By
Anthony Trollope
CONTENTS:
CHAPTER
I WHO WILL BE THE NEW BISHOP?
CHAPTER
II HIRAM'S HOSPITAL ACCORDING TO ACT OF PARLIAMENT
CHAPTER
III DR AND MRS PROUDIE
CHAPTER
IV THE BISHOP'S CHAPLAIN
CHAPTER
VII THE DEAN AND CHAPTER TAKE COUNSEL.
CHAPTER
VIII THE EX-WARDEN REJOICES IN HIS PROBABLE RETURN TO THE HOSPITAL
CHAPTER
IX THE STANHOPE FAMILY
CHAPTER
X MRS PROUDIE'S RECEPTION--COMMENCED
CHAPTER
XI MRS PROUDIE'S RECEPTION--CONCLUDED..
CHAPTER
XII SLOPE VERSUS HARDING
CHAPTER
XV THE WIDOW'S SUITORS
CHAPTER
XVII WHO SHALL BE COCK OF THE WALK?
CHAPTER
XVIII THE WIDOW'S PERSECUTION
CHAPTER
XIX BARCHESTER BY MOONLIGHT
CHAPTER
XXI ST EWOLD'S PARSONAGE
CHAPTER
XXII THE THORNES OF ULLATHORNE
CHAPTER
XXIII MR ARABIN READS HIMSELF IN AT ST EWOLD'S
CHAPTER
XXIV MR SLOPE'S MANAGES MATTERS VERY CLEVERLY AT PUDDINGDALE
CHAPTER
XXV FOURTEEN ARGUMENTS IN FAVOUR OF MR QUIVERFUL'S CLAIMS
CHAPTER
XXVI MRS PROUDIE TAKES A FALL
CHAPTER
XXVIII MRS BOLD IS ENTERTAINED BY DR AND MRS GRANTLY AT PLUMSTEAD
CHAPTER
XXIX A SERIOUS INTERVIEW
CHAPTER
XXX ANOTHER LOVE SCENE
CHAPTER
XXXI THE BISHOP'S LIBRARY
CHAPTER
XXXII A NEW CANDIDATE FOR ECCLESIASTICAL HONOURS
CHAPTER
XXXIII MRS PROUDIE VICTRIX
CHAPTER
XXXIV OXFORD--THE MASTER AND TUTOR OF LAZARUS
CHAPTER
XXXV MISS THORNE'S FETE CHAMPETRE
CHAPTER
XXXVI ULLATHORNE SPORTS--ACT I
CHAPTER
XXXVIII THE BISHOP SITS DOWN TO BREAKFAST, AND THE DEAN DIES
CHAPTER
XXXIX THE LOOKALOFTS AND THE GREENACRES
CHAPTER
XL ULLATHORNE SPORTS--ACT II
CHAPTER
XLI MRS BOLD CONFIDES HER SORROW TO HER FRIEND MISS STANHOPE
CHAPTER
XLII ULLATHORNE SPORTS--ACT III
CHAPTER
XLIII MR AND MRS QUIVERFUL ARE MADE HAPPY. MR SLOPE ENCOURAGED BY THE PRESS
CHAPTER
XLV THE STANHOPES AT HOME
CHAPTER
XLVI MR SLOPE'S PARTING INTERVIEW WITH THE SIGNORA
CHAPTER
XLVIII MISS THORNE SHOWS HER TALENT FOR MATCH-MAKING
CHAPTER
XLIX THE BEELZEBUB COLT
CHAPTER
L THE ARCHDEACON IS SATISFIED WITH THE STATE OF AFFAIRS
CHAPTER
LI MR SLOPE BIDS FAREWELL TO THE PALACE AND ITS INHABITANTS
CHAPTER
LII THE NEW DEAN TAKES POSSESSION OF THE DEANERY AND THE NEW WARDEN OF THE
HOSPITAL
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
The death of old Dr Grantly, who had for many years filled the chair with meek authority, took place exactly as the ministry of Lord - was going to give place to that 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.
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 was 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
At this time the bishop was quite on his last legs; but the ministry was also 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
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 out-going men during that 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 of 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 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 bed-room 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 have also 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 with a solemn face; 'His lordship's gone more like a sleeping baby 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 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 counselling 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, 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 for 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 woman.' 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
'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 consequences of delay. Will you do it?'
'I! Oh yes; certainly: I'll do it, 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 -,
'There,' said he. 'Just take that to the telegraph office at the railway station, and give it 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 to 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 the anxiety of his 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 some one, 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
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 off again on its journey.
Thus terminated our unfortunate friend's chance 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 a while 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 moment 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 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 Fitzjames, 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
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 not for 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 a bishop. But he certainly did desire to play first fiddle; he did desire to sit in full lawn sleeves amongst the peers of the realm; and he did desire, if the truth must be out, to be called 'My Lord' by the reverend brethren.
His hopes, however, were they innocent or sinful, were not fated to be realised; and Dr Proudie was consecrated Bishop of Barchester.
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 upon 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
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; and the 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 its 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 underlying 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 remnants 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, 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
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 Hiram's heirs?' intending to give an infallible rule for the governance of 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 reread, 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 the 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
1s 4d a day; that there should also be twelve old women, each with
1s 2d a day; that there should be a matron with a house and L 70 a
year; a steward with L 150 a year, who should have the spiritual 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 a while 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 change.
Poor Eleanor Bold! How well does that widow's cap become her, and the solemn gravity with which she devotes 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 acquaintances, 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 not 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 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 into his face from her knees, he 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 in this 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 they are 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 really 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 infant tongue would make his 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; and 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 house of his own, and so remained in the lodgings he had first selected over a chemist's shop in the High Street at Barchester.
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 in like a justice of the 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 every thing 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 observations 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 a
Irish baron by his mother's side, and his wife was the niece of a Scottish
earl. He had for years held some clerical office appertaining to courtly
matters, which had enabled him to live in
His residence in the metropolis, rendered necessary by the duties entrusted to him, his high connections, 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 a 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
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 anathematise 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 the 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
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; and had had something to do with both the regium donum and the Maynooth Grant.
It must not be 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. His 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
Dr Proudie was an ambitious man, and before he was well
consecrated Bishop of Barchester, he had begun to look up to archepiscopal
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:
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 the people of Barchester. Dr Grantly had always lived there; and in truth it
was hard for a bishop to be popular after Dr Grantly. His income had averaged L
9000 a year; his successor was to be rigidly limited to L 5000. 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 carriages, as became a bishop; but his carriage, horses, and
coachmen, though they did very well for Barchester, would have been almost
ridiculous at
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; but 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 henpecked.
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 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 an 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 had 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 connection 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 the 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 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 the 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
Mr Slope, however, on his first introduction must not be brought before the public at the tail of a chapter.
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 presumed 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
Having been thus familiarly thrown among the Misses Proudie, it was 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 that 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, so had all the servants, so 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 reflection 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
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
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 his power over the female heart. To him, the revelation of God appears 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 that fell from the divine lips on the mountain--'Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth'--'Blessed are the merciful, for the 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 if it did 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 those 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 as 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 on 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 a quite 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 of 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 is 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 presumed 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 exacted and 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 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 priestly charmer 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.
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; but 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 the 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 conversation in such an interview. In the affair of the consecration of 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, and
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 away. 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
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 hearthrug, 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 be 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 it 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 the 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 duties 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 to 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 the 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
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 single 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 their 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?'
'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 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 were no Sunday schools in the parish.
Mr Slope merely opened his 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 trains 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, their 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, breaksmen, 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 by 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 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 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 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 any 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 bed-rooms 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 out-houses were very imperfect: he might specify the coal-cellar, and the wood-house.
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 very 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-examination as 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, it they differed, in silence. But Mrs Proudie interrogated him, and then lectured. 'Neither thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, nor thy man servant, nor thy maid servant,' 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 so may 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 for 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 the 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 might 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 to 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 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.
'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 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 probably 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 thereupon forgot himself. I will not follow his example, nor shock my readers by transcribing the term in which he expressed his feelings 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 corresponding 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 realise the fact that the wife of the 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 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 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 to 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?'
'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?'
'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 will 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 exclaimed after a while. 'To dare to cross-examine me about 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 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 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 the 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 not 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
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 its ancient privileges.
It was true that he could not himself intone the service, but he could pressure 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 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 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 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 reflection 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 de 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 method 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 Honourable and Reverend Dr Vesey Stanhope, who at this time was very
busy on the shores of
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 allotted 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 rood 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 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
The service was certainly 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 of 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 precept addressed by
'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 the 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 for either a fool or a coward.
It would not be becoming were I to travesty a sermon, or even 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 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 mouthpiece of the illustrious divine who sat opposite to him; and having presumed 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 on were exactly those which were most distasteful to the clergy of the diocese, and most averse to their practices 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 anathematised. 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 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 the 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 not but unknown in the diocese; and from thence he came round to the undue preponderance, which he asserted, music 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 civilised and free countries than the necessity of listening to sermons. No one but a preaching clergyman has, in these realms, the power of compelling audiences to sit silent, and be tormented. No one but a preaching clergyman can revel in platitudes, truisms, and untruisms, (sic) 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 physic 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 per force by none but the jury, prisoner, and gaoler (sic). 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 (sic) and denouncings (sic), 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, four the week before. I have preached twenty-three sermons this month. It is really too much.' '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 found form one enraged parson to another, with wide-spread nostrils from which already burst forth fumes of indignation, and with many shufflings (sic) 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.
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 the 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 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 chaplain, 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 may 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 certainly had to 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; 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 hard work to the young mind as book-keeping is to the elderly; and that quite as little feeling of worship enters into 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; and, 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 them 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 L 400 a year, should look after the loaves and fishes, ever when they are under the thumb of 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 have been 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: 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 the 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 to 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 to most 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--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 a 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 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 invariable 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 this 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 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 (sic) or Bethesda, and put the cathedral quite out of fashion.
Dr and Mrs Proudie at once returned to
And so all Barchester was by the ears.
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 those 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 not 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 be 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 overcome the enmity with which those 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 of 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, eulogising 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 he 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 any one. 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 house and his twelve bedesmen.
'But,' he said, 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 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 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 the 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; and 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 step-mother.'
'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 any once else, even if they had the will to do so, and sufficient impudence to carry out such a will. The archdeacon was of the 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 re-appointment, 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 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 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 was 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 the 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 L 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 house 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 re-appointment 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 re-appointment 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, that 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 that 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's 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 approve?'
'It can hardly be the duty of any young man rudely to assail the religious convictions of his elders of 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 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 to urbane and courteous conduct among men, than any other study which men 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 court-yard 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 walk.
It is now three months since Dr Proudie began his reign, and changes had already been affected 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
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 the want of feeling was, in most of them, accompanied by so great an amount of good nature 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 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
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 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 condescended 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 eldest 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
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 grace 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 as 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
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 freethinker, 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 sources?
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
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 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
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 trousseaux. Her baby was in the arms of a poor girl from
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 for ever, 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 re-admitting 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 comfortable 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 for 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 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
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. Paul Neroni 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
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 any one, 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 was 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 had left
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 got a bill from the doctor on his
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 much 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 workshop, at
When the family started for
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 thing you would forget. His light hair was very long and silky, coming down over his coat. His beard had been prepared in the 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 particular sweetness.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 scruple 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 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 declaration 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 not 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 a 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 the 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 out-manoeuvre 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 new comer would range himself under his banners.
Little did any of them dream of what ingredients the Stanhope family was now composed.
The bishop and his wife had only spent 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 hierarchical 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 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. '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.
This bishop knew more about cathedrals and deans, and precentors and church services than his wife did, and also more of the 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
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
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 the 'Bishop of Barchester's Sabbath-day Schools,' gave notice of a proposed 'Bishop of 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
And now there arose considerable agitation among the Grantleyites whether or not they would attend the 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. 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 take their wives. Mr Harding was especially bidden to go, resolving in his heart to keep himself 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; and 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 elite 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 said to her sister who had greatly 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 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 of 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 reflections in such language, but such was the gist
of his thoughts. 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
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 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 to 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 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 bed-room, 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 to 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 to 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 down-stairs 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
'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 is 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 re-arranged the bows on their bosoms; and Mr Slope rushed up stairs 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 any one 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
And so the room became full, and knots were formed, and every new comer 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 to the furthest corner, where he might not see her entrance. Mrs Proudie parked 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 to the hall to give his assistance.
He was, however, nearly knocked down and trampled on by the cortege that he encountered on the hall steps. He got himself picked up as well as he could, and followed the cortege up stairs. The signora was carried head foremost, her head being the care of her brother and an Italian man-servant 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 well-pleased clean face, on which no atom of beard appeared, and he wore round his neck a loose black silk neckhandkerchief. The bishop assayed 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 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.
'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, and made a 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 the 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 tried 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 in 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 thought of being a bishop myself.'
'Had thought 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 so often. By the bye, 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, immoveable 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 bye, 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 too what storms of passion even celestial minds can yield. As
Juno may have looked at
'Oh, you idiot, Bertie!' said the signora, seeing what had been done, and what were 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 debris 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 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 that flashed from her eyes.
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 to 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
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 this 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 very 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 the 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 Vicinironis 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
'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 catechisms.
'No,' said the signora, 'I would not allow her to learn
lessons such as those in a land ridden by priests, and polluted by the idolatry
of
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 will 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 her 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 Dr 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 armchair 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
'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
'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 the beginning.
'Talking of professors,' said a soft clear voice close behind
the chancellor's elbow; 'how much you Englishmen might learn from
The bishop looking round, perceived that abominable young Stanhope had pursued him. The dean stared at him, as though he was 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
'Yes,' continued Ethelbert; not at all understanding why a
German professor should be contemptible in the eyes of an
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 the archdeacon.
'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
'I was a Jew once myself,' said Bertie.
The bishop was determined not to stand another examination,
or be led on any terms into
'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 that he tried to argue himself back to an easy mind, but in vain.
Mr Slope in the mean time 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 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 down stairs 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
'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 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 for the guilty pair. The signora was sitting very comfortably up for 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 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 down stairs. 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 the 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.
'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
'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 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 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.
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 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 9.30am. 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 give me 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, as follows:
"Dear Sir,--I will call at the palace to-morrow at 9.30 AM as you desire.
"Truly yours, S. HARDING"
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 for 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 his eyes 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, in truth, the time for it had 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 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 all 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 airy superiority which this man assumed, did go against the grain of 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 college at
Mr Harding crossed one leg over the other, 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 is 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 L 450. I think on the whole the bishop was right; for though the service 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 comfortable to 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 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 house; 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 those 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; and so it was understood by Mr Harding. The colour rose in his cheeks, and he began to feel very angry.
'You should 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 superintended the doing of the work, and the paying of the 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.
'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 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 part of the hospital, the bishop is desirous that you shall have morning and evening service on the premises every Sabbath, and one week-day 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; and, 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 to be 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 will 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 of 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 those 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 condition.
'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 very 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 that 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.
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 injuries of their own sufferings, and which is generally proportioned in it 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 exultation, at least with satisfaction, had that been all. But the venom of the chaplain's harangue had worked into his blood, and had sapped the life of his sweet contentment.
'New men are carrying out new measures, and are eating 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 ear 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 every thing 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 now measures, long credit and few scruples, great success and wonderful ruin, such are now the tastes of Englishmen who know how to live. Alas, alas! under the 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
He had professed to himself in the bishop's parlour that in these coming sources of the sorrow of the 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 had 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, would 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 tonight: 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 that I have done wrong.'
'Nothing wrong at all, my dear,' said he, gently, very gently rejecting his daughter's caresses. 'There can be nothing wrong in your wishing to make yourself useful; indeed, you ought to do so by all means. Every one 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 have never 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 gentleman-like 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 a bad thing teaching an old dog new 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 sympathise, 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 fraternise 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 dinner-time, 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 combatting the Proudie faction, of supporting the old church interest of the close, of keeping in her own set much 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 every one 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 had 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 learnt that her sister Eleanor had promised to assist Mr Slope in the affairs of the hospital; and it was on this point that her attention soon 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 of 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 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 widely open to everything 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 attended his error; but it was not till after the interview with him and Mr Harding.
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 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 good humour.'
'He's very queer, isn't he?' asked the wife.
'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
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's is a parish lying just without the city of
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
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 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
All through the 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
'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 can 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 is your duty to do. You know that 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 only 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 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 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 discussion on the future wars of Arabin and Slope. The frogs had 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 in 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.
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 good will of the bishop in his favour, and during the discussion on the matter, it was 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 the 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 his daughter, if he did all in his power to forward his 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 the 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 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 Italianised charmer had been thoroughly successful in imposing upon his thoughts. We will not talk of 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 abandoning all further special relationship 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 the 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. 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 heartfelt 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 notable, then yawning, then turning over a book or two, and evidently at a loss how kill some 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 some 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
'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 the sister.
'Cela depend,' 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 meant 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
'With a son and heir already to my hand,' said Bertie.
'A baby that will very likely die,' said
'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
'And that a very little one, as the maid-servant 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 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.'
'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 Mrs Bold. She's a widow with lots of tin, a fine baby, a beautiful complexion, and the George and Dragon hotel up in High Street. By Jove, Lotte, if I marry her, I'll keep the public house myself--it's just the life that suits 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
'What you mean is, that it's very hard for a fool not to be a fool,' said Madeline.
Bertie Stanhope had 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
'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 is 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!' cried her sister.
'And oh,
'You don't mean to say that no man can love a woman unless he is 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
'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 realised? Are not promises all but made of delightful horrors, in lieu of which the writer produces nothing but 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 the picture before which was hung Mrs Radcliffe'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, and 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
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 completely 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.
'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 the 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, and 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 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 eyes 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 be 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 recognised the 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 re-adjust her cap, muttering some unnecessary apology about her baby. And while she was 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 the 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 the 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 her 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 rule 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 re-assume 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 the 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 his lordship'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 am sure of that, Mr Slope, I am quite sure of that;' said the bishop mollified: 'and I really think that Mr Harding should have the hospital.'
'Upon my word, I am 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 his 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 state 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 apologise 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 apologised 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 bit naughty boy,' said she to the child; 'and we must sent 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 the 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 get 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 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 the 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 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 fear 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 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 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 not choice but to look for some one 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 what 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 those things now. One thing is clear; we mustdo what we can to annul this rash offer the bishop 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 he 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 with 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 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; and 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 charitable to all men, who seldom spoke ill of any one, had warned 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, and 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.
'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 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 sympathise 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 that 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. My 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.'
All this time things were going on 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 even 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 allied 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. He walked up and down his little study, almost thinking that the time had 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 resolved 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 the hour? Dr Grantly's proposed visit would have reference to the re-appointment of Mr Harding to the wardenship of Hiram's hospital. The bishop having read this 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 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 saying that he would see him, and naming the hour for doing so. Having watched from his study-window that the messenger got safely off the premises with this despatch, 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 Mr Quiverful without informing Mrs Proudie, and he resolved at last to brave the lioness in her own 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 had 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 mersed 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,
'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 dotted 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 final smell of gunpowder expect faith in any ally. Thou thyself hast sought the battlefield; 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 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 is 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 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 wouldst 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 stall sat with her fixed pencil, and the figures of her sum still enduring on the tablets of her memory. 'L4 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 good to Mr Quiverful--'
'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 down stairs, 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 have 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 the current 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 judgment 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. Any one 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 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 your conduct.'
Mr Slope opened wide his huge protruding eyes, and stared out of them with a look of well-dignified surprise. 'Why, Mrs Proudie,' said he, 'I did but fetch her something to eat when 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, 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 upon 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 upon 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 concerning 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 would prevail.
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 gentle 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 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 calumny on Mrs Proudie to suggest that she was sitting in her bed-room 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 key-hole or to listen at a chink, was a trick for a housemaid.
Mrs Proudie knew this, and therefore she 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 drank of it, to seep 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 into 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.
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 he 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 be called on to lower myself in the world's esteem an 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 knew well 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 doing so.
'I was talking for a full hour yesterday with Mr Slope,' said she, with some little assumption of dignity, 'and I did not find myself to be 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 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 in 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 views 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,' and so saying she walked 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 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 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 a 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. 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 makes 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 the 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 tartufe! 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 on 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 me made no mention whatsoever. It was then settled that Mr Harding should go 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 learnt that Mary had left me for a few weeks, and she had learnt from some one 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.
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 the either side for them to look at; and, 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 L 3000 a year, and yet they had among them no other provision than their mother's fortune of L 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 her children.
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
'What's the meaning of that?' said he, throwing over the
table a letter with a
'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
'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
'And I suppose he has nothing 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 L 700, being the amount of a bill discounted in favour of Mr Ethelbert Stanhope, and now overdue for a period of nine months.
'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 the custom of his youth. But his daughter, though she 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 most extreme 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
'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
'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
'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.'
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.
'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 L 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 L 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 L 150.'
'And what became of the L 550?'
'Why, sir; the commission was L 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
'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 see the paving-stones?'
'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
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 and 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 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 criticism on him in that respect, and felt no annoyance of any kind, when she found herself seated between Bertie and Charlotte Stanhope. She had not 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 lady 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
'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 role 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
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 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 without the sort of sanction which
But
'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 was of course 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 her 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
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 immediately, is he not?' asked Bertie.
Eleanor made no immediate reply. Much such a question passed
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,
'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 to 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 on 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,' said she, 'is hardly inclined to trust him; they all say he is so arrogant to the old clergyman 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 the top of the hill, and then returned through the fields by a footpath 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 at such an hour.'
'Oh,' said
They went up stairs, 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 inarticulate 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.
The Reverend Francis Arabin, fellow of Lazarus, late
professor of poetry at
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 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 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 already been 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
From
He had been a religious lad before he left school. That is, he had addicted himself to a party of 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 its supporters who would otherwise have been inattentive to the matter, and teaches men to think about religion. How great an amount of good of this description has followed that movement of 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
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 the most comfortable
abode of
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 a while that he might meditate in complete peace on the step which appeared for 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. Every thing 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; but it cost him much to get over the idea of 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 early 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 on the spot
which he had selected. But
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 a 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
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 which 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 committed by the
Whigs. The ordeal through which he had gone, in resisting the blandishments of
the lady of
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, high for beauty, and the formation of the forehead too massive and heavy: but his 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
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 any one 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 facon de parler. I've no doubt Mr
Arabin is a very valuable man--at
'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 brazed-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 unfrequently 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 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 was 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, those things were not indifferent to him. He was
tired of his
It will be said that no time can have been fitted for such desires on his part as this, 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 to secure 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 search.
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 an income of some L 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 the 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. Also, 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, but when such a conviction was too late to be of service to him. He discovered, when much was 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 in 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 of 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 thought 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 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 bed-room, he sat there sad, at his open window, repining within himself that he also had no wife, no bairns, no soft award of lawn duly mown for him to be 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.
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; and, 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; and 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 that 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 was 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 at 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 guests at the Stanhopes, and he did not hesitate to accuse her of deceit. Moreover, the fact, or rather the 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 parsonages of the parish, joined in.
Eleanor also knew them, but spoke 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 more pleasant 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
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 grounds of the parish church. Mr Arabin declared that he should look on such tenets on the part of the 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 estate 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 oldest 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 auditory. 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 his examination; and 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 herself had not 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 up stairs, 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 Mahometan would
make against me for battling with the error of a priest of
'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--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 the Church of
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 power in the strains that 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 non-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; show up the worst side of every thing 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 began 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 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 apologise for presuming to criticise 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 good-will 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 is 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 down stairs, 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 those 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 minted, 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 here to the scene of 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 shall 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 anybody ever hear of a dining-room of such proportions?' and 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 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 new fangled method of leaving 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 protege 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, then 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 of 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 have 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 commission 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 effectively, and systematically, the party returned to Plumstead well satisfied with their expedition.
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
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
It would be unjust to say that he looked down in 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 neutralise 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 this present century, a brilliant race such as there are few in England, Mr Thorne 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 not veins were 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 not existing no branch of his family separated from the parent stock
at an earlier date than the reign of
'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 tell us, censured free
trade in November 1852, as the only patriots left among the public men of
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, had 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 depositories 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 service 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 bear 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 L 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 country, 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 the country hunt! But the great ruin came; when the noble master of the Barchester 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 occasions of every meet at Ullathorne, left the covers to their fate, and could not be persuaded to take his pink coat out of the 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 the 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 De Foe 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
then 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
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
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
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 hearts 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 the dainty white 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 shirts 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
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 in the other two sides by a wall about twenty feet high. This 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 adept at contriving house
accommodation, it will militate much against
But 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 tete-a-tete. 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 those, 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 of description of window is capable of imparting half
as much happiness to mankind as that which has been adopted at
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 hundred weight of coal, had been stuck on the hearth, by Mr Thorne's father. This hearth had of course been intended for the consumption of wood fagots, 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 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 down stairs 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 region.
Such was the interior of
It is the colour of Ullathorne that is so remarkable. It is all 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 storey, 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
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.
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 to 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 congregations of St Mary's at Oxford, and he laughed accordingly at the idea of Mr Arabin's modesty.
Thereupon Mr Arabin commenced to subtilise. 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 the 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 unfair; a comparison might be very just in its proportions which did not at all assimilate the things compared. But Mr Arabin went in subtilising, 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 any 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 now.
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 should certainly never take place in the rectory drawing-room at Plumstead.
And so arguing, they drove up to the iron gates of
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 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 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 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 Clodheave looked to the younguns, and perhaps sometimes there maybe 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 affection 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 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 then thoughtful days since the power of thought first came to me, how am I to instruct these grey beards, 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 privileges, 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 the congregation would be too anxious to prevent their young clergymen from advancing themselves to 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
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 easy to fill, and Mr Arabin having replied that he had no doubt he should do so 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 mind any body.
'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 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 between 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 to 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 is about; take care he doesn't destroy your little boy. 'But'--and her voice 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 Dr 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 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 the field beyond the copse. I suppose that's guano,' said the archdeacon.
'Yes, guano. I get it from
'I am under an obligation to them for staying away today, 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 hundred-weight of guano in it.'
'That Bradley never has anything good,' said Miss Tborne, 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
'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 the 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
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 mid-day August sun too great to deter them. The archdeacon took his text from the Epistle of 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 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
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.
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 Mrs Grantly seemed to have forgotten her injury 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, moth-like, 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 afflictions 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 licence 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 was unpleasant to her. Eleanor had no such self-knowledge. She thought in her own heart 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 any one blame my heroine for this? Let him or her rather thank God for all His goodness,--for His mercy endureth for ever.
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 Hindoo 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 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 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 the 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 the 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 realised 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 connection 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 be 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 would be.
The bishop had declared that Mr Quiverful should be the new warden. As Mr Slope went down stairs 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 necessities 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, pain- staking, 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 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 was 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 the 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 all 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 would 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 so 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 the frowns of the 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 the 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 it 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 L 450 out of fine feeling? And what signifies it when 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.'
This, while the rest of the world was accusing Mr Quiverful of rapacity for promotion and disregard for his honour, the inner world of his own household was falling foul of him, with equal vehemence, for his willingness to sacrifice their interest 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 was 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 to 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 reflection 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 farther, Mr Quiverful.'
Mr Quiverful said of course that 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 in 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 on 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 that 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 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 rights 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 any one whom he has once marked with approval. If you would allow me to advise you as a friend--'
'Indeed I shall be 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 his lordship that you decline to stand in Mr Harding's way, I think I may promise you--though, by the bye, 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 arm chair 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, 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 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.
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
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 had 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.
Such may be laid down as a 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.
'Yes, 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 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 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 on 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 action 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 continuously, 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 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 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 smug rector, really in want of nothing, but still looking for better preferment, should carry out 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 would 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 had 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 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 palace 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 which nature had endowed her. Of this also Mrs Quiverful was aware. She must make it known 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 a half-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 indispensible 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 bed-room; thought it most probable that she was subject to one of these or to some cause that would make her invisible; but Mrs Quiverful could sit down in the waiting-room, while inquiry was being made of Mrs Proudie.
'Look here, 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 that he was a married man; and, if he went at all, he must go alone. This necessity would have presented an insurmountable bar to the visit, or have militated against the pleasure, had he been able to go without 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 to 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 the 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 cause. 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 as 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 preference 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.
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 the 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 to 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 understood, 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 personal 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 on 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, not 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 the 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 devil you know than the devil you don't know', is an old saying, and perhaps a true one; but the bishop had not yet realised 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; and 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. The bishop had not yet been twelve months in this 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 repetticoated, his thraldom would be complete and for ever. 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 hoped 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 husband and wife when the wife expressed a wish for a tete-a-tete 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 trust was so woefully misplaced. '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 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 battle-field, 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 had 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 who 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, to 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 was suffering; that he would surely get himself into 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 by silence 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 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 been so long 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 temporarily 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 the promise of a letter on the next day or the day after. Thus resolving, she betook herself to her bed-room; but here she again changed her mind. The air of that sacred enclosure restored her courage, and gave her some 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 hey 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 a 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 rule 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 to 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 much 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 say. Knowing the extent of your family--'
'Fourteen children, Mrs Proudie, fourteen of them! and hardly 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 running 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 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 female angel, and a male and 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 the 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 with 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 was forthcoming. Instead of that, 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 she did not always speak of him to her children quite so respectfully as she might have done. But she did not 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 of 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 upon. As she repeated that 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.
Mr Slope, as we have said, left the palace with a feeling of considerable triumph. Not that he thought that his difficulties were 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 he 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, as 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 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 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 it 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 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.
We will now follow 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 was 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 worse. 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 L 1000 a year and a beautiful wife would not al all have hurt the voice of the pulpit character, 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 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, some exaggerated tidings, of the sighs which he poured into the lady's ears. He knew that he was acting against the recognised 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 mother's 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 ever had ever had, in her
early years, at an age when Mr Slope was thinking of his second book of
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 neck tie,
clean handkerchief, new gloves, and a soupcon of not necessary scent, called
about three o'clock at the doctor's house. At about this hour the signora was
almost always in the back drawing-room. The mother had not come down. The
doctor was out or in his own room. Bertie was out, and
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 the 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; every thing 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 that 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 black 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 beneficial 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 at him full in the face, not angrily, nor yet with a smile, but with an intense and overpowering gaze; and 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 is 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 he was fooled,' said the more manly chaplain. 'A man may love and yet not be a Troilus. All women are not Cressids.'
'No; all women are not Cressids. The falsehood is not always on the woman's side. Imogen was true, but now 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.
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 quite 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 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 very 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 palpitations or appearance of surprise. 'And now answer me another question,' said she; 'when are you to be married to 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?'
'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 eyes 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 her 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 realised the condition 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 sympathise 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 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 me 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 not 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. 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 fruits of the
And so she continued to insult him, and he continued to bear it.
'Sacrifice the world for love!' said she, in answer to some renewed rapid 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 and 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 premiere 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 her hand to him.
He sat himself down on the chair beside her, and 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 mother's step. Our tete-a-tete 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.
It will be remembered that Mr Slope, when leaving his billet doux with 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 packec, gave in at the carriage window Mr Slope's epistle. The archdeacon, who was sitting next to the window, took it, and immediately recognised 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 a while, 'that this should go on under my roof.'
Now here the archdeacon was certainly the most unreasonable. Having invited his sister-in-law to his house, it was a natural consequence of 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 making 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 the journey home, and then Dr Grantly said, 'Perhaps Susan had better give it to her. She can explain to her sister, better than 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 Slope.'
'I suppose,' said Dr Grantly, 'you don't wish her to marry this man. I suppose you'll admit that she would disgrace herself if she did 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 decides to do so, I shall certainly not think that she has disgraced 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; and 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 battle 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 life, and caused him to be tolerant of a man whose arrogance and vulgarity would, in 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 couldst thou not have asked herself? Was she not the daughter of thy loins, the child of thy heart, the most beloved of thee of all humanity? Had she not proved to thee, by years of closest affection, her truth and goodness and filial obedience? And yet, groping in darkness, hearing her name 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 to do so; 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 could 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 present 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 he 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 to 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 recognise 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 the 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 realise the fact that such a commission 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 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, and her dress fastened, she 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 be some 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 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 letter 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 she signally 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 would 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 the 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 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 any one.'
'Well, dear,' said the other, 'I cannot tell you that I do not think that 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 onesided to 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 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 this 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 bed-room. 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 that 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 this 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 he 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 in 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 woebegone 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 a 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 was 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 up 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 owned 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 that Eleanor should have received such a letter, and 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 close 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 her on 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 the 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 apologise 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 such 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 to point it out, painful to 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.
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.
There are people who delight in serious interviews, especially when to them appertain 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 much 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 the room, he almost wished he had taken his wife's advice.
He began by apologising for the trouble he was giving her. She begged him not to mention it, assured him that walking down the stairs 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 any one 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 back, please, Dr Grantly.'
He took 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 undoubtedly Eleanor 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 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 very 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. 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 with 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. Is it worth you 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 are 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 you have spoken to Mr Arabin about me and Mr Slope?'
'Certainly I have, and he quite agrees with me.'
'Agree 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; and, indeed, at this conjuncture, words did not come to her very freely.
'How dare you be so impertinent?' at last she said; and then hurried out of the room, without giving the archdeacon the opportunity of uttering another word. It was with difficulty that 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 sister had for days past conceived in sober earnest the idea that she was going to marry the 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 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 reflection that Mr Arabin should have in any way mentioned her name in connection 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 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 her 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 be 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 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 connection 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. I think you have 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. Every one 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 aroused 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 postchaise; 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 any one. 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.
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 some one 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 know how to think of her, in connection with himself; but he experienced an inward indefinable feeling of deep regret, a gnawing sorrow, and 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 his 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 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 possible 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 Mrs Bold 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 any one but him; he had not put himself forward as a suitor; but that she should marry Mr Slope--and so he repeated over and 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 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 every body 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 every one, 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, and yet unable to discontinue it.
The greater part of the morning she had spent alone; but after a while her father joined her. He had fully made up his mind that, come what might, nothing should separate him from his youngest 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 now and then some little soft words of affection, and working hard with his imaginary little fiddle-bow, when Mr Arabin entered the room. He immediately got up, and the two made some trifle remarks to each other, neither thinking of what he was saying, and 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 in 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 too leave 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 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 from 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 her,' 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,' she said; '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 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; and 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 a while, 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 have 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 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 about, 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 of it 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 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 racecourse in
'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 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 this 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 common-place 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 declarations 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 any one. 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, that 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 that he could not lower himself by asking for her pardon. He had done no wrong. He had not calumniated her, not injured her, as she had accused him of doing. He could not confess sins of which 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 a true friendship between us after what has just past. 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 of you well 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 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 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
'And have we not got 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 at 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
She knew this, and felt the joy of knowing it; and 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 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 re-kindled 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!
And thus the pleasant party of 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
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 home. 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, 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 any thing 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
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 of the services of our cathedral. I suppose the government will appoint, Mr Archdeacon. I trust that 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 extraordinarily 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 in the deanery,' said the little prebendary, chuckling inwardly at the evident consternation which his surmise had created.
'About as pleasant and as probably 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
'And full two thousand a year,' said the meagre doctor.
'It is cut down to L 1200,' 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
'And
'What say you, 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 the 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, 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 9.15pm train. If any man can do anything Sir Omicron 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 that the 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 9.15pm 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.
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 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 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 tantalise 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 flattered himself that the worst was over. 'Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute', he reflected; and now that his 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; and 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 looks 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 bed-room, 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 arch-episcopal 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 chaplain's arm, himself called at the deanery door. Mrs Proudie sent to Miss Trefoil all manner of offers of assistance. The Miss Proudies 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 there by the 9.15pm 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, of 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 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 big wigs, and with him Mr Slope had contrived to establish a sort of epistolary intimacy. He thought that he might safely apply to Sir Nicholas Fitzhiggin; 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 for.
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 the paper, who, if not the editor, was as good as the editor; and had long been in the habit of writing telling letters 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 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 be become vacant. More than one place 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 in 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 out that very afternoon. He was to start on the following morning to
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 the 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 signs 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 9.15pm 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
'I suppose not--I suppose not.'
'Oh no; indeed, his best friends could not wish that he should outlive such a shock, for his intellect 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 present rather abashed. He hardly knew how to frame his little request in language sufficiently modest. He had recognised 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 any one 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 that I shall succeed. You see I shall 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, 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 a while dumfounded. 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. The 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 bed-room instead of his wife's there might have been something in it. But---. And thus as Mr Slope as speaking, the bishop began to recognise 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 cogitation.
'I need not say,' continued Mr Slope, 'that it would be my chief desire to act in all matters connected with 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 not desirable that there should be but one opinion among the dignitaries in 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 would tell his grace that you consider such an appointment very desirable, that you have it much at heart with a view of putting an end to the 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 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 by the bishop promising to do as he was told. 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 Mr 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 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, 'I can hold out not 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 to handle. 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 Stanhope's; 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 the 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 and 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 the 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 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 had 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 as an adept at letter writing, they shall be given in full.
'Palace, Barchester, Sept 185-, '(Private)
'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 dear old Dr Trefoil has been seized with apoplexy. It is a subject of profound grief to every one in Barchester, for he has always been an excellent man--excellent as 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 for ever be at rest and for ever 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
'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 the certainty of falling (for poor dear Dr Trefoil is past hope). Should Lord - first hear it from you, that might probably bee 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. Therefor the epistle to Mr Towers was studied, and recopied, 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:-
'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
'(Private)
'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 9am. 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 of 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 some one 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 her 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 this diocese, I have exerted myself 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 in 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 we intend, 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 of the most effective member of the government. But I confess 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., '
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 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?
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 had prophesied that he would do, much to 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
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 special 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 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 any one 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
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 Stanshopes 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 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 bit her lip and stamp her foot as she thought of what he had said and done. But 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 the 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 fore-runners to admit of such a pastime. Mr Thorne did not seem to participate 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 into its present dimensions. All the Plumstead party had of course been asked, 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 apologised, almost with tears, so dire an enmity was presumed to rage between the two gentlemen. But Mr Arabin comforted 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
servants 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 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 Stanhope's; but, as a rule, Mr Slope's visits there had been made in the
morning, and hers in the evening. On that one occasion
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 to 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, dear,' said she, 'but we could not manage it 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 for ever, 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
'Well, then,' said Eleanor, 'you are all so kind,
'Not go at all!--what nonsense!--indeed you shall.' it had been absolutely determined in family council that Bertie should propose on that very occasion.
'Or I can take a fly,' said Eleanor. 'You know that 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 would 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 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, a 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 so 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 in 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 allotted time by three days, and was not without 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, 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 as 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 arm-chair 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. 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 was 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 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 preposterous attempts as this? Mr Slope dean of Barchester indeed!' And she tossed her head, and put her arms a-kimbo, 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 any thing so ridiculous? What was it you did say to the archbishop?'
'Why, I did just 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 was wise to renew it.'
'Renew it! I am very sorry you ever mentioned it. What will the archbishop think of that?'
'You may be sure, my dear, that 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 bishoprics some of these days--a man that hardly knows who his 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 as 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 such 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 loud. 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
'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 was 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.
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 assumed, as far as their judgment 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 set himself down for an ass. He had determined that he was much too old and much to rusty to commence the manouvres of lovemaking; 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 not certainly 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 did not 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 was 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 the afternoon among the poor at St Ewold's, instead of wandering about 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 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 own sad surmises; but the idea that his enemy might possibly
become Dean of Barchester made him very gloomy. Should such an even 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
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 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 least remained firm in his own conviction that he was destined, malgre 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 how these men talked of Mr Harding as though he were a puppet, and planned their intrigues and small ecclesiastical manouvres 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 the feelings of the archdeacon. That which of all things he most dreaded was that he should be out-generalled 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 the conqueror in that final conflict.
Dr Gwyinne 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 denouments 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 be dead upon the ground, not to be resuscitated even by Dr Gwynne.
Two or three days after Eleanor's departure, Mr Arabin went
to
As it was, Dr Gwynne was resolved to 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
the 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
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 the 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 in as a freshman. There was also, perhaps with a little redolence of port wine, as it were the slightest possible twang, in Mr Staple's voice.
In these days Tom Staple was not a very 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 common-place opposition. To him it was life and 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 L 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, and 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 in their Alma Mater,
they come through scatheless. What merit will there be to a young man to get
through safely, if he guarded and protected and restrained like a school-boy?
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
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
'These sort of rules are all gone out 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 the 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 Mr 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 a 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 must 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.
The day of the Ullathorne party arrived, and all the world
was 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
The Stanhope party was finally arranged in the odious manner already described, and Eleanor got into the doctor's waiting carriage full of apprehension and presentiment of further misfortunes, whereas Mr Slope entered the vehicle elate with triumph.
He had received that morning a civil note from Sir Nicholas Fitzwiggin; 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 triumph, 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 this 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
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 Pomney 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, always took the management into his own hands and reigned supreme over master and mistress.
To give Mr Pomney 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, one may say, on an egregious scale; but Mr Pomney 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,
rivetted with the best
In the first place there was a dreadful line to be drawn. Who was 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 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 Greenacres. And yet Mrs Lookaloft is not 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 the guests between the marquee and the parlour? She had a countess coming, and Honourable John and an Honourable George, and a whole bevy of Ladies Amelia, Rosina, Margaretta &c; she had a leash of baronets with their baronesses; and, as we all know, 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 Pomney 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 Chantantrum.'
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 Chantantrum. 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 neckhandkerchiefs, 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 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 Pomney. '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 Pomney. 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 the all the ancient honours of Ullathorne House; it was very doubtful whether even he would consent to 'go at the quintain', as Mr Pomney 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 deshabilles. 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 go on a side saddle, and have a tilt at it herself.
What must a young man be, thought she, who could prefer maundering among the 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 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 were also missing, for every egg in the parish had been whipped into custards, baked into pies, or boiled into lobster salad. The allowances 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 eye; 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 Normand, 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 the Earl de Courcy, should ride at a quintain in company with a Saxon yeoman? 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,
When Mr Thorne saw the tear in her eye, he repented himself of his contemptuous expression. By him also it was recognised 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 a 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 of 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 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 example 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 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 that 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 unauthorized claimant for a plate, of whom it was impossible to get quit without some commotion than the place and food were worth.
The trouble in civilised life of entertaining company, as it is called too generally without much regard to strict veracity, is so great that it cannot but be matter of wonder that people are so fond of attempting it. It is difficult to ascertain what is the quid pro quo. If they who give such laborious parties, and who endure such toil and turmoil in the vain hope of giving them successfully, really enjoyed the parties given by others, the matter would be understood. A sense of justice would induce men and women to undergo, in behalf of others, those miseries which others had undergone on their behalf. But they all profess that going out is as great a bore as receiving; and to look at them when they are out, one cannot but believe them.
Entertain! Who shall have sufficient self-assurance, who shall feel sufficient confidence in his own powers to dare to boast that he can entertain his company? A clown can sometimes do so, and sometimes a dancer in short petticoats and stuffed pink legs; occasionally, perhaps, a singer. But beyond these, success in this art of entertaining is not often achieved. Young men and girls linking themselves kind with kind, pairing like birds in spring, because nature wills it, they, after a simple fashion, do entertain each other. Few others even try.
Ladies, when they open their houses, modestly confessing, it may be presumed, their own incapacity, mainly trust to wax candles and upholstery. Gentlemen seem to rely on their white waistcoats. To these are added, for the delight of the more sensual, champagne and such good things of the table as fashion allows to be still considered as comestible. Even in this respect the world is deteriorating. All the good soups are now tabooed; and at the houses of one's accustomed friends, small barristers, doctors, government clerks, and such like, (for we cannot all of us always live as grandees, surrounded by an Elysium of livery servants), one gets a cold potato handed to one as a sort of finale to one's slice of mutton. Alas! for those happy days when one could say to one's neighbourhood, 'Jones, shall I give you some mashed turnip--may I trouble you for a little cabbage?' And then the pleasure of drinking wine with Mrs Jones and Miss Smith; with all the Joneses and all the Smiths! These latter-day habits are certainly more economical.
Miss Thorne, however, boldly attempted to leave the modern beaten track, and made a positive effort to entertain her guests. Alas! she did so with but moderate success. They had all their own way of going, and would not go her way. She piped to them, but they would not dance. She offered to them good honest household cake, made of currants and flour and eggs and sweetmeat; but they would feed themselves on trashy wafers from the shop of the Barchester pastry-cook, on chalk and gum and adulterated sugar. Poor Miss Thorne! yours is not the first honest soul that has vainly striven to recall the glories of happy days gone by! If fashion suggests to a Lady De Courcy that when invited to a dejeuner at twelve o'clock she ought to come at three, no eloquence of thine will teach her the advantage of a nearer approach to punctuality.
She had fondly thought that when she called on her friends to come at twelve, and especially begged them to believe that she meant it, she would be able to see them comfortably seated in their tents at two. Vain woman--or rather ignorant woman--ignorant of the advances of that civilization which the world had witnessed while she was growing old. At twelve she found herself alone, dressed in all the glory of the newest of her many suits of raiment; with strong shoes however, and a serviceable bonnet on her head, and a warm rich shawl on her shoulders. Thus clad she peered out into the tent, went to the ha-ha, and satisfied herself that at any rate the youngsters were amusing themselves, spoke a word to Mrs Greenacre over the ditch, and took one look at the quintain. Three or four young farmers were turning the machine round and round, and poking at the bag of flour in a manner not at all intended by the inventor of the game; but no mounted sportsmen were there. Miss Thorne looked at her watch. It was only fifteen minutes past twelve, and it was understood that Harry Greenacre was not to begin till the half hour.
Miss Thorne returned to her drawing-room rather quicker than her wont, fearing that the countess might come and find none to welcome her. She need not have hurried, for no one was there. At half-past twelve she peeped into the kitchen; at a quarter to one she was joined by her brother; and just then the first fashionable arrival took place. Mrs Clantantram was announced.
No announcement was necessary, indeed; for the good lady's voice was heard as she walked across the court-yard to the house scolding the unfortunate postilion who had driven her from Barchester. At the moment Miss Thorne could not but be thankful that the other guests were more fashionable, and were thus spared the fury of Mrs Clantantram's indignation.
'Oh, Miss Thorne, look here!' said she, as soon as she found herself in the drawing-room; 'do look at my roquelaure! It's clean spoilt, and for ever. I wouldn't but wear it because I know you wished us all to be grand to-day; and yet I had my misgivings. Oh dear, oh dear! It was five-and-twenty shillings a yard.'
The Barchester post horses had misbehaved in some unfortunate manner just as Mrs Clantantram was getting out of the chaise and had nearly thrown her under the wheel.
Mrs Clantantram belonged to other days, and therefore, though she had but little else to recommend her, Miss Thorne was to a certain extent fond of her. She sent the roquelaure away to be cleaned, and lent her one of her best shawls out of her own wardrobe.
The next comer was Mr Arabin, who was immediately informed of Mrs Clantantram's misfortune, and of her determination to pay neither master nor post-boy; although, as she remarked, she intended to get her lift home before she made known her mind upon that matter. Then a good deal of rustling was heard in the sort of lobby that was used for the ladies' outside cloaks; and the door having been thrown wide open, the servant announced, not in the most confident of voices, Mrs Lookaloft, and the Miss Lookalofts, and Mr Augustus Lookaloft.
Poor man!--we mean the footman. He knew, none better, that Mrs Lookaloft had no business there, that she was not wanted there, and would not be welcome. But he had not the courage to tell a stout lady with a low dress, short sleeves, and satin at eight shillings a yard, that she had come to the wrong tent; he had not dared to hint to young ladies with white dancing shoes and long gloves, that there was a place ready for them in the paddock. And thus Mrs Lookaloft carried her point, broke through the guards, and made her way into the citadel. That she would have to pass an uncomfortable time there, she had surmised before. But nothing now could rob her of the power of boasting that she had consorted on the lawn with the squire and Miss Thorne, with a countess, a bishop, and the country grandees, while Mrs Greenacres and such like were walking about with the ploughboys in the park. It was a great point gained by Mrs Lookaloft, and it might be fairly expected that from this time forward the tradesmen of Barchester would, with undoubting pens, address her husband and T. Lookaloft, Esquire.
Mrs Lookaloft's pluck carried her through everything, and she walked triumphant into the Ullathorne drawing-room; but her children did feel a little abashed at the sort of reception they met with. It was not in Miss Thorne's heart to insult her own guests; but neither was it in her disposition to overlook such effrontery.
'Oh, Mrs Lookaloft, is this you,' said she; 'and your daughters and son? Well, we're very glad to see you; but I'm sorry you've come in such low dresses, as we are all going out of doors. Could we lend you anything?'
'Oh dear no! thank ye, Miss Thorne,' said the mother; 'the girls and myself are quite used to low dresses, when we're out.'
'Are you, indeed?' said Miss Thorne shuddering; but the shudder was not lost on Mrs Lookaloft.
'And where's Lookaloft,' said the master of the house, coming up to welcome his tenant's wife. Let the faults of the family be what they would, he could not but remember that their rent was well paid; he was therefore not willing to give them a cold shoulder.
'Such a headache, Mr Thorne!' said Mrs Lookaloft. 'In fact he couldn't stir, or you may be certain on such a day he would not have absented himself.'
'Dear me,' said Miss Thorne. 'If he is so ill, I sure you'd wish to be with him.'
'Not at all!' said Mrs Lookaloft. 'Not at all, Miss Thorne. It is only bilious you know, and when he's that way he can bear nobody nigh him.'
The fact however was that Mr Lookaloft, having either more sense or less courage than his wife, had not chosen to intrude on Miss Thorne's drawing-room; and as he could not very well have gone among the plebeians while his wife was with the patricians, he thought it most expedient to remain at Rosebank.
Mrs Lookaloft soon found herself on a sofa, and the Miss Lookalofts on two chairs, while Mr Augustus stood near the door; and here they remained till in due time they were seated all four together at the bottom of the dining-room table.
Then the Grantlys came; the archdeacon and Mrs Grantly and the two girls, and Dr Gwynne and Mr Harding; and as ill luck would have it, they were closely followed by Dr Stanhope's carriage. As Eleanor looked out of the carriage window, she saw her brother-in-law helping the ladies out, and threw herself back into her seat, dreading to be discovered. She had had an odious journey. Mr Slope's civility had been more than ordinarily greasy; and now, though he had not in fact said anything which she could notice, she had for the first time entertained a suspicion that he was intending to make love to her. Was it after all true that she had been conducting herself in a way that justified the world in thinking that she liked the man? After all, could it be possible that the archdeacon and Mr Arabin were right, and that she was wrong? Charlotte Stanhope had also been watching Mr Slope, and had come to the conclusion that it behoved her brother to lose no further time, if he meant to gain the widow. She almost regretted that it had not been contrived that Bertie should be at Ullathorne before them.
Dr Grantly did not see his sister-in-law in company with Mr Slope, but Mr Arabin did. Mr Arabin came out with Mr Thorne to the front door to welcome Mrs Grantly, and he remained in the courtyard till all their party had passed on. Eleanor hung back in the carriage as long as she well could, but she was nearest to the door, and when Mr Slope, having alighted, offered her his hand, she had no alternative but to take it.
Mr Arabin standing at the open door, while Mrs Grantly was shaking hands with someone within, saw a clergyman alight from the carriage whom he at once knew to be Mr Slope, and then she saw this clergyman hand out Mrs Bold. Having seen so much, Mr Arabin, rather sick at heart, followed Mrs Grantly into the house.
Eleanor was, however, spared any further immediate
degradation, for Dr Stanhope gave her his arm across the courtyard, and Mr
Slope was fain to throw away his attention upon
They had hardly passed into the house, and from the house to the lawn, when, with a loud rattle and such noise as great men and great woman are entitled to make in their passage through the world, the Proudies drove up. It was soon apparent that no every day comer was at the door. One servant whispered to another that it was the bishop, and the word soon ran through all the hangers-on and strange grooms and coachmen about the place. There was quite a little cortege to see the bishop and his 'lady' walk across the courtyard, and the good man was pleased to see that the church was held in such respect in the parish of St Ewold's.
And now the guests came fast and thick, and the lawn began to be crowded, and the room to be full. Voices buzzed, silk rustled against silk, and muslin crumpled against muslin. Miss Thorne became more happy than she had been, and again bethought her of her sports. There were targets and bows and arrows prepared at the further end of the lawn. Here the gardens of the place encroached with a somewhat wide sweep upon the paddock, and gave ample room for the doings of the toxophilites. Miss Thorne got together such daughters of Diana as could bend a bow, and marshalled them to the targets. There were the Grantly girls and the Proudie girls and the Chadwick girls, and the two daughters of the burly chancellor, and Miss Knowle; and with them went Frederick and Augustus Chadwick, and young Knowle of Knowle park, and Frank Foster of the Elms, and Mr Vellem Deeds the dashing attorney of the High Street, and the Rev Mr Green, and the Rev Mr Browne, and the Rev Mr White, all of whom as in duty bound, attended the steps of the three Miss Proudies.
'Did you ever ride at the quintain, Mr Foster?' said Miss Thorne, as she walked with her party, across the lawn.
'The quintain?' said young Foster, who considered himself a dab at horsemanship. 'Is it a sort of gate, Miss Thorne?'
Miss Thorne had to explain the noble game she spoke of, and Frank Foster had to own that he never had ridden at the quintain.
'Would you like to come and see?' said Miss Thorne. 'There'll be plenty here without you, if you like it.'
'Well, I don't mind,' said Frank; 'I suppose the ladies can come too.'
'Oh, yes,' said Miss Thorne; 'those who like it; I have no doubt they'll go to see your prowess, if you'll ride, Mr Foster.'
Mr Foster looked down at a most unexceptionable pair of
pantaloons, which had arrived from
'Well, I don't know about riding, Miss Thorne,' said he; 'I fear I'm not quite prepared.'
Miss Thorne sighed, but said nothing further. She left the toxophilites to their bows and arrows, and returned towards the house. But as she passed by the entrance to the small park, she thought that she might at any rate encourage the yeomen by her presence, as she could not induced her more fashionable guests to mix with them in their many amusements.
Accordingly she once more betook herself to the quintain post. Here to her great delight she found Harry Greenacre ready mounted, with his pole in his hand, and a lot of comrades standing round him, encouraging him to the assault. She stood at a little distance and nodded to him in token of her good pleasure.
'Shall I begin, ma'am?' said Henry fingering his long staff in a rather awkward way, while his horse moved uneasily beneath him, not accustomed to a rider armed with such a weapon.
'Yes, yes,' said Miss Thorne, standing triumphant as the queen of beauty, on an inverted tub which some chance had brought hither from the farm-yard.
'Here goes then,' said Harry as he wheeled his horse round to get the necessary momentum of a sharp gallop. The quintain post stood right before him, and the square board at which he was to tilt was fairly in the way. If he hit that duly in the middle, and maintained his pace as he did so, it was calculated that he would be carried out of reach of the flour bag, which, suspended at the other end of the cross-bar on the post, would swing round when the board was struck. It was also calculated that if the rider did not maintain his pace, he would get a blow from the flour bag just at the back of his head, and bear about him the signs of his awkwardness to the great amusement of the lookers-on.
Harry Greenacre did not object to being powdered with flour in the service of his mistress, and therefore gallantly touched his steed with his spur, having laid his lance in rest to the best of his ability. But his ability in this respect was not great, and his appurtenances probably not very good; consequently, he struck his horse with his pole unintentionally on the side of the head as he started. The animal swerved and shied, and galloped off wide of the quintain. Harry well accustomed to manage a horse, but not to do so with a twelve-foot rod on his arm, lowered his right hand to the bridle and thus the end of the lance came to the ground, and got between the legs of the steed. Down came the rider and steed and staff. Young Greenacre was thrown some six feet over the horse's head, and poor Miss Thorne almost fell of her tub in a swoon.
'Oh gracious, he's killed,' shrieked a woman, who was near him when he fell.
'The Lord be good to him! his poor mother, his poor mother!' said another.
'Well, drat them dangerous plays all the world over,' said an old crone.
'He has broke his neck sure enough, if ever man did,' said a fourth.
Poor Miss Thorne. She heard all this and yet did not quite swoon. She made her way through the crowd as best she could, sick herself almost to death. Oh, his mother--his poor mother! how could she ever forgive herself. The agony of that moment was terrific. She could hardly get to the place where the poor lad was lying, as three or four men in front were about the horse which had risen with some difficulty; but at last she found herself close to the young farmer.
'Has he marked himself? for heaven's sake tell me that; has he marked his knees?' said Harry, slowly rising and rubbing his left shoulder with his right hand, and thinking only of his horse's legs. Miss Thorne soon found that he had not broken his neck, nor any of his bones, nor been injured in any essential way. But from that time forth she never instigated any one to ride at the quintain.
Eleanor left Dr Stanhope as soon as she could do so civilly, and went in quest of her father whom she found on the lawn in company with Mr Arabin. She was not sorry to find them together. She was anxious to disabuse at any rate her father's mind as to this report which had got abroad respecting her, and would have been well pleased to have been able to do the same with regard to Mr Arabin. She put her own through her father's arm, coming up behind his back, and then tendered her hand also to the vicar of St Ewold's.
'And how did you come?' said Mr Harding, when the first greeting was over.
'The Stanhopes brought me,' said she; 'their carriage was obliged to come twice, and has now gone back for the signora.' As she spoke she caught Mr Arabin's eye, and saw that he was looking pointedly at her with a severe expression. She understood at once the accusation contained in his glance. It said as plainly as an eye could speak, 'Yes, you came with the Stanhopes, but you did so in order that you might be in company with Mr Slope.'
'Our party,' said she, still addressing her father, 'consisted of the Doctor and Charlotte Stanhope, myself, and Mr Slope.' As she mentioned the last name she felt her father's arm quiver slightly beneath her touch. At the same moment Mr Arabin turned away from them, and joining his hands behind his back strolled slowly away by one of the paths.
'Papa,' said she, 'it was impossible to help coming in the same carriage with Mr Slope; it was quite impossible. I had promised to come with them before I dreamt of his coming, and afterwards I could not get out of it without explaining and giving rise to talk. You weren't at home, you know, I couldn't possibly help it.' She said all this so quickly that by the time her apology was spoken she was quite out of breath.
'I don't know why you should have wished to help it, my dear,' said her father.
'Yes, papa, you do; you must know, you do know all the things they said at Plumstead. I am sure you do. You know all the archdeacon said. How unjust he was, and Mr Arabin too. He's a horrid man, a horrid, odious man, but--'
'Who is an odious man, my dear? Mr Arabin?'
'No; but Mr Slope. You know I mean Mr Slope. He's the most odious man I ever met in my life, and it was most unfortunate my having to come here in the same carriage with him. But how could I help it?'
A great weight began to move itself off Mr Harding's mind. So, after all, the archdeacon with all his wisdom, and Mrs Grantly with all her tact, and Mr Arabin with all his talent were in the wrong. His own child, his Eleanor, the daughter of whom he was so proud was not to become the wife of Mr Slope. He had been about to give his sanction to the marriage, so certified had he been of this fact; and now he learnt that this imputed lover of Eleanor's was at any rage as much disliked by her as by any one of the family. Mr Harding, however, was by no means sufficiently a man of the world to conceal the blunder he had made. He could not pretend that he had entertained no suspicion; he could not make believe that he had never joined the archdeacon in his surmises. He was greatly surprised, and gratified beyond measure, and he could not help showing that such was the case.
'My darling girl,' said he, 'I am so delighted, so overjoyed. My own child; you have taken such a weight off my mind.'
'But surely, papa, you didn't think--'
'I didn't know what to think, my dear. The archdeacon told me that
-'
'The archdeacon!' said Eleanor, her face lighting up with passion. 'A man like the archdeacon might, one would think, be better employed than in traducing his sister-in-law, and creating bitterness between a father and his daughter.'
'He didn't mean to that, Eleanor.'
'What did he mean then? Why did he interfere with me, and fill your mind with such falsehood?'
'Never mind it now, my child; never mind it now. We shall all know you better now.'
'Oh, papa, that you should have thought it! that you should have suspected me!'
'I don't know what you mean by suspicion, Eleanor. There would be nothing disgraceful, you know; nothing wrong in such a marriage. Nothing that could have justified my interfering as your father.' And Mr Harding would have proceeded in his own defence to make out that Mr Slope after all was a very good sort of man, and a very fitting second husband for a young widow, had he not been interrupted by Eleanor's greater energy.
'It would be disgraceful,' said she; 'it would be wrong; it would be abominable. Could I do such a horrid thing, I should expect no one to speak to me. Ugh--' and she shuddered as she thought of the matrimonial torch which her friends had been so ready to light on her behalf. I don't wonder at Dr Grantly; I don't wonder at Susan; but, oh, papa, I do wonder at you. How could you, how could you believe it?' Poor Eleanor, as she thought of her father's defalcation, could resist her tears no longer, and was forced to cover her face with her handkerchief.
The place was not very opportune for her grief. They were walking through the shrubberies, and there were many people near them. Poor Mr Harding stammered out his excuse as best he could, and Eleanor with an effort controlled her tears, and returned her handkerchief to her pocket. She did not find it difficult to forgive her father, nor could she altogether refuse to join him in the returning gaiety of spirit to which her present avowal gave rise. It was such a load off his heart to think that he should not be called on to welcome Mr Slope as his son-in-law; it was such a relief to him to find that his daughter's feelings and his own were now, as they ever had been, in unison. He had been so unhappy for the last six weeks about this wretched Mr Slope!
He was so indifferent as to the loss of the hospital, so thankful for the recovery of his daughter, that, strong as was the ground for Eleanor's anger, she could not find it in her heart to be long angry with him.
'Dear papa,' she said, hanging closely to his arm, 'never suspect me again: promise me that you never will. Whatever I do, you may be sure I shall tell you first; you may be sure I shall consult you.'
And Mr Harding did promise, and owned his sin, and promised again. And so, while he promised amendment and she uttered forgiveness, they returned together to the drawing-room windows.
And what had Eleanor meant when she declared that whatever she did, she would tell her father first? What was she thinking of doing?
So ended the first act of the melodrama which Eleanor was called on to perform this day at Ullathorne.
And now there were new arrivals. Just as Eleanor reached the drawing-room the signora was being wheeled into it. She had been brought out of the carriage into the dining-room and there placed on a sofa, and was now in the act of entering the other room, by the joint aid of her brother and sister, Mr Arabin, and two servants in livery. She was all in her glory, and looked so pathetically happy, so full of affliction and grace, was so beautiful, so pitiable, and so charming, that it was almost impossible not to be glad she was there.
Miss Thorne was unaffectedly glad to welcome her. In fact, the signora was a sort of lion; and though there was no drop of the Leohunter blood in Miss Thorne's veins, she nevertheless did like to see attractive people at her house.
The signora was attractive, and on her first settlement in the dining-room she had whispered two or three soft feminine words into Miss Thorne's ear, which, at the moment, had quite touched that lady's heart.
'Oh, Miss Thorne; where is Miss Thorne?' she said, as soon as her attendants had placed her in her position just before one of the windows, from whence she could see all that was going on upon the lawn; 'How am I to thank you for permitting a creature like me to be here? But if you knew the pleasure you give me, I am sure you would excuse the trouble I bring with me.' And as she spoke she squeezed the spinster's little hand between her own.
'We are delighted to see you here,' said Miss Thorne; 'you give us no trouble at all, and we think it a great favour conferred by you to come and see us; don't we, Wilfred?'
'A very great favour indeed,' said Mr Thorne, with a gallant bow, but of somewhat less cordial welcome than that conceded by his sister. Mr Thorne had learned perhaps more of the antecedents of his guest than his sister had done, and not as yet undergone the power of the signora's charms.
But while the mother of the last of the Neros was thus in he full splendour, with crowds of people gazing at her and the elite of the company standing round her couch, her glory was paled by the arrival of the Countess De Courcy. Miss Thorne had now been waiting three hours for the countess, and could not therefore but show very evident gratification when the arrival at last took place. She and her brother of course went off to welcome the titled grandee, and with them, alas, went many of the signora's admirers.
'Oh, Mr Thorne,' said the countess, while the act of being disrobed of her fur cloaks, and re-robed in her gauze shawls, 'what dreadful roads you have; perfectly frightful.'
It happened that Mr Thorne was way-warden for the district, and not liking the attack, began to excuse his roads.
'Oh yes, indeed they are,' said the countess, not minding
him in the least, 'perfectly dreadful; are they not, Margaretta? Why, dear Miss
Thorne, we left
'Just past one, I think you mean,' said the Honourable John, turning from the group and eyeing the signora through his glass. The signora gave him back his own, as the saying is, and more with it; so that the young nobleman was forced to avert his glance, and drop his glass.
'I say, Thorne,' whispered he, 'who the deuce is that on the sofa?'
'Dr Stanhope's daughter,' whispered back Mr Thorne. 'Signora Neroni she calls herself.'
'Whew-ew-ew!' whistled the Honourable John. 'The devil she is! I have heard no end of stories about that filly. You must positively introduce me, Thorne; you positively must.'
Mr Thorne who was respectability itself, did not quite like having a guest about whom the Honourable John De Courcy had heard no end of stories; but he couldn't help himself. He merely resolved that before he went to bed he would let his sister know somewhat of the history of the lady she was so willing to welcome. The innocence of Miss Thorne, at her time of life, was perfectly charming; but even innocence may be dangerous.
'John may say what he likes,' continued the countess, urging her excuses on Miss Thorne; 'I am sure we were past the castle gate before twelve, weren't we, Margaretta?'
'Upon my word, I don't know,' said the Lady Margaretta, 'for I was half asleep. But I do know that I was called sometime in the middle of the night, and was dressing myself before daylight.'
Wise people, when they are in the wrong, always put themselves right by finding fault with the people against whom they have sinned. Lady De Courcy was a wise woman; and therefore, having treated Miss Thorne very badly by staying away till three o'clock, she assumed the offensive and attacked Mr Thorne's roads. Her daughter, not less wise, attacked Miss Thorne's early hours. The art of doing this is among the most precious of those usually cultivated by persons who know how to live. There is no withstanding it. Who can go systematically to work, and having done battle with the primary accusation and settled that, then bring forward a counter-charge and support that also? Life is not long enough for such labours. A man in the right relies easily on his rectitude, and therefore goes about unarmed. His very strength is his weakness; his very weakness is his strength. The one is never prepared for combat, the other is always ready. Therefore it is that in this world the man that is in the wrong almost invariably conquers the man that is in the right, and invariably despises him.
A man must be an idiot or else an angel, who, after the age of forty shall attempt to be just to his neighbours. Many like the Lady Margaretta have learnt their lesson at a much earlier age. But this of course depends on the school in which they have been taught.
Poor Miss Thorne was altogether overcome. She knew very well that she had been ill-treated, and yet she found herself making apologies to Lady De Courcy. To do her ladyship justice, she received them very graciously, and allowed herself with her train of daughters to be led towards the lawn.
There were two windows in the drawing-room wide open for the countess to pass through; but she saw that there was a woman on the sofa, at the third window, and that that woman had, as it were, a following attached to her. Her ladyship therefore determined to investigate the woman. The De Courcys were hereditarily short sighted, and had been so for thirty centuries at least. So Lady De Courcy, who, when she entered the family had adopted the family habits, did as her son had done before her, and taking her glass to investigate the Signora Neroni, pressed in among the gentlemen who surrounded the couch, and bowed slightly to those whom she chose to honour by her acquaintance.
In order to get to the window she had to pass close to the front of the couch, and as she did so she stared hard at the occupant. The occupant in return stared hard at the countess. The countess who since her countess-ship commenced had been accustomed to see all eyes, not royal, ducal, or marquesal, fall down before her own, paused as she went on, raised her eyebrows, and stared even harder than before. But she had now to do with one who cared little for countesses. It was, one may say, impossible for mortal man or woman to abash Madeline Neroni. She opened her large bright lustrous eyes wider and wider, till she seemed to be all eyes.
She gazed up into the lady's face, not as though she did it with an effort, but as if she delighted in doing it. She used no glass to assist her effrontery, and needed none. The faintest possible smile of derision played round her mouth, and her nostrils were slightly dilated, as if in sure anticipation of her triumph. And it was sure. The Countess De Courcy, in spite of her thirty centuries and De Courcy castle, and the fact that Lord De Courcy was grand master of the ponies to the Prince of Wales, had not a chance with her.
At first the little circlet of gold wavered in the countess's hand, then the hand shook, then the circlet fell, the countess's head tossed itself into the air, and the countess's feet shambled out to the lawn. She did not however go so fast but what she heard the signora's voice, asking--
'Who on earth is that woman, Mr Slope?'
'That is Lady De Courcy.'
'Oh, ah. I might have supposed so. Ha, ha, ha. Well, that's as good as a play.'
It was as good as a play to any there who had eyes to observe it, and wit to comment on what they observed.
But the Lady De Courcy soon found a congenial spirit on the lawn. There she encountered Mrs Proudie, and as Mrs Proudie was not only the wife of a bishop, but was also the cousin of an earl, Lady De Courcy considered her to be the fittest companion she was likely to meet in that assemblage. They were accordingly delighted to see each other. Mrs Proudie by no means despised a countess, and as this countess lived in the county and within a sort of extensive visiting distance of Barchester, she was glad to have this opportunity of ingratiating herself.
'My dear Lady De Courcy, I am so delighted,' said she, looking as little grim as it was in her nature to do so. 'I hardly expected to see you here. It is such a distance, and then you know, such a crowd.'
'And such roads, Mrs Proudie! I really wonder how the people ever get about. But I don't suppose they ever do.'
'Well, I really don't know; but I suppose not. The Thorne don't, I know,' said Mrs Proudie. 'Very nice person, Miss Thorne, isn't she?'
'Oh, delightful and so queer; I've known her these twenty years. A great pet of mine is dear Miss Thorne. She is so very strange, you know. She always makes me think of the Esquimaux and the Indians. Isn't her dress quite delightful?'
'Delightful,' said Mrs Proudie; 'I wonder now whether she paints. Did you ever see such colour?'
'Oh, of course,' said Lady De Courcy; 'that is, I have no doubt she does. But, Mrs Proudie, who is that woman on the sofa by the window? just step this way and you'll see her, there--' and the countess led her to a spot where she could plainly see the signora's well-remembered face and figure.
She did not however do so without being equally well seen by the signora. 'Look, look,' said that lady to Mr Slope, who was still standing near to her; 'see the high spiritualities and temporalities of the land in league together, and all against poor me. I'll wager my bracelet, Mr Slope against your next sermon, that they've taken up their position there on purpose to pull me to pieces. Well, I can't rush to the combat, but I know how to protect myself if the enemy come near me.'
But the enemy knew better. They could gain nothing be contact with the signora Neroni, and they could abuse her as they pleased at a distance from her on the lawn.
'She's that horrid Italian woman, Lady De Courcy; you must have heard of her.'
'What Italian woman?' said her ladyship, quite alive to the coming story; 'I don't think I've heard of any Italian woman coming into the country. She doesn't look Italian either.'
'Oh, you must have heard of her,' said Mrs Proudie. 'No, she's not absolutely Italian. She is Dr Stanhope's daughter--Dr Stanhope the prebendary; and she calls herself the Signora Neroni.'
'Oh--h--h--h!' exclaimed the countess.
'I was sure you had heard of her,' continued Mrs Proudie. 'I don't know anything about her husband. They do say that some man named Neroni is still alive. I believe she did marry such a man abroad, but I do not at all know who or what he was.'
'Ah--h--h--h!' said the countess, shaking her head with much
intelligence, as every additional 'h' fell from her lips. 'I know all about it
now. I have heard George mention her. George knows all about her. George heard
about her in
'She's an abominable woman at any rate,' said Mrs Proudie.
'Insufferable,' said the countess.
'She made her way into the palace once, before I knew anything about her; and I cannot tell you how dreadfully indecent her conduct was.'
'Was it?' said the delighted countess.
'Insufferable,' said the prelatess.
'But why does she lie on a sofa?' asked the Lady De Courcy.
'She has only one leg,' said Mrs Proudie.
'Only one leg!' said the Lady De Courcy, who felt to a certain degree dissatisfied that the signora was thus incapacitated. 'Was she born so?'
'Oh, no,' said Mrs Proudie,--and her ladyship felt somewhat recomforted by the assurance,--'she had two. But that Signor Neroni beat her, I believe, till she was obliged to have one amputated. At any rate she entirely lost the use of it.'
'Unfortunate creature!' said the countess, who herself knew something of matrimonial trials.
'Yes,' said Mrs Proudie; 'one would pity her, in spite of her past bad conduct, if she knew how to behave herself. But she does not. She is the most insolent creature I have ever put my eyes on.'
'Indeed she is,' said Lady De Courcy.
'And her conduct with men is abominable, that she is not fit to be admitted into any lady's drawing-room.'
'Dear me!' said the countess, becoming again excited, happy, and merciless.
'You saw that man standing near her,--the clergyman with the red hair?'
'Yes, yes.'
'She has absolutely ruined that man. The bishop, or I should
rather take the blame on myself, for it was I,--I brought him down from
'Why what an idiot the man must be!' said the countess.
'You don't know the intriguing villainy of that woman,' said Mrs Proudie, remembering her own torn flounces.
'But you say she has only got one leg!'
'She is as full of mischief as tho' she had ten. Look at her eyes, Lady De Courcy. Did you ever see such eyes in a decent woman's head?'
'Indeed I never did, Mrs Proudie.'
'And her effrontery, and her voice; I quite pity her poor father, who is really a good sort of man.'
'Dr Stanhope, isn't he?'
'Yes, Dr Stanhope. He is one of our prebendaries,--a good quiet sort of man himself. But I am surprised that he should let his daughter conduct herself as he does.'
'I suppose he can't help it,' said the countess.
'But a clergyman, you know, Lady De Courcy! He should at any rate prevent her from exhibiting in public, if he cannot induce her to behave at home. But he is to be pitied. I believe he has a desperate life of it with the lot of them. That apish-looking man there, with the long beard and the loose trousers,--he is the woman's brother. He is nearly as bad as she is. They are both of them infidels.'
'Infidels!' said Lady De Courcy, 'and their father a prebendary!'
'Yes, and likely to be the new dean too,' said Mrs Proudie.
'Oh, yes, poor dear Dr Trefoil!' said the countess, who had once in her life spoken to that gentleman; 'I was so distressed to hear it, Mrs Proudie. And so Dr Stanhope is to be the new dean! He comes of an excellent family, and I wish him success in spite of his daughter. Perhaps, Mrs Proudie, when he is dean, they'll be better able to see the error of their ways.'
To this Mrs Proudie said nothing. Her dislike of the Signora Neroni was too deep to admit of her even hoping that that lady should see the error of her ways. Mrs Proudie looked on the signora as one of the lost,--one of those beyond the reach of Christian charity, and was therefore able to enjoy the luxury of hating her, without the drawback of wishing her eventually well out of her sins.
Any further conversation between these congenial souls was prevented by the advent of Mr Thorne, who came to lead the countess to the tent. Indeed, he had been desired to do so some ten minutes since; but he had been delayed in the drawing-room by the signora. She had contrived to detain him, to bet him near to her sofa, and at last to make him seat himself on a chair close to her beautiful arm. The fish took the bait, was hooked, and caught, and landed. Within that ten minutes he had heard the whole of signora's history in such strains as she chose to use in telling it. He learnt from the lady's own lips the whole of that mysterious tale to which the Honourable George had merely alluded. He discovered that the beautiful creature lying before him had been more sinned against than sinning. She had owned to him that she had been weak, confiding and indifferent to the world's opinion, and that she had therefore been ill-used, deceived and evil spoken of. She had spoken to him of her mutilated limb, her youth destroyed in the fullest bloom, her beauty robbed of its every charm, her life blighted, her hopes withered; and as she did so, a tear dropped from her eye to her cheek. She had told him of these things, and asked for his sympathy.
What could a good-natured genial Anglo-Saxon Squire Thorne
do but promise to sympathise with her? Mr Thorne did promise to sympathise;
promised also to come and see the last of the Neros, to hear more of those
fearful Roman days, of those light and innocent but dangerous hours which
flitted by so fast on the shores of
We need hardly say that he dropped all idea of warning his sister against the dangerous lady. He had been mistaken; never so much mistaken in his life. He had always regarded that Honourable George as a coarse brutal-minded young man; now he was more convinced than ever that he was so. It was by such men as the Honourable George that the reputation of such women as Madeline Neroni were imperilled and damaged. He would go and see the lady in her own house; he was fully sure in his own mind of the soundness of his own judgment; if he found her, as he believed he should do, an injured well-disposed, warm-hearted woman, he would get his sister Monica to invite her out to Ullathorne.
'No,' said she, as at her instance he got up to leave her, and declared that he himself would attend upon her wants; 'no, no, my friend; I positively put a veto upon your doing so. What, in your own house, with an assemblage round you such as there is here! Do you wish to make every woman hate me and every man stare at me? I lay a positive order on you not to come near me again to-day. Come and see me at home. It is only at home that I can talk; it is only at home that I really can live and enjoy myself. My days of going out, days such as these, are rare indeed. Come and see me at home, Mr Thorne, and then I will not bid you to leave me.'
It is, we believe, common with young men of five and twenty to look on their seniors--on men of, say, double their own age--as so many stocks and stones--stocks and stones, that is, in regard to feminine beauty. There never was a greater mistake. Women, indeed, generally know better; but on this subject men of one age are thoroughly ignorant of what is the very nature of mankind of other ages. No experience of what goes on in the world, no reading of history, no observation of life, has any effect in teaching the truth. Men of fifty don't dance mazurkas, being generally too fat and wheezy; nor do they sit for the hour together on river banks at their mistresses' feet, being somewhat afraid of rheumatism. But for real true love, love at first sight, love to devotion, love that robs a man of his sleep, love that 'will gaze an eagle blind,' love that 'will hear the lowest sound when the suspicious tread of theft is stopped,' love that is 'like a Hercules still climbing trees in the Hesperides,'--we believe this best age is from forty-five to seventy; up to that, men are generally given to mere flirting.
At the present moment Mr Thorne, aetat. fifty, was over head and ears in love at first sight with the Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni, nata Stanhope.
Nevertheless he was sufficiently master of himself to offer his arm with all propriety to Lady De Courcy, and the countess graciously permitted herself to be led to the tent.
Such had been Miss Thorne's orders, as she had succeeded in inducing the bishop to lead old Lady Knowle to the top of the dining-room. One of the baronets was sent off in quest of Mrs Proudie, and found that lady on the lawn not in the best of humours. Mr Thorne and the countess had left her too abruptly; she had in vain looked about for an attendant chaplain, or even a stray curate; they were all drawing long bows with the young ladies at the bottom of the lawn, or finding places for their graceful co-toxophilites in some snug corner of the tent. In such position Mrs Proudie had been wont in earlier days to fall back upon Mr Slope; but now she could never fall back upon him again. She gave her head one shake as she thought of her lone position, and that shake was as good as a week deducted from Mr Slope's longer sojourn in Barchester. Sir Harkaway Gorse, however, relieved her present misery, though his doing so by no means mitigated the sinning chaplain's doom.
And now the eating and drinking began in earnest. Dr Grantly, to his great horror, found himself leagued to Mrs Clantantram. Mrs Clantantram had a great regard for the archdeacon, which was not cordially returned; and when she, coming up to him, whispered in his ear, 'Come, archdeacon, I'm sure you won't begrudge an old friend the favour of your arm,' and then proceeded to tell him the whole history of her roquelaure, he resolved that he would shake her off before he was fifteen minutes older. But latterly the archdeacon had not been successful in his resolutions; and on the present occasion Mrs Clantantram stuck to him till the banquet was over.
Dr Gwynne got a baronet's wife, and Mrs Grantly fell to the lot of a baronet. Charlotte Stanhope attached herself to Mr Harding in order to make room for Bertie, who succeeded in sitting down in the dining-room next to Mrs Bold. To speak sooth, now that he had love in earnest to make, his heart almost failed him.
Eleanor had been right glad to avail herself of his arm,
seeing that Mr Slope was hovering nigh her. In striving to avoid that terrible
Charybdis of a Slope she was in great danger of falling into an unseen Scylla
on the other hand, that Scylla being Bertie Stanhope. Nothing could be more
gracious than she was to Bertie. She almost jumped at his proffered arm.
As these things were going on in the dining-room, Mr Arabin was hanging enraptured and alone over the signora's sofa; and Eleanor from her seat could look through the open door and see that he was doing so.
The bishop of Barchester said grace over the well-spread board in the Ullathorne dining-room; and while he did so the last breath was flying from the dean of Barchester as he lay in his sick-room in the deanery. When the bishop of Barchester raised his first glass of champagne to his lips, the deanship of Barchester was a good thing in the gift of the prime minister. Before the bishop of Barchester had left the table, the minister of the day was made aware of the fact at his country seat in Hampshire, and had already turned over in his mind the names of five very respectable aspirants for the preferment. It is at present only necessary to say that Mr Slope's name was not among the five.
''Twas merry in the hall when the beards wagged all;' and the clerical beards wagged merrily in the hall of Ullathorne that day. It was not till after the last cork had been drawn, the last speech made, the last nut cracked, that tidings reached and were whispered about that the poor dean was no more. It was well for the happiness of the clerical beards that this little delay took place, as otherwise decency would have forbidden them to wag at all.
But there was one sad man among them that day. Mr Arabin's beard did not wag as it should have done. He had come there hoping the best, striving to think the best about Eleanor; turning over in his mind all the words he remembered to have fallen from her about Mr Slope, and trying to gather from them a conviction unfavourable to his rival. He had not exactly resolved to come that day to some decisive proof as to the widow's intention; but he had meant, if possible, to re-cultivate his friendship with Eleanor; and in his present frame of mind any such re-cultivation must have ended in a declaration of love.
He had passed the previous night alone at his new parsonage, and it was the first night that he had so passed. It had been dull and sombre enough. Mrs Grantly had been right in saying that a priestess would be wanting at St Ewold's. He had sat there alone with his glass before him, and then with his teapot, thinking about Eleanor Bold. As is usual in such meditations, he did little but blame her; blame her for liking Mr Slope, and blame her for not liking him; blame her for her cordiality to himself, and blame her
for her want of cordiality; blame her for being stubborn, headstrong, and passionate; and yet the more he thought of her the higher she rose in his affection. If only it should turn out, if only it could be made to turn out, that she had defended Mr Slope, not from love, but on principle, all would be right. Such principle in itself would be admirable, loveable, womanly; he felt that he could be pleased to allow Mr Slope just so much favour as that. But if--And then Mr Arabin poked his fire most unnecessarily, spoke crossly to his new parlour-maid who came in for the tea-things, and threw himself back in his chair determined to go to sleep. Why had she been so stiff-necked when asked a plain question? She could not but have known in what light he regarded her. Why had she not answered a plain question, and so put an end to his misery? Then, instead of going to sleep in his arm-chair, Mr Arabin walked about the room as though he had been possessed.
On the following morning, when he attended Miss Thorne's behests, he was still in a somewhat confused state. His first duty had been to converse with Mrs Clantantram, and that lady had found it impossible to elicit the slightest sympathy from him on the subject of hr roquelaure. Miss Thorne had asked him whether Mrs Bold was coming with the Grantlys; and the two names of Bold and Grantly together had nearly made him jump from his seat.
He was in this state of confused uncertainty, hope, and doubt, when he saw Mr Slope, with his most polished smile, handing Eleanor out of her carriage. He thought of nothing more. He never considered whether the carriage belonged to her or to Mr Slope, or to any one else to whom they might both be mutually obliged without any concert between themselves. The sight in his present state of mind was quite enough to upset him and his resolves. It was clear as noonday. Had he seen her handed into a carriage by Mr Slope at a church door with a white veil over her head, the truth could not be more manifest. He went into the house, and, as we have seen, soon found himself walking with Mr Harding. Shortly afterwards Eleanor came up; and then he had to leave his companion, and either go about alone or find another. While in this state he was encountered by the archdeacon.
'I wonder,' said Dr Grantly, 'if it be true that Mr Slope and Mrs Bold come here together. Susan says she is almost sure she saw their faces in the same carriage as she got out of her own.'
Mr Arabin had nothing for it but to bear his testimony to the correctness of Mrs Grantly's eyesight.
'It is perfectly shameful,' said the archdeacon; 'or I should rather say, shameless. She was asked her as my guest; and if she be determined to disgrace herself, she should have feeling enough not to do so before my immediate friends. I wonder how that man got himself invited. I wonder whether she had the face to bring him.'
To this Mr Arabin could answer nothing, nor did he wish to answer anything. Though he abused Eleanor to himself, he did not choose to abuse to any one else, nor was he well pleased to hear any one else speak ill of her. Dr Grantly, however, was very angry, and did not spare his sister-in-law. Mr Arabin therefore left him as soon as he could, and wandered back into the house.
It is impossible to say how the knowledge had been acquired, but the signora had a sort of instinctive knowledge that Mr Arabin was an admirer of Mrs Bold. Men hunt foxes by the aid of dogs, and are aware that they do so by the strong organ of smell with which the dog is endowed. They do not, however, in the least comprehend how such a sense can work with such acuteness. The organ by which woman instinctively, as it were, know and feel how other women are regarded by men, and how also men are regarded by other women, is equally strong, and equally incomprehensible. A glance, a word, a motion, suffices: by some such acute exercise of her feminine senses the signora was aware that Mr Arabin loved Eleanor Bold; and therefore, by a further exercise of her peculiar feminine propensities, it was quite natural for her to entrap Mr Arabin into her net.
The work was half done before she came to Ullathorne, and when could she have a better opportunity of completing it? She had had almost enough of Mr Slope, though she could not quite resist the fun of driving a very sanctimonious clergyman to madness by a desperate and ruinous passion. Mr Thorne had fallen too easily to give much pleasure in the chase. His position as a man of wealth might make his alliance of value, but as a lover he was very second-rate. We may say that she regarded him somewhat as a sportsman does a pheasant. The bird is so easily shot, that he would not be worth the shooting were it not for the very respectable appearance that he makes in a larder. The signora would not waste much time in shooting Mr Thorne, but still he was worth bagging for family uses.
But Mr Arabin was game of another sort. The signora was herself possessed of quite sufficient intelligence to know that Mr Arabin was a man more than usually intellectual. She knew also, that as a clergyman he was of a much higher stamp than Mr Slope, and that as gentleman he was better educated than Mr Thorne. She would never have attempted to drive Mr Arabin into ridiculous misery as she did Mr Slope, nor would she think it possible to dispose of him in ten minutes as she had done with Mr Thorne.
Such were her reflections about Mr Arabin. As to Mr Arabin, it cannot be said that he reflected at all about the signora.
He knew that she was beautiful, and he felt that she was able to charm him. He required charming in his present misery, and therefore he went and stood at the head of her couch. She knew all about it. Such were her peculiar gifts.
It was her nature to see that he required charming, and it
was her province to charm him. As the Easter idler swallows his dose of opium,
as the
'Why aren't you shooting with bows and arrows, Mr Arabin?' said she, when they were nearly alone together in the sitting-room; 'or talking with young ladies in shady bowers, or turning your talents to account in some way? What was a bachelor like you asked here for? Don't you mean to earn your cold chicken and champagne? Were I you, I should be ashamed to be so idle.'
Mr Arabin murmured some sort of answer. Though he wished to be charmed, he as hardly yet in a mood to be playful in return.
'Why, what ails you, Mr Arabin?' said she, 'here you are in your own parish; Miss Thorne tells me that her party is given expressly in your honour; and yet you are the only dull man in it. Your friend Mr Slope was with me a few minutes since, full of life and spirits' why don't you rival him?'
It was not difficult for so acute an observer as Madeline Neroni to see that she had hit the nail on the head and driven the bolt home. Mr Arabin winced visibly before her attack, and she knew at once that he was jealous of Mr Slope.
'But I look on yo