled out by
himself and strolled, as was his wont at Plumstead, about
the lawn and round the church; and as he did so, the two
sisters naturally fell into conversation about Barchester.
There was not much sisterly confidence between them. Mrs.
Grantly was ten years older than Eleanor, and had been
married while Eleanor was yet a child. They had never,
therefore, poured into each other's ears their hopes and
loves; and now that one was a wife and the other a widow, it
was not probable that they would begin to do so. They lived
too much asunder to be able to fall into that kind of
intercourse which makes confidence between sisters almost a
necessity; moreover, that which is so easy at eighteen is
often very difficult at twenty-eight. Mrs. Grantly knew
this, and did not, therefore, expect confidence from her
sister; yet she longed to ask her whether in real truth Mr.
Slope was agreeable to her.
It was by no means difficult to turn the conversation to
Mr. Slope. That gentleman had become so famous at
Barchester, had so much to do with all clergymen connected
with the city, and was so specially concerned in the affairs
of Mr. Harding, that it would have been odd if Mr. Harding's
daughters had not talked about him. Mrs. Grantly was soon
abusing him, which she did with her whole heart, and Mrs.
Bold was nearly as eager to defend him. She positively
disliked the man, would have been delighted to learn that he
had taken himself off so that she should never see him
again, had indeed almost a fear of him, and yet she
constantly found herself taking his part. The abuse of other
people, and abuse of a nature that she felt to be unjust,
imposed this necessity on her, and at last made Mr. Slope's
defence an habitual course of argument with her.
From Mr. Slope the conversation turned to the Stanhopes,
and Mrs. Grantly was listening with some interest to
Eleanor's account of the family, when it dropped out that
Mr. Slope made one of the party.
"What!" said the lady of the rectory. "Was Mr. Slope
there too?"
Eleanor merely replied that such had been the case.
"Why, Eleanor, he must be very fond of you, I think; he
seems to follow you everywhere."
Even this did not open Eleanor's eyes. She merely
laughed, and said that she imagined Mr. Slope found other
attraction at Dr. Stanhope's. And so they parted. Mrs.
Grantly felt quite convinced that the odious match would
take place, and Mrs. Bold as convinced that that unfortunate
chaplain, disagreeable as he must be allowed to be, was more
sinned against than sinning.
The archdeacon of course heard before dinner that Eleanor
had remained the day before in Barchester with the view of
meeting Mr. Slope, and that she had so met him. He
remembered how she had positively stated that there were to
be no guests at the Stanhopes, and he did not hesitate to
accuse her of deceit. Moreover, the fact, or rather presumed
fact, of her being deceitful on such a matter spoke but too
plainly in evidence against her as to her imputed crime of
receiving Mr. Slope as a lover.
"I am afraid that anything we can do will be too late,"
said the archdeacon. "I own I am fairly surprised. I never
liked your sister's taste with regard to men, but still I
did not give her credit for—ugh!"
"And so soon, too," said Mrs. Grantly, who thought more,
perhaps, of her sister's indecorum in having a lover before
she had put off her weeds than her bad taste in having such
a lover as Mr. Slope.
"Well, my dear, I shall be sorry to be harsh, or to do
anything that can hurt your father; but, positively, neither
that man nor his wife shall come within my doors."
Mrs. Grantly sighed, and then attempted to console
herself and her lord by remarking that, after all, the thing
was not accomplished yet. Now that Eleanor was at Plumstead,
much might be done to wean her from her fatal passion. Poor
Eleanor!
The evening passed off without anything to make it
remarkable. Mr. Arabin discussed the parish of St. Ewold
with the archdeacon, and Mrs. Grantly and Mr. Harding, who
knew the personages of the parish, joined in. Eleanor also
knew them, but she said little. Mr. Arabin did not
apparently take much notice of her, and she was not in a
humour to receive at that time with any special grace any
special favourite of her brother-in-law. Her first idea on
reaching her bedroom was that a much pleasanter family party
might be met at Dr. Stanhope's than at the rectory. She
began to think that she was getting tired of clergymen and
their respectable, humdrum, wearisome mode of living, and
that after all, people in the outer world, who had lived in
Italy, London, or elsewhere, need not necessarily be
regarded as atrocious and abominable. The Stanhopes, she had
thought, were a giddy, thoughtless, extravagant set of
people, but she had seen nothing wrong about them and had,
on the other hand, found that they thoroughly knew how to
make their house agreeable. It was a thousand pities, she
thought, that the archdeacon should not have a little of the
same savoir vivre. Mr. Arabin, as we have said, did
not apparently take much notice of her, but yet he did not
go to bed without feeling that he had been in company with a
very pretty woman; and as is the case with most bachelors,
and some married men, regarded the prospect of his month's
visit at Plumstead in a pleasanter light when he learnt that
a very pretty woman was to share it with him.
Before they all retired it was settled that the whole
party should drive over on the following day to inspect the
parsonage at St. Ewold. The three clergymen were to discuss
dilapidations, and the two ladies were to lend their
assistance in suggesting such changes as might be necessary
for a bachelor's abode.
Accordingly, soon after breakfast the carriage was at the
door. There was only room for four inside, and the
archdeacon got upon the box. Eleanor found herself opposite
to Mr. Arabin, and was, therefore, in a manner forced into
conversation with him. They were soon on comfortable terms
together, and had she thought about it, she would have
thought that, in spite of his black cloth, Mr. Arabin would
not have been a bad addition to the Stanhope family party.
Now that the archdeacon was away they could all trifle.
Mr. Harding began by telling them in the most innocent
manner imaginable an old legend about Mr. Arabin's new
parish. There was, he said, in days of yore an illustrious
priestess of St. Ewold, famed through the whole country for
curing all manner of diseases. She had a well, as all
priestesses have ever had, which well was extant to this
day, and shared in the minds of many of the people the
sanctity which belonged to the consecrated ground of the
parish church. Mr. Arabin declared that he should look on
such tenets on the part of his parishioners as anything but
orthodox. And Mrs. Grantly replied that she so entirely
disagreed with him as to think that no parish was in a
proper state that had not its priestess as well as its
priest. "The duties are never well done," said she, "unless
they are so divided."
"I suppose, Papa," said Eleanor, "that in the olden times
the priestess bore all the sway herself. Mr. Arabin,
perhaps, thinks that such might be too much the case now if
a sacred lady were admitted within the parish."
"I think, at any rate," said he, "that it is safer to run
no such risk. No priestly pride has ever exceeded that of
sacerdotal females. A very lowly curate I might, perhaps,
essay to rule, but a curatess would be sure to get the
better of me."
"There are certainly examples of such accidents
happening," said Mrs. Grantly. "They do say that there is a
priestess at Barchester who is very imperious in all things
touching the altar. Perhaps the fear of such a fate as that
is before your eyes."
When they were joined by the archdeacon on the gravel
before the vicarage, they descended again to grave dullness.
Not that Archdeacon Grantly was a dull man, but his frolic
humours were of a cumbrous kind, and his wit, when he was
witty, did not generally extend itself to his auditors. On
the present occasion he was soon making speeches about
wounded roofs and walls, which he declared to be in want of
some surgeon's art. There was not a partition that he did
not tap, nor a block of chimneys that he did not narrowly
examine; all water-pipes, flues, cisterns, and sewers
underwent an investigation; he even descended, in the care
of his friend, so far as to bore sundry boards in the floors
with a bradawl.
Mr. Arabin accompanied him through the rooms, trying to
look wise in such domestic matters, and the other three also
followed. Mrs. Grantly showed that she had not herself been
priestess of a parish twenty years for nothing, and examined
the bells and window-panes in a very knowing way.
"You will, at any rate, have a beautiful prospect out of
your own window, if this is to be your private sanctum,"
said Eleanor. She was standing at the lattice of a little
room upstairs, from which the view certainly was very
lovely. It was from the back of the vicarage, and there was
nothing to interrupt the eye between the house and the
glorious gray pile of the cathedral. The intermediate
ground, however, was beautifully studded with timber. In the
immediate foreground ran the little river which afterwards
skirted the city, and, just to the right of the cathedral,
the pointed gables and chimneys of Hiram's Hospital peeped
out of the elms which encompass it.
"Yes," said he, joining her. "I shall have a beautifully
complete view of my adversaries. I shall sit down before the
hostile town and fire away at them at a very pleasant
distance. I shall just be able to lodge a shot in the
hospital, should the enemy ever get possession of it, and as
for the palace, I have it within full range."
"I never saw anything like you clergymen," said Eleanor;
"You are always thinking of fighting each other."
"Either that," said he, "or else supporting each other.
The pity is that we cannot do the one without the other. But
are we not here to fight? Is not ours a church militant?
What is all our work but fighting, and hard fighting, if it
be well done?"
"But not with each other."
"That's as it may be. The same complaint which you make
of me for battling with another clergyman of our own church,
the Mohammedan would make against me for battling with the
error of a priest of Rome. Yet, surely, you would not be
inclined to say that I should be wrong to do battle with
such as him. A pagan, too, with his multiplicity of gods,
would think it equally odd that the Christian and the
Mohammedan should disagree."
"Ah! But you wage your wars about trifles so bitterly."
"Wars about trifles," said he, "are always bitter,
especially among neighbours. When the differences are great,
and the parties comparative strangers, men quarrel with
courtesy. What combatants are ever so eager as two
brothers?"
"But do not such contentions bring scandal on the
church?"
"More scandal would fall on the church if there were no
such contentions. We have but one way to avoid them—by that
of acknowledging a common head of our church, whose word on
all points of doctrine shall be authoritative. Such a
termination of our difficulties is alluring enough. It has
charms which are irresistible to many, and all but
irresistible, I own, to me."
"You speak now of the Church of Rome?" said Eleanor.
"No," said he, "not necessarily of the Church of Rome;
but of a church with a head. Had it pleased God to vouchsafe
to us such a church our path would have been easy. But easy
paths have not been thought good for us." He paused and
stood silent for awhile, thinking of the time when he had so
nearly sacrificed all he had, his powers of mind, his free
agency, the fresh running waters of his mind's fountain, his
very inner self, for an easy path in which no fighting would
be needed; and then he continued: "What you say is partly
true: our contentions do bring on us some scandal. The outer
world, though it constantly reviles us for our human
infirmities and throws in our teeth the fact that being
clergymen we are still no more than men, demands of us that
we should do our work with godlike perfection. There is
nothing god-like about us: we differ from each other with
the acerbity common to man; we triumph over each other with
human frailty; we allow differences on subjects of divine
origin to produce among us antipathies and enmities which
are anything but divine. This is all true. But what would
you have in place of it? There is no infallible head for a
church on earth. This dream of believing man has been tried,
and we see in Italy and in Spain what has come of it. Grant
that there are and have been no bickerings within the pale
of the Pope's Church. Such an assumption would be utterly
untrue, but let us grant it, and then let us say which
church has incurred the heavier scandals."
There was a quiet earnestness about Mr. Arabin, as he
half-acknowledged and half-defended himself from the charge
brought against him, which surprised Eleanor. She had been
used all her life to listen to clerical discussion, but the
points at issue between the disputants had so seldom been of
more than temporal significance as to have left on her mind
no feeling of reverence for such subjects. There had always
been a hard worldly leaven of the love either of income or
of power in the strains she had heard; there had been no
panting for the truth; no aspirations after religious
purity. It had always been taken for granted by those around
her that they were indubitably right; that there was no
ground for doubt; that the hard uphill work of ascertaining
what the duty of a clergyman should be had been already
accomplished in full; and that what remained for an active
militant parson to do was to hold his own against all
comers. Her father, it is true, was an exception to this,
but then he was so essentially anti-militant in all things
that she classed him in her own mind apart from all others.
She had never argued the matter within herself, or
considered whether this common tone was or was not faulty;
but she was sick of it without knowing that she was so. And
now she found to her surprise, and not without a certain
pleasurable excitement, that this new-comer among them spoke
in a manner very different from that to which she was
accustomed.
"It is so easy to condemn," said he, continuing the
thread of his thoughts. "I know no life that must be so
delicious as that of a writer for newspapers, or a leading
member of the opposition—to thunder forth accusations
against men in power; to show up the worst side of
everything that is produced; to pick holes in every coat; to
be indignant, sarcastic, jocose, moral, or supercilious; to
damn with faint praise, or crush with open calumny! What can
be so easy as this when the critic has to be responsible for
nothing? You condemn what I do, but put yourself in my
position and do the reverse, and then see if I cannot
condemn you."
"Oh, Mr. Arabin, I do not condemn you."
"Pardon me, you do, Mrs. Bold—you as one of the world;
you are now the opposition member; you are now composing
your leading article, and well and bitterly you do it. 'Let
dogs delight to bark and bite'—you fitly begin with an
elegant quotation—'but if we are to have a church at all, in
heaven's name let the pastors who preside over it keep their
hands from each other's throats. Lawyers can live without
befouling each other's names; doctors do not fight duels.
Why is it that clergymen alone should indulge themselves in
such unrestrained liberty of abuse against each other?' and
so you go on reviling us for our ungodly quarrels, our
sectarian propensities, and scandalous differences. It will,
however, give you no trouble to write another article next
week in which we, or some of us, shall be twitted with an
unseemly apathy in matters of our vocation. It will not fall
on you to reconcile the discrepancy; your readers will never
ask you how the poor parson is to be urgent in season and
out of season and yet never come in contact with men who
think widely differently from him. You, when you condemn
this foreign treaty, or that official arrangement, will have
to incur no blame for the graver faults of any different
measure. It is so easy to condemn—and so pleasant too, for
eulogy charms no listeners as detraction does."
Eleanor only half-followed him in his raillery, but she
caught his meaning. "I know I ought to apologize for
presuming to criticize you," she said, "but I was thinking
with sorrow of the ill-will that has lately come among us at
Barchester, and I spoke more freely than I should have
done."
"Peace on earth and goodwill among men, are, like heaven,
promises for the future;" said he, following rather his own
thoughts than hers. "When that prophecy is accomplished,
there will no longer be any need for clergymen."
Here they were interrupted by the archdeacon, whose voice
was heard from the cellar shouting to the vicar.
"Arabin, Arabin,"—and then, turning to his wife, who was
apparently at his elbow—"where has he gone to? This cellar
is perfectly abominable. It would be murder to put a bottle
of wine into it till it has been roofed, walled, and
floored. How on earth old Goodenough ever got on with it I
cannot guess. But then Goodenough never had a glass of wine
that any man could drink."
"What is it, Archdeacon?" said the vicar, running
downstairs and leaving Eleanor above to her meditations.
"This cellar must be roofed, walled, and floored,"
repeated the archdeacon. "Now mind what I say, and don't let
the architect persuade you that it will do; half of these
fellows know nothing about wine. This place as it is now
would be damp and cold in winter and hot and muggy in
summer. I wouldn't give a straw for the best wine that ever
was vinted, after it had lain here a couple of years."
Mr. Arabin assented and promised that the cellar should
be reconstructed according to the archdeacon's receipt.
"And, Arabin, look here; was such an attempt at a kitchen
grate ever seen?"
"The grate is really very bad," said Mrs. Grantly. "I am
sure the priestess won't approve of it, when she is brought
home to the scene of her future duties. Really, Mr. Arabin,
no priestess accustomed to such an excellent well as that
above could put up with such a grate as this."
"If there must be a priestess at St. Ewold's at all, Mrs.
Grantly, I think we will leave her to her well and not call
down her divine wrath on any of the imperfections rising
from our human poverty. However, I own I am amenable to the
attractions of a well-cooked dinner, and the grate shall
certainly be changed."
By this time the archdeacon had again ascended, and was
now in the dining-room. "Arabin," said he, speaking in his
usual loud, clear voice and with that tone of dictation
which was so common to him, "you must positively alter this
dining-room—that is, remodel it altogether. Look here, it is
just sixteen feet by fifteen; did any man ever hear of a
dining-room of such proportions!" The archdeacon stepped the
room long-ways and cross-ways with ponderous steps, as
though a certain amount of ecclesiastical dignity could be
imparted even to such an occupation as that by the manner of
doing it. "Barely sixteen; you may call it a square."
"It would do very well for a round table," suggested the
ex-warden.
Now there was something peculiarly unorthodox, in the
archdeacon's estimation, in the idea of a round table. He
had always been accustomed to a goodly board of decent
length, comfortably elongating itself according to the
number of the guests, nearly black with perpetual rubbing,
and as bright as a mirror. Now round dinner-tables are
generally of oak, or else of such new construction as not to
have acquired the peculiar hue which was so pleasing to him.
He connected them with what he called the nasty newfangled
method of leaving a cloth on the table, as though to warn
people that they were not to sit long. In his eyes there was
something democratic and parvenu in a round table. He
imagined that dissenters and calico-printers chiefly used
them, and perhaps a few literary lions more conspicuous for
their wit than their gentility. He was a little flurried at
the idea of such an article being introduced into the
diocese by a protégé of his own, and at the instigation of
his father-in-law.
"A round dinner-table," said he with some heat, "is the
most abominable article of furniture that ever was invented.
I hope that Arabin has more taste than to allow such a thing
in his house."
Poor Mr. Harding felt himself completely snubbed, and of
course said nothing further; but Mr. Arabin, who had yielded
submissively in the small matters of the cellar and kitchen
grate, found himself obliged to oppose reforms which might
be of a nature too expensive for his pocket.
"But it seems to me, Archdeacon, that I can't very well
lengthen the room without pulling down the wall, and if I
pull down the wall, I must build it up again; then if I
throw out a bow on this side, I must do the same on the
other, and if I do it for the ground floor, I must carry it
up to the floor above. That will be putting a new front to
the house and will cost, I suppose, a couple of hundred
pounds. The ecclesiastical commissioners will hardly assist
me when they hear that my grievance consists in having a
dining-room only sixteen feet long."
The archdeacon proceeded to explain that nothing would be
easier than adding six feet to the front of the dining-room
without touching any other room in the house. Such
irregularities of construction in small country-houses were,
he said, rather graceful than otherwise, and he offered to
pay for the whole thing out of his own pocket if it cost
more than forty pounds. Mr. Arabin, however, was firm, and,
although the archdeacon fussed and fumed about it, would not
give way. Forty pounds, he said, was a matter of serious
moment to him, and his friends, if under such circumstances
they would be good-natured enough to come to him at all,
must put up with the misery of a square room. He was willing
to compromise matters by disclaiming any intention of having
a round table.
"But," said Mrs. Grantly, "what if the priestess insists
on having both the rooms enlarged?"
"The priestess in that case must do it for herself, Mrs.
Grantly."
"I have no doubt she will be well able to do so," replied
the lady; "to do that and many more wonderful things. I am
quite sure that the priestess of St. Ewold, when she does
come, won't come empty-handed."
Mr. Arabin, however, did not appear well inclined to
enter into speculative expenses on such a chance as this,
and therefore any material alterations in the house, the
cost of which could not fairly be made to lie at the door
either of the ecclesiastical commissioners or of the estate
of the late incumbent, were tabooed. With this essential
exception, the archdeacon ordered, suggested, and carried
all points before him in a manner very much to his own
satisfaction. A close observer, had there been one there,
might have seen that his wife had been quite as useful in
the matter as himself. No one knew better than Mrs. Grantly
the appurtenances necessary to a comfortable house. She did
not, however, think it necessary to lay claim to any of the
glory which her lord and master was so ready to appropriate
as his own.
Having gone through their work effectually and
systematically, the party returned to Plumstead well
satisfied with their expedition.
CHAPTER XXII
The Thornes of Ullathorne
On the following Sunday Mr. Arabin was to read himself in
at his new church. It was agreed at the rectory that the
archdeacon should go over with him and assist at the reading
desk, and that Mr. Harding should take the archdeacon's duty
at Plumstead Church. Mrs. Grantly had her school and her
buns to attend to, and professed that she could not be
spared, but Mrs. Bold was to accompany them. It was further
agreed also that they would lunch at the squire's house and
return home after the afternoon service.
Wilfred Thorne, Esq., of Ullathorne, was the squire of
St. Ewold's—or, rather, the squire of Ullathorne, for the
domain of the modern landlord was of wider notoriety than
the fame of the ancient saint. He was a fair specimen of
what that race has come to in our days which, a century ago,
was, as we are told, fairly represented by Squire Western.
If that representation be a true one, few classes of men can
have made faster strides in improvement. Mr. Thorne,
however, was a man possessed of quite a sufficient number of
foibles to lay him open to much ridicule. He was still a
bachelor, being about fifty, and was not a little proud of
his person. When living at home at Ullathorne, there was not
much room for such pride, and there therefore he always
looked like a gentleman and like that which he certainly
was, the first man in his parish. But during the month or
six weeks which he annually spent in London, he tried so
hard to look like a great man there also, which he certainly
was not, that he was put down as a fool by many at his club.
He was a man of considerable literary attainment in a
certain way and on certain subjects. His favourite authors
were Montaigne and Burton, and he knew more perhaps than any
other man in his own county and the next to it of the
English essayists of the two last centuries. He possessed
complete sets of the Idler, the Spectator, the Tatler, the
Guardian, and the Rambler, and would discourse by hours
together on the superiority of such publications to anything
which has since been produced in our Edinburghs and
Quarterlies. He was proficient in all questions of
genealogy, and knew enough of almost every gentleman's
family in England to say of what blood and lineage were
descended all those who had any claim to be considered as
possessors of any such luxuries. For blood and lineage he
himself had a most profound respect. He counted back his own
ancestors to some period long antecedent to the Conquest,
and could tell you, if you would listen to him, how it had
come to pass that they, like Cedric the Saxon, had been
permitted to hold their own among the Norman barons. It was
not, according to his showing, on account of any weak
complaisance on the part of his family towards their Norman
neighbours. Some Ealfried of Ullathorne once fortified his
own castle and held out, not only that, but the then
existing cathedral of Barchester also, against one Geoffrey
De Burgh, in the time of King John; and Mr. Thorne possessed
the whole history of the siege written on vellum and
illuminated in a most costly manner. It little signified
that no one could read the writing, as, had that been
possible, no one could have understood the language. Mr.
Thorne could, however, give you all the particulars in good
English, and had no objection to do so.
It would be unjust to say that he looked down on men
whose families were of recent date. He did not do so. He
frequently consorted with such, and had chosen many of his
friends from among them. But he looked on them as great
millionaires are apt to look on those who have small
incomes; as men who have Sophocles at their fingers' ends
regard those who know nothing of Greek. They might doubtless
be good sort of people, entitled to much praise for virtue,
very admirable for talent, highly respectable in every way,
but they were without the one great good gift. Such was Mr.
Thorne's way of thinking on this matter; nothing could atone
for the loss of good blood; nothing could neutralize its
good effects. Few indeed were now possessed of it, but the
possession was on that account the more precious. It was
very pleasant to hear Mr. Thorne descant on this matter.
Were you in your ignorance to surmise that such a one was of
a good family because the head of his family was a baronet
of an old date, he would open his eyes with a delightful
look of affected surprise, and modestly remind you that
baronetcies only dated from James I. He would gently sigh if
you spoke of the blood of the Fitzgeralds and De Burghs;
would hardly allow the claims of the Howards and Lowthers;
and has before now alluded to the Talbots as a family who
had hardly yet achieved the full honours of a pedigree.
In speaking once of a wide-spread race whose name had
received the honours of three coronets, scions from which
sat for various constituencies, some one of whose members
had been in almost every cabinet formed during the present
century, a brilliant race such as there are few in England,
Mr. Thorne had called them all "dirt." He had not intended
any disrespect to these men. He admired them in many senses,
and allowed them their privileges without envy. He had
merely meant to express his feeling that the streams which
ran through their veins were not yet purified by time to
that perfection, had not become so genuine an ichor, as to
be worthy of being called blood in the genealogical sense.
When Mr. Arabin was first introduced to him, Mr. Thorne
had immediately suggested that he was one of the Arabins of
Uphill Stanton. Mr. Arabin replied that he was a very
distant relative of the family alluded to. To this Mr.
Thorne surmised that the relationship could not be very
distant. Mr. Arabin assured him that it was so distant that
the families knew nothing of each other. Mr. Thorne laughed
his gentle laugh at this and told Mr. Arabin that there was
now existing no branch of his family separated from the
parent stock at an earlier date than the reign of Elizabeth,
and that therefore Mr. Arabin could not call himself
distant. Mr. Arabin himself was quite clearly an Arabin of
Uphill Stanton.
"But," said the vicar, "Uphill Stanton has been sold to
the De Greys and has been in their hands for the last fifty
years."
"And when it has been there one hundred and fifty, if it
unluckily remain there so long," said Mr. Thorne, "your
descendants will not be a whit the less entitled to describe
themselves as being of the family of Uphill Stanton. Thank
God no De Grey can buy that—and thank God no Arabin, and no
Thorne, can sell it."
In politics Mr. Thorne was an unflinching conservative.
He looked on those fifty-three Trojans who, as Mr. Dod tells
us, censured free trade in November, 1852, as the only
patriots left among the public men of England. When that
terrible crisis of free trade had arrived, when the repeal
of the Corn Laws was carried by those very men whom Mr.
Thorne had hitherto regarded as the only possible saviours
of his country, he was for a time paralysed. His country was
lost; but that was comparatively a small thing. Other
countries had flourished and fallen, and the human race
still went on improving under God's providence. But now all
trust in human faith must forever be at an end. Not only
must ruin come, but it must come through the apostasy of
those who had been regarded as the truest of true believers.
Politics in England, as a pursuit for gentlemen, must be at
an end. Had Mr. Thorne been trodden under foot by a Whig, he
could have borne it as a Tory and a martyr, but to be so
utterly thrown over and deceived by those he had so
earnestly supported, so thoroughly trusted, was more than he
could endure and live. He therefore ceased to live as a
politician, and refused to hold any converse with the world
at large on the state of the country.
Such were Mr. Thorne's impressions for the first two or
three years after Sir Robert Peel's apostasy, but by degrees
his temper, as did that of others, cooled down. He began
once more to move about, to frequent the bench and the
market, and to be seen at dinners shoulder to shoulder with
some of those who had so cruelly betrayed him. It was a
necessity for him to live, and that plan of his for avoiding
the world did not answer. He, however, and others around him
who still maintained the same staunch principles of
protection—men like himself who were too true to flinch at
the cry of a mob—had their own way of consoling themselves.
They were, and felt themselves to be, the only true
depositaries left of certain Eleusinian mysteries, of
certain deep and wondrous services of worship by which alone
the gods could be rightly approached. To them and them only
was it now given to know these things and to perpetuate
them, if that might still be done, by the careful and secret
education of their children.
We have read how private and peculiar forms of worship
have been carried on from age to age in families which, to
the outer world, have apparently adhered to the services of
some ordinary church. And so by degrees it was with Mr.
Thorne. He learnt at length to listen calmly while
protection was talked of as a thing dead, although he knew
within himself that it was still quick with a mystic life.
Nor was he without a certain pleasure that such knowledge,
though given to him, should be debarred from the multitude.
He became accustomed to hear even among country gentlemen
that free trade was after all not so bad, and to hear this
without dispute, although conscious within himself that
everything good in England had gone with his old palladium.
He had within him something of the feeling of Cato, who
gloried that he could kill himself because Romans were no
longer worthy of their name. Mr. Thorne had no thought of
killing himself, being a Christian and still possessing his
£4000 a year, but the feeling was not on that account the
less comfortable.
Mr. Thorne was a sportsman, and had been active though
not outrageous in his sports. Previous to the great downfall
of politics in his county, he had supported the hunt by
every means in his power. He had preserved game till no
goose or turkey could show a tail in the parish of St.
Ewold's. He had planted gorse covers with more care than
oaks and larches. He had been more anxious for the comfort
of his foxes than of his ewes and lambs. No meet had been
more popular than Ullathorne; no man's stables had been more
liberally open to the horses of distant men than Mr.
Thorne's; no man had said more, written more, or done more
to keep the club up. The theory of protection could expand
itself so thoroughly in the practices of a county hunt! But
when the great ruin came; when the noble master of the
Barsetshire hounds supported the recreant minister in the
House of Lords and basely surrendered his truth, his
manhood, his friends, and his honour for the hope of a
garter, then Mr. Thorne gave up the hunt. He did not cut his
covers, for that would not have been the act of a gentleman.
He did not kill his foxes, for that according to his light
would have been murder. He did not say that his covers
should not be drawn, or his earths stopped, for that would
have been illegal according to the by-laws prevailing among
country gentlemen. But he absented himself from home on the
occasion of every meet at Ullathorne, left the covers to
their fate, and could not be persuaded to take his pink coat
out of his press, or his hunters out of his stable. This
lasted for two years, and then by degrees he came round. He
first appeared at a neighbouring meet on a pony, dressed in
his shooting-coat, as though he had trotted in by accident;
then he walked up one morning on foot to see his favourite
gorse drawn, and when his groom brought his mare out by
chance, he did not refuse to mount her. He was next
persuaded, by one of the immortal fifty-three, to bring his
hunting materials over to the other side of the county and
take a fortnight with the hounds there; and so gradually he
returned to his old life. But in hunting as in other things
he was only supported by an inward feeling of mystic
superiority to those with whom he shared the common breath
of outer life.
Mr. Thorne did not live in solitude at Ullathorne. He had
a sister, who was ten years older than himself and who
participated in his prejudices and feelings so strongly that
she was a living caricature of all his foibles. She would
not open a modern quarterly, did not choose to see a
magazine in her drawing-room, and would not have polluted
her fingers with a shred of the Times for any consideration.
She spoke of Addison, Swift, and Steele as though they were
still living, regarded Defoe as the best known novelist of
his country, and thought of Fielding as a young but
meritorious novice in the fields of romance. In poetry, she
was familiar with names as late as Dryden, and had once been
seduced into reading "The Rape of the Lock;" but she
regarded Spenser as the purest type of her country's
literature in this line. Genealogy was her favourite
insanity. Those things which are the pride of most
genealogists were to her contemptible. Arms and mottoes set
her beside herself. Ealfried of Ullathorne had wanted no
motto to assist him in cleaving to the brisket Geoffrey De
Burgh, and Ealfried's great grandfather, the gigantic
Ullafrid, had required no other arms than those which nature
gave him to hurl from the top of his own castle a cousin of
the base invading Norman. To her all modern English names
were equally insignificant: Hengist, Horsa, and such like
had for her ears the only true savour of nobility. She was
not contented unless she could go beyond the Saxons, and
would certainly have christened her children, had she had
children, by the names of the ancient Britons. In some
respects she was not unlike Scott's Ulrica, and had she been
given to cursing, she would certainly have done so in the
names of Mista, Skogula, and Zernebock. Not having submitted
to the embraces of any polluting Norman, as poor Ulrica had
done, and having assisted no parricide, the milk of human
kindness was not curdled in her bosom. She never cursed
therefore, but blessed rather. This, however, she did in a
strange uncouth Saxon manner that would have been
unintelligible to any peasants but her own.
As a politician, Miss Thorne had been so thoroughly
disgusted with public life by base deeds long antecedent to
the Corn Law question that that had but little moved her. In
her estimation her brother had been a fast young man,
hurried away by a too ardent temperament into democratic
tendencies. Now happily he was brought to sounder views by
seeing the iniquity of the world. She had not yet reconciled
herself to the Reform Bill, and still groaned in spirit over
the defalcations of the Duke as touching the Catholic
Emancipation. If asked whom she thought the Queen should
take as her counsellor, she would probably have named Lord
Eldon, and when reminded that that venerable man was no
longer present in the flesh to assist us, she would probably
have answered with a sigh that none now could help us but
the dead.
In religion Miss Thorne was a pure Druidess. We would not
have it understood by that that she did actually in these
latter days assist at any human sacrifices, or that she was
in fact hostile to the Church of Christ. She had adopted the
Christian religion as a milder form of the worship of her
ancestors, and always appealed to her doing so as evidence
that she had no prejudices against reform, when it could be
shown that reform was salutary. This reform was the most
modern of any to which she had as yet acceded, it being
presumed that British ladies had given up their paint and
taken to some sort of petticoats before the days of St.
Augustine. That further feminine step in advance which
combines paint and petticoats together had not found a
votary in Miss Thorne.
But she was a Druidess in this, that she regretted she
knew not what in the usages and practices of her Church. She
sometimes talked and constantly thought of good things gone
by, though she had but the faintest idea of what those good
things had been. She imagined that a purity had existed
which was now gone, that a piety had adorned our pastors and
a simple docility our people, for which it may be feared
history gave her but little true warrant. She was accustomed
to speak of Cranmer as though he had been the firmest and
most simple-minded of martyrs, and of Elizabeth as though
the pure Protestant faith of her people had been the one
anxiety of her life. It would have been cruel to undeceive
her, had it been possible; but it would have been impossible
to make her believe that the one was a time-serving priest,
willing to go any length to keep his place, and that the
other was in heart a papist, with this sole proviso, that
she should be her own pope.
And so Miss Thorne went on sighing and regretting,
looking back to the divine right of kings as the ruling
axiom of a golden age, and cherishing, low down in the
bottom of her heart of hearts, a dear unmentioned wish for
the restoration of some exiled Stuart. Who would deny her
the luxury of her sighs, or the sweetness of her soft
regrets!
In her person and her dress she was perfect, and well she
knew her own perfection. She was a small, elegantly made old
woman, with a face from which the glow of her youth had not
departed without leaving some streaks of a roseate hue. She
was proud of her colour, proud of her grey hair which she
wore in short crisp curls peering out all around her face
from her dainty white lace cap. To think of all the money
that she spent in lace used to break the heart of poor Mrs.
Quiverful with her seven daughters. She was proud of her
teeth, which were still white and numerous, proud of her
bright cheery eye, proud of her short jaunty step; and very
proud of the neat, precise, small feet with which those
steps were taken. She was proud also, ay, very proud, of the
rich brocaded silk in which it was her custom to ruffle
through her drawing-room.
We know what was the custom of the lady of Branksome—
Nine-and-twenty knights of fame
Hung their shields in Branksome Hall.
The lady of Ullathorne was not so
martial in her habits, but hardly less costly. She might
have boasted that nine-and-twenty silken skirts might have
been produced in her chamber, each fit to stand alone. The
nine-and-twenty shields of the Scottish heroes were less
independent and hardly more potent to withstand any attack
that might be made on them. Miss Thorne when fully dressed
might be said to have been armed cap-a-pie, and she was
always fully dressed, as far as was ever known to mortal
man.
For all this rich attire Miss Thorne was not indebted to
the generosity of her brother. She had a very comfortable
independence of her own, which she divided among juvenile
relatives, the milliners, and the poor, giving much the
largest share to the latter. It may be imagined, therefore,
that with all her little follies she was not unpopular. All
her follies have, we believe, been told. Her virtues were
too numerous to describe, and not sufficiently interesting
to deserve description.
While we are on the subject of the Thornes, one word must
be said of the house they lived in. It was not a large
house, nor a fine house, nor perhaps to modern ideas a very
commodious house, but by those who love the peculiar colour
and peculiar ornaments of genuine Tudor architecture it was
considered a perfect gem. We beg to own ourselves among the
number, and therefore take this opportunity to express our
surprise that so little is known by English men and women of
the beauties of English architecture. The ruins of the
Colosseum, the Campanile at Florence, St. Mark's, Cologne,
the Bourse and Notre Dame are with our tourists as familiar
as household words; but they know nothing of the glories of
Wiltshire, Dorsetshire, and Somersetshire. Nay, we much
question whether many noted travellers, men who have pitched
their tents perhaps under Mount Sinai, are not still
ignorant that there are glories in Wiltshire, Dorsetshire,
and Somersetshire. We beg that they will go and see.
Mr. Thorne's house was called Ullathorne Court—and was
properly so called, for the house itself formed two sides of
a quadrangle, which was completed on the other two sides by
a wall about twenty feet high. This wall was built of cut
stone, rudely cut indeed, and now much worn, but of a
beautiful, rich, tawny yellow colour, the effect of that
stonecrop of minute growth which it had taken three
centuries to produce. The top of this wall was ornamented by
huge, round stone balls of the same colour as the wall
itself. Entrance into the court was had through a pair of
iron gates so massive that no one could comfortably open or
close them—consequently, they were rarely disturbed. From
the gateway two paths led obliquely across the court: that
to the left reaching the hall-door, which was in the corner
made by the angle of the house, and that to the right
leading to the back entrance, which was at the further end
of the longer portion of the building.
With those who are now adepts in contriving house
accommodation, it will militate much against Ullathorne
Court that no carriage could be brought to the hall-door. If
you enter Ullathorne at all, you must do so, fair reader, on
foot, or at least in a bath-chair. No vehicle drawn by
horses ever comes within that iron gate. But this is nothing
to the next horror that will encounter you. On entering the
front door, which you do by no very grand portal, you find
yourself immediately in the dining-room. What, no hall?
exclaims my luxurious friend, accustomed to all the
comfortable appurtenances of modern life. Yes, kind sir, a
noble hall, if you will but observe it; a true old English
hall of excellent dimensions for a country gentleman's
family; but, if you please, no dining-parlour.
Both Mr. and Miss Thorne were proud of this peculiarity
of their dwelling, though the brother was once all but
tempted by his friends to alter it. They delighted in the
knowledge that they, like Cedric, positively dined in their
true hall, even though they so dined tête-à-tête. But
though they had never owned, they had felt and endeavoured
to remedy the discomfort of such an arrangement. A huge
screen partitioned off the front door and a portion of the
hall, and from the angle so screened off a second door led
into a passage which ran along the larger side of the house
next to the courtyard. Either my reader or I must be a bad
hand at topography, if it be not clear that the great hall
forms the ground-floor of the smaller portion of the
mansion, that which was to your left as you entered the iron
gate, and that it occupies the whole of this wing of the
building. It must be equally clear that it looks out on a
trim mown lawn, through three quadrangular windows with
stone mullions, each window divided into a larger portion at
the bottom, and a smaller portion at the top, and each
portion again divided into five by perpendicular stone
supporters. There may be windows which give a better light
than such as these, and it may be, as my utilitarian friend
observes, that the giving of light is the desired object of
a window. I will not argue the point with him. Indeed I
cannot. But I shall not the less die in the assured
conviction that no sort or description of window is capable
of imparting half so much happiness to mankind as that which
had been adopted at Ullathorne Court. What, not an oriel?
says Miss Diana de Midellage. No, Miss Diana, not even an
oriel, beautiful as is an oriel window. It has not about it
so perfect a feeling of quiet English homely comfort. Let
oriel windows grace a college, or the half-public mansion of
a potent peer, but for the sitting room of quiet country
ladies, of ordinary homely folk, nothing can equal the
square, mullioned windows of the Tudor architects.
The hall was hung round with family female insipidities
by Lely and unprepossessing male Thornes in red coats by
Kneller, each Thorne having been let into a panel in the
wainscoting, in the proper manner. At the further end of the
room was a huge fire-place, which afforded much ground of
difference between the brother and sister. An antiquated
grate that would hold about a hundredweight of coal, had
been stuck on to the hearth by Mr. Thorne's father. This
hearth had of course been intended for the consumption of
wood faggots, and the iron dogs for the purpose were still
standing, though half-buried in the masonry of the grate.
Miss Thorne was very anxious to revert to the dogs. The dear
good old creature was always glad to revert to anything, and
had she been systematically indulged, would doubtless in
time have reflected that fingers were made before forks and
have reverted accordingly. But in the affairs of the
fire-place Mr. Thorne would not revert. Country gentlemen
around him all had comfortable grates in their dining-rooms.
He was not exactly the man to have suggested a modern usage,
but he was not so far prejudiced as to banish those which
his father had prepared for his use. Mr. Thorne had indeed
once suggested that with very little contrivance the front
door might have been so altered as to open at least into the
passage, but on hearing this, his sister Monica—such was
Miss Thorne's name—had been taken ill and had remained so
for a week. Before she came downstairs she received a pledge
from her brother that the entrance should never be changed
in her lifetime.
At the end of the hall opposite to the fire-place a door
led into the drawing-room, which was of equal size, and
lighted with precisely similar windows. But yet the aspect
of the room was very different. It was papered, and the
ceiling, which in the hall showed the old rafters, was
whitened and finished with a modern cornice. Miss Thorne's
drawing-room, or, as she always called it, withdrawing-room,
was a beautiful apartment. The windows opened on to the full
extent of the lovely trim garden; immediately before the
windows were plots of flowers in stiff, stately, stubborn
little beds, each bed surrounded by a stone coping of its
own; beyond, there was a low parapet wall on which stood
urns and images, fawns, nymphs, satyrs, and a whole tribe of
Pan's followers; and then again, beyond that, a beautiful
lawn sloped away to a sunk fence which divided the garden
from the park. Mr. Thorne's study was at the end of the
drawing-room, and beyond that were the kitchen and the
offices. Doors opened into both Miss Thorne's
withdrawing-room and Mr. Thorne's sanctum from the passage
above alluded to, which, as it came to the latter room,
widened itself so as to make space for the huge black oak
stairs which led to the upper regions.
Such was the interior of Ullathorne Court. But having
thus described it, perhaps somewhat too tediously, we beg to
say that it is not the interior to which we wish to call the
English tourist's attention, though we advise him to lose no
legitimate opportunity of becoming acquainted with it in a
friendly manner. It is the outside of Ullathorne that is so
lovely. Let the tourist get admission at least into the
garden and fling himself on that soft sward just opposite to
the exterior angle of the house. He will there get the
double frontage and enjoy that which is so lovely—the
expanse of architectural beauty without the formal dullness
of one long line.
It is the colour of Ullathorne that is so remarkable. It
is of that delicious tawny hue which no stone can give,
unless it has on it the vegetable richness of centuries.
Strike the wall with your hand, and you will think that the
stone has on it no covering, but rub it carefully, and you
will find that the colour comes off upon your finger. No
colourist that ever yet worked from a palette has been able
to come up to this rich colouring of years crowding
themselves on years.
Ullathorne is a high building for a country-house, for it
possesses three stories, and in each story the windows are
of the same sort as that described, though varying in size
and varying also in their lines athwart the house. Those of
the ground floor are all uniform in size and position. But
those above are irregular both in size and place, and this
irregularity gives a bizarre and not unpicturesque
appearance to the building. Along the top, on every side,
runs a low parapet, which nearly hides the roof, and at the
corners are more figures of fawns and satyrs.
Such is Ullathorne House. But we must say one word of the
approach to it, which shall include all the description
which we mean to give of the church also. The picturesque
old church of St. Ewold's stands immediately opposite to the
iron gates which open into the court, and is all but
surrounded by the branches of the lime-trees which form the
avenue leading up to the house from both sides. This avenue
is magnificent, but it would lose much of its value in the
eyes of many proprietors by the fact that the road through
it is not private property. It is a public lane between
hedgerows, with a broad grass margin on each side of the
road, from which the lime-trees spring. Ullathorne Court,
therefore, does not stand absolutely surrounded by its own
grounds, though Mr. Thorne is owner of all the adjacent
land. This, however, is the source of very little annoyance
to him. Men, when they are acquiring property, think much of
such things, but they who live where their ancestors have
lived for years do not feel the misfortune. It never
occurred either to Mr. or Miss Thorne that they were not
sufficiently private because the world at large might, if it
so wished, walk or drive by their iron gates. That part of
the world which availed itself of the privilege was however
very small.
Such a year or two since were the Thornes of Ullathorne.
Such, we believe, are the inhabitants of many an English
country-home. May it be long before their number diminishes.
CHAPTER XXIII
Mr. Arabin Reads Himself in at St. Ewold's
On the Sunday morning the archdeacon with his
sister-in-law and Mr. Arabin drove over to Ullathorne, as
had been arranged. On their way thither the new vicar
declared himself to be considerably disturbed in his mind at
the idea of thus facing his parishioners for the first time.
He had, he said, been always subject to mauvaise honte
and an annoying degree of bashfulness, which often unfitted
him for any work of a novel description; and now he felt
this so strongly that he feared he should acquit himself
badly in St. Ewold's reading-desk. He knew, he said, that
those sharp little eyes of Miss Thorne would be on him, and
that they would not approve. All this the archdeacon greatly
ridiculed. He himself knew not, and had never known, what it
was to be shy. He could not conceive that Miss Thorne,
surrounded as she would be by the peasants of Ullathorne and
a few of the poorer inhabitants of the suburbs of
Barchester, could in any way affect the composure of a man
well accustomed to address the learned congregation of St.
Mary's at Oxford, and he laughed accordingly at the idea of
Mr. Arabin's modesty.
Thereupon Mr. Arabin commenced to subtilize. The change,
he said, from St. Mary's to St. Ewold's was quite as
powerful on the spirits as would be that from St. Ewold's to
St. Mary's. Would not a peer who, by chance of fortune,
might suddenly be driven to herd among navvies be as afraid
of the jeers of his companions as would any navvy suddenly
exalted to a seat among the peers? Whereupon the archdeacon
declared with a loud laugh that he would tell Miss Thorne
that her new minister had likened her to a navvy. Eleanor,
however, pronounced such a conclusion to be unfair; a
comparison might be very just in its proportions which did
not at all assimilate the things compared. But Mr. Arabin
went on subtilizing, regarding neither the archdeacon's
raillery nor Eleanor's defence. A young lady, he said, would
execute with most perfect self-possession a difficult piece
of music in a room crowded with strangers, who would not be
able to express herself in intelligible language, even on
any ordinary subject and among her most intimate friends, if
she were required to do so standing on a box somewhat
elevated among them. It was all an affair of education, and
he at forty found it difficult to educate himself anew.
Eleanor dissented on the matter of the box, and averred
she could speak very well about dresses, or babies, or legs
of mutton from any box, provided it were big enough for her
to stand upon without fear, even though all her friends were
listening to her. The archdeacon was sure she would not be
able to say a word, but this proved nothing in favour of Mr.
Arabin. Mr. Arabin said that he would try the question out
with Mrs. Bold, and get her on a box some day when the
rectory might be full of visitors. To this Eleanor assented,
making condition that the visitors should be of their own
set, and the archdeacon cogitated in his mind whether by
such a condition it was intended that Mr. Slope should be
included, resolving also that, if so, the trial would
certainly never take place in the rectory drawing-room at
Plumstead.
And so arguing, they drove up to the iron gates of
Ullathorne Court.
Mr. and Miss Thorne were standing ready dressed for
church in the hall, and greeted their clerical visitors with
cordiality. The archdeacon was an old favourite. He was a
clergyman of the old school, and this recommended him to the
lady. He had always been an opponent of free trade as long
as free trade was an open question, and now that it was no
longer so, he, being a clergyman, had not been obliged, like
most of his lay Tory companions, to read his recantation. He
could therefore be regarded as a supporter of the immaculate
fifty-three, and was on this account a favourite with Mr.
Thorne. The little bell was tinkling, and the rural
population of the parish were standing about the lane,
leaning on the church-stile and against the walls of the old
court, anxious to get a look at their new minister as he
passed from the house to the rectory. The archdeacon's
servant had already preceded them thither with the
vestments.
They all went forth together, and when the ladies passed
into the church, the three gentlemen tarried a moment in the
lane, that Mr. Thorne might name to the vicar with some kind
of one-sided introduction the most leading among his
parishioners.
"Here are our churchwardens, Mr. Arabin—Farmer Greenacre
and Mr. Stiles. Mr. Stiles has the mill as you go into
Barchester; and very good churchwardens they are."
"Not very severe, I hope," said Mr. Arabin. The two
ecclesiastical officers touched their hats, and each made a
leg in the approved rural fashion, assuring the vicar that
they were very glad to have the honour of seeing him, and
adding that the weather was very good for the harvest. Mr.
Stiles, being a man somewhat versed in town life, had an
impression of his own dignity, and did not quite like
leaving his pastor under the erroneous idea that he being a
churchwarden kept the children in order during church time.
'Twas thus he understood Mr. Arabin's allusion to his
severity and hastened to put matters right by observing that
"Sexton Clodheve looked to the younguns, and perhaps
sometimes there may be a thought too much stick going on
during sermon." Mr. Arabin's bright eye twinkled as he
caught that of the archdeacon, and he smiled to himself as
he observed how ignorant his officers were of the nature of
their authority and of the surveillance which it was their
duty to keep even over himself.
Mr. Arabin read the lessons and preached. It was enough
to put a man a little out, let him have been ever so used to
pulpit reading, to see the knowing way in which the farmers
cocked their ears and set about a mental criticism as to
whether their new minister did or did not fall short of the
excellence of him who had lately departed from them. A
mental and silent criticism it was for the existing moment,
but soon to be made public among the elders of St. Ewold's
over the green graves of their children and forefathers. The
excellence, however, of poor old Mr. Goodenough had not been
wonderful, and there were few there who did not deem that
Mr. Arabin did his work sufficiently well, in spite of the
slightly nervous affliction which at first impeded him, and
which nearly drove the archdeacon beside himself.
But the sermon was the thing to try the man. It often
surprises us that very young men can muster courage to
preach for the first time to a strange congregation. Men who
are as yet but little more than boys, who have but just left
what indeed we may not call a school, but a seminary
intended for their tuition as scholars, whose thoughts have
been mostly of boating, cricketing, and wine-parties, ascend
a rostrum high above the heads of the submissive crowd, not
that they may read God's word to those below, but that they
may preach their own word for the edification of their
hearers. It seems strange to us that they are not stricken
dumb by the new and awful solemnity of their position. "How
am I, just turned twenty-three, who have never yet passed
ten thoughtful days since the power of thought first came to
me, how am I to instruct these greybeards who, with the
weary thinking of so many years, have approached so near the
grave? Can I teach them their duty? Can I explain to them
that which I so imperfectly understand, that which years of
study may have made so plain to them? Has my newly acquired
privilege as one of God's ministers imparted to me as yet
any fitness for the wonderful work of a preacher?"
It must be supposed that such ideas do occur to young
clergymen, and yet they overcome, apparently with ease, this
difficulty which to us appears to be all but insurmountable.
We have never been subjected in the way of ordination to the
power of a bishop's hands. It may be that there is in them
something that sustains the spirit and banishes the natural
modesty of youth. But for ourselves we must own that the
deep affection which Dominie Sampson felt for his young
pupils has not more endeared him to us than the bashful
spirit which sent him mute and inglorious from the pulpit
when he rose there with the futile attempt to preach God's
gospel.
There is a rule in our church which forbids the younger
order of our clergymen to perform a certain portion of the
service. The absolution must be read by a minister in
priest's orders. If there be no such minister present, the
congregation can have the benefit of no absolution but that
which each may succeed in administering to himself. The rule
may be a good one, though the necessity for it hardly comes
home to the general understanding. But this forbearance on
the part of youth would be much more appreciated if it were
extended likewise to sermons. The only danger would be that
congregations would be too anxious to prevent their young
clergymen from advancing themselves in the ranks of the
ministry. Clergymen who could not preach would be such
blessings that they would be bribed to adhere to their
incompetence.
Mr. Arabin, however, had not the modesty of youth to
impede him, and he succeeded with his sermon even better
than with the lessons. He took for his text two verses out
of the second epistle of St. John, "Whosoever transgresseth,
and abideth not in the doctrine of Christ, hath not God. He
that abideth in the doctrine of Christ, he hath both the
Father and the Son. If there come any unto you, and bring
not this doctrine, receive him not into your house, neither
bid him God-speed." He told them that the house of theirs to
which he alluded was this their church, in which he now
addressed them for the first time; that their most welcome
and proper manner of bidding him God-speed would be their
patient obedience to his teaching of the gospel; but that he
could put forward no claim to such conduct on their part
unless he taught them the great Christian doctrine of works
and faith combined. On this he enlarged, but not very amply,
and after twenty minutes succeeded in sending his new
friends home to their baked mutton and pudding well pleased
with their new minister.
Then came the lunch at Ullathorne. As soon as they were
in the hall Miss Thorne took Mr. Arabin's hand and assured
him that she received him into her house, into the temple,
she said, in which she worshipped, and bade him God-speed
with all her heart. Mr. Arabin was touched and squeezed the
spinster's hand without uttering a word in reply. Then Mr.
Thorne expressed a hope that Mr. Arabin found the church
well adapted for articulation, and Mr. Arabin having replied
that he had no doubt he should as soon as he had learnt to
pitch his voice to the building, they all sat down to the
good things before them.
Miss Thorne took special care of Mrs. Bold. Eleanor still
wore her widow's weeds, and therefore had about her that air
of grave and sad maternity which is the lot of recent
widows. This opened the soft heart of Miss Thorne, and made
her look on her young guest as though too much could not be
done for her. She heaped chicken and ham upon her plate and
poured out for her a full bumper of port wine. When Eleanor,
who was not sorry to get it, had drunk a little of it, Miss
Thorne at once essayed to fill it again. To this Eleanor
objected, but in vain. Miss Thorne winked and nodded and
whispered, saying that it was the proper thing and must be
done, and that she knew all about it; and so she desired
Mrs. Bold to drink it up and not mind anybody.
"It is your duty, you know, to support yourself," she
said into the ear of the young mother; "there's more than
yourself depending on it;" and thus she coshered up Eleanor
with cold fowl and port wine. How it is that poor men's
wives, who have no cold fowl and port wine on which to be
coshered up, nurse their children without difficulty,
whereas the wives of rich men, who eat and drink everything
that is good, cannot do so, we will for the present leave to
the doctors and the mothers to settle between them.
And then Miss Thorne was great about teeth. Little Johnny
Bold had been troubled for the last few days with his first
incipient masticator, and with that freemasonry which exists
among ladies, Miss Thorne became aware of the fact before
Eleanor had half-finished her wing. The old lady prescribed
at once a receipt which had been much in vogue in the young
days of her grandmother, and warned Eleanor with solemn
voice against the fallacies of modern medicine.
"Take his coral, my dear," said she, "and rub it well
with carrot-juice; rub it till the juice dries on it, and
then give it him to play with—"
"But he hasn't got a coral," said Eleanor.
"Not got a coral!" said Miss Thorne with almost angry
vehemence. "Not got a coral—how can you expect that he
should cut his teeth? Have you got Daffy's Elixir?"
Eleanor explained that she had not. It had not been
ordered by Mr. Rerechild, the Barchester doctor whom she
employed; and then the young mother mentioned some
shockingly modern succedaneum which Mr. Rerechild's new
lights had taught him to recommend.
Miss Thorne looked awfully severe. "Take care, my dear,"
said she, "that the man knows what he's about; take care he
doesn't destroy your little boy. But"—and she softened into
sorrow, as she said it, and spoke more in pity than in
anger—"but I don't know who there is in Barchester now that
you can trust. Poor dear old Doctor Bumpwell, indeed—"
"Why, Miss Thorne, he died when I was a little girl."
"Yes, my dear, he did, and an unfortunate day it was for
Barchester. As to those young men that have come up
since"—Mr. Rerechild, by the by, was quite as old as Miss
Thorne herself—"one doesn't know where they came from or who
they are, or whether they know anything about their business
or not."
"I think there are very clever men in Barchester," said
Eleanor.
"Perhaps there may be; only I don't know them: and it's
admitted on all sides that medical men aren't now what they
used to be. They used to be talented, observing, educated
men. But now any whipper-snapper out of an apothecary's shop
can call himself a doctor. I believe no kind of education is
now thought necessary."
Eleanor was herself the widow of a medical man and felt a
little inclined to resent all these hard sayings. But Miss
Thorne was so essentially good-natured that it was
impossible to resent anything she said. She therefore sipped
her wine and finished her chicken.
"At any rate, my dear, don't forget the carrot-juice, and
by all means get him a coral at once. My grandmother Thorne
had the best teeth in the county and carried them to the
grave with her at eighty. I have heard her say it was all
the carrot-juice. She couldn't bear the Barchester doctors.
Even poor old Dr. Bumpwell didn't please her." It clearly
never occurred to Miss Thorne that some fifty years ago Dr.
Bumpwell was only a rising man and therefore as much in need
of character in the eyes of the then ladies of Ullathorne as
the present doctors were in her own.
The archdeacon made a very good lunch, and talked to his
host about turnip-drillers and new machines for reaping,
while the host, thinking it only polite to attend to a
stranger, and fearing that perhaps he might not care about
turnip crops on a Sunday, mooted all manner of
ecclesiastical subjects.
"I never saw a heavier lot of wheat, Thorne, than you've
got there in that field beyond the copse. I suppose that's
guano," said the archdeacon.
"Yes, guano. I get it from Bristol myself. You'll find
you often have a tolerable congregation of Barchester people
out here, Mr. Arabin. They are very fond of St. Ewold's,
particularly of an afternoon when the weather is not too hot
for the walk."
"I am under an obligation to them for staying away
to-day, at any rate," said the vicar. "The congregation can
never be too small for a maiden sermon."
"I got a ton and a half at Bradley's in High Street,"
said the archdeacon, "and it was a complete take in. I don't
believe there was five hundredweight of guano in it."
"That Bradley never has anything good," said Miss Thorne,
who had just caught the name during her whisperings with
Eleanor. "And such a nice shop as there used to be in that
very house before he came. Wilfred, don't you remember what
good things old Ambleoff used to have?"
"There have been three men since Ambleoff's time," said
the archdeacon, "and each as bad as the other. But who gets
it for you at Bristol, Thorne?"
"I ran up myself this year and bought it out of the ship.
I am afraid as the evenings get shorter, Mr. Arabin, you'll
find the reading-desk too dark. I must send a fellow with an
axe and make him lop off some of those branches."
Mr. Arabin declared that the morning light at any rate
was perfect, and deprecated any interference with the
lime-trees. And then they took a stroll out among the trim
parterres, and Mr. Arabin explained to Mrs. Bold the
difference between a naiad and a dryad, and dilated on vases
and the shapes of urns. Miss Thorne busied herself among her
pansies, and her brother, finding it quite impracticable to
give anything of a peculiarly Sunday tone to the
conversation, abandoned the attempt and had it out with the
archdeacon about the Bristol guano.
At three o'clock they again went into church, and now Mr.
Arabin read the service and the archdeacon preached. Nearly
the same congregation was present, with some adventurous
pedestrians from the city, who had not thought the heat of
the midday August sun too great to deter them. The
archdeacon took his text from the epistle to Philemon. "I
beseech thee for my son Onesimus, whom I have begotten in my
bonds." From such a text it may be imagined the kind of
sermon which Dr. Grantly preached, and on the whole it was
neither dull, nor bad, nor out of place.
He told them that it had become his duty to look about
for a pastor for them, to supply the place of one who had
been long among them, and that in this manner he regarded as
a son him whom he had selected, as St. Paul had regarded the
young disciple whom he sent forth. Then he took a little
merit to himself for having studiously provided the best man
he could without reference to patronage or favour; but he
did not say that the best man according to his views was he
who was best able to subdue Mr. Slope, and make that
gentleman's situation in Barchester too hot to be
comfortable. As to the bonds, they had consisted in the
exceeding struggle which he had made to get a good clergyman
for them. He deprecated any comparison between himself and
St. Paul, but said that he was entitled to beseech them for
their goodwill towards Mr. Arabin, in the same manner that
the apostle had besought Philemon and his household with
regard to Onesimus.
The archdeacon's sermon—text, blessing, and all—was
concluded within the half-hour. Then they shook hands with
their Ullathorne friends and returned to Plumstead. 'Twas
thus that Mr. Arabin read himself in at St. Ewold's.
CHAPTER XXIV
Mr. Slope Manages Matters Very Cleverly at Puddingdale
The next two weeks passed pleasantly enough at Plumstead.
The whole party there assembled seemed to get on well
together. Eleanor made the house agreeable, and the
archdeacon and Mr. Grantly seemed to have forgotten her
iniquity as regarded Mr. Slope. Mr. Harding had his
violoncello, and played to them while his daughters
accompanied him. Johnny Bold, by the help either of Mr.
Rerechild or else by that of his coral and carrot-juice, got
through his teething troubles. There had been gaieties, too,
of all sorts. They had dined at Ullathorne, and the Thornes
had dined at the rectory. Eleanor had been duly put to stand
on her box, and in that position had found herself quite
unable to express her opinion on the merits of flounces,
such having been the subject given to try her elocution. Mr.
Arabin had of course been much in his own parish, looking to
the doings at his vicarage, calling on his parishioners, and
taking on himself the duties of his new calling. But still
he had been every evening at Plumstead, and Mrs. Grantly was
partly willing to agree with her husband that he was a
pleasant inmate in a house.
They had also been at a dinner-party at Dr. Stanhope's,
of which Mr. Arabin had made one. He also, mothlike, burnt
his wings in the flames of the signora's candle. Mrs. Bold,
too, had been there, and had felt somewhat displeased with
the taste—want of taste she called it—shown by Mr. Arabin in
paying so much attention to Madame Neroni. It was as
infallible that Madeline should displease and irritate the
women as that she should charm and captivate the men. The
one result followed naturally on the other. It was quite
true that Mr. Arabin had been charmed. He thought her a very
clever and a very handsome woman; he thought also that her
peculiar affliction entitled her to the sympathy of all. He
had never, he said, met so much suffering joined to such
perfect beauty and so clear a mind. 'Twas thus he spoke of
the signora, coming home in the archdeacon's carriage, and
Eleanor by no means liked to hear the praise. It was,
however, exceedingly unjust of her to be angry with Mr.
Arabin, as she had herself spent a very pleasant evening
with Bertie Stanhope, who had taken her down to dinner and
had not left her side for one moment after the gentlemen
came out of the dining-room. It was unfair that she should
amuse herself with Bertie and yet begrudge her new friend
his license of amusing himself with Bertie's sister. And yet
she did so. She was half-angry with him in the carriage, and
said something about meretricious manners. Mr. Arabin did
not understand the ways of women very well, or else he might
have flattered himself that Eleanor was in love with him.
But Eleanor was not in love with him. How many shades
there are between love and indifference, and how little the
graduated scale is understood! She had now been nearly three
weeks in the same house with Mr. Arabin, and had received
much of his attention and listened daily to his
conversation. He had usually devoted at least some portion
of his evening to her exclusively. At Dr. Stanhope's he had
devoted himself exclusively to another. It does not require
that a woman should be in love to be irritated at this; it
does not require that she should even acknowledge to herself
that it is unpleasant to her. Eleanor had no such
self-knowledge. She thought in her own heart that it was
only on Mr. Arabin's account that she regretted that he
could condescend to be amused by the signora. "I thought he
had more mind," she said to herself as she sat watching her
baby's cradle on her return from the party. "After all, I
believe Mr. Stanhope is the pleasanter man of the two." Alas
for the memory of poor John Bold! Eleanor was not in love
with Bertie Stanhope, nor was she in love with Mr. Arabin.
But her devotion to her late husband was fast fading when
she could revolve in her mind, over the cradle of his
infant, the faults and failings of other aspirants to her
favour.
Will anyone blame my heroine for this? Let him or her
rather thank God for all His goodness—for His mercy endureth
forever.
Eleanor, in truth, was not in love; neither was Mr.
Arabin. Neither indeed was Bertie Stanhope, though he had
already found occasion to say nearly as much as that he was.
The widow's cap had prevented him from making a positive
declaration, when otherwise he would have considered himself
entitled to do so on a third or fourth interview. It was,
after all, but a small cap now, and had but little of the
weeping willow left in its construction. It is singular how
these emblems of grief fade away by unseen gradations. Each
pretends to be the counterpart of the forerunner, and yet
the last little bit of crimped white crape that sits so
jauntily on the back of the head is as dissimilar to the
first huge mountain of woe which disfigured the face of the
weeper as the state of the Hindu is to the jointure of the
English dowager.
But let it be clearly understood that Eleanor was in love
with no one, and that no one was in love with Eleanor. Under
these circumstances her anger against Mr. Arabin did not
last long, and before two days were over they were both as
good friends as ever. She could not but like him, for every
hour spent in his company was spent pleasantly. And yet she
could not quite like him, for there was always apparent in
his conversation a certain feeling on his part that he
hardly thought it worth his while to be in earnest. It was
almost as though he were playing with a child. She knew well
enough that he was in truth a sober, thoughtful man who, in
some matters and on some occasions, could endure an agony of
earnestness. And yet to her he was always gently playful.
Could she have seen his brow once clouded, she might have
learnt to love him.
So things went on at Plumstead, and on the whole not
unpleasantly, till a huge storm darkened the horizon and
came down upon the inhabitants of the rectory with all the
fury of a water-spout. It was astonishing how in a few
minutes the whole face of the heavens was changed. The party
broke up from breakfast in perfect harmony, but fierce
passions had arisen before the evening which did not admit
of their sitting at the same board for dinner. To explain
this it will be necessary to go back a little.
It will be remembered that the bishop expressed to Mr.
Slope in his dressing-room his determination that Mr.
Quiverful should be confirmed in his appointment to the
hospital, and that his lordship requested Mr. Slope to
communicate this decision to the archdeacon. It will also be
remembered that the archdeacon had indignantly declined
seeing Mr. Slope, and had instead written a strong letter to
the bishop in which he all but demanded the situation of
warden for Mr. Harding. To this letter the archdeacon
received an immediate formal reply from Mr. Slope, in which
it was stated that the bishop had received and would give
his best consideration to the archdeacon's letter.
The archdeacon felt himself somewhat checkmated by this
reply. What could he do with a man who would neither see
him, nor argue with him by letter, and who had undoubtedly
the power of appointing any clergyman he pleased? He had
consulted with Mr. Arabin, who had suggested the propriety
of calling in the aid of the Master of Lazarus. "If," said
he, "you and Dr. Gwynne formally declare your intention of
waiting upon the bishop, the bishop will not dare to refuse
to see you; and if two such men as you are see him together,
you will probably not leave him without carrying your
point."
The archdeacon did not quite like admitting the necessity
of his being backed by the Master of Lazarus before he could
obtain admission into the episcopal palace of Barchester,
but still he felt that the advice was good, and he resolved
to take it. He wrote again to the bishop, expressing a hope
that nothing further would be done in the matter of the
hospital till the consideration promised by his lordship had
been given, and then sent off a warm appeal to his friend
the master, imploring him to come to Plumstead and assist in
driving the bishop into compliance. The master had rejoined,
raising some difficulty, but not declining, and the
archdeacon had again pressed his point, insisting on the
necessity for immediate action. Dr. Gwynne unfortunately had
the gout, and could therefore name no immediate day, but
still agreed to come, if it should be finally found
necessary. So the matter stood, as regarded the party at
Plumstead.
But Mr. Harding had another friend fighting his battle
for him, quite as powerful as the Master of Lazarus, and
this was Mr. Slope. Though the bishop had so pertinaciously
insisted on giving way to his wife in the matter of the
hospital, Mr. Slope did not think it necessary to abandon
his object. He had, he thought, daily more and more reason
to imagine that the widow would receive his overtures
favourably, and he could not but feel that Mr. Harding at
the hospital, and placed there by his means, would be more
likely to receive him as a son-in-law than Mr. Harding
growling in opposition and disappointment under the
archdeacon's wing at Plumstead. Moreover, to give Mr. Slope
due credit, he was actuated by greater motives even than
these. He wanted a wife, and he wanted money, but he wanted
power more than either. He had fully realized the fact that
he must come to blows with Mrs. Proudie. He had no desire to
remain in Barchester as her chaplain. Sooner than do so, he
would risk the loss of his whole connexion with the diocese.
What! Was he to feel within him the possession of no
ordinary talents—was he to know himself to be courageous,
firm, and, in matters where his conscience did not
interfere, unscrupulous—and yet he contented to be the
working factotum of a woman prelate? Mr. Slope had higher
ideas of his own destiny. Either he or Mrs. Proudie must go
to the wall, and now had come the time when he would try
which it should be.
The bishop had declared that Mr. Quiverful should be the
new warden. As Mr. Slope went downstairs, prepared to see
the archdeacon, if necessary, but fully satisfied that no
such necessity would arise, he declared to himself that Mr.
Harding should be warden. With the object of carrying this
point, he rode over to Puddingdale and had a further
interview with the worthy expectant of clerical good things.
Mr. Quiverful was on the whole a worthy man. The impossible
task of bringing up as ladies and gentlemen fourteen
children on an income which was insufficient to give them
with decency the common necessaries of life, had had an
effect upon him not beneficial either to his spirit or his
keen sense of honour. Who can boast that he would have
supported such a burden with a different result? Mr.
Quiverful was an honest, painstaking, drudging man, anxious
indeed for bread and meat, anxious for means to quiet his
butcher and cover with returning smiles the now sour
countenance of the baker's wife; but anxious also to be
right with his own conscience. He was not careful, as
another might be who sat on an easier worldly seat, to stand
well with those around him, to shun a breath which might
sully his name or a rumour which might affect his honour. He
could not afford such niceties of conduct, such moral
luxuries. It must suffice for him to be ordinarily honest
according to the ordinary honesty of the world's ways, and
to let men's tongues wag as they would.
He had felt that his brother clergymen, men whom he had
known for the last twenty years, looked coldly on him from
the first moment that he had shown himself willing to sit at
the feet of Mr. Slope; he had seen that their looks grew
colder still when it became bruited about that he was to be
the bishop's new warden at Hiram's Hospital. This was
painful enough, but it was the cross which he was doomed to
bear. He thought of his wife, whose last new silk dress was
six years in wear. He thought of all his young flock, whom
he could hardly take to church with him on Sundays, for
there were not decent shoes and stockings for them all to
wear. He thought of the well-worn sleeves of his own black
coat and of the stern face of the draper, from whom he would
fain ask for cloth to make another, did he not know that the
credit would be refused him. Then he thought of the
comfortable house in Barchester, of the comfortable income,
of his boys sent to school, of his girls with books in their
hands instead of darning needles, of his wife's face again
covered with smiles, and of his daily board again covered
with plenty. He thought of these things; and do thou also,
reader, think of them, and then wonder, if thou canst, that
Mr. Slope had appeared to him to possess all those good
gifts which could grace a bishop's chaplain. "How beautiful
upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good
tidings."
Why, moreover, should the Barchester clergy have looked
coldly on Mr. Quiverful? Had they not all shown that they
regarded with complacency the loaves and fishes of their
mother church? Had they not all, by some hook or crook, done
better for themselves than he had done? They were not
burdened as he was burdened. Dr. Grantly had five children
and nearly as many thousands a year on which to feed them.
It was very well for him to turn up his nose at a new bishop
who could do nothing for him, and a chaplain who was beneath
his notice; but it was cruel in a man so circumstanced to
set the world against the father of fourteen children
because he was anxious to obtain for them an honourable
support! He, Mr. Quiverful, had not asked for the
wardenship; he had not even accepted it till he had been
assured that Mr. Harding had refused it. How hard then that
he should be blamed for doing that which not to have done
would have argued a most insane imprudence!
Thus in this matter of the hospital poor Mr. Quiverful
had his trials, and he had also his consolations. On the
whole the consolations were the more vivid of the two. The
stern draper heard of the coming promotion, and the wealth
of his warehouse was at Mr. Quiverful's disposal. Coming
events cast their shadows before, and the coming event of
Mr. Quiverful's transference to Barchester produced a
delicious shadow in the shape of a new outfit for Mrs.
Quiverful and her three elder daughters. Such consolations
come home to the heart of a man, and quite home to the heart
of a woman. Whatever the husband might feel, the wife cared
nothing for frowns of dean, archdeacon, or prebendary. To
her the outsides and insides of her husband and fourteen
children were everything. In her bosom every other ambition
had been swallowed up in that maternal ambition of seeing
them and him and herself duly clad and properly fed. It had
come to that with her that life had now no other purpose.
She recked nothing of the imaginary rights of others. She
had no patience with her husband when he declared to her
that he could not accept the hospital unless he knew that
Mr. Harding had refused it. Her husband had no right to be
quixotic at the expense of fourteen children. The narrow
escape of throwing away his good fortune which her lord had
had, almost paralysed her. Now, indeed, they had received a
full promise, not only from Mr. Slope, but also from Mrs.
Proudie. Now, indeed, they might reckon with safety on their
good fortune. But what if all had been lost? What if her
fourteen bairns had been resteeped to the hips in poverty by
the morbid sentimentality of their father? Mrs. Quiverful
was just at present a happy woman, but yet it nearly took
her breath away when she thought of the risk they had run.
"I don't know what your father means when he talks so
much of what is due to Mr. Harding," she said to her eldest
daughter. "Does he think that Mr. Harding would give him
£450 a year out of fine feeling? And what signifies it whom
he offends, as long as he gets the place? He does not expect
anything better. It passes me to think how your father can
be so soft, while everybody around him is so griping."
Thus, while the outer world was accusing Mr. Quiverful of
rapacity for promotion and of disregard to his honour, the
inner world of his own household was falling foul of him,
with equal vehemence, for his willingness to sacrifice their
interests to a false feeling of sentimental pride. It is
astonishing how much difference the point of view makes in
the aspect of all that we look at!
Such were the feelings of the different members of the
family at Puddingdale on the occasion of Mr. Slope's second
visit. Mrs. Quiverful, as soon as she saw his horse coming
up the avenue from the vicarage gate, hastily packed up her
huge basket of needlework and hurried herself and her
daughter out of the room in which she was sitting with her
husband. "It's Mr. Slope," she said. "He's come to settle
with you about the hospital. I do hope we shall now be able
to move at once." And she hastened to bid the maid of all
work go to the door, so that the welcome great man might not
be kept waiting.
Mr. Slope thus found Mr. Quiverful alone. Mrs. Quiverful
went off to her kitchen and back settlements with anxious
beating heart, almost dreading that there might be some slip
between the cup of her happiness and the lip of her
fruition, but yet comforting herself with the reflexion that
after what had taken place, any such slip could hardly be
possible.
Mr. Slope was all smiles as he shook his brother
clergyman's hand and said that he had ridden over because he
thought it right at once to put Mr. Quiverful in possession
of the facts of the matter regarding the wardenship of the
hospital. As he spoke, the poor expectant husband and father
saw at a glance that his brilliant hopes were to be dashed
to the ground, and that his visitor was now there for the
purpose of unsaying what on his former visit he had said.
There was something in the tone of the voice, something in
the glance of the eye, which told the tale. Mr. Quiverful
knew it all at once. He maintained his self-possession,
however, smiled with a slight unmeaning smile, and merely
said that he was obliged to Mr. Slope for the trouble he was
taking.
"It has been a troublesome matter from first to last,"
said Mr. Slope, "and the bishop has hardly known how to act.
Between ourselves—but mind this of course must go no
further, Mr. Quiverful."
Mr. Quiverful said that of course it should not. "The
truth is that poor Mr. Harding has hardly known his own
mind. You remember our last conversation, no doubt."
Mr. Quiverful assured him that he remembered it very well
indeed.
"You will remember that I told you that Mr. Harding had
refused to return to the hospital."
Mr. Quiverful declared that nothing could be more
distinct on his memory.
"And acting on this refusal, I suggested that you should
take the hospital," continued Mr. Slope.
"I understood you to say that the bishop had authorised
you to offer it to me.
"Did I? Did I go so far as that? Well, perhaps it may be
that in my anxiety in your behalf I did commit myself
further than I should have done. So far as my own memory
serves me, I don't think I did go quite so far as that. But
I own I was very anxious that you should get it, and I may
have said more than was quite prudent."
"But," said Mr. Quiverful in his deep anxiety to prove
his case, "my wife received as distinct a promise from Mrs.
Proudie as one human being could give to another."
Mr. Slope smiled and gently shook his head. He meant the
smile for a pleasant smile, but it was diabolical in the
eyes of the man he was speaking to. "Mrs. Proudie!" he said.
"If we are to go to what passes between the ladies in these
matters, we shall really be in a nest of troubles from which
we shall never extricate ourselves. Mrs. Proudie is a most
excellent lady, kind-hearted, charitable, pious, and in
every way estimable. But, my dear Mr. Quiverful, the
patronage of the diocese is not in her hands."
Mr. Quiverful for a moment sat panic-stricken and silent.
"Am I to understand, then, that I have received no promise?"
he said as soon as he had sufficiently collected his
thoughts.
"If you will allow me, I will tell you exactly how the
matter rests. You certainly did receive a promise
conditional on Mr. Harding's refusal. I am sure you will do
me the justice to remember that you yourself declared that
you could accept the appointment on no other condition than
the knowledge that Mr. Harding had declined it."
"Yes," said Mr. Quiverful; "I did say that, certainly."
"Well, it now appears that he did not refuse it."
"But surely you told me, and repeated it more than once,
that he had done so in your own hearing."
"So I understood him. But it seems I was in error. But
don't for a moment, Mr. Quiverful, suppose that I mean to
throw you over. No. Having held out my hand to a man in your
position, with your large family and pressing claims, I am
not now going to draw it back again. I only want you to act
with me fairly and honestly."
"Whatever I do I shall endeavour at any rate to act
fairly," said the poor man, feeling that he had to fall back
for support on the spirit of martyrdom within him.
"I am sure you will," said the other. "I am sure you have
no wish to obtain possession of an income which belongs by
all right to another. No man knows better than you do Mr.
Harding's history, or can better appreciate his character.
Mr. Harding is very desirous of returning to his old
position, and the bishop feels that he is at the present
moment somewhat hampered, though of course he is not bound,
by the conversation which took place on the matter between
you and me."
"Well," said Mr. Quiverful, dreadfully doubtful as to
what his conduct under such circumstances should be, and
fruitlessly striving to harden his nerves with some of that
instinct of self-preservation which made his wife so bold.
"The wardenship of this little hospital is not the only
thing in the bishop's gift, Mr. Quiverful, nor is it by many
degrees the best. And his lordship is not the man to forget
anyone whom he has once marked with approval. If you would
allow me to advise you as a friend—"
"Indeed, I shall be most grateful to you," said the poor
vicar of Puddingdale.
"I should advise you to withdraw from any opposition to
Mr. Harding's claims. If you persist in your demand, I do
not think you will ultimately succeed. Mr. Harding has all
but a positive right to the place. But if you will allow me
to inform the bishop that you decline to stand in Mr.
Harding's way, I think I may promise you—though, by the by,
it must not be taken as a formal promise—that the bishop
will not allow you to be a poorer man than you would have
been had you become warden."
Mr. Quiverful sat in his armchair, silent, gazing at
vacancy. What was he to say? All this that came from Mr.
Slope was so true. Mr. Harding had a right to the hospital.
The bishop had a great many good things to give away. Both
the bishop and Mr. Slope would be excellent friends and
terrible enemies to a man in his position. And then he had
no proof of any promise; he could not force the bishop to
appoint him.
"Well, Mr. Quiverful, what do you say about it?"
"Oh, of course, whatever you think fit, Mr. Slope. It's a
great disappointment, a very great disappointment. I won't
deny that I am a very poor man, Mr. Slope."
"In the end, Mr. Quiverful, you will find that it will
have been better for you."
The interview ended in Mr. Slope receiving a full
renunciation from Mr. Quiverful of any claim he might have
to the appointment in question. It was only given verbally
and without witnesses, but then the original promise was
made in the same way.
Mr. Slope again assured him that he should not be
forgotten, and then rode back to Barchester, satisfied that
he would now be able to mould the bishop to his wishes.
CHAPTER XXV
Fourteen Arguments in Favour of Mr. Quiverful's Claims
We have most of us heard of the terrible anger of a
lioness when, surrounded by her cubs, she guards her prey.
Few of us wish to disturb the mother of a litter of puppies
when mouthing a bone in the midst of her young family. Medea
and her children are familiar to us, and so is the grief of
Constance. Mrs. Quiverful, when she first heard from her
husband the news which he had to impart, felt within her
bosom all the rage of the lioness, the rapacity of the
hound, the fury of the tragic queen, and the deep despair of
the bereaved mother.
Doubting, but yet hardly fearing, what might have been
the tenor of Mr. Slope's discourse, she rushed back to her
husband as soon as the front door was closed behind the
visitor. It was well for Mr. Slope that he so escaped—the
anger of such a woman, at such a moment, would have cowed
even him. As a general rule, it is highly desirable that
ladies should keep their temper: a woman when she storms
always makes herself ugly, and usually ridiculous also.
There is nothing so odious to man as a virago. Though
Theseus loved an Amazon, he showed his love but roughly, and
from the time of Theseus downward, no man ever wished to
have his wife remarkable rather for forward prowess than
retiring gentleness. A low voice "is an excellent thing in
woman."
Such may be laid down as a very general rule; and few
women should allow themselves to deviate from it, and then
only on rare occasions. But if there be a time when a woman
may let her hair to the winds, when she may loose her arms,
and scream out trumpet-tongued to the ears of men, it is
when nature calls out within her not for her own wants, but
for the wants of those whom her womb has borne, whom her
breasts have suckled, for those who look to her for their
daily bread as naturally as man looks to his Creator.
There was nothing poetic in the nature of Mrs. Quiverful.
She was neither a Medea nor a Constance. When angry, she
spoke out her anger in plain words, and in a tone which
might have been modulated with advantage; but she did so, at
any rate, without affectation. Now, without knowing it, she
rose to a tragic vein.
"Well, my dear, we are not to have it." Such were the
words with which her ears were greeted when she entered the
parlour, still hot from the kitchen fire. And the face of
her husband spoke even more plainly than his words:—
E'en such a man, so faint, so
spiritless,
So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone,
Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night.
"What!" said she—and Mrs. Siddons could not have put more
passion into a single syllable—"What! Not have it? Who says
so?" And she sat opposite to her husband, with her elbows on
the table, her hands clasped together, and her coarse,
solid, but once handsome face stretched over it towards him.
She sat as silent as death while he told his story, and
very dreadful to him her silence was. He told it very lamely
and badly but still in such a manner that she soon
understood the whole of it.
"And so you have resigned it?" said she.
"I have had no opportunity of accepting it," he replied.
"I had no witnesses to Mr. Slope's offer, even if that offer
would bind the bishop. It was better for me, on the whole,
to keep on good terms with such men than to fight for what I
should never get!"
"Witnesses!" she screamed, rising quickly to her feet and
walking up and down the room. "Do clergymen require
witnesses to their words? He made the promise in the
bishop's name, and if it is to be broken, I'll know the
reason why. Did he not positively say that the bishop had
sent him to offer you the place?"
"He did, my dear. But that is now nothing to the
purpose."
"It is everything to the purpose, Mr. Quiverful.
Witnesses indeed! And then to talk of your honour being
questioned because you wish to provide for fourteen
children. It is everything to the purpose; and so they shall
know, if I scream it into their ears from the town cross of
Barchester."
"You forget, Letitia, that the bishop has so many things
in his gift. We must wait a little longer. That is all."
"Wait! Shall we feed the children by waiting? Will
waiting put George, and Tom, and Sam out into the world?
Will it enable my poor girls to give up some of their
drudgery? Will waiting make Bessy and Jane fit even to be
governesses? Will waiting pay for the things we got in
Barchester last week?"
"It is all we can do, my dear. The disappointment is as
much to me as to you; and yet, God knows, I feel it more for
your sake than my own."
Mrs. Quiverful was looking full into her husband's face,
and saw a small hot tear appear on each of those furrowed
cheeks. This was too much for her woman's heart. He also had
risen, and was standing with his back to the empty grate.
She rushed towards him and, seizing him in her arms, sobbed
aloud upon his bosom.
"You are too good, too soft, too yielding," she said at
last. "These men, when they want you, they use you like a
cat's paw; and when they want you no longer, they throw you
aside like an old shoe. This is twice they have treated you
so."
"In one way this will be all for the better," argued he.
"It will make the bishop feel that he is bound to do
something for me."
"At any rate he shall hear of it," said the lady, again
reverting to her more angry mood. "At any rate he shall hear
of it, and that loudly; and so shall she. She little knows
Letitia Quiverful, if she thinks I will sit down quietly
with the loss after all that passed between us at the
palace. If there's any feeling within her, I'll make her
ashamed of herself,"—and she paced the room again, stamping
the floor as she went with her fat, heavy foot. "Good
heavens! What a heart she must have within her to treat in
such a way as this the father of fourteen unprovided
children!"
Mr. Quiverful proceeded to explain that he didn't think
that Mrs. Proudie had had anything to do with it.
"Don't tell me," said Mrs. Quiverful; "I know more about
it than that. Doesn't all the world know that Mrs. Proudie
is bishop of Barchester and that Mr. Slope is merely her
creature? Wasn't it she that made me the promise, just as
though the thing was in her own particular gift? I tell you,
it was that woman who sent him over here to-day, because,
for some reason of her own, she wants to go back from her
word."
"My dear, you're wrong—"
"Now, Q., don't be so soft," she continued. "Take my word
for it, the bishop knows no more about it than Jemima does."
Jemima was the two-year-old. "And if you'll take my advice,
you'll lose no time in going over and seeing him yourself."
Soft, however, as Mr. Quiverful might be, he would not
allow himself to be talked out of his opinion on this
occasion, and proceeded with much minuteness to explain to
his wife the tone in which Mr. Slope had spoken of Mrs.
Proudie's interference in diocesan matters. As he did so, a
new idea gradually instilled itself into the matron's head,
and a new course of conduct presented itself to her
judgement. What if, after all, Mrs. Proudie knew nothing of
this visit of Mr. Slope's? In that case, might it not be
possible that that lady would still be staunch to her in
this matter, still stand her friend, and, perhaps, possibly
carry her through in opposition to Mr. Slope? Mrs. Quiverful
said nothing as this vague hope occurred to her, but
listened with more than ordinary patience to what her
husband had to say. While he was still explaining that in
all probability the world was wrong in its estimation of
Mrs. Proudie's power and authority, she had fully made up
her mind as to her course of action. She did not, however,
proclaim her intention. She shook her head ominously as he
continued his narration, and when he had completed, she rose
to go, merely observing that it was cruel, cruel treatment.
She then asked him if he would mind waiting for a late
dinner instead of dining at their usual hour of three; and,
having received from him a concession on this point, she
proceeded to carry her purpose into execution.
She determined that she would at once go to the palace,
that she would do so, if possible, before Mrs. Proudie could
have had an interview with Mr. Slope, and that she would be
either submissive, piteous, and pathetic, or else indignant,
violent, and exacting, according to the manner in which she
was received.
She was quite confident in her own power. Strengthened as
she was by the pressing wants of fourteen children, she felt
that she could make her way through legions of episcopal
servants and force herself, if need be, into the presence of
the lady who had so wronged her. She had no shame about it,
no mauvaise honte, no dread of archdeacons. She
would, as she declared to her husband, make her wail heard
in the market-place if she did not get redress and justice.
It might be very well for an unmarried young curate to be
shamefaced in such matters; it might be all right that a
snug rector, really in want of nothing, but still looking
for better preferment, should carry on his affairs decently
under the rose. But Mrs. Quiverful, with fourteen children,
had given over being shamefaced and, in some things, had
given over being decent. If it were intended that she should
be ill-used in the manner proposed by Mr. Slope, it should
not be done under the rose. All the world should know of it.
In her present mood, Mrs. Quiverful was not over-careful
about her attire. She tied her bonnet under her chin, threw
her shawl over her shoulders, armed herself with the old
family cotton umbrella, and started for Barchester. A
journey to the palace was not quite so easy a thing for Mrs.
Quiverful as for our friend at Plumstead. Plumstead is nine
miles from Barchester, and Puddingdale is but four. But the
archdeacon could order round his brougham, and his
high-trotting fast bay gelding would take him into the city
within the hour. There was no brougham in the coach-house of
Puddingdale Vicarage, no bay horse in the stables. There was
no method of locomotion for its inhabitants but that which
nature has assigned to man.
Mrs. Quiverful was a broad, heavy woman, not young, nor
given to walking. In her kitchen, and in the family
dormitories, she was active enough, but her pace and gait
were not adapted for the road. A walk into Barchester and
back in the middle of an August day would be to her a
terrible task, if not altogether impracticable. There was
living in the parish, about half a mile from the vicarage on
the road to the city, a decent, kindly farmer, well to do as
regards this world and so far mindful of the next that he
attended his parish church with decent regularity. To him
Mrs. Quiverful had before now appealed in some of her more
pressing family troubles, and had not appealed in vain. At
his door she now presented herself, and, having explained to
his wife that most urgent business required her to go at
once to Barchester, begged that Farmer Subsoil would take
her thither in his tax-cart. The farmer did not reject her
plan, and, as soon as Prince could be got into his collar,
they started on their journey.
Mrs. Quiverful did not mention the purpose of her
business, nor did the farmer alloy his kindness by any
unseemly questions. She merely begged to be put down at the
bridge going into the city and to be taken up again at the
same place in the course of two hours. The farmer promised
to be punctual to his appointment, and the lady, supported
by her umbrella, took the short cut to the close and, in a
few minutes, was at the bishop's door.
Hitherto she had felt no dread with regard to the coming
interview. She had felt nothing but an indignant longing to
pour forth her claims, and declare her wrongs, if those
claims were not fully admitted. But now the difficulty of
her situation touched her a little. She had been at the
palace once before, but then she went to give grateful
thanks. Those who have thanks to return for favours received
find easy admittance to the halls of the great. Such is not
always the case with men, or even with women, who have
favours to beg. Still less easy is access for those who
demand the fulfilment of promises already made.
Mrs. Quiverful had not been slow to learn the ways of the
world. She knew all this, and she knew also that her cotton
umbrella and all but ragged shawl would not command respect
in the eyes of the palatial servants. If she were too
humble, she knew well that she would never succeed. To
overcome by imperious overbearing with such a shawl as hers
upon her shoulders and such a bonnet on her head would have
required a personal bearing very superior to that with which
nature had endowed her. Of this also Mrs. Quiverful was
aware. She must make it known that she was the wife of a
gentleman and a clergyman, and must yet condescend to
conciliate.
The poor lady knew but one way to overcome these
difficulties at the very threshold of her enterprise, and to
this she resorted. Low as were the domestic funds at
Puddingdale, she still retained possession of half a crown,
and this she sacrificed to the avarice of Mrs. Proudie's
metropolitan sesquipedalian serving-man. She was, she said,
Mrs. Quiverful of Puddingdale, the wife of the Rev. Mr.
Quiverful. She wished to see Mrs. Proudie. It was indeed
quite indispensable that she should see Mrs. Proudie. James
Fitzplush looked worse than dubious, did not know whether
his lady were out, or engaged, or in her bedroom; thought it
most probable she was subject to one of these or to some
other cause that would make her invisible; but Mrs.
Quiverful could sit down in the waiting-room while inquiry
was being made of Mrs. Proudie's maid.
"Look here, my man," said Mrs. Quiverful; "I must see
her;" and she put her card and half-crown—think of it, my
reader, think of it; her last half-crown—into the man's hand
and sat herself down on a chair in the waiting-room.
Whether the bribe carried the day, or whether the
bishop's wife really chose to see the vicar's wife, it boots
not now to inquire. The man returned and, begging Mrs.
Quiverful to follow him, ushered her into the presence of
the mistress of the diocese.
Mrs. Quiverful at once saw that her patroness was in a
smiling humour. Triumph sat throned upon her brow, and all
the joys of dominion hovered about her curls. Her lord had
that morning contested with her a great point. He had
received an invitation to spend a couple of days with the
archbishop. His soul longed for the gratification. Not a
word, however, in his grace's note alluded to the fact of
his being a married man; if he went at all, he must go
alone. This necessity would have presented no insurmountable
bar to the visit, or have militated much against the
pleasure, had he been able to go without any reference to
Mrs. Proudie. But this he could not do. He could not order
his portmanteau to be packed and start with his own man,
merely telling the lady of his heart that he would probably
be back on Saturday. There are men—may we not rather say
monsters?—who do such things, and there are wives—may we not
rather say slaves?—who put up with such usage. But Dr. and
Mrs. Proudie were not among the number.
The bishop, with some beating about the bush, made the
lady understand that he very much wished to go. The lady,
without any beating about the bush, made the bishop
understand that she wouldn't hear of it. It would be useless
here to repeat the arguments that were used on each side,
and needless to record the result. Those who are married
will understand very well how the battle was lost and won,
and those who are single will never understand it till they
learn the lesson which experience alone can give. When Mrs.
Quiverful was shown into Mrs. Proudie's room, that lady had
only returned a few minutes from her lord. But before she
left him she had seen the answer to the archbishop's note
written and sealed. No wonder that her face was wreathed
with smiles as she received Mrs. Quiverful.
She instantly spoke of the subject which was so near the
heart of her visitor. "Well, Mrs. Quiverful," said she, "is
it decided yet when you are to move into Barchester?"
"That woman," as she had an hour or two since been
called, became instantly re-endowed with all the graces that
can adorn a bishop's wife. Mrs. Quiverful immediately saw
that her business was to be piteous, and that nothing was to
be gained by indignation—nothing, indeed, unless she could
be indignant in company with her patroness.
"Oh, Mrs. Proudie," she began, "I fear we are not to move
to Barchester at all."
"Why not?" said that lady sharply, dropping at a moment's
notice her smiles and condescension, and turning with her
sharp quick way to business which she saw at a glance was
important.
And then Mrs. Quiverful told her tale. As she progressed
in the history of her wrongs she perceived that the heavier
she leant upon Mr. Slope the blacker became Mrs. Proudie's
brow, but that such blackness was not injurious to her own
case. When Mr. Slope was at Puddingdale Vicarage that
morning she had regarded him as the creature of the
lady-bishop; now she perceived that they were enemies. She
admitted her mistake to herself without any pain or
humiliation. She had but one feeling, and that was confined
to her family. She cared little how she twisted and turned
among these new-comers at the bishop's palace so long as she
could twist her husband into the warden's house. She cared
not which was her friend or which was her enemy, if only she
could get this preferment which she so sorely wanted.
She told her tale, and Mrs. Proudie listened to it almost
in silence. She told how Mr. Slope had cozened her husband
into resigning his claim, and had declared that it was the
bishop's will that none but Mr. Harding should be warden.
Mrs. Proudie's brow became blacker and blacker. At last she
started from her chair and, begging Mrs. Quiverful to sit
and wait for her return, marched out of the room.
"Oh, Mrs. Proudie, it's for fourteen children—for
fourteen children." Such was the burden that fell on her ear
as she closed the door behind her.
CHAPTER XXVI
Mrs. Proudie Wrestles and Gets a Fall
It was hardly an hour since Mrs. Proudie had left her
husband's apartment victorious, and yet so indomitable was
her courage that she now returned thither panting for
another combat. She was greatly angry with what she thought
was his duplicity. He had so clearly given her a promise on
this matter of the hospital. He had been already so
absolutely vanquished on that point. Mrs. Proudie began to
feel that if every affair was to be thus discussed and
battled about twice and even thrice, the work of the diocese
would be too much even for her.
Without knocking at the door, she walked quickly into her
husband's room and found him seated at his office table,
with Mr. Slope opposite to him. Between his fingers was the
very note which he had written to the archbishop in her
presence—and it was open! Yes, he had absolutely violated
the seal which had been made sacred by her approval. They
were sitting in deep conclave, and it was too clear that the
purport of the archbishop's invitation had been absolutely
canvassed again, after it had been already debated and
decided on in obedience to her behests! Mr. Slope rose from
his chair and bowed slightly. The two opposing spirits
looked each other fully in the face, and they knew that they
were looking each at an enemy.
"What is this, Bishop, about Mr. Quiverful?" said she,
coming to the end of the table and standing there.
Mr. Slope did not allow the bishop to answer but replied
himself. "I have been out to Puddingdale this morning,
ma'am, and have seen Mr. Quiverful. Mr. Quiverful has
abandoned his claim to the hospital because he is now aware
that Mr. Harding is desirous to fill his old place. Under
these circumstances I have strongly advised his lordship to
nominate Mr. Harding."
"Mr. Quiverful has not abandoned anything," said the
lady, with a very imperious voice. "His lordship's word has
been pledged to him, and it must be respected."
The bishop still remained silent. He was anxiously
desirous of making his old enemy bite the dust beneath his
feet. His new ally had told him that nothing was more easy
for him than to do so. The ally was there now at his elbow
to help him, and yet his courage failed him. It is so hard
to conquer when the prestige of former victories is all
against one. It is so hard for the cock who has once been
beaten out of his yard to resume his courage and again take
a proud place upon a dunghill.
"Perhaps I ought not to interfere," said Mr. Slope, "but
yet—"
"Certainly you ought not," said the infuriated dame.
"But yet," continued Mr. Slope, not regarding the
interruption, "I have thought it my imperative duty to
recommend the bishop not to slight Mr. Harding's claims."
"Mr. Harding should have known his own mind," said the
lady.
"If Mr. Harding be not replaced at the hospital, his
lordship will have to encounter much ill-will, not only in
the diocese, but in the world at large. Besides, taking a
higher ground, his lordship, as I understand, feels it to be
his duty to gratify, in this matter, so very worthy a man
and so good a clergyman as Mr. Harding."
"And what is to become of the Sabbath-day school and of
the Sunday services in the hospital?" said Mrs. Proudie,
with something very nearly approaching to a sneer on her
face.
"I understand that Mr. Harding makes no objection to the
Sabbath-day school," said Mr. Slope. "And as to the hospital
services, that matter will be best discussed after his
appointment. If he has any permanent objection, then, I
fear, the matter must rest."
"You have a very easy conscience in such matters, Mr.
Slope," said she.
"I should not have an easy conscience," he rejoined, "but
a conscience very far from being easy, if anything said or
done by me should lead the bishop to act unadvisedly in this
matter. It is clear that in the interview I had with Mr.
Harding I misunderstood him—"
"And it is equally clear that you have misunderstood Mr.
Quiverful," said she, now at the top of her wrath. "What
business have you at all with these interviews? Who desired
you to go to Mr. Quiverful this morning? Who commissioned
you to manage this affair? Will you answer me, sir? Who sent
you to Mr. Quiverful this morning?"
There was a dead pause in the room. Mr. Slope had risen
from his chair, and was standing with his hand on the back
of it, looking at first very solemn and now very black. Mrs.
Proudie was standing as she had at first placed herself, at
the end of the table, and as she interrogated her foe she
struck her hand upon it with almost more than feminine
vigour. The bishop was sitting in his easy chair twiddling
his thumbs, turning his eyes now to his wife, and now to his
chaplain, as each took up the cudgels. How comfortable it
would be if they could fight it out between them without the
necessity of any interference on his part; fight it out so
that one should kill the other utterly, as far as diocesan
life was concerned, so that he, the bishop, might know
clearly by whom it behoved him to be led. There would be the
comfort of quiet in either case; but if the bishop had a
wish as to which might prove the victor, that wish was
certainly not antagonistic to Mr. Slope.
"Better the d–––– you know than the d–––– you don't
know," is an old saying, and perhaps a true one; but the
bishop had not yet realized the truth of it.
"Will you answer me, sir?" she repeated. "Who instructed
you to call on Mr. Quiverful this morning?" There was
another pause. "Do you intend to answer me, sir?"
"I think, Mrs. Proudie, that under all the circumstances
it will be better for me not to answer such a question,"
said Mr. Slope. Mr. Slope had many tones in his voice, all
duly under his command; among them was a sanctified low tone
and a sanctified loud tone—he now used the former.
"Did anyone send you, sir?"
"Mrs. Proudie," said Mr. Slope, "I am quite aware how
much I owe to your kindness. I am aware also what is due by
courtesy from a gentleman to a lady. But there are higher
considerations than either of those, and I hope I shall be
forgiven if I now allow myself to be actuated solely by
them. My duty in this matter is to his lordship, and I can
admit of no questioning but from him. He has approved of
what I have done, and you must excuse me if I say that,
having that approval and my own, I want none other."
What horrid words were these which greeted the ear of
Mrs. Proudie? The matter was indeed too clear. There was
premeditated mutiny in the camp. Not only had
ill-conditioned minds become insubordinate by the fruition
of a little power, but sedition had been overtly taught and
preached. The bishop had not yet been twelve months in his
chair, and rebellion had already reared her hideous head
within the palace. Anarchy and misrule would quickly follow
unless she took immediate and strong measures to put down
the conspiracy which she had detected.
"Mr. Slope," she said with slow and dignified voice,
differing much from that which she had hitherto used, "Mr.
Slope, I will trouble you, if you please, to leave the
apartment. I wish to speak to my lord alone."
Mr. Slope also felt that everything depended on the
present interview. Should the bishop now be re-petticoated,
his thraldom would be complete and forever. The present
moment was peculiarly propitious for rebellion. The bishop
had clearly committed himself by breaking the seal of the
answer to the archbishop; he had therefore fear to influence
him. Mr. Slope had told him that no consideration ought to
induce him to refuse the archbishop's invitation; he had
therefore hope to influence him. He had accepted Mr.
Quiverful's resignation and therefore dreaded having to
renew that matter with his wife. He had been screwed up to
the pitch of asserting a will of his own, and might possibly
be carried on till by an absolute success he should have
been taught how possible it was to succeed. Now was the
moment for victory or rout. It was now that Mr. Slope must
make himself master of the diocese, or else resign his place
and begin his search for fortune again. He saw all this
plainly. After what had taken place any compromise between
him and the lady was impossible. Let him once leave the room
at her bidding and leave the bishop in her hands, and he
might at once pack up his portmanteau and bid adieu to
episcopal honours, Mrs. Bold, and the Signora Neroni.
And yet it was not so easy to keep his ground when he was
bidden by a lady to go, or to continue to make a third in a
party between a husband and wife when the wife expressed a
wish for a tête-à-tête with her husband.
"Mr. Slope," she repeated, "I wish to be alone with my
lord."
"His lordship has summoned me on most important diocesan
business," said Mr. Slope, glancing with uneasy eye at Dr.
Proudie. He felt that he must trust something to the bishop,
and yet that that trust was so woefully ill-placed. "My
leaving him at the present moment is, I fear, impossible."
"Do you bandy words with me, you ungrateful man?" said
she. "My lord, will you do me the favour to beg Mr. Slope to
leave the room?"
My lord scratched his head, but for the moment said
nothing. This was as much as Mr. Slope expected from him,
and was on the whole, for him, an active exercise of marital
rights.
"My lord," said the lady, "is Mr. Slope to leave this
room, or am I?"
Here Mrs. Proudie made a false step. She should not have
alluded to the possibility of retreat on her part. She
should not have expressed the idea that her order for Mr.
Slope's expulsion could be treated otherwise than by
immediate obedience. In answer to such a question the bishop
naturally said in his own mind that, as it was necessary
that one should leave the room, perhaps it might be as well
that Mrs. Proudie did so. He did say so in his own mind, but
externally he again scratched his head and again twiddled
his thumbs.
Mrs. Proudie was boiling over with wrath. Alas, alas!
Could she but have kept her temper as her enemy did, she
would have conquered as she had ever conquered. But divine
anger got the better of her, as it has done of other
heroines, and she fell.
"My lord," said she, "am I to be vouchsafed an answer or
am I not?"
At last he broke his deep silence and proclaimed himself
a Slopeite. "Why, my dear," said he, "Mr. Slope and I are
very busy."
That was all. There was nothing more necessary. He had
gone to the battlefield, stood the dust and heat of the day,
encountered the fury of the foe, and won the victory. How
easy is success to those who will only be true to
themselves!
Mr. Slope saw at once the full amount of his gain, and
turned on the vanquished lady a look of triumph which she
never forgot and never forgave. Here he was wrong. He should
have looked humbly at her and, with meek entreating eye,
have deprecated her anger. He should have said by his glance
that he asked pardon for his success, and that he hoped
forgiveness for the stand which he had been forced to make
in the cause of duty. So might he perchance have somewhat
mollified that imperious bosom and prepared the way for
future terms. But Mr. Slope meant to rule without terms. Ah,
forgetful, inexperienced man! Can you cause that little
trembling victim to be divorced from the woman that
possesses him? Can you provide that they shall be separated
at bed and board? Is he not flesh of her flesh and bone of
her bone, and must he not so continue? It is very well now
for you to stand your ground and triumph as she is driven
ignominiously from the room, but can you be present when
those curtains are drawn, when that awful helmet of proof
has been tied beneath the chin, when the small remnants of
the bishop's prowess shall be cowed by the tassel above his
head? Can you then intrude yourself when the wife wishes "to
speak to my lord alone?"
But for the moment Mr. Slope's triumph was complete, for
Mrs. Proudie without further parley left the room and did
not forget to shut the door after her. Then followed a close
conference between the new allies, in which was said much
which it astonished Mr. Slope to say and the bishop to hear.
And yet the one said it and the other heard it without
ill-will. There was no mincing of matters now. The chaplain
plainly told the bishop that the world gave him credit for
being under the governance of his wife; that his credit and
character in the diocese were suffering; that he would
surely get himself in hot water if he allowed Mrs. Proudie
to interfere in matters which were not suitable for a
woman's powers; and in fact that he would become
contemptible if he did not throw off the yoke under which he
groaned. The bishop at first hummed and hawed and affected
to deny the truth of what was said. But his denial was not
stout and quickly broke down. He soon admitted by silence
his state of vassalage and pledged himself, with Mr. Slope's
assistance, to change his courses. Mr. Slope also did not
make out a bad case for himself. He explained how it grieved
him to run counter to a lady who had always been his
patroness, who had befriended him in so many ways, who had,
in fact, recommended him to the bishop's notice; but, as he
stated, his duty was now imperative; he held a situation of
peculiar confidence, and was immediately and especially
attached to the bishop's person. In such a situation his
conscience required that he should regard solely the
bishop's interests, and therefore he had ventured to speak
out.
The bishop took this for what it was worth, and Mr. Slope
only intended that he should do so. It gilded the pill which
Mr. Slope had to administer, and which the bishop thought
would be less bitter than that other pill which he had so
long been taking.
"My lord," had his immediate reward, like a good child.
He was instructed to write and at once did write another
note to the archbishop accepting his grace's invitation.
This note Mr. Slope, more prudent than the lady, himself
took away and posted with his own hands. Thus he made sure
that this act of self-jurisdiction should be as nearly as
possible a fait accompli. He begged, and coaxed, and
threatened the bishop with a view of making him also write
at once to Mr. Harding, but the bishop, though temporally
emancipated from his wife, was not yet enthralled to Mr.
Slope. He said, and probably said truly, that such an offer
must be made in some official form; that he was not yet
prepared to sign the form; and that he should prefer seeing
Mr. Harding before he did so. Mr. Slope might, however, beg
Mr. Harding to call upon him. Not disappointed with his
achievement Mr. Slope went his way. He first posted the
precious note which he had in his pocket, and then pursued
other enterprises in which we must follow him in other
chapters.
Mrs. Proudie, having received such satisfaction as was to
be derived from slamming her husband's door, did not at once
betake herself to Mrs. Quiverful. Indeed, for the first few
moments after her repulse she felt that she could not again
see that lady. She would have to own that she had been
beaten, to confess that the diadem had passed from her brow,
and the sceptre from her hand! No, she would send a message
to her with a promise of a letter on the next day or the day
after. Thus resolving, she betook herself to her bedroom,
but here she again changed her mind. The air of that sacred
enclosure somewhat restored her courage and gave her more
heart. As Achilles warmed at the sight of his armour, as Don
Quixote's heart grew strong when he grasped his lance, so
did Mrs. Proudie look forward to fresh laurels, as her eye
fell on her husband's pillow. She would not despair. Having
so resolved, she descended with dignified mien and refreshed
countenance to Mrs. Quiverful.
This scene in the bishop's study took longer in the
acting than in the telling. We have not, perhaps, had the
whole of the conversation. At any rate Mrs. Quiverful was
beginning to be very impatient, and was thinking that Farmer
Subsoil would be tired of waiting for her, when Mrs. Proudie
returned. Oh, who can tell the palpitations of that maternal
heart, as the suppliant looked into the face of the great
lady to see written there either a promise of house, income,
comfort and future competence, or else the doom of continued
and ever-increasing poverty! Poor mother! Poor wife! There
was little there to comfort you!
"Mrs. Quiverful," thus spoke the lady with considerable
austerity, and without sitting down herself, "I find that
your husband has behaved in this matter in a very weak and
foolish manner."
Mrs. Quiverful immediately rose upon her feet, thinking
it disrespectful to remain sitting while the wife of the
bishop stood. But she was desired to sit down again, and
made to do so, so that Mrs. Proudie might stand and preach
over her. It is generally considered an offensive thing for
a gentleman to keep his seat while another is kept standing
before him, and we presume the same law holds with regard to
ladies. It often is so felt, but we are inclined to say that
it never produces half the discomfort or half the feeling of
implied inferiority that is shown by a great man who desires
his visitor to be seated while he himself speaks from his
legs. Such a solecism in good breeding, when construed into
English, means this: "The accepted rules of courtesy in the
world require that I should offer you a seat; if I did not
do so, you would bring a charge against me in the world of
being arrogant and ill-mannered; I will obey the world, but,
nevertheless, I will not put myself on an equality with you.
You may sit down, but I won't sit with you. Sit, therefore,
at my bidding, and I'll stand and talk at you!"
This was just what Mrs. Proudie meant to say, and Mrs.
Quiverful, though she was too anxious and too flurried thus
to translate the full meaning of the manoeuvre, did not fail
to feel its effect. She was cowed and uncomfortable, and a
second time essayed to rise from her chair.
"Pray be seated, Mrs. Quiverful, pray keep your seat.
Your husband, I say, has been most weak and most foolish. It
is impossible, Mrs. Quiverful, to help people who will not
help themselves. I much fear that I can now do nothing for
you in this matter."
"Oh, Mrs. Proudie, don't say so," said the poor woman,
again jumping up.
"Pray be seated, Mrs. Quiverful. I must fear that
I can do nothing further for you in this matter. Your
husband has, in a most unaccountable manner, taken upon
himself to resign that which I was empowered to offer him.
As a matter of course, the bishop expects that his clergy
shall know their own minds. What he may ultimately do—what
we may finally decide on doing—I cannot now say. Knowing the
extent of your family—"
"Fourteen children, Mrs. Proudie, fourteen of them! And
barely bread—barely bread? It's hard for the children of a
clergyman, it's hard for one who has always done his duty
respectably!" Not a word fell from her about herself, but
the tears came streaming down her big, coarse cheeks, on
which the dust of the August road had left its traces.
Mrs. Proudie has not been portrayed in these pages as an
agreeable or an amiable lady. There has been no intention to
impress the reader much in her favour. It is ordained that
all novels should have a male and a female angel and a male
and a female devil. If it be considered that this rule is
obeyed in these pages, the latter character must be supposed
to have fallen to the lot of Mrs. Proudie. But she was not
all devil. There was a heart inside that stiff-ribbed
bodice, though not, perhaps, of large dimensions, and
certainly not easily accessible. Mrs. Quiverful, however,
did gain access, and Mrs. Proudie proved herself a woman.
Whether it was the fourteen children with their probable
bare bread and their possible bare backs, or the
respectability of the father's work, or the mingled dust and
tears on the mother's face, we will not pretend to say. But
Mrs. Proudie was touched.
She did not show it as other women might have done. She
did not give Mrs. Quiverful eau-de-Cologne, or order her a
glass of wine. She did not take her to her toilet table and
offer her the use of brushes and combs, towels and water.
She did not say soft little speeches and coax her kindly
back to equanimity. Mrs. Quiverful, despite her rough
appearance, would have been as amenable to such little
tender cares as any lady in the land. But none such were
forthcoming. Instead of this, Mrs. Proudie slapped one hand
upon the other and declared—not with an oath, for, as a lady
and a Sabbatarian and a she-bishop, she could not swear, but
with an adjuration—that she "wouldn't have it done."
The meaning of this was that she wouldn't have Mr.
Quiverful's promised appointment cozened away by the
treachery of Mr. Slope and the weakness of her husband. This
meaning she very soon explained to Mrs. Quiverful.
"Why was your husband such a fool," said she, now
dismounted from her high horse and sitting confidentially
down close to her visitor, "as to take the bait which that
man threw to him? If he had not been so utterly foolish,
nothing could have prevented your going to the hospital."
Poor Mrs. Quiverful was ready enough with her own tongue
in accusing her husband to his face of being soft, and
perhaps did not always speak of him to her children quite so
respectfully as she might have done. But she did not at all
like to hear him abused by others, and began to vindicate
him and to explain that of course he had taken Mr. Slope to
be an emissary from Mrs. Proudie herself; that Mr. Slope was
thought to be peculiarly her friend; and that, therefore,
Mr. Quiverful would have been failing in respect to her had
he assumed to doubt what Mr. Slope had said.
Thus mollified, Mrs. Proudie again declared that she
"would not have it done," and at last sent Mrs. Quiverful
home with an assurance that, to the furthest stretch of her
power and influence in the palace, the appointment of Mr.
Quiverful should be insisted on. As she repeated the word
"insisted," she thought of the bishop in his night-cap and,
with compressed lips, slightly shook her head. Oh, my
aspiring pastors, divines to whose ears nolo episcopari
are the sweetest of words, which of you would be a bishop on
such terms as these?
Mrs. Quiverful got home in the farmer's cart, not indeed
with a light heart, but satisfied that she had done right in
making her visit.
CHAPTER XXVII
A Love Scene
Mr. Slope, as we have said, left the palace with a
feeling of considerable triumph. Not that he thought that
his difficulties were all over—he did not so deceive
himself—but he felt that he had played his first move well,
as well as the pieces on the board would allow, and that he
had nothing with which to reproach himself. He first of all
posted the letter to the archbishop and, having made that
sure, proceeded to push the advantage which he had gained.
Had Mrs. Bold been at home, he would have called on her, but
he knew that she was at Plumstead, so he wrote the following
note. It was the beginning of what, he trusted, might be a
long and tender series of epistles.
My dear Mrs.
Bold,
You will understand perfectly that I cannot at
present correspond with your father. I heartily wish
that I could, and hope the day may be not long distant
when mists shall have been cleared away, and we may know
each other. But I cannot preclude myself from the
pleasure of sending you these few lines to say that Mr.
Q. has to-day, in my presence, resigned any title that
he ever had to the wardenship of the hospital, and that
the bishop has assured me that it is his intention to
offer it to your esteemed father.
Will you, with my respectful compliments, ask him,
who I believe is now a fellow-visitor with you, to call
on the bishop either on Wednesday or Thursday, between
ten and one. This is by the bishop's desire. If
you will so far oblige me as to let me have a line
naming either day, and the hour which will suit Mr.
Harding, I will take care that the servants shall have
orders to show him in without delay. Perhaps I should
say no more—but still I wish you could make your father
understand that no subject will be mooted between his
lordship and him which will refer at all to the method
in which he may choose to perform his duty. I for one am
persuaded that no clergyman could perform it more
satisfactorily than he did, or than he will do again.
On a former occasion I was indiscreet and much too
impatient, considering your father's age and my own. I
hope he will not now refuse my apology. I still hope
also that with your aid and sweet pious labours we may
live to attach such a Sabbath-school to the old
endowment as may, by God's grace and furtherance, be a
blessing to the poor of this city.
You will see at once that this letter is
confidential. The subject, of course, makes it so. But,
equally, of course, it is for your parent's eye as well
as for your own, should you think proper to show it to
him.
I hope my darling little friend Johnny is as strong
as ever—dear little fellow. Does he still continue his
rude assaults on those beautiful long silken tresses?
I can assure you your friends miss you from
Barchester sorely, but it would be cruel to begrudge you
your sojourn among flowers and fields during this truly
sultry weather.
Pray believe me, my dear Mrs. Bold,
Yours most sincerely,
Obadiah Slope
Barchester, Friday.
Now this letter, taken as a whole, and with the
consideration that Mr. Slope wished to assume a great degree
of intimacy with Eleanor, would not have been bad but for
the allusion to the tresses. Gentlemen do not write to
ladies about their tresses unless they are on very intimate
terms indeed. But Mr. Slope could not be expected to be
aware of this. He longed to put a little affection into his
epistle, and yet he thought it injudicious, as the letter
would, he knew, be shown to Mr. Harding. He would have
insisted that the letter should be strictly private and seen
by no eyes but Eleanor's own, had he not felt that such an
injunction would have been disobeyed. He therefore
restrained his passion, did not sign himself "yours
affectionately," and contented himself instead with the
compliment to the tresses.
Having finished his letter, he took it to Mrs. Bold's
house and, learning there, from the servant, that things
were to be sent out to Plumstead that afternoon, left it,
with many injunctions, in her hands.
We will now follow Mr. Slope so as to complete the day
with him and then return to his letter and its momentous
fate in the next chapter.
There is an old song which gives us some very good advice
about courting:—
It's gude to be off with the
auld luve
Before ye be on wi' the new.
Of the wisdom of this maxim Mr. Slope
was ignorant, and accordingly, having written his letter to
Mrs. Bold, he proceeded to call upon the Signora Neroni.
Indeed, it was hard to say which was the old love and which
the new, Mr. Slope having been smitten with both so nearly
at the same time. Perhaps he thought it not amiss to have
two strings to his bow. But two strings to Cupid's bow are
always dangerous to him on whose behalf they are to be used.
A man should remember that between two stools he may fall to
the ground.
But in sooth Mr. Slope was pursuing Mrs. Bold in
obedience to his better instincts, and the signora in
obedience to his worser. Had he won the widow and worn her,
no one could have blamed him. You, O reader, and I, and
Eleanor's other friends would have received the story of
such a winning with much disgust and disappointment, but we
should have been angry with Eleanor, not with Mr. Slope.
Bishop, male and female, dean and chapter and diocesan
clergy in full congress could have found nothing to
disapprove of in such an alliance. Convocation itself, that
mysterious and mighty synod, could in no wise have fallen
foul of it. The possession of £1000 a year and a beautiful
wife would not at all have hurt the voice of the pulpit
charmer, or lessened the grace and piety of the exemplary
clergyman.
But not of such a nature were likely to be his dealings
with the Signora Neroni. In the first place he knew that her
husband was living, and therefore he could not woo her
honestly. Then again she had nothing to recommend her to his
honest wooing, had such been possible. She was not only
portionless, but also from misfortune unfitted to be chosen
as the wife of any man who wanted a useful mate. Mr. Slope
was aware that she was a helpless, hopeless cripple.
But Mr. Slope could not help himself. He knew that he was
wrong in devoting his time to the back drawing-room in Dr.
Stanhope's house. He knew that what took place there would,
if divulged, utterly ruin him with Mrs. Bold. He knew that
scandal would soon come upon his heels and spread abroad
among the black coats of Barchester some tidings,
exaggerated tidings, of the sighs which he poured into the
lady's ears. He knew that he was acting against the
recognized principles of his life, against those laws of
conduct by which he hoped to achieve much higher success.
But, as we have said, he could not help himself. Passion,
for the first time in his life, passion was too strong for
him.
As for the signora, no such plea can be put forward for
her, for in truth she cared no more for Mr. Slope than she
did for twenty others who had been at her feet before him.
She willingly, nay greedily, accepted his homage. He was the
finest fly that Barchester had hitherto afforded to her web,
and the signora was a powerful spider that made wondrous
webs, and could in no way live without catching flies. Her
taste in this respect was abominable, for she had no use for
the victims when caught. She could not eat them
matrimonially, as young lady flies do whose webs are most
frequently of their mothers' weaving. Nor could she devour
them by any escapade of a less legitimate description. Her
unfortunate affliction precluded her from all hope of
levanting with a lover. It would be impossible to run away
with a lady who required three servants to move her from a
sofa.
The signora was subdued by no passion. Her time for love
was gone. She had lived out her heart, such heart as she had
ever had, in her early years, at an age when Mr. Slope was
thinking of the second book of Euclid and his unpaid bill at
the buttery hatch. In age the lady was younger than the
gentleman, but in feelings, in knowledge of the affairs of
love, in intrigue, he was immeasurably her junior. It was
necessary to her to have some man at her feet. It was the
one customary excitement of her life. She delighted in the
exercise of power which this gave her; it was now nearly the
only food for her ambition; she would boast to her sister
that she could make a fool of any man, and the sister, as
little imbued with feminine delicacy as herself,
good-naturedly thought it but fair that such amusement
should be afforded to a poor invalid who was debarred from
the ordinary pleasures of life.
Mr. Slope was madly in love but hardly knew it. The
Signora spitted him, as a boy does a cockchafer on a cork,
that she might enjoy the energetic agony of his gyrations.
And she knew very well what she was doing.
Mr. Slope having added to his person all such adornments
as are possible to a clergyman making a morning visit—such
as a clean necktie, clean handkerchief, new gloves, and a
soupçon of not unnecessary scent—called about three
o'clock at the doctor's door. At about this hour the signora
was almost always alone in the back drawing-room. The mother
had not come down. The doctor was out or in his own room.
Bertie was out, and Charlotte at any rate left the room if
anyone called whose object was specially with her sister.
Such was her idea of being charitable and sisterly.
Mr. Slope, as was his custom, asked for Mr. Stanhope, and
was told, as was the servant's custom, that the signora was
in the drawing-room. Upstairs he accordingly went. He found
her, as he always did, lying on her sofa with a French
volume before her and a beautiful little inlaid writing-case
open on her table. At the moment of his entrance she was in
the act of writing.
"Ah, my friend," said she, putting out her left hand to
him across her desk, "I did not expect you to-day and was
this very instant writing to you—"
Mr. Slope, taking the soft, fair, delicate hand in
his—and very soft and fair and delicate it was—bowed over it
his huge red head and kissed it. It was a sight to see, a
deed to record if the author could fitly do it, a picture to
put on canvas. Mr. Slope was big, awkward, cumbrous, and,
having his heart in his pursuit, was ill at ease. The lady
was fair, as we have said, and delicate; everything about
her was fine and refined; her hand in his looked like a rose
lying among carrots, and when he kissed it, he looked as a
cow might do on finding such a flower among her food. She
was graceful as a couchant goddess and, moreover, as
self-possessed as Venus must have been when courting Adonis.
Oh, that such grace and such beauty should have
condescended to waste itself on such a pursuit!
"I was in the act of writing to you," said she, "but now
my scrawl may go into the basket;" and she raised the sheet
of gilded note-paper from off her desk as though to tear it.
"Indeed it shall not," said he, laying the embargo of
half a stone weight of human flesh and blood upon the
devoted paper. "Nothing that you write for my eyes, signora,
shall be so desecrated," and he took up the letter, put that
also among the carrots and fed on it, and then proceeded to
read it.
"Gracious me! Mr. Slope," said she, "I hope you don't
mean to say you keep all the trash I write to you. Half my
time I don't know what I write, and when I do, I know it is
only fit for the back of the fire. I hope you have not that
ugly trick of keeping letters."
"At any rate, I don't throw them into a waste-paper
basket. If destruction is their doomed lot, they perish
worthily, and are burnt on a pyre, as Dido was of old."
"With a steel pen stuck through them, of course," said
she, "to make the simile more complete. Of all the ladies of
my acquaintance I think Lady Dido was the most absurd. Why
did she not do as Cleopatra did? Why did she not take out
her ships and insist on going with him? She could not bear
to lose the land she had got by a swindle, and then she
could not bear the loss of her lover. So she fell between
two stools. Mr. Slope, whatever you do, never mingle love
and business."
Mr. Slope blushed up to his eyes and over his mottled
forehead to the very roots of his hair. He felt sure that
the signora knew all about his intentions with reference to
Mrs Bold. His conscience told him that he was detected. His
doom was to be spoken; he was to be punished for his
duplicity, and rejected by the beautiful creature before
him. Poor man. He little dreamt that had all his intentions
with reference to Mrs. Bold been known to the signora, it
would only have added zest to that lady's amusement. It was
all very well to have Mr. Slope at her feet, to show her
power by making an utter fool of a clergyman, to gratify her
own infidelity by thus proving the little strength which
religion had in controlling the passions even of a religious
man; but it would be an increased gratification if she could
be made to understand that she was at the same time alluring
her victim away from another, whose love if secured would be
in every way beneficent and salutary.
The Signora had indeed discovered, with the keen instinct
of such a woman, that Mr. Slope was bent on matrimony with
Mrs. Bold, but in alluding to Dido she had not thought of
it. She instantly perceived, however, from her lover's
blushes, what was on his mind and was not slow in taking
advantage of it.
She looked him full in the face, not angrily, nor yet
with a smile, but with an intense and overpowering gaze;
then, holding up her forefinger and slightly shaking her
head, she said:—
"Whatever you do, my friend, do not mingle love and
business. Either stick to your treasure and your city of
wealth, or else follow your love like a true man. But never
attempt both. If you do, you'll have to die with a broken
heart as did poor Dido. Which is it to be with you, Mr.
Slope, love or money?"
Mr. Slope was not so ready with a pathetic answer as he
usually was with touching episodes in his extempore sermons.
He felt that he ought to say something pretty, something
also that should remove the impression on the mind of his
lady-love. But he was rather put about how to do it.
"Love," said he, "true overpowering love, must be the
strongest passion a man can feel; it must control every
other wish, and put aside every other pursuit. But with me
love will never act in that way unless it be returned;" and
he threw upon the signora a look of tenderness which was
intended to make up for all the deficiencies of his speech.
"Take my advice," said she. "Never mind love. After all,
what is it? The dream of a few weeks. That is all its joy.
The disappointment of a life is its Nemesis. Who was ever
successful in true love? Success in love argues that the
love is false. True love is always despondent or tragical.
Juliet loved, Haidee loved, Dido loved, and what came of it?
Troilus loved and ceased to be a man."
"Troilus loved and was fooled," said the more manly
chaplain. "A man may love and yet not be a Troilus. All
women are not Cressidas."
"No, all women are not Cressidas. The falsehood is not
always on the woman's side. Imogen was true, but how was she
rewarded? Her lord believed her to be the paramour of the
first he who came near her in his absence. Desdemona was
true and was smothered. Ophelia was true and went mad. There
is no happiness in love, except at the end of an English
novel. But in wealth, money, houses, lands, goods, and
chattels, in the good things of this world, yes, in them
there is something tangible, something that can be retained
and enjoyed."
"Oh, no," said Mr. Slope, feeling himself bound to enter
some protest against so very unorthodox a doctrine, "this
world's wealth will make no one happy."
"And what will make you happy—you—you?" said she, raising
herself up and speaking to him with energy across the table.
"From what source do you look for happiness? Do not say that
you look for none. I shall not believe you. It is a search
in which every human being spends an existence."
"And the search is always in vain," said Mr. Slope. "We
look for happiness on earth, while we ought to be content to
hope for it in heaven."
"Pshaw! You preach a doctrine which you know you don't
believe. It is the way with you all. If you know that there
is no earthly happiness, why do you long to be a bishop or a
dean? Why do you want lands and income?"
"I have the natural ambition of a man," said he.
"Of course you have, and the natural passions; and
therefore I say that you don't believe the doctrine you
preach. St. Paul was an enthusiast. He believed so that his
ambition and passions did not war against his creed. So does
the Eastern fanatic who passes half his life erect upon a
pillar. As for me, I will believe in no belief that does not
make itself manifest by outward signs. I will think no
preaching sincere that is not recommended by the practice of
the preacher."
Mr. Slope was startled and horrified, but he felt that he
could not answer. How could he stand up and preach the
lessons of his Master, being there, as he was, on the
devil's business? He was a true believer, otherwise this
would have been nothing to him. He had audacity for most
things, but he had not audacity to make a plaything of the
Lord's word. All this the signora understood, and felt much
interest as she saw her cockchafer whirl round upon her pin.
"Your wit delights in such arguments," said he, "but your
heart and your reason do not go along with them."
"My heart!" said she; "you quite mistake the principles
of my composition if you imagine that there is such a thing
about me." After all, there was very little that was false
in anything that the signora said. If Mr. Slope allowed
himself to be deceived, it was his own fault. Nothing could
have been more open than her declarations about herself.
The little writing-table with her desk was still standing
before her, a barrier, as it were, against the enemy. She
was sitting as nearly upright as she ever did, and he had
brought a chair close to the sofa, so that there was only
the corner of the table between him and her. It so happened
that as she spoke her hand lay upon the table, and as Mr.
Slope answered her he put his hand upon hers.
"No heart!" said he. "That is a heavy charge which you
bring against yourself, and one of which I cannot find you
guilty—"
She withdrew her hand, not quickly and angrily, as though
insulted by his touch, but gently and slowly.
"You are in no condition to give a verdict on the
matter," said she, "as you have not tried me. No, don't say
that you intend doing so, for you know you have no intention
of the kind; nor indeed have I, either. As for you, you will
take your vows where they will result in something more
substantial than the pursuit of such a ghostlike, ghastly
love as mine—"
"Your love should be sufficient to satisfy the dream of a
monarch," said Mr. Slope, not quite clear as to the meaning
of his words.
"Say an archbishop, Mr. Slope," said she. Poor fellow!
She was very cruel to him. He went round again upon his cork
on this allusion to his profession. He tried, however, to
smile and gently accused her of joking on a matter, which
was, he said, to him of such vital moment.
"Why—what gulls do you men make of us," she replied. "How
you fool us to the top of our bent; and of all men you
clergymen are the most fluent of your honeyed, caressing
words. Now look me in the face, Mr. Slope, boldly and
openly."
Mr. Slope did look at her with a languishing loving eye,
and as he did so he again put forth his hand to get hold of
hers.
"I told you to look at me boldly, Mr. Slope, but confine
your boldness to your eyes."
"Oh, Madeline!" he sighed.
"Well, my name is Madeline," said she, "but none except
my own family usually call me so. Now look me in the face,
Mr. Slope. Am I to understand that you say you love me?"
Mr. Slope never had said so. If he had come there with
any formed plan at all, his intention was to make love to
the lady without uttering any such declaration. It was,
however, quite impossible that he should now deny his love.
He had, therefore, nothing for it but to go down on his
knees distractedly against the sofa and swear that he did
love her with a love passing the love of man.
The signora received the assurance with very little
palpitation or appearance of surprise. "And now answer me
another question," said she. "When are you to be married to
my dear friend Eleanor Bold?"
Poor Mr. Slope went round and round in mortal agony. In
such a condition as his it was really very hard for him to
know what answer to give. And yet no answer would be his
surest condemnation. He might as well at once plead guilty
to the charge brought against him.
"And why do you accuse me of such dissimulation?" said
he.
"Dissimulation! I said nothing of dissimulation. I made
no charge against you, and make none. Pray don't defend
yourself to me. You swear that you are devoted to my beauty,
and yet you are on the eve of matrimony with another. I feel
this to be rather a compliment. It is to Mrs. Bold that you
must defend yourself. That you may find difficult; unless,
indeed, you can keep her in the dark. You clergymen are
cleverer than other men."
"Signora, I have told you that I loved you, and now you
rail at me."
"Rail at you. God bless the man; what would he have?
Come, answer me this at your leisure—not without thinking
now, but leisurely and with consideration—are you not going
to be married to Mrs. Bold?"
"I am not," said he. And as he said it he almost hated,
with an exquisite hatred, the woman whom he could not help
loving with an exquisite love.
"But surely you are a worshipper of hers?"
"I am not," said Mr. Slope, to whom the word worshipper
was peculiarly distasteful. The signora had conceived that
it would be so.
"I wonder at that," said she. "Do you not admire her? To
my eye she is the perfection of English beauty. And then she
is rich, too. I should have thought she was just the person
to attract you. Come, Mr. Slope, let me give you advice on
this matter. Marry the charming widow; she will be a good
mother to your children and an excellent mistress of a
clergyman's household."
"Oh, signora, how can you be so cruel?"
"Cruel," said she, changing the voice of banter which she
had been using for one which was expressively earnest in its
tone; "is that cruelty?"
"How can I love another while my heart is entirely your
own?"
"If that were cruelty, Mr. Slope, what might you say of
me if I were to declare that I returned your passion? What
would you think if I bound you even by a lover's oath to do
daily penance at this couch of mine? What can I give in
return for a man's love? Ah, dear friend, you have not
realized the conditions of my fate."
Mr. Slope was not on his knees all this time. After his
declaration of love, he had risen from them as quickly as he
thought consistent with the new position which he now
filled, and as he stood was leaning on the back of his
chair. This outburst of tenderness on the signora's part
quite overcame him and made him feel for the moment that he
could sacrifice everything to be assured of the love of the
beautiful creature before him, maimed, lame, and already
married as she was.
"And can I not sympathize with your lot?" said he, now
seating himself on her sofa and pushing away the table with
his foot.
"Sympathy is so near to pity!" said she. "If you pity me,
cripple as I am, I shall spurn you from me."
"Oh, Madeline, I will only love you," and again he caught
her hand and devoured it with kisses. Now she did not draw
it from him, but sat there as he kissed it, looking at him
with her great eyes, just as a great spider would look at a
great fly that was quite securely caught.
"Suppose Signor Neroni were to come to Barchester," said
she. "Would you make his acquaintance?"
"Signor Neroni!" said he.
"Would you introduce him to the bishop, and Mrs. Proudie,
and the young ladies?" said she, again having recourse to
that horrid quizzing voice which Mr. Slope so particularly
hated.
"Why do you ask such a question?" said he.
"Because it is necessary that you should know that there
is a Signor Neroni. I think you had forgotten it."
"If I thought that you retained for that wretch one
particle of the love of which he was never worthy, I would
die before I would distract you by telling you what I feel.
No! Were your husband the master of your heart, I might
perhaps love you, but you should never know it."
"My heart again! How you talk. And you consider then that
if a husband be not master of his wife's heart, he has no
right to her fealty; if a wife ceases to love, she may cease
to be true. Is that your doctrine on this matter, as a
minister of the Church of England?"
Mr. Slope tried hard within himself to cast off the
pollution with which he felt that he was defiling his soul.
He strove to tear himself away from the noxious siren that
had bewitched him. But he could not do it. He could not be
again heart free. He had looked for rapturous joy in loving
this lovely creature, and he already found that he met with
little but disappointment and self-rebuke. He had come
across the fruit of the Dead Sea, so sweet and delicious to
the eye, so bitter and nauseous to the taste. He had put the
apple to his mouth, and it had turned to ashes between his
teeth. Yet he could not tear himself away. He knew, he could
not but know, that she jeered at him, ridiculed his love,
and insulted the weakness of his religion. But she
half-permitted his adoration, and that half-permission added
such fuel to his fire that all the fountain of his piety
could not quench it. He began to feel savage, irritated, and
revengeful. He meditated some severity of speech, some taunt
that should cut her, as her taunts cut him. He reflected as
he stood there for a moment, silent before her, that if he
desired to quell her proud spirit, he should do so by being
prouder even than herself; that if he wished to have her at
his feet suppliant for his love, it behoved him to conquer
her by indifference. All this passed through his mind. As
far as dead knowledge went, he knew, or thought he knew, how
a woman should be tamed. But when he essayed to bring his
tactics to bear, he failed like a child. What chance has
dead knowledge with experience in any of the transactions
between man and man? What possible chance between man and
woman? Mr. Slope loved furiously, insanely and truly, but he
had never played the game of love. The signora did not love
at all, but she was up to every move of the board. It was
Philidor pitted against a schoolboy.
And so she continued to insult him, and he continued to
bear it.
"Sacrifice the world for love!" she said in answer to
some renewed vapid declaration of his passion. "How often
has the same thing been said, and how invariably with the
same falsehood!"
"Falsehood," said he. "Do you say that I am false to you?
Do you say that my love is not real?"
"False? Of course it is false, false as the father of
falsehood—if indeed falsehoods need a sire and are not
self-begotten since the world began. You are ready to
sacrifice the world for love? Come let us see what you will
sacrifice. I care nothing for nuptial vows. The wretch, I
think you were kind enough to call him so, whom I swore to
love and obey is so base that he can only be thought of with
repulsive disgust. In the council chamber of my heart I have
divorced him. To me that is as good as though aged lords had
gloated for months over the details of his licentious life.
I care nothing for what the world can say. Will you be as
frank? Will you take me to your home as your wife? Will you
call me Mrs. Slope before bishop, dean, and prebendaries?"
The poor tortured wretch stood silent, not knowing what to
say. "What! You won't do that. Tell me, then, what part of
the world is it that you will sacrifice for my charms?"
"Were you free to marry, I would take you to my house
to-morrow and wish no higher privilege."
"I am free," said she, almost starting up in her energy.
For though there was no truth in her pretended regard for
her clerical admirer, there was a mixture of real feeling in
the scorn and satire with which she spoke of love and
marriage generally. "I am free—free as the winds. Come, will
you take me as I am? Have your wish; sacrifice the world,
and prove yourself a true man."
Mr. Slope should have taken her at her word. She would
have drawn back, and he would have had the full advantage of
the offer. But he did not. Instead of doing so, he stood
wrapt in astonishment, passing his fingers through his lank
red hair and thinking, as he stared upon her animated
countenance, that her wondrous beauty grew more wonderful as
he gazed on it. "Ha! ha! ha!" she laughed out loud. "Come,
Mr. Slope, don't talk of sacrificing the world again. People
beyond one-and-twenty should never dream of such a thing.
You and I, if we have the dregs of any love left in us, if
we have the remnants of a passion remaining in our hearts,
should husband our resources better. We are not in our
première jeunesse. The world is a very nice place. Your
world, at any rate, is so. You have all manner of fat
rectories to get and possible bishoprics to enjoy. Come,
confess; on second thoughts you would not sacrifice such
things for the smiles of a lame lady?"
It was impossible for him to answer this. In order to be
in any way dignified, he felt that he must be silent.
"Come," said she, "don't boody with me: don't be angry
because I speak out some home truths. Alas, the world, as I
have found it, has taught me bitter truths. Come, tell me
that I am forgiven. Are we not to be friends?" and she again
put out her hand to him.
He sat himself down in the chair beside her, took her
proffered hand, and leant over her.
"There," said she with her sweetest, softest smile—a
smile to withstand which a man should be cased in triple
steel, "there; seal your forgiveness on it," and she raised
it towards his face. He kissed it again and again, and
stretched over her as though desirous of extending the
charity of his pardon beyond the hand that was offered to
him. She managed, however, to check his ardour. For one so
easily allured as this poor chaplain, her hand was surely
enough.
"Oh, Madeline!" said he, "tell me that you love me—do
you—do you love me?"
"Hush," said she. "There is my mother's step. Our
tête-à-tête has been of monstrous length. Now you had
better go. But we shall see you soon again, shall we not?"
Mr. Slope promised that he would call again on the
following day.
"And, Mr. Slope," she continued, "pray answer my note.
You have it in your hand, though I declare during these two
hours you have not been gracious enough to read it. It is
about the Sabbath-school and the children. You know how
anxious I am to have them here. I have been learning the
catechism myself, on purpose. You must manage it for me next
week. I will teach them, at any rate, to submit themselves
to their spiritual pastors and masters."
Mr. Slope said but little on the subject of
Sabbath-schools, but he made his adieu, and betook himself
home with a sad heart, troubled mind, and uneasy conscience.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Mrs. Bold is Entertained by Dr. and Mrs. Grantly at
Plumstead
It will be remembered that Mr. Slope, when leaving his
billet-doux at the house of Mrs. Bold, had been informed
that it would be sent out to her at Plumstead that
afternoon. The archdeacon and Mr. Harding had in fact come
into town together in the brougham, and it had been arranged
that they should call for Eleanor's parcels as they left on
their way home. Accordingly they did so call, and the maid,
as she handed to the coachman a small basket and large
bundle carefully and neatly packed, gave in at the carriage
window Mr. Slope's epistle. The archdeacon, who was sitting
next to the window, took it and immediately recognized the
hand-writing of his enemy.
"Who left this?" said he.
"Mr. Slope called with it himself, your Reverence," said
the girl, "and was very anxious that Missus should have it
to-day."
So the brougham drove off, and the letter was left in the
archdeacon's hand. He looked at it as though he held a
basket of adders. He could not have thought worse of the
document had he read it and discovered it to be licentious
and atheistical. He did, moreover, what so many wise people
are accustomed to do in similar circumstances; he
immediately condemned the person to whom the letter was
written, as though she were necessarily a particeps
criminis.
Poor Mr. Harding, though by no means inclined to forward
Mr. Slope's intimacy with his daughter, would have given
anything to have kept the letter from his son-in-law. But
that was now impossible. There it was in his hand, and he
looked as thoroughly disgusted as though he were quite sure
that it contained all the rhapsodies of a favoured lover.
"It's very hard on me," said he after awhile, "that this
should go on under my roof."
Now here the archdeacon was certainly most unreasonable.
Having invited his sister-in-law to his house, it was a
natural consequence that she should receive her letters
there. And if Mr. Slope chose to write to her, his letter
would, as a matter of course, be sent after her. Moreover,
the very fact of an invitation to one's house implies
confidence on the part of the inviter. He had shown that he
thought Mrs. Bold to be a fit person to stay with him by his
asking her to do so, and it was most cruel to her that he
should complain of her violating the sanctity of his
roof-tree, when the laches committed were none of her
committing.
Mr. Harding felt this, and felt also that when the
archdeacon talked thus about his roof, what he said was most
offensive to himself as Eleanor's father. If Eleanor did
receive a letter from Mr. Slope, what was there in that to
pollute the purity of Dr. Grantly's household? He was
indignant that his daughter should be so judged and so
spoken of, and he made up his mind that even as Mrs. Slope
she must be dearer to him than any other creature on God's
earth. He almost broke out and said as much, but for the
moment he restrained himself.
"Here," said the archdeacon, handing the offensive
missile to his father-in-law, "I am not going to be the
bearer of his love-letters. You are her father and may do as
you think fit with it."
By doing as he thought fit with it, the archdeacon
certainly meant that Mr. Harding would be justified in
opening and reading the letter, and taking any steps which
might in consequence be necessary. To tell the truth, Dr.
Grantly did feel rather a stronger curiosity than was
justified by his outraged virtue to see the contents of the
letter. Of course he could not open it himself, but he
wished to make Mr. Harding understand that he, as Eleanor's
father, would be fully justified in doing so. The idea of
such a proceeding never occurred to Mr. Harding. His
authority over Eleanor ceased when she became the wife of
John Bold. He had not the slightest wish to pry into her
correspondence. He consequently put the letter into his
pocket, and only wished that he had been able to do so
without the archdeacon's knowledge. They both sat silent
during half the journey home, and then Dr. Grantly said,
"Perhaps Susan had better give it to her. She can explain to
her sister better than either you or I can do how deep is
the disgrace of such an acquaintance."
"I think you are very hard upon Eleanor," replied Mr.
Harding. "I will not allow that she has disgraced herself,
nor do I think it likely that she will do so. She has a
right to correspond with whom she pleases, and I shall not
take upon myself to blame her because she gets a letter from
Mr. Slope."
"I suppose," said Dr. Grantly, "you don't wish her to
marry the man. I suppose you'll admit that she would
disgrace herself if she did do so."
"I do not wish her to marry him," said the perplexed
father. "I do not like him, and do not think he would make a
good husband. But if Eleanor chooses to do so, I shall
certainly not think that she disgraces herself."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Dr. Grantly and threw himself
back into the corner of his brougham. Mr. Harding said
nothing more, but commenced playing a dirge with an
imaginary fiddle bow upon an imaginary violoncello, for
which there did not appear to be quite room enough in the
carriage; he continued the tune, with sundry variations,
till he arrived at the rectory door.
The archdeacon had been meditating sad things in his
mind. Hitherto he had always looked on his father-in-law as
a true partisan, though he knew him to be a man devoid of
all the combative qualifications for that character. He had
felt no fear that Mr. Harding would go over to the enemy,
though he had never counted much on the ex-warden's prowess
in breaking the hostile ranks. Now, however, it seemed that
Eleanor, with her wiles, had completely trepanned and
bewildered her father, cheated him out of his judgement,
robbed him of the predilections and tastes of his life, and
caused him to be tolerant of a man whose arrogance and
vulgarity would, a few years since, have been unendurable to
him. That the whole thing was as good as arranged between
Eleanor and Mr. Slope there was no longer any room to doubt.
That Mr. Harding knew that such was the case, even this
could hardly be doubted. It was too manifest that he at any
rate suspected it and was prepared to sanction it.
And to tell the truth, such was the case. Mr. Harding
disliked Mr. Slope as much as it was in his nature to
dislike any man. Had his daughter wished to do her worst to
displease him by a second marriage, she could hardly have
succeeded better than by marrying Mr. Slope. But, as he said
to himself now very often, what right had he to condemn her
if she did nothing that was really wrong? If she liked Mr.
Slope, it was her affair. It was indeed miraculous to him
that a woman with such a mind, so educated, so refined, so
nice in her tastes, should like such a man. Then he asked
himself whether it was possible that she did so.
Ah, thou weak man; most charitable, most Christian, but
weakest of men! Why couldn't thou not have asked herself?
Was she not the daughter of thy loins, the child of thy
heart, the best beloved to thee of all humanity? Had she not
proved to thee, by years of closest affection, her truth and
goodness and filial obedience? And yet, knowing and feeling
all this, thou couldst endure to go groping in darkness,
hearing her named in strains which wounded thy loving heart,
and being unable to defend her as thou shouldst have done!
Mr. Harding had not believed, did not believe, that his
daughter meant to marry this man, but he feared to commit
himself to such an opinion. If she did do it there would be
then no means of retreat. The wishes of his heart were:
first, that there should be no truth in the archdeacon's
surmises; and in this wish he would have fain trusted
entirely, had he dared so to do; secondly, that the match
might be prevented, if unfortunately, it had been
contemplated by Eleanor; thirdly, that should she be so
infatuated as to marry this man, he might justify his
conduct and declare that no cause existed for his separating
himself from her.
He wanted to believe her incapable of such a marriage; he
wanted to show that he so believed of her; but he wanted
also to be able to say hereafter that she had done nothing
amiss, if she should unfortunately prove herself to be
different from what he thought her to be.
Nothing but affection could justify such fickleness, but
affection did justify it. There was but little of the Roman
about Mr. Harding. He could not sacrifice his Lucretia even
though she should be polluted by the accepted addresses of
the clerical Tarquin at the palace. If Tarquin could be
prevented, well and good, but if not, the father would still
open his heart to his daughter and accept her as she
presented herself, Tarquin and all.
Dr. Grantly's mind was of a stronger calibre, and he was
by no means deficient in heart. He loved with an honest
genuine love his wife and children and friends. He loved his
father-in-law, and was quite prepared to love Eleanor too,
if she would be one of his party, if she would be on his
side, if she would regard the Slopes and the Proudies as the
enemies of mankind and acknowledge and feel the comfortable
merits of the Gwynnes and Arabins. He wished to be what he
called "safe" with all those whom he had admitted to the
penetralia of his house and heart. He could luxuriate in no
society that was deficient in a certain feeling of faithful,
staunch High Churchism, which to him was tantamount to
freemasonry. He was not strict in his lines of definition.
He endured without impatience many different shades of
Anglo-church conservatism; but with the Slopes and Proudies
he could not go on all fours.
He was wanting in, moreover, or perhaps it would be more
correct to say, he was not troubled by that womanly
tenderness which was so peculiar to Mr. Harding. His
feelings towards his friends were that while they stuck to
him, he would stick to them; that he would work with them
shoulder and shoulder; that he would be faithful to the
faithful. He knew nothing of that beautiful love which can
be true to a false friend.
And thus these two men, each miserable enough in his own
way, returned to Plumstead.
It was getting late when they arrived there, and the
ladies had already gone up to dress. Nothing more was said
as the two parted in the hall. As Mr. Harding passed to his
own room he knocked at Eleanor's door and handed in the
letter. The archdeacon hurried to his own territory, there
to unburden his heart to his faithful partner.
What colloquy took place between the marital chamber and
the adjoining dressing-room shall not be detailed. The
reader, now intimate with the persons concerned, can well
imagine it. The whole tenor of it also might be read in Mrs.
Grantly's brow as she came down to dinner.
Eleanor, when she received the letter from her father's
hand, had no idea from whom it came. She had never seen Mr.
Slope's handwriting, or if so had forgotten it, and did not
think of him as she twisted the letter as people do twist
letters when they do not immediately recognize their
correspondents either by the writing or the seal. She was
sitting at her glass, brushing her hair and rising every
other minute to play with her boy, who was sprawling on the
bed and who engaged pretty nearly the whole attention of the
maid as well as of his mother.
At last, sitting before her toilet-table, she broke the
seal and, turning over the leaf, saw Mr. Slope's name. She
first felt surprised, and then annoyed, and then anxious. As
she read it she became interested. She was so delighted to
find that all obstacles to her father's return to the
hospital were apparently removed that she did not observe
the fulsome language in which the tidings were conveyed. She
merely perceived that she was commissioned to tell her
father that such was the case, and she did not realize the
fact that such a communication should not have been made, in
the first instance, to her by an unmarried young clergyman.
She felt, on the whole, grateful to Mr. Slope and anxious to
get on her dress that she might run with the news to her
father. Then she came to the allusion to her own pious
labours, and she said in her heart that Mr. Slope was an
affected ass. Then she went on again and was offended by her
boy being called Mr. Slope's darling—he was nobody's darling
but her own, or at any rate not the darling of a
disagreeable stranger like Mr. Slope. Lastly she arrived at
the tresses and felt a qualm of disgust. She looked up in
the glass, and there they were before her, long and silken,
certainly, and very beautiful. I will not say but that she
knew them to be so, but she felt angry with them and brushed
them roughly and carelessly. She crumpled the letter up with
angry violence, and resolved, almost without thinking of it,
that she would not show it to her father. She would merely
tell him the contents of it. She then comforted herself
again with her boy, had her dress fastened, and went down to
dinner.
As she tripped down the stairs she began to ascertain
that there was some difficulty in her situation. She could
not keep from her father the news about the hospital, nor
could she comfortably confess the letter from Mr. Slope
before the Grantlys. Her father had already gone down. She
had heard his step upon the lobby. She resolved therefore to
take him aside and tell him her little bit of news. Poor
girl! She had no idea how severely the unfortunate letter
had already been discussed.
When she entered the drawing-room, the whole party were
there, including Mr. Arabin, and the whole party looked glum
and sour. The two girls sat silent and apart as though they
were aware that something was wrong. Even Mr. Arabin was
solemn and silent. Eleanor had not seen him since breakfast.
He had been the whole day at St. Ewold's, and such having
been the case, it was natural that he should tell how
matters were going on there. He did nothing of the kind,
however, but remained solemn and silent. They were all
solemn and silent. Eleanor knew in her heart that they had
been talking about her, and her heart misgave her as she
thought of Mr. Slope and his letter. At any rate she felt it
to be quite impossible to speak to her father alone while
matters were in this state.
Dinner was soon announced, and Dr. Grantly, as was his
wont, gave Eleanor his arm. But he did so as though the
doing it were an outrage on his feelings rendered necessary
by sternest necessity. With quick sympathy Eleanor felt
this, and hardly put her fingers on his coat-sleeve. It may
be guessed in what way the dinner-hour was passed. Dr.
Grantly said a few words to Mr. Arabin, Mr. Arabin said a
few words to Mrs. Grantly, she said a few words to her
father, and he tried to say a few words to Eleanor. She felt
that she had been tried and found guilty of something,
though she knew not what. She longed to say out to them all,
"Well, what is it that I have done; out with it, and let me
know my crime; for heaven's sake let me hear the worst of
it;" but she could not. She could say nothing, but sat there
silent, half-feeling that she was guilty, and trying in vain
to pretend even to eat her dinner.
At last the cloth was drawn, and the ladies were not long
following it. When they were gone, the gentlemen were
somewhat more sociable but not much so. They could not of
course talk over Eleanor's sins. The archdeacon had indeed
so far betrayed his sister-in-law as to whisper into Mr.
Arabin's ear in the study, as they met there before dinner,
a hint of what he feared. He did so with the gravest and
saddest of fears, and Mr. Arabin became grave and apparently
sad enough as he heard it. He opened his eyes, and his mouth
and said in a sort of whisper "Mr. Slope!" in the same way
as he might have said "The Cholera!" had his friend told him
that that horrid disease was in his nursery. "I fear so, I
fear so," said the archdeacon, and then together they left
the room.
We will not accurately analyse Mr. Arabin's feelings on
receipt of such astounding tidings. It will suffice to say
that he was surprised, vexed, sorrowful, and ill at ease. He
had not perhaps thought very much about Eleanor, but he had
appreciated her influence, and had felt that close intimacy
with her in a country-house was pleasant to him, and also
beneficial. He had spoken highly of her intelligence to the
archdeacon, and had walked about the shrubberies with her,
carrying her boy on his back. When Mr. Arabin had called
Johnny his darling, Eleanor was not angry.
Thus the three men sat over their wine, all thinking of
the same subject, but unable to speak of it to each other.
So we will leave them and follow the ladies into the
drawing-room.
Mrs. Grantly had received a commission from her husband,
and had undertaken it with some unwillingness. He had
desired her to speak gravely to Eleanor and to tell her
that, if she persisted in her adherence to Mr. Slope, she
could no longer look for the countenance of her present
friends. Mrs. Grantly probably knew her sister better than
the doctor did, and assured him that it would be in vain to
talk to her. The only course likely to be of any service in
her opinion was to keep Eleanor away from Barchester.
Perhaps she might have added, for she had a very keen eye in
such things, that there might also be ground for hope in
keeping Eleanor near Mr. Arabin. Of this, however, she said
nothing. But the archdeacon would not be talked over; he
spoke much of his conscience, and declared that, if Mrs.
Grantly would not do it, he would. So instigated, the lady
undertook the task, stating, however, her full conviction
that her interference would be worse than useless. And so it
proved.
As soon as they were in the drawing-room Mrs. Grantly
found some excuse for sending her girls away, and then began
her task. She knew well that she could exercise but very
slight authority over her sister. Their various modes of
life, and the distance between their residences, had
prevented any very close confidence. They had hardly lived
together since Eleanor was a child. Eleanor had, moreover,
especially in latter years, resented in a quiet sort of way
the dictatorial authority which the archdeacon seemed to
exercise over her father, and on this account had been
unwilling to allow the archdeacon's wife to exercise
authority over herself.
"You got a note just before dinner, I believe," began the
eldest sister.
Eleanor acknowledged that she had done so, and felt that
she turned red as she acknowledged it. She would have given
anything to have kept her colour, but the more she tried to
do so the more signally she failed.
"Was it not from Mr. Slope?"
Eleanor said that the letter was from Mr. Slope.
"Is he a regular correspondent of yours, Eleanor?"
"Not exactly," said she, already beginning to feel angry
at the cross-examination. She determined, and why it would
be difficult to say, that nothing should induce her to tell
her sister Susan what was the subject of the letter. Mrs.
Grantly, she knew, was instigated by the archdeacon, and she
would not plead to any arraignment made against her by him.
"But, Eleanor dear, why do you get letters from Mr. Slope
at all, knowing, as you do, he is a person so distasteful to
Papa, and to the archdeacon, and indeed to all your
friends?"
"In the first place, Susan, I don't get letters from him;
and in the next place, as Mr. Slope wrote the one letter
which I have got, and as I only received it, which I could
not very well help doing, as Papa handed it to me, I think
you had better ask Mr. Slope instead of me."
"What was his letter about, Eleanor?"
"I cannot tell you," said she, "because it was
confidential. It was on business respecting a third person."
"It was in no way personal to yourself then?"
"I won't exactly say that, Susan," said she, getting more
and more angry at her sister's questions.
"Well, I must say it's rather singular," said Mrs.
Grantly, affecting to laugh, "that a young lady in your
position should receive a letter from an unmarried gentleman
of which she will not tell the contents and which she is
ashamed to show to her sister."
"I am not ashamed," said Eleanor, blazing up. "I am not
ashamed of anything in the matter; only I do not choose to
be cross-examined as to my letters by anyone."
"Well, dear," said the other, "I cannot but tell you that
I do not think Mr. Slope a proper correspondent for you."
"If he be ever so improper, how can I help his having
written to me? But you are all prejudiced against him to
such an extent that that which would be kind and generous in
another man is odious and impudent in him. I hate a religion
that teaches one to be so one-sided in one's charity."
"I am sorry, Eleanor, that you hate the religion you find
here, but surely you should remember that in such matters
the archdeacon must know more of the world than you do. I
don't ask you to respect or comply with me, although I am,
unfortunately, so many years your senior; but surely, in
such a matter as this, you might consent to be guided by the
archdeacon. He is most anxious to be your friend, if you
will let him."
"In such a matter as what?" said Eleanor very testily.
"Upon my word I don't know what this is all about."
"We all want you to drop Mr. Slope."
"You all want me to be as illiberal as yourselves. That I
shall never be. I see no harm in Mr. Slope's acquaintance,
and I shall not insult the man by telling him that I do. He
has thought it necessary to write to me, and I do not want
the archdeacon's advice about the letter. If I did, I would
ask it."
"Then, Eleanor, it is my duty to tell you," and now she
spoke with a tremendous gravity, "that the archdeacon thinks
that such a correspondence is disgraceful, and that he
cannot allow it to go on in his house."
Eleanor's eyes flashed fire as she answered her sister,
jumping up from her seat as she did so. "You may tell the
archdeacon that wherever I am I shall receive what letters I
please and from whom I please. And as for the word
'disgraceful,' if Dr. Grantly has used it of me, he has been
unmanly and inhospitable," and she walked off to the door.
"When Papa comes from the dining-room I will thank you to
ask him to step up to my bedroom. I will show him Mr.
Slope's letter, but I will show it to no one else." And so
saying, she retreated to her baby.
She had no conception of the crime with which she was
charged. The idea that she could be thought by her friends
to regard Mr. Slope as a lover had never flashed upon her.
She conceived that they were all prejudiced and illiberal in
their persecution of him, and therefore she would not join
in the persecution, even though she greatly disliked the
man.
Eleanor was very angry as she seated herself in a low
chair by her open window at the foot of her child's bed. "To
dare to say I have disgraced myself," she repeated to
herself more than once. "How Papa can put up with that man's
arrogance! I will certainly not sit down to dinner in his
house again unless he begs my pardon for that word." And
then a thought struck her that Mr. Arabin might perchance
hear of her "disgraceful" correspondence with Mr. Slope, and
she turned crimson with pure vexation. Oh, if she had known
the truth! If she could have conceived that Mr. Arabin had
been informed as a fact that she was going to marry Mr.
Slope!
She had not been long in her room before her father
joined her. As he left the drawing-room Mrs. Grantly took
her husband into the recess of the window and told him how
signally she had failed.
"I will speak to her myself before I go to bed," said the
archdeacon.
"Pray do no such thing," said she; "you can do no good
and will only make an unseemly quarrel in the house. You
have no idea how headstrong she can be."
The archdeacon declared that as to that he was quite
indifferent. He knew his duty and would do it. Mr. Harding
was weak in the extreme in such matters. He would not have
it hereafter on his conscience that he had not done all that
in him lay to prevent so disgraceful an alliance. It was in
vain that Mrs. Grantly assured him that speaking to Eleanor
angrily would only hasten such a crisis and render it
certain, if at present there were any doubt. He was angry,
self-willed, and sore. The fact that a lady of his household
had received a letter from Mr. Slope had wounded his pride
in the sorest place, and nothing could control him.
Mr. Harding looked worn and woe-begone as he entered his
daughter's room. These sorrows worried him sadly. He felt
that if they were continued, he must go to the wall in the
manner so kindly prophesied to him by the chaplain. He
knocked gently at his daughter's door, waited till he was
distinctly bade to enter, and then appeared as though he and
not she were the suspected criminal.
Eleanor's arm was soon within his, and she had soon
kissed his forehead and caressed him, not with joyous but
with eager love. "Oh, Papa," she said, "I do so want to
speak to you. They have been talking about me downstairs
to-night—don't you know they have, Papa?"
Mr. Harding confessed with a sort of murmur that the
archdeacon had been speaking of her.
"I shall hate Dr. Grantly soon—"
"Oh, my dear!"
"Well, I shall. I cannot help it. He is so uncharitable,
so unkind, so suspicious of everyone that does not worship
himself: and then he is so monstrously arrogant to other
people who have a right to their opinions as well as he has
to his own."
"He is an earnest, eager man, my dear, but he never means
to be unkind."
"He is unkind, Papa, most unkind. There, I got that
letter from Mr. Slope before dinner. It was you yourself who
gave it to me. There, pray read it. It is all for you. It
should have been addressed to you. You know how they have
been talking about it downstairs. You know how they behaved
to me at dinner. And since dinner Susan has been preaching
to me, till I could not remain in the room with her. Read
it, Papa, and then say whether that is a letter that need
make Dr. Grantly so outrageous."
Mr. Harding took his arm from his daughter's waist and
slowly read the letter. She expected to see his countenance
lit with joy as he learnt that his path back to the hospital
was made so smooth; but she was doomed to disappointment, as
had once been the case before on a somewhat similar
occasion. His first feeling was one of unmitigated disgust
that Mr. Slope should have chosen to interfere in his
behalf. He had been anxious to get back to the hospital, but
he would have infinitely sooner resigned all pretensions to
the place than have owed it in any manner to Mr. Slope's
influence in his favour. Then he thoroughly disliked the
tone of Mr. Slope's letter; it was unctuous, false, and
unwholesome, like the man. He saw, which Eleanor had failed
to see, that much more had been intended than was expressed.
The appeal to Eleanor's pious labours as separate from his
own grated sadly against his feelings as a father. And then,
when he came to the "darling boy" and the "silken tresses,"
he slowly closed and folded the letter in despair. It was
impossible that Mr. Slope should so write unless he had been
encouraged. It was impossible Eleanor should have received
such a letter, and have received it without annoyance,
unless she were willing to encourage him. So at least Mr.
Harding argued to himself.
How hard it is to judge accurately of the feelings of
others. Mr. Harding, as he came to the close of the letter,
in his heart condemned his daughter for indelicacy, and it
made him miserable to do so. She was not responsible for
what Mr. Slope might write. True. But then she expressed no
disgust at it. She had rather expressed approval of the
letter as a whole. She had given it to him to read, as a
vindication for herself and also for him. The father's
spirits sank within him as he felt that he could not acquit
her.
And yet it was the true feminine delicacy of Eleanor's
mind which brought on her this condemnation. Listen to me,
ladies, and I beseech you to acquit her. She thought of this
man, this lover of whom she was so unconscious, exactly as
her father did, exactly as the Grantlys did. At least she
esteemed him personally as they did. But she believed him to
be in the main an honest man, and one truly inclined to
assist her father. She felt herself bound, after what had
passed, to show this letter to Mr. Harding. She thought it
necessary that he should know what Mr. Slope had to say. But
she did not think it necessary to apologize for, or condemn,
or even allude to the vulgarity of the man's tone, which
arose, as does all vulgarity, from ignorance. It was
nauseous to her to have a man like Mr. Slope commenting on
her personal attractions, and she did not think it necessary
to dilate with her father upon what was nauseous. She never
supposed they could disagree on such a subject. It would
have been painful for her to point it out, painful for her
to speak strongly against a man of whom, on the whole, she
was anxious to think and speak well. In encountering such a
man she had encountered what was disagreeable, as she might
do in walking the streets. But in such encounters she never
thought it necessary to dwell on what disgusted her.
And he, foolish, weak, loving man, would not say one
word, though one word would have cleared up everything.
There would have been a deluge of tears, and in ten minutes
everyone in the house would have understood how matters
really were. The father would have been delighted. The
sister would have kissed her sister and begged a thousand
pardons. The archdeacon would have apologized and wondered,
and raised his eyebrows, and gone to bed a happy man. And
Mr. Arabin—Mr. Arabin would have dreamt of Eleanor, have
awoke in the morning with ideas of love, and retired to rest
the next evening with schemes of marriage. But, alas, all
this was not to be.
Mr. Harding slowly folded the letter, handed it back to
her, kissed her forehead, and bade God bless her. He then
crept slowly away to his own room.
As soon as he had left the passage, another knock was
given at Eleanor's door, and Mrs. Grantly's very demure own
maid, entering on tiptoe, wanted to know would Mrs. Bold be
so kind as to speak to the archdeacon for two minutes in the
archdeacon's study, if not disagreeable. The archdeacon's
compliments, and he wouldn't detain her two minutes.
Eleanor thought it was very disagreeable; she was tired
and fagged and sick at heart; her present feelings towards
Dr. Grantly were anything but those of affection. She was,
however, no coward, and therefore promised to be in the
study in five minutes. So she arranged her hair, tied on her
cap, and went down with a palpitating heart.
CHAPTER XXIX
A Serious Interview
There are people who delight in serious interviews,
especially when to them appertains the part of offering
advice or administering rebuke, and perhaps the archdeacon
was one of these. Yet on this occasion he did not prepare
himself for the coming conversation with much anticipation
of pleasure. Whatever might be his faults he was not an
inhospitable man, and he almost felt that he was sinning
against hospitality in upbraiding Eleanor in his own house.
Then, also, he was not quite sure that he would get the best
of it. His wife had told him that he decidedly would not,
and he usually gave credit to what his wife said. He was,
however, so convinced of what he considered to be the
impropriety of Eleanor's conduct, and so assured also of his
own duty in trying to check it, that his conscience would
not allow him to take his wife's advice and go to bed
quietly.
Eleanor's face as she entered the room was not such as to
reassure him. As a rule she was always mild in manner and
gentle in conduct; but there was that in her eye which made
it not an easy task to scold her. In truth she had been
little used to scolding. No one since her childhood had
tried it but the archdeacon, and he had generally failed
when he did try it. He had never done so since her marriage;
and now, when he saw her quiet, easy step as she entered his
room, he almost wished that he had taken his wife's advice.
He began by apologizing for the trouble he was giving
her. She begged him not to mention it, assured him that
walking downstairs was no trouble to her at all, and then
took a seat and waited patiently for him to begin his
attack.
"My dear Eleanor," he said, "I hope you believe me when I
assure you that you have no sincerer friend than I am." To
this Eleanor answered nothing, and therefore he proceeded.
"If you had a brother of your own, I should not probably
trouble you with what I am going to say. But as it is I
cannot but think that it must be a comfort to you to know
that you have near you one who is as anxious for your
welfare as any brother of your own could be."
"I never had a brother," said she.
"I know you never had, and it is therefore that I speak
to you."
"I never had a brother," she repeated, "but I have hardly
felt the want. Papa has been to me both father and brother."
"Your father is the fondest and most affectionate of men.
But—"
"He is—the fondest and most affectionate of men, and the
best of counsellors. While he lives I can never want
advice."
This rather put the archdeacon out. He could not exactly
contradict what his sister-in-law said about her father, and
yet he did not at all agree with her. He wanted her to
understand that he tendered his assistance because her
father was a soft, good-natured gentleman not sufficiently
knowing in the ways of the world; but he could not say this
to her. So he had to rush into the subject-matter of his
proffered counsel without any acknowledgement on her part
that she could need it, or would be grateful for it.
"Susan tells me that you received a letter this evening
from Mr. Slope."
"Yes; Papa brought it in the brougham. Did he not tell
you?"
"And Susan says that you objected to let her know what it
was about."
"I don't think she asked me. But had she done so, I
should not have told her. I don't think it nice to be asked
about one's letters. If one wishes to show them, one does so
without being asked."
"True. Quite so. What you say is quite true. But is not
the fact of your receiving letters from Mr. Slope, which you
do not wish to show to your friends, a circumstance which
must excite some—some surprise—some suspicion—"
"Suspicion!" said she, not speaking above her usual
voice, speaking still in a soft, womanly tone but yet with
indignation. "Suspicion! And who suspects me, and of what?"
And then there was a pause, for the archdeacon was not quite
ready to explain the ground of his suspicion. "No, Dr.
Grantly, I did not choose to show Mr. Slope's letter to
Susan. I could not show it to anyone till Papa had seen it.
If you have any wish to read it now, you can do so," and she
handed the letter to him over the table.
This was an amount of compliance which he had not at all
expected, and which rather upset him in his tactics.
However, he took the letter, perused it carefully, and then
refolding it, kept it on the table under his hand. To him it
appeared to be in almost every respect the letter of a
declared lover; it seemed to corroborate his worst
suspicions; and the fact of Eleanor's showing it to him was
all but tantamount to a declaration on her part that it was
her pleasure to receive love-letters from Mr. Slope. He
almost entirely overlooked the real subject-matter of the
epistle, so intent was he on the forthcoming courtship and
marriage.
"I'll thank you to give it me back, if you please, Dr.
Grantly."
He took it in his hand and held it up, but made no
immediate overture to return it. "And Mr. Harding has seen
this?" said he.
"Of course he has," said she; "it was written that he
might see it. It refers solely to his business—of course I
showed it to him."
"And, Eleanor, do you think that that is a proper letter
for you—for a person in your condition—to receive from Mr.
Slope?"
"Quite a proper letter," said she, speaking, perhaps, a
little out of obstinacy, probably forgetting at the moment
the objectionable mention of her silken curls.
"Then, Eleanor, it is my duty to tell you that I wholly
differ from you."
"So I suppose," said she, instigated now by sheer
opposition and determination not to succumb. "You think Mr.
Slope is a messenger direct from Satan. I think he is an
industrious, well-meaning clergyman. It's a pity that we
differ as we do. But, as we do differ, we had probably
better not talk about it."
Here Eleanor undoubtedly put herself in the wrong. She
might probably have refused to talk to Dr. Grantly on the
matter in dispute without any impropriety, but, having
consented to listen to him, she had no business to tell him
that he regarded Mr. Slope as an emissary from the evil one;
nor was she justified in praising Mr. Slope, seeing that in
her heart of hearts she did not think well of him. She was,
however, wounded in spirit, and angry, and bitter. She had
been subjected to contumely and cross-questioning and
ill-usage through the whole evening. No one, not even Mr.
Arabin, not even her father, had been kind to her. All this
she attributed to the prejudice and conceit of the
archdeacon, and therefore she resolved to set no bounds to
her antagonism to him. She would neither give nor take
quarter. He had greatly presumed in daring to question her
about her correspondence, and she was determined to show
that she thought so.
"Eleanor, you are forgetting yourself," said he, looking
very sternly at her. "Otherwise you would never tell me that
I conceive any man to be a messenger from Satan."
"But you do," said she. "Nothing is too bad for him. Give
me that letter, if you please;" and she stretched out her
hand and took it from him. "He has been doing his best to
serve Papa, doing more than any of Papa's friends could do;
and yet, because he is the chaplain of a bishop whom you
don't like, you speak of him as though he had no right to
the usage of a gentleman."
"He has done nothing for your father."
"I believe that he has done a great deal; and, as far as
I am concerned, I am grateful to him. Nothing that you can
say can prevent my being so. I judge people by their acts,
and his, as far as I can see them, are good." She then
paused for a moment. "If you have nothing further to say, I
shall be obliged by being permitted to say good night—I am
very tired."
Dr. Grantly had, as he thought, done his best to be
gracious to his sister-in-law. He had endeavoured not to be
harsh to her, and had striven to pluck the sting from his
rebuke. But he did not intend that she should leave him
without hearing him.
"I have something to say, Eleanor, and I fear I must
trouble you to hear it. You profess that it is quite proper
that you should receive from Mr. Slope such letters as that
you have in your hand. Susan and I think very differently.
You are, of course, your own mistress, and much as we both
must grieve should anything separate you from us, we have no
power to prevent you from taking steps which may lead to
such a separation. If you are so wilful as to reject the
counsel of your friends, you must be allowed to cater for
yourself. But, Eleanor, I may at any rate ask you this. Is
it worth your while to break away from all those you have
loved—from all who love you—for the sake of Mr. Slope?"
"I don't know what you mean, Dr. Grantly; I don't know
what you're talking about. I don't want to break away from
anybody."
"But you will do so if you connect yourself with Mr.
Slope. Eleanor, I must speak out to you. You must choose
between your sister and myself and our friends, and Mr.
Slope and his friends. I say nothing of your father, as you
may probably understand his feelings better than I do."
"What do you mean, Dr. Grantly? What am I to understand?
I never heard such wicked prejudice in my life."
"It is no prejudice, Eleanor. I have known the world
longer than you have done. Mr. Slope is altogether beneath
you. You ought to know and feel that he is so. Pray—pray
think of this before it is too late."
"Too late!"
"Or if you will not believe me, ask Susan; you cannot
think she is prejudiced against you. Or even consult your
father—he is not prejudiced against you. Ask Mr. Arabin—"
"You haven't spoken to Mr. Arabin about this!" said she,
jumping up and standing before him.
"Eleanor, all the world in and about Barchester will be
speaking of it soon."
"But have you spoken to Mr. Arabin about me and Mr.
Slope?"
"Certainly I have, and he quite agrees with me."
"Agrees with what?" said she. "I think you are trying to
drive me mad."
"He agrees with me and Susan that it is quite impossible
you should be received at Plumstead as Mrs. Slope."
Not being favourites with the tragic muse, we do not dare
to attempt any description of Eleanor's face when she first
heard the name of Mrs. Slope pronounced as that which would
or should or might at some time appertain to herself. The
look, such as it was, Dr. Grantly did not soon forget. For a
moment or two she could find no words to express her deep
anger and deep disgust; indeed, at this conjuncture, words
did not come to her very freely.
"How dare you be so impertinent?" at last she said, and
then she hurried out of the room without giving the
archdeacon the opportunity of uttering another word. It was
with difficulty she contained herself till she reached her
own room; and then, locking the door, she threw herself on
her bed and sobbed as though her heart would break.
But even yet she had no conception of the truth. She had
no idea that her father and her sister had for days past
conceived in sober earnest the idea that she was going to
marry this man. She did not even then believe that the
archdeacon thought that she would do so. By some manoeuvre
of her brain she attributed the origin of the accusation to
Mr. Arabin, and as she did so her anger against him was
excessive, and the vexation of her spirit almost
unendurable. She could not bring herself to think that the
charge was made seriously. It appeared to her most probable
that the archdeacon and Mr. Arabin had talked over her
objectionable acquaintance with Mr. Slope; that Mr. Arabin
in his jeering, sarcastic way had suggested the odious match
as being the severest way of treating with contumely her
acquaintance with his enemy; and that the archdeacon, taking
the idea from him, thought proper to punish her by the
allusion. The whole night she lay awake thinking of what had
been said, and this appeared to be the most probable
solution.
But the reflexion that Mr. Arabin should have in any way
mentioned her name in connexion with that of Mr. Slope was
overpowering; and the spiteful ill-nature of the archdeacon
in repeating the charge to her made her wish to leave his
house almost before the day had broken. One thing was
certain: nothing should make her stay there beyond the
following morning, and nothing should make her sit down to
breakfast in company with Dr. Grantly. When she thought of
the man whose name had been linked with her own, she cried
from sheer disgust. It was only because she would be thus
disgusted, thus pained and shocked and cut to the quick,
that the archdeacon had spoken the horrid word. He wanted to
make her quarrel with Mr. Slope, and therefore he had
outraged her by his abominable vulgarity. She determined
that at any rate he should know that she appreciated it.
Nor was the archdeacon a bit better satisfied with the
result of his serious interview than was Eleanor. He
gathered from it, as indeed he could hardly fail to do, that
she was very angry with him, but he thought that she was
thus angry, not because she was suspected of an intention to
marry Mr. Slope, but because such an intention was imputed
to her as a crime. Dr. Grantly regarded this supposed union
with disgust, but it never occurred to him that Eleanor was
outraged because she looked at it exactly in the same light.
He returned to his wife, vexed and somewhat disconsolate,
but nevertheless confirmed in his wrath against his
sister-in-law. "Her whole behaviour," said he, "has been
most objectionable. She handed me his love-letter to read as
though she were proud of it. And she is proud of it. She is
proud of having this slavering, greedy man at her feet. She
will throw herself and John Bold's money into his lap; she
will ruin her boy, disgrace her father and you, and be a
wretched miserable woman."
His spouse, who was sitting at her toilet-table,
continued her avocations, making no answer to all this. She
had known that the archdeacon would gain nothing by
interfering, but she was too charitable to provoke him by
saying so while he was in such deep sorrow.
"This comes of a man making such a will as that of
Bold's," he continued. "Eleanor is no more fitted to be
trusted with such an amount of money in her own hands than
is a charity-school girl." Still Mrs. Grantly made no reply.
"But I have done my duty; I can do nothing further. I have
told her plainly that she cannot be allowed to form a link
of connexion between me and that man. From henceforward it
will not be in my power to make her welcome at Plumstead. I
cannot have Mr. Slope's love-letters coming here. Susan, I
think you had better let her understand that, as her mind on
this subject seems to be irrevocably fixed, it will be
better for all parties that she should return to
Barchester."
Now Mrs. Grantly was angry with Eleanor—nearly as angry
as her husband—but she had no idea of turning her sister out
of the house. She therefore at length spoke out and
explained to the archdeacon in her own mild, seducing way
that he was fuming and fussing and fretting himself very
unnecessarily. She declared that things, if left alone,
would arrange themselves much better than he could arrange
them, and at last succeeded in inducing him to go to bed in
a somewhat less inhospitable state of mind.
On the following morning Eleanor's maid was commissioned
to send word into the dining-room that her mistress was not
well enough to attend prayers and that she would breakfast
in her own room. Here she was visited by her father, and
declared to him her intention of returning immediately to
Barchester. He was hardly surprised by the announcement. All
the household seemed to be aware that something had gone
wrong. Everyone walked about with subdued feet, and people's
shoes seemed to creak more than usual. There was a look of
conscious intelligence on the faces of the women, and the
men attempted, but in vain, to converse as though nothing
were the matter. All this had weighed heavily on the heart
of Mr. Harding, and when Eleanor told him that her immediate
return to Barchester was a necessity, he merely sighed
piteously and said that he would be ready to accompany her.
But here she objected strenuously. She had a great wish,
she said, to go alone; a great desire that it might be seen
that her father was not implicated in her quarrel with Dr.
Grantly. To this at last he gave way; but not a word passed
between them about Mr. Slope—not a word was said, not a
question asked as to the serious interview on the preceding
evening. There was, indeed, very little confidence between
them, though neither of them knew why it should be so.
Eleanor once asked him whether he would not call upon the
bishop, but he answered rather tartly that he did not
know—he did not think he should, but he could not say just
at present. And so they parted. Each was miserably anxious
for some show of affection, for some return of confidence,
for some sign of the feeling that usually bound them
together. But none was given. The father could not bring
himself to question his daughter about her supposed lover,
and the daughter would not sully her mouth by repeating the
odious word with which Dr. Grantly had roused her wrath. And
so they parted.
There was some trouble in arranging the method of
Eleanor's return. She begged her father to send for a
post-chaise, but when Mrs. Grantly heard of this, she
objected strongly. If Eleanor would go away in dudgeon with
the archdeacon, why should she let all the servants and all
the neighbourhood know that she had done so? So at last
Eleanor consented to make use of the Plumstead carriage, and
as the archdeacon had gone out immediately after breakfast
and was not to return till dinner-time, she also consented
to postpone her journey till after lunch, and to join the
family at that time. As to the subject of the quarrel not a
word was said by anyone. The affair of the carriage was
arranged by Mr. Harding, who acted as Mercury between the
two ladies; they, when they met, kissed each other very
lovingly and then sat down each to her crochet work as
though nothing was amiss in all the world.
CHAPTER XXX
Another Love Scene
But there was another visitor at the rectory whose
feelings in this unfortunate matter must be somewhat
strictly analysed. Mr. Arabin had heard from his friend of
the probability of Eleanor's marriage with Mr. Slope with
amazement, but not with incredulity. It has been said that
he was not in love with Eleanor, and up to this period this
certainly had been true. But as soon as he heard that she
loved someone else, he began to be very fond of her himself.
He did not make up his mind that he wished to have her for
his wife; he had never thought of her, and did not now think
of her, in connexion with himself; but he experienced an
inward, indefinable feeling of deep regret, a gnawing
sorrow, an unconquerable depression of spirits, and also a
species of self-abasement that he—he, Mr. Arabin—had not
done something to prevent that other he, that vile he whom
he so thoroughly despised, from carrying off this sweet
prize.
Whatever man may have reached the age of forty unmarried
without knowing something of such feelings must have been
very successful or else very cold-hearted.
Mr. Arabin had never thought of trimming the sails of his
bark so that he might sail as convoy to this rich argosy. He
had seen that Mrs. Bold was beautiful, but he had not dreamt
of making her beauty his own. He knew that Mrs. Bold was
rich, but he had had no more idea of appropriating her
wealth than that of Dr. Grantly. He had discovered that Mrs.
Bold was intelligent, warm-hearted, agreeable, sensible, all
in fact that a man could wish his wife to be; but the higher
were her attractions, the greater her claims to
consideration, the less had he imagined that he might
possibly become the possessor of them. Such had been his
instinct rather than his thoughts, so humble and so
diffident. Now his diffidence was to be rewarded by his
seeing this woman, whose beauty was to his eyes perfect,
whose wealth was such as to have deterred him from thinking
of her, whose widowhood would have silenced him had he not
been so deterred, by his seeing her become the prey
of—Obadiah Slope!
On the morning of Mrs. Bold's departure he got on his
horse to ride over to St. Ewold's. As he rode he kept
muttering to himself a line from Van Artevelde,
How little flattering is woman's
love.
And then he strove to recall his mind
and to think of other affairs—his parish, his college, his
creed—but his thoughts would revert to Mr. Slope and the
Flemish chieftain.
When we think
upon it,
How little flattering is woman's love,
Given commonly to whosoe'er is nearest
And propped with most advantage.
It was not that Mrs. Bold should marry
anyone but him—he had not put himself forward as a
suitor—but that she should marry Mr. Slope; and so he
repeated over again—
Outward
grace
Nor inward light is needful—day by day
Men wanting both are mated with the best
And loftiest of God's feminine creation,
Whose love takes no distinction but of gender,
And ridicules the very name of choice.
And so he went on, troubled much in his
mind.
He had but an uneasy ride of it that morning, and little
good did he do at St. Ewold's.
The necessary alterations in his house were being fast
completed, and he walked through the rooms, and went up and
down the stairs, and rambled through the garden, but he
could not wake himself to much interest about them. He stood
still at every window to look out and think upon Mr. Slope.
At almost every window he had before stood and chatted with
Eleanor. She and Mrs. Grantly had been there continually;
and while Mrs. Grantly had been giving orders, and seeing
that orders had been complied with, he and Eleanor had
conversed on all things appertaining to a clergyman's
profession. He thought how often he had laid down the law to
her and how sweetly she had borne with his somewhat
dictatorial decrees. He remembered her listening
intelligence, her gentle but quick replies, her interest in
all that concerned the church, in all that concerned him;
and then he struck his riding-whip against the window-sill
and declared to himself that it was impossible that Eleanor
Bold should marry Mr. Slope.
And yet he did not really believe, as he should have
done, that it was impossible. He should have known her well
enough to feel that it was truly impossible. He should have
been aware that Eleanor had that within her which would
surely protect her from such degradation. But he, like so
many others, was deficient in confidence in woman. He said
to himself over and over again that it was impossible that
Eleanor Bold should become Mrs. Slope, and yet he believed
that she would do so. And so he rambled about, and could do
and think of nothing. He was thoroughly uncomfortable,
thoroughly ill at ease, cross with himself and everybody
else, and feeding in his heart on animosity towards Mr.
Slope. This was not as it should be, as he knew and felt,
but he could not help himself. In truth Mr. Arabin was now
in love with Mrs. Bold, though ignorant of the fact himself.
He was in love and, though forty years old, was in love
without being aware of it. He fumed and fretted and did not
know what was the matter, as a youth might do at
one-and-twenty. And so having done no good at St. Ewold's,
he rode back much earlier than was usual with him,
instigated by some inward, unacknowledged hope that he might
see Mrs. Bold before she left.
Eleanor had not passed a pleasant morning. She was
irritated with everyone, and not least with herself. She
felt that she had been hardly used, but she felt also that
she had not played her own cards well. She should have held
herself so far above suspicion as to have received her
sister's innuendoes and the archdeacon's lecture with
indifference. She had not done this, but had shown herself
angry and sore, and was now ashamed of her own petulance,
yet unable to discontinue it.
The greater part of the morning she had spent alone, but
after awhile her father joined her. He had fully made up his
mind that, come what come might, nothing should separate him
from his younger daughter. It was a hard task for him to
reconcile himself to the idea of seeing her at the head of
Mr. Slope's table, but he got through it. Mr. Slope, as he
argued to himself, was a respectable man and a clergyman,
and he, as Eleanor's father, had no right even to endeavour
to prevent her from marrying such a one. He longed to tell
her how he had determined to prefer her to all the world,
how he was prepared to admit that she was not wrong, how
thoroughly he differed from Dr. Grantly; but he could not
bring himself to mention Mr. Slope's name. There was yet a
chance that they were all wrong in their surmise, and being
thus in doubt, he could not bring himself to speak openly to
her on the subject.
He was sitting with her in the drawing-room, with his arm
round her waist, saying every now and then some little soft
words of affection and working hard with his imaginary
fiddle-bow, when Mr. Arabin entered the room. He immediately
got up, and the two made some trite remarks to each other,
neither thinking of what he was saying, while Eleanor kept
her seat on the sofa, mute and moody. Mr. Arabin was
included in the list of those against whom her anger was
excited. He, too, had dared to talk about her acquaintance
with Mr. Slope; he, too, had dared to blame her for not
making an enemy of his enemy. She had not intended to see
him before her departure, and was now but little inclined to
be gracious.
There was a feeling through the whole house that
something was wrong. Mr. Arabin, when he saw Eleanor, could
not succeed in looking or in speaking as though he knew
nothing of all this. He could not be cheerful and positive
and contradictory with her, as was his wont. He had not been
two minutes in the room before he felt that he had done
wrong to return; and the moment he heard her voice, he
thoroughly wished himself back at St. Ewold's. Why, indeed,
should he have wished to have aught further to say to the
future wife of Mr. Slope?
"I am sorry to hear that you are to leave us so soon,"
said he, striving in vain to use his ordinary voice. In
answer to this she muttered something about the necessity of
her being in Barchester, and betook herself most
industriously to her crochet work.
Then there was a little more trite conversation between
Mr. Arabin and Mr. Harding—trite, and hard, and vapid, and
senseless. Neither of them had anything to say to the other,
and yet neither at such a moment liked to remain silent. At
last Mr. Harding, taking advantage of a pause, escaped out
of the room, and Eleanor and Mr. Arabin were left together.
"Your going will be a great break-up to our party," said
he.
She again muttered something which was all but inaudible,
but kept her eyes fixed upon her work.
"We have had a very pleasant month here," said he; "at
least I have; and I am sorry it should be so soon over."
"I have already been from home longer than I intended,"
said she, "and it is time that I should return."
"Well, pleasant hours and pleasant days must come to an
end. It is a pity that so few of them are pleasant; or
perhaps, rather—"
"It is a pity, certainly, that men and women do so much
to destroy the pleasantness of their days," said she,
interrupting him. "It is a pity that there should be so
little charity abroad."
"Charity should begin at home," said he, and he was
proceeding to explain that he as a clergyman could not be
what she would call charitable at the expense of those
principles which he considered it his duty to teach, when he
remembered that it would be worse than vain to argue on such
a matter with the future wife of Mr. Slope. "But you are
just leaving us," he continued, "and I will not weary your
last hour with another lecture. As it is, I fear I have
given you too many."
"You should practise as well as preach, Mr. Arabin."
"Undoubtedly I should. So should we all. All of us who
presume to teach are bound to do our utmost towards
fulfilling our own lessons. I thoroughly allow my deficiency
in doing so, but I do not quite know now to what you allude.
Have you any special reason for telling me now that I should
practise as well as preach?"
Eleanor made no answer. She longed to let him know the
cause of her anger, to upbraid him for speaking of her
disrespectfully, and then at last to forgive him, and so
part friends. She felt that she would be unhappy to leave
him in her present frame of mind, but yet she could hardly
bring herself to speak to him of Mr. Slope. And how could
she allude to the innuendo thrown out by the archdeacon, and
thrown out, as she believed, at the instigation of Mr.
Arabin? She wanted to make him know that he was wrong, to
make him aware that he had ill-treated her, in order that
the sweetness of her forgiveness might be enhanced. She felt
that she liked him too well to be contented to part with him
in displeasure, yet she could not get over her deep
displeasure without some explanation, some acknowledgement
on his part, some assurance that he would never again so sin
against her.
"Why do you tell me that I should practise what I
preach?" continued he.
"All men should do so."
"Certainly. That is as it were understood and
acknowledged. But you do not say so to all men, or to all
clergymen. The advice, good as it is, is not given except in
allusion to some special deficiency. If you will tell me my
special deficiency, I will endeavour to profit by the
advice."
She paused for awhile and then, looking full in his face,
she said, "You are not bold enough, Mr. Arabin, to speak out
to me openly and plainly, and yet you expect me, a woman, to
speak openly to you. Why did you speak calumny of me to Dr.
Grantly behind my back?"
"Calumny!" said he, and his whole face became suffused
with blood. "What calumny? If I have spoken calumny of you,
I will beg your pardon, and his to whom I spoke it, and
God's pardon also. But what calumny have I spoken of you to
Dr. Grantly?"
She also blushed deeply. She could not bring herself to
ask him whether he had not spoken of her as another man's
wife. "You know that best yourself," said she. "But I ask
you as a man of honour, if you have not spoken of me as you
would not have spoken of your own sister—or rather I will
not ask you," she continued, finding that he did not
immediately answer her. "I will not put you to the necessity
of answering such a question. Dr. Grantly has told me what
you said."
"Dr. Grantly certainly asked me for my advice, and I gave
it. He asked me—"
"I know he did, Mr. Arabin. He asked you whether he would
be doing right to receive me at Plumstead if I continued my
acquaintance with a gentleman who happens to be personally
disagreeable to yourself and to him."
"You are mistaken, Mrs. Bold. I have no personal
knowledge of Mr. Slope; I never met him in my life."
"You are not the less individually hostile to him. It is
not for me to question the propriety of your enmity, but I
had a right to expect that my name should not have been
mixed up in your hostilities. This has been done, and been
done by you in a manner the most injurious and the most
distressing to me as a woman. I must confess, Mr. Arabin,
that from you I expected a different sort of usage."
As she spoke she with difficulty restrained her tears—but
she did restrain them. Had she given way and sobbed aloud,
as in such cases a woman should do, he would have melted at
once, implored her pardon, perhaps knelt at her feet and
declared his love. Everything would have been explained, and
Eleanor would have gone back to Barchester with a contented
mind. How easily would she have forgiven and forgotten the
archdeacon's suspicions had she but heard the whole truth
from Mr. Arabin. But then where would have been my novel?
She did not cry, and Mr. Arabin did not melt.
"You do me an injustice," said he. "My advice was asked
by Dr. Grantly, and I was obliged to give it."
"Dr. Grantly has been most officious, most impertinent. I
have as complete a right to form my acquaintance as he has
to form his. What would you have said had I consulted you as
to the propriety of my banishing Dr. Grantly from my house
because he knows Lord Tattenham Corner? I am sure Lord
Tattenham is quite as objectionable an acquaintance for a
clergyman as Mr. Slope is for a clergyman's daughter."
"I do not know Lord Tattenham Corner."
"No, but Dr. Grantly does. It is nothing to me if he
knows all the young lords on every race-course in England. I
shall not interfere with him, nor shall he with me."
"I am sorry to differ with you, Mrs. Bold, but as you
have spoken to me on this matter, and especially as you
blame me for what little I said on the subject, I must tell
you that I do differ from you. Dr. Grantly's position as a
man in the world gives him a right to choose his own
acquaintances, subject to certain influences. If he chooses
them badly, those influences will be used. If he consorts
with persons unsuitable to him, his bishop will interfere.
What the bishop is to Dr. Grantly, Dr. Grantly is to you."
"I deny it. I utterly deny it," said Eleanor, jumping
from her seat and literally flashing before Mr. Arabin, as
she stood on the drawing-room floor. He had never seen her
so excited, he had never seen her look half so beautiful.
"I utterly deny it," said she. "Dr. Grantly has no sort
of jurisdiction over me whatsoever. Do you and he forget
that I am not altogether alone in the world? Do you forget
that I have a father? Dr. Grantly, I believe, always has
forgotten it.
"From you, Mr. Arabin," she continued, "I would have
listened to advice because I should have expected it to have
been given as one friend may advise another—not as a
schoolmaster gives an order to a pupil. I might have
differed from you—on this matter I should have done so—but
had you spoken to me in your usual manner and with your
usual freedom, I should not have been angry. But now—was it
manly of you, Mr. Arabin, to speak of me in this way—so
disrespectful—so—? I cannot bring myself to repeat what you
said. You must understand what I feel. Was it just of you to
speak of me in such a way and to advise my sister's husband
to turn me out of my sister's house because I chose to know
a man of whose doctrine you disapprove?"
"I have no alternative left to me, Mrs. Bold," said he,
standing with his back to the fire-place, looking down
intently at the carpet pattern, and speaking with a slow,
measured voice, "but to tell you plainly what did take place
between me and Dr. Grantly."
"Well," said she, finding that he paused for a moment.
"I am afraid that what I may say may pain you."
"It cannot well do so more than what you have already
done," said she.
"Dr. Grantly asked me whether I thought it would be
prudent for him to receive you in his house as the wife of
Mr. Slope, and I told him that I thought it would be
imprudent. Believing it to be utterly impossible that Mr.
Slope and—"
"Thank you, Mr. Arabin, that is sufficient. I do not want
to know your reasons," said she, speaking with a terribly
calm voice. "I have shown to this gentleman the commonplace
civility of a neighbour; and because I have done so, because
I have not indulged against him in all the rancour and
hatred which you and Dr. Grantly consider due to all
clergymen who do not agree with yourselves, you conclude
that I am to marry him; or rather you do not conclude so—no
rational man could really come to such an outrageous
conclusion without better ground; you have not thought so,
but, as I am in a position in which such an accusation must
be peculiarly painful, it is made in order that I may be
terrified into hostility against this enemy of yours."
As she finished speaking, she walked to the drawing-room
window and stepped out into the garden. Mr. Arabin was left
in the room, still occupied in counting the pattern on the
carpet. He had, however, distinctly heard and accurately
marked every word that she had spoken. Was it not clear from
what she had said that the archdeacon had been wrong in
imputing to her any attachment to Mr. Slope? Was it not
clear that Eleanor was still free to make another choice? It
may seem strange that he should for a moment have had a
doubt, and yet he did doubt. She had not absolutely denied
the charge; she had not expressly said that it was untrue.
Mr. Arabin understood little of the nature of a woman's
feelings, or he would have known how improbable it was that
she should make any clearer declaration than she had done.
Few men do understand the nature of a woman's heart, till
years have robbed such understanding of its value. And it is
well that it should be so, or men would triumph too easily.
Mr. Arabin stood counting the carpet, unhappy, wretchedly
unhappy, at the hard words that had been spoken to him, and
yet happy, exquisitely happy, as he thought that after all
the woman whom he so regarded was not to become the wife of
the man whom he so much disliked. As he stood there he began
to be aware that he was himself in love. Forty years had
passed over his head, and as yet woman's beauty had never
given him an uneasy hour. His present hour was very uneasy.
Not that he remained there for half or a quarter of that
time. In spite of what Eleanor had said, Mr. Arabin was, in
truth, a manly man. Having ascertained that he loved this
woman, and having now reason to believe that she was free to
receive his love, at least if she pleased to do so, he
followed her into the garden to make such wooing as he
could.
He was not long in finding her. She was walking to and
fro beneath the avenue of elms that stood in the
archdeacon's grounds, skirting the churchyard. What had
passed between her and Mr. Arabin had not, alas, tended to
lessen the acerbity of her spirit. She was very angry—more
angry with him than with anyone. How could he have so
misunderstood her? She had been so intimate with him, had
allowed him such latitude in what he had chosen to say to
her, had complied with his ideas, cherished his views,
fostered his precepts, cared for his comforts, made much of
him in every way in which a pretty woman can make much of an
unmarried man without committing herself or her feelings!
She had been doing this, and while she had been doing it he
had regarded her as the affianced wife of another man.
As she passed along the avenue, every now and then an
unbidden tear would force itself on her cheek, and as she
raised her hand to brush it away, she stamped with her
little foot upon the sward with very spite to think that she
had been so treated.
Mr. Arabin was very near to her when she first saw him,
and she turned short round and retraced her steps down the
avenue, trying to rid her cheeks of all trace of the
tell-tale tears. It was a needless endeavour, for Mr. Arabin
was in a state of mind that hardly allowed him to observe
such trifles. He followed her down the walk and overtook her
just as she reached the end of it.
He had not considered how he would address her; he had
not thought what he would say. He had only felt that it was
wretchedness to him to quarrel with her, and that it would
be happiness to be allowed to love her. And yet he could not
lower himself by asking her pardon. He had done her no
wrong. He had not calumniated her, not injured her, as she
had accused him of doing. He could not confess sins of which
he had not been guilty. He could only let the past be past
and ask her as to her and his hopes for the future.
"I hope we are not to part as enemies?" said he.
"There shall be no enmity on my part," said Eleanor; "I
endeavour to avoid all enmities. It would be a hollow
pretence were I to say that there can be true friendship
between us, after what has just passed. People cannot make
their friends of those whom they despise."
"And am I despised?"
"I must have been so before you could have spoken of me
as you did. And I was deceived, cruelly deceived. I believed
that you thought well of me; I believed that you esteemed
me."
"Thought well of you and esteemed you!" said he. "In
justifying myself before you, I must use stronger words than
those." He paused for a moment, and Eleanor's heart beat
with painful violence within her bosom as she waited for him
to go on. "I have esteemed, do esteem you, as I never yet
esteemed any woman. Think well of you! I never thought to
think so well, so much of any human creature. Speak calumny
of you! Insult you! Wilfully injure you! I wish it were my
privilege to shield you from calumny, insult, and injury.
Calumny! Ah me! 'Twere almost better that it were so. Better
than to worship with a sinful worship; sinful and vain
also." And then he walked along beside her, with his hands
clasped behind his back, looking down on the grass beneath
his feet and utterly at a loss how to express his meaning.
And Eleanor walked beside him determined at least to give
him no assistance.
"Ah me!" he uttered at last, speaking rather to himself
than to her. "Ah me! These Plumstead walks were pleasant
enough, if one could have but heart's ease, but without that
the dull, dead stones of Oxford were far preferable—and St.
Ewold's, too. Mrs. Bold, I am beginning to think that I
mistook myself when I came hither. A Romish priest now would
have escaped all this. Oh, Father of heaven, how good for us
would it be if thou couldest vouchsafe to us a certain
rule."
"And have we not a certain rule, Mr. Arabin?"
"Yes—yes, surely; 'Lead us not into temptation but
deliver us from evil.' But what is temptation? What is evil?
Is this evil—is this temptation?"
Poor Mr. Arabin! It would not come out of him, that deep,
true love of his. He could not bring himself to utter it in
plain language that would require and demand an answer. He
knew not how to say to the woman by his side, "Since the
fact is that you do not love that other man, that you are
not to be his wife, can you love me, will you be my wife?"
These were the words which were in his heart, but with all
his sighs he could not draw them to his lips. He would have
given anything, everything for power to ask this simple
question, but glib as was his tongue in pulpits and on
platforms, now he could not find a word wherewith to express
the plain wish of his heart.
And yet Eleanor understood him as thoroughly as though he
had declared his passion with all the elegant fluency of a
practised Lothario. With a woman's instinct, she followed
every bend of his mind as he spoke of the pleasantness of
Plumstead and the stones of Oxford, as he alluded to the
safety of the Romish priest and the hidden perils of
temptation. She knew that it all meant love. She knew that
this man at her side, this accomplished scholar, this
practised orator, this great polemical combatant, was
striving and striving in vain to tell her that his heart was
no longer his own.
She knew this, and felt a sort of joy in knowing it; yet
she would not come to his aid. He had offended her deeply,
had treated her unworthily, the more unworthily seeing that
he had learnt to love her, and Eleanor could not bring
herself to abandon her revenge. She did not ask herself
whether or no she would ultimately accept his love. She did
not even acknowledge to herself that she now perceived it
with pleasure. At the present moment it did not touch her
heart; it merely appeased her pride and flattered her
vanity. Mr. Arabin had dared to associate her name with that
of Mr. Slope, and now her spirit was soothed by finding that
he would fain associate it with his own. And so she walked
on beside him, inhaling incense but giving out no sweetness
in return.
"Answer me this," said Mr. Arabin, stopping suddenly in
his walk and stepping forward so that he faced his
companion. "Answer me this one question. You do not love Mr.
Slope? You do not intend to be his wife?"
Mr. Arabin certainly did not go the right way to win such
a woman as Eleanor Bold. Just as her wrath was evaporating,
as it was disappearing before the true warmth of his untold
love, he rekindled it by a most useless repetition of his
original sin. Had he known what he was about, he should
never have mentioned Mr. Slope's name before Eleanor Bold,
till he had made her all his own. Then, and not till then,
he might have talked of Mr. Slope with as much triumph as he
chose.
"I shall answer no such question," said she; "and what is
more, I must tell you that nothing can justify your asking
it. Good morning!"
And so saying, she stepped proudly across the lawn and,
passing through the drawing-room window, joined her father
and sister at lunch in the dining-room. Half an hour
afterwards she was in the carriage, and so she left
Plumstead without again seeing Mr. Arabin.
His walk was long and sad among the sombre trees that
overshadowed the churchyard. He left the archdeacon's
grounds that he might escape attention, and sauntered among
the green hillocks under which lay at rest so many of the
once loving swains and forgotten beauties of Plumstead. To
his ears Eleanor's last words sounded like a knell never to
be reversed. He could not comprehend that she might be angry
with him, indignant with him, remorseless with him, and yet
love him. He could not make up his mind whether or no Mr.
Slope was in truth a favoured rival. If not, why should she
not have answered his question?
Poor Mr. Arabin—untaught, illiterate, boorish, ignorant
man! That at forty years of age you should know so little of
the workings of a woman's heart!
CHAPTER XXXI
The Bishop's Library
And thus the pleasant party at Plumstead was broken up.
It had been a very pleasant party as long as they had all
remained in good humour with one another. Mrs. Grantly had
felt her house to be gayer and brighter than it had been for
many a long day, and the archdeacon had been aware that the
month had passed pleasantly without attributing the pleasure
to any other special merits than those of his own
hospitality. Within three or four days of Eleanor's
departure, Mr. Harding had also returned, and Mr. Arabin had
gone to Oxford to spend one week there previous to his
settling at the vicarage of St. Ewold's. He had gone laden
with many messages to Dr. Gwynne touching the iniquity of
the doings in Barchester palace and the peril in which it
was believed the hospital still stood in spite of the
assurances contained in Mr. Slope's inauspicious letter.
During Eleanor's drive into Barchester she had not much
opportunity of reflecting on Mr. Arabin. She had been
constrained to divert her mind both from his sins and his
love by the necessity of conversing with her sister and
maintaining the appearance of parting with her on good
terms. When the carriage reached her own door, and while she
was in the act of giving her last kiss to her sister and
nieces, Mary Bold ran out and exclaimed:
"Oh, Eleanor, have you heard? Oh, Mrs. Grantly, have you
heard what has happened? The poor dean!"
"Good heavens!" said Mrs. Grantly. "What—what has
happened?"
"This morning at nine he had a fit of apoplexy, and he
has not spoken since. I very much fear that by this time he
is no more."
Mrs. Grantly had been very intimate with the dean, and
was therefore much shocked. Eleanor had not known him so
well; nevertheless, she was sufficiently acquainted with his
person and manners to feel startled and grieved also at the
tidings she now received. "I will go at once to the
deanery," said Mrs. Grantly; "the archdeacon, I am sure,
will be there. If there is any news to send you, I will let
Thomas call before he leaves town." And so the carriage
drove off, leaving Eleanor and her baby with Mary Bold.
Mrs. Grantly had been quite right. The archdeacon was at
the deanery. He had come into Barchester that morning by
himself, not caring to intrude himself upon Eleanor, and he
also immediately on his arrival had heard of the dean's fit.
There was, as we have before said, a library or reading-room
connecting the cathedral with the dean's house. This was
generally called the bishop's library, because a certain
bishop of Barchester was supposed to have added it to the
cathedral. It was built immediately over a portion of the
cloisters, and a flight of stairs descended from it into the
room in which the cathedral clergymen put their surplices on
and off. As it also opened directly into the dean's house,
it was the passage through which that dignitary usually went
to his public devotions. Who had or had not the right of
entry into it, it might be difficult to say; but the people
of Barchester believed that it belonged to the dean, and the
clergymen of Barchester believed that it belonged to the
chapter.
On the morning in question most of the resident clergymen
who constituted the chapter, and some few others, were here
assembled, and among them as usual the archdeacon towered
with high authority. He had heard of the dean's fit before
he was over the bridge which led into the town, and had at
once come to the well-known clerical trysting place. He had
been there by eleven o'clock, and had remained ever since.
From time to time the medical men who had been called in
came through from the deanery into the library, uttered
little bulletins, and then returned. There was, it appears,
very little hope of the old man's rallying, indeed no hope
of anything like a final recovery. The only question was
whether he must die at once speechless, unconscious,
stricken to death by his first heavy fit, or whether by due
aid of medical skill he might not be so far brought back to
this world as to become conscious of his state and enabled
to address one prayer to his Maker before he was called to
meet Him face to face at the judgement seat.
Sir Omicron Pie had been sent for from London. That great
man had shown himself a wonderful adept at keeping life
still moving within an old man's heart in the case of good
old Bishop Grantly, and it might be reasonably expected that
he would be equally successful with a dean. In the meantime
Dr. Fillgrave and Mr. Rerechild were doing their best, and
poor Miss Trefoil sat at the head of her father's bed,
longing, as in such cases daughters do long, to be allowed
to do something to show her love—if it were only to chafe
his feet with her hands, or wait in menial offices on those
autocratic doctors—anything so that now in the time of need
she might be of use.
The archdeacon alone of the attendant clergy had been
admitted for a moment into the sick man's chamber. He had
crept in with creaking shoes, had said with smothered voice
a word of consolation to the sorrowing daughter, had looked
on the distorted face of his old friend with solemn but yet
eager scrutinising eye, as though he said in his heart "and
so some day it will probably be with me," and then, having
whispered an unmeaning word or two to the doctors, had
creaked his way back again into the library.
"He'll never speak again, I fear," said the archdeacon as
he noiselessly closed the door, as though the unconscious
dying man, from whom all sense had fled, would have heard in
his distant chamber the spring of the lock which was now so
carefully handled.
"Indeed! Indeed! Is he so bad?" said the meagre little
prebendary, turning over in his own mind all the probable
candidates for the deanery and wondering whether the
archdeacon would think it worth his while to accept it. "The
fit must have been very violent."
"When a man over seventy has a stroke of apoplexy, it
seldom comes very lightly," said the burly chancellor.
"He was an excellent, sweet-tempered man," said one of
the vicars choral. "Heaven knows how we shall repair his
loss."
"He was indeed," said a minor canon, "and a great
blessing to all those privileged to take a share in the
services of our cathedral. I suppose the government will
appoint, Mr. Archdeacon. I trust we may have no stranger."
"We will not talk about his successor," said the
archdeacon, "while there is yet hope."
"Oh, no, of course not," said the minor canon. "It would
be exceedingly indecorous; but—"
"I know of no man," said the meagre little prebendary,
"who has better interest with the present government than
Mr. Slope."
"Mr. Slope," said two or three at once almost sotto voce.
"Mr. Slope Dean of Barchester!"
"Pooh!" exclaimed the burly chancellor.
"The bishop would do anything for him," said the little
prebendary.
"And so would Mrs. Proudie," said the vicar choral.
"Pooh!" said the chancellor.
The archdeacon had almost turned pale at the idea. What
if Mr. Slope should become Dean of Barchester? To be sure
there was no adequate ground, indeed no ground at all, for
presuming that such a desecration could even be
contemplated. But nevertheless it was on the cards. Dr.
Proudie had interest with the government, and the man
carried as it were Dr. Proudie in his pocket. How should
they all conduct themselves if Mr. Slope were to become Dean
of Barchester? The bare idea for a moment struck even Dr.
Grantly dumb.
"It would certainly not be very pleasant for us to have
Mr. Slope at the deanery," said the little prebendary,
chuckling inwardly at the evident consternation which his
surmise had created.
"About as pleasant and as probable as having you in the
palace," said the chancellor.
"I should think such an appointment highly improbable,"
said the minor canon, "and, moreover, extremely injudicious.
Should not you, Mr. Archdeacon?"
"I should presume such a thing to be quite out of the
question," said the archdeacon, "but at the present moment I
am thinking rather of our poor friend who is lying so near
us than of Mr. Slope."
"Of course, of course," said the vicar choral with a very
solemn air; "of course you are. So are we all. Poor Dr.
Trefoil; the best of men, but—"
"It's the most comfortable dean's residence in England,"
said a second prebendary. "Fifteen acres in the grounds. It
is better than many of the bishops' palaces."
"And full two thousand a year," said the meagre doctor.
"It is cut down to £1,200," said the chancellor.
"No," said the second prebendary. "It is to be fifteen. A
special case was made."
"No such thing," said the chancellor.
"You'll find I'm right," said the prebendary.
"I'm sure I read it in the report," said the minor canon.
"Nonsense," said the chancellor. "They couldn't do it.
There were to be no exceptions but London and Durham."
"And Canterbury and York," said the vicar choral
modestly.
"What do you say, Grantly?" said the meagre little
doctor.
"Say about what?" said the archdeacon, who had been
looking as though he were thinking about his friend the
dean, but who had in reality been thinking about Mr. Slope.
"What is the next dean to have, twelve or fifteen?"
"Twelve," said the archdeacon authoritatively, thereby
putting an end at once to all doubt and dispute among his
subordinates as far as that subject was concerned.
"Well, I certainly thought it was fifteen," said the
minor canon.
"Pooh!" said the burly chancellor. At this moment the
door opened and in came Dr. Fillgrave.
"How is he?" "Is he conscious?" "Can he speak?" "I hope
not dead?" "No worse news, Doctor, I trust?" "I hope, I
trust, something better, Doctor?" said half a dozen voices
all at once, each in a tone of extremest anxiety. It was
pleasant to see how popular the good old dean was among his
clergy.
"No change, gentlemen; not the slightest change. But a
telegraphic message has arrived—Sir Omicron Pie will be here
by the 9.15 P.M. train. If any man can do anything, Sir
Omicron Pie will do it. But all that skill can do has been
done."
"We are sure of that, Dr. Fillgrave," said the
archdeacon; "we are quite sure of that. But yet you know—"
"Oh, quite right," said the doctor, "quite right—I should
have done just the same—I advised it at once. I said to
Rerechild at once that with such a life and such a man, Sir
Omicron should be summoned—of course I knew expense was
nothing—so distinguished, you know, and so popular.
Nevertheless, all that human skill can do has been done."
Just at this period Mrs. Grantly's carriage drove into
the close, and the archdeacon went down to confirm the news
which she had heard before.
By the 9.15 P.M. train Sir Omicron Pie did arrive. And in
the course of the night a sort of consciousness returned to
the poor old dean. Whether this was due to Sir Omicron Pie
is a question on which it may be well not to offer an
opinion. Dr. Fillgrave was very clear in his own mind, but
Sir Omicron himself is thought to have differed from that
learned doctor. At any rate Sir Omicron expressed an opinion
that the dean had yet some days to live.
For the eight or ten next days, accordingly, the poor
dean remained in the same state, half-conscious and
half-comatose; and the attendant clergy began to think that
no new appointment would be necessary for some few months to
come.
CHAPTER XXXII
A New Candidate for Ecclesiastical Honours
The dean's illness occasioned much mental turmoil in
other places besides the deanery and adjoining library, and
the idea which occurred to the meagre little prebendary
about Mr. Slope did not occur to him alone.
The bishop was sitting listlessly in his study when the
news reached him of the dean's illness. It was brought to
him by Mr. Slope, who of course was not the last person in
Barchester to hear it. It was also not slow in finding its
way to Mrs. Proudie's ears. It may be presumed that there
was not just then much friendly intercourse between these
two rival claimants for his lordship's obedience. Indeed,
though living in the same house, they had not met since the
stormy interview between them in the bishop's study on the
preceding day.
On that occasion Mrs. Proudie had been defeated. That the
prestige of continual victory should have been torn from her
standards was a subject of great sorrow to that militant
lady; but, though defeated, she was not overcome. She felt
that she might yet recover her lost ground, that she might
yet hurl Mr. Slope down to the dust from which she had
picked him, and force her sinning lord to sue for pardon in
sackcloth and ashes.
On that memorable day, memorable for his mutiny and
rebellion against her high behests, he had carried his way
with a high hand, and had really begun to think it possible
that the days of his slavery were counted. He had begun to
hope that he was now about to enter into a free land, a land
delicious with milk which he himself might quaff and honey
which would not tantalize him by being only honey to the
eye. When Mrs. Proudie banged the door as she left his room,
he felt himself every inch a bishop. To be sure, his spirit
had been a little cowed by his chaplain's subsequent
lecture, but on the whole he was highly pleased with
himself, and he flattered himself that the worst was over. "Ce
n'est que le premier pas qui coûte," he reflected, and
now that the first step had been so magnanimously taken, all
the rest would follow easily.
He met his wife as a matter of course at dinner, where
little or nothing was said that could ruffle the bishop's
happiness. His daughters and the servants were present and
protected him.
He made one or two trifling remarks on the subject of his
projected visit to the archbishop, in order to show to all
concerned that he intended to have his own way; the very
servants, perceiving the change, transferred a little of
their reverence from their mistress to their master. All
which the master perceived, and so also did the mistress.
But Mrs. Proudie bided her time.
After dinner he returned to his study, where Mr. Slope
soon found him, and there they had tea together and planned
many things. For some few minutes the bishop was really
happy; but as the clock on the chimney-piece warned him that
the stilly hours of night were drawing on, as he looked at
his chamber candlestick and knew that he must use it, his
heart sank within him again. He was as a ghost, all whose
power of wandering free through these upper regions ceases
at cock-crow; or, rather, he was the opposite of the ghost,
for till cock-crow he must again be a serf. And would that
be all? Could he trust himself to come down to breakfast a
free man in the morning?
He was nearly an hour later than usual when he betook
himself to his rest. Rest! What rest? However, he took a
couple of glasses of sherry and mounted the stairs. Far be
it from us to follow him thither. There are some things
which no novelist, no historian, should attempt; some few
scenes in life's drama which even no poet should dare to
paint. Let that which passed between Dr. Proudie and his
wife on this night be understood to be among them.
He came down the following morning a sad and thoughtful
man. He was attenuated in appearance—one might almost say
emaciated. I doubt whether his now grizzled locks had not
palpably become more grey than on the preceding evening. At
any rate he had aged materially. Years do not make a man old
gradually and at an even pace. Look through the world and
see if this is not so always, except in those rare cases in
which the human being lives and dies without joys and
without sorrows, like a vegetable. A man shall be possessed
of florid, youthful blooming health till, it matters not
what age—thirty; forty; fifty—then comes some nipping frost,
some period of agony, that robs the fibres of the body of
their succulence, and the hale and hearty man is counted
among the old.
He came down and breakfasted alone; Mrs. Proudie, being
indisposed, took her coffee in her bedroom, and her
daughters waited upon her there. He ate his breakfast alone,
and then, hardly knowing what he did, he betook himself to
his usual seat in his study. He tried to solace himself with
his coming visit to the archbishop. That effort of his own
free will at any rate remained to him as an enduring
triumph. But somehow, now that he had achieved it, he did
not seem to care so much about it. It was his ambition that
had prompted him to take his place at the archiepiscopal
table, and his ambition was now quite dead within him.
He was thus seated when Mr. Slope made his appearance,
with breathless impatience.
"My lord, the dean is dead."
"Good heavens!" exclaimed the bishop, startled out of his
apathy by an announcement so sad and so sudden.
"He is either dead or now dying. He has had an apoplectic
fit, and I am told that there is not the slightest hope;
indeed, I do not doubt that by this time he is no more."
Bells were rung, and servants were immediately sent to
inquire. In the course of the morning the bishop, leaning on
his chaplains arm, himself called at the deanery door. Mrs.
Proudie sent to Miss Trefoil all manner of offers of
assistance. The Misses Proudie sent also, and there was
immense sympathy between the palace and the deanery. The
answer to all inquiries was unvaried. The dean was just the
same, and Sir Omicron Pie was expected down by the 9.15 P.M.
train.
And then Mr. Slope began to meditate, as others also had
done, as to who might possibly be the new dean, and it
occurred to him, as it had also occurred to others, that it
might be possible that he should be the new dean himself.
And then the question as to the twelve hundred, or fifteen
hundred, or two thousand ran in his mind, as it had run
through those of the other clergymen in the cathedral
library.
Whether it might be two thousand, or fifteen, or twelve
hundred, it would in any case undoubtedly be a great thing
for him, if he could get it. The gratification to his
ambition would be greater even than that of his
covetousness. How glorious to out-top the archdeacon in his
own cathedral city; to sit above prebendaries and canons and
have the cathedral pulpit and all the cathedral services
altogether at his own disposal!
But it might be easier to wish for this than to obtain
it. Mr. Slope, however, was not without some means of
forwarding his views, and he at any rate did not let the
grass grow under his feet. In the first place, he
thought—and not vainly—that he could count upon what
assistance the bishop could give him. He immediately changed
his views with regard to his patron; he made up his mind
that if he became dean, he would hand his lordship back
again to his wife's vassalage; and he thought it possible
that his lordship might not be sorry to rid himself of one
of his mentors. Mr. Slope had also taken some steps towards
making his name known to other men in power. There was a
certain chief-commissioner of national schools, who at the
present moment was presumed to stand especially high in the
good graces of the government bigwigs, and with him Mr.
Slope had contrived to establish a sort of epistolary
intimacy. He thought that he might safely apply to Sir
Nicholas Fitzwhiggin, and he felt sure that if Sir Nicholas
chose to exert himself, the promise of such a piece of
preferment would be had for the asking.
Then he also had the press at his bidding, or flattered
himself that he had so. "The Daily Jupiter" had taken his
part in a very thorough manner in those polemical contests
of his with Mr. Arabin; he had on more than one occasion
absolutely had an interview with a gentleman on the staff of
that paper who, if not the editor, was as good as the
editor; and he had long been in the habit of writing telling
letters on all manner of ecclesiastical abuses, which he
signed with his initials, and sent to his editorial friend
with private notes signed in his own name. Indeed, he and
Mr. Towers—such was the name of the powerful gentleman of
the press with whom he was connected—were generally very
amiable with each other. Mr. Slope's little productions were
always printed and occasionally commented upon; and thus, in
a small sort of way, he had become a literary celebrity.
This public life had great charms for him, though it
certainly also had its drawbacks. On one occasion, when
speaking in the presence of reporters, he had failed to
uphold and praise and swear by that special line of conduct
which had been upheld and praised and sworn by in "The
Jupiter," and then he had been much surprised and at the
moment not a little irritated to find himself lacerated most
unmercifully by his old ally. He was quizzed and bespattered
and made a fool of, just as though, or rather worse than if,
he had been a constant enemy instead of a constant friend.
He had hitherto not learnt that a man who aspires to be on
the staff of "The Jupiter" must surrender all individuality.
But ultimately this little castigation had broken no bones
between him and his friend Mr. Towers. Mr. Slope was one of
those who understood the world too well to show himself
angry with such a potentate as "The Jupiter." He had kissed
the rod that scourged him, and now thought that he might
fairly look for his reward. He determined that he would at
once let Mr. Towers know that he was a candidate for the
place which was about to become vacant. More than one piece
of preferment had lately been given away much in accordance
with advice tendered to the government in the columns of
"The Jupiter."
But it was incumbent on Mr. Slope first to secure the
bishop. He specially felt that it behoved him to do this
before the visit to the archbishop was made. It was really
quite providential that the dean should have fallen ill just
at the very nick of time. If Dr. Proudie could be instigated
to take the matter up warmly, he might manage a good deal
while staying at the archbishop's palace. Feeling this very
strongly, Mr. Slope determined to sound the bishop that very
afternoon. He was to start on the following morning to
London, and therefore not a moment could be lost with
safety.
He went into the bishop's study about five o'clock and
found him still sitting alone. It might have been supposed
that he had hardly moved since the little excitement
occasioned by his walk to the dean's door. He still wore on
his face that dull, dead look of half-unconscious suffering.
He was doing nothing, reading nothing, thinking of nothing,
but simply gazing on vacancy when Mr. Slope for the second
time that day entered his room.
"Well, Slope," said he somewhat impatiently, for, to tell
the truth, he was not anxious just at present to have much
conversation with Mr. Slope.
"Your lordship will be sorry to hear that as yet the poor
dean has shown no sign of amendment."
"Oh—ah—hasn't he? Poor man! I'm sure I'm very sorry. I
suppose Sir Omicron has not arrived yet?"
"No, not till the 9.15 P.M. train."
"I wonder they didn't have a special. They say Dr.
Trefoil is very rich."
"Very rich, I believe," said Mr. Slope. "But the truth
is, all the doctors in London can do no good—no other good
than to show that every possible care has been taken. Poor
Dr. Trefoil is not long for this world, my lord."
"I suppose not—I suppose not."
"Oh, no; indeed, his best friends could not wish that he
should outlive such a shock, for his intellects cannot
possibly survive it."
"Poor man! Poor man!" said the bishop.
"It will naturally be a matter of much moment to your
lordship who is to succeed him," said Mr. Slope. "It would
be a great thing if you could secure the appointment for
some person of your own way of thinking on important points.
The party hostile to us are very strong here in
Barchester—much too strong."
"Yes, yes. If poor Dr. Trefoil is to go, it will be a
great thing to get a good man in his place."
"It will be everything to your lordship to get a man on
whose co-operation you can reckon. Only think what trouble
we might have if Dr. Grantly, or Dr. Hyandry, or any of that
way of thinking were to get it."
"It is not very probable that Lord –––– will give it to
any of that school; why should he?"
"No. Not probable; certainly not; but it's possible.
Great interest will probably be made. If I might venture to
advise your lordship, I would suggest that you should
discuss the matter with his grace next week. I have no doubt
that your wishes, if made known and backed by his grace,
would be paramount with Lord ––––."
"Well, I don't know that; Lord –––– has always been very
kind to me, very kind. But I am unwilling to interfere in
such matters unless asked. And indeed if asked, I don't know
whom, at this moment, I should recommend."
Mr. Slope, even Mr. Slope, felt at the present rather
abashed. He hardly knew how to frame his little request in
language sufficiently modest. He had recognized and
acknowledged to himself the necessity of shocking the bishop
in the first instance by the temerity of his application,
and his difficulty was how best to remedy that by his
adroitness and eloquence. "I doubted myself," said he,
"whether your lordship would have anyone immediately in your
eye, and it is on this account that I venture to submit to
you an idea that I have been turning over in my own mind. If
poor Dr. Trefoil must go, I really do not see why, with your
lordship's assistance, I should not hold the preferment
myself."
"You!" exclaimed the bishop in a manner that Mr. Slope
could hardly have considered complimentary.
The ice was now broken, and Mr. Slope became fluent
enough. "I have been thinking of looking for it. If your
lordship will press the matter on the archbishop, I do not
doubt but I shall succeed. You see I shall be the first to
move, which is a great matter. Then I can count upon
assistance from the public press: my name is known, I may
say, somewhat favourably known, to that portion of the press
which is now most influential with the government; and I
have friends also in the government. But nevertheless it is
to you, my lord, that I look for assistance. It is from your
hands that I would most willingly receive the benefit. And,
which should ever be the chief consideration in such
matters, you must know better than any other person
whatsoever what qualifications I possess."
The bishop sat for awhile dumbfounded. Mr. Slope Dean of
Barchester! The idea of such a transformation of character
would never have occurred to his own unaided intellect. At
first he went on thinking why, for what reasons, on what
account, Mr. Slope should be Dean of Barchester. But by
degrees the direction of his thoughts changed, and he began
to think why, for what reasons, on what account, Mr. Slope
should not be Dean of Barchester. As far as he himself, the
bishop, was concerned, he could well spare the services of
his chaplain. That little idea of using Mr. Slope as a
counterpoise to his wife had well nigh evaporated. He had
all but acknowledged the futility of the scheme. If indeed
he could have slept in his chaplain's bedroom instead of his
wife's, there might have been something in it. But—. And
thus as Mr. Slope was speaking, the bishop began to
recognize the idea that that gentleman might become Dean of
Barchester without impropriety—not moved, indeed, by Mr.
Slope's eloquence, for he did not follow the tenor of his
speech, but led thereto by his own cogitations.
"I need not say," continued Mr. Slope, "that it would be
my chief desire to act in all matters connected with the
cathedral as far as possible in accordance with your views.
I know your lordship so well (and I hope you know me well
enough to have the same feelings) that I am satisfied that
my being in that position would add materially to your own
comfort, and enable you to extend the sphere of your useful
influence. As I said before, it is most desirable that there
should be but one opinion among the dignitaries of the same
diocese. I doubt much whether I would accept such an
appointment in any diocese in which I should be constrained
to differ much from the bishop. In this case there would be
a delightful uniformity of opinion."
Mr. Slope perfectly well perceived that the bishop did
not follow a word that he said, but nevertheless he went on
talking. He knew it was necessary that Dr. Proudie should
recover from his surprise, and he knew also that he must
give him the opportunity of appearing to have been persuaded
by argument. So he went on and produced a multitude of
fitting reasons all tending to show that no one on earth
could make so good a Dean of Barchester as himself, that the
government and the public would assuredly coincide in
desiring that he, Mr. Slope, should be Dean of Barchester,
but that for high considerations of ecclesiastical polity it
would be especially desirable that this piece of preferment
should be so bestowed through the instrumentality of the
bishop of the diocese.
"But I really don't know what I could do in the matter,"
said the bishop.
"If you would mention it to the archbishop; if you could
tell his grace that you consider such an appointment very
desirable, that you have it much at heart with a view to
putting an end to schism in the diocese; if you did this
with your usual energy, you would probably find no
difficulty in inducing his grace to promise that he would
mention it to Lord ––––. Of course you would let the
archbishop know that I am not looking for the preferment
solely through his intervention; that you do not exactly
require him to ask it as a favour; that you expect that I
shall get it through other sources, as is indeed the case;
but that you are very anxious that his grace should express
his approval of such an arrangement to Lord ––––."
It ended in the bishop promising to do as he was bid. Not
that he so promised without a stipulation. "About that
hospital," he said in the middle of the conference. "I was
never so troubled in my life"—which was about the truth.
"You haven't spoken to Mr. Harding since I saw you?"
Mr. Slope assured his patron that he had not.
"Ah well, then—I think upon the whole it will be better
to let Quiverful have it. It has been half-promised to him,
and he has a large family and is very poor. I think on the
whole it will be better to make out the nomination for Mr.
Quiverful."
"But, my lord," said Mr. Slope, still thinking that he
was bound to make a fight for his own view on this matter,
and remembering that it still behoved him to maintain his
lately acquired supremacy over Mrs. Proudie, lest he should
fail in his views regarding the deanery, "but, my lord, I am
really much afraid—"
"Remember, Mr. Slope," said the bishop, "I can hold out
no sort of hope to you in this matter of succeeding poor Dr.
Trefoil. I will certainly speak to the archbishop, as you
wish it, but I cannot think—"
"Well, my lord," said Mr. Slope, fully understanding the
bishop and in his turn interrupting him, "perhaps your
lordship is right about Mr. Quiverful. I have no doubt I can
easily arrange matters with Mr. Harding, and I will make out
the nomination for your signature as you direct."
"Yes, Slope, I think that will be best; and you may be
sure that any little that I can do to forward your views
shall be done."
And so they parted.
Mr. Slope had now much business on his hands. He had to
make his daily visit to the signora. This common prudence
should have now induced him to omit, but he was infatuated,
and could not bring himself to be commonly prudent. He
determined therefore that he would drink tea at the
Stanhopes', and he determined also, or thought that he
determined, that having done so he would go thither no more.
He had also to arrange his matters with Mrs. Bold. He was of
opinion that Eleanor would grace the deanery as perfectly as
she would the chaplain's cottage, and he thought, moreover,
that Eleanor's fortune would excellently repair any
dilapidations and curtailments in the dean's stipend which
might have been made by that ruthless ecclesiastical
commission.
Touching Mrs. Bold his hopes now soared high. Mr. Slope
was one of that numerous multitude of swains who think that
all is fair in love, and he had accordingly not refrained
from using the services of Mrs. Bold's own maid. From her he
had learnt much of what had taken place at Plumstead—not
exactly with truth, for "the own maid" had not been able to
divine the exact truth, but with some sort of similitude to
it. He had been told that the archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly
and Mr. Harding and Mr. Arabin had all quarrelled with
"missus" for having received a letter from Mr. Slope; that
"missus" had positively refused to give the letter up; that
she had received from the archdeacon the option of giving up
either Mr. Slope and his letter, or else the society of
Plumstead Rectory; and that "missus" had declared, with much
indignation, that "she didn't care a straw for the society
of Plumstead Rectory," and that she wouldn't give up Mr.
Slope for any of them.
Considering the source from whence this came, it was not
quite so untrue as might have been expected. It showed
pretty plainly what had been the nature of the conversation
in the servants' hall; and, coupled as it was with the
certainty of Eleanor's sudden return, it appeared to Mr.
Slope to be so far worthy of credit as to justify him in
thinking that the fair widow would in all human probability
accept his offer.
All this work was therefore to be done. It was desirable,
he thought, that he should make his offer before it was
known that Mr. Quiverful was finally appointed to the
hospital. In his letter to Eleanor he had plainly declared
that Mr. Harding was to have the appointment. It would be
very difficult to explain this away, and were he to write
another letter to Eleanor, telling the truth and throwing
the blame on the bishop, it would naturally injure him in
her estimation. He determined therefore to let that matter
disclose itself as it would, and to lose no time in throwing
himself at her feet.
Then he had to solicit the assistance of Sir Nicholas
Fitzwhiggin and Mr. Towers, and he went directly from the
bishop's presence to compose his letters to those gentlemen.
As Mr. Slope was esteemed an adept at letter writing, they
shall be given in full.
(Private)Palace,
Barchester, Sept. 185––
My dear Sir
Nicholas,
I hope that the intercourse which has been between us
will preclude you from regarding my present application
as an intrusion. You cannot, I imagine, have yet heard
that poor old Dr. Trefoil has been seized with apoplexy.
It is a subject of profound grief to everyone in
Barchester, for he has always been an excellent
man—excellent as a man and as a clergyman. He is,
however, full of years, and his life could not under any
circumstances have been much longer spared. You may
probably have known him.
There is, it appears, no probable chance of his
recovery. Sir Omicron Pie is, I believe, at present with
him. At any rate the medical men here have declared that
one or two days more must limit the tether of his mortal
coil. I sincerely trust that his soul may wing its
flight to that haven where it may forever be at rest and
forever be happy.
The bishop has been speaking to me about the
preferment, and he is anxious that it should be
conferred on me. I confess that I can hardly venture, at
my age, to look for such advancement, but I am so far
encouraged by his lordship that I believe I shall be
induced to do so. His lordship goes to –––– to-morrow
and is intent on mentioning the subject to the
archbishop.
I know well how deservedly great is your weight with
the present government. In any matter touching church
preferment you would of course be listened to. Now that
the matter has been put into my head, I am of course
anxious to be successful. If you can assist me by your
good word, you will confer on me one additional favour.
I had better add, that Lord –––– cannot as yet know
of this piece of preferment having fallen in, or rather
of its certainty of falling (for poor dear Dr. Trefoil
is past hope). Should Lord –––– first hear it from you,
that might probably be thought to give you a fair claim
to express your opinion.
Of course our grand object is that we should all be
of one opinion in church matters. This is most desirable
at Barchester; it is this that makes our good bishop so
anxious about it. You may probably think it expedient to
point this out to Lord –––– if it shall be in your power
to oblige me by mentioning the subject to his lordship.
Believe me,
My dear Sir Nicholas,
Your most faithful servant,
Obadiah Slope
His letter to Mr. Towers was written in quite a different
strain. Mr. Slope conceived that he completely understood
the difference in character and position of the two men whom
he addressed. He knew that for such a man as Sir Nicholas
Fitzwhiggin a little flummery was necessary, and that it
might be of the easy, everyday description. Accordingly his
letter to Sir Nicholas was written, currente calamo,
with very little trouble. But to such a man as Mr. Towers it
was not so easy to write a letter that should be effective
and yet not offensive, that should carry its point without
undue interference. It was not difficult to flatter Dr.
Proudie or Sir Nicholas Fitzwhiggin, but very difficult to
flatter Mr. Towers without letting the flattery declare
itself. This, however, had to be done. Moreover, this letter
must, in appearance at least, be written without effort, and
be fluent, unconstrained, and demonstrative of no doubt or
fear on the part of the writer. Therefore the epistle to Mr.
Towers was studied, and re-copied, and elaborated at the
cost of so many minutes that Mr. Slope had hardly time to
dress himself and reach Dr. Stanhope's that evening.
When dispatched, it ran as follows:—
(Private)Barchester,
Sept. 185––
(He purposely omitted any allusion to the "palace,"
thinking that Mr. Towers might not like it. A great man, he
remembered, had been once much condemned for dating a letter
from Windsor Castle.)
My dear Sir,
We were all a good deal shocked here this morning by
hearing that poor old Dean Trefoil had been stricken
with apoplexy. The fit took him about 9 A.M. I am
writing now to save the post, and he is still alive, but
past all hope or possibility, I believe, of living. Sir
Omicron Pie is here, or will be very shortly, but all
that even Sir Omicron can do is to ratify the sentence
of his less distinguished brethren that nothing can be
done. Poor Dr. Trefoil's race on this side the grave is
run. I do not know whether you knew him. He was a good,
quiet, charitable man, of the old school, of course, as
any clergyman over seventy years of age must necessarily
be.
But I do not write merely with the object of sending
you such news as this: doubtless someone of your
Mercuries will have seen and heard and reported so much;
I write, as you usually do yourself, rather with a view
to the future than to the past.
Rumour is already rife here as to Dr. Trefoil's
successor, and among those named as possible future
deans your humble servant is, I believe, not the least
frequently spoken of; in short, I am looking for the
preferment. You may probably know that since Bishop
Proudie came to the diocese I have exerted myself here a
good deal and, I may certainly say, not without some
success. He and I are nearly always of the same opinion
on points of doctrine as well as church discipline, and
therefore I have had, as his confidential chaplain, very
much in my own hands; but I confess to you that I have a
higher ambition than to remain the chaplain of any
bishop.
There are no positions in which more energy is now
needed than those of our deans. The whole of our
enormous cathedral establishments have been allowed to
go to sleep—nay, they are all but dead and ready for the
sepulchre! And yet of what prodigious moment they might
be made if, as was intended, they were so managed as to
lead the way and show an example for all our parochial
clergy!
The bishop here is most anxious for my success;
indeed, he goes to-morrow to press the matter on the
archbishop. I believe also I may count on the support of
at least one most effective member of the government.
But I confess that the support of "The Jupiter," if I be
thought worthy of it, would be more gratifying to me
than any other; more gratifying if by it I should be
successful, and more gratifying also if, although so
supported, I should be unsuccessful.
The time has, in fact, come in which no government
can venture to fill up the high places of the Church in
defiance of the public press. The age of honourable
bishops and noble deans has gone by, and any clergyman
however humbly born can now hope for success if his
industry, talent, and character be sufficient to call
forth the manifest opinion of the public in his favour.
At the present moment we all feel that any counsel
given in such matters by "The Jupiter" has the greatest
weight—is, indeed, generally followed; and we feel
also—I am speaking of clergymen of my own age and
standing—that it should be so. There can be no patron
less interested than "The Jupiter," and none that more
thoroughly understands the wants of the people.
I am sure you will not suspect me of asking from you
any support which the paper with which you are connected
cannot conscientiously give me. My object in writing is
to let you know that I am a candidate for the
appointment. It is for you to judge whether or no you
can assist my views. I should not, of course, have
written to you on such a matter had I not believed (and
I have had good reason so to believe) that "The Jupiter"
approves of my views on ecclesiastical polity.
The bishop expresses a fear that I may be considered
too young for such a station, my age being thirty-six. I
cannot think that at the present day any hesitation need
be felt on such a point. The public has lost its love
for antiquated servants. If a man will ever be fit to do
good work, he will be fit at thirty-six years of age.
Believe me very faithfully yours,
Obadiah Slope
T. Towers,
Esq.,
–––– Court,
Middle Temple.
Having thus exerted himself, Mr. Slope posted his letters
and passed the remainder of the evening at the feet of his
mistress.
Mr. Slope will be accused of deceit in his mode of
canvassing. It will be said that he lied in the application
he made to each of his three patrons. I believe it must be
owned that he did so. He could not hesitate on account of
his youth and yet be quite assured that he was not too
young. He could not count chiefly on the bishop's support
and chiefly also on that of the newspaper. He did not think
that the bishop was going to –––– to press the matter on the
archbishop. It must be owned that in his canvassing Mr.
Slope was as false as he well could be.
Let it, however, be asked of those who are conversant
with such matters, whether he was more false than men
usually are on such occasions. We English gentlemen hate the
name of a lie, but how often do we find public men who
believe each other's words?
CHAPTER XXXIII
Mrs. Proudie Victrix
The next week passed over at Barchester with much
apparent tranquillity. The hearts, however, of some of the
inhabitants were not so tranquil as the streets of the city.
The poor old dean still continued to live, just as Sir
Omicron Pie had prophesied that he would do, much to the
amazement, and some thought disgust, of Dr. Fillgrave. The
bishop still remained away. He had stayed a day or two in
town and had also remained longer at the archbishop's than
he had intended. Mr. Slope had as yet received no line in
answer to either of his letters, but he had learnt the cause
of this. Sir Nicholas was stalking a deer, or attending the
Queen, in the Highlands, and even the indefatigable Mr.
Towers had stolen an autumn holiday, and had made one of the
yearly tribe who now ascend Mont Blanc. Mr. Slope learnt
that he was not expected back till the last day of
September.
Mrs. Bold was thrown much with the Stanhopes, of whom she
became fonder and fonder. If asked, she would have said that
Charlotte Stanhope was her especial friend, and so she would
have thought. But, to tell the truth, she liked Bertie
nearly as well; she had no more idea of regarding him as a
lover than she would have had of looking at a big tame dog
in such a light. Bertie had become very intimate with her,
and made little speeches to her, and said little things of a
sort very different from the speeches and sayings of other
men. But then this was almost always done before his
sisters; and he, with his long silken beard, his light blue
eyes, and strange dress, was so unlike other men. She
admitted him to a kind of familiarity which she had never
known with anyone else, and of which she by no means
understood the danger. She blushed once at finding that she
had called him Bertie and, on the same day, only barely
remembered her position in time to check herself from
playing upon him some personal practical joke to which she
was instigated by Charlotte.
In all this Eleanor was perfectly innocent, and Bertie
Stanhope could hardly be called guilty. But every
familiarity into which Eleanor was entrapped was
deliberately planned by his sister. She knew well how to
play her game, and played it without mercy; she knew, none
so well, what was her brother's character, and she would
have handed over to him the young widow, and the young
widow's money, and the money of the widow's child, without
remorse. With her pretended friendship and warm cordiality,
she strove to connect Eleanor so closely with her brother as
to make it impossible that she should go back even if she
wished it. But Charlotte Stanhope knew really nothing of
Eleanor's character, did not even understand that there were
such characters. She did not comprehend that a young and
pretty woman could be playful and familiar with a man such
as Bertie Stanhope and yet have no idea in her head, no
feeling in her heart, that she would have been ashamed to
own to all the world. Charlotte Stanhope did not in the
least conceive that her new friend was a woman whom nothing
could entrap into an inconsiderate marriage, whose mind
would have revolted from the slightest impropriety had she
been aware that any impropriety existed.
Miss Stanhope, however, had tact enough to make herself
and her father's house very agreeable to Mrs. Bold. There
was with them all an absence of stiffness and formality
which was peculiarly agreeable to Eleanor after the great
dose of clerical arrogance which she had lately been
constrained to take. She played chess with them, walked with
them, and drank tea with them; studied or pretended to study
astronomy; assisted them in writing stories in rhyme, in
turning prose tragedy into comic verse, or comic stories
into would-be tragic poetry. She had no idea before that she
had any such talents. She had not conceived the possibility
of her doing such things as she now did. She found with the
Stanhopes new amusements and employments, new pursuits,
which in themselves could not be wrong, and which were
exceedingly alluring.
Is it not a pity that people who are bright and clever
should so often be exceedingly improper, and that those who
are never improper should so often be dull and heavy? Now
Charlotte Stanhope was always bright and never heavy, but
then her propriety was doubtful.
But during all this time Eleanor by no means forgot Mr.
Arabin, nor did she forget Mr. Slope. She had parted from
Mr. Arabin in her anger. She was still angry at what she
regarded as his impertinent interference, but nevertheless
she looked forward to meeting him again, and also looked
forward to forgiving him. The words that Mr. Arabin had
uttered still sounded in her ears. She knew that if not
intended for a declaration of love, they did signify that he
loved her, and she felt also that if he ever did make such a
declaration, it might be that she should not receive it
unkindly. She was still angry with him, very angry with him;
so angry that she would bite her lip and stamp her foot as
she thought of what he had said and done. Nevertheless, she
yearned to let him know that he was forgiven; all that she
required was that he should own that he had sinned.
She was to meet him at Ullathorne on the last day of the
present month. Miss Thorne had invited all the country round
to a breakfast on the lawn. There were to be tents, and
archery, and dancing for the ladies on the lawn and for the
swains and girls in the paddock. There were to be fiddlers
and fifers, races for the boys, poles to be climbed, ditches
full of water to be jumped over, horse-collars to be grinned
through (this latter amusement was an addition of the
stewards, and not arranged by Miss Thorne in the original
programme), and every game to be played which, in a long
course of reading, Miss Thorne could ascertain to have been
played in the good days of Queen Elizabeth. Everything of
more modern growth was to be tabooed, if possible. On one
subject Miss Thorne was very unhappy. She had been turning
in her mind the matter of a bull-ring, but could not succeed
in making anything of it. She would not for the world have
done, or allowed to be done, anything that was cruel; as to
the promoting the torture of a bull for the amusement of her
young neighbours, it need hardly be said that Miss Thorne
would be the last to think of it. And yet there was
something so charming in the name. A bull-ring, however,
without a bull would only be a memento of the decadence of
the times, and she felt herself constrained to abandon the
idea. Quintains, however, she was determined to have, and
had poles and swivels and bags of flour prepared
accordingly. She would no doubt have been anxious for
something small in the way of a tournament, but, as she said
to her brother, that had been tried, and the age had proved
itself too decidedly inferior to its forerunners to admit of
such a pastime. Mr. Thorne did not seem to participate much
in her regret, feeling perhaps that a full suit of
chain-armour would have added but little to his own personal
comfort.
This party at Ullathorne had been planned in the first
place as a sort of welcoming to Mr. Arabin on his entrance
into St. Ewold's parsonage; an intended harvest-home gala
for the labourers and their wives and children had
subsequently been amalgamated with it, and thus it had grown
to its present dimensions. All the Plumstead party had of
course been asked, and at the time of the invitation Eleanor
had intended to have gone with her sister. Now her plans
were altered, and she was going with the Stanhopes. The
Proudies were also to be there, and, as Mr. Slope had not
been included in the invitation to the palace, the signora,
whose impudence never deserted her, asked permission of Miss
Thorne to bring him.
This permission Miss Thorne gave, having no other
alternative; but she did so with a trembling heart, fearing
Mr. Arabin would be offended. Immediately on his return she
apologized, almost with tears, so dire an enmity was
presumed to rage between the two gentlemen. But Mr. Arabin
comforted her by an assurance that he should meet Mr. Slope
with the greatest pleasure imaginable and made her promise
that she would introduce them to each other.
But this triumph of Mr. Slope's was not so agreeable to
Eleanor, who since her return to Barchester had done her
best to avoid him. She would not give way to the Plumstead
folk when they so ungenerously accused her of being in love
with this odious man; but, nevertheless, knowing that she
was so accused, she was fully alive to the expediency of
keeping out of his way and dropping him by degrees. She had
seen very little of him since her return. Her servant had
been instructed to say to all visitors that she was out. She
could not bring herself to specify Mr. Slope particularly,
and in order to avoid him she had thus debarred herself from
all her friends. She had excepted Charlotte Stanhope and, by
degrees, a few others also. Once she had met him at the
Stanhopes', but as a rule, Mr. Slope's visits there were
made in the morning and hers in the evening. On that one
occasion Charlotte had managed to preserve her from any
annoyance. This was very good-natured on the part of
Charlotte, as Eleanor thought, and also very sharp-witted,
as Eleanor had told her friend nothing of her reasons for
wishing to avoid that gentleman. The fact, however, was that
Charlotte had learnt from her sister that Mr. Slope would
probably put himself forward as a suitor for the widow's
hand, and she was consequently sufficiently alive to the
expediency of guarding Bertie's future wife from any danger
in that quarter.
Nevertheless the Stanhopes were pledged to take Mr. Slope
with them to Ullathorne. An arrangement was therefore
necessarily made, which was very disagreeable to Eleanor.
Dr. Stanhope, with herself, Charlotte, and Mr. Slope, were
to go together, and Bertie was to follow with his sister
Madeline. It was clearly visible by Eleanor's face that this
assortment was very disagreeable to her, and Charlotte, who
was much encouraged thereby in her own little plan, made a
thousand apologies.
"I see you don't like it, my dear," said she, "but we
could not manage otherwise. Bertie would give his eyes to go
with you, but Madeline cannot possibly go without him. Nor
could we possibly put Mr. Slope and Madeline in the same
carriage without anyone else. They'd both be ruined forever,
you know, and not admitted inside Ullathorne gates, I should
imagine, after such an impropriety."
"Of course that wouldn't do," said Eleanor, "but couldn't
I go in the carriage with the signora and your brother?"
"Impossible!" said Charlotte. "When she is there, there
is only room for two." The Signora, in truth, did not care
to do her travelling in the presence of strangers.
"Well, then," said Eleanor, "you are all so kind,
Charlotte, and so good to me that I am sure you won't be
offended, but I think I'll not go at all."
"Not go at all!—what nonsense!—indeed you shall." It had
been absolutely determined in family counsel that Bertie
should propose on that very occasion.
"Or I can take a fly," said Eleanor. "You know I am not
embarrassed by so many difficulties as you young ladies; I
can go alone."
"Nonsense, my dear! Don't think of such a thing; after
all, it is only for an hour or so; and, to tell the truth, I
don't know what it is you dislike so. I thought you and Mr.
Slope were great friends. What is it you dislike?"
"Oh, nothing particular," said Eleanor; "only I thought
it would be a family party."
"Of course it would be much nicer, much more snug, if
Bertie could go with us. It is he that is badly treated. I
can assure you he is much more afraid of Mr. Slope than you
are. But you see Madeline cannot go out without him—and she,
poor creature, goes out so seldom! I am sure you don't
begrudge her this, though her vagary does knock about our
own party a little."
Of course Eleanor made a thousand protestations and
uttered a thousand hopes that Madeline would enjoy herself.
And of course she had to give way and undertake to go in the
carriage with Mr. Slope. In fact, she was driven either to
do this or to explain why she would not do so. Now she could
not bring herself to explain to Charlotte Stanhope all that
had passed at Plumstead.
But it was to her a sore necessity. She thought of a
thousand little schemes for avoiding it; she would plead
illness and not go at all; she would persuade Mary Bold to
go, although not asked, and then make a necessity of having
a carriage of her own to take her sister-in-law; anything,
in fact, she could do, rather than be seen by Mr. Arabin
getting out of the same carriage with Mr. Slope. However,
when the momentous morning came, she had no scheme matured,
and then Mr. Slope handed her into Dr. Stanhope's carriage
and, following her steps, sat opposite to her.
The bishop returned on the eve of the Ullathorne party,
and was received at home with radiant smiles by the partner
of all his cares. On his arrival he crept up to his
dressing-room with somewhat of a palpitating heart; he had
overstayed his alloted time by three days, and was not
without much fear of penalties. Nothing, however, could be
more affectionately cordial than the greeting he received;
the girls came out and kissed him in a manner that was quite
soothing to his spirit; and Mrs. Proudie, "albeit, unused to
the melting mood," squeezed him in her arms and almost in
words called him her dear, darling, good, pet, little
bishop. All this was a very pleasant surprise.
Mrs. Proudie had somewhat changed her tactics; not that
she had seen any cause to disapprove of her former line of
conduct, but she had now brought matters to such a point
that she calculated that she might safely do so. She had got
the better of Mr. Slope, and she now thought well to show
her husband that when allowed to get the better of
everybody, when obeyed by him and permitted to rule over
others, she would take care that he should have his reward.
Mr. Slope had not a chance against her; not only could she
stun the poor bishop by her midnight anger, but she could
assuage and soothe him, if she so willed, by daily
indulgences. She could furnish his room for him, turn him
out as smart a bishop as any on the bench, give him good
dinners, warm fires, and an easy life—all this she would do
if he would but be quietly obedient. But, if not,—! To speak
sooth, however, his sufferings on that dreadful night had
been so poignant as to leave him little spirit for further
rebellion.
As soon as he had dressed himself, she returned to his
room. "I hope you enjoyed yourself at ––––," said she,
seating herself on one side of the fire while he remained in
his armchair on the other, stroking the calves of his legs.
It was the first time he had had a fire in his room since
the summer, and it pleased him, for the good bishop loved to
be warm and cosy. Yes, he said, he had enjoyed himself very
much. Nothing could be more polite than the archbishop, and
Mrs. Archbishop had been equally charming.
Mrs. Proudie was delighted to hear it; nothing, she
declared, pleased her so much as to think
Her bairn respectit like the
lave.
She did not put it precisely in these
words, but what she said came to the same thing; and then,
having petted and fondled her little man sufficiently, she
proceeded to business.
"The poor dean is still alive," said she.
"So I hear, so I hear," said the bishop. "I'll go to the
deanery directly after breakfast to-morrow."
"We are going to this party at Ullathorne to-morrow
morning, my dear; we must be there early, you know—by twelve
o'clock I suppose."
"Oh—ah!" said the bishop; "then I'll certainly call the
next day."
"Was much said about it at ––––?" asked Mrs. Proudie.
"About what?" said the bishop.
"Filling up the dean's place," said Mrs. Proudie. As she
spoke, a spark of the wonted fire returned to her eye, and
the bishop felt himself to be a little less comfortable than
before.
"Filling up the dean's place; that is, if the dean dies?
Very little, my dear. It was mentioned, just mentioned."
"And what did you say about it, Bishop?"
"Why, I said that I thought that if, that is,
should—should the dean die, that is, I said I thought—" As
he went on stammering and floundering, he saw that his
wife's eye was fixed sternly on him. Why should he encounter
such evil for a man whom he loved so slightly as Mr. Slope?
Why should he give up his enjoyments and his ease and such
dignity as might be allowed to him to fight a losing battle
for a chaplain? The chaplain, after all, if successful,
would be as great a tyrant as his wife. Why fight at all?
Why contend? Why be uneasy? From that moment he determined
to fling Mr. Slope to the winds and take the goods the gods
provided.
"I am told," said Mrs. Proudie, speaking very slowly,
"that Mr. Slope is looking to be the new dean."
"Yes—certainly, I believe he is," said the bishop.
"And what does the archbishop say about that?" asked Mrs.
Proudie.
"Well, my dear, to tell the truth, I promised Mr. Slope
to speak to the archbishop. Mr. Slope spoke to me about it.
It is very arrogant of him, I must say—but that is nothing
to me."
"Arrogant!" said Mrs. Proudie; "it is the most impudent
piece of pretension I ever heard of in my life. Mr. Slope
Dean of Barchester, indeed! And what did you do in the
matter, Bishop?"
"Why, my dear, I did speak to the archbishop."
"You don't mean to tell me," said Mrs. Proudie, "that you
are going to make yourself ridiculous by lending your name
to such a preposterous attempt as this? Mr. Slope Dean of
Barchester, indeed!" And she tossed her head and put her
arms akimbo with an air of confident defiance that made her
husband quite sure that Mr. Slope never would be Dean of
Barchester. In truth, Mrs. Proudie was all but invincible;
had she married Petruchio, it may be doubted whether that
arch wife-tamer would have been able to keep her legs out of
those garments which are presumed by men to be peculiarly
unfitted for feminine use.
"It is preposterous, my dear."
"Then why have you endeavoured to assist him?"
"Why—my dear, I haven't assisted him—much."
"But why have you done it at all? Why have you mixed your
name up in anything so ridiculous? What was it you did say
to the archbishop?"
"Why, I just did mention it; I just did say that—that in
the event of the poor dean's death, Mr. Slope would—would—"
"Would what?"
"I forget how I put it—would take it if he could get it;
something of that sort. I didn't say much more than that."
"You shouldn't have said anything at all. And what did
the archbishop say?"
"He didn't say anything; he just bowed and rubbed his
hands. Somebody else came up at the moment, and as we were
discussing the new parochial universal school committee, the
matter of the new dean dropped; after that I didn't think it
wise to renew it."
"Renew it! I am very sorry you ever mentioned it. What
will the archbishop think of you?"
"You may be sure, my dear, the archbishop thought very
little about it."
"But why did you think about it, Bishop? How could you
think of making such a creature as that Dean of Barchester?
Dean of Barchester! I suppose he'll be looking for a
bishopric some of these days—a man that hardly knows who his
own father was; a man that I found without bread to his
mouth or a coat to his back. Dean of Barchester, indeed!
I'll dean him."
Mrs. Proudie considered herself to be in politics a pure
Whig; all her family belonged to the Whig party. Now, among
all ranks of Englishmen and Englishwomen (Mrs. Proudie
should, I think, be ranked among the former on the score of
her great strength of mind), no one is so hostile to lowly
born pretenders to high station as the pure Whig.
The bishop thought it necessary to exculpate himself.
"Why, my dear," said he, "it appeared to me that you and Mr.
Slope did not get on quite so well as you used to do!"
"Get on!" said Mrs. Proudie, moving her foot uneasily on
the hearth-rug and compressing her lips in a manner that
betokened much danger to the subject of their discourse.
"I began to find that he was objectionable to you"—Mrs.
Proudie's foot worked on the hearth-rug with great
rapidity—"and that you would be more comfortable if he was
out of the palace"—Mrs. Proudie smiled, as a hyena may
probably smile before he begins his laugh—"and therefore I
thought that if he got this place, and so ceased to be my
chaplain, you might be pleased at such an arrangement."
And then the hyena laughed out. Pleased at such an
arrangement! Pleased at having her enemy converted into a
dean with twelve hundred a year! Medea, when she describes
the customs of her native country (I am quoting from
Robson's edition), assures her astonished auditor that in
her land captives, when taken, are eaten.
"You pardon them?" says Medea.
"We do indeed," says the mild Grecian.
"We eat them!" says she of Colchis, with terrific energy.
Mrs. Proudie was the Medea of Barchester; she had no idea
of not eating Mr. Slope. Pardon him! Merely get rid of him!
Make a dean of him! It was not so they did with their
captives in her country, among people of her sort! Mr. Slope
had no such mercy to expect; she would pick him to the very
last bone.
"Oh, yes, my dear, of course he'll cease to be your
chaplain," said she. "After what has passed, that must be a
matter of course. I couldn't for a moment think of living in
the same house with such a man. Besides, he has shown
himself quite unfit for such a situation; making broils and
quarrels among the clergy; getting you, my dear, into
scrapes; and taking upon himself as though he were as good
as bishop himself. Of course he'll go. But because he leaves
the palace, that is no reason why he should get into the
deanery."
"Oh, of course not!" said the bishop; "but to save
appearances, you know, my dear—"
"I don't want to save appearances; I want Mr. Slope to
appear just what he is—a false, designing, mean, intriguing
man. I have my eye on him; he little knows what I see. He is
misconducting himself in the most disgraceful way with that
lame Italian woman. That family is a disgrace to Barchester,
and Mr. Slope is a disgrace to Barchester. If he doesn't
look well to it, he'll have his gown stripped off his back
instead of having a dean's hat on his head. Dean, indeed!
The man has gone mad with arrogance."
The bishop said nothing further to excuse either himself
or his chaplain, and having shown himself passive and
docile, was again taken into favour. They soon went to
dinner, and he spent the pleasantest evening he had had in
his own house for a long time. His daughter played and sang
to him as he sipped his coffee and read his newspaper, and
Mrs. Proudie asked good-natured little questions about the
archbishop; and then he went happily to bed and slept as
quietly as though Mrs. Proudie had been Griselda herself.
While shaving himself in the morning and preparing for the
festivities of Ullathorne, he fully resolved to run no more
tilts against a warrior so fully armed at all points as was
Mrs. Proudie.
CHAPTER XXXIV
Oxford—The Master and Tutor of Lazarus
Mr. Arabin, as we have said, had but a sad walk of it
under the trees of Plumstead churchyard. He did not appear
to any of the family till dinner-time, and then he seemed,
as far as their judgement went, to be quite himself. He had,
as was his wont, asked himself a great many questions and
given himself a great many answers; and the upshot of this
was that he had sent himself down for an ass. He had
determined that he was much too old and much too rusty to
commence the manoeuvres of love-making; that he had let the
time slip through his hands which should have been used for
such purposes; and that now he must lie on his bed as he had
made it. Then he asked himself whether in truth he did love
this woman; and he answered himself, not without a long
struggle, but at last honestly, that he certainly did love
her. He then asked himself whether he did not also love her
money, and he again answered himself that he did so. But
here he did not answer honestly. It was and ever had been
his weakness to look for impure motives for his own conduct.
No doubt, circumstanced as he was, with a small living and a
fellowship, accustomed as he had been to collegiate luxuries
and expensive comforts, he might have hesitated to marry a
penniless woman had he felt ever so strong a predilection
for the woman herself; no doubt Eleanor's fortune put all
such difficulties out of the question; but it was equally
without doubt that his love for her had crept upon him
without the slightest idea on his part that he could ever
benefit his own condition by sharing her wealth.
When he had stood on the hearth-rug, counting the pattern
and counting also the future chances of his own life, the
remembrances of Mrs. Bold's comfortable income had certainly
not damped his first assured feeling of love for her. And
why should it have done so? Need it have done so with the
purest of men? Be that as it may, Mr. Arabin decided against
himself; he decided that it had done so in his case, and
that he was not the purest of men.
He also decided, which was more to his purpose, that
Eleanor did not care a straw for him, and that very probably
she did care a straw for his rival. Then he made up his mind
not to think of her any more, and went on thinking of her
till he was almost in a state to drown himself in the little
brook which ran at the bottom of the archdeacon's grounds.
And ever and again his mind would revert to the Signora
Neroni, and he would make comparisons between her and
Eleanor Bold, not always in favour of the latter. The
signora had listened to him, and flattered him, and believed
in him; at least she had told him so. Mrs. Bold had also
listened to him, but had never flattered him; had not always
believed in him; and now had broken from him in violent
rage. The signora, too, was the more lovely woman of the
two, and had also the additional attraction of her
affliction—for to him it was an attraction.
But he never could have loved the Signora Neroni as he
felt that he now loved Eleanor; and so he flung stones into
the brook, instead of flinging in himself, and sat down on
its margin as sad a gentleman as you shall meet in a
summer's day.
He heard the dinner-bell ring from the churchyard, and he
knew that it was time to recover his self-possession. He
felt that he was disgracing himself in his own eyes, that he
had been idling his time and neglecting the high duties
which he had taken upon himself to perform. He should have
spent this afternoon among the poor at St. Ewold's, instead
of wandering about at Plumstead, an ancient, love-lorn
swain, dejected and sighing, full of imaginary sorrows and
Wertherian grief. He was thoroughly ashamed of himself, and
determined to lose no time in retrieving his character, so
damaged in his own eyes.
Thus when he appeared at dinner he was as animated as
ever and was the author of most of the conversation which
graced the archdeacon's board on that evening. Mr. Harding
was ill at ease and sick at heart, and did not care to
appear more comfortable than he really was; what little he
did say was said to his daughter. He thought that the
archdeacon and Mr. Arabin had leagued together against
Eleanor's comfort, and his wish now was to break away from
the pair and undergo in his Barchester lodgings whatever
Fate had in store for him. He hated the name of the
hospital; his attempt to regain his lost inheritance there
had brought upon him so much suffering. As far as he was
concerned, Mr. Quiverful was now welcome to the place.
And the archdeacon was not very lively. The poor dean's
illness was of course discussed in the first place. Dr.
Grantly did not mention Mr. Slope's name in connexion with
the expected event of Dr. Trefoil's death; he did not wish
to say anything about Mr. Slope just at present, nor did he
wish to make known his sad surmises; but the idea that his
enemy might possibly become Dean of Barchester made him very
gloomy. Should such an event take place, such a dire
catastrophe come about, there would be an end to his life as
far as his life was connected with the city of Barchester.
He must give up all his old haunts, all his old habits, and
live quietly as a retired rector at Plumstead. It had been a
severe trial for him to have Dr. Proudie in the palace, but
with Mr. Slope also in the deanery he felt that he should be
unable to draw his breath in Barchester close.
Thus it came to pass that in spite of the sorrow at his
heart, Mr. Arabin was apparently the gayest of the party.
Both Mr. Harding and Mrs. Grantly were in a slight degree
angry with him on account of his want of gloom. To the one
it appeared as though he were triumphing at Eleanor's
banishment, and to the other that he was not affected as he
should have been by all the sad circumstances of the
day—Eleanor's obstinacy, Mr. Slope's success, and the poor
dean's apoplexy. And so they were all at cross-purposes.
Mr. Harding left the room almost together with the
ladies, and then the archdeacon opened his heart to Mr.
Arabin. He still harped upon the hospital. "What did that
fellow mean," said he, "by saying in his letter to Mrs. Bold
that if Mr. Harding would call on the bishop, it would be
all right? Of course I would not be guided by anything he
might say, but still it may be well that Mr. Harding should
see the bishop. It would be foolish to let the thing slip
through our fingers because Mrs. Bold is determined to make
a fool of herself."
Mr. Arabin hinted that he was not quite so sure that Mrs.
Bold would make a fool of herself. He said that he was not
convinced that she did regard Mr. Slope so warmly as she was
supposed to do. The archdeacon questioned and
cross-questioned him about this, but elicited nothing, and
at last remained firm in his own conviction that he was
destined, malgré lui, to be the brother-in-law of Mr.
Slope. Mr. Arabin strongly advised that Mr. Harding should
take no step regarding the hospital in connexion with, or in
consequence of, Mr. Slope's letter. "If the bishop really
means to confer the appointment on Mr. Harding," argued Mr.
Arabin, "he will take care to let him have some other
intimation than a message conveyed through a letter to a
lady. Were Mr. Harding to present himself at the palace, he
might merely be playing Mr. Slope's game;" and thus it was
settled that nothing should be done till the great Dr.
Gwynne's arrival, or at any rate without that potentate's
sanction.
It was droll to observe how these men talked of Mr.
Harding as though he were a puppet, and planned their
intrigues and small ecclesiastical manoeuvres in reference
to Mr. Harding's future position without dreaming of taking
him into their confidence. There was a comfortable house and
income in question, and it was very desirable, and certainly
very just, that Mr. Harding should have them; but that at
present was not the main point; it was expedient to beat the
bishop and, if possible, to smash Mr. Slope. Mr. Slope had
set up, or was supposed to have set up, a rival candidate.
Of all things the most desirable would have been to have had
Mr. Quiverful's appointment published to the public and then
annulled by the clamour of an indignant world, loud in the
defence of Mr. Harding's rights. But of such an event the
chance was small; a slight fraction only of the world would
be indignant, and that fraction would be one not accustomed
to loud speaking. And then the preferment had, in a sort of
way, been offered to Mr. Harding and had, in a sort of way,
been refused by him.
Mr. Slope's wicked, cunning hand had been peculiarly
conspicuous in the way in which this had been brought to
pass, and it was the success of Mr. Slope's cunning which
was so painfully grating to the feelings of the archdeacon.
That which of all things he most dreaded was that he should
be outgeneralled by Mr. Slope; and just at present it
appeared probable that Mr. Slope would turn his flank, steal
a march on him, cut off his provisions, carry his strong
town by a coup de main, and at last beat him
thoroughly in a regular pitched battle. The archdeacon felt
that his flank had been turned when desired to wait on Mr.
Slope instead of the bishop, that a march had been stolen
when Mr. Harding was induced to refuse the bishop's offer,
that his provisions would be cut off when Mr. Quiverful got
the hospital, that Eleanor was the strong town doomed to be
taken, and that Mr. Slope, as Dean of Barchester, would be
regarded by all the world as conqueror in the final
conflict.
Dr. Gwynne was the Deus ex machina who was to come
down upon the Barchester stage and bring about deliverance
from these terrible evils. But how can melodramatic
dénouements be properly brought about, how can vice and
Mr. Slope be punished, and virtue and the archdeacon be
rewarded, while the avenging god is laid up with the gout?
In the mean time evil may be triumphant, and poor innocence,
transfixed to the earth by an arrow from Dr. Proudie's
quiver, may lie dead upon the ground, not to be resuscitated
even by Dr. Gwynne.
Two or three days after Eleanor's departure, Mr. Arabin
went to Oxford and soon found himself closeted with the
august head of his college. It was quite clear that Dr.
Gwynne was not very sanguine as to the effects of his
journey to Barchester, and not over-anxious to interfere
with the bishop. He had had the gout, but was very nearly
convalescent, and Mr. Arabin at once saw that had the
mission been one of which the master thoroughly approved, he
would before this have been at Plumstead.
As it was, Dr. Gwynne was resolved on visiting his
friend, and willingly promised to return to Barchester with
Mr. Arabin. He could not bring himself to believe that there
was any probability that Mr. Slope would be made Dean of
Barchester. Rumour, he said, had reached even his ears, not
at all favourable to that gentleman's character, and he
expressed himself strongly of opinion that any such
appointment was quite out of the question. At this stage of
the proceedings, the master's right-hand man, Tom Staple,
was called in to assist at the conference. Tom Staple was
the Tutor of Lazarus and, moreover, a great man at Oxford.
Though universally known by a species of nomenclature so
very undignified, Tom Staple was one who maintained a high
dignity in the university. He was, as it were, the leader of
the Oxford tutors, a body of men who consider themselves
collectively as being by very little, if at all, second in
importance to the heads themselves. It is not always the
case that the master, or warden, or provost, or principal
can hit it off exactly with his tutor. A tutor is by no
means indisposed to have a will of his own. But at Lazarus
they were great friends and firm allies at the time of which
we are writing.
Tom Staple was a hale, strong man of about forty-five,
short in stature, swarthy in face, with strong, sturdy black
hair and crisp black beard of which very little was allowed
to show itself in shape of whiskers. He always wore a white
neckcloth, clean indeed, but not tied with that scrupulous
care which now distinguishes some of our younger clergy. He
was, of course, always clothed in a seemly suit of solemn
black. Mr. Staple was a decent cleanly liver, not
over-addicted to any sensuality; but nevertheless a somewhat
warmish hue was beginning to adorn his nose, the peculiar
effect, as his friends averred, of a certain pipe of port
introduced into the cellars of Lazarus the very same year in
which the tutor entered it as a freshman. There was also,
perhaps, a little redolence of port wine, as it were the
slightest possible twang, in Mr. Staple's voice.
In these latter days Tom Staple was not a happy man;
university reform had long been his bugbear, and now was his
bane. It was not with him, as with most others, an affair of
politics, respecting which, when the need existed, he could,
for parties' sake or on behalf of principle, maintain a
certain amount of necessary zeal; it was not with him a
subject for dilettante warfare and courteous, commonplace
opposition. To him it was life and death. The status quo
of the university was his only idea of life, and any
reformation was as bad to him as death. He would willingly
have been a martyr in the cause, had the cause admitted of
martyrdom.
At the present day, unfortunately, public affairs will
allow of no martyrs, and therefore it is that there is such
a deficiency of zeal. Could gentlemen of £10,000 a year have
died on their own door-steps in defence of protection, no
doubt some half-dozen glorious old baronets would have so
fallen, and the school of protection would at this day have
been crowded with scholars. Who can fight strenuously in any
combat in which there is no danger? Tom Staple would have
willingly been impaled before a Committee of the House,
could he by such self-sacrifice have infused his own spirit
into the component members of the hebdomadal board.
Tom Staple was one of those who in his heart approved of
the credit system which had of old been in vogue between the
students and tradesmen of the university. He knew and
acknowledged to himself that it was useless in these
degenerate days publicly to contend with "The Jupiter" on
such a subject. "The Jupiter" had undertaken to rule the
university, and Tom Staple was well aware that "The Jupiter"
was too powerful for him. But in secret, and among his safe
companions, he would argue that the system of credit was an
ordeal good for young men to undergo.
The bad men, said he, the weak and worthless, blunder
into danger and burn their feet; but the good men, they who
have any character, they who have that within them which can
reflect credit on their alma mater, they come through
scatheless. What merit will there be to a young man to get
through safely, if he be guarded and protected and
restrained like a schoolboy? By so doing, the period of the
ordeal is only postponed, and the manhood of the man will be
deferred from the age of twenty to that of twenty-four. If
you bind him with leading-strings at college, he will break
loose while eating for the bar in London; bind him there,
and he will break loose afterwards, when he is a married
man. The wild oats must be sown somewhere. 'Twas thus that
Tom Staple would argue of young men, not, indeed, with much
consistency, but still with some practical knowledge of the
subject gathered from long experience.
And now Tom Staple proffered such wisdom as he had for
the assistance of Dr. Gwynne and Mr. Arabin.
"Quite out of the question," said he, arguing that Mr.
Slope could not possibly be made the new Dean of Barchester.
"So I think," said the master. "He has no standing, and,
if all I hear be true, very little character."
"As to character," said Tom Staple, "I don't think much
of that. They rather like loose parsons for deans; a little
fast living, or a dash of infidelity, is no bad
recommendation to a cathedral close. But they couldn't make
Mr. Slope; the last two deans have been Cambridge men;
you'll not show me an instance of their making three men
running from the same university. We don't get our share and
never shall, I suppose, but we must at least have one out of
three."
"Those sort of rules are all gone by now," said Mr.
Arabin.
"Everything has gone by, I believe," said Tom Staple.
"The cigar has been smoked out, and we are the ashes."
"Speak for yourself, Staple," said the master.
"I speak for all," said the tutor stoutly. "It is coming
to that, that there will be no life left anywhere in the
country. No one is any longer fit to rule himself, or those
belonging to him. The Government is to find us all in
everything, and the press is to find the Government.
Nevertheless, Mr. Slope won't be Dean of Barchester."
"And who will be warden of the hospital?" said Mr.
Arabin.
"I hear that Mr. Quiverful is already appointed," said
Tom Staple.
"I think not," said the master. "And I think, moreover,
that Dr. Proudie will not be so short-sighted as to run
against such a rock: Mr. Slope should himself have sense
enough to prevent it."
"But perhaps Mr. Slope may have no objection to see his
patron on a rock," said the suspicious tutor.
"What could he get by that?" asked Mr. Arabin.
"It is impossible to see the doubles of such a man," said
Mr. Staple. "It seems quite clear that Bishop Proudie is
altogether in his hands, and it is equally clear that he has
been moving heaven and earth to get this Mr. Quiverful into
the hospital, although he must know that such an appointment
would be most damaging to the bishop. It is impossible to
understand such a man, and dreadful to think," added Tom
Staple, sighing deeply, "that the welfare and fortunes of
good men may depend on his intrigues."
Dr. Gwynne or Mr. Staple were not in the least aware, nor
even was Mr. Arabin, that this Mr. Slope, of whom they were
talking, had been using his utmost efforts to put their own
candidate into the hospital, and that in lieu of being
permanent in the palace, his own expulsion therefrom had
been already decided on by the high powers of the diocese.
"I'll tell you what," said the tutor, "if this Quiverful
is thrust into the hospital and Dr. Trefoil does die, I
should not wonder if the Government were to make Mr. Harding
Dean of Barchester. They would feel bound to do something
for him after all that was said when he resigned."
Dr. Gwynne at the moment made no reply to this
suggestion, but it did not the less impress itself on his
mind. If Mr. Harding could not be warden of the hospital,
why should he not be Dean of Barchester?
And so the conference ended without any very fixed
resolution, and Dr. Gwynne and Mr. Arabin prepared for their
journey to Plumstead on the morrow.
CHAPTER XXXV
Miss Thorne's Fête Champêtre
The day of the Ullathorne party arrived, and all the
world were there—or at least so much of the world as had
been included in Miss Thorne's invitation. As we have said,
the bishop returned home on the previous evening, and on the
same evening and by the same train came Dr. Gwynne and Mr.
Arabin from Oxford. The archdeacon with his brougham was in
waiting for the Master of Lazarus, so that there was a
goodly show of church dignitaries on the platform of the
railway.
The Stanhope party was finally arranged in the odious
manner already described, and Eleanor got into the doctor's
carriage full of apprehension and presentiment of further
misfortune, whereas Mr. Slope entered the vehicle elate with
triumph.
He had received that morning a very civil note from Sir
Nicholas Fitzwhiggin, not promising much, indeed, but then
Mr. Slope knew, or fancied that he knew, that it was not
etiquette for government officers to make promises. Though
Sir Nicholas promised nothing he implied a good deal,
declared his conviction that Mr. Slope would make an
excellent dean, and wished him every kind of success. To be
sure he added that, not being in the cabinet, he was never
consulted on such matters, and that even if he spoke on the
subject, his voice would go for nothing. But all this Mr.
Slope took for the prudent reserve of official life. To
complete his anticipated triumphs, another letter was
brought to him just as he was about to start to Ullathorne.
Mr. Slope also enjoyed the idea of handing Mrs. Bold out
of Dr. Stanhope's carriage before the multitude at
Ullathorne gate as much as Eleanor dreaded the same
ceremony. He had fully made up his mind to throw himself and
his fortune at the widow's feet, and had almost determined
to select the present propitious morning for doing so. The
signora had of late been less than civil to him. She had
indeed admitted his visits and listened, at any rate without
anger, to his love, but she had tortured him and reviled
him, jeered at him and ridiculed him, while she allowed him
to call her the most beautiful of living women, to kiss her
hand, and to proclaim himself with reiterated oaths her
adorer, her slave and worshipper.
Miss Thorne was in great perturbation, yet in great
glory, on the morning of the gala day. Mr. Thorne also,
though the party was none of his giving, had much heavy work
on his hands. But perhaps the most overtasked, the most
anxious, and the most effective of all the Ullathorne
household was Mr. Plomacy, the steward. This last personage
had, in the time of Mr. Thorne's father, when the Directory
held dominion in France, gone over to Paris with letters in
his boot-heel for some of the royal party, and such had been
his good luck that he had returned safe. He had then been
very young and was now very old, but the exploit gave him a
character for political enterprise and secret discretion
which still availed him as thoroughly as it had done in its
freshest gloss. Mr. Plomacy had been steward of Ullathorne
for more than fifty years, and a very easy life he had had
of it. Who could require much absolute work from a man who
had carried safely at his heel that which, if discovered,
would have cost him his head? Consequently Mr. Plomacy had
never worked hard, and of latter years had never worked at
all. He had a taste for timber, and therefore he marked the
trees that were to be cut down; he had a taste for
gardening, and would therefore allow no shrub to be planted
or bed to be made without his express sanction. In these
matters he was sometimes driven to run counter to his
mistress, but he rarely allowed his mistress to carry the
point against him.
But on occasions such as the present Mr. Plomacy came out
strong. He had the honour of the family at heart; he
thoroughly appreciated the duties of hospitality; and
therefore, when gala doings were going on, he always took
the management into his own hands and reigned supreme over
master and mistress.
To give Mr. Plomacy his due, old as he was, he thoroughly
understood such work as he had in hand, and did it well.
The order of the day was to be as follows. The quality,
as the upper classes in rural districts are designated by
the lower with so much true discrimination, were to eat a
breakfast, and the non-quality were to eat a dinner. Two
marquees had been erected for these two banquets: that for
the quality on the esoteric or garden side of a certain deep
ha-ha; and that for the non-quality on the exoteric or
paddock side of the same. Both were of huge dimensions—that
on the outer side was, one may say, on an egregious
scale—but Mr. Plomacy declared that neither would be
sufficient. To remedy this, an auxiliary banquet was
prepared in the dining-room, and a subsidiary board was to
be spread sub dio for the accommodation of the lower
class of yokels on the Ullathorne property.
No one who has not had a hand in the preparation of such
an affair can understand the manifold difficulties which
Miss Thorne encountered in her project. Had she not been
made throughout of the very finest whalebone, riveted with
the best Yorkshire steel, she must have sunk under them. Had
not Mr. Plomacy felt how much was justly expected from a man
who at one time carried the destinies of Europe in his boot,
he would have given way, and his mistress, so deserted, must
have perished among her poles and canvas.
In the first place there was a dreadful line to be drawn.
Who were to dispose themselves within the ha-ha, and who
without? To this the unthinking will give an off-hand
answer, as they will to every ponderous question. Oh, the
bishop and such-like within the ha-ha, and Farmer Greenacre
and such-like without. True, my unthinking friend, but who
shall define these such-likes? It is in such definitions
that the whole difficulty of society consists. To seat the
bishop on an arm-chair on the lawn and place Farmer
Greenacre at the end of a long table in the paddock is easy
enough, but where will you put Mrs. Lookaloft, whose
husband, though a tenant on the estate, hunts in a red coat,
whose daughters go to a fashionable seminary in Barchester,
who calls her farm-house Rosebank, and who has a pianoforte
in her drawing-room? The Misses Lookaloft, as they call
themselves, won't sit contented among the bumpkins. Mrs.
Lookaloft won't squeeze her fine clothes on a bench and talk
familiarly about cream and ducklings to good Mrs. Greenacre.
And yet Mrs. Lookaloft is no fit companion and never has
been the associate of the Thornes and the Grantlys. And if
Mrs. Lookaloft be admitted within the sanctum of fashionable
life, if she be allowed with her three daughters to leap the
ha-ha, why not the wives and daughters of other families
also? Mrs. Greenacre is at present well contented with the
paddock, but she might cease to be so if she saw Mrs.
Lookaloft on the lawn. And thus poor Miss Thorne had a hard
time of it.
And how was she to divide her guests between the marquee
and the parlour? She had a countess coming, an Honourable
John and an Honourable George, and a whole bevy of Ladies
Amelia, Rosina, Margaretta, &c; she had a leash of baronets
with their baronettes; and, as we all know, she had a
bishop. If she put them on the lawn, no one would go into
the parlour; if she put them into the parlour, no one would
go into the tent. She thought of keeping the old people in
the house and leaving the lawn to the lovers. She might as
well have seated herself at once in a hornet's nest. Mr.
Plomacy knew better than this. "Bless your soul, ma'am,"
said he, "there won't be no old ladies—not one, barring
yourself and old Mrs. Clantantram."
Personally Miss Thorne accepted this distinction in her
favour as a compliment to her good sense, but nevertheless
she had no desire to be closeted on the coming occasion with
Mrs. Clantantram. She gave up all idea of any arbitrary
division of her guests and determined if possible to put the
bishop on the lawn and the countess in the house, to
sprinkle the baronets, and thus divide the attractions. What
to do with the Lookalofts even Mr. Plomacy could not decide.
They must take their chance. They had been specially told in
the invitation that all the tenants had been invited, and
they might probably have the good sense to stay away if they
objected to mix with the rest of the tenantry.
Then Mr. Plomacy declared his apprehension that the
Honourable Johns and Honourable Georges would come in a sort
of amphibious costume, half-morning, half-evening, satin
neck-handkerchiefs, frock-coats, primrose gloves, and
polished boots; and that, being so dressed, they would
decline riding at the quintain, or taking part in any of the
athletic games which Miss Thorne had prepared with so much
fond care. If the Lord Johns and Lord Georges didn't ride at
the quintain, Miss Thorne might be sure that nobody else
would.
"But," said she in dolorous voice, all but overcome by
her cares, "it was specially signified that there were to be
sports."
"And so there will be, of course," said Mr. Plomacy.
"They'll all be sporting with the young ladies in the laurel
walks. Them's the sports they care most about now-a-days. If
you gets the young men at the quintain, you'll have all the
young women in the pouts."
"Can't they look on as their great grandmothers did
before them?" said Miss Thorne.
"It seems to me that the ladies ain't contented with
looking now-a-days. Whatever the men do they'll do. If
you'll have side-saddles on the nags; and let them go at the
quintain too, it'll answer capital, no doubt."
Miss Thorne made no reply. She felt that she had no good
ground on which to defend her sex of the present generation
from the sarcasm of Mr. Plomacy. She had once declared, in
one of her warmer moments, "that now-a-days the gentlemen
were all women, and the ladies all men." She could not alter
the debased character of the age. But, such being the case,
why should she take on herself to cater for the amusement of
people of such degraded tastes? This question she asked
herself more than once, and she could only answer herself
with a sigh. There was her own brother Wilfred, on whose
shoulders rested all the ancient honours of Ullathorne
house; it was very doubtful whether even he would consent to
"go at the quintain," as Mr. Plomacy not injudiciously
expressed it.
And now the morning arrived. The Ullathorne household was
early on the move. Cooks were cooking in the kitchen long
before daylight, and men were dragging out tables and
hammering red baize on to benches at the earliest dawn. With
what dread eagerness did Miss Thorne look out at the weather
as soon as the parting veil of night permitted her to look
at all! In this respect, at any rate, there was nothing to
grieve her. The glass had been rising for the last three
days, and the morning broke with that dull, chill, steady,
grey haze which in autumn generally presages a clear and dry
day. By seven she was dressed and down. Miss Thorne knew
nothing of the modern luxury of déshabilles. She
would as soon have thought of appearing before her brother
without her stockings as without her stays—and Miss Thorne's
stays were no trifle.
And yet there was nothing for her to do when down. She
fidgeted out to the lawn and then back into the kitchen. She
put on her high-heeled clogs and fidgeted out into the
paddock. Then she went into the small home park where the
quintain was erected. The pole and cross-bar and the swivel
and the target and the bag of flour were all complete. She
got up on a carpenter's bench and touched the target with
her hand; it went round with beautiful ease; the swivel had
been oiled to perfection. She almost wished to take old
Plomacy at his word, to get on a side-saddle and have a tilt
at it herself. What must a young man be, thought she, who
could prefer maundering among laurel trees with a
wishy-washy school-girl to such fun as this? "Well," said
she aloud to herself, "one man can take a horse to water,
but a thousand can't make him drink. There it is. If they
haven't the spirit to enjoy it, the fault shan't be mine;"
and so she returned to the house.
At a little after eight her brother came down, and they
had a sort of scrap breakfast in his study. The tea was made
without the customary urn, and they dispensed with the usual
rolls and toast. Eggs also were missing, for every egg in
the parish had been whipped into custards, baked into pies,
or boiled into lobster salad. The allowance of fresh butter
was short, and Mr. Thorne was obliged to eat the leg of a
fowl without having it devilled in the manner he loved.
"I have been looking at the quintain, Wilfred," said she,
"and it appears to be quite right."
"Oh—ah, yes," said he. "It seemed to be so yesterday when
I saw it." Mr. Thorne was beginning to be rather bored by
his sister's love of sports, and had especially no affection
for this quintain post.
"I wish you'd just try it after breakfast," said she.
"You could have the saddle put on Mark Antony, and the pole
is there all handy. You can take the flour bag off, you
know, if you think Mark Antony won't be quick enough," added
Miss Thorne, seeing that her brother's countenance was not
indicative of complete accordance with her little
proposition.
Now Mark Antony was a valuable old hunter, excellently
suited to Mr. Thorne's usual requirements, steady indeed at
his fences, but extremely sure, very good in deep ground,
and safe on the roads. But he had never yet been ridden at a
quintain, and Mr. Thorne was not inclined to put him to the
trial, either with or without the bag of flour. He hummed
and hawed and finally declared that he was afraid Mark
Antony would shy.
"Then try the cob," said the indefatigable Miss Thorne.
"He's in physic," said Wilfred.
"There's the Beelzebub colt," said his sister. "I know
he's in the stable because I saw Peter exercising him just
now."
"My dear Monica, he's so wild that it's as much as I can
do to manage him at all. He'd destroy himself and me, too,
if I attempted to ride him at such a rattletrap as that."
A rattletrap! The quintain that she had put up with so
much anxious care; the game that she had prepared for the
amusement of the stalwart yeomen of the country; the sport
that had been honoured by the affection of so many of their
ancestors! It cut her to the heart to hear it so denominated
by her own brother. There were but the two of them left
together in the world, and it had ever been one of the rules
by which Miss Thorne had regulated her conduct through life
to say nothing that could provoke her brother. She had often
had to suffer from his indifference to time-honoured British
customs, but she had always suffered in silence. It was part
of her creed that the head of the family should never be
upbraided in his own house, and Miss Thorne had lived up to
her creed. Now, however, she was greatly tried. The colour
mounted to her ancient cheek, and the fire blazed in her
still bright eyes; but yet she said nothing. She resolved
that, at any rate, to him nothing more should be said about
the quintain that day.
She sipped her tea in silent sorrow and thought with
painful regret of the glorious days when her great ancestor
Ealfried had successfully held Ullathorne against a Norman
invader. There was no such spirit now left in her family
except that small useless spark which burnt in her own
bosom. And she herself, was not she at this moment intent on
entertaining a descendant of those very Normans, a vain
proud countess with a Frenchified name who would only think
that she graced Ullathorne too highly by entering its
portals? Was it likely that an Honourable John, the son of
an Earl De Courcy, should ride at a quintain in company with
Saxon yeomen? And why should she expect her brother to do
that which her brother's guests would decline to do?
Some dim faint idea of the impracticability of her own
views flitted across her brain. Perhaps it was necessary
that races doomed to live on the same soil should give way
to each other and adopt each other's pursuits. Perhaps it
was impossible that after more than five centuries of close
intercourse, Normans should remain Normans, and Saxons,
Saxons. Perhaps, after all, her neighbours were wiser than
herself. Such ideas did occasionally present themselves to
Miss Thorne's mind and make her sad enough. But it never
occurred to her that her favourite quintain was but a modern
copy of a Norman knight's amusement, an adaptation of the
noble tourney to the tastes and habits of the Saxon yeomen.
Of this she was ignorant, and it would have been cruelty to
instruct her.
When Mr. Thorne saw the tear in her eye, he repented
himself of his contemptuous expression. By him also it was
recognized as a binding law that every whim of his sister
was to be respected. He was not perhaps so firm in his
observances to her as she was in hers to him. But his
intentions were equally good, and whenever he found that he
had forgotten them, it was matter of grief to him.
"My dear Monica," said he, "I beg your pardon. I don't in
the least mean to speak ill of the game. When I called it a
rattletrap, I merely meant that it was so for a man of my
age. You know you always forget that I an't a young man."
"I am quite sure you are not an old man, Wilfred," said
she, accepting the apology in her heart and smiling at him
with the tear still on her cheek.
"If I was five-and-twenty, or thirty," continued he, "I
should like nothing better than riding at the quintain all
day."
"But you are not too old to hunt or to shoot," said she.
"If you can jump over a ditch and hedge, I am sure you could
turn the quintain round."
"But when I ride over the hedges, my dear—and it isn't
very often I do that—but when I do ride over the hedges,
there isn't any bag of flour coming after me. Think how I'd
look taking the countess out to breakfast with the back of
my head all covered with meal."
Miss, Thorne said nothing further. She didn't like the
allusion to the countess. She couldn't be satisfied with the
reflection that the sports at Ullathorne should be
interfered with by the personal attentions necessary for a
Lady De Courcy. But she saw that it was useless for her to
push the matter further. It was conceded that Mr. Thorne was
to be spared the quintain, and Miss Thorne determined to
trust wholly to a youthful knight of hers, an immense
favourite, who, as she often declared, was a pattern to the
young men of the age and an excellent sample of an English
yeoman.
This was Farmer Greenacre's eldest son, who, to tell the
truth, had from his earliest years taken the exact measure
of Miss Thorne's foot. In his boyhood he had never failed to
obtain from her apples, pocket-money, and forgiveness for
his numerous trespasses; and now in his early manhood he got
privileges and immunities which were equally valuable. He
was allowed a day or two's shooting in September; he
schooled the squire's horses; got slips of trees out of the
orchard and roots of flowers out of the garden; and had the
fishing of the little river altogether in his own hands. He
had undertaken to come mounted on a nag of his father's and
show the way at the quintain post. Whatever young Greenacre
did the others would do after him. The juvenile Lookalofts
might stand aloof, but the rest of the youth of Ullathorne
would be sure to venture if Harry Greenacre showed the way.
And so Miss Thorne made up her mind to dispense with the
noble Johns and Georges and trust, as her ancestors had done
before her, to the thews and sinews of native Ullathorne
growth.
At about nine the lower orders began to congregate in the
paddock and park, under the surveillance of Mr. Plomacy and
the head gardener and head groom, who were sworn in as his
deputies and were to assist him in keeping the peace and
promoting the sports. Many of the younger inhabitants of the
neighbourhood, thinking that they could not have too much of
a good thing, had come at a very early hour, and the road
between the house and the church had been thronged for some
time before the gates were thrown open.
And then another difficulty of huge dimensions arose, a
difficulty which Mr. Plomacy had indeed foreseen and for
which he was in some sort provided. Some of those who wished
to share Miss Thorne's hospitality were not so particular as
they should have been as to the preliminary ceremony of an
invitation. They doubtless conceived that they had been
overlooked by accident, and instead of taking this in
dudgeon, as their betters would have done, they
good-naturedly put up with the slight, and showed that they
did so by presenting themselves at the gate in their Sunday
best.
Mr. Plomacy, however, well-knew who were welcome and who
were not. To some, even though uninvited, he allowed
ingress. "Don't be too particular, Plomacy," his mistress
had said, "especially with the children. If they live
anywhere near, let them in."
Acting on this hint, Mr. Plomacy did let in many an eager
urchin and a few tidily dressed girls with their swains who
in no way belonged to the property. But to the denizens of
the city he was inexorable. Many a Barchester apprentice
made his appearance there that day and urged with piteous
supplication that he had been working all the week in making
saddles and boots for the use of Ullathorne, in compounding
doses for the horses, or cutting up carcasses for the
kitchen. No such claim was allowed. Mr. Plomacy knew nothing
about the city apprentices; he was to admit the tenants and
labourers on the estate; Miss Thorne wasn't going to take in
the whole city of Barchester; and so on.
Nevertheless, before the day was half over, all this was
found to be useless. Almost anybody who chose to come made
his way into the park, and the care of the guardians was
transferred to the tables on which the banquet was spread.
Even here there was many an unauthorised claimant for a
place, of whom it was impossible to get quit without more
commotion than the place and food were worth.
