"BARCHESTER TOWERS\n\nby\n\nANTHONY TROLLOPE\n\nFirst published in 1857\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\nChapter\n\n      I. Who Will Be the New Bishop?\n     II. Hiram's Hospital According to Act of Parliament\n    III. Dr. and Mrs. Proudie\n     IV. The Bishop's Chaplain\n      V. A Morning Visit\n     VI. War\n    VII. The Dean and Chapter Take Counsel\n   VIII. The Ex-Warden Rejoices in His Probable Return to the Hospital\n     IX. The Stanhope Family\n      X. Mrs. Proudie's Reception--Commenced\n     XI. Mrs. Proudie's Reception--Concluded\n    XII. Slope versus Harding\n   XIII. The Rubbish Cart\n    XIV. The New Champion\n     XV. The Widow's Suitors\n    XVI. Baby Worship\n   XVII. Who Shall Be Cock of the Walk?\n  XVIII. The Widow's Persecution\n    XIX. Barchester by Moonlight\n     XX. Mr. Arabin\n    XXI. St. Ewold's Parsonage\n   XXII. The Thornes of Ullathorne\n  XXIII. Mr. Arabin Reads Himself in at St. Ewold's\n   XXIV. Mr. Slope Manages Matters Very Cleverly at Puddingdale\n    XXV. Fourteen Arguments in Favour of Mr. Quiverful's Claims\n   XXVI. Mrs. Proudie Wrestles and Gets a Fall\n  XXVII. A Love Scene\n XXVIII. Mrs. Bold is Entertained by Dr. and Mrs. Grantly at Plumstead\n   XXIX. A Serious Interview\n    XXX. Another Love Scene\n   XXXI. The Bishop's Library\n  XXXII. A New Candidate for Ecclesiastical Honours\n XXXIII. Mrs. Proudie Victrix\n  XXXIV. Oxford--The Master and Tutor of Lazarus\n   XXXV. Miss Thorne's Fête Champêtre\n  XXXVI. Ullathorne Sports--Act I.\n XXXVII. The Signora Neroni, the Countess De Courcy, and Mrs. Proudie\n            Meet Each Other at Ullathorne\nXXXVIII. The Bishop Sits Down to Breakfast, and the Dean Dies\n  XXXIX. The Lookalofts and the Greenacres\n     XL. Ullathorne Sports--Act II.\n    XLI. Mrs. Bold Confides Her Sorrow to Her Friend Miss Stanhope\n   XLII. Ullathorne Sports--Act III.\n  XLIII. Mr. and Mrs. Quiverful Are Made Happy. Mr. Slope Is\n            Encouraged by the Press\n   XLIV. Mrs. Bold at Home\n    XLV. The Stanhopes at Home\n   XLVI. Mr. Slope's Parting Interview with the Signora\n  XLVII. The Dean Elect\n XLVIII. Miss Thorne Shows Her Talent at Match-making\n   XLIX. The Beelzebub Colt\n      L. The Archdeacon Is Satisfied with the State of Affairs\n     LI. Mr. Slope Bids Farewell to the Palace and Its Inhabitants\n    LII. The New Dean Takes Possession of the Deanery, and the New\n            Warden of the Hospital\n   LIII. Conclusion\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nWho Will Be the New Bishop?\n\n\nIn the latter days of July in the year 185--, a most important\nquestion was for ten days hourly asked in the cathedral city of\nBarchester, and answered every hour in various ways--Who was to be\nthe new bishop?\n\nThe death of old Dr. Grantly, who had for many years filled that\nchair with meek authority, took place exactly as the ministry of\nLord ---- was going to give place to that of Lord ----. The illness\nof the good old man was long and lingering, and it became at last\na matter of intense interest to those concerned whether the new\nappointment should be made by a conservative or liberal government.\n\nIt was pretty well understood that the outgoing premier had made his\nselection and that if the question rested with him, the mitre would\ndescend on the head of Archdeacon Grantly, the old bishop's son. The\narchdeacon had long managed the affairs of the diocese, and for some\nmonths previous to the demise of his father rumour had confidently\nassigned to him the reversion of his father's honours.\n\nBishop Grantly died as he had lived, peaceably, slowly, without pain\nand without excitement. The breath ebbed from him almost imperceptibly,\nand for a month before his death it was a question whether he were\nalive or dead.\n\nA trying time was this for the archdeacon, for whom was designed the\nreversion of his father's see by those who then had the giving away\nof episcopal thrones. I would not be understood to say that the\nprime minister had in so many words promised the bishopric to Dr.\nGrantly. He was too discreet a man for that. There is a proverb\nwith reference to the killing of cats, and those who know anything\neither of high or low government places will be well aware that a\npromise may be made without positive words and that an expectant may\nbe put into the highest state of encouragement, though the great man\non whose breath he hangs may have done no more than whisper that \"Mr.\nSo-and-So is certainly a rising man.\"\n\nSuch a whisper had been made, and was known by those who heard it to\nsignify that the cures of the diocese of Barchester should not be\ntaken out of the hands of the archdeacon. The then prime minister\nwas all in all at Oxford, and had lately passed a night at the house\nof the Master of Lazarus. Now the Master of Lazarus--which is, by\nthe by, in many respects the most comfortable as well as the richest\ncollege at Oxford--was the archdeacon's most intimate friend and most\ntrusted counsellor. On the occasion of the prime minister's visit,\nDr. Grantly was of course present, and the meeting was very gracious.\nOn the following morning Dr. Gwynne, the master, told the archdeacon\nthat in his opinion the thing was settled.\n\nAt this time the bishop was quite on his last legs; but the ministry\nalso were tottering. Dr. Grantly returned from Oxford, happy and\nelated, to resume his place in the palace and to continue to perform\nfor the father the last duties of a son, which, to give him his due,\nhe performed with more tender care than was to be expected from his\nusual somewhat worldly manners.\n\nA month since, the physicians had named four weeks as the outside\nperiod during which breath could be supported within the body of\nthe dying man. At the end of the month the physicians wondered, and\nnamed another fortnight. The old man lived on wine alone, but at the\nend of the fortnight he still lived, and the tidings of the fall of\nthe ministry became more frequent. Sir Lamda Mewnew and Sir Omicron\nPie, the two great London doctors, now came down for the fifth time\nand declared, shaking their learned heads, that another week of\nlife was impossible; and as they sat down to lunch in the episcopal\ndining-room, whispered to the archdeacon their own private knowledge\nthat the ministry must fall within five days. The son returned to\nhis father's room and, after administering with his own hands the\nsustaining modicum of madeira, sat down by the bedside to calculate\nhis chances.\n\nThe ministry were to be out within five days: his father was to be\ndead within--no, he rejected that view of the subject. The ministry\nwere to be out, and the diocese might probably be vacant at the same\nperiod. There was much doubt as to the names of the men who were to\nsucceed to power, and a week must elapse before a cabinet was formed.\nWould not vacancies be filled by the outgoing men during this week?\nDr. Grantly had a kind of idea that such would be the case but\ndid not know, and then he wondered at his own ignorance on such a\nquestion.\n\nHe tried to keep his mind away from the subject, but he could not.\nThe race was so very close, and the stakes were so very high. He\nthen looked at the dying man's impassive, placid face. There was no\nsign there of death or disease; it was something thinner than of\nyore, somewhat grayer, and the deep lines of age more marked; but, as\nfar as he could judge, life might yet hang there for weeks to come.\nSir Lamda Mewnew and Sir Omicron Pie had thrice been wrong, and might\nyet be wrong thrice again. The old bishop slept during twenty of\nthe twenty-four hours, but during the short periods of his waking\nmoments, he knew both his son and his dear old friend, Mr. Harding,\nthe archdeacon's father-in-law, and would thank them tenderly for\ntheir care and love. Now he lay sleeping like a baby, resting easily\non his back, his mouth just open, and his few gray hairs straggling\nfrom beneath his cap; his breath was perfectly noiseless, and his\nthin, wan hand, which lay above the coverlid, never moved. Nothing\ncould be easier than the old man's passage from this world to the\nnext.\n\nBut by no means easy were the emotions of him who sat there watching.\nHe knew it must be now or never. He was already over fifty, and\nthere was little chance that his friends who were now leaving office\nwould soon return to it. No probable British prime minister but he\nwho was now in, he who was so soon to be out, would think of making\na bishop of Dr. Grantly. Thus he thought long and sadly, in deep\nsilence, and then gazed at that still living face, and then at last\ndared to ask himself whether he really longed for his father's death.\n\nThe effort was a salutary one, and the question was answered in a\nmoment. The proud, wishful, worldly man sank on his knees by the\nbedside and, taking the bishop's hand within his own, prayed eagerly\nthat his sins might be forgiven him.\n\nHis face was still buried in the clothes when the door of the bedroom\nopened noiselessly and Mr. Harding entered with a velvet step. Mr.\nHarding's attendance at that bedside had been nearly as constant as\nthat of the archdeacon, and his ingress and egress was as much a\nmatter of course as that of his son-in-law. He was standing close\nbeside the archdeacon before he was perceived, and would also have\nknelt in prayer had he not feared that his doing so might have caused\nsome sudden start and have disturbed the dying man. Dr. Grantly,\nhowever, instantly perceived him and rose from his knees. As he did\nso Mr. Harding took both his hands and pressed them warmly. There\nwas more fellowship between them at that moment than there had ever\nbeen before, and it so happened that after circumstances greatly\npreserved the feeling. As they stood there pressing each other's\nhands, the tears rolled freely down their cheeks.\n\n\"God bless you, my dears,\" said the bishop with feeble voice as he\nwoke. \"God bless you--may God bless you both, my dear children.\"\nAnd so he died.\n\nThere was no loud rattle in the throat, no dreadful struggle, no\npalpable sign of death, but the lower jaw fell a little from its\nplace, and the eyes which had been so constantly closed in sleep now\nremained fixed and open. Neither Mr. Harding nor Dr. Grantly knew\nthat life was gone, though both suspected it.\n\n\"I believe it's all over,\" said Mr. Harding, still pressing the\nother's hands. \"I think--nay, I hope it is.\"\n\n\"I will ring the bell,\" said the other, speaking all but in a\nwhisper. \"Mrs. Phillips should be here.\"\n\nMrs. Phillips, the nurse, was soon in the room, and immediately, with\npractised hand, closed those staring eyes.\n\n\"It's all over, Mrs. Phillips?\" asked Mr. Harding.\n\n\"My lord's no more,\" said Mrs. Phillips, turning round and curtseying\nlow with solemn face; \"his lordship's gone more like a sleeping babby\nthan any that I ever saw.\"\n\n\"It's a great relief, Archdeacon,\" said Mr. Harding, \"a great\nrelief--dear, good, excellent old man. Oh that our last moments may\nbe as innocent and as peaceful as his!\"\n\n\"Surely,\" said Mrs. Phillips. \"The Lord be praised for all his\nmercies; but, for a meek, mild, gentle-spoken Christian, his lordship\nwas--\" and Mrs. Phillips, with unaffected but easy grief, put up her\nwhite apron to her flowing eyes.\n\n\"You cannot but rejoice that it is over,\" said Mr. Harding, still\nconsoling his friend. The archdeacon's mind, however, had already\ntravelled from the death chamber to the closet of the prime minister.\nHe had brought himself to pray for his father's life, but now that\nthat life was done, minutes were too precious to be lost. It was now\nuseless to dally with the fact of the bishop's death--useless to lose\nperhaps everything for the pretence of a foolish sentiment.\n\nBut how was he to act while his father-in-law stood there holding his\nhand? How, without appearing unfeeling, was he to forget his father\nin the bishop--to overlook what he had lost, and think only of what he\nmight possibly gain?\n\n\"No, I suppose not,\" said he, at last, in answer to Mr. Harding. \"We\nhave all expected it so long.\"\n\nMr. Harding took him by the arm and led him from the room. \"We will\nsee him again to-morrow morning,\" said he; \"we had better leave the\nroom now to the women.\" And so they went downstairs.\n\nIt was already evening and nearly dark. It was most important that\nthe prime minister should know that night that the diocese was\nvacant. Everything might depend on it; and so, in answer to Mr.\nHarding's further consolation, the archdeacon suggested that a\ntelegraph message should be immediately sent off to London. Mr.\nHarding, who had really been somewhat surprised to find Dr. Grantly,\nas he thought, so much affected, was rather taken aback, but he\nmade no objection. He knew that the archdeacon had some hope of\nsucceeding to his father's place, though he by no means knew how\nhighly raised that hope had been.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Dr. Grantly, collecting himself and shaking off his\nweakness, \"we must send a message at once; we don't know what might\nbe the consequence of delay. Will you do it?'\n\n\"I! Oh, yes; certainly. I'll do anything, only I don't know exactly\nwhat it is you want.\"\n\nDr. Grantly sat down before a writing-table and, taking pen and ink,\nwrote on a slip of paper as follows:--\n\n\n   By Electric Telegraph.\n   For the Earl of ----, Downing Street, or elsewhere.\n   The Bishop of Barchester is dead.\n   Message sent by the Rev. Septimus Harding.\n\n\n\"There,\" said he. \"Just take that to the telegraph office at the\nrailway station and give it in as it is; they'll probably make you\ncopy it on to one of their own slips; that's all you'll have to do;\nthen you'll have to pay them half a crown.\" And the archdeacon put\nhis hand in his pocket and pulled out the necessary sum.\n\nMr. Harding felt very much like an errand-boy, and also felt that he\nwas called on to perform his duties as such at rather an unseemly\ntime, but he said nothing, and took the slip of paper and the\nproffered coin.\n\n\"But you've put my name into it, Archdeacon.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the other, \"there should be the name of some clergyman,\nyou know, and what name so proper as that of so old a friend as\nyourself? The earl won't look at the name, you may be sure of that;\nbut my dear Mr. Harding, pray don't lose any time.\"\n\nMr. Harding got as far as the library door on his way to the station,\nwhen he suddenly remembered the news with which he was fraught when\nhe entered the poor bishop's bedroom. He had found the moment so\ninopportune for any mundane tidings, that he had repressed the words\nwhich were on his tongue, and immediately afterwards all recollection\nof the circumstance was for the time banished by the scene which had\noccurred.\n\n\"But, Archdeacon,\" said he, turning back, \"I forgot to tell you--the\nministry are out.\"\n\n\"Out!\" ejaculated the archdeacon, in a tone which too plainly showed\nhis anxiety and dismay, although under the circumstances of the\nmoment he endeavoured to control himself. \"Out! Who told you so?\"\n\nMr. Harding explained that news to this effect had come down by\nelectric telegraph, and that the tidings had been left at the palace\ndoor by Mr. Chadwick.\n\nThe archdeacon sat silent for awhile meditating, and Mr. Harding\nstood looking at him. \"Never mind,\" said the archdeacon at last;\n\"send the message all the same. The news must be sent to someone,\nand there is at present no one else in a position to receive it. Do\nit at once, my dear friend; you know I would not trouble you, were I\nin a state to do it myself. A few minutes' time is of the greatest\nimportance.\"\n\nMr. Harding went out and sent the message, and it may be as well\nthat we should follow it to its destination. Within thirty minutes\nof its leaving Barchester it reached the Earl of ---- in his inner\nlibrary. What elaborate letters, what eloquent appeals, what\nindignant remonstrances he might there have to frame, at such a\nmoment, may be conceived but not described! How he was preparing his\nthunder for successful rivals, standing like a British peer with his\nback to the sea-coal fire, and his hands in his breeches pockets--how\nhis fine eye was lit up with anger, and his forehead gleamed with\npatriotism--how he stamped his foot as he thought of his heavy\nassociates--how he all but swore as he remembered how much too clever\none of them had been--my creative readers may imagine. But was he so\nengaged? No: history and truth compel me to deny it. He was sitting\neasily in a lounging chair, conning over a Newmarket list, and by his\nelbow on the table was lying open an uncut French novel on which he\nwas engaged.\n\nHe opened the cover in which the message was enclosed and, having\nread it, he took his pen and wrote on the back of it--\n\n\n  For the Earl of ----,\n  With the Earl of ----'s compliments\n\n\nand sent it off again on its journey.\n\nThus terminated our unfortunate friend's chances of possessing the\nglories of a bishopric.\n\nThe names of many divines were given in the papers as that of the\nbishop-elect. \"The British Grandmother\" declared that Dr. Gwynne was\nto be the man, in compliment to the late ministry. This was a heavy\nblow to Dr. Grantly, but he was not doomed to see himself superseded\nby his friend. \"The Anglican Devotee\" put forward confidently the\nclaims of a great London preacher of austere doctrines; and \"The\nEastern Hemisphere,\" an evening paper supposed to possess much\nofficial knowledge, declared in favour of an eminent naturalist,\na gentleman most completely versed in the knowledge of rocks and\nminerals, but supposed by many to hold on religious subjects no\nspecial doctrines whatever. \"The Jupiter,\" that daily paper which,\nas we all know, is the only true source of infallibly correct\ninformation on all subjects, for awhile was silent, but at last spoke\nout. The merits of all these candidates were discussed and somewhat\nirreverently disposed of, and then \"The Jupiter\" declared that Dr.\nProudie was to be the man.\n\nDr. Proudie was the man. Just a month after the demise of the late\nbishop, Dr. Proudie kissed the Queen's hand as his successor-elect.\n\nWe must beg to be allowed to draw a curtain over the sorrows of\nthe archdeacon as he sat, sombre and sad at heart, in the study of\nhis parsonage at Plumstead Episcopi. On the day subsequent to the\ndispatch of the message he heard that the Earl of ---- had consented\nto undertake the formation of a ministry, and from that moment he\nknew that his chance was over. Many will think that he was wicked to\ngrieve for the loss of episcopal power, wicked to have coveted it,\nnay, wicked even to have thought about it, in the way and at the\nmoments he had done so.\n\nWith such censures I cannot profess that I completely agree. The\n_nolo episcopari_, though still in use, is so directly at variance\nwith the tendency of all human wishes, that it cannot be thought\nto express the true aspirations of rising priests in the Church\nof England. A lawyer does not sin in seeking to be a judge, or in\ncompassing his wishes by all honest means. A young diplomat entertains\na fair ambition when he looks forward to be the lord of a first-rate\nembassy; and a poor novelist, when he attempts to rival Dickens or\nrise above Fitzjeames, commits no fault, though he may be foolish.\nSydney Smith truly said that in these recreant days we cannot expect\nto find the majesty of St. Paul beneath the cassock of a curate. If\nwe look to our clergymen to be more than men, we shall probably teach\nourselves to think that they are less, and can hardly hope to raise\nthe character of the pastor by denying to him the right to entertain\nthe aspirations of a man.\n\nOur archdeacon was worldly--who among us is not so? He was\nambitious--who among us is ashamed to own that \"last infirmity of\nnoble minds!\" He was avaricious, my readers will say. No;--it was\nfor no love of lucre that he wished to be Bishop of Barchester.\nHe was his father's only child, and his father had left him great\nwealth. His preferment brought him in nearly three thousand a year.\nThe bishopric, as cut down by the Ecclesiastical Commission, was only\nfive. He would be a richer man as archdeacon than he could be as\nbishop. But he certainly did desire to play first fiddle; he did\ndesire to sit in full lawn sleeves among the peers of the realm; and\nhe did desire, if the truth must out, to be called \"My lord\" by his\nreverend brethren.\n\nHis hopes, however, were they innocent or sinful, were not fated to\nbe realized, and Dr. Proudie was consecrated Bishop of Barchester.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nHiram's Hospital According to Act of Parliament\n\n\nIt is hardly necessary that I should here give to the public\nany lengthened biography of Mr. Harding up to the period of the\ncommencement of this tale. The public cannot have forgotten how ill\nthat sensitive gentleman bore the attack that was made on him in\nthe columns of \"The Jupiter,\" with reference to the income which he\nreceived as warden of Hiram's Hospital, in the city of Barchester.\nNor can it yet be forgotten that a lawsuit was instituted against\nhim on the matter of that charity by Mr. John Bold, who afterwards\nmarried his, Mr. Harding's, younger and then only unmarried daughter.\nUnder pressure of these attacks, Mr. Harding had resigned his\nwardenship, though strongly recommended to abstain from doing so\nboth by his friends and by his lawyers. He did, however, resign it,\nand betook himself manfully to the duties of the small parish of St.\nCuthbert's, in the city, of which he was vicar, continuing also to\nperform those of precentor of the cathedral, a situation of small\nemolument which had hitherto been supposed to be joined, as a matter\nof course, to the wardenship of the hospital above spoken of.\n\nWhen he left the hospital from which he had been so ruthlessly driven,\nand settled himself down in his own modest manner in the High Street\nof Barchester, he had not expected that others would make more fuss\nabout it than he was inclined to do himself; and the extent of his\nhope was, that the movement might have been made in time to prevent\nany further paragraphs in \"The Jupiter.\" His affairs, however, were\nnot allowed to subside thus quietly, and people were quite as much\ninclined to talk about the disinterested sacrifice he had made, as\nthey had before been to upbraid him for his cupidity.\n\nThe most remarkable thing that occurred was the receipt of an\nautographed letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury, in which the\nprimate very warmly praised his conduct, and begged to know what his\nintentions were for the future. Mr. Harding replied that he intended\nto be rector of St. Cuthbert's, in Barchester, and so that matter\ndropped. Then the newspapers took up his case, \"The Jupiter\" among\nthe rest, and wafted his name in eulogistic strains through every\nreading-room in the nation. It was discovered also that he was the\nauthor of that great musical work, _Harding's Church Music_,--and a\nnew edition was spoken of, though, I believe, never printed. It is,\nhowever, certain that the work was introduced into the Royal Chapel\nat St. James's, and that a long criticism appeared in the \"Musical\nScrutator,\" declaring that in no previous work of the kind had so much\nresearch been joined with such exalted musical ability, and asserting\nthat the name of Harding would henceforward be known wherever the\narts were cultivated, or religion valued.\n\nThis was high praise, and I will not deny that Mr. Harding was\ngratified by such flattery; for if Mr. Harding was vain on any\nsubject, it was on that of music. But here the matter rested. The\nsecond edition, if printed, was never purchased; the copies which had\nbeen introduced into the Royal Chapel disappeared again, and were laid\nby in peace, with a load of similar literature. Mr. Towers of \"The\nJupiter\" and his brethren occupied themselves with other names, and\nthe undying fame promised to our friend was clearly intended to be\nposthumous.\n\nMr. Harding had spent much of his time with his friend the bishop;\nmuch with his daughter Mrs. Bold, now, alas, a widow; and had almost\ndaily visited the wretched remnant of his former subjects, the few\nsurviving bedesmen now left at Hiram's Hospital. Six of them were\nstill living. The number, according to old Hiram's will, should\nalways have been twelve. But after the abdication of their warden,\nthe bishop had appointed no successor to him, no new occupants of the\ncharity had been nominated, and it appeared as though the hospital at\nBarchester would fall into abeyance, unless the powers that be should\ntake some steps towards putting it once more into working order.\n\nDuring the past five years, the powers that be had not overlooked\nBarchester Hospital, and sundry political doctors had taken the\nmatter in hand. Shortly after Mr. Harding's resignation, \"The Jupiter\"\nhad very clearly shown what ought to be done. In about half a column\nit had distributed the income, rebuilt the buildings, put an end to\nall bickerings, regenerated kindly feeling, provided for Mr. Harding,\nand placed the whole thing on a footing which could not but be\nsatisfactory to the city and Bishop of Barchester, and to the nation\nat large. The wisdom of this scheme was testified by the number of\nletters which \"Common Sense,\" \"Veritas,\" and \"One that loves fair\nplay\" sent to \"The Jupiter\", all expressing admiration and amplifying\non the details given. It is singular enough that no adverse letter\nappeared at all, and, therefore, none of course was written.\n\nBut Cassandra was not believed, and even the wisdom of \"The Jupiter\"\nsometimes falls on deaf ears. Though other plans did not put\nthemselves forward in the columns of \"The Jupiter,\" reformers of\nchurch charities were not slack to make known in various places their\ndifferent nostrums for setting Hiram's Hospital on its feet again.\nA learned bishop took occasion, in the Upper House, to allude to\nthe matter, intimating that he had communicated on the subject with\nhis right reverend brother of Barchester. The radical member for\nStaleybridge had suggested that the funds should be alienated for the\neducation of the agricultural poor of the country, and he amused the\nhouse by some anecdotes touching the superstition and habits of the\nagriculturists in question. A political pamphleteer had produced\na few dozen pages, which he called \"Who are John Hiram's heirs?\"\nintending to give an infallible rule for the governance of all such\nestablishments; and, at last, a member of the government promised that\nin the next session a short bill should be introduced for regulating\nthe affairs of Barchester and other kindred concerns.\n\nThe next session came, and, contrary to custom, the bill came also.\nMen's minds were then intent on other things. The first threatenings\nof a huge war hung heavily over the nation, and the question as to\nHiram's heirs did not appear to interest very many people either in\nor out of the house. The bill, however, was read and re-read, and in\nsome undistinguished manner passed through its eleven stages without\nappeal or dissent. What would John Hiram have said in the matter,\ncould he have predicted that some forty-five gentlemen would take\non themselves to make a law altering the whole purport of his will,\nwithout in the least knowing at the moment of their making it, what\nit was that they were doing? It is however to be hoped that the\nunder-secretary for the Home Office knew, for to him had the matter\nbeen confided.\n\nThe bill, however, did pass, and at the time at which this history is\nsupposed to commence, it had been ordained that there should be, as\nheretofore, twelve old men in Barchester Hospital, each with 1s. 4d.\na day; that there should also be twelve old women to be located in a\nhouse to be built, each with 1s. 2d. a day; that there should be a\nmatron, with a house and £70 a year; a steward with £150 a year; and\nlatterly, a warden with £450 a year, who should have the spiritual\nguidance of both establishments, and the temporal guidance of that\nappertaining to the male sex. The bishop, dean, and warden were, as\nformerly, to appoint in turn the recipients of the charity, and the\nbishop was to appoint the officers. There was nothing said as to the\nwardenship being held by the precentor of the cathedral, nor a word\nas to Mr. Harding's right to the situation.\n\nIt was not, however, till some months after the death of the old\nbishop, and almost immediately consequent on the installation of his\nsuccessor, that notice was given that the reform was about to be\ncarried out. The new law and the new bishop were among the earliest\nworks of a new ministry, or rather of a ministry who, having for\nawhile given place to their opponents, had then returned to power;\nand the death of Dr. Grantly occurred, as we have seen, exactly at\nthe period of the change.\n\nPoor Eleanor Bold! How well does that widow's cap become her, and\nthe solemn gravity with which she devotes herself to her new duties.\nPoor Eleanor!\n\nPoor Eleanor! I cannot say that with me John Bold was ever a\nfavourite. I never thought him worthy of the wife he had won. But\nin her estimation he was most worthy. Hers was one of those feminine\nhearts which cling to a husband, not with idolatry, for worship can\nadmit of no defect in its idol, but with the perfect tenacity of ivy.\nAs the parasite plant will follow even the defects of the trunk which\nit embraces, so did Eleanor cling to and love the very faults of her\nhusband. She had once declared that whatever her father did should\nin her eyes be right. She then transferred her allegiance, and became\never ready to defend the worst failings of her lord and master.\n\nAnd John Bold was a man to be loved by a woman; he was himself\naffectionate; he was confiding and manly; and that arrogance of\nthought, unsustained by first-rate abilities, that attempt at being\nbetter than his neighbours which jarred so painfully on the feelings\nof his acquaintance, did not injure him in the estimation of his wife.\n\nCould she even have admitted that he had a fault, his early death\nwould have blotted out the memory of it. She wept as for the loss\nof the most perfect treasure with which mortal woman had ever been\nendowed; for weeks after he was gone the idea of future happiness\nin this world was hateful to her; consolation, as it is called, was\ninsupportable, and tears and sleep were her only relief.\n\nBut God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. She knew that she had\nwithin her the living source of other cares. She knew that there was\nto be created for her another subject of weal or woe, of unutterable\njoy or despairing sorrow, as God in his mercy might vouchsafe to her.\nAt first this did but augment her grief! To be the mother of a poor\ninfant, orphaned before it was born, brought forth to the sorrows of\nan ever desolate hearth, nurtured amidst tears and wailing, and then\nturned adrift into the world without the aid of a father's care!\nThere was at first no joy in this.\n\nBy degrees, however, her heart became anxious for another object,\nand, before its birth, the stranger was expected with all the\neagerness of a longing mother. Just eight months after the father's\ndeath a second John Bold was born, and if the worship of one creature\ncan be innocent in another, let us hope that the adoration offered\nover the cradle of the fatherless infant may not be imputed as a sin.\n\nIt will not be worth our while to define the character of the child,\nor to point out in how far the faults of the father were redeemed\nwithin that little breast by the virtues of the mother. The baby, as\na baby, was all that was delightful, and I cannot foresee that it\nwill be necessary for us to inquire into the facts of his after-life.\nOur present business at Barchester will not occupy us above a year\nor two at the furthest, and I will leave it to some other pen to\nproduce, if necessary, the biography of John Bold the Younger.\n\nBut, as a baby, this baby was all that could be desired. This fact\nno one attempted to deny. \"Is he not delightful?\" she would say to\nher father, looking up into his face from her knees, her lustrous\neyes overflowing with soft tears, her young face encircled by her\nclose widow's cap, and her hands on each side of the cradle in which\nher treasure was sleeping. The grandfather would gladly admit that\nthe treasure was delightful, and the uncle archdeacon himself would\nagree, and Mrs. Grantly, Eleanor's sister, would re-echo the word\nwith true sisterly energy; and Mary Bold--but Mary Bold was a second\nworshipper at the same shrine.\n\nThe baby was really delightful; he took his food with a will, struck\nout his toes merrily whenever his legs were uncovered, and did not\nhave fits. These are supposed to be the strongest points of baby\nperfection, and in all these our baby excelled.\n\nAnd thus the widow's deep grief was softened, and a sweet balm was\npoured into the wound which she had thought nothing but death could\nheal. How much kinder is God to us than we are willing to be to\nourselves! At the loss of every dear face, at the last going of\nevery well-beloved one, we all doom ourselves to an eternity of\nsorrow, and look to waste ourselves away in an ever-running fountain\nof tears. How seldom does such grief endure! How blessed is the\ngoodness which forbids it to do so! \"Let me ever remember my living\nfriends, but forget them as soon as dead,\" was the prayer of a wise\nman who understood the mercy of God. Few perhaps would have the\ncourage to express such a wish, and yet to do so would only be to\nask for that release from sorrow which a kind Creator almost always\nextends to us.\n\nI would not, however, have it imagined that Mrs. Bold forgot her\nhusband. She daily thought of him with all conjugal love, and\nenshrined his memory in the innermost centre of her heart. But yet\nshe was happy in her baby. It was so sweet to press the living toy\nto her breast, and feel that a human being existed who did owe,\nand was to owe, everything to her; whose daily food was drawn from\nherself; whose little wants could all be satisfied by her; whose\nlittle heart would first love her and her only; whose infant tongue\nwould make its first effort in calling her by the sweetest name a\nwoman can hear. And so Eleanor's bosom became tranquil, and she set\nabout her new duties eagerly and gratefully.\n\nAs regards the concerns of the world, John Bold had left his widow\nin prosperous circumstances. He had bequeathed to her all that he\npossessed, and that comprised an income much exceeding what she\nor her friends thought necessary for her. It amounted to nearly a\nthousand a year; when she reflected on its extent, her dearest hope\nwas to hand it over, not only unimpaired but increased, to her\nhusband's son, to her own darling, to the little man who now lay\nsleeping on her knee, happily ignorant of the cares which were to\nbe accumulated in his behalf.\n\nWhen John Bold died, she earnestly implored her father to come and\nlive with her, but this Mr. Harding declined, though for some weeks\nhe remained with her as a visitor. He could not be prevailed upon to\nforego the possession of some small home of his own, and so remained\nin the lodgings he had first selected over a chemist's shop in the\nHigh Street of Barchester.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nDr. and Mrs. Proudie\n\n\nThis narrative is supposed to commence immediately after the\ninstallation of Dr. Proudie. I will not describe the ceremony, as\nI do not precisely understand its nature. I am ignorant whether\na bishop be chaired like a member of Parliament, or carried in a\ngilt coach like a lord mayor, or sworn like a justice of peace,\nor introduced like a peer to the upper house, or led between two\nbrethren like a knight of the garter; but I do know that everything\nwas properly done, and that nothing fit or becoming to a young\nbishop was omitted on the occasion.\n\nDr. Proudie was not the man to allow anything to be omitted that\nmight be becoming to his new dignity. He understood well the value\nof forms, and knew that the due observance of rank could not be\nmaintained unless the exterior trappings belonging to it were held in\nproper esteem. He was a man born to move in high circles; at least\nso he thought himself, and circumstances had certainly sustained him\nin this view. He was the nephew of an Irish baron by his mother's\nside, and his wife was the niece of a Scotch earl. He had for years\nheld some clerical office appertaining to courtly matters, which\nhad enabled him to live in London, and to entrust his parish to his\ncurate. He had been preacher to the royal beefeaters, curator of\ntheological manuscripts in the Ecclesiastical Courts, chaplain to the\nQueen's yeomanry guard, and almoner to his Royal Highness the Prince\nof Rappe-Blankenberg.\n\nHis residence in the metropolis, rendered necessary by duties thus\nentrusted to him, his high connexions, and the peculiar talents and\nnature of the man, recommended him to persons in power, and Dr.\nProudie became known as a useful and rising clergyman.\n\nSome few years since, even within the memory of many who are not yet\nwilling to call themselves old, a liberal clergyman was a person not\nfrequently to be met. Sydney Smith was such and was looked on as\nlittle better than an infidel; a few others also might be named, but\nthey were _rarae aves_ and were regarded with doubt and distrust\nby their brethren. No man was so surely a Tory as a country\nrector--nowhere were the powers that be so cherished as at Oxford.\n\nWhen, however, Dr. Whately was made an archbishop, and Dr. Hampden\nsome years afterwards regius professor, many wise divines saw that a\nchange was taking place in men's minds, and that more liberal ideas\nwould henceforward be suitable to the priests as well as to the\nlaity. Clergymen began to be heard of who had ceased to anathematize\npapists on the one hand, or vilify dissenters on the other. It\nappeared clear that High Church principles, as they are called, were\nno longer to be surest claims to promotion with at any rate one\nsection of statesmen, and Dr. Proudie was one among those who early\nin life adapted himself to the views held by the Whigs on most\ntheological and religious subjects. He bore with the idolatry of\nRome, tolerated even the infidelity of Socinianism, and was hand and\nglove with the Presbyterian Synods of Scotland and Ulster.\n\nSuch a man at such a time was found to be useful, and Dr. Proudie's\nname began to appear in the newspapers. He was made one of a\ncommission who went over to Ireland to arrange matters preparative\nto the working of the national board; he became honorary secretary\nto another commission nominated to inquire into the revenues of\ncathedral chapters; he had had something to do with both the _regium\ndonum_ and the Maynooth grant.\n\nIt must not on this account be taken as proved that Dr. Proudie was\na man of great mental powers, or even of much capacity for business,\nfor such qualities had not been required in him. In the arrangement\nof those church reforms with which he was connected, the ideas and\noriginal conception of the work to be done were generally furnished\nby the liberal statesmen of the day, and the labour of the details\nwas borne by officials of a lower rank. It was, however, thought\nexpedient that the name of some clergyman should appear in such\nmatters, and as Dr. Proudie had become known as a tolerating divine,\ngreat use of this sort was made of his name. If he did not do much\nactive good, he never did any harm; he was amenable to those who were\nreally in authority and, at the sittings of the various boards to\nwhich he belonged, maintained a kind of dignity which had its value.\n\nHe was certainly possessed of sufficient tact to answer the purpose\nfor which he was required without making himself troublesome; but\nit must not therefore be surmised that he doubted his own power, or\nfailed to believe that he could himself take a high part in high\naffairs when his own turn came. He was biding his time, and patiently\nlooking forward to the days when he himself would sit authoritative\nat some board, and talk and direct, and rule the roost, while lesser\nstars sat round and obeyed, as he had so well accustomed himself to\ndo.\n\nHis reward and his time had now come. He was selected for the vacant\nbishopric and, on the next vacancy which might occur in any diocese,\nwould take his place in the House of Lords, prepared to give not\na silent vote in all matters concerning the weal of the church\nestablishment. Toleration was to be the basis on which he was to\nfight his battles, and in the honest courage of his heart he thought\nno evil would come to him in encountering even such foes as his\nbrethren of Exeter and Oxford.\n\nDr. Proudie was an ambitious man, and before he was well consecrated\nBishop of Barchester, he had begun to look up to archiepiscopal\nsplendour, and the glories of Lambeth, or at any rate of\nBishopsthorpe. He was comparatively young, and had, as he fondly\nflattered himself, been selected as possessing such gifts, natural\nand acquired, as must be sure to recommend him to a yet higher\nnotice, now that a higher sphere was opened to him. Dr. Proudie\nwas, therefore, quite prepared to take a conspicuous part in all\ntheological affairs appertaining to these realms; and having such\nviews, by no means intended to bury himself at Barchester as his\npredecessor had done. No! London should still be his ground: a\ncomfortable mansion in a provincial city might be well enough for\nthe dead months of the year. Indeed, Dr. Proudie had always felt it\nnecessary to his position to retire from London when other great\nand fashionable people did so; but London should still be his fixed\nresidence, and it was in London that he resolved to exercise that\nhospitality so peculiarly recommended to all bishops by St. Paul.\nHow otherwise could he keep himself before the world? How else give\nto the government, in matters theological, the full benefit of his\nweight and talents?\n\nThis resolution was no doubt a salutary one as regarded the world at\nlarge, but was not likely to make him popular either with the clergy\nor people of Barchester. Dr. Grantly had always lived there--in\ntruth, it was hard for a bishop to be popular after Dr. Grantly. His\nincome had averaged £9,000 a year; his successor was to be rigidly\nlimited to £5,000. He had but one child on whom to spend his money;\nDr. Proudie had seven or eight. He had been a man of few personal\nexpenses, and they had been confined to the tastes of a moderate\ngentleman; but Dr. Proudie had to maintain a position in fashionable\nsociety, and had that to do with comparatively small means. Dr.\nGrantly had certainly kept his carriage as became a bishop, but\nhis carriage, horses, and coachman, though they did very well for\nBarchester, would have been almost ridiculous at Westminster.\nMrs. Proudie determined that her husband's equipage should not shame\nher, and things on which Mrs. Proudie resolved were generally\naccomplished.\n\nFrom all this it was likely to result that Dr. Proudie would not\nspend much money at Barchester, whereas his predecessor had dealt\nwith the tradesmen of the city in a manner very much to their\nsatisfaction. The Grantlys, father and son, had spent their money\nlike gentlemen, but it soon became whispered in Barchester that Dr.\nProudie was not unacquainted with those prudent devices by which the\nutmost show of wealth is produced from limited means.\n\nIn person Dr. Proudie is a good-looking man; spruce and dapper, and\nvery tidy. He is somewhat below middle height, being about five feet\nfour; but he makes up for the inches which he wants by the dignity\nwith which he carries those which he has. It is no fault of his own\nif he has not a commanding eye, for he studies hard to assume it.\nHis features are well formed, though perhaps the sharpness of his\nnose may give to his face in the eyes of some people an air of\ninsignificance. If so, it is greatly redeemed by his mouth and chin,\nof which he is justly proud.\n\nDr. Proudie may well be said to have been a fortunate man, for he was\nnot born to wealth, and he is now Bishop of Barchester; nevertheless,\nhe has his cares. He has a large family, of whom the three eldest\nare daughters, now all grown up and fit for fashionable life;--and\nhe has a wife. It is not my intention to breathe a word against the\ncharacter of Mrs. Proudie, but still I cannot think that with all\nher virtues she adds much to her husband's happiness. The truth is\nthat in matters domestic she rules supreme over her titular lord,\nand rules with a rod of iron. Nor is this all. Things domestic\nDr. Proudie might have abandoned to her, if not voluntarily,\nyet willingly. But Mrs. Proudie is not satisfied with such home\ndominion, and stretches her power over all his movements, and will\nnot even abstain from things spiritual. In fact, the bishop is\nhen-pecked.\n\nThe archdeacon's wife, in her happy home at Plumstead, knows how to\nassume the full privileges of her rank and express her own mind in\nbecoming tone and place. But Mrs. Grantly's sway, if sway she has,\nis easy and beneficent. She never shames her husband; before the\nworld she is a pattern of obedience; her voice is never loud, nor her\nlooks sharp: doubtless she values power, and has not unsuccessfully\nstriven to acquire it; but she knows what should be the limits of a\nwoman's rule.\n\nNot so Mrs. Proudie. This lady is habitually authoritative to all,\nbut to her poor husband she is despotic. Successful as has been his\ncareer in the eyes of the world, it would seem that in the eyes of\nhis wife he is never right. All hope of defending himself has long\npassed from him; indeed he rarely even attempts self-justification,\nand is aware that submission produces the nearest approach to peace\nwhich his own house can ever attain.\n\nMrs. Proudie has not been able to sit at the boards and committees\nto which her husband has been called by the State, nor, as he often\nreflects, can she make her voice heard in the House of Lords. It may\nbe that she will refuse to him permission to attend to this branch\nof a bishop's duties; it may be that she will insist on his close\nattendance to his own closet. He has never whispered a word on the\nsubject to living ears, but he has already made his fixed resolve.\nShould such attempt be made he will rebel. Dogs have turned against\ntheir masters, and even Neapolitans against their rulers, when\noppression has been too severe. And Dr. Proudie feels within himself\nthat if the cord be drawn too tight, he also can muster courage and\nresist.\n\nThe state of vassalage in which our bishop has been kept by his wife\nhas not tended to exalt his character in the eyes of his daughters,\nwho assume in addressing their father too much of that authority\nwhich is not properly belonging, at any rate, to them. They are, on\nthe whole, fine engaging young ladies. They are tall and robust like\ntheir mother, whose high cheek-bones, and--we may say auburn hair they\nall inherit. They think somewhat too much of their grand-uncles, who\nhave not hitherto returned the compliment by thinking much of them.\nBut now that their father is a bishop, it is probable that family\nties will be drawn closer. Considering their connexion with the\nchurch, they entertain but few prejudices against the pleasures of\nthe world, and have certainly not distressed their parents, as too\nmany English girls have lately done, by any enthusiastic wish to\ndevote themselves to the seclusion of a Protestant nunnery. Dr.\nProudie's sons are still at school.\n\nOne other marked peculiarity in the character of the bishop's wife\nmust be mentioned. Though not averse to the society and manners of\nthe world, she is in her own way a religious woman; and the form in\nwhich this tendency shows itself in her is by a strict observance\nof Sabbatarian rule. Dissipation and low dresses during the week\nare, under her control, atoned for by three services, an evening\nsermon read by herself, and a perfect abstinence from any cheering\nemployment on the Sunday. Unfortunately for those under her roof to\nwhom the dissipation and low dresses are not extended, her servants\nnamely and her husband, the compensating strictness of the Sabbath\nincludes all. Woe betide the recreant housemaid who is found to have\nbeen listening to the honey of a sweetheart in the Regent's park\ninstead of the soul-stirring evening discourse of Mr. Slope. Not\nonly is she sent adrift, but she is so sent with a character which\nleaves her little hope of a decent place. Woe betide the six-foot\nhero who escorts Mrs. Proudie to her pew in red plush breeches, if\nhe slips away to the neighbouring beer-shop, instead of falling into\nthe back seat appropriated to his use. Mrs. Proudie has the eyes of\nArgus for such offenders. Occasional drunkenness in the week may be\noverlooked, for six feet on low wages are hardly to be procured if\nthe morals are always kept at a high pitch, but not even for grandeur\nor economy will Mrs. Proudie forgive a desecration of the Sabbath.\n\nIn such matters Mrs. Proudie allows herself to be often guided by\nthat eloquent preacher, the Rev. Mr. Slope, and as Dr. Proudie is\nguided by his wife, it necessarily follows that the eminent man we\nhave named has obtained a good deal of control over Dr. Proudie\nin matters concerning religion. Mr. Slope's only preferment has\nhitherto been that of reader and preacher in a London district\nchurch; and on the consecration of his friend the new bishop, he\nreadily gave this up to undertake the onerous but congenial duties\nof domestic chaplain to his lordship.\n\nMr. Slope, however, on his first introduction must not be brought\nbefore the public at the tail of a chapter.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nThe Bishop's Chaplain\n\n\nOf the Rev. Mr. Slope's parentage I am not able to say much. I have\nheard it asserted that he is lineally descended from that eminent\nphysician who assisted at the birth of Mr. T. Shandy, and that in\nearly years he added an \"e\" to his name, for the sake of euphony, as\nother great men have done before him. If this be so, I presume he\nwas christened Obadiah, for that is his name, in commemoration of\nthe conflict in which his ancestor so distinguished himself. All my\nresearches on the subject have, however, failed in enabling me to\nfix the date on which the family changed its religion.\n\nHe had been a sizar at Cambridge, and had there conducted himself\nat any rate successfully, for in due process of time he was an\nM.A., having university pupils under his care. From thence he was\ntransferred to London, and became preacher at a new district church\nbuilt on the confines of Baker Street. He was in this position\nwhen congenial ideas on religious subjects recommended him to Mrs.\nProudie, and the intercourse had become close and confidential.\n\nHaving been thus familiarly thrown among the Misses Proudie, it was\nno more than natural that some softer feeling than friendship should\nbe engendered. There have been some passages of love between him\nand the eldest hope, Olivia, but they have hitherto resulted in\nno favourable arrangement. In truth, Mr. Slope, having made a\ndeclaration of affection, afterwards withdrew it on finding that the\ndoctor had no immediate worldly funds with which to endow his child,\nand it may easily be conceived that Miss Proudie, after such an\nannouncement on his part, was not readily disposed to receive any\nfurther show of affection. On the appointment of Dr. Proudie to the\nbishopric of Barchester, Mr. Slope's views were in truth somewhat\naltered. Bishops, even though they be poor, can provide for clerical\nchildren, and Mr. Slope began to regret that he had not been more\ndisinterested. He no sooner heard the tidings of the doctor's\nelevation than he recommenced his siege, not violently, indeed, but\nrespectfully, and at a distance. Olivia Proudie, however, was a girl\nof spirit: she had the blood of two peers in her veins, and better\nstill she had another lover on her books, so Mr. Slope sighed in\nvain, and the pair soon found it convenient to establish a mutual\nbond of inveterate hatred.\n\nIt may be thought singular that Mrs. Proudie's friendship for the\nyoung clergyman should remain firm after such an affair, but, to\ntell the truth, she had known nothing of it. Though very fond of Mr.\nSlope herself, she had never conceived the idea that either of her\ndaughters would become so, and remembering their high birth and\nsocial advantages, expected for them matches of a different sort.\nNeither the gentleman nor the lady found it necessary to enlighten\nher. Olivia's two sisters had each known of the affair, as had all\nthe servants, as had all the people living in the adjoining houses\non either side, but Mrs. Proudie had been kept in the dark.\n\nMr. Slope soon comforted himself with the reflexion that, as he had\nbeen selected as chaplain to the bishop, it would probably be in his\npower to get the good things in the bishop's gift without troubling\nhimself with the bishop's daughter, and he found himself able to\nendure the pangs of rejected love. As he sat himself down in the\nrailway carriage, confronting the bishop and Mrs. Proudie as they\nstarted on their first journey to Barchester, he began to form in his\nown mind a plan of his future life. He knew well his patron's strong\npoints, but he knew the weak ones as well. He understood correctly\nenough to what attempts the new bishop's high spirit would soar, and\nhe rightly guessed that public life would better suit the great man's\ntaste than the small details of diocesan duty.\n\nHe, therefore,--he, Mr. Slope,--would in effect be Bishop of\nBarchester. Such was his resolve, and to give Mr. Slope his due,\nhe had both courage and spirit to bear him out in his resolution.\nHe knew that he should have a hard battle to fight, for the power\nand patronage of the see would be equally coveted by another great\nmind--Mrs. Proudie would also choose to be Bishop of Barchester. Mr.\nSlope, however, flattered himself that he could outmanoeuvre the\nlady. She must live much in London, while he would always be on the\nspot. She would necessarily remain ignorant of much, while he would\nknow everything belonging to the diocese. At first, doubtless, he\nmust flatter and cajole, perhaps yield in some things, but he did not\ndoubt of ultimate triumph. If all other means failed, he could join\nthe bishop against his wife, inspire courage into the unhappy man,\nlay an axe to the root of the woman's power, and emancipate the\nhusband.\n\nSuch were his thoughts as he sat looking at the sleeping pair in the\nrailway carriage, and Mr. Slope is not the man to trouble himself\nwith such thoughts for nothing. He is possessed of more than average\nabilities, and is of good courage. Though he can stoop to fawn, and\nstoop low indeed, if need be, he has still within him the power to\nassume the tyrant;--and with the power he has certainly the wish. His\nacquirements are not of the highest order, but such as they are, they\nare completely under control, and he knows the use of them. He is\ngifted with a certain kind of pulpit eloquence, not likely indeed\nto be persuasive with men, but powerful with the softer sex. In his\nsermons he deals greatly in denunciations, excites the minds of his\nweaker hearers with a not unpleasant terror, and leaves an impression\non their minds that all mankind are in a perilous state, and all\nwomankind, too, except those who attend regularly to the evening\nlectures in Baker Street. His looks and tones are extremely severe,\nso much so that one cannot but fancy that he regards the greater part\nof the world as being infinitely too bad for his care. As he walks\nthrough the streets his very face denotes his horror of the world's\nwickedness, and there is always an anathema lurking in the corner of\nhis eye.\n\nIn doctrine he, like his patron, is tolerant of dissent, if so strict\na mind can be called tolerant of anything. With Wesleyan-Methodists\nhe has something in common, but his soul trembles in agony at the\niniquities of the Puseyites. His aversion is carried to things\noutward as well as inward. His gall rises at a new church with a\nhigh-pitched roof; a full-breasted black silk waistcoat is with him a\nsymbol of Satan; and a profane jest-book would not, in his view, more\nfoully desecrate the church seat of a Christian than a book of prayer\nprinted with red letters and ornamented with a cross on the back.\nMost active clergymen have their hobby, and Sunday observances are\nhis. Sunday, however, is a word which never pollutes his mouth--it\nis always \"the Sabbath.\" The \"desecration of the Sabbath,\" as he\ndelights to call it, is to him meat and drink: he thrives upon that\nas policemen do on the general evil habits of the community. It is\nthe loved subject of all his evening discourses, the source of all\nhis eloquence, the secret of all his power over the female heart.\nTo him the revelation of God appears only in that one law given for\nJewish observance. To him the mercies of our Saviour speak in vain,\nto him in vain has been preached that sermon which fell from divine\nlips on the mountain--\"Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit\nthe earth\"--\"Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.\"\nTo him the New Testament is comparatively of little moment, for from\nit can he draw no fresh authority for that dominion which he loves\nto exercise over at least a seventh part of man's allotted time here\nbelow.\n\nMr. Slope is tall, and not ill-made. His feet and hands are large,\nas has ever been the case with all his family, but he has a broad\nchest and wide shoulders to carry off these excrescences, and on the\nwhole his figure is good. His countenance, however, is not specially\nprepossessing. His hair is lank and of a dull pale reddish hue. It\nis always formed into three straight, lumpy masses, each brushed with\nadmirable precision and cemented with much grease; two of them adhere\nclosely to the sides of his face, and the other lies at right angles\nabove them. He wears no whiskers, and is always punctiliously shaven.\nHis face is nearly of the same colour as his hair, though perhaps a\nlittle redder: it is not unlike beef--beef, however, one would say,\nof a bad quality. His forehead is capacious and high, but square and\nheavy and unpleasantly shining. His mouth is large, though his lips\nare thin and bloodless; and his big, prominent, pale-brown eyes\ninspire anything but confidence. His nose, however, is his redeeming\nfeature: it is pronounced, straight and well-formed; though I myself\nshould have liked it better did it not possess a somewhat spongy,\nporous appearance, as though it had been cleverly formed out of a\nred-coloured cork.\n\nI never could endure to shake hands with Mr. Slope. A cold, clammy\nperspiration always exudes from him, the small drops are ever to be\nseen standing on his brow, and his friendly grasp is unpleasant.\n\nSuch is Mr. Slope--such is the man who has suddenly fallen into\nthe midst of Barchester Close, and is destined there to assume the\nstation which has heretofore been filled by the son of the late\nbishop. Think, oh, my meditative reader, what an associate we have\nhere for those comfortable prebendaries, those gentlemanlike clerical\ndoctors, those happy, well-used, well-fed minor canons who have grown\ninto existence at Barchester under the kindly wings of Bishop\nGrantly!\n\nBut not as a mere associate for these does Mr. Slope travel down to\nBarchester with the bishop and his wife. He intends to be, if not\ntheir master, at least the chief among them. He intends to lead\nand to have followers; he intends to hold the purse-strings of the\ndiocese and draw round him an obedient herd of his poor and hungry\nbrethren.\n\nAnd here we can hardly fail to draw a comparison between the\narchdeacon and our new private chaplain, and despite the manifold\nfaults of the former, one can hardly fail to make it much to his\nadvantage.\n\nBoth men are eager, much too eager, to support and increase the\npower of their order. Both are anxious that the world should be\npriest-governed, though they have probably never confessed so much,\neven to themselves. Both begrudge any other kind of dominion held\nby man over man. Dr. Grantly, if he admits the Queen's supremacy in\nthings spiritual, only admits it as being due to the quasi-priesthood\nconveyed in the consecrating qualities of her coronation, and he\nregards things temporal as being by their nature subject to those\nwhich are spiritual. Mr. Slope's ideas of sacerdotal rule are of\nquite a different class. He cares nothing, one way or the other, for\nthe Queen's supremacy; these to his ears are empty words, meaning\nnothing. Forms he regards but little, and such titular expressions\nas supremacy, consecration, ordination, and the like convey of\nthemselves no significance to him. Let him be supreme who can.\nThe temporal king, judge, or gaoler can work but on the body. The\nspiritual master, if he have the necessary gifts and can duly use\nthem, has a wider field of empire. He works upon the soul. If he\ncan make himself be believed, he can be all powerful over those who\nlisten. If he be careful to meddle with none who are too strong in\nintellect, or too weak in flesh, he may indeed be supreme. And such\nwas the ambition of Mr. Slope.\n\nDr. Grantly interfered very little with the worldly doings of those\nwho were in any way subject to him. I do not mean to say that he\nomitted to notice misconduct among his clergy, immorality in his\nparish, or omissions in his family, but he was not anxious to do\nso where the necessity could be avoided. He was not troubled with\na propensity to be curious, and as long as those around him were\ntainted with no heretical leaning towards dissent, as long as they\nfully and freely admitted the efficacy of Mother Church, he was\nwilling that that mother should be merciful and affectionate, prone\nto indulgence, and unwilling to chastise. He himself enjoyed the\ngood things of this world and liked to let it be known that he did\nso. He cordially despised any brother rector who thought harm of\ndinner-parties, or dreaded the dangers of a moderate claret-jug;\nconsequently, dinner-parties and claret-jugs were common in the\ndiocese. He liked to give laws and to be obeyed in them implicitly,\nbut he endeavoured that his ordinances should be within the compass\nof the man and not unpalatable to the gentleman. He had ruled\namong his clerical neighbours now for sundry years, and as he had\nmaintained his power without becoming unpopular, it may be presumed\nthat he had exercised some wisdom.\n\nOf Mr. Slope's conduct much cannot be said, as his grand career is\nyet to commence, but it may be premised that his tastes will be\nvery different from those of the archdeacon. He conceives it to be\nhis duty to know all the private doings and desires of the flock\nentrusted to his care. From the poorer classes he exacts an\nunconditional obedience to set rules of conduct, and if disobeyed\nhe has recourse, like his great ancestor, to the fulminations of an\nErnulfus: \"Thou shalt be damned in thy going in and in thy coming\nout--in thy eating and thy drinking,\" &c. &c. &c. With the rich,\nexperience has already taught him that a different line of action is\nnecessary. Men in the upper walks of life do not mind being cursed,\nand the women, presuming that it be done in delicate phrase, rather\nlike it. But he has not, therefore, given up so important a portion\nof believing Christians. With the men, indeed, he is generally\nat variance; they are hardened sinners, on whom the voice of the\npriestly charmer too often falls in vain; but with the ladies, old\nand young, firm and frail, devout and dissipated, he is, as he\nconceives, all powerful. He can reprove faults with so much flattery\nand utter censure in so caressing a manner that the female heart, if\nit glow with a spark of Low Church susceptibility, cannot withstand\nhim. In many houses he is thus an admired guest: the husbands, for\ntheir wives' sake, are fain to admit him; and when once admitted it\nis not easy to shake him off. He has, however, a pawing, greasy way\nwith him, which does not endear him to those who do not value him\nfor their souls' sake, and he is not a man to make himself at once\npopular in a large circle such as is now likely to surround him at\nBarchester.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nA Morning Visit\n\n\nIt was known that Dr. Proudie would immediately have to reappoint to\nthe wardenship of the hospital under the act of Parliament to which\nallusion has been made; no one imagined that any choice was left to\nhim--no one for a moment thought that he could appoint any other\nthan Mr. Harding. Mr. Harding himself, when he heard how the matter\nhad been settled, without troubling himself much on the subject,\nconsidered it as certain that he would go back to his pleasant house\nand garden. And though there would be much that was melancholy, nay,\nalmost heartrending, in such a return, he still was glad that it was\nto be so. His daughter might probably be persuaded to return there\nwith him. She had, indeed, all but promised to do so, though she\nstill entertained an idea that that greatest of mortals, that\nimportant atom of humanity, that little god upon earth, Johnny Bold\nher baby, ought to have a house of his own over his head.\n\nSuch being the state of Mr. Harding's mind in the matter, he did not\nfeel any peculiar personal interest in the appointment of Dr. Proudie\nto the bishopric. He, as well as others at Barchester, regretted\nthat a man should be sent among them who, they were aware, was not of\ntheir way of thinking; but Mr. Harding himself was not a bigoted man\non points of church doctrine, and he was quite prepared to welcome\nDr. Proudie to Barchester in a graceful and becoming manner. He had\nnothing to seek and nothing to fear; he felt that it behoved him\nto be on good terms with his bishop, and he did not anticipate any\nobstacle that would prevent it.\n\nIn such a frame of mind he proceeded to pay his respects at the\npalace the second day after the arrival of the bishop and his\nchaplain. But he did not go alone. Dr. Grantly proposed to accompany\nhim, and Mr. Harding was not sorry to have a companion, who would\nremove from his shoulders the burden of the conversation in such an\ninterview. In the affair of the consecration Dr. Grantly had been\nintroduced to the bishop, and Mr. Harding had also been there. He\nhad, however, kept himself in the background, and he was now to be\npresented to the great man for the first time.\n\nThe archdeacon's feelings were of a much stronger nature. He was not\nexactly the man to overlook his own slighted claims, or to forgive\nthe preference shown to another. Dr. Proudie was playing Venus to\nhis Juno, and he was prepared to wage an internecine war against\nthe owner of the wished-for apple, and all his satellites, private\nchaplains, and others.\n\nNevertheless, it behoved him also to conduct himself towards the\nintruder as an old archdeacon should conduct himself to an incoming\nbishop; and though he was well aware of all Dr. Proudie's abominable\nopinions as regarded dissenters, church reform, the hebdomadal\ncouncil, and such like; though he disliked the man, and hated the\ndoctrines, still he was prepared to show respect to the station of\nthe bishop. So he and Mr. Harding called together at the palace.\n\nHis lordship was at home, and the two visitors were shown through the\naccustomed hall into the well-known room where the good old bishop\nused to sit. The furniture had been bought at a valuation, and\nevery chair and table, every bookshelf against the wall, and every\nsquare in the carpet was as well known to each of them as their own\nbedrooms. Nevertheless they at once felt that they were strangers\nthere. The furniture was for the most part the same, yet the place\nhad been metamorphosed. A new sofa had been introduced, a horrid\nchintz affair, most unprelatical and almost irreligious; such a sofa\nas never yet stood in the study of any decent High Church clergyman\nof the Church of England. The old curtains had also given way. They\nhad, to be sure, become dingy, and that which had been originally\na rich and goodly ruby had degenerated into a reddish brown. Mr.\nHarding, however, thought the old reddish-brown much preferable to\nthe gaudy buff-coloured trumpery moreen which Mrs. Proudie had deemed\ngood enough for her husband's own room in the provincial city of\nBarchester.\n\nOur friends found Dr. Proudie sitting on the old bishop's chair,\nlooking very nice in his new apron; they found, too, Mr. Slope\nstanding on the hearth-rug, persuasive and eager, just as the\narchdeacon used to stand; but on the sofa they also found Mrs.\nProudie, an innovation for which a precedent might in vain be sought\nin all the annals of the Barchester bishopric!\n\nThere she was, however, and they could only make the best of her.\nThe introductions were gone through in much form. The archdeacon\nshook hands with the bishop, and named Mr. Harding, who received such\nan amount of greeting as was due from a bishop to a precentor. His\nlordship then presented them to his lady wife; the archdeacon first,\nwith archidiaconal honours, and then the precentor with diminished\nparade. After this Mr. Slope presented himself. The bishop, it is\ntrue, did mention his name, and so did Mrs. Proudie too, in a louder\ntone, but Mr. Slope took upon himself the chief burden of his own\nintroduction. He had great pleasure in making himself acquainted\nwith Dr. Grantly; he had heard much of the archdeacon's good works\nin that part of the diocese in which his duties as archdeacon had\nbeen exercised (thus purposely ignoring the archdeacon's hitherto\nunlimited dominion over the diocese at large). He was aware that\nhis lordship depended greatly on the assistance which Dr. Grantly\nwould be able to give him in that portion of his diocese. He then\nthrust out his hand and, grasping that of his new foe, bedewed it\nunmercifully. Dr. Grantly in return bowed, looked stiff, contracted\nhis eyebrows, and wiped his hand with his pocket-handkerchief.\nNothing abashed, Mr. Slope then noticed the precentor and descended\nto the grade of the lower clergy. He gave him a squeeze of the\nhand, damp indeed, but affectionate, and was very glad to make the\nacquaintance of Mr.--oh yes, Mr. Harding; he had not exactly caught\nthe name. \"Precentor in the cathedral,\" surmised Mr. Slope. Mr.\nHarding confessed that such was the humble sphere of his work. \"Some\nparish duty as well,\" suggested Mr. Slope. Mr. Harding acknowledged\nthe diminutive incumbency of St. Cuthbert's. Mr. Slope then left him\nalone, having condescended sufficiently, and joined the conversation\namong the higher powers.\n\nThere were four persons there, each of whom considered himself the\nmost important personage in the diocese--himself, indeed, or herself,\nas Mrs. Proudie was one of them--and with such a difference of\nopinion it was not probable that they would get on pleasantly\ntogether. The bishop himself actually wore the visible apron, and\ntrusted mainly to that--to that and his title, both being facts which\ncould not be overlooked. The archdeacon knew his subject and really\nunderstood the business of bishoping, which the others did not, and\nthis was his strong ground. Mrs. Proudie had her sex to back her,\nand her habit of command, and was nothing daunted by the high tone\nof Dr. Grantly's face and figure. Mr. Slope had only himself and his\nown courage and tact to depend on, but he nevertheless was perfectly\nself-assured, and did not doubt but that he should soon get the better\nof weak men who trusted so much to externals, as both bishop and\narchdeacon appeared to do.\n\n\"Do you reside in Barchester, Dr. Grantly?\" asked the lady with her\nsweetest smile.\n\nDr. Grantly explained that he lived in his own parish of Plumstead\nEpiscopi, a few miles out of the city. Whereupon the lady hoped that\nthe distance was not too great for country visiting, as she would be\nso glad to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Grantly. She would take the\nearliest opportunity, after the arrival of her horses at Barchester;\ntheir horses were at present in London; their horses were not\nimmediately coming down, as the bishop would be obliged, in a few\ndays, to return to town. Dr. Grantly was no doubt aware that the\nbishop was at present much called upon by the \"University Improvement\nCommittee:\" indeed, the committee could not well proceed without him,\nas their final report had now to be drawn up. The bishop had also to\nprepare a scheme for the \"Manufacturing Towns Morning and Evening\nSunday School Society,\" of which he was a patron, or president, or\ndirector, and therefore the horses would not come down to Barchester\nat present; but whenever the horses did come down, she would take the\nearliest opportunity of calling at Plumstead Episcopi, providing the\ndistance was not too great for country visiting.\n\nThe archdeacon made his fifth bow--he had made one at each mention\nof the horses--and promised that Mrs. Grantly would do herself\nthe honour of calling at the palace on an early day. Mrs. Proudie\ndeclared that she would be delighted: she hadn't liked to ask, not\nbeing quite sure whether Mrs. Grantly had horses; besides, the\ndistance might have been, &c. &c.\n\nDr. Grantly again bowed but said nothing. He could have bought every\nindividual possession of the whole family of the Proudies and have\nrestored them as a gift, without much feeling the loss; and had kept\na separate pair of horses for the exclusive use of his wife since the\nday of his marriage, whereas Mrs. Proudie had been hitherto jobbed\nabout the streets of London at so much a month, during the season,\nand at other times had managed to walk, or hire a smart fly from the\nlivery stables.\n\n\"Are the arrangements with reference to the Sabbath-day schools\ngenerally pretty good in your archdeaconry?\" asked Mr. Slope.\n\n\"Sabbath-day schools!\" repeated the archdeacon with an affectation\nof surprise. \"Upon my word, I can't tell; it depends mainly on the\nparson's wife and daughters. There is none at Plumstead.\"\n\nThis was almost a fib on the part of the archdeacon, for Mrs.\nGrantly has a very nice school. To be sure it is not a Sunday-school\nexclusively, and is not so designated, but that exemplary lady always\nattends there for an hour before church, and hears the children say\ntheir catechism, and sees that they are clean and tidy for church,\nwith their hands washed and their shoes tied; and Grisel and\nFlorinda, her daughters, carry thither a basket of large buns, baked\non the Saturday afternoon, and distribute them to all the children\nnot especially under disgrace, which buns are carried home after\nchurch with considerable content, and eaten hot at tea, being then\nsplit and toasted. The children of Plumstead would indeed open their\neyes if they heard their venerated pastor declare that there was no\nSunday-school in his parish.\n\nMr. Slope merely opened his wide eyes wider and slightly shrugged\nhis shoulders. He was not, however, prepared to give up his darling\nproject.\n\n\"I fear there is a great deal of Sabbath travelling here,\" said he.\n\"On looking at the 'Bradshaw,' I see that there are three trains\nin and three out every Sabbath. Could nothing be done to induce\nthe company to withdraw them? Don't you think, Dr. Grantly, that a\nlittle energy might diminish the evil?\"\n\n\"Not being a director, I really can't say. But if you can withdraw\nthe passengers, the company I dare say will withdraw the trains,\"\nsaid the doctor. \"It's merely a question of dividends.\"\n\n\"But surely, Dr. Grantly,\" said the lady; \"surely we should look at\nit differently. You and I, for instance, in our position: surely we\nshould do all that we can to control so grievous a sin. Don't you\nthink so, Mr. Harding?\" and she turned to the precentor, who was\nsitting mute and unhappy.\n\nMr. Harding thought that all porters and stokers, guards, brakesmen,\nand pointsmen ought to have an opportunity of going to church, and\nhe hoped that they all had.\n\n\"But surely, surely,\" continued Mrs. Proudie, \"surely that is not\nenough. Surely that will not secure such an observance of the\nSabbath as we are taught to conceive is not only expedient but\nindispensable; surely--\"\n\nCome what come might, Dr. Grantly was not to be forced into a\ndissertation on a point of doctrine with Mrs. Proudie, nor yet with\nMr. Slope, so without much ceremony he turned his back upon the sofa\nand began to hope that Dr. Proudie had found that the palace repairs\nhad been such as to meet his wishes.\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" said his lordship; upon the whole he thought so--upon the\nwhole, he didn't know that there was much ground for complaint; the\narchitect, perhaps, might have--but his double, Mr. Slope, who had\nsidled over to the bishop's chair, would not allow his lordship to\nfinish his ambiguous speech.\n\n\"There is one point I would like to mention, Mr. Archdeacon. His\nlordship asked me to step through the premises, and I see that the\nstalls in the second stable are not perfect.\"\n\n\"Why--there's standing there for a dozen horses,\" said the\narchdeacon.\n\n\"Perhaps so,\" said the other; \"indeed, I've no doubt of it; but\nvisitors, you know, often require so much accommodation. There are\nso many of the bishop's relatives who always bring their own horses.\"\n\nDr. Grantly promised that due provision for the relatives' horses\nshould be made, as far at least as the extent of the original\nstable building would allow. He would himself communicate with the\narchitect.\n\n\"And the coach-house, Dr. Grantly,\" continued Mr. Slope; \"there is\nreally hardly room for a second carriage in the large coach-house,\nand the smaller one, of course, holds only one.\"\n\n\"And the gas,\" chimed in the lady; \"there is no gas through the\nhouse, none whatever, but in the kitchen and passages. Surely the\npalace should have been fitted through with pipes for gas, and\nhot water too. There is no hot water laid on anywhere above the\nground-floor; surely there should be the means of getting hot water\nin the bedrooms without having it brought in jugs from the kitchen.\"\n\nThe bishop had a decided opinion that there should be pipes for hot\nwater. Hot water was very essential for the comfort of the palace.\nIt was, indeed, a requisite in any decent gentleman's house.\n\nMr. Slope had remarked that the coping on the garden wall was in many\nplaces imperfect.\n\nMrs. Proudie had discovered a large hole, evidently the work of rats,\nin the servants' hall.\n\nThe bishop expressed an utter detestation of rats. There was\nnothing, he believed, in this world that he so much hated as a rat.\n\nMr. Slope had, moreover, observed that the locks of the outhouses\nwere very imperfect: he might specify the coal-cellar and the\nwoodhouse.\n\nMrs. Proudie had also seen that those on the doors of the servants'\nbedrooms were in an-equally bad condition; indeed, the locks all\nthrough the house were old-fashioned and unserviceable.\n\nThe bishop thought that a great deal depended on a good lock and\nquite as much on the key. He had observed that the fault very often\nlay with the key, especially if the wards were in any way twisted.\n\nMr. Slope was going on with his catalogue of grievances, when he\nwas somewhat loudly interrupted by the archdeacon, who succeeded\nin explaining that the diocesan architect, or rather his foreman,\nwas the person to be addressed on such subjects, and that he, Dr.\nGrantly, had inquired as to the comfort of the palace merely as a\npoint of compliment. He was sorry, however, that so many things\nhad been found amiss: and then he rose from his chair to escape.\n\nMrs. Proudie, though she had contrived to lend her assistance\nin recapitulating the palatial dilapidations, had not on that\naccount given up her hold of Mr. Harding, nor ceased from her\ncross-examinations as to the iniquity of Sabbatical amusements.\nOver and over again had she thrown out her \"Surely, surely,\" at\nMr. Harding's devoted head, and ill had that gentleman been able\nto parry the attack.\n\nHe had never before found himself subjected to such a nuisance.\nLadies hitherto, when they had consulted him on religious subjects,\nhad listened to what he might choose to say with some deference,\nand had differed, if they differed, in silence. But Mrs. Proudie\ninterrogated him and then lectured. \"Neither thou, nor thy son,\nnor thy daughter, thy manservant, nor thy maidservant,\" said she\nimpressively, and more than once, as though Mr. Harding had forgotten\nthe words. She shook her finger at him as she quoted the favourite\nlaw, as though menacing him with punishment, and then called upon him\ncategorically to state whether he did not think that travelling on\nthe Sabbath was an abomination and a desecration.\n\nMr. Harding had never been so hard pressed in his life. He felt that\nhe ought to rebuke the lady for presuming so to talk to a gentleman\nand a clergyman many years her senior, but he recoiled from the idea\nof scolding the bishop's wife, in the bishop's presence, on his first\nvisit to the palace; moreover, to tell the truth, he was somewhat\nafraid of her. She, seeing him sit silent and absorbed, by no means\nrefrained from the attack.\n\n\"I hope, Mr. Harding,\" said she, shaking her head slowly and\nsolemnly, \"I hope you will not leave me to think that you approve of\nSabbath travelling,\" and she looked a look of unutterable meaning\ninto his eyes.\n\nThere was no standing this, for Mr. Slope was now looking at him, and\nso was the bishop, and so was the archdeacon, who had completed his\nadieux on that side of the room. Mr. Harding therefore got up also\nand, putting out his hand to Mrs. Proudie, said: \"If you will come\nto St. Cuthbert's some Sunday, I will preach you a sermon on that\nsubject.\"\n\nAnd so the archdeacon and the precentor took their departure, bowing\nlow to the lady, shaking hands with the lord, and escaping from\nMr. Slope in the best manner each could. Mr. Harding was again\nmaltreated, but Dr. Grantly swore deeply in the bottom of his heart,\nthat no earthly consideration should ever again induce him to touch\nthe paw of that impure and filthy animal.\n\nAnd now, had I the pen of a mighty poet, would I sing in epic verse\nthe noble wrath of the archdeacon. The palace steps descend to a\nbroad gravel sweep, from whence a small gate opens out into the\nstreet, very near the covered gateway leading into the close. The\nroad from the palace door turns to the left, through the spacious\ngardens, and terminates on the London road, half a mile from the\ncathedral.\n\nTill they had both passed this small gate and entered the close,\nneither of them spoke a word, but the precentor clearly saw from\nhis companion's face that a tornado was to be expected, nor was he\nhimself inclined to stop it. Though by nature far less irritable\nthan the archdeacon, even he was angry: he even--that mild and\ncourteous man--was inclined to express himself in anything but\ncourteous terms.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nWar\n\n\n\"Good heavens!\" exclaimed the archdeacon, as he placed his foot on the\ngravel walk of the close, and raising his hat with one hand, passed\nthe other somewhat violently over his now grizzled locks; smoke\nissued forth from the uplifted beaver as it were a cloud of wrath,\nand the safety valve of his anger opened, and emitted a visible\nsteam, preventing positive explosion and probable apoplexy. \"Good\nheavens!\"--and the archdeacon looked up to the gray pinnacles of the\ncathedral tower, making a mute appeal to that still living witness\nwhich had looked down on the doings of so many bishops of Barchester.\n\n\"I don't think I shall ever like that Mr. Slope,\" said Mr. Harding.\n\n\"Like him!\" roared the archdeacon, standing still for a moment to\ngive more force to his voice; \"like him!\" All the ravens of the\nclose cawed their assent. The old bells of the tower, in chiming the\nhour, echoed the words, and the swallows flying out from their nests\nmutely expressed a similar opinion. Like Mr. Slope! Why no, it was\nnot very probable that any Barchester-bred living thing should like\nMr. Slope!\n\n\"Nor Mrs. Proudie either,\" said Mr. Harding.\n\nThe archdeacon hereupon forgot himself. I will not follow his\nexample, nor shock my readers by transcribing the term in which he\nexpressed his feeling as to the lady who had been named. The ravens\nand the last lingering notes of the clock bells were less scrupulous\nand repeated in correspondent echoes the very improper exclamation.\nThe archdeacon again raised his hat, and another salutary escape of\nsteam was effected.\n\nThere was a pause, during which the precentor tried to realize\nthe fact that the wife of a Bishop of Barchester had been thus\ndesignated, in the close of the cathedral, by the lips of its own\narchdeacon; but he could not do it.\n\n\"The bishop seems to be a quiet man enough,\" suggested Mr. Harding,\nhaving acknowledged to himself his own failure.\n\n\"Idiot!\" exclaimed the doctor, who for the nonce was not capable of\nmore than such spasmodic attempts at utterance.\n\n\"Well, he did not seem very bright,\" said Mr. Harding, \"and yet\nhe has always had the reputation of a clever man. I suppose he's\ncautious and not inclined to express himself very freely.\"\n\nThe new Bishop of Barchester was already so contemptible a creature\nin Dr. Grantly's eyes that he could not condescend to discuss his\ncharacter. He was a puppet to be played by others; a mere wax doll,\ndone up in an apron and a shovel hat, to be stuck on a throne or\nelsewhere, and pulled about by wires as others chose. Dr. Grantly did\nnot choose to let himself down low enough to talk about Dr. Proudie,\nbut he saw that he would have to talk about the other members of his\nhousehold, the coadjutor bishops, who had brought his lordship down,\nas it were, in a box, and were about to handle the wires as they\nwilled. This in itself was a terrible vexation to the archdeacon.\nCould he have ignored the chaplain and have fought the bishop, there\nwould have been, at any rate, nothing degrading in such a contest.\nLet the Queen make whom she would Bishop of Barchester; a man, or\neven an ape, when once a bishop, would be a respectable adversary,\nif he would but fight, himself. But what was such a person as Dr.\nGrantly to do when such another person as Mr. Slope was put forward\nas his antagonist?\n\nIf he, our archdeacon, refused the combat, Mr. Slope would walk\ntriumphant over the field, and have the diocese of Barchester under\nhis heel.\n\nIf, on the other hand, the archdeacon accepted as his enemy the man\nwhom the new puppet bishop put before him as such, he would have to\ntalk about Mr. Slope, and write about Mr. Slope, and in all matters\ntreat with Mr. Slope, as a being standing, in some degree, on ground\nsimilar to his own. He would have to meet Mr. Slope, to--Bah! the\nidea was sickening. He could not bring himself to have to do with\nMr. Slope.\n\n\"He is the most thoroughly bestial creature that ever I set my eyes\nupon,\" said the archdeacon.\n\n\"Who--the bishop?\" asked the other innocently.\n\n\"Bishop! no--I'm not talking about the bishop. How on earth such a\ncreature got ordained!--they'll ordain anybody now, I know, but he's\nbeen in the church these ten years, and they used to be a little\ncareful ten years ago.\"\n\n\"Oh! You mean Mr. Slope.\"\n\n\"Did you ever see any animal less like a gentleman?\" asked Dr.\nGrantly.\n\n\"I can't say I felt myself much disposed to like him.\"\n\n\"Like him!\" again shouted the doctor, and the assenting ravens again\ncawed an echo; \"of course, you don't like him: it's not a question of\nliking. But what are we to do with him?\"\n\n\"Do with him?\" asked Mr. Harding.\n\n\"Yes--what are we to do with him? How are we to treat him? There he\nis, and there he'll stay. He has put his foot in that palace, and\nhe'll never take it out again till he's driven. How are we to get\nrid of him?\"\n\n\"I don't suppose he can do us much harm.\"\n\n\"Not do harm!--Well, I think you'll find yourself of a different\nopinion before a month is gone. What would you say now, if he got\nhimself put into the hospital? Would that be harm?\"\n\nMr. Harding mused awhile and then said he didn't think the new bishop\nwould put Mr. Slope into the hospital.\n\n\"If he doesn't put him there, he'll put him somewhere else where\nhe'll be as bad. I tell you that that man, to all intents and\npurposes, will be Bishop of Barchester!\" And again Dr. Grantly\nraised his hat and rubbed his hand thoughtfully and sadly over his\nhead.\n\n\"Impudent scoundrel!\" he continued after a while. \"To dare to\ncross-examine me about the Sunday-schools in the diocese, and Sunday\ntravelling too: I never in my life met his equal for sheer impudence.\nWhy, he must have thought we were two candidates for ordination!\"\n\n\"I declare I thought Mrs. Proudie was the worst of the two,\" said Mr.\nHarding.\n\n\"When a woman is impertinent, one must only put up with it, and\nkeep out of her way in future, but I am not inclined to put up\nwith Mr. Slope. 'Sabbath travelling!'\" and the doctor attempted to\nimitate the peculiar drawl of the man he so much disliked: \"'Sabbath\ntravelling!' Those are the sort of men who will ruin the Church of\nEngland and make the profession of a clergyman disreputable. It is\nnot the dissenters or the papists that we should fear, but the set of\ncanting, low-bred hypocrites who are wriggling their way in among us;\nmen who have no fixed principle, no standard ideas of religion or\ndoctrine, but who take up some popular cry, as this fellow has done\nabout 'Sabbath travelling.'\"\n\nDr. Grantly did not again repeat the question aloud, but he did so\nconstantly to himself: What were they to do with Mr. Slope? How was\nhe openly, before the world, to show that he utterly disapproved of\nand abhorred such a man?\n\nHitherto Barchester had escaped the taint of any extreme rigour of\nchurch doctrine. The clergymen of the city and neighbourhood, though\nvery well inclined to promote High Church principles, privileges, and\nprerogatives, had never committed themselves to tendencies which are\nsomewhat too loosely called Puseyite practices. They all preached in\ntheir black gowns, as their fathers had done before them; they wore\nordinary black cloth waistcoats; they had no candles on their altars,\neither lighted or unlighted; they made no private genuflexions, and\nwere contented to confine themselves to such ceremonial observances\nas had been in vogue for the last hundred years. The services were\ndecently and demurely read in their parish churches, chanting was\nconfined to the cathedral, and the science of intoning was unknown.\nOne young man who had come direct from Oxford as a curate to\nPlumstead had, after the lapse of two or three Sundays, made a\nfaint attempt, much to the bewilderment of the poorer part of the\ncongregation. Dr. Grantly had not been present on the occasion, but\nMrs. Grantly, who had her own opinion on the subject, immediately\nafter the service expressed a hope that the young gentleman had not\nbeen taken ill, and offered to send him all kinds of condiments\nsupposed to be good for a sore throat. After that there had been no\nmore intoning at Plumstead Episcopi.\n\nBut now the archdeacon began to meditate on some strong measures of\nabsolute opposition. Dr. Proudie and his crew were of the lowest\npossible order of Church of England clergymen, and therefore it\nbehoved him, Dr. Grantly, to be of the very highest. Dr. Proudie\nwould abolish all forms and ceremonies, and therefore Dr. Grantly\nfelt the sudden necessity of multiplying them. Dr. Proudie would\nconsent to deprive the church of all collective authority and rule,\nand therefore Dr. Grantly would stand up for the full power of\nconvocation and the renewal of all its ancient privileges.\n\nIt was true that he could not himself intone the service, but he\ncould procure the co-operation of any number of gentlemanlike curates\nwell trained in the mystery of doing so. He would not willingly\nalter his own fashion of dress, but he could people Barchester\nwith young clergymen dressed in the longest frocks and in the\nhighest-breasted silk waistcoats. He certainly was not prepared to\ncross himself, or to advocate the real presence, but without going\nthis length there were various observances, by adopting which he could\nplainly show his antipathy to such men as Dr. Proudie and Mr. Slope.\n\nAll these things passed through his mind as he paced up and down the\nclose with Mr. Harding. War, war, internecine war was in his heart.\nHe felt that, as regarded himself and Mr. Slope, one of the two must\nbe annihilated as far as the city of Barchester was concerned, and he\ndid not intend to give way until there was not left to him an inch\nof ground on which he could stand. He still flattered himself that\nhe could make Barchester too hot to hold Mr. Slope, and he had no\nweakness of spirit to prevent his bringing about such a consummation\nif it were in his power.\n\n\"I suppose Susan must call at the palace,\" said Mr. Harding.\n\n\"Yes, she shall call there, but it shall be once and once only.\nI dare say 'the horses' won't find it convenient to come out to\nPlumstead very soon, and when that once is done the matter may drop.\"\n\n\"I don't suppose Eleanor need call. I don't think Eleanor would get\non at all well with Mrs. Proudie.\"\n\n\"Not the least necessity in life,\" replied the archdeacon, not\nwithout the reflexion that a ceremony which was necessary for his\nwife might not be at all binding on the widow of John Bold. \"Not the\nslightest reason on earth why she should do so, if she doesn't like\nit. For myself, I don't think that any decent young woman should be\nsubjected to the nuisance of being in the same room with that man.\"\n\nAnd so the two clergymen parted, Mr. Harding going to his daughter's\nhouse, and the archdeacon seeking the seclusion of his brougham.\n\nThe new inhabitants of the palace did not express any higher opinion\nof their visitors than their visitors had expressed of them. Though\nthey did not use quite such strong language as Dr. Grantly had done,\nthey felt as much personal aversion, and were quite as well aware as\nhe was that there would be a battle to be fought, and that there was\nhardly room for Proudieism in Barchester as long as Grantlyism was\npredominant.\n\nIndeed, it may be doubted whether Mr. Slope had not already within\nhis breast a better prepared system of strategy, a more accurately\ndefined line of hostile conduct than the archdeacon. Dr. Grantly was\ngoing to fight because he found that he hated the man. Mr. Slope\nhad predetermined to hate the man because he foresaw the necessity\nof fighting him. When he had first reviewed the _carte du pays_\nprevious to his entry into Barchester, the idea had occurred to him\nof conciliating the archdeacon, of cajoling and flattering him into\nsubmission, and of obtaining the upper hand by cunning instead of\ncourage. A little inquiry, however, sufficed to convince him that\nall his cunning would fail to win over such a man as Dr. Grantly to\nsuch a mode of action as that to be adopted by Mr. Slope, and then he\ndetermined to fall back upon his courage. He at once saw that open\nbattle against Dr. Grantly and all Dr. Grantly's adherents was a\nnecessity of his position, and he deliberately planned the most\nexpedient methods of giving offence.\n\nSoon after his arrival the bishop had intimated to the dean that,\nwith the permission of the canon then in residence, his chaplain\nwould preach in the cathedral on the next Sunday. The canon in\nresidence happened to be the Hon. and Rev. Dr. Vesey Stanhope, who\nat this time was very busy on the shores of the Lake of Como, adding\nto that unique collection of butterflies for which he is so famous.\nOr rather, he would have been in residence but for the butterflies\nand other such summer-day considerations; and the vicar-choral, who\nwas to take his place in the pulpit, by no means objected to having\nhis work done for him by Mr. Slope.\n\nMr. Slope accordingly preached, and if a preacher can have\nsatisfaction in being listened to, Mr. Slope ought to have been\ngratified. I have reason to think that he was gratified, and that he\nleft the pulpit with the conviction that he had done what he intended\nto do when he entered it.\n\nOn this occasion the new bishop took his seat for the first time\nin the throne alloted to him. New scarlet cushions and drapery had\nbeen prepared, with new gilt binding and new fringe. The old carved\noak-wood of the throne, ascending with its numerous grotesque\npinnacles half-way up to the roof of the choir, had been washed,\nand dusted, and rubbed, and it all looked very smart. Ah! how often\nsitting there, in happy early days, on those lowly benches in front\nof the altar, have I whiled away the tedium of a sermon in considering\nhow best I might thread my way up amidst those wooden towers and climb\nsafely to the topmost pinnacle!\n\nAll Barchester went to hear Mr. Slope; either for that or to gaze\nat the new bishop. All the best bonnets of the city were there, and\nmoreover all the best glossy clerical hats. Not a stall but had its\nfitting occupant, for though some of the prebendaries might be away\nin Italy or elsewhere, their places were filled by brethren who\nflocked into Barchester on the occasion. The dean was there, a heavy\nold man, now too old, indeed, to attend frequently in his place, and\nso was the archdeacon. So also were the chancellor, the treasurer,\nthe precentor, sundry canons and minor canons, and every lay member\nof the choir, prepared to sing the new bishop in with due melody and\nharmonious expression of sacred welcome.\n\nThe service was certainly very well performed. Such was always the\ncase at Barchester, as the musical education of the choir had been\ngood, and the voices had been carefully selected. The psalms were\nbeautifully chanted; the Te Deum was magnificently sung; and the\nlitany was given in a manner which is still to be found at Barchester,\nbut, if my taste be correct, is to be found nowhere else. The litany\nin Barchester cathedral has long been the special task to which\nMr. Harding's skill and voice have been devoted. Crowded audiences\ngenerally make good performers, and though Mr. Harding was not aware\nof any extraordinary exertion on his part, yet probably he rather\nexceeded his usual mark. Others were doing their best, and it was\nnatural that he should emulate his brethren. So the service went on,\nand at last Mr. Slope got into the pulpit.\n\nHe chose for his text a verse from the precepts addressed by St. Paul\nto Timothy, as to the conduct necessary in a spiritual pastor and\nguide, and it was immediately evident that the good clergy of\nBarchester were to have a lesson.\n\n\"Study to show thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth\nnot to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.\" These were\nthe words of his text, and with such a subject in such a place, it\nmay be supposed that such a preacher would be listened to by such\nan audience. He was listened to with breathless attention and not\nwithout considerable surprise. Whatever opinion of Mr. Slope might\nhave been held in Barchester before he commenced his discourse, none\nof his hearers, when it was over, could mistake him either for a fool\nor a coward.\n\nIt would not be becoming were I to travesty a sermon, or even to\nrepeat the language of it in the pages of a novel. In endeavouring\nto depict the characters of the persons of whom I write, I am to a\ncertain extent forced to speak of sacred things. I trust, however,\nthat I shall not be thought to scoff at the pulpit, though some may\nimagine that I do not feel all the reverence that is due to the\ncloth. I may question the infallibility of the teachers, but I hope\nthat I shall not therefore be accused of doubt as to the thing to be\ntaught.\n\nMr. Slope, in commencing his sermon, showed no slight tact in his\nambiguous manner of hinting that, humble as he was himself, he stood\nthere as the mouth-piece of the illustrious divine who sat opposite\nto him; and having premised so much, he gave forth a very accurate\ndefinition of the conduct which that prelate would rejoice to see\nin the clergymen now brought under his jurisdiction. It is only\nnecessary to say that the peculiar points insisted upon were exactly\nthose which were most distasteful to the clergy of the diocese,\nand most averse to their practice and opinions, and that all those\npeculiar habits and privileges which have always been dear to High\nChurch priests, to that party which is now scandalously called the\n\"high and dry church,\" were ridiculed, abused, and anathematized.\nNow, the clergymen of the diocese of Barchester are all of the high\nand dry church.\n\nHaving thus, according to his own opinion, explained how a clergyman\nshould show himself approved unto God, as a workman that needeth not\nto be ashamed, he went on to explain how the word of truth should\nbe divided; and here he took a rather narrow view of the question\nand fetched his arguments from afar. His object was to express his\nabomination of all ceremonious modes of utterance, to cry down any\nreligious feeling which might be excited, not by the sense, but by\nthe sound of words, and in fact to insult cathedral practices. Had\nSt. Paul spoken of rightly pronouncing, instead of rightly dividing\nthe word of truth, this part of his sermon would have been more to\nthe purpose, but the preacher's immediate object was to preach Mr.\nSlope's doctrine, and not St. Paul's, and he contrived to give the\nnecessary twist to the text with some skill.\n\nHe could not exactly say, preaching from a cathedral pulpit, that\nchanting should be abandoned in cathedral services. By such an\nassertion he would have overshot his mark and rendered himself\nabsurd, to the delight of his hearers. He could, however, and did,\nallude with heavy denunciations to the practice of intoning in parish\nchurches, although the practice was all but unknown in the diocese;\nand from thence he came round to the undue preponderance which, he\nasserted, music had over meaning in the beautiful service which they\nhad just heard. He was aware, he said, that the practices of our\nancestors could not be abandoned at a moment's notice; the feelings\nof the aged would be outraged, and the minds of respectable men would\nbe shocked. There were many, he was aware, of not sufficient calibre\nof thought to perceive, of not sufficient education to know, that a\nmode of service which was effective when outward ceremonies were of\nmore moment than inward feelings, had become all but barbarous at a\ntime when inward conviction was everything, when each word of the\nminister's lips should fall intelligibly into the listener's heart.\nFormerly the religion of the multitude had been an affair of the\nimagination: now, in these latter days, it had become necessary that\na Christian should have a reason for his faith--should not only\nbelieve, but digest--not only hear, but understand. The words of our\nmorning service, how beautiful, how apposite, how intelligible they\nwere, when read with simple and distinct decorum! But how much of\nthe meaning of the words was lost when they were produced with all\nthe meretricious charms of melody! &c. &c.\n\nHere was a sermon to be preached before Mr. Archdeacon Grantly,\nMr. Precentor Harding, and the rest of them! Before a whole dean\nand chapter assembled in their own cathedral! Before men who had\ngrown old in the exercise of their peculiar services, with a full\nconviction of their excellence for all intended purposes! This too\nfrom such a man, a clerical _parvenu_, a man without a cure, a mere\nchaplain, an intruder among them; a fellow raked up, so said Dr.\nGrantly, from the gutters of Marylebone! They had to sit through it!\nNone of them, not even Dr. Grantly, could close his ears, nor leave\nthe house of God during the hours of service. They were under an\nobligation of listening, and that too without any immediate power of\nreply.\n\nThere is, perhaps, no greater hardship at present inflicted on\nmankind in civilized and free countries than the necessity of\nlistening to sermons. No one but a preaching clergyman has, in these\nrealms, the power of compelling an audience to sit silent and be\ntormented. No one but a preaching clergyman can revel in platitudes,\ntruisms, and untruisms, and yet receive, as his undisputed privilege,\nthe same respectful demeanour as though words of impassioned\neloquence, or persuasive logic, fell from his lips. Let a professor\nof law or physics find his place in a lecture-room, and there pour\nforth jejune words and useless empty phrases, and he will pour them\nforth to empty benches. Let a barrister attempt to talk without\ntalking well, and he will talk but seldom. A judge's charge need\nbe listened to perforce by none but the jury, prisoner, and\ngaoler. A member of Parliament can be coughed down or counted out.\nTown-councillors can be tabooed. But no one can rid himself of the\npreaching clergyman. He is the bore of the age, the old man whom we\nSindbads cannot shake off, the nightmare that disturbs our Sunday's\nrest, the incubus that overloads our religion and makes God's service\ndistasteful. We are not forced into church! No: but we desire more\nthan that. We desire not to be forced to stay away. We desire, nay,\nwe are resolute, to enjoy the comfort of public worship, but we\ndesire also that we may do so without an amount of tedium which\nordinary human nature cannot endure with patience; that we may be\nable to leave the house of God without that anxious longing for\nescape which is the common consequence of common sermons.\n\nWith what complacency will a young parson deduce false conclusions\nfrom misunderstood texts, and then threaten us with all the penalties\nof Hades if we neglect to comply with the injunctions he has given\nus! Yes, my too self-confident juvenile friend, I do believe in\nthose mysteries which are so common in your mouth; I do believe in\nthe unadulterated word which you hold there in your hand; but you\nmust pardon me if, in some things, I doubt your interpretation. The\nBible is good, the prayer-book is good, nay, you yourself would be\nacceptable, if you would read to me some portion of those time-honoured\ndiscourses which our great divines have elaborated in the full maturity\nof their powers. But you must excuse me, my insufficient young\nlecturer, if I yawn over your imperfect sentences, your repeated\nphrases, your false pathos, your drawlings and denouncings, your\nhumming and hawing, your oh-ing and ah-ing, your black gloves and your\nwhite handkerchief. To me, it all means nothing; and hours are too\nprecious to be so wasted--if one could only avoid it.\n\nAnd here I must make a protest against the pretence, so often put\nforward by the working clergy, that they are overburdened by the\nmultitude of sermons to be preached. We are all too fond of our own\nvoices, and a preacher is encouraged in the vanity of making his\nheard by the privilege of a compelled audience. His sermon is the\npleasant morsel of his life, his delicious moment of self-exaltation.\n\"I have preached nine sermons this week,\" said a young friend to me\nthe other day, with hand languidly raised to his brow, the picture of\nan overburdened martyr. \"Nine this week, seven last week, four the\nweek before. I have preached twenty-three sermons this month. It is\nreally too much.\"\n\n\"Too much, indeed,\" said I, shuddering; \"too much for the strength of\nany one.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" he answered meekly, \"indeed it is; I am beginning to feel it\npainfully.\"\n\n\"Would,\" said I, \"you could feel it--would that you could be made to\nfeel it.\" But he never guessed that my heart was wrung for the poor\nlisteners.\n\nThere was, at any rate, no tedium felt in listening to Mr. Slope on\nthe occasion in question. His subject came too home to his audience\nto be dull, and, to tell the truth, Mr. Slope had the gift of using\nwords forcibly. He was heard through his thirty minutes of eloquence\nwith mute attention and open ears, but with angry eyes, which glared\nround from one enraged parson to another, with wide-spread nostrils\nfrom which already burst forth fumes of indignation, and with\nmany shufflings of the feet and uneasy motions of the body, which\nbetokened minds disturbed, and hearts not at peace with all the world.\n\nAt last the bishop, who, of all the congregation, had been most\nsurprised, and whose hair almost stood on end with terror, gave the\nblessing in a manner not at all equal to that in which he had long\nbeen practising it in his own study, and the congregation was free\nto go their way.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nThe Dean and Chapter Take Counsel\n\n\nAll Barchester was in a tumult. Dr. Grantly could hardly get himself\nout of the cathedral porch before he exploded in his wrath. The\nold dean betook himself silently to his deanery, afraid to speak,\nand there sat, half-stupefied, pondering many things in vain. Mr.\nHarding crept forth solitary and unhappy; and, slowly passing beneath\nthe elms of the close, could scarcely bring himself to believe\nthat the words which he had heard had proceeded from the pulpit of\nBarchester cathedral. Was he again to be disturbed? Was his whole\nlife to be shown up as a useless sham a second time? Would he have\nto abdicate his precentorship, as he had his wardenship, and to give\nup chanting, as he had given up his twelve old bedesmen? And what\nif he did! Some other Jupiter, some other Mr. Slope, would come\nand turn him out of St. Cuthbert's. Surely he could not have been\nwrong all his life in chanting the litany as he had done! He began,\nhowever, to have his doubts. Doubting himself was Mr. Harding's\nweakness. It is not, however, the usual fault of his order.\n\nYes! All Barchester was in a tumult. It was not only the clergy\nwho were affected. The laity also had listened to Mr. Slope's new\ndoctrine, all with surprise, some with indignation, and some with a\nmixed feeling, in which dislike of the preacher was not so strongly\nblended. The old bishop and his chaplains, the dean and his canons\nand minor canons, the old choir, and especially Mr. Harding who was\nat the head of it, had all been popular in Barchester. They had\nspent their money and done good; the poor had not been ground down;\nthe clergy in society had neither been overbearing nor austere;\nand the whole repute of the city was due to its ecclesiastical\nimportance. Yet there were those who had heard Mr. Slope with\nsatisfaction.\n\nIt is so pleasant to receive a fillip of excitement when suffering\nfrom the dull routine of everyday life! The anthems and Te Deums\nwere in themselves delightful, but they had been heard so often! Mr.\nSlope was certainly not delightful, but he was new, and, moreover,\nclever. They had long thought it slow, so said now many of the\nBarchesterians, to go on as they had done in their old humdrum way,\ngiving ear to none of the religious changes which were moving the\nworld without. People in advance of the age now had new ideas, and\nit was quite time that Barchester should go in advance. Mr. Slope\nmight be right. Sunday had certainly not been strictly kept in\nBarchester, except as regarded the cathedral services. Indeed the\ntwo hours between services had long been appropriated to morning\ncalls and hot luncheons. Then, Sunday-schools! Really more ought\nto have been done as to Sunday-schools--Sabbath-day schools Mr.\nSlope had called them. The late bishop had really not thought of\nSunday-schools as he should have done. (These people probably did not\nreflect that catechisms and collects are quite as hard work to the\nyoung mind as bookkeeping is to the elderly, and that quite as little\nfeeling of worship enters into the one task as the other.) And then,\nas regarded that great question of musical services, there might be\nmuch to be said on Mr. Slope's side of the question. It certainly\nwas the fact that people went to the cathedral to hear the music, &c.\n&c\n\nAnd so a party absolutely formed itself in Barchester on Mr. Slope's\nside of the question! This consisted, among the upper classes,\nchiefly of ladies. No man--that is, no gentleman--could possibly be\nattracted by Mr. Slope, or consent to sit at the feet of so abhorrent\na Gamaliel. Ladies are sometimes less nice in their appreciation of\nphysical disqualification; provided that a man speak to them well,\nthey will listen, though he speak from a mouth never so deformed\nand hideous. Wilkes was most fortunate as a lover, and the damp,\nsandy-haired, saucer-eyed, red-fisted Mr. Slope was powerful only\nover the female breast.\n\nThere were, however, one or two of the neighbouring clergy who\nthought it not quite safe to neglect the baskets in which for the\nnonce were stored the loaves and fishes of the diocese of Barchester.\nThey, and they only, came to call on Mr. Slope after his performance\nin the cathedral pulpit. Among these Mr. Quiverful, the rector of\nPuddingdale, whose wife still continued to present him from year to\nyear with fresh pledges of her love, and so to increase his cares\nand, it is to be hoped, his happiness equally. Who can wonder that\na gentleman with fourteen living children and a bare income of £400\na year should look after the loaves and fishes, even when they are\nunder the thumb of a Mr. Slope?\n\nVery soon after the Sunday on which the sermon was preached, the\nleading clergy of the neighbourhood held high debate together as\nto how Mr. Slope should be put down. In the first place, he should\nnever again preach from the pulpit of Barchester cathedral. This was\nDr. Grantly's earliest dictum, and they all agreed, providing only\nthat they had the power to exclude him. Dr. Grantly declared that\nthe power rested with the dean and chapter, observing that no\nclergyman out of the chapter had a claim to preach there, saving\nonly the bishop himself. To this the dean assented, but alleged that\ncontests on such a subject would be unseemly; to which rejoined a\nmeagre little doctor, one of the cathedral prebendaries, that the\ncontest must be all on the side of Mr. Slope if every prebendary\nwere always there ready to take his own place in the pulpit. Cunning\nlittle meagre doctor, whom it suits well to live in his own cosy\nhouse within Barchester close, and who is well content to have his\nlittle fling at Dr. Vesey Stanhope and other absentees, whose Italian\nvillas, or enticing London homes, are more tempting than cathedral\nstalls and residences!\n\nTo this answered the burly chancellor, a man rather silent indeed,\nbut very sensible, that absent prebendaries had their vicars, and\nthat in such case the vicar's right to the pulpit was the same as\nthat of the higher order. To which the dean assented, groaning\ndeeply at these truths. Thereupon, however, the meagre doctor\nremarked that they would be in the hands of their minor canons, one\nof whom might at any hour betray his trust. Whereon was heard from\nthe burly chancellor an ejaculation sounding somewhat like \"Pooh,\npooh, pooh!\" but it might be that the worthy man was but blowing\nout the heavy breath from his windpipe. Why silence him at all?\nsuggested Mr. Harding. Let them not be ashamed to hear what any man\nmight have to preach to them, unless he preached false doctrine; in\nwhich case, let the bishop silence him. So spoke our friend; vainly;\nfor human ends must be attained by human means. But the dean saw a\nray of hope out of those purblind old eyes of his. Yes, let them\ntell the bishop how distasteful to them was this Mr. Slope: a new\nbishop just come to his seat could not wish to insult his clergy\nwhile the gloss was yet fresh on his first apron.\n\nThen up rose Dr. Grantly and, having thus collected the scattered\nwisdom of his associates, spoke forth with words of deep authority.\nWhen I say up rose the archdeacon, I speak of the inner man, which\nthen sprang up to more immediate action, for the doctor had bodily\nbeen standing all along with his back to the dean's empty fire-grate,\nand the tails of his frock coat supported over his two arms. His\nhands were in his breeches pockets.\n\n\"It is quite clear that this man must not be allowed to preach again\nin this cathedral. We all see that, except our dear friend here, the\nmilk of whose nature runs so softly that he would not have the heart\nto refuse the Pope the loan of his pulpit, if the Pope would come\nand ask it. We must not, however, allow the man to preach again here.\nIt is not because his opinion on church matters may be different\nfrom ours--with that one would not quarrel. It is because he has\npurposely insulted us. When he went up into that pulpit last Sunday,\nhis studied object was to give offence to men who had grown old in\nreverence of those things of which he dared to speak so slightingly.\nWhat! To come here a stranger, a young, unknown, and unfriended\nstranger, and tell us, in the name of the bishop his master, that we\nare ignorant of our duties, old-fashioned, and useless! I don't know\nwhether most to admire his courage or his impudence! And one thing\nI will tell you: that sermon originated solely with the man himself.\nThe bishop was no more a party to it than was the dean here. You\nall know how grieved I am to see a bishop in this diocese holding\nthe latitudinarian ideas by which Dr. Proudie has made himself\nconspicuous. You all know how greatly I should distrust the opinion\nof such a man. But in this matter I hold him to be blameless. I\nbelieve Dr. Proudie has lived too long among gentlemen to be guilty,\nor to instigate another to be guilty, of so gross an outrage. No!\nThat man uttered what was untrue when he hinted that he was speaking\nas the mouthpiece of the bishop. It suited his ambitious views at\nonce to throw down the gauntlet to us--at once to defy us here in the\nquiet of our own religious duties--here within the walls of our own\nloved cathedral--here where we have for so many years exercised our\nministry without schism and with good repute. Such an attack upon\nus, coming from such a quarter, is abominable.\"\n\n\"Abominable,\" groaned the dean. \"Abominable,\" muttered the meagre\ndoctor. \"Abominable,\" re-echoed the chancellor, uttering the sound\nfrom the bottom of his deep chest. \"I really think it was,\" said Mr.\nHarding.\n\n\"Most abominable and most unjustifiable,\" continued the archdeacon.\n\"But, Mr. Dean, thank God, that pulpit is still our own: your own,\nI should say. That pulpit belongs solely to the dean and chapter\nof Barchester Cathedral, and as yet Mr. Slope is no part of that\nchapter. You, Mr. Dean, have suggested that we should appeal to\nthe bishop to abstain from forcing this man on us; but what if the\nbishop allow himself to be ruled by his chaplain? In my opinion the\nmatter is in our own hands. Mr. Slope cannot preach there without\npermission asked and obtained, and let that permission be invariably\nrefused. Let all participation in the ministry of the cathedral\nservice be refused to him. Then, if the bishop choose to interfere,\nwe shall know what answer to make to the bishop. My friend here has\nsuggested that this man may again find his way into the pulpit by\nundertaking the duty of some of your minor canons, but I am sure that\nwe may fully trust to these gentlemen to support us, when it is known\nthat the dean objects to any such transfer.\"\n\n\"Of course you may,\" said the chancellor.\n\nThere was much more discussion among the learned conclave, all of\nwhich, of course, ended in obedience to the archdeacon's commands.\nThey had too long been accustomed to his rule to shake it off so\nsoon, and in this particular case they had none of them a wish to\nabet the man whom he was so anxious to put down.\n\nSuch a meeting as that we have just recorded is not held in such\na city as Barchester unknown and untold of. Not only was the fact\nof the meeting talked of in every respectable house, including\nthe palace, but the very speeches of the dean, the archdeacon, and\nchancellor were repeated; not without many additions and imaginary\ncircumstances, according to the tastes and opinions of the relaters.\n\nAll, however, agreed in saying that Mr. Slope was to be debarred from\nopening his mouth in the cathedral of Barchester; many believed that\nthe vergers were to be ordered to refuse him even the accommodation\nof a seat; and some of the most far-going advocates for strong\nmeasures declared that his sermon was looked upon as an indictable\noffence, and that proceedings were to be taken against him for\nbrawling.\n\nThe party who were inclined to defend him--the enthusiastically\nreligious young ladies and the middle-aged spinsters desirous of a\nmove--of course took up his defence the more warmly on account of\nthis attack. If they could not hear Mr. Slope in the cathedral, they\nwould hear him elsewhere; they would leave the dull dean, the dull\nold prebendaries, and the scarcely less dull young minor canons to\npreach to each other; they would work slippers and cushions and\nhem bands for Mr. Slope, make him a happy martyr, and stick him up\nin some new Sion or Bethesda, and put the cathedral quite out of\nfashion.\n\nDr. and Mrs. Proudie at once returned to London. They thought it\nexpedient not to have to encounter any personal application from the\ndean and chapter respecting the sermon till the violence of the storm\nhad expended itself; but they left Mr. Slope behind them nothing\ndaunted, and he went about his work zealously, flattering such as\nwould listen to his flattery, whispering religious twaddle into the\nears of foolish women, ingratiating himself with the few clergy who\nwould receive him, visiting the houses of the poor, inquiring into\nall people, prying into everything, and searching with his minutest\neye into all palatial dilapidations. He did not, however, make any\nimmediate attempt to preach again in the cathedral.\n\nAnd so all Barchester was by the ears.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nThe Ex-warden Rejoices in His Probable Return to the Hospital\n\n\nAmong the ladies in Barchester who have hitherto acknowledged Mr.\nSlope as their spiritual director must not be reckoned either the\nWidow Bold or her sister-in-law. On the first outbreak of the wrath\nof the denizens of the close, none had been more animated against\nthe intruder than these two ladies. And this was natural. Who could\nbe so proud of the musical distinction of their own cathedral as\nthe favourite daughter of the precentor? Who would be so likely to\nresent an insult offered to the old choir? And in such matters Miss\nBold and her sister-in-law had but one opinion.\n\nThis wrath, however, has in some degree been mitigated, and I regret\nto say that these ladies allowed Mr. Slope to be his own apologist.\nAbout a fortnight after the sermon had been preached, they were both\nof them not a little surprised by hearing Mr. Slope announced, as the\npage in buttons opened Mrs. Bold's drawing-room door. Indeed, what\nliving man could, by a mere morning visit, have surprised them more?\nHere was the great enemy of all that was good in Barchester coming\ninto their own drawing-room, and they had no strong arm, no ready\ntongue, near at hand for their protection. The widow snatched her\nbaby out of its cradle into her lap, and Mary Bold stood up ready to\ndie manfully in that baby's behalf, should, under any circumstances,\nsuch a sacrifice become necessary.\n\nIn this manner was Mr. Slope received. But when he left, he was\nallowed by each lady to take her hand and to make his adieux as\ngentlemen do who have been graciously entertained! Yes, he shook\nhands with them, and was curtseyed out courteously, the buttoned page\nopening the door as he would have done for the best canon of them\nall. He had touched the baby's little hand and blessed him with a\nfervid blessing; he had spoken to the widow of her early sorrows, and\nEleanor's silent tears had not rebuked him; he had told Mary Bold\nthat her devotion would be rewarded, and Mary Bold had heard the\npraise without disgust. And how had he done all this? How had he so\nquickly turned aversion into, at any rate, acquaintance? How had\nhe over-come the enmity with which these ladies had been ready to\nreceive him, and made his peace with them so easily?\n\nMy readers will guess from what I have written that I myself do not\nlike Mr. Slope, but I am constrained to admit that he is a man of\nparts. He knows how to say a soft word in the proper place; he knows\nhow to adapt his flattery to the ears of his hearers; he knows the\nwiles of the serpent, and he uses them. Could Mr. Slope have adapted\nhis manners to men as well as to women, could he ever have learnt the\nways of a gentleman, he might have risen to great things.\n\nHe commenced his acquaintance with Eleanor by praising her father.\nHe had, he said, become aware that he had unfortunately offended the\nfeelings of a man of whom he could not speak too highly; he would\nnot now allude to a subject which was probably too serious for\ndrawing-room conversation, but he would say that it had been very far\nfrom him to utter a word in disparagement of a man of whom all the\nworld, at least the clerical world, spoke so highly as it did of Mr.\nHarding. And so he went on, unsaying a great deal of his sermon,\nexpressing his highest admiration for the precentor's musical talents,\neulogizing the father and the daughter and the sister-in-law, speaking\nin that low silky whisper which he always had specially prepared for\nfeminine ears, and, ultimately, gaining his object. When he left, he\nexpressed a hope that he might again be allowed to call; and though\nEleanor gave no verbal assent to this, she did not express dissent:\nand so Mr. Slope's right to visit at the widow's house was established.\n\nThe day after this visit Eleanor told her father of it and expressed\nan opinion that Mr. Slope was not quite so black as he had been\npainted. Mr. Harding opened his eyes rather wider than usual when he\nheard what had occurred, but he said little; he could not agree in\nany praise of Mr. Slope, and it was not his practice to say much evil\nof anyone. He did not, however, like the visit, and simple-minded as\nhe was, he felt sure that Mr. Slope had some deeper motive than the\nmere pleasure of making soft speeches to two ladies.\n\nMr. Harding, however, had come to see his daughter with other purpose\nthan that of speaking either good or evil of Mr. Slope. He had come\nto tell her that the place of warden in Hiram's Hospital was again to\nbe filled up, and that in all probability he would once more return to\nhis old home and his twelve bedesmen.\n\n\"But,\" said he, laughing, \"I shall be greatly shorn of my ancient\nglory.\"\n\n\"Why so, Papa?\"\n\n\"This new act of Parliament that is to put us all on our feet again,\"\ncontinued he, \"settles my income at four hundred and fifty pounds per\nannum.\"\n\n\"Four hundred and fifty,\" said she, \"instead of eight hundred! Well,\nthat is rather shabby. But still, Papa, you'll have the dear old\nhouse and the garden?\"\n\n\"My dear,\" said he, \"it's worth twice the money;\" and as he spoke he\nshowed a jaunty kind of satisfaction in his tone and manner and in\nthe quick, pleasant way in which he paced Eleanor's drawing-room.\n\"It's worth twice the money. I shall have the house and the garden\nand a larger income than I can possibly want.\"\n\n\"At any rate, you'll have no extravagant daughter to provide for;\"\nand as she spoke, the young widow put her arm within his, and made\nhim sit on the sofa beside her; \"at any rate, you'll not have that\nexpense.\"\n\n\"No, my dear, and I shall be rather lonely without her; but we won't\nthink of that now. As regards income, I shall have plenty for all I\nwant. I shall have my old house, and I don't mind owning now that I\nhave felt sometimes the inconvenience of living in a lodging. Lodgings\nare very nice for young men, but at my time of life there is a want\nof--I hardly know what to call it, perhaps not respectability--\"\n\n\"Oh, Papa! I'm sure there's been nothing like that. Nobody has\nthought it; nobody in all Barchester has been more respected than\nyou have been since you took those rooms in High Street. Nobody! Not\nthe dean in his deanery, or the archdeacon out at Plumstead.\"\n\n\"The archdeacon would not be much obliged to you if he heard you,\"\nsaid he, smiling somewhat at the exclusive manner in which his\ndaughter confined her illustration to the church dignitaries of\nthe chapter of Barchester; \"but at any rate I shall be glad to get\nback to the old house. Since I heard that it was all settled, I\nhave begun to fancy that I can't be comfortable without my two\nsitting-rooms.\"\n\n\"Come and stay with me, Papa, till it is settled--there's a dear\nPapa.\"\n\n\"Thank ye, Nelly. But no, I won't do that. It would make two\nmovings. I shall be very glad to get back to my old men again.\nAlas! alas! There have six of them gone in these few last years.\nSix out of twelve! And the others I fear have had but a sorry life\nof it there. Poor Bunce, poor old Bunce!\"\n\nBunce was one of the surviving recipients of Hiram's charity, an old\nman, now over ninety, who had long been a favourite of Mr. Harding's.\n\n\"How happy old Bunce will be,\" said Mrs. Bold, clapping her soft\nhands softly. \"How happy they all will be to have you back again.\nYou may be sure there will soon be friendship among them again when\nyou are there.\"\n\n\"But,\" said he, half-laughing, \"I am to have new troubles, which will\nbe terrible to me. There are to be twelve old women, and a matron.\nHow shall I manage twelve women and a matron!\"\n\n\"The matron will manage the women, of course.\"\n\n\"And who'll manage the matron?\" said he.\n\n\"She won't want to be managed. She'll be a great lady herself, I\nsuppose. But, Papa, where will the matron live? She is not to live\nin the warden's house with you, is she?\"\n\n\"Well, I hope not, my dear.\"\n\n\"Oh, Papa, I tell you fairly, I won't have a matron for a new\nstepmother.\"\n\n\"You shan't, my dear; that is, if I can help it. But they are going\nto build another house for the matron and the women, and I believe\nthey haven't even fixed yet on the site of the building.\"\n\n\"And have they appointed the matron?\" said Eleanor.\n\n\"They haven't appointed the warden yet,\" replied he.\n\n\"But there's no doubt about that, I suppose,\" said his daughter.\n\nMr. Harding explained that he thought there was no doubt; that the\narchdeacon had declared as much, saying that the bishop and his\nchaplain between them had not the power to appoint anyone else, even\nif they had the will to do so, and sufficient impudence to carry out\nsuch a will. The archdeacon was of opinion that, though Mr. Harding\nhad resigned his wardenship, and had done so unconditionally, he had\ndone so under circumstances which left the bishop no choice as to his\nreappointment, now that the affair of the hospital had been settled\non a new basis by act of Parliament. Such was the archdeacon's\nopinion, and his father-in-law received it without a shadow of doubt.\n\nDr. Grantly had always been strongly opposed to Mr. Harding's\nresignation of the place. He had done all in his power to dissuade\nhim from it. He had considered that Mr. Harding was bound to\nwithstand the popular clamour with which he was attacked for\nreceiving so large an income as eight hundred a year from such a\ncharity, and was not even yet satisfied that his father-in-law's\nconduct had not been pusillanimous and undignified. He looked also\non this reduction of the warden's income as a shabby, paltry scheme\non the part of government for escaping from a difficulty into which\nit had been brought by the public press. Dr. Grantly observed that\nthe government had no more right to dispose of a sum of four hundred\nand fifty pounds a year out of the income of Hiram's legacy than of\nnine hundred; whereas, as he said, the bishop, dean, and chapter\nclearly had a right to settle what sum should be paid. He also\ndeclared that the government had no more right to saddle the\ncharity with twelve old women than with twelve hundred; and he was,\ntherefore, very indignant on the matter. He probably forgot when so\ntalking that government had done nothing of the kind, and had never\nassumed any such might or any such right. He made the common mistake\nof attributing to the government, which in such matters is powerless,\nthe doings of Parliament, which in such matters is omnipotent.\n\nBut though he felt that the glory and honour of the situation of\nwarden of Barchester Hospital were indeed curtailed by the new\narrangement; that the whole establishment had to a certain degree\nbeen made vile by the touch of Whig commissioners; that the place,\nwith its lessened income, its old women, and other innovations, was\nvery different from the hospital of former days; still the archdeacon\nwas too practical a man of the world to wish that his father-in-law,\nwho had at present little more than £200 per annum for all his\nwants, should refuse the situation, defiled, undignified, and\ncommission-ridden as it was.\n\nMr. Harding had, accordingly, made up his mind that he would return\nto his old home at the hospital, and, to tell the truth, had\nexperienced almost a childish pleasure in the idea of doing so. The\ndiminished income was to him not even the source of momentary regret.\nThe matron and the old women did rather go against the grain, but he\nwas able to console himself with the reflection that, after all, such\nan arrangement might be of real service to the poor of the city. The\nthought that he must receive his reappointment as the gift of the\nnew bishop, and probably through the hands of Mr. Slope, annoyed\nhim a little, but his mind was set at rest by the assurance of the\narchdeacon that there would be no favour in such a presentation. The\nreappointment of the old warden would be regarded by all the world\nas a matter of course. Mr. Harding, therefore, felt no hesitation in\ntelling his daughter that they might look upon his return to his old\nquarters as a settled matter.\n\n\"And you won't have to ask for it, Papa?\"\n\n\"Certainly not, my dear. There is no ground on which I could ask for\nany favour from the bishop, whom, indeed, I hardly know. Nor would I\nask a favour, the granting of which might possibly be made a question\nto be settled by Mr. Slope. No,\" said he, moved for a moment by\na spirit very unlike his own, \"I certainly shall be very glad to\ngo back to the hospital; but I should never go there if it were\nnecessary that my doing so should be the subject of a request to Mr.\nSlope.\"\n\nThis little outbreak of her father's anger jarred on the present tone\nof Eleanor's mind. She had not learnt to like Mr. Slope, but she had\nlearnt to think that he had much respect for her father; and she\nwould, therefore, willingly use her efforts to induce something like\ngood feeling between them.\n\n\"Papa,\" said she, \"I think you somewhat mistake Mr. Slope's\ncharacter.\"\n\n\"Do I?\" said he placidly.\n\n\"I think you do, Papa. I think he intended no personal disrespect to\nyou when he preached the sermon which made the archdeacon and the\ndean so angry!\"\n\n\"I never supposed he did, my dear. I hope I never inquired within\nmyself whether he did or no. Such a matter would be unworthy of any\ninquiry, and very unworthy of the consideration of the chapter. But I\nfear he intended disrespect to the ministration of God's services, as\nconducted in conformity with the rules of the Church of England.\"\n\n\"But might it not be that he thought it his duty to express his\ndissent from that which you, and the dean, and all of us here so much\napprove?\"\n\n\"It can hardly be the duty of a young man rudely to assail the\nreligious convictions of his elders in the church. Courtesy should\nhave kept him silent, even if neither charity nor modesty could do\nso.\"\n\n\"But Mr. Slope would say that on such a subject the commands of his\nheavenly Master do not admit of his being silent.\"\n\n\"Nor of his being courteous, Eleanor?\"\n\n\"He did not say that, Papa.\"\n\n\"Believe me, my child, that Christian ministers are never called on\nby God's word to insult the convictions, or even the prejudices of\ntheir brethren, and that religion is at any rate not less susceptible\nof urbane and courteous conduct among men than any other study which\nmen may take up. I am sorry to say that I cannot defend Mr. Slope's\nsermon in the cathedral. But come, my dear, put on your bonnet and\nlet us walk round the dear old gardens at the hospital. I have never\nyet had the heart to go beyond the courtyard since we left the place.\nNow I think I can venture to enter.\"\n\nEleanor rang the bell and gave a variety of imperative charges as to\nthe welfare of the precious baby, whom, all but unwillingly, she was\nabout to leave for an hour or so, and then sauntered forth with her\nfather to revisit the old hospital. It had been forbidden ground to\nher as well as to him since the day on which they had walked forth\ntogether from its walls.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nThe Stanhope Family\n\n\nIt is now three months since Dr. Proudie began his reign, and changes\nhave already been effected in the diocese which show at least the\nenergy of an active mind. Among other things absentee clergymen have\nbeen favoured with hints much too strong to be overlooked. Poor dear\nold Bishop Grantly had on this matter been too lenient, and the\narchdeacon had never been inclined to be severe with those who were\nabsent on reputable pretences, and who provided for their duties in a\nliberal way.\n\nAmong the greatest of the diocesan sinners in this respect was Dr.\nVesey Stanhope. Years had now passed since he had done a day's duty,\nand yet there was no reason against his doing duty except a want\nof inclination on his own part. He held a prebendal stall in the\ndiocese, one of the best residences in the close, and the two large\nrectories of Crabtree Canonicorum and Stogpingum. Indeed, he had\nthe cure of three parishes, for that of Eiderdown was joined to\nStogpingum. He had resided in Italy for twelve years. His first\ngoing there had been attributed to a sore throat, and that sore\nthroat, though never repeated in any violent manner, had stood him\nin such stead that it had enabled him to live in easy idleness ever\nsince.\n\nHe had now been summoned home--not, indeed, with rough violence, or\nby any peremptory command, but by a mandate which he found himself\nunable to disregard. Mr. Slope had written to him by the bishop's\ndesire. In the first place, the bishop much wanted the valuable\nco-operation of Dr. Vesey Stanhope in the diocese; in the next, the\nbishop thought it his imperative duty to become personally acquainted\nwith the most conspicuous of his diocesan clergy; then the bishop\nthought it essentially necessary for Dr. Stanhope's own interests\nthat Dr. Stanhope should, at any rate for a time, return to\nBarchester; and lastly, it was said that so strong a feeling was\nat the present moment evinced by the hierarchs of the church with\nreference to the absence of its clerical members, that it behoved Dr.\nVesey Stanhope not to allow his name to stand among those which would\nprobably in a few months be submitted to the councils of the nation.\n\nThere was something so ambiguously frightful in this last threat\nthat Dr. Stanhope determined to spend two or three summer months at\nhis residence in Barchester. His rectories were inhabited by his\ncurates, and he felt himself from disuse to be unfit for parochial\nduty; but his prebendal home was kept empty for him, and he thought\nit probable that he might be able now and again to preach a prebendal\nsermon. He arrived, therefore, with all his family at Barchester,\nand he and they must be introduced to my readers.\n\nThe great family characteristic of the Stanhopes might probably be\nsaid to be heartlessness, but this want of feeling was, in most of\nthem, accompanied by so great an amount of good nature as to make\nitself but little noticeable to the world. They were so prone to\noblige their neighbours that their neighbours failed to perceive how\nindifferent to them was the happiness and well-being of those around\nthem. The Stanhopes would visit you in your sickness (provided it\nwere not contagious), would bring you oranges, French novels, and the\nlast new bit of scandal, and then hear of your death or your recovery\nwith an equally indifferent composure. Their conduct to each other\nwas the same as to the world; they bore and forbore; and there was\nsometimes, as will be seen, much necessity for forbearing; but their\nlove among themselves rarely reached above this. It is astonishing\nhow much each of the family was able to do, and how much each did, to\nprevent the well-being of the other four.\n\nFor there were five in all; the doctor, namely, and Mrs. Stanhope,\ntwo daughters, and one son. The doctor, perhaps, was the least\nsingular and most estimable of them all, and yet such good qualities\nas he possessed were all negative. He was a good-looking rather\nplethoric gentleman of about sixty years of age. His hair was\nsnow-white, very plentiful, and somewhat like wool of the finest\ndescription. His whiskers were very large and very white, and gave to\nhis face the appearance of a benevolent, sleepy old lion. His dress\nwas always unexceptionable. Although he had lived so many years in\nItaly it was invariably of a decent clerical hue, but it never was\nhyperclerical. He was a man not given to much talking, but what\nlittle he did say was generally well said. His reading seldom went\nbeyond romances and poetry of the lightest and not always most moral\ndescription. He was thoroughly a _bon vivant_; an accomplished judge\nof wine, though he never drank to excess; and a most inexorable\ncritic in all affairs touching the kitchen. He had had much to\nforgive in his own family, since a family had grown up around him,\nand had forgiven everything--except inattention to his dinner. His\nweakness in that respect was now fully understood, and his temper but\nseldom tried. As Dr. Stanhope was a clergyman, it may be supposed\nthat his religious convictions made up a considerable part of his\ncharacter, but this was not so. That he had religious convictions\nmust be believed, but he rarely obtruded them, even on his\nchildren. This abstinence on his part was not systematic, but very\ncharacteristic of the man. It was not that he had predetermined\nnever to influence their thoughts, but he was so habitually idle that\nhis time for doing so had never come till the opportunity for doing\nso was gone forever. Whatever conviction the father may have had,\nthe children were at any rate but indifferent members of the church\nfrom which he drew his income.\n\nSuch was Dr. Stanhope. The features of Mrs. Stanhope's character\nwere even less plainly marked than those of her lord. The _far\nniente_ of her Italian life had entered into her very soul, and\nbrought her to regard a state of inactivity as the only earthly good.\nIn manner and appearance she was exceedingly prepossessing. She had\nbeen a beauty, and even now, at fifty-five, she was a handsome woman.\nHer dress was always perfect: she never dressed but once in the day,\nand never appeared till between three and four; but when she did\nappear, she appeared at her best. Whether the toil rested partly\nwith her, or wholly with her handmaid, it is not for such a one as\nthe author even to imagine. The structure of her attire was always\nelaborate and yet never over-laboured. She was rich in apparel but\nnot bedizened with finery; her ornaments were costly, rare, and such\nas could not fail to attract notice, but they did not look as though\nworn with that purpose. She well knew the great architectural secret\nof decorating her constructions, and never descended to construct\na decoration. But when we have said that Mrs. Stanhope knew how to\ndress and used her knowledge daily, we have said all. Other purpose\nin life she had none. It was something, indeed, that she did not\ninterfere with the purposes of others. In early life she had\nundergone great trials with reference to the doctor's dinners, but\nfor the last ten or twelve years her elder daughter Charlotte had\ntaken that labour off her hands, and she had had little to trouble\nher--little, that is, till the edict for this terrible English\njourney had gone forth: since then, indeed, her life had been\nlaborious enough. For such a one, the toil of being carried from the\nshores of Como to the city of Barchester is more than labour enough,\nlet the care of the carriers be ever so vigilant. Mrs. Stanhope had\nbeen obliged to have every one of her dresses taken in from the\neffects of the journey.\n\nCharlotte Stanhope was at this time about thirty-five years old, and\nwhatever may have been her faults, she had none of those which belong\nparticularly to old young ladies. She neither dressed young, nor\ntalked young, nor indeed looked young. She appeared to be perfectly\ncontent with her time of life, and in no way affected the graces of\nyouth. She was a fine young woman, and had she been a man, would\nhave been a very fine young man. All that was done in the house, and\nthat was not done by servants, was done by her. She gave the orders,\npaid the bills, hired and dismissed the domestics, made the tea,\ncarved the meat, and managed everything in the Stanhope household.\nShe, and she alone, could ever induce her father to look into the\nstate of his worldly concerns. She, and she alone, could in any\ndegree control the absurdities of her sister. She, and she alone,\nprevented the whole family from falling into utter disrepute and\nbeggary. It was by her advice that they now found themselves very\nunpleasantly situated in Barchester.\n\nSo far, the character of Charlotte Stanhope is not unprepossessing.\nBut it remains to be said that the influence which she had in her\nfamily, though it had been used to a certain extent for their worldly\nwell-being, had not been used to their real benefit, as it might\nhave been. She had aided her father in his indifference to his\nprofessional duties, counselling him that his livings were as much\nhis individual property as the estates of his elder brother were the\nproperty of that worthy peer. She had for years past stifled every\nlittle rising wish for a return to England which the doctor had\nfrom time to time expressed. She had encouraged her mother in her\nidleness, in order that she herself might be mistress and manager of\nthe Stanhope household. She had encouraged and fostered the follies\nof her sister, though she was always willing, and often able, to\nprotect her from their probable result. She had done her best, and\nhad thoroughly succeeded in spoiling her brother, and turning him\nloose upon the world an idle man without a profession and without a\nshilling that he could call his own.\n\nMiss Stanhope was a clever woman, able to talk on most subjects, and\nquite indifferent as to what the subject was. She prided herself on\nher freedom from English prejudice, and, she might have added, from\nfeminine delicacy. On religion she was a pure free-thinker, and with\nmuch want of true affection, delighted to throw out her own views\nbefore the troubled mind of her father. To have shaken what remained\nof his Church of England faith would have gratified her much, but the\nidea of his abandoning his preferment in the church had never once\npresented itself to her mind. How could he indeed, when he had no\nincome from any other source?\n\nBut the two most prominent members of the family still remain to be\ndescribed. The second child had been christened Madeline and had\nbeen a great beauty. We need not say had been, for she was never\nmore beautiful than at the time of which we write, though her person\nfor many years had been disfigured by an accident. It is unnecessary\nthat we should give in detail the early history of Madeline Stanhope.\nShe had gone to Italy when about seventeen years of age, and had been\nallowed to make the most of her surpassing beauty in the salons of\nMilan and among the crowded villas along the shores of the Lake of\nComo. She had become famous for adventures in which her character\nwas just not lost, and had destroyed the hearts of a dozen cavaliers\nwithout once being touched in her own. Blood had flowed in quarrels\nabout her charms, and she had heard of these encounters with\npleasurable excitement. It had been told of her that on one occasion\nshe had stood by in the disguise of a page and had seen her lover\nfall.\n\nAs is so often the case, she had married the very worst of those who\nsought her hand. Why she had chosen Paulo Neroni, a man of no birth\nand no property, a mere captain in the Pope's guard, one who had come\nup to Milan either simply as an adventurer or else as a spy, a man of\nharsh temper and oily manners, mean in figure, swarthy in face, and\nso false in words as to be hourly detected, need not now be told.\nWhen the moment for doing so came, she had probably no alternative.\nHe, at any rate, had become her husband, and after a prolonged\nhoneymoon among the lakes, they had gone together to Rome, the papal\ncaptain having vainly endeavoured to induce his wife to remain behind\nhim.\n\nSix months afterwards she arrived at her father's house a cripple,\nand a mother. She had arrived without even notice, with hardly\nclothes to cover her, and without one of those many ornaments which\nhad graced her bridal trousseau. Her baby was in the arms of a poor\ngirl from Milan, whom she had taken in exchange for the Roman maid\nwho had accompanied her thus far, and who had then, as her mistress\nsaid, become homesick and had returned. It was clear that the lady\nhad determined that there should be no witness to tell stories of her\nlife in Rome.\n\nShe had fallen, she said, in ascending a ruin, and had fatally\ninjured the sinews of her knee; so fatally that when she stood, she\nlost eight inches of her accustomed height; so fatally that when she\nessayed to move, she could only drag herself painfully along, with\nprotruded hip and extended foot, in a manner less graceful than\nthat of a hunchback. She had consequently made up her mind, once\nand forever, that she would never stand and never attempt to move\nherself.\n\nStories were not slow to follow her, averring that she had been\ncruelly ill-used by Neroni, and that to his violence had she owed her\naccident. Be that as it may, little had been said about her husband,\nbut that little had made it clearly intelligible to the family that\nSignor Neroni was to be seen and heard of no more. There was no\nquestion as to readmitting the poor, ill-used beauty to her old\nfamily rights, no question as to adopting her infant daughter beneath\nthe Stanhope roof-tree. Though heartless, the Stanhopes were not\nselfish. The two were taken in, petted, made much of, for a time all\nbut adored, and then felt by the two parents to be great nuisances\nin the house. But in the house the lady was, and there she remained,\nhaving her own way, though that way was not very conformable with the\ncustomary usages of an English clergyman.\n\nMadame Neroni, though forced to give up all motion in the world,\nhad no intention whatever of giving up the world itself. The beauty\nof her face was uninjured, and that beauty was of a peculiar kind.\nHer copious rich brown hair was worn in Grecian bandeaux round her\nhead, displaying as much as possible of her forehead and cheeks. Her\nforehead, though rather low, was very beautiful from its perfect\ncontour and pearly whiteness. Her eyes were long and large, and\nmarvellously bright; might I venture to say bright as Lucifer's, I\nshould perhaps best express the depth of their brilliancy. They were\ndreadful eyes to look at, such as would absolutely deter any man of\nquiet mind and easy spirit from attempting a passage of arms with\nsuch foes. There was talent in them, and the fire of passion and the\nplay of wit, but there was no love. Cruelty was there instead, and\ncourage, a desire of masterhood, cunning, and a wish for mischief.\nAnd yet, as eyes, they were very beautiful. The eyelashes were\nlong and perfect, and the long, steady, unabashed gaze with which\nshe would look into the face of her admirer fascinated while it\nfrightened him. She was a basilisk from whom an ardent lover of\nbeauty could make no escape. Her nose and mouth and teeth and chin\nand neck and bust were perfect, much more so at twenty-eight than\nthey had been at eighteen. What wonder that with such charms still\nglowing in her face, and with such deformity destroying her figure,\nshe should resolve to be seen, but only to be seen reclining on a\nsofa.\n\nHer resolve had not been carried out without difficulty. She had\nstill frequented the opera at Milan; she had still been seen\noccasionally in the salons of the noblesse; she had caused herself to\nbe carried in and out from her carriage, and that in such a manner\nas in no wise to disturb her charms, disarrange her dress, or expose\nher deformities. Her sister always accompanied her and a maid, a\nmanservant also, and on state occasions, two. It was impossible that\nher purpose could have been achieved with less; and yet, poor as she\nwas, she had achieved her purpose. And then again the more dissolute\nItalian youths of Milan frequented the Stanhope villa and surrounded\nher couch, not greatly to her father's satisfaction. Sometimes his\nspirit would rise, a dark spot would show itself on his cheek, and\nhe would rebel, but Charlotte would assuage him with some peculiar\ntriumph of her culinary art and all again would be smooth for awhile.\n\nMadeline affected all manner of rich and quaint devices in the\ngarniture of her room, her person, and her feminine belongings. In\nnothing was this more apparent than in the visiting card which she\nhad prepared for her use. For such an article one would say that\nshe, in her present state, could have but small need, seeing how\nimprobable it was that she should make a morning call: but not such\nwas her own opinion. Her card was surrounded by a deep border of\ngilding; on this she had imprinted, in three lines\n\n\n   La Signora Madeline\n   Vesey Neroni.\n   --Nata Stanhope.\n\n\nAnd over the name she had a bright gilt coronet, which certainly\nlooked very magnificent. How she had come to concoct such a name\nfor herself it would be difficult to explain. Her father had been\nchristened Vesey as another man is christened Thomas, and she had no\nmore right to assume it than would have the daughter of a Mr. Josiah\nJones to call herself Mrs. Josiah Smith, on marrying a man of the\nlatter name. The gold coronet was equally out of place, and perhaps\ninserted with even less excuse. Paulo Neroni had had not the\nfaintest title to call himself a scion of even Italian nobility. Had\nthe pair met in England Neroni would probably have been a count, but\nthey had met in Italy, and any such pretence on his part would have\nbeen simply ridiculous. A coronet, however, was a pretty ornament,\nand if it could solace a poor cripple to have such on her card, who\nwould begrudge it to her?\n\nOf her husband, or of his individual family, she never spoke, but\nwith her admirers she would often allude in a mysterious way to her\nmarried life and isolated state, and, pointing to her daughter,\nwould call her the last of the blood of the emperors, thus referring\nNeroni's extraction to the old Roman family from which the worst of\nthe Caesars sprang.\n\nThe \"signora\" was not without talent and not without a certain sort\nof industry; she was an indomitable letter-writer, and her letters\nwere worth the postage: they were full of wit, mischief, satire,\nlove, latitudinarian philosophy, free religion, and, sometimes,\nalas, loose ribaldry. The subject, however, depended entirely on the\nrecipient, and she was prepared to correspond with anyone but moral\nyoung ladies or stiff old women. She wrote also a kind of poetry,\ngenerally in Italian, and short romances, generally in French. She\nread much of a desultory sort of literature, and as a modern linguist\nhad really made great proficiency. Such was the lady who had now\ncome to wound the hearts of the men of Barchester.\n\nEthelbert Stanhope was in some respects like his younger sister,\nbut he was less inestimable as a man than she as a woman. His great\nfault was an entire absence of that principle which should have\ninduced him, as the son of a man without fortune, to earn his own\nbread. Many attempts had been made to get him to do so, but these\nhad all been frustrated, not so much by idleness on his part as by a\ndisinclination to exert himself in any way not to his taste. He had\nbeen educated at Eton and had been intended for the Church, but he\nhad left Cambridge in disgust after a single term, and notified\nto his father his intention to study for the bar. Preparatory to\nthat, he thought it well that he should attend a German university,\nand consequently went to Leipzig. There he remained two years and\nbrought away a knowledge of German and a taste for the fine arts. He\nstill, however, intended himself for the bar, took chambers, engaged\nhimself to sit at the feet of a learned pundit, and spent a season\nin London. He there found that all his aptitudes inclined him to the\nlife of an artist, and he determined to live by painting. With this\nobject he returned to Milan, and had himself rigged out for Rome.\nAs a painter he might have earned his bread, for he wanted only\ndiligence to excel, but when at Rome his mind was carried away by\nother things: he soon wrote home for money, saying that he had been\nconverted to the Mother Church, that he was already an acolyte of the\nJesuits, and that he was about to start with others to Palestine on a\nmission for converting Jews. He did go to Judea, but being unable to\nconvert the Jews, was converted by them. He again wrote home, to say\nthat Moses was the only giver of perfect laws to the world, that the\ncoming of the true Messiah was at hand, that great things were doing\nin Palestine, and that he had met one of the family of Sidonia, a\nmost remarkable man, who was now on his way to western Europe, and\nwhom he had induced to deviate from his route with the object of\ncalling at the Stanhope villa. Ethelbert then expressed his hope\nthat his mother and sisters would listen to this wonderful prophet.\nHis father he knew could not do so from pecuniary considerations.\nThis Sidonia, however, did not take so strong a fancy to him as\nanother of that family once did to a young English nobleman. At\nleast he provided him with no heaps of gold as large as lions, so\nthat the Judaized Ethelbert was again obliged to draw on the revenues\nof the Christian Church.\n\nIt is needless to tell how the father swore that he would send no\nmore money and receive no Jew, nor how Charlotte declared that\nEthelbert could not be left penniless in Jerusalem, and how \"La\nSignora Neroni\" resolved to have Sidonia at her feet. The money was\nsent, and the Jew did come. The Jew did come, but he was not at all\nto the taste of \"La Signora.\" He was a dirty little old man, and\nthough he had provided no golden lions, he had, it seems, relieved\nyoung Stanhope's necessities. He positively refused to leave the\nvilla till he had got a bill from the doctor on his London bankers.\n\nEthelbert did not long remain a Jew. He soon reappeared at the villa\nwithout prejudices on the subject of his religion, and with a firm\nresolve to achieve fame and fortune as a sculptor. He brought with\nhim some models which he had originated at Rome and which really\ngave such fair promise that his father was induced to go to further\nexpense in furthering these views. Ethelbert opened an establishment,\nor rather took lodgings and a workshop, at Carrara, and there spoilt\nmuch marble and made some few pretty images. Since that period, now\nfour years ago, he had alternated between Carrara and the villa, but\nhis sojourns at the workshop became shorter and shorter and those at\nthe villa longer and longer. 'Twas no wonder, for Carrara is not a\nspot in which an Englishman would like to dwell.\n\nWhen the family started for England, he had resolved not to be left\nbehind, and, with the assistance of his elder sister, had carried his\npoint against his father's wishes. It was necessary, he said, that\nhe should come to England for orders. How otherwise was he to bring\nhis profession to account?\n\nIn personal appearance Ethelbert Stanhope was the most singular\nof beings. He was certainly very handsome. He had his sister\nMadeline's eyes, without their stare and without their hard, cunning,\ncruel firmness. They were also very much lighter, and of so light and\nclear a blue as to make his face remarkable, if nothing else did so.\nOn entering a room with him, Ethelbert's blue eyes would be the first\nthing you would see, and on leaving it almost the last you would\nforget. His light hair was very long and silky, coming down over his\ncoat. His beard had been prepared in holy land, and was patriarchal.\nHe never shaved and rarely trimmed it. It was glossy, soft, clean,\nand altogether not unprepossessing. It was such that ladies might\ndesire to reel it off and work it into their patterns in lieu of\nfloss silk. His complexion was fair and almost pink; he was small\nin height and slender in limb, but well-made; and his voice was of\npeculiar sweetness.\n\nIn manner and dress he was equally remarkable. He had none of the\n_mauvaise honte_ of an Englishman. He required no introduction\nto make himself agreeable to any person. He habitually addressed\nstrangers, ladies as well as men, without any such formality, and\nin doing so never seemed to meet with rebuke. His costume cannot\nbe described because it was so various, but it was always totally\nopposed in every principle of colour and construction to the dress\nof those with whom he for the time consorted.\n\nHe was habitually addicted to making love to ladies, and did so\nwithout any scruples of conscience, or any idea that such a practice\nwas amiss. He had no heart to touch himself, and was literally\nunaware that humanity was subject to such an infliction. He had not\nthought much about it, but, had he been asked, would have said that\nill-treating a lady's heart meant injuring her promotion in the\nworld. His principles therefore forbade him to pay attention to a\ngirl if he thought any man was present whom it might suit her to\nmarry. In this manner his good nature frequently interfered with his\namusement, but he had no other motive in abstaining from the fullest\ndeclarations of love to every girl that pleased his eye.\n\nBertie Stanhope, as he was generally called, was, however, popular\nwith both sexes--and with Italians as well as English. His circle of\nacquaintance was very large and embraced people of all sorts. He had\nno respect for rank, and no aversion to those below him. He had lived\non familiar terms with English peers, German shopkeepers, and Roman\npriests. All people were nearly alike to him. He was above, or\nrather below, all prejudices. No virtue could charm him, no vice\nshock him. He had about him a natural good manner, which seemed to\nqualify him for the highest circles, and yet he was never out of\nplace in the lowest. He had no principle, no regard for others, no\nself-respect, no desire to be other than a drone in the hive, if\nonly he could, as a drone, get what honey was sufficient for him. Of\nhoney, in his latter days, it may probably be presaged, that he will\nhave but short allowance.\n\nSuch was the family of the Stanhopes, who, at this period, suddenly\njoined themselves to the ecclesiastical circle of Barchester close.\nAny stranger union it would be impossible perhaps to conceive. And\nit was not as though they all fell down into the cathedral precincts\nhitherto unknown and untalked of. In such case, no amalgamation\nwould have been at all probable between the new-comers and either\nthe Proudie set or the Grantly set. But such was far from being\nthe case. The Stanhopes were all known by name in Barchester, and\nBarchester was prepared to receive them with open arms. The doctor\nwas one of her prebendaries, one of her rectors, one of her pillars\nof strength; and was, moreover, counted on as a sure ally both by\nProudies and Grantlys.\n\nHe himself was the brother of one peer, and his wife was the sister\nof another--and both these peers were lords of Whiggish tendency,\nwith whom the new bishop had some sort of alliance. This was\nsufficient to give to Mr. Slope high hope that he might enlist Dr.\nStanhope on his side, before his enemies could outmanoeuvre him. On\nthe other hand, the old dean had many many years ago, in the days of\nthe doctor's clerical energies, been instrumental in assisting him\nin his views as to preferment; and many many years ago also, the two\ndoctors, Stanhope and Grantly, had, as young parsons, been joyous\ntogether in the common-rooms of Oxford. Dr. Grantly, consequently,\ndid not doubt but that the newcomer would range himself under his\nbanners.\n\nLittle did any of them dream of what ingredients the Stanhope family\nwas now composed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nMrs. Proudie's Reception--Commenced\n\n\nThe bishop and his wife had spent only three or four days in\nBarchester on the occasion of their first visit. His lordship had,\nas we have seen, taken his seat on his throne, but his demeanour\nthere, into which it had been his intention to infuse much hierarchal\ndignity, had been a good deal disarranged by the audacity of his\nchaplain's sermon. He had hardly dared to look his clergy in the\nface, and to declare by the severity of his countenance that in truth\nhe meant all that his factotum was saying on his behalf; nor yet did\nhe dare to throw Mr. Slope over, and show to those around him that he\nwas no party to the sermon, and would resent it.\n\nHe had accordingly blessed his people in a shambling manner, not at\nall to his own satisfaction, and had walked back to his palace with\nhis mind very doubtful as to what he would say to his chaplain on\nthe subject. He did not remain long in doubt. He had hardly doffed\nhis lawn when the partner of all his toils entered his study and\nexclaimed even before she had seated herself:\n\n\"Bishop, did you ever hear a more sublime, more spirit-moving, more\nappropriate discourse than that?\"\n\n\"Well, my love; ha--hum--he!\" The bishop did not know what to say.\n\n\"I hope, my lord, you don't mean to say you disapprove?\"\n\nThere was a look about the lady's eye which did not admit of my\nlord's disapproving at that moment. He felt that if he intended to\ndisapprove, it must be now or never; but he also felt that it could\nnot be now. It was not in him to say to the wife of his bosom that\nMr. Slope's sermon was ill-timed, impertinent, and vexatious.\n\n\"No, no,\" replied the bishop. \"No, I can't say I disapprove--a very\nclever sermon and very well intended, and I dare say will do a great\ndeal of good.\" This last praise was added, seeing that what he had\nalready said by no means satisfied Mrs. Proudie.\n\n\"I hope it will,\" said she. \"And I am sure it was well deserved.\nDid you ever in your life, bishop, hear anything so like play-acting\nas the way in which Mr. Harding sings the litany? I shall beg Mr.\nSlope to continue a course of sermons on the subject till all that is\naltered. We will have at any rate, in our cathedral, a decent, godly,\nmodest morning service. There must be no more play-acting here now;\"\nand so the lady rang for lunch.\n\nThe bishop knew more about cathedrals and deans and precentors and\nchurch services than his wife did, and also more of a bishop's\npowers. But he thought it better at present to let the subject drop.\n\n\"My dear,\" said he, \"I think we must go back to London on Tuesday.\nI find my staying here will be very inconvenient to the Government.\"\n\nThe bishop knew that to this proposal his wife would not object, and\nhe also felt that by thus retreating from the ground of battle the\nheat of the fight might be got over in his absence.\n\n\"Mr. Slope will remain here, of course?\" said the lady.\n\n\"Oh, of course,\" said the bishop.\n\nThus, after less than a week's sojourn in his palace, did the bishop\nfly from Barchester; nor did he return to it for two months, the\nLondon season being then over. During that time Mr. Slope was not\nidle, but he did not again essay to preach in the cathedral. In\nanswer to Mrs. Proudie's letters advising a course of sermons, he had\npleaded that he would at any rate wish to put off such an undertaking\ntill she was there to hear them.\n\nHe had employed his time in consolidating a Proudie and Slope\nparty--or rather a Slope and Proudie party, and he had not employed\nhis time in vain. He did not meddle with the dean and chapter, except\nby giving them little teasing intimations of the bishop's wishes\nabout this and the bishop's feelings about that, in a manner which\nwas to them sufficiently annoying, but which they could not resent.\nHe preached once or twice in a distant church in the suburbs of the\ncity, but made no allusion to the cathedral service. He commenced the\nestablishment of two \"Bishop's Barchester Sabbath-day schools,\" gave\nnotice of a proposed \"Bishop's Barchester Young Men's Sabbath Evening\nLecture Room,\" and wrote three or four letters to the manager of the\nBarchester branch railway, informing him how anxious the bishop was\nthat the Sunday trains should be discontinued.\n\nAt the end of two months, however, the bishop and the lady reappeared,\nand as a happy harbinger of their return, heralded their advent by\nthe promise of an evening party on the largest scale. The tickets of\ninvitation were sent out from London--they were dated from Bruton\nStreet, and were dispatched by the odious Sabbath-breaking railway,\nin a huge brown paper parcel to Mr. Slope. Everybody calling himself\na gentleman, or herself a lady, within the city of Barchester, and a\ncircle of two miles round it, was included. Tickets were sent to all\nthe diocesan clergy, and also to many other persons of priestly note,\nof whose absence the bishop, or at least the bishop's wife, felt\ntolerably confident. It was intended, however, to be a thronged and\nnoticeable affair, and preparations were made for receiving some\nhundreds.\n\nAnd now there arose considerable agitation among the Grantlyites\nwhether or no they would attend the episcopal bidding. The first\nfeeling with them all was to send the briefest excuses both for\nthemselves and their wives and daughters. But by degrees policy\nprevailed over passion. The archdeacon perceived that he would be\nmaking a false step if he allowed the cathedral clergy to give the\nbishop just ground of umbrage. They all met in conclave and agreed\nto go. They would show that they were willing to respect the office,\nmuch as they might dislike the man. They agreed to go. The old dean\nwould crawl in, if it were but for half an hour. The chancellor,\ntreasurer, archdeacon, prebendaries, and minor canons would all go,\nand would all take their wives. Mr. Harding was especially bidden to\ndo so, resolving in his heart to keep himself far removed from Mrs.\nProudie. And Mrs. Bold was determined to go, though assured by her\nfather that there was no necessity for such a sacrifice on her part.\nWhen all Barchester was to be there, neither Eleanor nor Mary Bold\nunderstood why they should stay away. Had they not been invited\nseparately? And had not a separate little note from the chaplain,\ncouched in the most respectful language, been enclosed with the huge\nepiscopal card?\n\nAnd the Stanhopes would be there, one and all. Even the lethargic\nmother would so far bestir herself on such an occasion. They had\nonly just arrived. The card was at the residence waiting for them.\nNo one in Barchester had seen them. What better opportunity could\nthey have of showing themselves to the Barchester world? Some few\nold friends, such as the archdeacon and his wife, had called and had\nfound the doctor and his eldest daughter, but the _élite_ of the\nfamily were not yet known.\n\nThe doctor indeed wished in his heart to prevent the signora from\naccepting the bishop's invitation, but she herself had fully\ndetermined that she would accept it. If her father was ashamed of\nhaving his daughter carried into a bishop's palace, she had no such\nfeeling.\n\n\"Indeed, I shall,\" she had said to her sister who had gently\nendeavoured to dissuade her, by saying that the company would consist\nwholly of parsons and parsons' wives. \"Parsons, I suppose, are much\nthe same as other men, if you strip them of their black coats; and as\nto their wives, I dare say they won't trouble me. You may tell Papa\nI don't at all mean to be left at home.\"\n\nPapa was told, and felt that he could do nothing but yield. He also\nfelt that it was useless for him now to be ashamed of his children.\nSuch as they were, they had become such under his auspices; as he\nhad made his bed, so he must lie upon it; as he had sown his seed,\nso must he reap his corn. He did not indeed utter such reflexions\nin such language, but such was the gist of his thought. It was not\nbecause Madeline was a cripple that he shrank from seeing her made\none of the bishop's guests, but because he knew that she would\npractise her accustomed lures, and behave herself in a way that\ncould not fail of being distasteful to the propriety of Englishwomen.\nThese things had annoyed but not shocked him in Italy. There they\nhad shocked no one; but here in Barchester, here among his fellow\nparsons, he was ashamed that they should be seen. Such had been his\nfeelings, but he repressed them. What if his brother clergymen were\nshocked! They could not take from him his preferment because the\nmanners of his married daughter were too free.\n\nLa Signora Neroni had, at any rate, no fear that she would shock\nanybody. Her ambition was to create a sensation, to have parsons at\nher feet, seeing that the manhood of Barchester consisted mainly of\nparsons, and to send, if possible, every parson's wife home with a\ngreen fit of jealousy. None could be too old for her, and hardly any\ntoo young. None too sanctified, and none too worldly. She was quite\nprepared to entrap the bishop himself, and then to turn up her nose at\nthe bishop's wife. She did not doubt of success, for she had always\nsucceeded; but one thing was absolutely necessary; she must secure\nthe entire use of a sofa.\n\nThe card sent to Dr. and Mrs. Stanhope and family had been so sent in\nan envelope having on the cover Mr. Slope's name. The signora soon\nlearnt that Mrs. Proudie was not yet at the palace and that the\nchaplain was managing everything. It was much more in her line to\napply to him than to the lady, and she accordingly wrote him the\nprettiest little billet in the world. In five lines she explained\neverything, declared how impossible it was for her not to be desirous\nto make the acquaintance of such persons as the Bishop of Barchester\nand his wife, and she might add also of Mr. Slope, depicted her own\ngrievous state, and concluded by being assured that Mrs. Proudie\nwould forgive her extreme hardihood in petitioning to be allowed to\nbe carried to a sofa. She then enclosed one of her beautiful cards.\nIn return she received as polite an answer from Mr. Slope--a sofa\nshould be kept in the large drawing-room, immediately at the top of\nthe grand stairs, especially for her use.\n\nAnd now the day of the party had arrived. The bishop and his wife\ncame down from town only on the morning of the eventful day, as\nbehoved such great people to do, but Mr. Slope had toiled day and\nnight to see that everything should be in right order. There had\nbeen much to do. No company had been seen in the palace since heaven\nknows when. New furniture had been required, new pots and pans, new\ncups and saucers, new dishes and plates. Mrs. Proudie had at first\ndeclared that she would condescend to nothing so vulgar as eating\nand drinking, but Mr. Slope had talked, or rather written her out\nof economy. Bishops should be given to hospitality, and hospitality\nmeant eating and drinking. So the supper was conceded; the guests,\nhowever, were to stand as they consumed it.\n\nThere were four rooms opening into each other on the first floor\nof the house, which were denominated the drawing-rooms, the\nreception-room, and Mrs. Proudie's boudoir. In olden days one of\nthese had been Bishop Grantly's bedroom, and another his common\nsitting-room and study. The present bishop, however, had been moved\ndown into a back parlour and had been given to understand that he\ncould very well receive his clergy in the dining-room, should they\narrive in too large a flock to be admitted into his small sanctum. He\nhad been unwilling to yield, but after a short debate had yielded.\n\nMrs. Proudie's heart beat high as she inspected her suite of rooms.\nThey were really very magnificent, or at least would be so by\ncandlelight, and they had nevertheless been got up with commendable\neconomy. Large rooms when full of people and full of light look\nwell, because they are large, and are full, and are light. Small\nrooms are those which require costly fittings and rich furniture.\nMrs. Proudie knew this, and made the most of it; she had therefore a\nhuge gas lamp with a dozen burners hanging from each of the ceilings.\n\nPeople were to arrive at ten, supper was to last from twelve till\none, and at half-past one everybody was to be gone. Carriages were\nto come in at the gate in the town and depart at the gate outside.\nThey were desired to take up at a quarter before one. It was managed\nexcellently, and Mr. Slope was invaluable.\n\nAt half-past nine the bishop and his wife and their three daughters\nentered the great reception-room, and very grand and very solemn\nthey were. Mr. Slope was downstairs giving the last orders about the\nwine. He well understood that curates and country vicars with their\nbelongings did not require so generous an article as the dignitaries\nof the close. There is a useful gradation in such things, and\nMarsala at 20s. a dozen did very well for the exterior supplementary\ntables in the corner.\n\n\"Bishop,\" said the lady, as his lordship sat himself down, \"don't sit\non that sofa, if you please; it is to be kept separate for a lady.\"\n\nThe bishop jumped up and seated himself on a cane-bottomed chair.\n\"A lady?\" he inquired meekly; \"do you mean one particular lady, my\ndear?\"\n\n\"Yes, Bishop, one particular lady,\" said his wife, disdaining to\nexplain.\n\n\"She has got no legs, Papa,\" said the youngest daughter, tittering.\n\n\"No legs!\" said the bishop, opening his eyes.\n\n\"Nonsense, Netta, what stuff you talk,\" said Olivia. \"She has got\nlegs, but she can't use them. She has always to be kept lying down,\nand three or four men carry her about everywhere.\"\n\n\"Laws, how odd!\" said Augusta. \"Always carried about by four men!\nI'm sure I shouldn't like it. Am I right behind, Mamma? I feel as\nif I was open;\" and she turned her back to her anxious parent.\n\n\"Open! To be sure you are,\" said she, \"and a yard of petticoat\nstrings hanging out. I don't know why I pay such high wages to Mrs.\nRichards if she can't take the trouble to see whether or no you are\nfit to be looked at,\" and Mrs. Proudie poked the strings here, and\ntwitched the dress there, and gave her daughter a shove and a shake,\nand then pronounced it all right.\n\n\"But,\" rejoined the bishop, who was dying with curiosity about the\nmysterious lady and her legs, \"who is it that is to have the sofa?\nWhat's her name, Netta?\"\n\nA thundering rap at the front door interrupted the conversation.\nMrs. Proudie stood up and shook herself gently, and touched her cap\non each side as she looked in the mirror. Each of the girls stood on\ntiptoe and rearranged the bows on their bosoms, and Mr. Slope rushed\nupstairs three steps at a time.\n\n\"But who is it, Netta?\" whispered the bishop to his youngest\ndaughter.\n\n\"La Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni,\" whispered back the daughter;\n\"and mind you don't let anyone sit upon the sofa.\"\n\n\"La Signora Madeline Vicinironi!\" muttered to himself the bewildered\nprelate. Had he been told that the Begum of Oude was to be there,\nor Queen Pomara of the Western Isles, he could not have been more\nastonished. La Signora Madeline Vicinironi, who, having no legs to\nstand on, had bespoken a sofa in his drawing-room! Who could she\nbe? He however could now make no further inquiry, as Dr. and Mrs.\nStanhope were announced. They had been sent on out of the way a\nlittle before the time, in order that the signora might have plenty\nof time to get herself conveniently packed into the carriage.\n\nThe bishop was all smiles for the prebendary's wife, and the bishop's\nwife was all smiles for the prebendary. Mr. Slope was presented and\nwas delighted to make the acquaintance of one of whom he had heard so\nmuch. The doctor bowed very low, and then looked as though he could\nnot return the compliment as regarded Mr. Slope, of whom, indeed, he\nhad heard nothing. The doctor, in spite of his long absence, knew an\nEnglish gentleman when he saw him.\n\nAnd then the guests came in shoals: Mr. and Mrs. Quiverful and\ntheir three grown daughters. Mr. and Mrs. Chadwick and their three\ndaughters. The burly chancellor and his wife and clerical son from\nOxford. The meagre little doctor without incumbrance. Mr. Harding\nwith Eleanor and Miss Bold. The dean leaning on a gaunt spinster,\nhis only child now living with him, a lady very learned in stones,\nferns, plants, and vermin, and who had written a book about petals.\nA wonderful woman in her way was Miss Trefoil. Mr. Finnie, the\nattorney, with his wife, was to be seen, much to the dismay of many\nwho had never met him in a drawing-room before. The five Barchester\ndoctors were all there, and old Scalpen, the retired apothecary and\ntooth-drawer, who was first taught to consider himself as belonging\nto the higher orders by the receipt of the bishop's card. Then came\nthe archdeacon and his wife with their elder daughter Griselda, a\nslim, pale, retiring girl of seventeen who kept close to her mother,\nand looked out on the world with quiet watchful eyes, one who gave\npromise of much beauty when time should have ripened it.\n\nAnd so the rooms became full, and knots were formed, and every\nnewcomer paid his respects to my lord and passed on, not presuming\nto occupy too much of the great man's attention. The archdeacon\nshook hands very heartily with Dr. Stanhope, and Mrs. Grantly seated\nherself by the doctor's wife. And Mrs. Proudie moved about with\nwell-regulated grace, measuring out the quantity of her favours to\nthe quality of her guests, just as Mr. Slope had been doing with the\nwine. But the sofa was still empty, and five-and-twenty ladies and\nfive gentlemen had been courteously warned off it by the mindful\nchaplain.\n\n\"Why doesn't she come?\" said the bishop to himself. His mind was so\npreoccupied with the signora that he hardly remembered how to behave\nhimself _en bishop_.\n\nAt last a carriage dashed up to the hall steps with a very different\nmanner of approach from that of any other vehicle that had been there\nthat evening. A perfect commotion took place. The doctor, who heard\nit as he was standing in the drawing-room, knew that his daughter\nwas coming, and retired into the furthest corner, where he might not\nsee her entrance. Mrs. Proudie perked herself up, feeling that some\nimportant piece of business was in hand. The bishop was instinctively\naware that La Signora Vicinironi was come at last, and Mr. Slope\nhurried into the hall to give his assistance.\n\nHe was, however, nearly knocked down and trampled on by the cortège\nthat he encountered on the hall steps. He got himself picked up, as\nwell as he could, and followed the cortège upstairs. The signora was\ncarried head foremost, her head being the care of her brother and an\nItalian manservant who was accustomed to the work; her feet were in\nthe care of the lady's maid and the lady's Italian page; and Charlotte\nStanhope followed to see that all was done with due grace and decorum.\nIn this manner they climbed easily into the drawing-room, and a broad\nway through the crowd having been opened, the signora rested safely\non her couch. She had sent a servant beforehand to learn whether it\nwas a right- or a left-hand sofa, for it required that she should\ndress accordingly, particularly as regarded her bracelets.\n\nAnd very becoming her dress was. It was white velvet, without any\nother garniture than rich white lace worked with pearls across her\nbosom, and the same round the armlets of her dress. Across her\nbrow she wore a band of red velvet, on the centre of which shone a\nmagnificent Cupid in mosaic, the tints of whose wings were of the\nmost lovely azure, and the colour of his chubby cheeks the clearest\npink. On the one arm which her position required her to expose she\nwore three magnificent bracelets, each of different stones. Beneath\nher on the sofa, and over the cushion and head of it, was spread a\ncrimson silk mantle or shawl, which went under her whole body and\nconcealed her feet. Dressed as she was and looking as she did, so\nbeautiful and yet so motionless, with the pure brilliancy of her\nwhite dress brought out and strengthened by the colour beneath it,\nwith that lovely head, and those large, bold, bright, staring eyes,\nit was impossible that either man or woman should do other than look\nat her.\n\nNeither man nor woman for some minutes did do other.\n\nHer bearers too were worthy of note. The three servants were Italian,\nand though perhaps not peculiar in their own country, were very much\nso in the palace at Barchester. The man especially attracted notice\nand created a doubt in the mind of some whether he were a friend or\na domestic. The same doubt was felt as to Ethelbert. The man was\nattired in a loose-fitting, common, black-cloth morning-coat. He\nhad a jaunty, fat, well-pleased, clean face on which no atom of\nbeard appeared, and he wore round his neck a loose, black silk\nneck-handkerchief. The bishop essayed to make him a bow, but the man,\nwho was well trained, took no notice of him and walked out of the\nroom quite at his ease, followed by the woman and the boy.\n\nEthelbert Stanhope was dressed in light blue from head to foot. He\nhad on the loosest possible blue coat, cut square like a shooting\ncoat, and very short. It was lined with silk of azure blue. He\nhad on a blue satin waistcoat, a blue neck-handkerchief which was\nfastened beneath his throat with a coral ring, and very loose blue\ntrousers which almost concealed his feet. His soft, glossy beard was\nsofter and more glossy than ever.\n\nThe bishop, who had made one mistake, thought that he also was a\nservant and therefore tried to make way for him to pass. But\nEthelbert soon corrected the error.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nMrs. Proudie's Reception--Concluded\n\n\n\"Bishop of Barchester, I presume?\" said Bertie Stanhope, putting out\nhis hand frankly; \"I am delighted to make your acquaintance. We are\nin rather close quarters here, a'nt we?\"\n\nIn truth they were. They had been crowded up behind the head of the\nsofa--the bishop in waiting to receive his guest, and the other in\ncarrying her--and they now had hardly room to move themselves.\n\nThe bishop gave his hand quickly, made his little studied bow, and\nwas delighted to make--He couldn't go on, for he did not know whether\nhis friend was a signor, or a count or a prince.\n\n\"My sister really puts you all to great trouble,\" said Bertie.\n\n\"Not at all!\" The bishop was delighted to have the opportunity of\nwelcoming La Signora Vicinironi--so at least he said--and attempted\nto force his way round to the front of the sofa. He had, at any\nrate, learnt that his strange guests were brother and sister. The\nman, he presumed, must be Signor Vicinironi--or count, or prince, as\nit might be. It was wonderful what good English he spoke. There was\njust a twang of foreign accent, and no more.\n\n\"Do you like Barchester, on the whole?\" asked Bertie.\n\nThe bishop, looking dignified, said that he did like Barchester.\n\n\"You've not been here very long, I believe,\" said Bertie.\n\n\"No--not long,\" said the bishop and tried again to make his way\nbetween the back of the sofa and a heavy rector, who was staring over\nit at the grimaces of the signora.\n\n\"You weren't a bishop before, were you?\"\n\nDr. Proudie explained that this was the first diocese he had held.\n\n\"Ah--I thought so,\" said Bertie, \"but you are changed about\nsometimes, a'nt you?\"\n\n\"Translations are occasionally made,\" said Dr. Proudie, \"but not so\nfrequently as in former days.\"\n\n\"They've cut them all down to pretty nearly the same figure, haven't\nthey?\" said Bertie.\n\nTo this the bishop could not bring himself to make any answer, but\nagain attempted to move the rector.\n\n\"But the work, I suppose, is different?\" continued Bertie. \"Is there\nmuch to do here, at Barchester?\" This was said exactly in the tone\nthat a young Admiralty clerk might use in asking the same question of\na brother acolyte at the Treasury.\n\n\"The work of a bishop of the Church of England,\" said Dr. Proudie\nwith considerable dignity, \"is not easy. The responsibility which he\nhas to bear is very great indeed.\"\n\n\"Is it?\" said Bertie, opening wide his wonderful blue eyes. \"Well, I\nnever was afraid of responsibility. I once had thoughts of being a\nbishop, myself.\"\n\n\"Had thoughts of being a bishop!\" said Dr. Proudie, much amazed.\n\n\"That is, a parson--a parson first, you know, and a bishop afterwards.\nIf I had once begun, I'd have stuck to it. But, on the whole, I like\nthe Church of Rome the best.\"\n\nThe bishop could not discuss the point, so he remained silent.\n\n\"Now, there's my father,\" continued Bertie; \"he hasn't stuck to it.\nI fancy he didn't like saying the same thing over so often. By the\nby, Bishop, have you seen my father?\"\n\nThe bishop was more amazed than ever. Had he seen his father? \"No,\"\nhe replied; he had not yet had the pleasure: he hoped he might; and,\nas he said so, he resolved to bear heavy on that fat, immovable\nrector, if ever he had the power of doing so.\n\n\"He's in the room somewhere,\" said Bertie, \"and he'll turn up soon.\nBy the by, do you know much about the Jews?\"\n\nAt last the bishop saw a way out. \"I beg your pardon,\" said he, \"but\nI'm forced to go round the room.\"\n\n\"Well--I believe I'll follow in your wake,\" said Bertie. \"Terribly\nhot--isn't it?\" This he addressed to the fat rector with whom he had\nbrought himself into the closest contact. \"They've got this sofa\ninto the worst possible part of the room; suppose we move it. Take\ncare, Madeline.\"\n\nThe sofa had certainly been so placed that those who were behind\nit found great difficulty in getting out; there was but a narrow\ngangway, which one person could stop. This was a bad arrangement,\nand one which Bertie thought it might be well to improve.\n\n\"Take care, Madeline,\" said he, and turning to the fat rector, added,\n\"Just help me with a slight push.\"\n\nThe rector's weight was resting on the sofa and unwittingly lent\nall its impetus to accelerate and increase the motion which Bertie\nintentionally originated. The sofa rushed from its moorings and ran\nhalf-way into the middle of the room. Mrs. Proudie was standing\nwith Mr. Slope in front of the signora, and had been trying to be\ncondescending and sociable; but she was not in the very best of\ntempers, for she found that, whenever she spoke to the lady, the\nlady replied by speaking to Mr. Slope. Mr. Slope was a favourite,\nno doubt, but Mrs. Proudie had no idea of being less thought of than\nthe chaplain. She was beginning to be stately, stiff, and offended,\nwhen unfortunately the castor of the sofa caught itself in her lace\ntrain, and carried away there is no saying how much of her garniture.\nGathers were heard to go, stitches to crack, plaits to fly open,\nflounces were seen to fall, and breadths to expose themselves; a long\nruin of rent lace disfigured the carpet, and still clung to the vile\nwheel on which the sofa moved.\n\nSo, when a granite battery is raised, excellent to the eyes of\nwarfaring men, is its strength and symmetry admired. It is the work\nof years. Its neat embrasures, its finished parapets, its casemated\nstories show all the skill of modern science. But, anon, a small\nspark is applied to the treacherous fusee--a cloud of dust arises to\nthe heavens--and then nothing is to be seen but dirt and dust and\nugly fragments.\n\nWe know what was the wrath of Juno when her beauty was despised. We\nknow to what storms of passion even celestial minds can yield. As\nJuno may have looked at Paris on Mount Ida, so did Mrs. Proudie look\non Ethelbert Stanhope when he pushed the leg of the sofa into her\nlace train.\n\n\"Oh, you idiot, Bertie!\" said the signora, seeing what had been done\nand what were to be the consequences.\n\n\"Idiot!\" re-echoed Mrs. Proudie, as though the word were not half\nstrong enough to express the required meaning; \"I'll let him\nknow--\" and then looking round to learn, at a glance, the worst, she\nsaw that at present it behoved her to collect the scattered _débris_\nof her dress.\n\nBertie, when he saw what he had done, rushed over the sofa and threw\nhimself on one knee before the offended lady. His object, doubtless,\nwas to liberate the torn lace from the castor, but he looked as\nthough he were imploring pardon from a goddess.\n\n\"Unhand it, sir!\" said Mrs. Proudie. From what scrap of dramatic\npoetry she had extracted the word cannot be said, but it must have\nrested on her memory, and now seemed opportunely dignified for the\noccasion.\n\n\"I'll fly to the looms of the fairies to repair the damage, if you'll\nonly forgive me,\" said Ethelbert, still on his knees.\n\n\"Unhand it, sir!\" said Mrs. Proudie with redoubled emphasis, and all\nbut furious wrath. This allusion to the fairies was a direct mockery\nand intended to turn her into ridicule. So at least it seemed to\nher. \"Unhand it, sir!\" she almost screamed.\n\n\"It's not me; it's the cursed sofa,\" said Bertie, looking imploringly\nin her face and holding up both his hands to show that he was not\ntouching her belongings, but still remaining on his knees.\n\nHereupon the Signora laughed; not loud, indeed, but yet audibly. And\nas the tigress bereft of her young will turn with equal anger on any\nwithin reach, so did Mrs. Proudie turn upon her female guest.\n\n\"Madam!\" she said--and it is beyond the power of prose to tell of the\nfire which flashed from her eyes.\n\nThe signora stared her full in the face for a moment, and then\nturning to her brother said playfully, \"Bertie, you idiot, get up.\"\n\nBy this time the bishop, and Mr. Slope, and her three daughters\nwere around her, and had collected together the wide ruins of her\nmagnificence. The girls fell into circular rank behind their mother,\nand thus following her and carrying out the fragments, they left the\nreception-rooms in a manner not altogether devoid of dignity. Mrs.\nProudie had to retire and re-array herself.\n\nAs soon as the constellation had swept by, Ethelbert rose from his\nknees and, turning with mock anger to the fat rector, said: \"After\nall it was your doing, sir--not mine. But perhaps you are waiting\nfor preferment, and so I bore it.\"\n\nWhereupon there was a laugh against the fat rector, in which both the\nbishop and the chaplain joined, and thus things got themselves again\ninto order.\n\n\"Oh! my lord, I am so sorry for this accident,\" said the signora,\nputting out her hand so as to force the bishop to take it. \"My\nbrother is so thoughtless. Pray sit down, and let me have the\npleasure of making your acquaintance. Though I am so poor a creature\nas to want a sofa, I am not so selfish as to require it all.\"\nMadeline could always dispose herself so as to make room for a\ngentleman, though, as she declared, the crinoline of her lady friends\nwas much too bulky to be so accommodated.\n\n\"It was solely for the pleasure of meeting you that I have had myself\ndragged here,\" she continued. \"Of course, with your occupation, one\ncannot even hope that you should have time to come to us, that is,\nin the way of calling. And at your English dinner-parties all is so\ndull and so stately. Do you know, my lord, that in coming to England\nmy only consolation has been the thought that I should know you;\" and\nshe looked at him with the look of a she-devil.\n\nThe bishop, however, thought that she looked very like an angel and,\naccepting the proffered seat, sat down beside her. He uttered some\nplatitude as to his deep obligation for the trouble she had taken,\nand wondered more and more who she was.\n\n\"Of course you know my sad story?\" she continued.\n\nThe bishop didn't know a word of it. He knew, however, or thought he\nknew, that she couldn't walk into a room like other people, and so\nmade the most of that. He put on a look of ineffable distress and\nsaid that he was aware how God had afflicted her.\n\nThe signora just touched the corner of her eyes with the most\nlovely of pocket-handkerchiefs. Yes, she said--she had been sorely\ntried--tried, she thought, beyond the common endurance of humanity;\nbut while her child was left to her, everything was left. \"Oh! my\nlord,\" she exclaimed, \"you must see that infant--the last bud of a\nwondrous tree: you must let a mother hope that you will lay your holy\nhands on her innocent head and consecrate her for female virtues. May\nI hope it?\" said she, looking into the bishop's eye and touching the\nbishop's arm with her hand.\n\nThe bishop was but a man and said she might. After all, what was it\nbut a request that he would confirm her daughter?--a request, indeed,\nvery unnecessary to make, as he should do so as a matter of course if\nthe young lady came forward in the usual way.\n\n\"The blood of Tiberius,\" said the signora in all but a whisper; \"the\nblood of Tiberius flows in her veins. She is the last of the Neros!\"\n\nThe bishop had heard of the last of the Visigoths, and had floating\nin his brain some indistinct idea of the last of the Mohicans, but to\nhave the last of the Neros thus brought before him for a blessing was\nvery staggering. Still he liked the lady: she had a proper way of\nthinking and talked with more propriety than her brother. But who\nwere they? It was now quite clear that that blue madman with the\nsilky beard was not a Prince Vicinironi. The lady was married and\nwas of course one of the Vicinironi's by right of the husband. So\nthe bishop went on learning.\n\n\"When will you see her? said the signora with a start.\n\n\"See whom?\" said the bishop.\n\n\"My child,\" said the mother.\n\n\"What is the young lady's age?\" asked the bishop.\n\n\"She is just seven,\" said the signora.\n\n\"Oh,\" said the bishop, shaking his head; \"she is much too young--very\nmuch too young.\"\n\n\"But in sunny Italy, you know, we do not count by years,\" and the\nsignora gave the bishop one of her very sweetest smiles.\n\n\"But indeed, she is a great deal too young,\" persisted the bishop;\n\"we never confirm before--\"\n\n\"But you might speak to her; you might let her hear from your\nconsecrated lips that she is not a castaway because she is a Roman;\nthat she may be a Nero and yet a Christian; that she may owe her\nblack locks and dark cheeks to the blood of the pagan Caesars, and yet\nherself be a child of grace; you will tell her this, won't you, my\nfriend?\"\n\nThe friend said he would, and asked if the child could say her\ncatechism.\n\n\"No,\" said the signora, \"I would not allow her to learn lessons\nsuch as those in a land ridden over by priests and polluted by the\nidolatry of Rome. It is here, here in Barchester, that she must\nfirst be taught to lisp those holy words. Oh, that you could be her\ninstructor!\"\n\nNow, Dr. Proudie certainly liked the lady, but, seeing that he was a\nbishop, it was not probable that he was going to instruct a little\ngirl in the first rudiments of her catechism; so he said he'd send a\nteacher.\n\n\"But you'll see her yourself, my lord?\"\n\nThe bishop said he would, but where should he call.\n\n\"At Papa's house,\" said the Signora with an air of some little\nsurprise at the question.\n\nThe bishop actually wanted the courage to ask her who was her\npapa, so he was forced at last to leave her without fathoming the\nmystery. Mrs. Proudie, in her second best, had now returned to the\nrooms, and her husband thought it as well that he should not remain\nin too close conversation with the lady whom his wife appeared to\nhold in such slight esteem. Presently he came across his youngest\ndaughter.\n\n\"Netta,\" said he, \"do you know who is the father of that Signora\nVicinironi?\"\n\n\"It isn't Vicinironi, Papa,\" said Netta; \"but Vesey Neroni, and\nshe's Doctor Stanhope's daughter. But I must go and do the civil to\nGriselda Grantly; I declare nobody has spoken a word to the poor girl\nthis evening.\"\n\nDr. Stanhope! Dr. Vesey Stanhope! Dr. Vesey Stanhope's daughter, of\nwhose marriage with a dissolute Italian scamp he now remembered to\nhave heard something! And that impertinent blue cub who had examined\nhim as to his episcopal bearings was old Stanhope's son, and the lady\nwho had entreated him to come and teach her child the catechism was\nold Stanhope's daughter! The daughter of one of his own prebendaries!\nAs these things flashed across his mind, he was nearly as angry as\nhis wife had been. Nevertheless, he could not but own that the mother\nof the last of the Neros was an agreeable woman.\n\nDr. Proudie tripped out into the adjoining room, in which were\ncongregated a crowd of Grantlyite clergymen, among whom the\narchdeacon was standing pre-eminent, while the old dean was sitting\nnearly buried in a huge arm chair by the fire-place. The bishop\nwas very anxious to be gracious, and, if possible, to diminish the\nbitterness which his chaplain had occasioned. Let Mr. Slope do the\n_fortiter in re_, he himself would pour in the _suaviter in modo_.\n\n\"Pray don't stir, Mr. Dean, pray don't stir,\" he said as the old man\nessayed to get up; \"I take it as a great kindness, your coming to\nsuch an _omnium gatherum_ as this. But we have hardly got settled yet,\nand Mrs. Proudie has not been able to see her friends as she would\nwish to do. Well, Mr. Archdeacon, after all, we have not been so\nhard upon you at Oxford.\"\n\n\"No,\" said the archdeacon, \"you've only drawn our teeth and cut out\nour tongues; you've allowed us still to breathe and swallow.\"\n\n\"Ha, ha, ha!\" laughed the bishop; \"it's not quite so easy to cut\nout the tongue of an Oxford magnate--and as for teeth--ha, ha, ha!\nWhy, in the way we've left the matter, it's very odd if the heads\nof colleges don't have their own way quite as fully as when the\nhebdomadal board was in all its glory; what do you say, Mr. Dean?\"\n\n\"An old man, my lord, never likes changes,\" said the dean.\n\n\"You must have been sad bunglers if it is so,\" said the archdeacon;\n\"and indeed, to tell the truth, I think you have bungled it. At any\nrate, you must own this; you have not done the half what you boasted\nyou would do.\"\n\n\"Now, as regards your system of professors--\" began the chancellor\nslowly. He was never destined to get beyond such beginning.\n\n\"Talking of professors,\" said a soft clear voice, close behind\nthe chancellor's elbow; \"how much you Englishmen might learn from\nGermany; only you are all too proud.\"\n\nThe bishop, looking round, perceived that that abominable young\nStanhope had pursued him. The dean stared at him as though he were\nsome unearthly apparition; so also did two or three prebendaries and\nminor canons. The archdeacon laughed.\n\n\"The German professors are men of learning,\" said Mr. Harding, \"but--\"\n\n\"German professors!\" groaned out the chancellor, as though his nervous\nsystem had received a shock which nothing but a week of Oxford air\ncould cure.\n\n\"Yes,\" continued Ethelbert, not at all understanding why a German\nprofessor should be contemptible in the eyes of an Oxford don.\n\"Not but what the name is best earned at Oxford. In Germany the\nprofessors do teach; at Oxford, I believe, they only profess to do\nso, and sometimes not even that. You'll have those universities of\nyours about your ears soon, if you don't consent to take a lesson\nfrom Germany.\"\n\nThere was no answering this. Dignified clergymen of sixty years of\nage could not condescend to discuss such a matter with a young man\nwith such clothes and such a beard.\n\n\"Have you got good water out at Plumstead, Mr. Archdeacon?\" said the\nbishop by way of changing the conversation.\n\n\"Pretty good,\" said Dr. Grantly.\n\n\"But by no means so good as his wine, my lord,\" said a witty minor\ncanon.\n\n\"Nor so generally used,\" said another; \"that is, for inward\napplication.\"\n\n\"Ha, ha, ha!\" laughed the bishop, \"a good cellar of wine is a very\ncomfortable thing in a house.\"\n\n\"Your German professors, Sir, prefer beer, I believe,\" said the\nsarcastic little meagre prebendary.\n\n\"They don't think much of either,\" said Ethelbert, \"and that perhaps\naccounts for their superiority. Now the Jewish professor--\"\n\nThe insult was becoming too deep for the spirit of Oxford to endure,\nso the archdeacon walked off one way and the chancellor another,\nfollowed by their disciples, and the bishop and the young reformer\nwere left together on the hearth-rug.\n\n\"I was a Jew once myself,\" began Bertie.\n\nThe bishop was determined not to stand another examination, or be led\non any terms into Palestine, so he again remembered that he had to\ndo something very particular, and left young Stanhope with the dean.\nThe dean did not get the worst of it for Ethelbert gave him a true\naccount of his remarkable doings in the Holy Land.\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Harding,\" said the bishop, overtaking the _ci-devant_ warden;\n\"I wanted to say one word about the hospital. You know, of course,\nthat it is to be filled up.\"\n\nMr. Harding's heart beat a little, and he said that he had heard so.\n\n\"Of course,\" continued the bishop; \"there can be only one man whom\nI could wish to see in that situation. I don't know what your own\nviews may be, Mr. Harding--\"\n\n\"They are very simply told, my lord,\" said the other; \"to take the\nplace if it be offered me, and to put up with the want of it should\nanother man get it.\"\n\nThe bishop professed himself delighted to hear it; Mr. Harding might\nbe quite sure that no other man would get it. There were some few\ncircumstances which would in a slight degree change the nature of the\nduties. Mr. Harding was probably aware of this, and would, perhaps,\nnot object to discuss the matter with Mr. Slope. It was a subject to\nwhich Mr. Slope had given a good deal of attention.\n\nMr. Harding felt, he knew not why, oppressed and annoyed. What could\nMr. Slope do to him? He knew that there were to be changes. The\nnature of them must be communicated to the warden through somebody,\nand through whom so naturally as the bishop's chaplain? 'Twas thus he\ntried to argue himself back to an easy mind, but in vain.\n\nMr. Slope in the meantime had taken the seat which the bishop had\nvacated on the signora's sofa, and remained with that lady till it was\ntime to marshal the folk to supper. Not with contented eyes had Mrs.\nProudie seen this. Had not this woman laughed at her distress, and\nhad not Mr. Slope heard it? Was she not an intriguing Italian woman,\nhalf wife and half not, full of affectation, airs, and impudence?\nWas she not horribly bedizened with velvet and pearls, with velvet\nand pearls, too, which had not been torn off her back? Above all,\ndid she not pretend to be more beautiful than her neighbours? To\nsay that Mrs. Proudie was jealous would give a wrong idea of her\nfeelings. She had not the slightest desire that Mr. Slope should be\nin love with herself. But she desired the incense of Mr. Slope's\nspiritual and temporal services, and did not choose that they should\nbe turned out of their course to such an object as Signora Neroni.\nShe considered also that Mr. Slope ought in duty to hate the signora,\nand it appeared from his manner that he was very far from hating her.\n\n\"Come, Mr. Slope,\" she said, sweeping by and looking all that she\nfelt, \"can't you make yourself useful? Do pray take Mrs. Grantly\ndown to supper.\"\n\nMrs. Grantly heard and escaped. The words were hardly out of Mrs.\nProudie's mouth before the intended victim had stuck her hand through\nthe arm of one of her husband's curates and saved herself. What\nwould the archdeacon have said had he seen her walking downstairs\nwith Mr. Slope?\n\nMr. Slope heard also, but was by no means so obedient as was expected.\nIndeed, the period of Mr. Slope's obedience to Mrs. Proudie was\ndrawing to a close. He did not wish yet to break with her, nor to\nbreak with her at all, if it could be avoided. But he intended to be\nmaster in that palace, and as she had made the same resolution it was\nnot improbable that they might come to blows.\n\nBefore leaving the signora he arranged a little table before her and\nbegged to know what he should bring her. She was quite indifferent,\nshe said--nothing--anything. It was now she felt the misery of her\nposition, now that she must be left alone. Well, a little chicken,\nsome ham, and a glass of champagne.\n\nMr. Slope had to explain, not without blushing for his patron, that\nthere was no champagne.\n\nSherry would do just as well. And then Mr. Slope descended with\nthe learned Miss Trefoil on his arm. Could she tell him, he asked,\nwhether the ferns of Barsetshire were equal to those of Cumberland?\nHis strongest worldly passion was for ferns--and before she could\nanswer him he left her wedged between the door and the sideboard.\nIt was fifty minutes before she escaped, and even then unfed.\n\n\"You are not leaving us, Mr. Slope,\" said the watchful lady of the\nhouse, seeing her slave escaping towards the door, with stores of\nprovisions held high above the heads of the guests.\n\nMr. Slope explained that the Signora Neroni was in want of her\nsupper.\n\n\"Pray, Mr. Slope, let her brother take it to her,\" said Mrs. Proudie,\nquite out loud. \"It is out of the question that you should be so\nemployed. Pray, Mr. Slope, oblige me; I am sure Mr. Stanhope will\nwait upon his sister.\"\n\nEthelbert was most agreeably occupied in the furthest corner of the\nroom, making himself both useful and agreeable to Mrs. Proudie's\nyoungest daughter.\n\n\"I couldn't get out, madam, if Madeline were starving for her\nsupper,\" said he; \"I'm physically fixed, unless I could fly.\"\n\nThe lady's anger was increased by seeing that her daughter also\nhad gone over to the enemy, and when she saw, that in spite of her\nremonstrances, in the teeth of her positive orders, Mr. Slope went\noff to the drawing-room, the cup of her indignation ran over, and\nshe could not restrain herself. \"Such manners I never saw,\" she\nsaid, muttering. \"I cannot and will not permit it;\" and then, after\nfussing and fuming for a few minutes, she pushed her way through the\ncrowd and followed Mr. Slope.\n\nWhen she reached the room above, she found it absolutely deserted,\nexcept by the guilty pair. The signora was sitting very comfortably\nup to her supper, and Mr. Slope was leaning over her and\nadministering to her wants. They had been discussing the merits of\nSabbath-day schools, and the lady had suggested that as she could not\npossibly go to the children, she might be indulged in the wish of her\nheart by having the children brought to her.\n\n\"And when shall it be, Mr. Slope?\" said she.\n\nMr. Slope was saved the necessity of committing himself to a promise\nby the entry of Mrs. Proudie. She swept close up to the sofa so\nas to confront the guilty pair, stared full at them for a moment,\nand then said, as she passed on to the next room, \"Mr. Slope, his\nlordship is especially desirous of your attendance below; you will\ngreatly oblige me if you will join him.\" And so she stalked on.\n\nMr. Slope muttered something in reply, and prepared to go downstairs.\nAs for the bishop's wanting him, he knew his lady patroness well\nenough to take that assertion at what it was worth; but he did not\nwish to make himself the hero of a scene, or to become conspicuous\nfor more gallantry than the occasion required.\n\n\"Is she always like this?\" said the signora.\n\n\"Yes--always--madam,\" said Mrs. Proudie, returning; \"always the\nsame--always equally adverse to impropriety of conduct of every\ndescription;\" and she stalked back through the room again, following\nMr. Slope out of the door.\n\nThe signora couldn't follow her, or she certainly would have done so.\nBut she laughed loud, and sent the sound of it ringing through the\nlobby and down the stairs after Mrs. Proudie's feet. Had she been as\nactive as Grimaldi, she could probably have taken no better revenge.\n\n\"Mr. Slope,\" said Mrs. Proudie, catching the delinquent at the door,\n\"I am surprised you should leave my company to attend on such a\npainted Jezebel as that.\"\n\n\"But she's lame, Mrs. Proudie, and cannot move. Somebody must have\nwaited upon her.\"\n\n\"Lame,\" said Mrs. Proudie; \"I'd lame her if she belonged to me. What\nbusiness had she here at all?--such impertinence--such affectation.\"\n\nIn the hall and adjacent rooms all manner of cloaking and shawling\nwas going on, and the Barchester folk were getting themselves gone.\nMrs. Proudie did her best to smirk at each and every one as they made\ntheir adieux, but she was hardly successful. Her temper had been\ntried fearfully. By slow degrees the guests went.\n\n\"Send back the carriage quick,\" said Ethelbert, as Dr. and Mrs.\nStanhope took their departure.\n\nThe younger Stanhopes were left to the very last, and an\nuncomfortable party they made with the bishop's family. They all\nwent into the dining-room, and then the bishop observing that \"the\nlady\" was alone in the drawing-room, they followed him up. Mrs.\nProudie kept Mr. Slope and her daughters in close conversation,\nresolving that he should not be indulged, nor they polluted. The\nbishop, in mortal dread of Bertie and the Jews, tried to converse\nwith Charlotte Stanhope about the climate of Italy. Bertie and the\nsignora had no resource but in each other.\n\n\"Did you get your supper at last, Madeline?\" said the impudent or\nelse mischievous young man.\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" said Madeline; \"Mr. Slope was so very kind as to bring it\nme. I fear, however, he put himself to more inconvenience than I\nwished.\"\n\nMrs. Proudie looked at her but said nothing. The meaning of her look\nmight have been thus translated; \"If ever you find yourself within\nthese walls again, I'll give you leave to be as impudent and affected\nand as mischievous as you please.\"\n\nAt last the carriage returned with the three Italian servants, and La\nSignora Madeline Vesey Neroni was carried out, as she had been carried\nin.\n\nThe lady of the palace retired to her chamber by no means contented\nwith the result of her first grand party at Barchester.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nSlope versus Harding\n\n\nTwo or three days after the party, Mr. Harding received a note\nbegging him to call on Mr. Slope, at the palace, at an early hour on\nthe following morning. There was nothing uncivil in the communication,\nand yet the tone of it was thoroughly displeasing. It was as follows:\n\n\n   MY DEAR MR. HARDING,\n\n   Will you favour me by calling on me at the palace to-morrow\n   morning at 9:30 A.M. The bishop wishes me to speak to you\n   touching the hospital. I hope you will excuse my naming so\n   early an hour. I do so as my time is greatly occupied. If,\n   however, it is positively inconvenient to you, I will change\n   it to 10. You will, perhaps, be kind enough to let me have a\n   note in reply.\n\n   Believe me to be,\n   My dear Mr. Harding,\n   Your assured friend,\n   OBH. SLOPE\n\n   The Palace, Monday morning,\n   20th August, 185--\n\n\nMr. Harding neither could nor would believe anything of the sort, and\nhe thought, moreover, that Mr. Slope was rather impertinent to call\nhimself by such a name. His assured friend, indeed! How many assured\nfriends generally fall to the lot of a man in this world? And by what\nprocess are they made? And how much of such process had taken place\nas yet between Mr. Harding and Mr. Slope? Mr. Harding could not help\nasking himself these questions as he read and re-read the note before\nhim. He answered it, however, as follows:\n\n\n   DEAR SIR,\n\n   I will call at the palace to-morrow at 9:30 A.M. as you\n   desire.\n\n   Truly yours,\n\n   S. HARDING\n\n   High Street, Barchester, Monday\n\n\nAnd on the following morning, punctually at half-past nine, he knocked\nat the palace door and asked for Mr. Slope.\n\nThe bishop had one small room allotted to him on the ground-floor,\nand Mr. Slope had another. Into this latter Mr. Harding was shown\nand asked to sit down. Mr. Slope was not yet there. The ex-warden\nstood up at the window looking into the garden, and could not help\nthinking how very short a time had passed since the whole of that\nhouse had been open to him, as though he had been a child of the\nfamily, born and bred in it. He remembered how the old servants used\nto smile as they opened the door to him; how the familiar butler\nwould say, when he had been absent a few hours longer than usual,\n\"A sight of you, Mr. Harding, is good for sore eyes;\" how the fussy\nhousekeeper would swear that he couldn't have dined, or couldn't\nhave breakfasted, or couldn't have lunched. And then, above all, he\nremembered the pleasant gleam of inward satisfaction which always\nspread itself over the old bishop's face whenever his friend entered\nhis room.\n\nA tear came into each eye as he reflected that all this was gone.\nWhat use would the hospital be to him now? He was alone in the world,\nand getting old; he would soon, very soon have to go and leave it all,\nas his dear old friend had gone; go, and leave the hospital, and his\naccustomed place in the cathedral, and his haunts and pleasures, to\nyounger and perhaps wiser men. That chanting of his! Perhaps, in truth,\nthe time for it was gone by. He felt as though the world were sinking\nfrom his feet; as though this, this was the time for him to turn with\nconfidence to those hopes which he had preached with confidence to\nothers. \"What,\" said he to himself, \"can a man's religion be worth if\nit does not support him against the natural melancholy of declining\nyears?\" And as he looked out through his dimmed eyes into the bright\nparterres of the bishop's garden, he felt that he had the support\nwhich he wanted.\n\nNevertheless, he did not like to be thus kept waiting. If Mr. Slope\ndid not really wish to see him at half-past nine o'clock, why force\nhim to come away from his lodgings with his breakfast in his throat?\nTo tell the truth, it was policy on the part of Mr. Slope. Mr. Slope\nhad made up his mind that Mr. Harding should either accept the\nhospital with abject submission, or else refuse it altogether, and\nhad calculated that he would probably be more quick to do the latter,\nif he could be got to enter upon the subject in an ill-humour.\nPerhaps Mr. Slope was not altogether wrong in his calculation.\n\nIt was nearly ten when Mr. Slope hurried into the room and, muttering\nsomething about the bishop and diocesan duties, shook Mr. Harding's\nhand ruthlessly and begged him to be seated.\n\nNow the air of superiority which this man assumed did go against the\ngrain with Mr. Harding, and yet he did not know how to resent it.\nThe whole tendency of his mind and disposition was opposed to any\ncontra-assumption of grandeur on his own part, and he hadn't the\nworldly spirit or quickness necessary to put down insolent pretensions\nby downright and open rebuke, as the archdeacon would have done. There\nwas nothing for Mr. Harding but to submit, and he accordingly did so.\n\n\"About the hospital, Mr. Harding?\" began Mr. Slope, speaking of it\nas the head of a college at Cambridge might speak of some sizarship\nwhich had to be disposed of.\n\nMr. Harding crossed one leg over another, and then one hand over the\nother on the top of them, and looked Mr. Slope in the face; but he\nsaid nothing.\n\n\"It's to be filled up again,\" said Mr. Slope. Mr. Harding said that\nhe had understood so.\n\n\"Of course, you know, the income will be very much reduced,\" continued\nMr. Slope. \"The bishop wished to be liberal, and he therefore told the\ngovernment that he thought it ought to be put at not less than £450.\nI think on the whole the bishop was right, for though the services\nrequired will not be of a very onerous nature, they will be more\nso than they were before. And it is, perhaps, well that the clergy\nimmediately attached to the cathedral town should be made as\ncomfortable as the extent of the ecclesiastical means at our disposal\nwill allow. Those are the bishop's ideas, and I must say mine also.\"\n\nMr. Harding sat rubbing one hand on the other, but said not a word.\n\n\"So much for the income, Mr. Harding. The house will, of course,\nremain to the warden, as before. It should, however, I think, be\nstipulated that he should paint inside every seven years, and outside\nevery three years, and be subject to dilapidations, in the event\nof vacating, either by death or otherwise. But this is a matter on\nwhich the bishop must yet be consulted.\"\n\nMr. Harding still rubbed his hands and still sat silent, gazing up\ninto Mr. Slope's unprepossessing face.\n\n\"Then, as to the duties,\" continued he, \"I believe, if I am rightly\ninformed, there can hardly be said to have been any duties hitherto,\"\nand he gave a sort of half-laugh, as though to pass off the\naccusation in the guise of a pleasantry.\n\nMr. Harding thought of the happy, easy years he had passed in his old\nhome; of the worn-out, aged men whom he had succoured; of his good\nintentions; and of his work, which had certainly been of the lightest.\nHe thought of these things, doubting for a moment whether he did or did\nnot deserve the sarcasm. He gave his enemy the benefit of the doubt,\nand did not rebuke him. He merely observed, very tranquilly, and\nperhaps with too much humility, that the duties of the situation, such\nas they were, had, he believed, been done to the satisfaction of the\nlate bishop.\n\nMr. Slope again smiled, and this time the smile was intended to\noperate against the memory of the late bishop rather than against the\nenergy of the ex-warden; so it was understood by Mr. Harding. The\ncolour rose to his cheeks, and he began to feel very angry.\n\n\"You must be aware, Mr. Harding, that things are a good deal changed\nin Barchester,\" said Mr. Slope.\n\nMr. Harding said that he was aware of it. \"And not only in\nBarchester, Mr. Harding, but in the world at large. It is not only\nin Barchester that a new man is carrying out new measures and casting\naway the useless rubbish of past centuries. The same thing is going\non throughout the country. Work is now required from every man who\nreceives wages, and they who have to superintend the doing of work,\nand the paying of wages, are bound to see that this rule is carried\nout. New men, Mr. Harding, are now needed and are now forthcoming in\nthe church, as well as in other professions.\"\n\nAll this was wormwood to our old friend. He had never rated very\nhigh his own abilities or activity, but all the feelings of his heart\nwere with the old clergy, and any antipathies of which his heart was\nsusceptible were directed against those new, busy, uncharitable,\nself-lauding men, of whom Mr. Slope was so good an example.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said he, \"the bishop will prefer a new man at the\nhospital?\"\n\n\"By no means,\" said Mr. Slope. \"The bishop is very anxious that you\nshould accept the appointment, but he wishes you should understand\nbeforehand what will be the required duties. In the first place, a\nSabbath-day school will be attached to the hospital.\"\n\n\"What! For the old men?\" asked Mr. Harding.\n\n\"No, Mr. Harding, not for the old men, but for the benefit of the\nchildren of such of the poor of Barchester as it may suit. The\nbishop will expect that you shall attend this school, and that the\nteachers shall be under your inspection and care.\"\n\nMr. Harding slipped his topmost hand off the other and began to rub\nthe calf of the leg which was supported.\n\n\"As to the old men,\" continued Mr. Slope, \"and the old women who are\nto form a part of the hospital, the bishop is desirous that you shall\nhave morning and evening service on the premises every Sabbath, and\none weekday service; that you shall preach to them once at least on\nSundays; and that the whole hospital be always collected for morning\nand evening prayer. The bishop thinks that this will render it\nunnecessary that any separate seats in the cathedral should be\nreserved for the hospital inmates.\"\n\nMr. Slope paused, but Mr. Harding still said nothing.\n\n\"Indeed, it would be difficult to find seats for the women; on the\nwhole, Mr. Harding, I may as well say at once, that for people of\nthat class the cathedral service does not appear to me the most\nuseful--even if it be so for any class of people.\"\n\n\"We will not discuss that, if you please,\" said Mr. Harding.\n\n\"I am not desirous of doing so; at least, not at the present moment.\nI hope, however, you fully understand the bishop's wishes about the\nnew establishment of the hospital; and if, as I do not doubt, I shall\nreceive from you an assurance that you accord with his lordship's\nviews, it will give me very great pleasure to be the bearer from his\nlordship to you of the presentation to the appointment.\"\n\n\"But if I disagree with his lordship's views?\" asked Mr. Harding.\n\n\"But I hope you do not,\" said Mr. Slope.\n\n\"But if I do?\" again asked the other.\n\n\"If such unfortunately should be the case, which I can hardly\nconceive, I presume your own feelings will dictate to you the\npropriety of declining the appointment.\"\n\n\"But if I accept the appointment and yet disagree with the bishop,\nwhat then?\"\n\nThis question rather bothered Mr. Slope. It was true that he had\ntalked the matter over with the bishop and had received a sort of\nauthority for suggesting to Mr. Harding the propriety of a Sunday\nschool and certain hospital services, but he had no authority for\nsaying that these propositions were to be made peremptory conditions\nattached to the appointment. The bishop's idea had been that Mr.\nHarding would of course consent and that the school would become,\nlike the rest of those new establishments in the city, under the\ncontrol of his wife and his chaplain. Mr. Slope's idea had been more\ncorrect. He intended that Mr. Harding should refuse the situation,\nand that an ally of his own should get it, but he had not conceived\nthe possibility of Mr. Harding openly accepting the appointment and\nas openly rejecting the conditions.\n\n\"It is not, I presume, probable,\" said he, \"that you will accept\nfrom the hands of the bishop a piece of preferment with a fixed\npredetermination to disacknowledge the duties attached to it.\"\n\n\"If I become warden,\" said Mr. Harding, \"and neglect my duty, the\nbishop has means by which he can remedy the grievance.\"\n\n\"I hardly expected such an argument from you, or I may say the\nsuggestion of such a line of conduct,\" said Mr. Slope with a great\nlook of injured virtue.\n\n\"Nor did I expect such a proposition.\"\n\n\"I shall be glad at any rate to know what answer I am to make to his\nlordship,\" said Mr. Slope.\n\n\"I will take an early opportunity of seeing his lordship myself,\"\nsaid Mr. Harding.\n\n\"Such an arrangement,\" said Mr. Slope, \"will hardly give his lordship\nsatisfaction. Indeed, it is impossible that the bishop should\nhimself see every clergyman in the diocese on every subject of\npatronage that may arise. The bishop, I believe, did see you on the\nmatter, and I really cannot see why he should be troubled to do so\nagain.\"\n\n\"Do you know, Mr. Slope, how long I have been officiating as a\nclergyman in this city?\" Mr. Slope's wish was now nearly fulfilled.\nMr. Harding had become angry, and it was probable that he might\ncommit himself.\n\n\"I really do not see what that has to do with the question. You\ncannot think the bishop would be justified in allowing you to regard\nas a sinecure a situation that requires an active, man merely because\nyou have been employed for many years in the cathedral.\"\n\n\"But it might induce the bishop to see me, if I asked him to do so.\nI shall consult my friends in this matter, Mr. Slope; but I mean\nto be guilty of no subterfuge--you may tell the bishop that as I\naltogether disagree with his views about the hospital, I shall\ndecline the situation if I find that any such conditions are attached\nto it as those you have suggested;\" and so saying, Mr. Harding took\nhis hat and went his way.\n\nMr. Slope was contented. He considered himself at liberty to accept\nMr. Harding's last speech as an absolute refusal of the appointment.\nAt least, he so represented it to the bishop and to Mrs. Proudie.\n\n\"That is very surprising,\" said the bishop.\n\n\"Not at all,\" said Mrs. Proudie; \"you little know how determined the\nwhole set of them are to withstand your authority.\"\n\n\"But Mr. Harding was so anxious for it,\" said the bishop.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mr. Slope, \"if he can hold it without the slightest\nacknowledgement of your lordship's jurisdiction.\"\n\n\"That is out of the question,\" said the bishop.\n\n\"I should imagine it to be quite so,\" said the chaplain.\n\n\"Indeed, I should think so,\" said the lady.\n\n\"I really am sorry for it,\" said the bishop.\n\n\"I don't know that there is much cause for sorrow,\" said the lady.\n\"Mr. Quiverful is a much more deserving man, more in need of it, and\none who will make himself much more useful in the close neighbourhood\nof the palace.\"\n\n\"I suppose I had better see Quiverful?\" said the chaplain.\n\n\"I suppose you had,\" said the bishop.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nThe Rubbish Cart\n\n\nMr. Harding was not a happy man as he walked down the palace pathway\nand stepped out into the close. His preferment and pleasant house\nwere a second time gone from him, but that he could endure. He had\nbeen schooled and insulted by a man young enough to be his son, but\nthat he could put up with. He could even draw from the very injuries\nwhich had been inflicted on him some of that consolation which we\nmay believe martyrs always receive from the injustice of their own\nsufferings, and which is generally proportioned in its strength\nto the extent of cruelty with which martyrs are treated. He had\nadmitted to his daughter that he wanted the comfort of his old home,\nand yet he could have returned to his lodgings in the High Street, if\nnot with exaltation, at least with satisfaction, had that been all.\nBut the venom of the chaplain's harangue had worked into his blood,\nand sapped the life of his sweet contentment.\n\n\"New men are carrying out new measures and are carting away the\nuseless rubbish of past centuries!\" What cruel words these had been;\nand how often are they now used with all the heartless cruelty of a\nSlope! A man is sufficiently condemned if it can only be shown that\neither in politics or religion he does not belong to some new school\nestablished within the last score of years. He may then regard\nhimself as rubbish and expect to be carted away. A man is nothing\nnow unless he has within him a full appreciation of the new era, an\nera in which it would seem that neither honesty nor truth is very\ndesirable, but in which success is the only touchstone of merit. We\nmust laugh at everything that is established. Let the joke be ever\nso bad, ever so untrue to the real principles of joking; nevertheless\nwe must laugh--or else beware the cart. We must talk, think, and\nlive up to the spirit of the times, and write up to it too, if\nthat cacoethes be upon us, or else we are nought. New men and new\nmeasures, long credit and few scruples, great success or wonderful\nruin, such are now the tastes of Englishmen who know how to live.\nAlas, alas! Under such circumstances Mr. Harding could not but\nfeel that he was an Englishman who did not know how to live. This\nnew doctrine of Mr. Slope and the rubbish cart, new at least at\nBarchester, sadly disturbed his equanimity.\n\n\"The same thing is going on throughout the whole country! Work is now\nrequired from every man who receives wages!\" And had he been living\nall his life receiving wages and doing no work? Had he in truth so\nlived as to be now in his old age justly reckoned as rubbish fit only\nto be hidden away in some huge dust-hole? The school of men to whom\nhe professes to belong, the Grantlys, the Gwynnes, and the old high\nset of Oxford divines, are afflicted with no such self-accusations as\nthese which troubled Mr. Harding. They, as a rule, are as satisfied\nwith the wisdom and propriety of their own conduct as can be any\nMr. Slope, or any Dr. Proudie, with his own. But unfortunately for\nhimself Mr. Harding had little of this self-reliance. When he heard\nhimself designated as rubbish by the Slopes of the world, he had no\nother resource than to make inquiry within his own bosom as to the\ntruth of the designation. Alas, alas! The evidence seemed generally\nto go against him.\n\nHe had professed to himself in the bishop's parlour that in these\ncoming sources of the sorrow of age, in these fits of sad regret from\nwhich the latter years of few reflecting men can be free, religion\nwould suffice to comfort him. Yes, religion could console him for\nthe loss of any worldly good, but was his religion of that active\nsort which would enable him so to repent of misspent years as to pass\nthose that were left to him in a spirit of hope for the future? And\nsuch repentance itself, is it not a work of agony and of tears? It\nis very easy to talk of repentance, but a man has to walk over hot\nploughshares before he can complete it; to be skinned alive as was\nSt. Bartholomew; to be stuck full of arrows as was St. Sebastian; to\nlie broiling on a gridiron like St. Lorenzo! How if his past life\nrequired such repentance as this? Had he the energy to go through\nwith it?\n\nMr. Harding, after leaving the palace, walked slowly for an hour or\nso beneath the shady elms of the close and then betook himself to his\ndaughter's house. He had at any rate made up his mind that he would\ngo out to Plumstead to consult Dr. Grantly, and that he would in the\nfirst instance tell Eleanor what had occurred.\n\nAnd now he was doomed to undergo another misery. Mr. Slope had\nforestalled him at the widow's house. He had called there on the\npreceding afternoon. He could not, he had said, deny himself the\npleasure of telling Mrs. Bold that her father was about to return to\nthe pretty house at Hiram's Hospital. He had been instructed by the\nbishop to inform Mr. Harding that the appointment would now be made\nat once. The bishop was of course only too happy to be able to be\nthe means of restoring to Mr. Harding the preferment which he had\nso long adorned. And then by degrees Mr. Slope had introduced the\nsubject of the pretty school which he hoped before long to see\nattached to the hospital. He had quite fascinated Mrs. Bold by his\ndescription of this picturesque, useful, and charitable appendage,\nand she had gone so far as to say that she had no doubt her father\nwould approve, and that she herself would gladly undertake a class.\n\nAnyone who had heard the entirely different tone and seen the\nentirely different manner in which Mr. Slope had spoken of this\nprojected institution to the daughter and to the father could not\nhave failed to own that Mr. Slope was a man of genius. He said\nnothing to Mrs. Bold about the hospital sermons and services, nothing\nabout the exclusion of the old men from the cathedral, nothing about\ndilapidation and painting, nothing about carting away the rubbish.\nEleanor had said to herself that certainly she did not like Mr. Slope\npersonally, but that he was a very active, zealous clergyman and\nwould no doubt be useful in Barchester. All this paved the way for\nmuch additional misery to Mr. Harding.\n\nEleanor put on her happiest face as she heard her father on the\nstairs, for she thought she had only to congratulate him; but\ndirectly she saw his face she knew that there was but little matter\nfor congratulation. She had seen him with the same weary look of\nsorrow on one or two occasions before, and remembered it well. She\nhad seen him when he first read that attack upon himself in \"The\nJupiter\" which had ultimately caused him to resign the hospital, and\nshe had seen him also when the archdeacon had persuaded him to remain\nthere against his own sense of propriety and honour. She knew at a\nglance that his spirit was in deep trouble.\n\n\"Oh, Papa, what is it?\" said she, putting down her boy to crawl upon\nthe floor.\n\n\"I came to tell you, my dear,\" said he, \"that I am going out to\nPlumstead: you won't come with me, I suppose?\"\n\n\"To Plumstead, Papa? Shall you stay there?\"\n\n\"I suppose I shall, to-night: I must consult the archdeacon about\nthis weary hospital. Ah me! I wish I had never thought of it\nagain.\"\n\n\"Why, Papa, what is the matter?\"\n\n\"I've been with Mr. Slope, my dear, and he isn't the pleasantest\ncompanion in the world, at least not to me.\" Eleanor gave a sort of\nhalf-blush, but she was wrong if she imagined that her father in any\nway alluded to her acquaintance with Mr. Slope.\n\n\"Well, Papa.\"\n\n\"He wants to turn the hospital into a Sunday-school and a\npreaching-house, and I suppose he will have his way. I do not feel\nmyself adapted for such an establishment, and therefore, I suppose,\nI must refuse the appointment.\"\n\n\"What would be the harm of the school, Papa?\"\n\n\"The want of a proper schoolmaster, my dear.\"\n\n\"But that would of course be supplied.\"\n\n\"Mr. Slope wishes to supply it by making me his schoolmaster. But as\nI am hardly fit for such work, I intend to decline.\"\n\n\"Oh, Papa! Mr. Slope doesn't intend that. He was here yesterday, and\nwhat he intends--\"\n\n\"He was here yesterday, was he?\" asked Mr. Harding.\n\n\"Yes, Papa.\"\n\n\"And talking about the hospital?\"\n\n\"He was saying how glad he would be, and the bishop too, to see you\nback there again. And then he spoke about the Sunday-school; and to\ntell the truth I agreed with him; and I thought you would have done\nso too. Mr. Slope spoke of a school, not inside the hospital, but\njust connected with it, of which you would be the patron and visitor;\nand I thought you would have liked such a school as that; and I\npromised to look after it and to take a class--and it all seemed so\nvery--. But, oh, Papa! I shall be so miserable if I find I have\ndone wrong.\"\n\n\"Nothing wrong at all, my dear,\" said he gently, very gently\nrejecting his daughter's caress. \"There can be nothing wrong in your\nwishing to make yourself useful; indeed, you ought to do so by all\nmeans. Everyone must now exert himself who would not choose to go to\nthe wall.\" Poor Mr. Harding thus attempted in his misery to preach\nthe new doctrine to his child. \"Himself or herself, it's all the\nsame,\" he continued; \"you will be quite right, my dear, to do\nsomething of this sort; but--\"\n\n\"Well, Papa.\"\n\n\"I am not quite sure that if I were you I would select Mr. Slope for\nmy guide.\"\n\n\"But I never have done so and never shall.\"\n\n\"It would be very wicked of me to speak evil of him, for to tell\nthe truth I know no evil of him; but I am not quite sure that he is\nhonest. That he is not gentlemanlike in his manners, of that I am\nquite sure.\"\n\n\"I never thought of taking him for my guide, Papa.\"\n\n\"As for myself, my dear,\" continued he, \"we know the old\nproverb--'It's bad teaching an old dog tricks.' I must decline the\nSunday-school, and shall therefore probably decline the hospital also.\nBut I will first see your brother-in-law.\" So he took up his hat,\nkissed the baby, and withdrew, leaving Eleanor in as low spirits as\nhimself.\n\nAll this was a great aggravation to his misery. He had so few with\nwhom to sympathize that he could not afford to be cut off from the\none whose sympathy was of the most value to him. And yet it seemed\nprobable that this would be the case. He did not own to himself that\nhe wished his daughter to hate Mr. Slope, yet had she expressed such\na feeling there would have been very little bitterness in the rebuke\nhe would have given her for so uncharitable a state of mind. The\nfact, however, was that she was on friendly terms with Mr. Slope,\nthat she coincided with his views, adhered at once to his plans, and\nlistened with delight to his teaching. Mr. Harding hardly wished his\ndaughter to hate the man, but he would have preferred that to her\nloving him.\n\nHe walked away to the inn to order a fly, went home to put up his\ncarpet-bag, and then started for Plumstead. There was, at any rate,\nno danger that the archdeacon would fraternize with Mr. Slope;\nbut then he would recommend internecine war, public appeals, loud\nreproaches, and all the paraphernalia of open battle. Now that\nalternative was hardly more to Mr. Harding's taste than the other.\n\nWhen Mr. Harding reached the parsonage, he found that the archdeacon\nwas out, and would not be home till dinnertime, so he began his\ncomplaint to his elder daughter. Mrs. Grantly entertained quite as\nstrong an antagonism to Mr. Slope as did her husband; she was also\nquite as alive to the necessity of combating the Proudie faction, of\nsupporting the old church interest of the close, of keeping in her\nown set such of the loaves and fishes as duly belonged to it; and\nwas quite as well prepared as her lord to carry on the battle\nwithout giving or taking quarter. Not that she was a woman prone\nto quarrelling, or ill-inclined to live at peace with her clerical\nneighbours; but she felt, as did the archdeacon, that the presence\nof Mr. Slope in Barchester was an insult to everyone connected with\nthe late bishop, and that his assumed dominion in the diocese was a\nspiritual injury to her husband. Hitherto people had little guessed\nhow bitter Mrs. Grantly could be. She lived on the best of terms\nwith all the rectors' wives around her. She had been popular with\nall the ladies connected with the close. Though much the wealthiest\nof the ecclesiastical matrons of the county, she had so managed her\naffairs that her carriage and horses had given umbrage to none. She\nhad never thrown herself among the county grandees so as to excite\nthe envy of other clergymen's wives. She never talked too loudly of\nearls and countesses, or boasted that she gave her governess sixty\npounds a year, or her cook seventy. Mrs. Grantly had lived the life\nof a wise, discreet, peace-making woman, and the people of Barchester\nwere surprised at the amount of military vigour she displayed as\ngeneral of the feminine Grantlyite forces.\n\nMrs. Grantly soon learned that her sister Eleanor had promised to\nassist Mr. Slope in the affairs of the hospital school, and it was on\nthis point that her attention first fixed itself.\n\n\"How can Eleanor endure him?\" said she.\n\n\"He is a very crafty man,\" said her father, \"and his craft has been\nsuccessful in making Eleanor think that he is a meek, charitable,\ngood clergyman. God forgive me, if I wrong him, but such is not his\ntrue character in my opinion.\"\n\n\"His true character, indeed!\" said she, with something approaching\nscorn for her father's moderation. \"I only hope he won't have craft\nenough to make Eleanor forget herself and her position.\"\n\n\"Do you mean marry him?\" said he, startled out of his usual demeanour\nby the abruptness and horror of so dreadful a proposition.\n\n\"What is there so improbable in it? Of course that would be his own\nobject if he thought he had any chance of success. Eleanor has a\nthousand a year entirely at her own disposal, and what better fortune\ncould fall to Mr. Slope's lot than the transferring of the disposal\nof such a fortune to himself?\"\n\n\"But you can't think she likes him, Susan?\"\n\n\"Why not?\" said Susan. \"Why shouldn't she like him? He's just the\nsort of man to get on with a woman left, as she is, with no one to\nlook after her.\"\n\n\"Look after her!\" said the unhappy father; \"don't we look after her?\"\n\n\"Ah, Papa, how innocent you are! Of course it was to be expected\nthat Eleanor should marry again. I should be the last to advise her\nagainst it, if she would only wait the proper time, and then marry at\nleast a gentleman.\"\n\n\"But you don't really mean to say that you suppose Eleanor has ever\nthought of marrying Mr. Slope? Why, Mr. Bold has only been dead a\nyear.\"\n\n\"Eighteen months,\" said his daughter. \"But I don't suppose Eleanor\nhas ever thought about it. It is very probable, though, that he has;\nand that he will try and make her do so; and that he will succeed\ntoo, if we don't take care what we are about.\"\n\nThis was quite a new phase of the affair to poor Mr. Harding. To have\nthrust upon him as his son-in-law, as the husband of his favourite\nchild, the only man in the world whom he really positively disliked,\nwould be a misfortune which he felt he would not know how to endure\npatiently. But then, could there be any ground for so dreadful a\nsurmise? In all worldly matters he was apt to look upon the opinion\nof his eldest daughter as one generally sound and trustworthy. In her\nappreciation of character, of motives, and the probable conduct both of\nmen and women, she was usually not far wrong. She had early foreseen\nthe marriage of Eleanor and John Bold; she had at a glance deciphered\nthe character of the new bishop and his chaplain; could it possibly be\nthat her present surmise should ever come forth as true?\n\n\"But you don't think that she likes him?\" said Mr. Harding again.\n\n\"Well, Papa, I can't say that I think she dislikes him as she ought\nto do. Why is he visiting there as a confidential friend, when he\nnever ought to have been admitted inside the house? Why is it that\nshe speaks to him about your welfare and your position, as she clearly\nhas done? At the bishop's party the other night I saw her talking to\nhim for half an hour at the stretch.\"\n\n\"I thought Mr. Slope seemed to talk to nobody there but that daughter\nof Stanhope's,\" said Mr. Harding, wishing to defend his child.\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Slope is a cleverer man than you think of, Papa, and keeps\nmore than one iron in the fire.\"\n\nTo give Eleanor her due, any suspicion as to the slightest\ninclination on her part towards Mr. Slope was a wrong to her. She\nhad no more idea of marrying Mr. Slope than she had of marrying\nthe bishop, and the idea that Mr. Slope would present himself as a\nsuitor had never occurred to her. Indeed, to give her her due again,\nshe had never thought about suitors since her husband's death. But\nnevertheless it was true that she had overcome all that repugnance to\nthe man which was so strongly felt for him by the rest of the Grantly\nfaction. She had forgiven him his sermon. She had forgiven him\nhis Low Church tendencies, his Sabbath-schools, and puritanical\nobservances. She had forgiven his pharisaical arrogance, and even his\ngreasy face and oily, vulgar manners. Having agreed to overlook such\noffences as these, why should she not in time be taught to regard Mr.\nSlope as a suitor?\n\nAnd as to him, it must also be affirmed that he was hitherto equally\ninnocent of the crime imputed to him. How it had come to pass that a\nman whose eyes were generally so widely open to everything around him\nhad not perceived that this young widow was rich as well as beautiful,\ncannot probably now be explained. But such was the fact. Mr. Slope\nhad ingratiated himself with Mrs. Bold, merely as he had done\nwith other ladies, in order to strengthen his party in the city.\nHe subsequently amended his error, but it was not till after the\ninterview between him and Mr. Harding.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nThe New Champion\n\n\nThe archdeacon did not return to the parsonage till close upon the\nhour of dinner, and there was therefore no time to discuss matters\nbefore that important ceremony. He seemed to be in an especial\ngood humour, and welcomed his father-in-law with a sort of jovial\nearnestness that was usual with him when things on which he was\nintent were going on as he would have them.\n\n\"It's all settled, my dear,\" said he to his wife as he washed his\nhands in his dressing-room, while she, according to her wont, sat\nlistening in the bedroom; \"Arabin has agreed to accept the living.\nHe'll be here next week.\" And the archdeacon scrubbed his hands and\nrubbed his face with a violent alacrity, which showed that Arabin's\ncoming was a great point gained.\n\n\"Will he come here to Plumstead?\" said the wife.\n\n\"He has promised to stay a month with us,\" said the archdeacon,\n\"so that he may see what his parish is like. You'll like Arabin very\nmuch. He's a gentleman in every respect, and full of humour.\"\n\n\"He's very queer, isn't he?\" asked the lady.\n\n\"Well--he is a little odd in some of his fancies, but there's nothing\nabout him you won't like. He is as staunch a churchman as there is\nat Oxford. I really don't know what we should do without Arabin.\nIt's a great thing for me to have him so near me, and if anything can\nput Slope down, Arabin will do it.\"\n\nThe Reverend Francis Arabin was a fellow of Lazarus, the favoured\ndisciple of the great Dr. Gwynne, a High Churchman at all points--so\nhigh, indeed, that at one period of his career he had all but toppled\nover into the cesspool of Rome--a poet and also a polemical writer,\na great pet in the common-rooms at Oxford, an eloquent clergyman,\na droll, odd, humorous, energetic, conscientious man, and, as the\narchdeacon had boasted of him, a thorough gentleman. As he will\nhereafter be brought more closely to our notice, it is now only\nnecessary to add that he had just been presented to the vicarage of\nSt. Ewold by Dr. Grantly, in whose gift as archdeacon the living lay.\nSt. Ewold is a parish lying just without the city of Barchester. The\nsuburbs of the new town, indeed, are partly within its precincts, and\nthe pretty church and parsonage are not much above a mile distant\nfrom the city gate.\n\nSt. Ewold is not a rich piece of preferment--it is worth some three\nor four hundred a year at most, and has generally been held by a\nclergyman attached to the cathedral choir. The archdeacon, however,\nfelt, when the living on this occasion became vacant, that it\nimperatively behoved him to aid the force of his party with some\ntower of strength, if any such tower could be got to occupy St.\nEwold's. He had discussed the matter with his brethren in Barchester,\nnot in any weak spirit as the holder of patronage to be used for his\nown or his family's benefit, but as one to whom was committed a trust\non the due administration of which much of the church's welfare might\ndepend. He had submitted to them the name of Mr. Arabin, as though the\nchoice had rested with them all in conclave, and they had unanimously\nadmitted that, if Mr. Arabin would accept St. Ewold's, no better\nchoice could possibly be made.\n\nIf Mr. Arabin would accept St. Ewold's! There lay the difficulty.\nMr. Arabin was a man standing somewhat prominently before the world,\nthat is, before the Church of England world. He was not a rich man,\nit is true, for he held no preferment but his fellowship; but he was\na man not over-anxious for riches, not married of course, and one\nwhose time was greatly taken up in discussing, both in print and on\nplatforms, the privileges and practices of the church to which he\nbelonged. As the archdeacon had done battle for its temporalities,\nso did Mr. Arabin do battle for its spiritualities, and both had done\nso conscientiously; that is, not so much each for his own benefit as\nfor that of others.\n\nHolding such a position as Mr. Arabin did, there was much reason to\ndoubt whether he would consent to become the parson of St. Ewold's,\nand Dr. Grantly had taken the trouble to go himself to Oxford on\nthe matter. Dr. Gwynne and Dr. Grantly together had succeeded\nin persuading this eminent divine that duty required him to go\nto Barchester. There were wheels within wheels in this affair.\nFor some time past Mr. Arabin had been engaged in a tremendous\ncontroversy with no less a person than Mr. Slope, respecting the\napostolic succession. These two gentlemen had never seen each\nother, but they had been extremely bitter in print. Mr. Slope had\nendeavoured to strengthen his cause by calling Mr. Arabin an owl, and\nMr. Arabin had retaliated by hinting that Mr. Slope was an infidel.\nThis battle had been commenced in the columns of \"The Jupiter,\"\na powerful newspaper, the manager of which was very friendly to\nMr. Slope's view of the case. The matter, however, had become\ntoo tedious for the readers of \"The Jupiter,\" and a little note\nhad therefore been appended to one of Mr. Slope's most telling\nrejoinders, in which it had been stated that no further letters from\nthe reverend gentlemen could be inserted except as advertisements.\n\nOther methods of publication were, however, found, less expensive\nthan advertisements in \"The Jupiter,\" and the war went on merrily. Mr.\nSlope declared that the main part of the consecration of a clergyman\nwas the self-devotion of the inner man to the duties of the ministry.\nMr. Arabin contended that a man was not consecrated at all, had,\nindeed, no single attribute of a clergyman, unless he became so\nthrough the imposition of some bishop's hands, who had become a\nbishop through the imposition of other hands, and so on in a direct\nline to one of the apostles. Each had repeatedly hung the other on\nthe horns of a dilemma, but neither seemed to be a whit the worse for\nthe hanging; and so the war went on merrily.\n\nWhether or no the near neighbourhood of the foe may have acted in any\nway as an inducement to Mr. Arabin to accept the living of St. Ewold,\nwe will not pretend to say; but it had at any rate been settled in\nDr. Gwynne's library, at Lazarus, that he would accept it, and that he\nwould lend his assistance towards driving the enemy out of Barchester,\nor, at any rate, silencing him while he remained there. Mr. Arabin\nintended to keep his rooms at Oxford and to have the assistance of a\ncurate at St. Ewold, but he promised to give as much time as possible\nto the neighbourhood of Barchester, and from so great a man Dr. Grantly\nwas quite satisfied with such a promise. It was no small part of the\nsatisfaction derivable from such an arrangement that Bishop Proudie\nwould be forced to institute into a living immediately under his own\nnose the enemy of his favourite chaplain.\n\nAll through dinner the archdeacon's good humour shone brightly in\nhis face. He ate of the good things heartily, he drank wine with his\nwife and daughter, he talked pleasantly of his doings at Oxford, told\nhis father-in-law that he ought to visit Dr. Gwynne at Lazarus, and\nlaunched out again in praise of Mr. Arabin.\n\n\"Is Mr. Arabin married, Papa?\" asked Griselda.\n\n\"No, my dear, the fellow of a college is never married.\"\n\n\"Is he a young man, Papa?\"\n\n\"About forty, I believe,\" said the archdeacon.\n\n\"Oh!\" said Griselda. Had her father said eighty, Mr. Arabin would\nnot have appeared to her to be very much older.\n\nWhen the two gentlemen were left alone over their wine, Mr. Harding\ntold his tale of woe. But even this, sad as it was, did not much\ndiminish the archdeacon's good humour, though it greatly added to his\npugnacity.\n\n\"He can't do it,\" said Dr. Grantly over and over again, as his\nfather-in-law explained to him the terms on which the new warden of\nthe hospital was to be appointed; \"he can't do it. What he says is not\nworth the trouble of listening to. He can't alter the duties of the\nplace.\"\n\n\"Who can't?\" asked the ex-warden.\n\n\"Neither the bishop nor the chaplain, nor yet the bishop's wife, who,\nI take it, has really more to say to such matters than either of the\nother two. The whole body corporate of the palace together have no\npower to turn the warden of the hospital into a Sunday-schoolmaster.\"\n\n\"But the bishop has the power to appoint whom he pleases, and--\"\n\n\"I don't know that; I rather think he'll find he has no such power.\nLet him try it, and see what the press will say. For once we shall\nhave the popular cry on our side. But Proudie, ass as he is, knows\nthe world too well to get such a hornet's nest about his ears.\"\n\nMr. Harding winced at the idea of the press. He had had enough of\nthat sort of publicity, and was unwilling to be shown up a second\ntime either as a monster or as a martyr. He gently remarked that he\nhoped the newspapers would not get hold of his name again, and then\nsuggested that perhaps it would be better that he should abandon his\nobject. \"I am getting old,\" said he, \"and after all I doubt whether\nI am fit to undertake new duties.\"\n\n\"New duties?\" said the archdeacon; \"don't I tell you there shall be\nno new duties?\"\n\n\"Or perhaps old duties either,\" said Mr. Harding; \"I think I will\nremain content as I am.\" The picture of Mr. Slope carting away the\nrubbish was still present to his mind.\n\nThe archdeacon drank off his glass of claret and prepared himself to\nbe energetic. \"I do hope,\" said he, \"that you are not going to be so\nweak as to allow such a man as Mr. Slope to deter you from doing what\nyou know it is your duty to do. You know it is your duty to resume\nyour place at the hospital now that parliament has so settled the\nstipend as to remove those difficulties which induced you to resign\nit. You cannot deny this, and should your timidity now prevent you\nfrom doing so, your conscience will hereafter never forgive you,\" and\nas he finished this clause of his speech, he pushed over the bottle\nto his companion.\n\n\"Your conscience will never forgive you,\" he continued. \"You resigned\nthe place from conscientious scruples, scruples which I greatly\nrespected, though I did not share them. All your friends respected\nthem, and you left your old house as rich in reputation as you were\nruined in fortune. It is now expected that you will return. Dr. Gwynne\nwas saying only the other day--\"\n\n\"Dr. Gwynne does not reflect how much older a man I am now than when\nhe last saw me.\"\n\n\"Old--nonsense,\" said the archdeacon; \"you never thought yourself old\ntill you listened to the impudent trash of that coxcomb at the\npalace.\"\n\n\"I shall be sixty-five if I live till November,\" said Mr. Harding.\n\n\"And seventy-five, if you live till November ten years,\" said the\narchdeacon. \"And you bid fair to be as efficient then as you were\nten years ago. But for heaven's sake let us have no pretence in this\nmatter. Your plea of old age is a pretence. But you're not drinking\nyour wine. It is only a pretence. The fact is, you are half-afraid\nof this Slope, and would rather subject yourself to comparative\npoverty and discomfort than come to blows with a man who will trample\non you, if you let him.\"\n\n\"I certainly don't like coming to blows, if I can help it.\"\n\n\"Nor I neither--but sometimes we can't help it. This man's object is\nto induce you to refuse the hospital, that he may put some creature\nof his own into it; that he may show his power and insult us all by\ninsulting you, whose cause and character are so intimately bound up\nwith that of the chapter. You owe it to us all to resist him in this,\neven if you have no solicitude for yourself. But surely, for your own\nsake, you will not be so lily-livered as to fall into this trap which\nhe has baited for you and let him take the very bread out of your\nmouth without a struggle.\"\n\nMr. Harding did not like being called lily-livered, and was rather\ninclined to resent it. \"I doubt there is any true courage,\" said he,\n\"in squabbling for money.\"\n\n\"If honest men did not squabble for money, in this wicked world of\nours, the dishonest men would get it all, and I do not see that the\ncause of virtue would be much improved. No--we must use the means\nwhich we have. If we were to carry your argument home, we might give\naway every shilling of revenue which the church has, and I presume\nyou are not prepared to say that the church would be strengthened by\nsuch a sacrifice.\" The archdeacon filled his glass and then emptied\nit, drinking with much reverence a silent toast to the well-being and\npermanent security of those temporalities which were so dear to his\nsoul.\n\n\"I think all quarrels between a clergyman and his bishop should be\navoided,\" said Mr. Harding.\n\n\"I think so too, but it is quite as much the duty of the bishop to\nlook to that as of his inferior. I tell you what, my friend; I'll\nsee the bishop in this matter--that is, if you will allow me--and you\nmay be sure I will not compromise you. My opinion is that all this\ntrash about the Sunday-schools and the sermons has originated wholly\nwith Slope and Mrs. Proudie, and that the bishop knows nothing about\nit. The bishop can't very well refuse to see me, and I'll come upon\nhim when he has neither his wife nor his chaplain by him. I think\nyou'll find that it will end in his sending you the appointment\nwithout any condition whatever. And as to the seats in the cathedral,\nwe may safely leave that to Mr. Dean. I believe the fool positively\nthinks that the bishop could walk away with the cathedral if he\npleased.\"\n\nAnd so the matter was arranged between them. Mr. Harding had come\nexpressly for advice, and therefore felt himself bound to take\nthe advice given him. He had known, moreover, beforehand that\nthe archdeacon would not hear of his giving the matter up, and\naccordingly, though he had in perfect good faith put forward his own\nviews, he was prepared to yield.\n\nThey therefore went into the drawing-room in good humour with each\nother, and the evening passed pleasantly in prophetic discussions on\nthe future wars of Arabin and Slope. The frogs and the mice would be\nnothing to them, nor the angers of Agamemnon and Achilles. How the\narchdeacon rubbed his hands and plumed himself on the success of his\nlast move. He could not himself descend into the arena with Slope,\nbut Arabin would have no such scruples. Arabin was exactly the man\nfor such work, and the only man whom he knew that was fit for it.\n\nThe archdeacon's good humour and high buoyancy continued till, when\nreclining on his pillow, Mrs. Grantly commenced to give him her view\nof the state of affairs at Barchester. And then certainly he was\nstartled. The last words he said that night were as follows:\n\n\"If she does, by heaven I'll never speak to her again. She dragged\nme into the mire once, but I'll not pollute myself with such filth\nas that--\" And the archdeacon gave a shudder which shook the whole\nroom, so violently was he convulsed with the thought which then\nagitated his mind.\n\nNow in this matter the widow Bold was scandalously ill-treated by her\nrelatives. She had spoken to the man three or four times, and had\nexpressed her willingness to teach in a Sunday-school. Such was the\nfull extent of her sins in the matter of Mr. Slope. Poor Eleanor!\nBut time will show.\n\nThe next morning Mr. Harding returned to Barchester, no further word\nhaving been spoken in his hearing respecting Mr. Slope's acquaintance\nwith his younger daughter. But he observed that the archdeacon at\nbreakfast was less cordial than he had been on the preceding evening.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nThe Widow's Suitors\n\n\nMr. Slope lost no time in availing himself of the bishop's permission\nto see Mr. Quiverful, and it was in his interview with this worthy\npastor that he first learned that Mrs. Bold was worth the wooing.\nHe rode out to Puddingdale to communicate to the embryo warden the\ngoodwill of the bishop in his favour, and during the discussion on\nthe matter it was not unnatural that the pecuniary resources of Mr.\nHarding and his family should become the subject of remark.\n\nMr. Quiverful, with his fourteen children and his four hundred a year,\nwas a very poor man, and the prospect of this new preferment, which\nwas to be held together with his living, was very grateful to him.\nTo what clergyman so circumstanced would not such a prospect be very\ngrateful? But Mr. Quiverful had long been acquainted with Mr. Harding,\nand had received kindness at his hands, so that his heart misgave him\nas he thought of supplanting a friend at the hospital. Nevertheless,\nhe was extremely civil, cringingly civil, to Mr. Slope; treated him\nquite as the great man; entreated this great man to do him the honour\nto drink a glass of sherry, at which, as it was very poor Marsala,\nthe now pampered Slope turned up his nose; and ended by declaring his\nextreme obligation to the bishop and Mr. Slope and his great desire\nto accept the hospital, if--if it were certainly the case that Mr.\nHarding had refused it.\n\nWhat man as needy as Mr. Quiverful would have been more\ndisinterested?\n\n\"Mr. Harding did positively refuse it,\" said Mr. Slope with a certain\nair of offended dignity, \"when he heard of the conditions to which\nthe appointment is now subjected. Of course you understand, Mr.\nQuiverful, that the same conditions will be imposed on yourself.\"\n\nMr. Quiverful cared nothing for the conditions. He would have\nundertaken to preach any number of sermons Mr. Slope might have\nchosen to dictate, and to pass every remaining hour of his Sundays\nwithin the walls of a Sunday-school. What sacrifices, or at any\nrate, what promises would have been too much to make for such an\naddition to his income, and for such a house! But his mind still\nrecurred to Mr. Harding.\n\n\"To be sure,\" said he; \"Mr. Harding's daughter is very rich, and why\nshould he trouble himself with the hospital?\"\n\n\"You mean Mrs. Grantly,\" said Slope.\n\n\"I meant his widowed daughter,\" said the other. \"Mrs. Bold has twelve\nhundred a year of her own, and I suppose Mr. Harding means to live\nwith her.\"\n\n\"Twelve hundred a year of her own!\" said Slope, and very shortly\nafterwards took his leave, avoiding, as far as it was possible for\nhim to do, any further allusion to the hospital. \"Twelve hundred a\nyear!\" said he to himself as he rode slowly home. If it were the fact\nthat Mrs. Bold had twelve hundred a year of her own, what a fool\nwould he be to oppose her father's return to his old place. The\ntrain of Mr. Slope's ideas will probably be plain to all my readers.\nWhy should he not make the twelve hundred a year his own? And if\nhe did so, would it not be well for him to have a father-in-law\ncomfortably provided with the good things of this world? Would it\nnot, moreover, be much more easy for him to gain the daughter if he\ndid all in his power to forward the father's views?\n\nThese questions presented themselves to him in a very forcible way,\nand yet there were many points of doubt. If he resolved to restore\nto Mr. Harding his former place, he must take the necessary steps for\ndoing so at once; he must immediately talk over the bishop, quarrel\non the matter with Mrs. Proudie, whom he knew he could not talk over,\nand let Mr. Quiverful know that he had been a little too precipitate\nas to Mr. Harding's positive refusal. That he could effect all this\nhe did not doubt, but he did not wish to effect it for nothing. He\ndid not wish to give way to Mr. Harding and then be rejected by the\ndaughter. He did not wish to lose one influential friend before he\nhad gained another.\n\nAnd thus he rode home, meditating many things in his mind. It\noccurred to him that Mrs. Bold was sister-in-law to the archdeacon,\nand that not even for twelve hundred a year would he submit to that\nimperious man. A rich wife was a great desideratum to him, but\nsuccess in his profession was still greater; there were, moreover,\nother rich women who might be willing to become wives; and after all,\nthis twelve hundred a year might, when inquired into, melt away into\nsome small sum utterly beneath his notice. Then also he remembered\nthat Mrs. Bold had a son.\n\nAnother circumstance also much influenced him, though it was one\nwhich may almost be said to have influenced him against his will.\nThe vision of the Signora Neroni was perpetually before his eyes.\nIt would be too much to say that Mr. Slope was lost in love, but\nyet he thought, and kept continually thinking, that he had never\nseen so beautiful a woman. He was a man whose nature was open to\nsuch impulses, and the wiles of the Italianized charmer had been\nthoroughly successful in imposing upon his thoughts. We will not\ntalk about his heart: not that he had no heart, but because his\nheart had little to do with his present feelings. His taste had been\npleased, his eyes charmed, and his vanity gratified. He had been\ndazzled by a sort of loveliness which he had never before seen,\nand had been caught by an easy, free, voluptuous manner which was\nperfectly new to him. He had never been so tempted before, and the\ntemptation was now irresistible. He had not owned to himself that\nhe cared for this woman more than for others around him, but yet\nhe thought often of the time when he might see her next, and made,\nalmost unconsciously, little cunning plans for seeing her frequently.\n\nHe had called at Dr. Stanhope's house the day after the bishop's\nparty, and then the warmth of his admiration had been fed with fresh\nfuel. If the signora had been kind in her manner and flattering in\nher speech when lying upon the bishop's sofa, with the eyes of so\nmany on her, she had been much more so in her mother's drawing-room,\nwith no one present but her sister to repress either her nature or\nher art. Mr. Slope had thus left her quite bewildered, and could not\nwillingly admit into his brain any scheme a part of which would be\nthe necessity of his abandoning all further special friendship with\nthis lady.\n\nAnd so he slowly rode along, very meditative.\n\nAnd here the author must beg it to be remembered that Mr. Slope was\nnot in all things a bad man. His motives, like those of most men,\nwere mixed, and though his conduct was generally very different from\nthat which we would wish to praise, it was actuated perhaps as often\nas that of the majority of the world by a desire to do his duty.\nHe believed in the religion which he taught, harsh, unpalatable,\nuncharitable as that religion was. He believed those whom he wished\nto get under his hoof, the Grantlys and Gwynnes of the church, to be\nthe enemies of that religion. He believed himself to be a pillar of\nstrength, destined to do great things, and with that subtle, selfish,\nambiguous sophistry to which the minds of all men are so subject,\nhe had taught himself to think that in doing much for the promotion\nof his own interests, he was doing much also for the promotion of\nreligion. But Mr. Slope had never been an immoral man. Indeed, he\nhad resisted temptations to immorality with a strength of purpose\nthat was creditable to him. He had early in life devoted himself to\nworks which were not compatible with the ordinary pleasures of youth,\nand he had abandoned such pleasures not without a struggle. It must\ntherefore be conceived that he did not admit to himself that he\nwarmly admired the beauty of a married woman without heart-felt\nstings of conscience; and to pacify that conscience he had to teach\nhimself that the nature of his admiration was innocent.\n\nAnd thus he rode along meditative and ill at ease. His conscience\nhad not a word to say against his choosing the widow and her fortune.\nThat he looked upon as a godly work rather than otherwise; as a\ndeed which, if carried through, would redound to his credit as a\nChristian. On that side lay no future remorse, no conduct which he\nmight probably have to forget, no inward stings. If it should turn\nout to be really the fact that Mrs. Bold had twelve hundred a year at\nher own disposal, Mr. Slope would rather look upon it as a duty which\nhe owed his religion to make himself the master of the wife and the\nmoney; as a duty too, in which some amount of self-sacrifice would be\nnecessary. He would have to give up his friendship with the signora,\nhis resistance to Mr. Harding, his antipathy--no, he found on mature\nself-examination that he could not bring himself to give up his\nantipathy to Dr. Grantly. He would marry the lady as the enemy of\nher brother-in-law if such an arrangement suited her; if not, she\nmust look elsewhere for a husband.\n\nIt was with such resolve as this that he reached Barchester. He\nwould at once ascertain what the truth might be as to the lady's\nwealth, and having done this he would be ruled by circumstances\nin his conduct respecting the hospital. If he found that he could\nturn round and secure the place for Mr. Harding without much\nself-sacrifice, he would do so; but if not, he would woo the\ndaughter in opposition to the father. But in no case would he\nsuccumb to the archdeacon.\n\nHe saw his horse taken round to the stable, and immediately went\nforth to commence his inquiries. To give Mr. Slope his due, he was\nnot a man who ever let much grass grow under his feet.\n\nPoor Eleanor! She was doomed to be the intended victim of more\nschemes than one.\n\nAbout the time that Mr. Slope was visiting the vicar of Puddingdale,\na discussion took place respecting her charms and wealth at Dr.\nStanhope's house in the close. There had been morning callers there,\nand people had told some truth and also some falsehood respecting the\nproperty which John Bold had left behind him. By degrees the visitors\nwent, and as the doctor went with them, and as the doctor's wife had\nnot made her appearance, Charlotte Stanhope and her brother were left\ntogether. He was sitting idly at the table, scrawling caricatures of\nBarchester notables, then yawning, then turning over a book or two,\nand evidently at a loss how to kill his time without much labour.\n\n\"You haven't done much, Bertie, about getting any orders,\" said his\nsister.\n\n\"Orders!\" said he; \"who on earth is there at Barchester to give one\norders? Who among the people here could possibly think it worth his\nwhile to have his head done into marble?\"\n\n\"Then you mean to give up your profession,\" said she.\n\n\"No, I don't,\" said he, going on with some absurd portrait of the\nbishop. \"Look at that, Lotte; isn't it the little man all over,\napron and all? I'd go on with my profession at once, as you call it,\nif the governor would set me up with a studio in London; but as to\nsculpture at Barchester--I suppose half the people here don't know\nwhat a torso means.\"\n\n\"The governor will not give you a shilling to start you in London,\"\nsaid Lotte. \"Indeed, he can't give you what would be sufficient, for\nhe has not got it. But you might start yourself very well, if you\npleased.\"\n\n\"How the deuce am I to do it?\" said he.\n\n\"To tell you the truth, Bertie, you'll never make a penny by any\nprofession.\"\n\n\"That's what I often think myself,\" said he, not in the least\noffended. \"Some men have a great gift of making money, but they\ncan't spend it. Others can't put two shillings together, but they\nhave a great talent for all sorts of outlay. I begin to think that\nmy genius is wholly in the latter line.\"\n\n\"How do you mean to live then?\" asked the sister.\n\n\"I suppose I must regard myself as a young raven and look for\nheavenly manna; besides, we have all got something when the governor\ngoes.\"\n\n\"Yes--you'll have enough to supply yourself with gloves and boots;\nthat is, if the Jews have not got the possession of it all. I\nbelieve they have the most of it already. I wonder, Bertie, at your\nindifference; that you, with your talents and personal advantages,\nshould never try to settle yourself in life. I look forward with\ndread to the time when the governor must go. Mother, and Madeline,\nand I--we shall be poor enough, but you will have absolutely\nnothing.\"\n\n\"Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,\" said Bertie.\n\n\"Will you take my advice?\" said his sister.\n\n\"_Cela dépend_,\" said the brother.\n\n\"Will you marry a wife with money?\"\n\n\"At any rate,\" said he, \"I won't marry one without; wives with money\na'nt so easy to get now-a-days; the parsons pick them all up.\"\n\n\"And a parson will pick up the wife I mean for you, if you do not\nlook quickly about it; the wife I mean is Mrs. Bold.\"\n\n\"Whew-w-w-w!\" whistled Bertie, \"a widow!\"\n\n\"She is very beautiful,\" said Charlotte.\n\n\"With a son and heir all ready to my hand,\" said Bertie.\n\n\"A baby that will very likely die,\" said Charlotte.\n\n\"I don't see that,\" said Bertie. \"But however, he may live for me--I\ndon't wish to kill him; only, it must be owned that a ready-made\nfamily is a drawback.\"\n\n\"There is only one after all,\" pleaded Charlotte.\n\n\"And that a very little one, as the maidservant said,\" rejoined\nBertie.\n\n\"Beggars mustn't be choosers, Bertie; you can't have everything.\"\n\n\"God knows I am not unreasonable,\" said he, \"nor yet opinionated, and\nif you'll arrange it all for me, Lotte, I'll marry the lady. Only\nmark this: the money must be sure, and the income at my own disposal,\nat any rate for the lady's life.\"\n\nCharlotte was explaining to her brother that he must make love for\nhimself if he meant to carry on the matter, and was encouraging him\nto do so by warm eulogiums on Eleanor's beauty, when the signora was\nbrought into the drawing-room. When at home, and subject to the gaze\nof none but her own family, she allowed herself to be dragged about\nby two persons, and her two bearers now deposited her on her sofa.\nShe was not quite so grand in her apparel as she had been at the\nbishop's party, but yet she was dressed with much care, and though\nthere was a look of care and pain about her eyes, she was, even by\ndaylight, extremely beautiful.\n\n\"Well, Madeline, so I'm going to be married,\" Bertie began as soon as\nthe servants had withdrawn.\n\n\"There's no other foolish thing left that you haven't done,\" said\nMadeline, \"and therefore you are quite right to try that.\"\n\n\"Oh, you think it's a foolish thing, do you?\" said he. \"There's\nLotte advising me to marry by all means. But on such a subject your\nopinion ought to be the best; you have experience to guide you.\"\n\n\"Yes, I have,\" said Madeline with a sort of harsh sadness in her\ntone, which seemed to say--\"What is it to you if I am sad? I have\nnever asked your sympathy.\"\n\nBertie was sorry when he saw that she was hurt by what he said, and\nhe came and squatted on the floor close before her face to make his\npeace with her.\n\n\"Come, Mad, I was only joking; you know that. But in sober earnest,\nLotte is advising me to marry. She wants me to marry this Mrs. Bold.\nShe's a widow with lots of tin, a fine baby, a beautiful complexion,\nand the George and Dragon hotel up in the High Street. By Jove,\nLotte, if I marry her, I'll keep the public-house myself--it's just\nthe life to suit me.\"\n\n\"What,\" said Madeline, \"that vapid, swarthy creature in the widow's\ncap, who looked as though her clothes had been stuck on her back with\na pitchfork!\" The signora never allowed any woman to be beautiful.\n\n\"Instead of being vapid,\" said Lotte, \"I call her a very lovely\nwoman. She was by far the loveliest woman in the rooms the other\nnight; that is, excepting you, Madeline.\"\n\nEven the compliment did not soften the asperity of the maimed beauty.\n\"Every woman is charming according to Lotte,\" she said; \"I never knew\nan eye with so little true appreciation. In the first place, what\nwoman on earth could look well in such a thing as that she had on her\nhead.\"\n\n\"Of course she wears a widow's cap, but she'll put that off when\nBertie marries her.\"\n\n\"I don't see any of course in it,\" said Madeline. \"The death of\ntwenty husbands should not make me undergo such a penance. It is as\nmuch a relic of paganism as the sacrifice of a Hindu woman at the\nburning of her husband's body. If not so bloody, it is quite as\nbarbarous, and quite as useless.\"\n\n\"But you don't blame her for that,\" said Bertie. \"She does it\nbecause it's the custom of the country. People would think ill of\nher if she didn't do it.\"\n\n\"Exactly,\" said Madeline. \"She is just one of those English\nnonentities who would tie her head up in a bag for three months every\nsummer, if her mother and her grandmother had tied up their heads\nbefore her. It would never occur to her to think whether there was\nany use in submitting to such a nuisance.\"\n\n\"It's very hard in a country like England, for a young woman to set\nherself in opposition to prejudices of that sort,\" said the prudent\nCharlotte.\n\n\"What you mean is that it's very hard for a fool not to be a fool,\"\nsaid Madeline.\n\nBertie Stanhope had been so much knocked about the world from his\nearliest years that he had not retained much respect for the gravity\nof English customs; but even to his mind an idea presented itself\nthat, perhaps in a wife, true British prejudice would not in the long\nrun be less agreeable than Anglo-Italian freedom from restraint. He\ndid not exactly say so, but he expressed the idea in another way.\n\n\"I fancy,\" said he, \"that if I were to die, and then walk, I should\nthink that my widow looked better in one of those caps than any other\nkind of head-dress.\"\n\n\"Yes--and you'd fancy also that she could do nothing better than shut\nherself up and cry for you, or else burn herself. But she would think\ndifferently. She'd probably wear one of those horrid she-helmets,\nbecause she'd want the courage not to do so; but she'd wear it with a\nheart longing for the time when she might be allowed to throw it off.\nI hate such shallow false pretences. For my part I would let the world\nsay what it pleased, and show no grief if I felt none--and perhaps\nnot, if I did.\"\n\n\"But wearing a widow's cap won't lessen her fortune,\" said Charlotte.\n\n\"Or increase it,\" said Madeline. \"Then why on earth does she do it?\"\n\n\"But Lotte's object is to make her put it off,\" said Bertie.\n\n\"If it be true that she has got twelve hundred a year quite at her\nown disposal, and she be not utterly vulgar in her manners, I would\nadvise you to marry her. I dare say she's to be had for the asking:\nand as you are not going to marry her for love, it doesn't much\nmatter whether she is good-looking or not. As to your really marrying\na woman for love, I don't believe you are fool enough for that.\"\n\n\"Oh, Madeline!\" exclaimed her sister.\n\n\"And oh, Charlotte!\" said the other.\n\n\"You don't mean to say that no man can love a woman unless he be a\nfool?\"\n\n\"I mean very much the same thing--that any man who is willing to\nsacrifice his interest to get possession of a pretty face is a fool.\nPretty faces are to be had cheaper than that. I hate your mawkish\nsentimentality, Lotte. You know as well as I do in what way husbands\nand wives generally live together; you know how far the warmth of\nconjugal affection can withstand the trial of a bad dinner, of a\nrainy day, or of the least privation which poverty brings with it;\nyou know what freedom a man claims for himself, what slavery he\nwould exact from his wife if he could! And you know also how wives\ngenerally obey. Marriage means tyranny on one side and deceit on the\nother. I say that a man is a fool to sacrifice his interests for\nsuch a bargain. A woman, too generally, has no other way of living.\"\n\n\"But Bertie has no other way of living,\" said Charlotte.\n\n\"Then, in God's name, let him marry Mrs. Bold,\" said Madeline. And\nso it was settled between them.\n\nBut let the gentle-hearted reader be under no apprehension\nwhatsoever. It is not destined that Eleanor shall marry Mr. Slope or\nBertie Stanhope. And here perhaps it may be allowed to the novelist\nto explain his views on a very important point in the art of telling\ntales. He ventures to reprobate that system which goes so far to\nviolate all proper confidence between the author and his readers by\nmaintaining nearly to the end of the third volume a mystery as to the\nfate of their favourite personage. Nay, more, and worse than this, is\ntoo frequently done. Have not often the profoundest efforts of genius\nbeen used to baffle the aspirations of the reader, to raise false\nhopes and false fears, and to give rise to expectations which are\nnever to be realized? Are not promises all but made of delightful\nhorrors, in lieu of which the writer produces nothing but most\ncommonplace realities in his final chapter? And is there not a species\nof deceit in this to which the honesty of the present age should lend\nno countenance?\n\nAnd what can be the worth of that solicitude which a peep into the\nthird volume can utterly dissipate? What the value of those literary\ncharms which are absolutely destroyed by their enjoyment? When we\nhave once learnt what was that picture before which was hung Mrs.\nRatcliffe's solemn curtain, we feel no further interest about either\nthe frame or the veil. They are to us merely a receptacle for old\nbones, an inappropriate coffin, which we would wish to have decently\nburied out of our sight.\n\nAnd then how grievous a thing it is to have the pleasure of your\nnovel destroyed by the ill-considered triumph of a previous reader.\n\"Oh, you needn't be alarmed for Augusta; of course she accepts\nGustavus in the end.\" \"How very ill-natured you are, Susan,\" says\nKitty with tears in her eyes: \"I don't care a bit about it now.\"\nDear Kitty, if you will read my book, you may defy the ill-nature of\nyour sister. There shall be no secret that she can tell you. Nay,\ntake the third volume if you please--learn from the last pages all\nthe results of our troubled story, and the story shall have lost none\nof its interest, if indeed there be any interest in it to lose.\n\nOur doctrine is that the author and the reader should move along\ntogether in full confidence with each other. Let the personages\nof the drama undergo ever so complete a comedy of errors among\nthemselves, but let the spectator never mistake the Syracusan for\nthe Ephesian; otherwise he is one of the dupes, and the part of a\ndupe is never dignified.\n\nI would not for the value of this chapter have it believed by a\nsingle reader that my Eleanor could bring herself to marry Mr. Slope,\nor that she should be sacrificed to a Bertie Stanhope. But among the\ngood folk of Barchester many believed both the one and the other.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nBaby Worship\n\n\n\"Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle, dum, dum, dum,\" said or sung Eleanor\nBold.\n\n\"Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle, dum, dum, dum,\" continued Mary Bold,\ntaking up the second part in this concerted piece.\n\nThe only audience at the concert was the baby, who however gave such\nvociferous applause that the performers, presuming it to amount to an\nencore, commenced again.\n\n\"Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle, dum, dum, dum: hasn't he got lovely\nlegs?\" said the rapturous mother.\n\n\"H'm 'm 'm 'm 'm,\" simmered Mary, burying her lips in the little\nfellow's fat neck, by way of kissing him.\n\n\"H'm 'm 'm 'm 'm,\" simmered the mamma, burying her lips also in his\nfat, round, short legs. \"He's a dawty little bold darling, so he is;\nand he has the nicest little pink legs in all the world, so he has;\"\nand the simmering and the kissing went on over again, as though the\nladies were very hungry and determined to eat him.\n\n\"Well, then, he's his own mother's own darling: well, he shall--oh,\noh--Mary, Mary--did you ever see? What am I to do? My naughty,\nnaughty, naughty, naughty little Johnny.\" All these energetic\nexclamations were elicited by the delight of the mother in finding\nthat her son was strong enough and mischievous enough to pull all her\nhair out from under her cap. \"He's been and pulled down all Mamma's\nhair, and he's the naughtiest, naughtiest, naughtiest little man that\never, ever, ever, ever, ever--\"\n\nA regular service of baby worship was going on. Mary Bold was\nsitting on a low easy chair, with the boy in her lap, and Eleanor was\nkneeling before the object of her idolatry. As she tried to cover up\nthe little fellow's face with her long, glossy, dark brown locks, and\npermitted him to pull them hither and thither as he would, she looked\nvery beautiful in spite of the widow's cap which she still wore.\nThere was a quiet, enduring, grateful sweetness about her face which\ngrew so strongly upon those who knew her, as to make the great praise\nof her beauty which came from her old friends appear marvellously\nexaggerated to those who were only slightly acquainted with her.\nHer loveliness was like that of many landscapes, which require to\nbe often seen to be fully enjoyed. There was a depth of dark clear\nbrightness in her eyes which was lost upon a quick observer, a\ncharacter about her mouth which only showed itself to those with\nwhom she familiarly conversed, a glorious form of head the perfect\nsymmetry of which required the eye of an artist for its appreciation.\nShe had none of that dazzling brilliancy, of that voluptuous Rubens\nbeauty, of that pearly whiteness, and those vermilion tints which\nimmediately entranced with the power of a basilisk men who came\nwithin reach of Madeline Neroni. It was all but impossible to resist\nthe signora, but no one was called upon for any resistance towards\nEleanor. You might begin to talk to her as though she were your\nsister, and it would not be till your head was on your pillow that\nthe truth and intensity of her beauty would flash upon you, that the\nsweetness of her voice would come upon your ear. A sudden half-hour\nwith the Neroni was like falling into a pit, an evening spent with\nEleanor like an unexpected ramble in some quiet fields of asphodel.\n\n\"We'll cover him up till there shan't be a morsel of his little\n'ittle 'ittle 'ittle nose to be seen,\" said the mother, stretching\nher streaming locks over the infant's face. The child screamed with\ndelight, and kicked till Mary Bold was hardly able to hold him.\n\nAt this moment the door opened, and Mr. Slope was announced. Up\njumped Eleanor and, with a sudden quick motion of her hands, pushed\nback her hair over her shoulders. It would have been perhaps better\nfor her that she had not, for she thus showed more of her confusion\nthan she would have done had she remained as she was. Mr. Slope,\nhowever, immediately recognized her loveliness and thought to himself\nthat, irrespective of her fortune, she would be an inmate that a man\nmight well desire for his house, a partner for his bosom's care very\nwell qualified to make care lie easy. Eleanor hurried out of the\nroom to readjust her cap, muttering some unnecessary apology about\nher baby. And while she is gone, we will briefly go back and state\nwhat had been hitherto the results of Mr. Slope's meditations on his\nscheme of matrimony.\n\nHis inquiries as to the widow's income had at any rate been so\nfar successful as to induce him to determine to go on with the\nspeculation. As regarded Mr. Harding, he had also resolved to\ndo what he could without injury to himself. To Mrs. Proudie he\ndetermined not to speak on the matter, at least not at present. His\nobject was to instigate a little rebellion on the part of the bishop.\nHe thought that such a state of things would be advisable, not only\nin respect to Messrs. Harding and Quiverful, but also in the affairs\nof the diocese generally. Mr. Slope was by no means of opinion that\nDr. Proudie was fit to rule, but he conscientiously thought it wrong\nthat his brother clergy should be subjected to petticoat government.\nHe therefore made up his mind to infuse a little of his spirit into\nthe bishop, sufficient to induce him to oppose his wife, though not\nenough to make him altogether insubordinate.\n\nHe had therefore taken an opportunity of again speaking to his\nlordship about the hospital, and had endeavoured to make it appear\nthat after all it would be unwise to exclude Mr. Harding from the\nappointment. Mr. Slope, however, had a harder task than he had\nimagined. Mrs. Proudie, anxious to assume to herself as much as\npossible of the merit of patronage, had written to Mrs. Quiverful,\nrequesting her to call at the palace, and had then explained to that\nmatron, with much mystery, condescension, and dignity, the good that\nwas in store for her and her progeny. Indeed, Mrs. Proudie had been\nso engaged at the very time that Mr. Slope had been doing the same\nwith the husband at Puddingdale Vicarage, and had thus in a measure\ncommitted herself. The thanks, the humility, the gratitude, the\nsurprise of Mrs. Quiverful had been very overpowering; she had all\nbut embraced the knees of her patroness, and had promised that the\nprayers of fourteen unprovided babes (so Mrs. Quiverful had described\nher own family, the eldest of which was a stout young woman of\nthree-and-twenty) should be put up to heaven morning and evening for\nthe munificent friend whom God had sent to them. Such incense as this\nwas not unpleasing to Mrs. Proudie, and she made the most of it. She\noffered her general assistance to the fourteen unprovided babes, if,\nas she had no doubt, she should find them worthy; expressed a hope\nthat the eldest of them would be fit to undertake tuition in her\nSabbath-schools; and altogether made herself a very great lady in the\nestimation of Mrs. Quiverful.\n\nHaving done this, she thought it prudent to drop a few words before\nthe bishop, letting him know that she had acquainted the Puddingdale\nfamily with their good fortune; so that he might perceive that he\nstood committed to the appointment. The husband well understood the\nruse of his wife, but he did not resent it. He knew that she was\ntaking the patronage out of his hands; he was resolved to put an end\nto her interference and reassume his powers. But then he thought\nthis was not the best time to do it. He put off the evil hour, as\nmany a man in similar circumstances has done before him.\n\nSuch having been the case, Mr. Slope naturally encountered a\ndifficulty in talking over the bishop, a difficulty indeed which he\nfound could not be overcome except at the cost of a general outbreak\nat the palace. A general outbreak at the present moment might be\ngood policy, but it also might not. It was at any rate not a step\nto be lightly taken. He began by whispering to the bishop that he\nfeared that public opinion would be against him if Mr. Harding did\nnot reappear at the hospital. The bishop answered with some warmth\nthat Mr. Quiverful had been promised the appointment on Mr. Slope's\nadvice. \"Not promised?\" said Mr. Slope. \"Yes, promised,\" replied\nthe bishop, \"and Mrs. Proudie has seen Mrs. Quiverful on the\nsubject.\" This was quite unexpected on the part of Mr. Slope, but\nhis presence of mind did not fail him, and he turned the statement\nto his own account.\n\n\"Ah, my lord,\" said he, \"we shall all be in scrapes if the ladies\ninterfere.\"\n\nThis was too much in unison with my lord's feelings to be altogether\nunpalatable, and yet such an allusion to interference demanded a\nrebuke. My lord was somewhat astounded also, though not altogether\nmade miserable, by finding that there was a point of difference\nbetween his wife and his chaplain.\n\n\"I don't know what you mean by interference,\" said the bishop mildly.\n\"When Mrs. Proudie heard that Mr. Quiverful was to be appointed, it\nwas not unnatural that she should wish to see Mrs. Quiverful about\nthe schools. I really cannot say that I see any interference.\"\n\n\"I only speak, my lord, for your own comfort,\" said Slope; \"for your\nown comfort and dignity in the diocese. I can have no other motive.\nAs far as personal feelings go, Mrs. Proudie is the best friend I\nhave. I must always remember that. But still, in my present position,\nmy first duty is to your lordship.\"\n\n\"I'm sure of that, Mr. Slope; I am quite sure of that;\" said the\nbishop, mollified: \"and you really think that Mr. Harding should have\nthe hospital?\"\n\n\"Upon my word, I'm inclined to think so. I am quite prepared to take\nupon myself the blame of first suggesting Mr. Quiverful's name. But\nsince doing so, I have found that there is so strong a feeling in the\ndiocese in favour of Mr. Harding that I think your lordship should\ngive way. I hear also that Mr. Harding has modified the objections\nhe first felt to your lordship's propositions. And as to what has\npassed between Mrs. Proudie and Mrs. Quiverful, the circumstance may\nbe a little inconvenient, but I really do not think that that should\nweigh in a matter of so much moment.\"\n\nAnd thus the poor bishop was left in a dreadfully undecided step as\nto what he should do. His mind, however, slightly inclined itself to\nthe appointment of Mr. Harding, seeing that by such a step he should\nhave the assistance of Mr. Slope in opposing Mrs. Proudie.\n\nSuch was the state of affairs at the palace, when Mr. Slope called at\nMrs. Bold's house and found her playing with her baby. When she ran\nout of the room, Mr. Slope began praising the weather to Mary Bold,\nthen he praised the baby and kissed him, and then he praised the\nmother, and then he praised Miss Bold herself. Mrs. Bold, however,\nwas not long before she came back.\n\n\"I have to apologize for calling at so very early an hour,\" began Mr.\nSlope, \"but I was really so anxious to speak to you that I hope you\nand Miss Bold will excuse me.\"\n\nEleanor muttered something in which the words \"certainly,\" and\n\"of course,\" and \"not early at all,\" were just audible, and then\napologized for her own appearance, declaring, with a smile, that her\nbaby was becoming such a big boy that he was quite unmanageable.\n\n\"He's a great big naughty boy,\" said she to the child, \"and we must\nsend him away to a great big rough romping school, where they have\ngreat big rods and do terrible things to naughty boys who don't do\nwhat their own mammas tell them;\" and she then commenced another\ncourse of kissing, being actuated thereto by the terrible idea of\nsending her child away which her own imagination had depicted.\n\n\"And where the masters don't have such beautiful long hair to be\ndishevelled,\" said Mr. Slope, taking up the joke and paying a\ncompliment at the same time.\n\nEleanor thought he might as well have left the compliment alone, but\nshe said nothing and looked nothing, being occupied as she was with\nthe baby.\n\n\"Let me take him,\" said Mary. \"His clothes are nearly off his back\nwith his romping,\" and so saying she left the room with the child.\nMiss Bold had heard Mr. Slope say he had something pressing to say\nto Eleanor, and thinking that she might be _de trop_, took this\nopportunity of getting herself out of the room.\n\n\"Don't be long, Mary,\" said Eleanor as Miss Bold shut the door.\n\n\"I am glad, Mrs. Bold, to have the opportunity of having ten minutes'\nconversation with you alone,\" began Mr. Slope. \"Will you let me\nopenly ask you a plain question?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said she.\n\n\"And I am sure you will give me a plain and open answer.\"\n\n\"Either that, or none at all,\" said she, laughing.\n\n\"My question is this, Mrs. Bold: is your father really anxious to go\nback to the hospital?\"\n\n\"Why do you ask me?\" said she. \"Why don't you ask himself?\"\n\n\"My dear Mrs. Bold, I'll tell you why. There are wheels within\nwheels, all of which I would explain to you, only I fear that there\nis not time. It is essentially necessary that I should have an\nanswer to this question, otherwise I cannot know how to advance\nyour father's wishes; and it is quite impossible that I should ask\nhimself. No one can esteem your father more than I do, but I doubt\nif this feeling is reciprocal.\" It certainly was not. \"I must be\ncandid with you as the only means of avoiding ultimate consequences,\nwhich may be most injurious to Mr. Harding. I fear there is a\nfeeling--I will not even call it a prejudice--with regard to\nmyself in Barchester, which is not in my favour. You remember that\nsermon--\"\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Slope, we need not go back to that,\" said Eleanor.\n\n\"For one moment, Mrs. Bold. It is not that I may talk of myself, but\nbecause it is so essential that you should understand how matters\nstand. That sermon may have been ill-judged--it was certainly\nmisunderstood; but I will say nothing about that now; only this, that\nit did give rise to a feeling against myself which your father shares\nwith others. It may be that he has proper cause, but the result is\nthat he is not inclined to meet me on friendly terms. I put it to\nyourself whether you do not know this to be the case.\"\n\nEleanor made no answer, and Mr. Slope, in the eagerness of his\naddress, edged his chair a little nearer to the widow's seat,\nunperceived by her.\n\n\"Such being so,\" continued Mr. Slope, \"I cannot ask him this question\nas I can ask it of you. In spite of my delinquencies since I came to\nBarchester you have allowed me to regard you as a friend.\" Eleanor\nmade a little motion with her head which was hardly confirmatory, but\nMr. Slope if he noticed it, did not appear to do so. \"To you I can\nspeak openly and explain the feelings of my heart. This your father\nwould not allow. Unfortunately, the bishop has thought it right that\nthis matter of the hospital should pass through my hands. There have\nbeen some details to get up with which he would not trouble himself,\nand thus it has come to pass that I was forced to have an interview\nwith your father on the matter.\"\n\n\"I am aware of that,\" said Eleanor.\n\n\"Of course,\" said he. \"In that interview Mr. Harding left the\nimpression on my mind that he did not wish to return to the\nhospital.\"\n\n\"How could that be?\" said Eleanor, at last stirred up to forget the\ncold propriety of demeanour which she had determined to maintain.\n\n\"My dear Mrs. Bold, I give you my word that such was the case,\" said\nhe, again getting a little nearer to her. \"And what is more than\nthat, before my interview with Mr. Harding, certain persons at the\npalace--I do not mean the bishop--had told me that such was the fact.\nI own, I hardly believed it; I own, I thought that your father would\nwish on every account, for conscience' sake, for the sake of those\nold men, for old association and the memory of dear days long gone\nby, on every account I thought that he would wish to resume his\nduties. But I was told that such was not his wish, and he certainly\nleft me with the impression that I had been told the truth.\"\n\n\"Well!\" said Eleanor, now sufficiently roused on the matter.\n\n\"I hear Miss Bold's step,\" said Mr. Slope; \"would it be asking too\ngreat a favour to beg you to--I know you can manage anything with\nMiss Bold.\"\n\nEleanor did not like the word manage, but still she went out and\nasked Mary to leave them alone for another quarter of an hour.\n\n\"Thank you, Mrs. Bold--I am so very grateful for this confidence.\nWell, I left your father with this impression. Indeed, I may say\nthat he made me understand that he declined the appointment.\"\n\n\"Not the appointment,\" said Eleanor. \"I am sure he did not decline\nthe appointment. But he said that he would not agree--that is, that\nhe did not like the scheme about the schools and the services and all\nthat. I am quite sure he never said that he wished to refuse the\nplace.\"\n\n\"Oh, Mrs. Bold!\" said Mr. Slope in a manner almost impassioned. \"I\nwould not for the world say to so good a daughter a word against so\ngood a father. But you must, for his sake, let me show you exactly\nhow the matter stands at present. Mr. Harding was a little flurried\nwhen I told him of the bishop's wishes about the school. I did so\nperhaps with the less caution because you yourself had so perfectly\nagreed with me on the same subject. He was a little put out and\nspoke warmly. 'Tell the bishop,' said he, 'that I quite disagree\nwith him--and shall not return to the hospital as such conditions are\nattached to it.' What he said was to that effect; indeed, his words\nwere, if anything, stronger than those. I had no alternative but to\nrepeat them to his lordship, who said that he could look on them in\nno other light than a refusal. He also had heard the report that\nyour father did not wish for the appointment, and putting all these\nthings together, he thought he had no choice but to look for someone\nelse. He has consequently offered the place to Mr. Quiverful.\"\n\n\"Offered the place to Mr. Quiverful!\" repeated Eleanor, her eyes\nsuffused with tears. \"Then, Mr. Slope, there is an end of it.\"\n\n\"No, my friend--not so,\" said he. \"It is to prevent such being the\nend of it that I am now here. I may at any rate presume that I have\ngot an answer to my question, and that Mr. Harding is desirous of\nreturning.\"\n\n\"Desirous of returning--of course he is,\" said Eleanor; \"of course\nhe wishes to have back his house and his income and his place in the\nworld; to have back what he gave up with such self-denying honesty,\nif he can have them without restraints on his conduct to which at his\nage it would be impossible that he should submit. How can the bishop\nask a man of his age to turn schoolmaster to a pack of children?\"\n\n\"Out of the question,\" said Mr. Slope, laughing slightly; \"of\ncourse no such demand shall be made on your father. I can at any\nrate promise you that I will not be the medium of any so absurd a\nrequisition. We wished your father to preach in the hospital, as the\ninmates may naturally be too old to leave it, but even that shall not\nbe insisted on. We wished also to attach a Sabbath-day school to the\nhospital, thinking that such an establishment could not but be useful\nunder the surveillance of so good a clergyman as Mr. Harding, and\nalso under your own. But, dear Mrs. Bold, we won't talk of these\nthings now. One thing is clear: we must do what we can to annul\nthis rash offer the bishop has made to Mr. Quiverful. Your father\nwouldn't see Quiverful, would he? Quiverful is an honourable man,\nand would not for a moment stand in your father's way.\"\n\n\"What?\" said Eleanor. \"Ask a man with fourteen children to give up\nhis preferment! I am quite sure he will do no such thing.\"\n\n\"I suppose not,\" said Slope, and he again drew near to Mrs. Bold, so\nthat now they were very close to each other. Eleanor did not think\nmuch about it but instinctively moved away a little. How greatly\nwould she have increased the distance could she have guessed what had\nbeen said about her at Plumstead! \"I suppose not. But it is out of\nthe question that Quiverful should supersede your father--quite out\nof the question. The bishop has been too rash. An idea occurs to me\nwhich may perhaps, with God's blessing, put us right. My dear Mrs.\nBold, would you object to seeing the bishop yourself?\"\n\n\"Why should not my father see him?\" said Eleanor. She had once\nbefore in her life interfered in her father's affairs, and then not\nto much advantage. She was older now and felt that she should take\nno step in a matter so vital to him without his consent.\n\n\"Why, to tell the truth,\" said Mr. Slope with a look of sorrow, as\nthough he greatly bewailed the want of charity in his patron, \"the\nbishop fancies that he has cause of anger against your father. I\nfear an interview would lead to further ill-will.\"\n\n\"Why,\" said Eleanor, \"my father is the mildest, the gentlest man\nliving.\"\n\n\"I only know,\" said Slope, \"that he has the best of daughters. So\nyou would not see the bishop? As to getting an interview, I could\nmanage that for you without the slightest annoyance to yourself.\"\n\n\"I could do nothing, Mr. Slope, without consulting my father.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said he, \"that would be useless; you would then only be your\nfather's messenger. Does anything occur to yourself? Something must\nbe done. Your father shall not be ruined by so ridiculous a\nmisunderstanding.\"\n\nEleanor said that nothing occurred to her, but that it was very hard;\nthe tears came to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Mr. Slope\nwould have given much to have had the privilege of drying them, but\nhe had tact enough to know that he had still a great deal to do\nbefore he could even hope for any privilege with Mrs. Bold.\n\n\"It cuts me to the heart to see you so grieved,\" said he. \"But\npray let me assure you that your father's interests shall not be\nsacrificed if it be possible for me to protect them. I will tell the\nbishop openly what are the facts. I will explain to him that he has\nhardly the right to appoint any other than your father, and will show\nhim that if he does so he will be guilty of great injustice--and you,\nMrs. Bold, you will have the charity at any rate to believe this of\nme, that I am truly anxious for your father's welfare--for his and\nfor your own.\"\n\nThe widow hardly knew what answer to make. She was quite aware that\nher father would not be at all thankful to Mr. Slope; she had a\nstrong wish to share her father's feelings; and yet she could not\nbut acknowledge that Mr. Slope was very kind. Her father, who was\ngenerally so charitable to all men, who seldom spoke ill of anyone,\nhad warned her against Mr. Slope, and yet she did not know how to\nabstain from thanking him. What interest could he have in the matter\nbut that which he professed? Nevertheless there was that in his\nmanner which even she distrusted. She felt, she did not know why,\nthat there was something about him which ought to put her on her\nguard.\n\nMr. Slope read all this in her hesitating manner just as plainly as\nthough she had opened her heart to him. It was the talent of the\nman that he could so read the inward feelings of women with whom he\nconversed. He knew that Eleanor was doubting him, and that, if she\nthanked him, she would only do so because she could not help it,\nbut yet this did not make him angry or even annoy him. Rome was not\nbuilt in a day.\n\n\"I did not come for thanks,\" continued he, seeing her hesitation,\n\"and do not want them--at any rate before they are merited. But this\nI do want, Mrs. Bold, that I may make to myself friends in this fold\nto which it has pleased God to call me as one of the humblest of his\nshepherds. If I cannot do so, my task here must indeed be a sad one.\nI will at any rate endeavour to deserve them.\"\n\n\"I'm sure,\" said she, \"you will soon make plenty of friends.\" She\nfelt herself obliged to say something.\n\n\"That will be nothing unless they are such as will sympathize with\nmy feelings; unless they are such as I can reverence and admire--and\nlove. If the best and purest turn away from me, I cannot bring\nmyself to be satisfied with the friendship of the less estimable. In\nsuch case I must live alone.\"\n\n\"Oh, I'm sure you will not do that, Mr. Slope.\" Eleanor meant\nnothing, but it suited him to appear to think some special allusion\nhad been intended.\n\n\"Indeed, Mrs. Bold, I shall live alone, quite alone as far as the\nheart is concerned, if those with whom I yearn to ally myself turn\naway from me. But enough of this; I have called you my friend, and\nI hope you will not contradict me. I trust the time may come when I\nmay also call your father so. May God bless you, Mrs. Bold, you and\nyour darling boy. And tell your father from me that what can be done\nfor his interest shall be done.\"\n\nAnd so he took his leave, pressing the widow's hand rather more\nclosely than usual. Circumstances, however, seemed just then to make\nthis intelligible, and the lady did not feel called on to resent it.\n\n\"I cannot understand him,\" said Eleanor to Mary Bold a few minutes\nafterwards. \"I do not know whether he is a good man or a bad\nman--whether he is true or false.\"\n\n\"Then give him the benefit of the doubt,\" said Mary, \"and believe the\nbest.\"\n\n\"On the whole, I think I do,\" said Eleanor. \"I think I do believe\nthat he means well--and if so, it is a shame that we should revile\nhim and make him miserable while he is among us. But, oh, Mary, I\nfear Papa will be disappointed in the hospital.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nWho Shall Be Cock of the Walk?\n\n\nAll this time things were going somewhat uneasily at the palace. The\nhint or two which Mr. Slope had given was by no means thrown away upon\nthe bishop. He had a feeling that if he ever meant to oppose the now\nalmost unendurable despotism of his wife, he must lose no further time\nin doing so; that if he ever meant to be himself master in his own\ndiocese, let alone his own house, he should begin at once. It would\nhave been easier to have done so from the day of his consecration\nthan now, but easier now than when Mrs. Proudie should have succeeded\nin thoroughly mastering the diocesan details. Then the proffered\nassistance of Mr. Slope was a great thing for him, a most unexpected\nand invaluable aid. Hitherto he had looked on the two as allied forces\nand had considered that, as allies, they were impregnable. He had begun\nto believe that his only chance of escape would be by the advancement\nof Mr. Slope to some distant and rich preferment. But now it seemed\nthat one of his enemies, certainly the least potent of them, but\nnevertheless one very important, was willing to desert his own camp.\nAssisted by Mr. Slope what might he not do? He walked up and down his\nlittle study, almost thinking that the time might come when he would be\nable to appropriate to his own use the big room upstairs in which his\npredecessor had always sat.\n\nAs he revolved these things in his mind a note was brought to him\nfrom Archdeacon Grantly, in which that divine begged his lordship to\ndo him the honour of seeing him on the morrow--would his lordship\nhave the kindness to name an hour? Dr. Grantly's proposed visit\nwould have reference to the reappointment of Mr. Harding to the\nwardenship of Barchester Hospital. The bishop having read his note\nwas informed that the archdeacon's servant was waiting for an answer.\n\nHere at once a great opportunity offered itself to the bishop of\nacting on his own responsibility. He bethought himself however of\nhis new ally and rang the bell for Mr. Slope. It turned out that Mr.\nSlope was not in the house, and then, greatly daring, the bishop with\nhis own unassisted spirit wrote a note to the archdeacon saying that\nhe would see him, and naming an hour for doing so. Having watched\nfrom his study-window that the messenger got safely off from the\npremises with this dispatch, he began to turn over in his mind what\nstep he should next take.\n\nTo-morrow he would have to declare to the archdeacon either that Mr.\nHarding should have the appointment, or that he should not have it.\nThe bishop felt that he could not honestly throw over the Quiverfuls\nwithout informing Mrs. Proudie, and he resolved at last to brave the\nlioness in her den and tell her that circumstances were such that it\nbehoved him to reappoint Mr. Harding. He did not feel that he should\nat all derogate from his new courage by promising Mrs. Proudie that\nthe very first piece of available preferment at his disposal should\nbe given to Quiverful to atone for the injury done to him. If he\ncould mollify the lioness with such a sop, how happy would he think\nhis first efforts to have been!\n\nNot without many misgivings did he find himself in Mrs. Proudie's\nboudoir. He had at first thought of sending for her. But it was not at\nall impossible that she might choose to take such a message amiss, and\nthen also it might be some protection to him to have his daughters\npresent at the interview. He found her sitting with her account-books\nbefore her, nibbling the end of her pencil, evidently immersed in\npecuniary difficulties, and harassed in mind by the multiplicity\nof palatial expenses and the heavy cost of episcopal grandeur. Her\ndaughters were around her. Olivia was reading a novel, Augusta was\ncrossing a note to her bosom friend in Baker Street, and Netta was\nworking diminutive coach wheels for the bottom of a petticoat. If the\nbishop could get the better of his wife in her present mood, he would\nbe a man indeed. He might then consider the victory his own forever.\nAfter all, in such cases the matter between husband and wife stands\nmuch the same as it does between two boys at the same school, two cocks\nin the same yard, or two armies on the same continent. The conqueror\nonce is generally the conqueror forever after. The prestige of victory\nis everything.\n\n\"Ahem--my dear,\" began the bishop, \"if you are disengaged, I wished\nto speak to you.\" Mrs. Proudie put her pencil down carefully at the\npoint to which she had totted her figures, marked down in her memory\nthe sum she had arrived at, and then looked up, sourly enough, into\nher helpmate's face. \"If you are busy, another time will do as\nwell,\" continued the bishop, whose courage, like Bob Acres', had\noozed out now that he found himself on the ground of battle.\n\n\"What is it about, Bishop?\" asked the lady.\n\n\"Well--it was about those Quiverfuls--but I see you are engaged.\nAnother time will do just as well for me.\"\n\n\"What about the Quiverfuls? It is quite understood, I believe, that\nthey are to come to the hospital. There is to be no doubt about that,\nis there?\" and as she spoke she kept her pencil sternly and vigorously\nfixed on the column of figures before her.\n\n\"Why, my dear, there is a difficulty,\" said the bishop.\n\n\"A difficulty!\" said Mrs. Proudie, \"what difficulty? The place has\nbeen promised to Mr. Quiverful, and of course he must have it. He has\nmade all his arrangements. He has written for a curate for Puddingdale,\nhe has spoken to the auctioneer about selling his farm, horses, and\ncows, and in all respects considers the place as his own. Of course\nhe must have it.\"\n\nNow, Bishop, look well to thyself and call up all the manhood that is\nin thee. Think how much is at stake. If now thou art not true to thy\nguns, no Slope can hereafter aid thee. How can he who deserts his own\ncolours at the first smell of gunpowder expect faith in any ally? Thou\nthyself hast sought the battle-field: fight out the battle manfully\nnow thou art there. Courage, Bishop, courage! Frowns cannot kill, nor\ncan sharp words break any bones. After all, the apron is thine own. She\ncan appoint no wardens, give away no benefices, nominate no chaplains,\nan' thou art but true to thyself. Up, man, and at her with a constant\nheart.\n\nSome little monitor within the bishop's breast so addressed him. But\nthen there was another monitor there which advised him differently,\nand as follows. Remember, Bishop, she is a woman, and such a woman\ntoo as thou well knowest: a battle of words with such a woman is the\nvery mischief. Were it not better for thee to carry on this war, if\nit must be waged, from behind thine own table in thine own study?\nDoes not every cock fight best on his own dunghill? Thy daughters\nalso are here, the pledges of thy love, the fruits of thy loins: is\nit well that they should see thee in the hour of thy victory over\ntheir mother? Nay, is it well that they should see thee in the\npossible hour of thy defeat? Besides, hast thou not chosen thy\nopportunity with wonderful little skill, indeed with no touch of\nthat sagacity for which thou art famous? Will it not turn out that\nthou art wrong in this matter and thine enemy right; that thou hast\nactually pledged thyself in this matter of the hospital, and that now\nthou wouldest turn upon thy wife because she requires from thee but\nthe fulfilment of thy promise? Art thou not a Christian bishop, and\nis not thy word to be held sacred whatever be the result? Return,\nBishop, to thy sanctum on the lower floor and postpone thy combative\npropensities for some occasion in which at least thou mayest fight\nthe battle against odds less tremendously against thee.\n\nAll this passed within the bishop's bosom while Mrs. Proudie still\nsat with her fixed pencil, and the figures of her sum still enduring\non the tablets of her memory. \"£4 17s. 7d.\" she said to herself.\n\"Of course Mr. Quiverful must have the hospital,\" she said out loud\nto her lord.\n\n\"Well, my dear, I merely wanted to suggest to you that Mr. Slope\nseems to think that if Mr. Harding be not appointed, public feeling\nin the matter would be against us, and that the press might perhaps\ntake it up.\"\n\n\"Mr. Slope seems to think!\" said Mrs. Proudie in a tone of voice\nwhich plainly showed the bishop that he was right in looking for a\nbreach in that quarter. \"And what has Mr. Slope to do with it? I\nhope, my lord, you are not going to allow yourself to be governed by\na chaplain.\" And now in her eagerness the lady lost her place in her\naccount.\n\n\"Certainly not, my dear. Nothing I can assure you is less probable.\nBut still, Mr. Slope may be useful in finding how the wind blows, and\nI really thought that if we could give something else as good to the\nQuiverfuls--\"\n\n\"Nonsense,\" said Mrs. Proudie; \"it would be years before you could\ngive them anything else that could suit them half as well, and as for\nthe press and the public and all that, remember there are two ways of\ntelling a story. If Mr. Harding is fool enough to tell his tale, we\ncan also tell ours. The place was offered to him, and he refused it.\nIt has now been given to someone else, and there's an end of it. At\nleast I should think so.\"\n\n\"Well, my dear, I rather believe you are right,\" said the bishop, and\nsneaking out of the room, he went downstairs, troubled in his mind as\nto how he should receive the archdeacon on the morrow. He felt himself\nnot very well just at present, and began to consider that he might,\nnot improbably, be detained in his room the next morning by an attack\nof bile. He was, unfortunately, very subject to bilious annoyances.\n\n\"Mr. Slope, indeed! I'll Slope him,\" said the indignant matron to\nher listening progeny. \"I don't know what has come to Mr. Slope.\nI believe he thinks he is to be Bishop of Barchester himself, because\nI've taken him by the hand and got your father to make him his\ndomestic chaplain.\"\n\n\"He was always full of impudence,\" said Olivia; \"I told you so once\nbefore, Mamma.\" Olivia, however, had not thought him too impudent\nwhen once before he had proposed to make her Mrs. Slope.\n\n\"Well, Olivia, I always thought you liked him,\" said Augusta, who at\nthat moment had some grudge against her sister. \"I always disliked\nthe man, because I think him thoroughly vulgar.\"\n\n\"There you're wrong,\" said Mrs. Proudie; \"he's not vulgar at all; and\nwhat is more, he is a soul-stirring, eloquent preacher; but he must\nbe taught to know his place if he is to remain in this house.\"\n\n\"He has the horridest eyes I ever saw in a man's head,\" said Netta;\n\"and I tell you what, he's terribly greedy; did you see all the\ncurrant pie he ate yesterday?\"\n\nWhen Mr. Slope got home he soon learnt from the bishop, as much from\nhis manner as his words, that Mrs. Proudie's behests in the matter\nof the hospital were to be obeyed. Dr. Proudie let fall something\nas to \"this occasion only\" and \"keeping all affairs about patronage\nexclusively in his own hands.\" But he was quite decided about Mr.\nHarding; and as Mr. Slope did not wish to have both the prelate and\nthe prelatess against him, he did not at present see that he could\ndo anything but yield.\n\nHe merely remarked that he would of course carry out the bishop's\nviews and that he was quite sure that if the bishop trusted to his\nown judgement things in the diocese would certainly be well ordered.\nMr. Slope knew that if you hit a nail on the head often enough, it\nwill penetrate at last.\n\nHe was sitting alone in his room on the same evening when a light\nknock was made on his door, and before he could answer it the door\nwas opened, and his patroness appeared. He was all smiles in a\nmoment, but so was not she also. She took, however, the chair that\nwas offered to her, and thus began her expostulation:\n\n\"Mr. Slope, I did not at all approve your conduct the other night\nwith that Italian woman. Anyone would have thought that you were her\nlover.\"\n\n\"Good gracious, my dear madam,\" said Mr. Slope with a look of horror.\n\"Why, she is a married woman.\"\n\n\"That's more than I know,\" said Mrs. Proudie; \"however she chooses to\npass for such. But married or not married, such attention as you paid\nto her was improper. I cannot believe that you would wish to give\noffence in my drawing-room, Mr. Slope, but I owe it to myself and my\ndaughters to tell you that I disapprove of your conduct.\"\n\nMr. Slope opened wide his huge protruding eyes and stared out of them\nwith a look of well-feigned surprise. \"Why, Mrs. Proudie,\" said he,\n\"I did but fetch her something to eat when she said she was hungry.\"\n\n\"And you have called on her since,\" continued she, looking at the\nculprit with the stern look of a detective policeman in the act of\ndeclaring himself.\n\nMr. Slope turned over in his mind whether it would be well for him to\ntell this termagant at once that he should call on whom he liked and\ndo what he liked, but he remembered that his footing in Barchester\nwas not yet sufficiently firm, and that it would be better for him to\npacify her.\n\n\"I certainly called since at Dr. Stanhope's house, and certainly saw\nMadame Neroni.\"\n\n\"Yes, and you saw her alone,\" said the episcopal Argus.\n\n\"Undoubtedly, I did,\" said Mr. Slope, \"but that was because nobody\nelse happened to be in the room. Surely it was no fault of mine if\nthe rest of the family were out.\"\n\n\"Perhaps not, but I assure you, Mr. Slope, you will fall greatly in\nmy estimation if I find that you allow yourself to be caught by the\nlures of that woman. I know women better than you do, Mr. Slope,\nand you may believe me that that signora, as she calls herself, is\nnot a fitting companion for a strict evangelical unmarried young\nclergyman.\"\n\nHow Mr. Slope would have liked to laugh at her, had he dared! But he\ndid not dare. So he merely said, \"I can assure you, Mrs. Proudie,\nthe lady in question is nothing to me.\"\n\n\"Well, I hope not, Mr. Slope. But I have considered it my duty to\ngive you this caution. And now there is another thing I feel myself\ncalled on to speak about: it is your conduct to the bishop, Mr.\nSlope.\"\n\n\"My conduct to the bishop,\" said he, now truly surprised and ignorant\nwhat the lady alluded to.\n\n\"Yes, Mr. Slope, your conduct to the bishop. It is by no means what\nI would wish to see it.\"\n\n\"Has the bishop said anything, Mrs. Proudie?\"\n\n\"No, the bishop has said nothing. He probably thinks that any remarks\non the matter will come better from me, who first introduced you\nto his lordship's notice. The fact is, Mr. Slope, you are a little\ninclined to take too much upon yourself.\"\n\nAn angry spot showed itself on Mr. Slope's cheeks, and it was with\ndifficulty that he controlled himself. But he did do so, and sat\nquite silent while the lady went on.\n\n\"It is the fault of many young men in your position, and therefore\nthe bishop is not inclined at present to resent it. You will, no\ndoubt, soon learn what is required from you and what is not. If you\nwill take my advice, however, you will be careful not to obtrude\nadvice upon the bishop in any matter touching patronage. If his\nlordship wants advice, he knows where to look for it.\" And then\nhaving added to her counsel a string of platitudes as to what was\ndesirable and what not desirable in the conduct of a strictly\nevangelical unmarried young clergyman, Mrs. Proudie retreated,\nleaving the chaplain to his thoughts.\n\nThe upshot of his thoughts was this, that there certainly was not\nroom in the diocese for the energies of both himself and Mrs.\nProudie, and that it behoved him quickly to ascertain whether his\nenergies or hers were to prevail.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nThe Widow's Persecution\n\n\nEarly on the following morning Mr. Slope was summoned to the bishop's\ndressing-room, and went there fully expecting that he should find his\nlordship very indignant and spirited up by his wife to repeat the\nrebuke which she had administered on the previous day. Mr. Slope had\nresolved that at any rate from him he would not stand it, and entered\nthe dressing-room in rather a combative disposition; but he found\nthe bishop in the most placid and gentlest of humours. His lordship\ncomplained of being rather unwell, had a slight headache, and was\nnot quite the thing in his stomach; but there was nothing the matter\nwith his temper.\n\n\"Oh, Slope,\" said he, taking the chaplain's proffered hand,\n\"Archdeacon Grantly is to call on me this morning, and I really am\nnot fit to see him. I fear I must trouble you to see him for me;\"\nand then Dr. Proudie proceeded to explain what it was that must be\nsaid to Dr. Grantly. He was to be told in fact, in the civilest words\nin which the tidings could be conveyed, that Mr. Harding having\nrefused the wardenship, the appointment had been offered to Mr.\nQuiverful and accepted by him.\n\nMr. Slope again pointed out to his patron that he thought he was\nperhaps not quite wise in his decision, and this he did _sotto voce_.\nBut even with this precaution it was not safe to say much, and during\nthe little that he did say, the bishop made a very slight, but still\na very ominous gesture with his thumb towards the door which opened\nfrom his dressing-room to some inner sanctuary. Mr. Slope at once\ntook the hint and said no more, but he perceived that there was to be\nconfidence between him and his patron, that the league desired by him\nwas to be made, and that this appointment of Mr. Quiverful was to be\nthe last sacrifice offered on the altar of conjugal obedience. All\nthis Mr. Slope read in the slight motion of the bishop's thumb, and\nhe read it correctly. There was no need of parchments and seals,\nof attestations, explanations, and professions. The bargain was\nunderstood between them, and Mr. Slope gave the bishop his hand\nupon it. The bishop understood the little extra squeeze, and an\nintelligible gleam of assent twinkled in his eye.\n\n\"Pray be civil to the archdeacon, Mr. Slope,\" said he out loud, \"but\nmake him quite understand that in this matter Mr. Harding has put it\nout of my power to oblige him.\"\n\nIt would be a calumny on Mrs. Proudie to suggest that she was sitting\nin her bedroom with her ear at the keyhole during this interview.\nShe had within her a spirit of decorum which prevented her from\ndescending to such baseness. To put her ear to a keyhole, or to\nlisten at a chink, was a trick for a housemaid. Mrs. Proudie knew\nthis, and therefore did not do it; but she stationed herself as near\nto the door as she well could, that she might, if possible, get the\nadvantage which the housemaid would have had, without descending to\nthe housemaid's artifice.\n\nIt was little, however, that she heard, and that little was only\nsufficient to deceive her. She saw nothing of that friendly\npressure, perceived nothing of that concluded bargain; she did not\neven dream of the treacherous resolves which those two false men had\nmade together to upset her in the pride of her station, to dash the\ncup from her lip before she had drunk of it, to sweep away all her\npower before she had tasted its sweets! Traitors that they were,\nthe husband of her bosom and the outcast whom she had fostered and\nbrought to the warmth of the world's brightest fireside! But neither\nof them had the magnanimity of this woman. Though two men have thus\nleagued themselves together against her, even yet the battle is not\nlost.\n\nMr. Slope felt pretty sure that Dr. Grantly would decline the honour\nof seeing him, and such turned out to be the case. The archdeacon,\nwhen the palace door was opened to him, was greeted by a note.\nMr. Slope presented his compliments, &c. &c. The bishop was ill in\nhis room and very greatly regretted, &c. &c. Mr. Slope had been\ncharged with the bishop's views, and if agreeable to the archdeacon,\nwould do himself the honour, &c. &c. The archdeacon, however, was\nnot agreeable, and having read his note in the hall, crumpled it up\nin his hand, and muttering something about sorrow for his lordship's\nillness, took his leave, without sending as much as a verbal message\nin answer to Mr. Slope's note.\n\n\"Ill!\" said the archdeacon to himself as he flung himself into his\nbrougham. \"The man is absolutely a coward. He is afraid to see me.\nIll, indeed!\" The archdeacon was never ill himself, and did not\ntherefore understand that anyone else could in truth be prevented by\nillness from keeping an appointment. He regarded all such excuses as\nsubterfuges, and in the present instance he was not far wrong.\n\nDr. Grantly desired to be driven to his father-in-law's lodgings in\nthe High Street, and hearing from the servant that Mr. Harding was\nat his daughter's, followed him to Mrs. Bold's house, and there\nfound him. The archdeacon was fuming with rage when he got into the\ndrawing-room, and had by this time nearly forgotten the pusillanimity\nof the bishop in the villainy of the chaplain.\n\n\"Look at that,\" said he, throwing Mr. Slope's crumpled note to Mr.\nHarding. \"I am to be told that if I choose I may have the honour of\nseeing Mr. Slope, and that too after a positive engagement with the\nbishop.\"\n\n\"But he says the bishop is ill,\" said Mr. Harding.\n\n\"Pshaw! You don't mean to say that you are deceived by such an\nexcuse as that. He was well enough yesterday. Now I tell you what,\nI will see the bishop, and I will tell him also very plainly what I\nthink of his conduct. I will see him, or else Barchester will soon\nbe too hot to hold him.\"\n\nEleanor was sitting in the room, but Dr. Grantly had hardly noticed\nher in his anger. Eleanor now said to him with the greatest innocence,\n\"I wish you had seen Mr. Slope, Dr. Grantly, because I think perhaps\nit might have done good.\"\n\nThe archdeacon turned on her with almost brutal wrath. Had she at\nonce owned that she had accepted Mr. Slope for her second husband, he\ncould hardly have felt more convinced of her belonging body and soul\nto the Slope and Proudie party than he now did on hearing her express\nsuch a wish as this. Poor Eleanor!\n\n\"See him!\" said the archdeacon glaring at her. \"And why am I to be\ncalled on to lower myself in the world's esteem and my own by coming\nin contact with such a man as that? I have hitherto lived among\ngentlemen, and do not mean to be dragged into other company by\nanybody.\"\n\nPoor Mr. Harding well knew what the archdeacon meant, but Eleanor\nwas as innocent as her own baby. She could not understand how the\narchdeacon could consider himself to be dragged into bad company\nby condescending to speak to Mr. Slope for a few minutes when the\ninterests of her father might be served by his doing so.\n\n\"I was talking for a full hour yesterday to Mr. Slope,\" said she with\nsome little assumption of dignity, \"and I did not find myself lowered\nby it.\"\n\n\"Perhaps not,\" said he. \"But if you'll be good enough to allow me, I\nshall judge for myself in such matters. And I tell you what, Eleanor;\nit will be much better for you if you will allow yourself to be\nguided also by the advice of those who are your friends. If you do\nnot, you will be apt to find that you have no friends left who can\nadvise you.\"\n\nEleanor blushed up to the roots of her hair. But even now she had\nnot the slightest idea of what was passing in the archdeacon's mind.\nNo thought of love-making or love-receiving had yet found its way to\nher heart since the death of poor John Bold, and if it were possible\nthat such a thought should spring there, the man must be far different\nfrom Mr. Slope that could give it birth.\n\nNevertheless Eleanor blushed deeply, for she felt she was charged\nwith improper conduct, and she did so with the more inward pain\nbecause her father did not instantly rally to her side--that father\nfor whose sake and love she had submitted to be the receptacle of Mr.\nSlope's confidence. She had given a detailed account of all that had\npassed to her father, and though he had not absolutely agreed with\nher about Mr. Slope's views touching the hospital, yet he had said\nnothing to make her think that she had been wrong in talking to him.\n\nShe was far too angry to humble herself before her brother-in-law.\nIndeed, she had never accustomed herself to be very abject before\nhim, and they had never been confidential allies. \"I do not the\nleast understand what you mean, Dr. Grantly,\" said she. \"I do not\nknow that I can accuse myself of doing anything that my friends\nshould disapprove. Mr. Slope called here expressly to ask what\nPapa's wishes were about the hospital, and as I believe he called\nwith friendly intentions, I told him.\"\n\n\"Friendly intentions!\" sneered the archdeacon.\n\n\"I believe you greatly wrong Mr. Slope,\" continued Eleanor, \"but\nI have explained this to Papa already; and as you do not seem to\napprove of what I say, Dr. Grantly, I will with your permission leave\nyou and Papa together;\" so saying, she walked slowly out of the room.\n\nAll this made Mr. Harding very unhappy. It was quite clear that\nthe archdeacon and his wife had made up their minds that Eleanor\nwas going to marry Mr. Slope. Mr. Harding could not really bring\nhimself to think that she would do so, but yet he could not deny\nthat circumstances made it appear that the man's company was not\ndisagreeable to her. She was now constantly seeing him, and yet she\nreceived visits from no other unmarried gentleman. She always took\nhis part when his conduct was canvassed, although she was aware how\npersonally objectionable he was to her friends. Then, again, Mr.\nHarding felt that if she should choose to become Mrs. Slope, he had\nnothing that he could justly urge against her doing so. She had full\nright to please herself, and he, as a father, could not say that she\nwould disgrace herself by marrying a clergyman who stood so well\nbefore the world as Mr. Slope did. As for quarrelling with his\ndaughter on account of such a marriage, and separating himself from\nher as the archdeacon had threatened to do, that, with Mr. Harding,\nwould be out of the question. If she should determine to marry this\nman, he must get over his aversion as best he could. His Eleanor,\nhis own old companion in their old happy home, must still be the\nfriend of his bosom, the child of his heart. Let who would cast\nher off, he would not. If it were fated that he should have to sit\nin his old age at the same table with that man whom of all men he\ndisliked the most, he would meet his fate as best he might. Anything\nto him would be preferable to the loss of his daughter.\n\nSuch being his feelings, he hardly knew how to take part with Eleanor\nagainst the archdeacon, or with the archdeacon against Eleanor. It\nwill be said that he should never have suspected her.--Alas! he\nnever should have done so. But Mr. Harding was by no means a perfect\ncharacter. In his indecision, his weakness, his proneness to be led\nby others, his want of self-confidence, he was very far from being\nperfect. And then it must be remembered that such a marriage as that\nwhich the archdeacon contemplated with disgust, which we who know\nMr. Slope so well would regard with equal disgust, did not appear so\nmonstrous to Mr. Harding because in his charity he did not hate the\nchaplain as the archdeacon did, and as we do.\n\nHe was, however, very unhappy when his daughter left the room, and he\nhad recourse to an old trick of his that was customary to him in his\ntimes of sadness. He began playing some slow tune upon an imaginary\nvioloncello, drawing one hand slowly backwards and forwards as though\nhe held a bow in it, and modulating the unreal chords with the other.\n\n\"She'll marry that man as sure as two and two make four,\" said the\npractical archdeacon.\n\n\"I hope not, I hope not,\" said the father. \"But if she does, what\ncan I say to her? I have no right to object to him.\"\n\n\"No right!\" exclaimed Dr. Grantly.\n\n\"No right as her father. He is in my own profession and, for aught\nwe know, a good man.\"\n\nTo this the archdeacon would by no means assent. It was not well,\nhowever, to argue the case against Eleanor in her own drawing-room,\nand so they both walked forth and discussed the matter in all its\nbearings under the elm-trees of the close. Mr. Harding also explained\nto his son-in-law what had been the purport, at any rate the alleged\npurport, of Mr. Slope's last visit to the widow. He, however, stated\nthat he could not bring himself to believe that Mr. Slope had any real\nanxiety such as that he had pretended. \"I cannot forget his demeanour\nto myself,\" said Mr. Harding, \"and it is not possible that his ideas\nshould have changed so soon.\"\n\n\"I see it all,\" said the archdeacon. \"The sly _tartuffe_! He thinks\nto buy the daughter by providing for the father. He means to show how\npowerful he is, how good he is, and how much he is willing to do for\nher _beaux yeux_; yes, I see it all now. But we'll be too many for him\nyet, Mr. Harding;\" he said, turning to his companion with some gravity\nand pressing his hand upon the other's arm. \"It would, perhaps, be\nbetter for you to lose the hospital than get it on such terms.\"\n\n\"Lose it!\" said Mr. Harding; \"why I've lost it already. I don't want\nit. I've made up my mind to do without it. I'll withdraw altogether.\nI'll just go and write a line to the bishop and tell him that I\nwithdraw my claim altogether.\"\n\nNothing would have pleased him better than to be allowed to escape\nfrom the trouble and difficulty in such a manner. But he was now\ngoing too fast for the archdeacon.\n\n\"No--no--no! We'll do no such thing,\" said Dr. Grantly. \"We'll still\nhave the hospital. I hardly doubt but that we'll have it. But not by\nMr. Slope's assistance. If that be necessary, we'll lose it; but we'll\nhave it, spite of his teeth, if we can. Arabin will be at Plumstead\nto-morrow; you must come over and talk to him.\"\n\nThe two now turned into the cathedral library, which was used by the\nclergymen of the close as a sort of ecclesiastical club-room, for\nwriting sermons and sometimes letters; also for reading theological\nworks and sometimes magazines and newspapers. The theological works\nwere not disturbed, perhaps, quite as often as from the appearance of\nthe building the outside public might have been led to expect. Here\nthe two allies settled on their course of action. The archdeacon\nwrote a letter to the bishop, strongly worded, but still respectful,\nin which he put forward his father-in-law's claim to the appointment\nand expressed his own regret that he had not been able to see his\nlordship when he called. Of Mr. Slope he made no mention whatsoever.\nIt was then settled that Mr. Harding should go out to Plumstead on\nthe following day, and after considerable discussion on the matter\nthe archdeacon proposed to ask Eleanor there also, so as to withdraw\nher, if possible, from Mr. Slope's attentions. \"A week or two,\" said\nhe, \"may teach her what he is, and while she is there she will be out\nof harm's way. Mr. Slope won't come there after her.\"\n\nEleanor was not a little surprised when her brother-in-law came back\nand very civilly pressed her to go out to Plumstead with her father.\nShe instantly perceived that her father had been fighting her battles\nfor her behind her back. She felt thankful to him, and for his sake\nshe would not show her resentment to the archdeacon by refusing his\ninvitation. But she could not, she said, go on the morrow; she had\nan invitation to drink tea at the Stanhopes, which she had promised\nto accept. She would, she added, go with her father on the next day,\nif he would wait; or she would follow him.\n\n\"The Stanhopes!\" said Dr. Grantly. \"I did not know you were so\nintimate with them.\"\n\n\"I did not know it myself,\" said she, \"till Miss Stanhope called\nyesterday. However, I like her very much, and I have promised to go\nand play chess with some of them.\"\n\n\"Have they a party there?\" said the archdeacon, still fearful of Mr.\nSlope.\n\n\"Oh, no,\" said Eleanor; \"Miss Stanhope said there was to be nobody\nat all. But she had heard that Mary had left me for a few weeks, and\nshe had learnt from someone that I play chess, and so she came over\non purpose to ask me to go in.\"\n\n\"Well, that's very friendly,\" said the ex-warden. \"They certainly do\nlook more like foreigners than English people, but I dare say they\nare none the worse for that.\"\n\nThe archdeacon was inclined to look upon the Stanhopes with favourable\neyes, and had nothing to object on the matter. It was therefore\narranged that Mr. Harding should postpone his visit to Plumstead for\none day and then take with him Eleanor, the baby, and the nurse.\n\nMr. Slope is certainly becoming of some importance in Barchester.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nBarchester by Moonlight\n\n\nThere was much cause for grief and occasional perturbation of spirits\nin the Stanhope family, but yet they rarely seemed to be grieved or\nto be disturbed. It was the peculiar gift of each of them that each\nwas able to bear his or her own burden without complaint, and perhaps\nwithout sympathy. They habitually looked on the sunny side of the\nwall, if there was a gleam on either side for them to look at; if\nthere was none, they endured the shade with an indifference which,\nif not stoical, answered the end at which the Stoics aimed. Old\nStanhope could not but feel that he had ill-performed his duties as a\nfather and a clergyman, and could hardly look forward to his own death\nwithout grief at the position in which he would leave his family.\nHis income for many years had been as high as £3,000 a year, and yet\nthey had among them no other provision than their mother's fortune\nof £10,000. He had not only spent his income, but was in debt. Yet\nwith all this he seldom showed much outward sign of trouble.\n\nIt was the same with the mother. If she added little to the pleasures\nof her children, she detracted still less: she neither grumbled at\nher lot, nor spoke much of her past or future sufferings; as long as\nshe had a maid to adjust her dress, and had those dresses well made,\nnature with her was satisfied. It was the same with the children.\nCharlotte never rebuked her father with the prospect of their future\npoverty, nor did it seem to grieve her that she was becoming an old\nmaid so quickly; her temper was rarely ruffled, and, if we might\njudge by her appearance, she was always happy. The signora was not so\nsweet-tempered, but she possessed much enduring courage; she seldom\ncomplained--never, indeed, to her family. Though she had a cause for\naffliction which would have utterly broken down the heart of most\nwomen as beautiful as she and as devoid of all religious support, yet\nshe bore her suffering in silence, or alluded to it only to elicit\nthe sympathy and stimulate the admiration of the men with whom she\nflirted. As to Bertie, one would have imagined from the sound of his\nvoice and the gleam of his eye that he had not a sorrow nor a care in\nthe world. Nor had he. He was incapable of anticipating to-morrow's\ngriefs. The prospect of future want no more disturbed his appetite\nthan does that of the butcher's knife disturb the appetite of the\nsheep.\n\nSuch was the usual tenor of their way; but there were rare exceptions.\nOccasionally the father would allow an angry glance to fall from his\neye, and the lion would send forth a low dangerous roar as though he\nmeditated some deed of blood. Occasionally also Madame Neroni would\nbecome bitter against mankind, more than usually antagonistic to the\nworld's decencies, and would seem as though she was about to break from\nher moorings and allow herself to be carried forth by the tide of her\nfeelings to utter ruin and shipwreck. She, however, like the rest of\nthem, had no real feelings, could feel no true passion. In that was her\nsecurity. Before she resolved on any contemplated escapade she would\nmake a small calculation, and generally summed up that the Stanhope\nvilla or even Barchester close was better than the world at large.\n\nThey were most irregular in their hours. The father was generally the\nearliest in the breakfast-parlour, and Charlotte would soon follow and\ngive him his coffee, but the others breakfasted anywhere, anyhow, and\nat any time. On the morning after the archdeacon's futile visit to the\npalace, Dr. Stanhope came downstairs with an ominously dark look about\nhis eyebrows; his white locks were rougher than usual, and he breathed\nthickly and loudly as he took his seat in his armchair. He had open\nletters in his hand, and when Charlotte came into the room, he was\nstill reading them. She went up and kissed him as was her wont, but he\nhardly noticed her as she did so, and she knew at once that something\nwas the matter.\n\n\"What's the meaning of that?\" said he, throwing over the table a\nletter with a Milan postmark. Charlotte was a little frightened as\nshe took it up, but her mind was relieved when she saw that it\nwas merely the bill of their Italian milliner. The sum total was\ncertainly large, but not so large as to create an important row.\n\n\"It's for our clothes, Papa, for six months before we came here. The\nthree of us can't dress for nothing, you know.\"\n\n\"Nothing, indeed!\" said he, looking at the figures which, in Milanese\ndenominations, were certainly monstrous.\n\n\"The man should have sent it to me,\" said Charlotte.\n\n\"I wish he had with all my heart--if you would have paid it. I see\nenough in it to know that three quarters of it are for Madeline.\"\n\n\"She has little else to amuse her, sir,\" said Charlotte with true\ngood nature.\n\n\"And I suppose he has nothing else to amuse him,\" said the doctor,\nthrowing over another letter to his daughter. It was from some\nmember of the family of Sidonia, and politely requested the father to\npay a small trifle of £700, being the amount of a bill discounted in\nfavour of Mr. Ethelbert Stanhope and now overdue for a period of nine\nmonths.\n\nCharlotte read the letter, slowly folded it up, and put it under the\nedge of the tea-tray.\n\n\"I suppose he has nothing to amuse him but discounting bills with\nJews. Does he think I'll pay that?\"\n\n\"I am sure he thinks no such thing,\" said she.\n\n\"And who does he think will pay it?\"\n\n\"As far as honesty goes I suppose it won't much matter if it is never\npaid,\" said she. \"I dare say he got very little of it.\"\n\n\"I suppose it won't much matter either,\" said the father, \"if he goes\nto prison and rots there. It seems to me that that's the other\nalternative.\"\n\nDr. Stanhope spoke of the custom of his youth. But his daughter,\nthough she had lived so long abroad, was much more completely versed\nin the ways of the English world. \"If the man arrests him,\" said\nshe, \"he must go through the court.\"\n\nIt is thus, thou great family of Sidonia--it is thus that we Gentiles\ntreat thee, when, in our extremest need, thou and thine have aided\nus with mountains of gold as big as lions--and occasionally with\nwine-warrants and orders for dozens of dressing-cases.\n\n\"What, and become an insolvent?\" said the doctor.\n\n\"He's that already,\" said Charlotte, wishing always to get over a\ndifficulty.\n\n\"What a condition,\" said the doctor, \"for the son of a clergyman of\nthe Church of England.\"\n\n\"I don't see why clergymen's sons should pay their debts more than\nother young men,\" said Charlotte.\n\n\"He's had as much from me since he left school as is held sufficient\nfor the eldest son of many a nobleman,\" said the angry father.\n\n\"Well, sir,\" said Charlotte, \"give him another chance.\"\n\n\"What!\" said the doctor, \"do you mean that I am to pay that Jew?\"\n\n\"Oh, no! I wouldn't pay him, he must take his chance; and if the\nworst comes to the worst, Bertie must go abroad. But I want you to\nbe civil to Bertie and let him remain here as long as we stop. He\nhas a plan in his head that may put him on his feet after all.\"\n\n\"Has he any plan for following up his profession?\"\n\n\"Oh, he'll do that too; but that must follow. He's thinking of\ngetting married.\"\n\nJust at that moment the door opened, and Bertie came in whistling.\nThe doctor immediately devoted himself to his egg and allowed Bertie\nto whistle himself round to his sister's side without noticing him.\n\nCharlotte gave a sign to him with her eye, first glancing at her\nfather, and then at the letter, the corner of which peeped out from\nunder the tea-tray. Bertie saw and understood, and with the quiet\nmotion of a cat he abstracted the letter and made himself acquainted\nwith its contents. The doctor, however, had seen him, deep as he\nappeared to be mersed in his egg-shell, and said in his harshest\nvoice, \"Well, sir, do you know that gentleman?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said Bertie. \"I have a sort of acquaintance with him,\nbut none that can justify him in troubling you. If you will allow\nme, sir, I will answer this.\"\n\n\"At any rate I shan't,\" said the father, and then he added, after a\npause, \"Is it true, sir, that you owe the man £700?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Bertie, \"I think I should be inclined to dispute the\namount, if I were in a condition to pay him such of it as I really do\nowe him.\"\n\n\"Has he your bill for £700?\" said the father, speaking very loudly\nand very angrily.\n\n\"Well, I believe he has,\" said Bertie, \"but all the money I ever got\nfrom him was £150.\"\n\n\"And what became of the £550?\"\n\n\"Why, sir, the commission was £100 or so, and I took the remainder in\npaving-stones and rocking-horses.\"\n\n\"Paving-stones and rocking-horses!\" said the doctor. \"Where are\nthey?\"\n\n\"Oh, sir, I suppose they are in London somewhere--but I'll inquire if\nyou wish for them.\"\n\n\"He's an idiot,\" said the doctor, \"and it's sheer folly to waste more\nmoney on him. Nothing can save him from ruin,\" and so saying, the\nunhappy father walked out of the room.\n\n\"Would the governor like to have the paving-stones?\" said Bertie to\nhis sister.\n\n\"I'll tell you what,\" said she. \"If you don't take care, you will\nfind yourself loose upon the world without even a house over your\nhead; you don't know him as well as I do. He's very angry.\"\n\nBertie stroked his big beard, sipped his tea, chatted over his\nmisfortunes in a half-comic, half-serious tone, and ended by\npromising his sister that he would do his very best to make himself\nagreeable to the Widow Bold. Then Charlotte followed her father to\nhis own room, softened down his wrath, and persuaded him to say\nnothing more about the Jew bill discounter, at any rate for a few\nweeks. He even went so far as to say he would pay the £700, or at\nany rate settle the bill, if he saw a certainty of his son's securing\nfor himself anything like a decent provision in life. Nothing was\nsaid openly between them about poor Eleanor, but the father and the\ndaughter understood each other.\n\nThey all met together in the drawing-room at nine o'clock, in perfect\ngood humour with each other, and about that hour Mrs. Bold was\nannounced. She had never been in the house before, though she had of\ncourse called, and now she felt it strange to find herself there in\nher usual evening dress, entering the drawing-room of these strangers\nin this friendly, unceremonious way, as though she had known them\nall her life. But in three minutes they made her at home. Charlotte\ntripped downstairs and took her bonnet from her, and Bertie came to\nrelieve her from her shawl, and the signora smiled on her as she\ncould smile when she chose to be gracious, and the old doctor shook\nhands with her in a kind benedictory manner that went to her heart at\nonce and made her feel that he must be a good man.\n\nShe had not been seated for above five minutes when the door again\nopened and Mr. Slope was announced. She felt rather surprised,\nbecause she was told that nobody was to be there, and it was very\nevident from the manner of some of them that Mr. Slope was not\nunexpected. But still there was not much in it. In such invitations\na bachelor or two more or less are always spoken of as nobodies,\nand there was no reason why Mr. Slope should not drink tea at Dr.\nStanhope's as well as Eleanor herself. He, however, was very much\nsurprised and not very much gratified at finding that his own embryo\nspouse made one of the party. He had come there to gratify himself\nby gazing on Madame Neroni's beauty and listening to and returning\nher flattery: and though he had not owned as much to himself, he\nstill felt that if he spent the evening as he had intended to do, he\nmight probably not thereby advance his suit with Mrs. Bold.\n\nThe signora, who had no idea of a rival, received Mr. Slope with\nher usual marks of distinction. As he took her hand, she made some\nconfidential communication to him in a low voice, declaring that\nshe had a plan to communicate to him after tea, and was evidently\nprepared to go on with her work of reducing the chaplain to a state\nof captivity. Poor Mr. Slope was rather beside himself. He thought\nthat Eleanor could not but have learnt from his demeanour that he was\nan admirer of her own, and he had also flattered himself that the\nidea was not unacceptable to her. What would she think of him if he\nnow devoted himself to a married woman!\n\nBut Eleanor was not inclined to be severe in her criticisms on him\nin this respect, and felt no annoyance of any kind, when she found\nherself seated between Bertie and Charlotte Stanhope. She had no\nsuspicion of Mr. Slope's intentions; she had no suspicion even of the\nsuspicion of other people; but still she felt well-pleased not to\nhave Mr. Slope too near to her.\n\nAnd she was not ill-pleased to have Bertie Stanhope near her. It\nwas rarely indeed that he failed to make an agreeable impression on\nstrangers. With a bishop indeed who thought much of his own dignity\nit was possible that he might fail, but hardly with a young and\npretty woman. He possessed the tact of becoming instantly intimate\nwith women without giving rise to any fear of impertinence. He had\nabout him somewhat of the propensities of a tame cat. It seemed\nquite natural that he should be petted, caressed, and treated with\nfamiliar good nature, and that in return he should purr, and be sleek\nand graceful, and above all never show his claws. Like other tame\ncats, however, he had his claws, and sometimes made them dangerous.\n\nWhen tea was over, Charlotte went to the open window and declared\nloudly that the full harvest moon was much too beautiful to be\ndisregarded, and called them all to look at it. To tell the truth\nthere was but one there who cared much about the moon's beauty, and\nthat one was not Charlotte, but she knew how valuable an aid to her\npurpose the chaste goddess might become, and could easily create a\nlittle enthusiasm for the purpose of the moment. Eleanor and Bertie\nwere soon with her. The doctor was now quiet in his armchair, and\nMrs. Stanhope in hers, both prepared for slumber.\n\n\"Are you a Whewellite or a Brewsterite, or a t'othermanite, Mrs.\nBold?\" said Charlotte, who knew a little about everything, and had\nread about a third of each of the books to which she alluded.\n\n\"Oh!\" said Eleanor; \"I have not read any of the books, but I feel\nsure that there is one man in the moon at least, if not more.\"\n\n\"You don't believe in the pulpy gelatinous matter?\" said Bertie.\n\n\"I heard about that,\" said Eleanor, \"and I really think it's almost\nwicked to talk in such a manner. How can we argue about God's power\nin the other stars from the laws which he has given for our rule in\nthis one?\"\n\n\"How indeed!\" said Bertie. \"Why shouldn't there be a race of\nsalamanders in Venus? And even if there be nothing but fish in\nJupiter, why shouldn't the fish there be as wide awake as the men and\nwomen here?\"\n\n\"That would be saying very little for them,\" said Charlotte. \"I am\nfor Dr. Whewell myself, for I do not think that men and women are\nworth being repeated in such countless worlds. There may be souls in\nother stars, but I doubt their having any bodies attached to them.\nBut come, Mrs. Bold, let us put our bonnets on and walk round the\nclose. If we are to discuss sidereal questions, we shall do so much\nbetter under the towers of the cathedral than stuck in this narrow\nwindow.\"\n\nMrs. Bold made no objection, and a party was made to walk out.\nCharlotte Stanhope well knew the rule as to three being no company,\nand she had therefore to induce her sister to allow Mr. Slope to\naccompany them.\n\n\"Come, Mr. Slope,\" she said, \"I'm sure you'll join us. We shall be\nin again in a quarter of an hour, Madeline.\"\n\nMadeline read in her eye all that she had to say, knew her object,\nand as she had to depend on her sister for so many of her amusements,\nshe felt that she must yield. It was hard to be left alone while\nothers of her own age walked out to feel the soft influence of the\nbright night, but it would be harder still to be without the sort of\nsanction which Charlotte gave to all her flirtations and intrigues.\nCharlotte's eye told her that she must give up just at present for\nthe good of the family, and so Madeline obeyed.\n\nBut Charlotte's eyes said nothing of the sort to Mr. Slope. He had\nno objection at all to the _tête-à-tête_ with the signora which the\ndeparture of the other three would allow him, and gently whispered to\nher, \"I shall not leave you alone.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" said she; \"go--pray go, pray go, for my sake. Do not\nthink that I am so selfish. It is understood that nobody is kept\nwithin for me. You will understand this too when you know me better.\nPray join them, Mr. Slope, but when you come in speak to me for five\nminutes before you leave us.\"\n\nMr. Slope understood that he was to go, and he therefore joined the\nparty in the hall. He would have had no objection at all to this\narrangement, if he could have secured Mrs. Bold's arm; but this\nof course was out of the question. Indeed, his fate was very soon\nsettled, for no sooner had he reached the hall-door than Miss\nStanhope put her hand within his arm, and Bertie walked off with\nEleanor just as naturally as though she were already his own\nproperty.\n\nAnd so they sauntered forth: first they walked round the close,\naccording to their avowed intent; then they went under the old arched\ngateway below St. Cuthbert's little church, and then they turned\nbehind the grounds of the bishop's palace, and so on till they came\nto the bridge just at the edge of the town, from which passers-by can\nlook down into the gardens of Hiram's Hospital; and here Charlotte\nand Mr. Slope, who were in advance, stopped till the other two came\nup to them. Mr. Slope knew that the gable-ends and old brick chimneys\nwhich stood up so prettily in the moonlight were those of Mr.\nHarding's late abode, and would not have stopped on such a spot, in\nsuch company, if he could have avoided it; but Miss Stanhope would not\ntake the hint which he tried to give.\n\n\"This is a very pretty place, Mrs. Bold,\" said Charlotte; \"by far the\nprettiest place near Barchester. I wonder your father gave it up.\"\n\nIt was a very pretty place, and now by the deceitful light of the\nmoon looked twice larger, twice prettier, twice more antiquely\npicturesque than it would have done in truth-telling daylight. Who\ndoes not know the air of complex multiplicity and the mysterious\ninteresting grace which the moon always lends to old gabled buildings\nhalf-surrounded, as was the hospital, by fine trees! As seen from\nthe bridge on the night of which we are speaking, Mr. Harding's late\nabode did look very lovely, and though Eleanor did not grieve at her\nfather's having left it, she felt at the moment an intense wish that\nhe might be allowed to return.\n\n\"He is going to return to it almost immediately, is he not?\" asked\nBertie.\n\nEleanor made no immediate reply. Many such a question passes\nunanswered without the notice of the questioner, but such was not now\nthe case. They all remained silent as though expecting her to reply,\nand after a moment or two, Charlotte said, \"I believe it is settled\nthat Mr. Harding returns to the hospital, is it not?\"\n\n\"I don't think anything about it is settled yet,\" said Eleanor.\n\n\"But it must be a matter of course,\" said Bertie; \"that is, if your\nfather wishes it. Who else on earth could hold it after what has\noccurred?\"\n\nEleanor quietly made her companion understand that the matter was one\nwhich she could not discuss in the present company, and then they\npassed on. Charlotte said she would go a short way up the hill out\nof the town so as to look back upon the towers of the cathedral, and\nas Eleanor leant upon Bertie's arm for assistance in the walk, she\ntold him how the matter stood between her father and the bishop.\n\n\"And, he,\" said Bertie, pointing on to Mr. Slope, \"what part does he\ntake in it?\"\n\nEleanor explained how Mr. Slope had at first endeavoured to tyrannize\nover her father, but how he had latterly come round and done all\nhe could to talk the bishop over in Mr. Harding's favour. \"But my\nfather,\" she said, \"is hardly inclined to trust him; they all say he\nis so arrogant to the old clergymen of the city.\"\n\n\"Take my word for it,\" said Bertie, \"your father is right. If I am\nnot very much mistaken, that man is both arrogant and false.\"\n\nThey strolled up to the top of the hill and then returned through the\nfields by a foot-path which leads by a small wooden bridge, or rather\na plank with a rustic rail to it, over the river to the other side\nof the cathedral from that at which they had started. They had thus\nwalked round the bishop's grounds, through which the river runs,\nand round the cathedral and adjacent fields, and it was past eleven\nbefore they reached the doctor's door.\n\n\"It is very late,\" said Eleanor; \"it will be a shame to disturb your\nmother again at such an hour.\"\n\n\"Oh\"' said Charlotte, laughing, \"you won't disturb Mamma; I dare say\nshe is in bed by this time, and Madeline would be furious if you did\nnot come in and see her. Come, Bertie, take Mrs. Bold's bonnet from\nher.\"\n\nThey went upstairs and found the signora alone, reading. She looked\nsomewhat sad and melancholy, but not more so perhaps than was\nsufficient to excite additional interest in the bosom of Mr. Slope;\nand she was soon deep in whispered intercourse with that happy\ngentleman, who was allowed to find a resting-place on her sofa. The\nsignora had a way of whispering that was peculiarly her own, and was\nexactly the reverse of that which prevails among great tragedians.\nThe great tragedian hisses out a positive whisper, made with bated\nbreath, and produced by inarticulated tongue-formed sounds, but yet\nhe is audible through the whole house. The signora, however, used no\nhisses and produced all her words in a clear, silver tone, but they\ncould only be heard by the ear into which they were poured.\n\nCharlotte hurried and scurried about the room hither and thither,\ndoing, or pretending to do many things; then, saying something about\nseeing her mother, ran upstairs. Eleanor was thus left alone with\nBertie, and she hardly felt an hour fly by her. To give Bertie his\ndue credit, he could not have played his cards better. He did not\nmake love to her, nor sigh, nor look languishing, but he was amusing\nand familiar, yet respectful; and when he left Eleanor at her own\ndoor at one o'clock, which he did by the by with the assistance\nof the now jealous Slope, she thought that he was one of the most\nagreeable men and the Stanhopes decidedly the most agreeable family\nthat she had ever met.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nMr. Arabin\n\n\nThe Rev. Francis Arabin, fellow of Lazarus, late professor of\npoetry at Oxford, and present vicar of St. Ewold, in the diocese\nof Barchester, must now be introduced personally to the reader. He\nis worthy of a new volume, and as he will fill a conspicuous place\nin it, it is desirable that he should be made to stand before the\nreader's eye by the aid of such portraiture as the author is able\nto produce.\n\nIt is to be regretted that no mental method of daguerreotype or\nphotography has yet been discovered by which the characters of men\ncan be reduced to writing and put into grammatical language with\nan unerring precision of truthful description. How often does the\nnovelist feel, ay, and the historian also and the biographer, that\nhe has conceived within his mind and accurately depicted on the\ntablet of his brain the full character and personage of a man, and\nthat nevertheless, when he flies to pen and ink to perpetuate the\nportrait, his words forsake, elude, disappoint, and play the deuce\nwith him, till at the end of a dozen pages the man described has no\nmore resemblance to the man conceived than the sign-board at the\ncorner of the street has to the Duke of Cambridge.\n\nAnd yet such mechanical descriptive skill would hardly give more\nsatisfaction to the reader than the skill of the photographer does to\nthe anxious mother desirous to possess an absolute duplicate of her\nbeloved child. The likeness is indeed true, but it is a dull, dead,\nunfeeling, inauspicious likeness. The face is indeed there, and those\nlooking at it will know at once whose image it is, but the owner of\nthe face will not be proud of the resemblance.\n\nThere is no royal road to learning, no short cut to the acquirement\nof any valuable art. Let photographers and daguerreotypers do what\nthey will, and improve as they may with further skill on that which\nskill has already done, they will never achieve a portrait of the\nhuman face divine. Let biographers, novelists, and the rest of us\ngroan as we may under the burdens which we so often feel too heavy\nfor our shoulders; we must either bear them up like men, or own\nourselves too weak for the work we have undertaken. There is no way\nof writing well and also of writing easily.\n\n_Labor omnia vincit improbus_. Such should be the chosen motto of\nevery labourer, and it may be that labour, if adequately enduring,\nmay suffice at last to produce even some not untrue resemblance of\nthe Rev. Francis Arabin.\n\nOf his doings in the world, and of the sort of fame which he has\nachieved, enough has been already said. It has also been said that he\nis forty years of age, and still unmarried. He was the younger son of\na country gentleman of small fortune in the north of England. At an\nearly age he went to Winchester, and was intended by his father for\nNew College; but though studious as a boy, he was not studious within\nthe prescribed limits, and at the age of eighteen he left school with\na character for talent, but without a scholarship. All that he had\nobtained, over and above the advantage of his character, was a gold\nmedal for English verse, and hence was derived a strong presumption\non the part of his friends that he was destined to add another name\nto the imperishable list of English poets.\n\nFrom Winchester he went to Oxford, and was entered as a commoner at\nBalliol. Here his special career very soon commenced. He utterly\neschewed the society of fast men, gave no wine-parties, kept no\nhorses, rowed no boats, joined no rows, and was the pride of his\ncollege tutor. Such at least was his career till he had taken his\nlittle go, and then he commenced a course of action which, though not\nless creditable to himself as a man, was hardly so much to the taste\nof the tutor. He became a member of a vigorous debating society, and\nrendered himself remarkable there for humorous energy. Though always\nin earnest, yet his earnestness was always droll. To be true in his\nideas, unanswerable in his syllogisms, and just in his aspirations\nwas not enough for him. He had failed, failed in his own opinion as\nwell as that of others when others came to know him, if he could not\nreduce the arguments of his opponents to an absurdity and conquer\nboth by wit and reason. To say that his object was ever to raise a\nlaugh would be most untrue. He hated such common and unnecessary\nevidence of satisfaction on the part of his hearers. A joke that\nrequired to be laughed at was, with him, not worth uttering. He\ncould appreciate by a keener sense than that of his ears the success\nof his wit, and would see in the eyes of his auditors whether or no\nhe was understood and appreciated.\n\nHe had been a religious lad before he left school. That is, he had\naddicted himself to a party in religion, and having done so had\nreceived that benefit which most men do who become partisans in such\na cause. We are much too apt to look at schism in our church as an\nunmitigated evil. Moderate schism, if there may be such a thing, at\nany rate calls attention to the subject, draws in supporters who\nwould otherwise have been inattentive to the matter, and teaches\nmen to think upon religion. How great an amount of good of this\ndescription has followed that movement in the Church of England which\ncommenced with the publication of Froude's Remains!\n\nAs a boy young Arabin took up the cudgels on the side of the\nTractarians, and at Oxford he sat for a while at the feet of the\ngreat Newman. To this cause he lent all his faculties. For it he\nconcocted verses, for it he made speeches, for it he scintillated\nthe brightest sparks of his quiet wit. For it he ate and drank and\ndressed and had his being. In due process of time he took his degree\nand wrote himself B.A., but he did not do so with any remarkable\namount of academical éclat. He had occupied himself too much\nwith High Church matters and the polemics, politics, and outward\ndemonstrations usually concurrent with High Churchmanship to devote\nhimself with sufficient vigour to the acquisition of a double first.\nHe was not a double first, nor even a first class man, but he\nrevenged himself on the university by putting firsts and double\nfirsts out of fashion for the year and laughing down a species of\npedantry which, at the age of twenty-three, leaves no room in a man's\nmind for graver subjects than conic sections or Greek accents.\n\nGreek accents, however, and conic sections were esteemed necessaries\nat Balliol, and there was no admittance there for Mr. Arabin within\nthe list of its fellows. Lazarus, however, the richest and most\ncomfortable abode of Oxford dons, opened its bosom to the young\nchampion of a church militant. Mr. Arabin was ordained, and became\na fellow soon after taking his degree, and shortly after that was\nchosen professor of poetry.\n\nAnd now came the moment of his great danger. After many mental\nstruggles, and an agony of doubt which may be well surmised, the\ngreat prophet of the Tractarians confessed himself a Roman Catholic.\nMr. Newman left the Church of England and with him carried many a\nwaverer. He did not carry off Mr. Arabin, but the escape which that\ngentleman had was a very narrow one. He left Oxford for awhile that\nhe might meditate in complete peace on the step which appeared to him\nto be all but unavoidable, and shut himself up in a little village on\nthe sea-shore of one of our remotest counties, that he might learn\nby communing with his own soul whether or no he could with a safe\nconscience remain within the pale of his mother church.\n\nThings would have gone badly with him there had he been left entirely\nto himself. Everything was against him: all his worldly interests\nrequired him to remain a Protestant, and he looked on his worldly\ninterests as a legion of foes, to get the better of whom was a point\nof extremest honour. In his then state of ecstatic agony such a\nconquest would have cost him little; he could easily have thrown away\nall his livelihood; but it cost him much to get over the idea that by\nchoosing the Church of England he should be open in his own mind to\nthe charge that he had been led to such a choice by unworthy motives.\nThen his heart was against him: he loved with a strong and eager love\nthe man who had hitherto been his guide, and yearned to follow his\nfootsteps. His tastes were against him: the ceremonies and pomps of\nthe Church of Rome, their august feasts and solemn fasts, invited\nhis imagination and pleased his eye. His flesh was against him:\nhow great an aid would it be to a poor, weak, wavering man to be\nconstrained to high moral duties, self-denial, obedience, and\nchastity by laws which were certain in their enactments, and not to\nbe broken without loud, palpable, unmistakable sin! Then his faith\nwas against him: he required to believe so much; panted so eagerly to\ngive signs of his belief; deemed it so insufficient to wash himself\nsimply in the waters of Jordan; that some great deed, such as that\nof forsaking everything for a true Church, had for him allurements\nalmost past withstanding.\n\nMr. Arabin was at this time a very young man, and when he left Oxford\nfor his far retreat was much too confident in his powers of fence,\nand too apt to look down on the ordinary sense of ordinary people,\nto expect aid in the battle that he had to fight from any chance\ninhabitants of the spot which he had selected. But Providence was\ngood to him; there, in that all but desolate place, on the storm-beat\nshore of that distant sea, he met one who gradually calmed his mind,\nquieted his imagination, and taught him something of a Christian's\nduty. When Mr. Arabin left Oxford, he was inclined to look upon the\nrural clergymen of most English parishes almost with contempt. It\nwas his ambition, should he remain within the fold of their church,\nto do somewhat towards redeeming and rectifying their inferiority and\nto assist in infusing energy and faith into the hearts of Christian\nministers, who were, as he thought, too often satisfied to go through\nlife without much show of either.\n\nAnd yet it was from such a one that Mr. Arabin in his extremest need\nreceived that aid which he so much required. It was from the poor\ncurate of a small Cornish parish that he first learnt to know that\nthe highest laws for the governance of a Christian's duty must act\nfrom within and not from without; that no man can become a serviceable\nservant solely by obedience to written edicts; and that the safety\nwhich he was about to seek within the gates of Rome was no other\nthan the selfish freedom from personal danger which the bad soldier\nattempts to gain who counterfeits illness on the eve of battle.\n\nMr. Arabin returned to Oxford a humbler but a better and a happier\nman, and from that time forth he put his shoulder to the wheel\nas a clergyman of the Church for which he had been educated. The\nintercourse of those among whom he familiarly lived kept him staunch\nto the principles of that system of the Church to which he had always\nbelonged. Since his severance from Mr. Newman, no one had had so\nstrong an influence over him as the head of his college. During\nthe time of his expected apostasy Dr. Gwynne had not felt much\npredisposition in favour of the young fellow. Though a High\nChurchman himself within moderate limits, Dr. Gwynne felt no sympathy\nwith men who could not satisfy their faiths with the Thirty-nine\nArticles. He regarded the enthusiasm of such as Newman as a state of\nmind more nearly allied to madness than to religion, and when he saw\nit evinced by very young men, he was inclined to attribute a good\ndeal of it to vanity. Dr. Gwynne himself, though a religious man, was\nalso a thoroughly practical man of the world, and he regarded with\nno favourable eye the tenets of anyone who looked on the two things\nas incompatible. When he found that Mr. Arabin was a half Roman, he\nbegan to regret all he had done towards bestowing a fellowship on\nso unworthy a recipient; and when again he learnt that Mr. Arabin\nwould probably complete his journey to Rome, he regarded with some\nsatisfaction the fact that in such case the fellowship would be again\nvacant.\n\nWhen, however, Mr. Arabin returned and professed himself a confirmed\nProtestant, the Master of Lazarus again opened his arms to him, and\ngradually he became the pet of the college. For some little time he\nwas saturnine, silent, and unwilling to take any prominent part in\nuniversity broils, but gradually his mind recovered, or rather made\nits tone, and he became known as a man always ready at a moment's\nnotice to take up the cudgels in opposition to anything that savoured\nof an evangelical bearing. He was great in sermons, great on\nplatforms, great at after-dinner conversations, and always pleasant\nas well as great. He took delight in elections, served on committees,\nopposed tooth and nail all projects of university reform, and talked\njovially over his glass of port of the ruin to be anticipated by the\nChurch and of the sacrilege daily committed by the Whigs. The ordeal\nthrough which he had gone in resisting the blandishments of the lady\nof Rome had certainly done much towards the strengthening of his\ncharacter. Although in small and outward matters he was self-confident\nenough, nevertheless in things affecting the inner man he aimed at a\nhumility of spirit which would never have been attractive to him but\nfor that visit to the coast of Cornwall. This visit he now repeated\nevery year.\n\nSuch is an interior view of Mr. Arabin at the time when he accepted\nthe living of St. Ewold. Exteriorly, he was not a remarkable person.\nHe was above the middle height, well-made, and very active. His hair,\nwhich had been jet black, was now tinged with gray, but his face\nbore no sign of years. It would perhaps be wrong to say that he was\nhandsome, but his face was nevertheless pleasant to look upon. The\ncheek-bones were rather too high for beauty, and the formation of the\nforehead too massive and heavy: but the eyes, nose, and mouth were\nperfect. There was a continual play of lambent fire about his eyes,\nwhich gave promise of either pathos or humour whenever he essayed to\nspeak, and that promise was rarely broken. There was a gentle play\nabout his mouth which declared that his wit never descended to sarcasm,\nand that there was no ill-nature in his repartee.\n\nMr. Arabin was a popular man among women, but more so as a general\nthan a special favourite. Living as a fellow at Oxford, marriage with\nhim had been out of the question, and it may be doubted whether he had\never allowed his heart to be touched. Though belonging to a church in\nwhich celibacy is not the required lot of its ministers, he had come\nto regard himself as one of those clergymen to whom to be a bachelor\nis almost a necessity. He had never looked for parochial duty, and his\ncareer at Oxford was utterly incompatible with such domestic joys as\na wife and nursery. He looked on women, therefore, in the same light\nthat one sees them regarded by many Romish priests. He liked to have\nnear him that which was pretty and amusing, but women generally were\nlittle more to him than children. He talked to them without putting\nout all his powers, and listened to them without any idea that what he\nshould hear from them could either actuate his conduct or influence\nhis opinion.\n\nSuch was Mr. Arabin, the new vicar of St. Ewold, who is going to stay\nwith the Grantlys at Plumstead Episcopi.\n\nMr. Arabin reached Plumstead the day before Mr. Harding and Eleanor,\nand the Grantly family were thus enabled to make his acquaintance and\ndiscuss his qualifications before the arrival of the other guests.\nGriselda was surprised to find that he looked so young, but she told\nFlorinda her younger sister, when they had retired for the night,\nthat he did not talk at all like a young man: and she decided with\nthe authority that seventeen has over sixteen that he was not at all\nnice, although his eyes were lovely. As usual, sixteen implicitly\nacceded to the dictum of seventeen in such a matter, and said that he\ncertainly was not nice. They then branched off on the relative merits\nof other clerical bachelors in the vicinity, and both determined\nwithout any feeling of jealousy between them that a certain Rev.\nAugustus Green was by many degrees the most estimable of the lot. The\ngentleman in question had certainly much in his favour, as, having\na comfortable allowance from his father, he could devote the whole\nproceeds of his curacy to violet gloves and unexceptionable neck ties.\nHaving thus fixedly resolved that the new-comer had nothing about him\nto shake the pre-eminence of the exalted Green, the two girls went to\nsleep in each other's arms, contented with themselves and the world.\n\nMrs. Grantly at first sight came to much the same conclusion about\nher husband's favourite as her daughters had done, though, in seeking\nto measure his relative value, she did not compare him to Mr. Green;\nindeed, she made no comparison by name between him and anyone else;\nbut she remarked to her husband that one person's swans were very\noften another person's geese, thereby clearly showing that Mr. Arabin\nhad not yet proved his qualifications in swanhood to her\nsatisfaction.\n\n\"Well, Susan,\" said he, rather offended at hearing his friend spoken\nof so disrespectfully, \"if you take Mr. Arabin for a goose, I cannot\nsay that I think very highly of your discrimination.\"\n\n\"A goose! No, of course, he's not a goose. I've no doubt he's a very\nclever man. But you're so matter-of-fact, Archdeacon, when it suits\nyour purpose, that one can't trust oneself to any _façon de parler_.\nI've no doubt Mr. Arabin is a very valuable man--at Oxford--and that\nhe'll be a good vicar at St. Ewold. All I mean is that, having passed\none evening with him, I don't find him to be absolutely a paragon. In\nthe first place, if I am not mistaken, he is a little inclined to be\nconceited.\"\n\n\"Of all the men that I know intimately,\" said the archdeacon, \"Arabin\nis, in my opinion, the most free from any taint of self-conceit. His\nfault is that he's too diffident.\"\n\n\"Perhaps so,\" said the lady; \"only I must own I did not find it out\nthis evening.\"\n\nNothing further was said about him. Dr. Grantly thought that his\nwife was abusing Mr. Arabin merely because he had praised him, and\nMrs. Grantly knew that it was useless arguing for or against any\nperson in favour of or in opposition to whom the archdeacon had\nalready pronounced a strong opinion.\n\nIn truth, they were both right. Mr. Arabin was a diffident man in\nsocial intercourse with those whom he did not intimately know; when\nplaced in situations which it was his business to fill, and discussing\nmatters with which it was his duty to be conversant, Mr. Arabin was\nfrom habit brazen-faced enough. When standing on a platform in Exeter\nHall, no man would be less mazed than he by the eyes of the crowd\nbefore him, for such was the work which his profession had called on\nhim to perform; but he shrank from a strong expression of opinion in\ngeneral society, and his doing so not uncommonly made it appear that\nhe considered the company not worth the trouble of his energy. He\nwas averse to dictate when the place did not seem to him to justify\ndictation, and as those subjects on which people wished to hear\nhim speak were such as he was accustomed to treat with decision,\nhe generally shunned the traps there were laid to allure him into\ndiscussion, and, by doing so, not infrequently subjected himself to\nsuch charges as those brought against him by Mrs. Grantly.\n\nMr. Arabin, as he sat at his open window, enjoying the delicious\nmoonlight and gazing at the gray towers of the church, which stood\nalmost within the rectory grounds, little dreamed that he was the\nsubject of so many friendly or unfriendly criticisms. Considering\nhow much we are all given to discuss the characters of others, and\ndiscuss them often not in the strictest spirit of charity, it is\nsingular how little we are inclined to think that others can speak\nill-naturedly of us, and how angry and hurt we are when proof reaches\nus that they have done so. It is hardly too much to say that we all\nof us occasionally speak of our dearest friends in a manner in which\nthose dearest friends would very little like to hear themselves\nmentioned, and that we nevertheless expect that our dearest friends\nshall invariably speak of us as though they were blind to all our\nfaults, but keenly alive to every shade of our virtues.\n\nIt did not occur to Mr. Arabin that he was spoken of at all. It\nseemed to him, when he compared himself with his host, that he was a\nperson of so little consequence to any, that he was worth no one's\nwords or thoughts. He was utterly alone in the world as regarded\ndomestic ties and those inner familiar relations which are hardly\npossible between others than husbands and wives, parents and children,\nor brothers and sisters. He had often discussed with himself the\nnecessity of such bonds for a man's happiness in this world, and had\ngenerally satisfied himself with the answer that happiness in this\nworld is not a necessity. Herein he deceived himself, or rather tried\nto do so. He, like others, yearned for the enjoyment of whatever he\nsaw enjoyable, and though he attempted, with the modern stoicism of\nso many Christians, to make himself believe that joy and sorrow were\nmatters which here should be held as perfectly indifferent, these\nthings were not indifferent to him. He was tired of his Oxford rooms\nand his college life. He regarded the wife and children of his friend\nwith something like envy; he all but coveted the pleasant drawing-room,\nwith its pretty windows opening on to lawns and flower-beds, the\napparel of the comfortable house, and--above all--the air of home which\nencompassed it all.\n\nIt will be said that no time can have been so fitted for such desires\non his part as this, when he had just possessed himself of a country\nparish, of a living among fields and gardens, of a house which a wife\nwould grace. It is true there was a difference between the opulence\nof Plumstead and the modest economy of St. Ewold, but surely Mr.\nArabin was not a man to sigh after wealth! Of all men, his friends\nwould have unanimously declared he was the last to do so. But how\nlittle our friends know us! In his period of stoical rejection of\nthis world's happiness, he had cast from him as utter dross all\nanxiety as to fortune. He had, as it were, proclaimed himself to be\nindifferent to promotion, and those who chiefly admired his talents,\nand would mainly have exerted themselves to secure to them their\ndeserved reward, had taken him at his word. And now, if the truth\nmust out, he felt himself disappointed--disappointed not by them\nbut by himself. The daydream of his youth was over, and at the age\nof forty he felt that he was not fit to work in the spirit of an\napostle. He had mistaken himself, and learned his mistake when it\nwas past remedy. He had professed himself indifferent to mitres and\ndiaconal residences, to rich livings and pleasant glebes, and now\nhe had to own to himself that he was sighing for the good things of\nother men on whom, in his pride, he had ventured to look down.\n\nNot for wealth, in its vulgar sense, had he ever sighed; not for the\nenjoyment of rich things had he ever longed; but for the allotted\nshare of worldly bliss which a wife, and children, and happy home\ncould give him, for that usual amount of comfort which he had\nventured to reject as unnecessary for him, he did now feel that he\nwould have been wiser to have searched.\n\nHe knew that his talents, his position, and his friends would have\nwon for him promotion, had he put himself in the way of winning\nit. Instead of doing so, he had allowed himself to be persuaded to\naccept a living which would give him an income of some £300 a year\nshould he, by marrying, throw up his fellowship. Such, at the age of\nforty, was the worldly result of labour which the world had chosen\nto regard as successful. The world also thought that Mr. Arabin was,\nin his own estimation, sufficiently paid. Alas! Alas! The world was\nmistaken, and Mr. Arabin was beginning to ascertain that such was the\ncase.\n\nAnd here may I beg the reader not to be hard in his judgement upon\nthis man. Is not the state at which he has arrived the natural\nresult of efforts to reach that which is not the condition of\nhumanity? Is not modern stoicism, built though it be on Christianity,\nas great an outrage on human nature as was the stoicism of the\nancients? The philosophy of Zeno was built on true laws, but on true\nlaws misunderstood and therefore misapplied. It is the same with our\nStoics here, who would teach us that wealth and worldly comfort and\nhappiness on earth are not worth the search. Alas, for a doctrine which\ncan find no believing pupils and no true teachers!\n\nThe case of Mr. Arabin was the more singular, as he belonged to\na branch of the Church of England well inclined to regard its\ntemporalities with avowed favour, and had habitually lived with\nmen who were accustomed to much worldly comfort. But such was his\nidiosyncrasy that these very facts had produced within him, in early\nlife, a state of mind that was not natural to him. He was content to\nbe a High Churchman, if he could be so on principles of his own and\ncould strike out a course showing a marked difference from those with\nwhom he consorted. He was ready to be a partisan as long as he was\nallowed to have a course of action and of thought unlike that of his\nparty. His party had indulged him, and he began to feel that his\nparty was right and himself wrong, just when such a conviction was\ntoo late to be of service to him. He discovered, when such discovery\nwas no longer serviceable, that it would have been worth his while\nto have worked for the usual pay assigned to work in this world and\nhave earned a wife and children, with a carriage for them to sit in;\nto have earned a pleasant dining-room, in which his friends could\ndrink his wine, and the power of walking up the high street of his\ncountry town, with the knowledge that all its tradesmen would have\ngladly welcomed him within their doors. Other men arrived at those\nconvictions in their start in life and so worked up to them. To him\nthey had come when they were too late to be of use.\n\nIt has been said that Mr. Arabin was a man of pleasantry, and it\nmay be thought that such a state of mind as that described would be\nantagonistic to humour. But surely such is not the case. Wit is the\noutward mental casing of the man, and has no more to do with the inner\nmind of thoughts and feelings than have the rich brocaded garments of\nthe priest at the altar with the asceticism of the anchorite below\nthem, whose skin is tormented with sackcloth and whose body is\nhalf-flayed with rods. Nay, will not such a one often rejoice more\nthan any other in the rich show of his outer apparel? Will it not be\nfood for his pride to feel that he groans inwardly while he shines\noutwardly? So it is with the mental efforts which men make. Those\nwhich they show forth daily to the world are often the opposites of\nthe inner workings of the spirit.\n\nIn the archdeacon's drawing-room, Mr. Arabin had sparkled with his\nusual unaffected brilliancy, but when he retired to his bedroom, he\nsat there sad, at his open window, repining within himself that he\nalso had no wife, no bairns, no soft sward of lawn duly mown for him\nto lie on, no herd of attendant curates, no bowings from the banker's\nclerks, no rich rectory. That apostleship that he had thought of had\nevaded his grasp, and he was now only vicar of St. Ewold's, with a\ntaste for a mitre. Truly he had fallen between two stools.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nSt. Ewold's Parsonage\n\n\nWhen Mr. Harding and Mrs. Bold reached the rectory on the following\nmorning, the archdeacon and his friend were at St. Ewold's. They\nhad gone over that the new vicar might inspect his church and be\nintroduced to the squire, and were not expected back before dinner.\nMr. Harding rambled out by himself and strolled, as was his wont at\nPlumstead, about the lawn and round the church; and as he did so, the\ntwo sisters naturally fell into conversation about Barchester.\n\nThere was not much sisterly confidence between them. Mrs. Grantly was\nten years older than Eleanor, and had been married while Eleanor was\nyet a child. They had never, therefore, poured into each other's ears\ntheir hopes and loves; and now that one was a wife and the other a\nwidow, it was not probable that they would begin to do so. They lived\ntoo much asunder to be able to fall into that kind of intercourse\nwhich makes confidence between sisters almost a necessity; moreover,\nthat which is so easy at eighteen is often very difficult at\ntwenty-eight. Mrs. Grantly knew this, and did not, therefore, expect\nconfidence from her sister; yet she longed to ask her whether in real\ntruth Mr. Slope was agreeable to her.\n\nIt was by no means difficult to turn the conversation to Mr. Slope.\nThat gentleman had become so famous at Barchester, had so much to\ndo with all clergymen connected with the city, and was so specially\nconcerned in the affairs of Mr. Harding, that it would have been odd\nif Mr. Harding's daughters had not talked about him. Mrs. Grantly\nwas soon abusing him, which she did with her whole heart, and Mrs.\nBold was nearly as eager to defend him. She positively disliked the\nman, would have been delighted to learn that he had taken himself off\nso that she should never see him again, had indeed almost a fear of\nhim, and yet she constantly found herself taking his part. The abuse\nof other people, and abuse of a nature that she felt to be unjust,\nimposed this necessity on her, and at last made Mr. Slope's defence\nan habitual course of argument with her.\n\nFrom Mr. Slope the conversation turned to the Stanhopes, and Mrs.\nGrantly was listening with some interest to Eleanor's account of the\nfamily, when it dropped out that Mr. Slope made one of the party.\n\n\"What!\" said the lady of the rectory. \"Was Mr. Slope there too?\"\n\nEleanor merely replied that such had been the case.\n\n\"Why, Eleanor, he must be very fond of you, I think; he seems to\nfollow you everywhere.\"\n\nEven this did not open Eleanor's eyes. She merely laughed, and said\nthat she imagined Mr. Slope found other attraction at Dr. Stanhope's.\nAnd so they parted. Mrs. Grantly felt quite convinced that the\nodious match would take place, and Mrs. Bold as convinced that that\nunfortunate chaplain, disagreeable as he must be allowed to be, was\nmore sinned against than sinning.\n\nThe archdeacon of course heard before dinner that Eleanor had\nremained the day before in Barchester with the view of meeting\nMr. Slope, and that she had so met him. He remembered how she had\npositively stated that there were to be no guests at the Stanhopes,\nand he did not hesitate to accuse her of deceit. Moreover, the fact,\nor rather presumed fact, of her being deceitful on such a matter\nspoke but too plainly in evidence against her as to her imputed crime\nof receiving Mr. Slope as a lover.\n\n\"I am afraid that anything we can do will be too late,\" said the\narchdeacon. \"I own I am fairly surprised. I never liked your\nsister's taste with regard to men, but still I did not give her\ncredit for--ugh!\"\n\n\"And so soon, too,\" said Mrs. Grantly, who thought more, perhaps, of\nher sister's indecorum in having a lover before she had put off her\nweeds than her bad taste in having such a lover as Mr. Slope.\n\n\"Well, my dear, I shall be sorry to be harsh, or to do anything that\ncan hurt your father; but, positively, neither that man nor his wife\nshall come within my doors.\"\n\nMrs. Grantly sighed, and then attempted to console herself and her\nlord by remarking that, after all, the thing was not accomplished\nyet. Now that Eleanor was at Plumstead, much might be done to wean\nher from her fatal passion. Poor Eleanor!\n\nThe evening passed off without anything to make it remarkable. Mr.\nArabin discussed the parish of St. Ewold with the archdeacon, and\nMrs. Grantly and Mr. Harding, who knew the personages of the parish,\njoined in. Eleanor also knew them, but she said little. Mr. Arabin\ndid not apparently take much notice of her, and she was not in a\nhumour to receive at that time with any special grace any special\nfavourite of her brother-in-law. Her first idea on reaching her\nbedroom was that a much pleasanter family party might be met at Dr.\nStanhope's than at the rectory. She began to think that she was\ngetting tired of clergymen and their respectable, humdrum, wearisome\nmode of living, and that after all, people in the outer world, who\nhad lived in Italy, London, or elsewhere, need not necessarily be\nregarded as atrocious and abominable. The Stanhopes, she had thought,\nwere a giddy, thoughtless, extravagant set of people, but she had seen\nnothing wrong about them and had, on the other hand, found that they\nthoroughly knew how to make their house agreeable. It was a thousand\npities, she thought, that the archdeacon should not have a little\nof the same _savoir vivre_. Mr. Arabin, as we have said, did not\napparently take much notice of her, but yet he did not go to bed\nwithout feeling that he had been in company with a very pretty woman;\nand as is the case with most bachelors, and some married men, regarded\nthe prospect of his month's visit at Plumstead in a pleasanter light\nwhen he learnt that a very pretty woman was to share it with him.\n\nBefore they all retired it was settled that the whole party should\ndrive over on the following day to inspect the parsonage at St.\nEwold. The three clergymen were to discuss dilapidations, and the\ntwo ladies were to lend their assistance in suggesting such changes\nas might be necessary for a bachelor's abode.\n\nAccordingly, soon after breakfast the carriage was at the door.\nThere was only room for four inside, and the archdeacon got upon the\nbox. Eleanor found herself opposite to Mr. Arabin, and was, therefore,\nin a manner forced into conversation with him. They were soon on\ncomfortable terms together, and had she thought about it, she would\nhave thought that, in spite of his black cloth, Mr. Arabin would not\nhave been a bad addition to the Stanhope family party.\n\nNow that the archdeacon was away they could all trifle. Mr. Harding\nbegan by telling them in the most innocent manner imaginable an old\nlegend about Mr. Arabin's new parish. There was, he said, in days of\nyore an illustrious priestess of St. Ewold, famed through the whole\ncountry for curing all manner of diseases. She had a well, as all\npriestesses have ever had, which well was extant to this day, and\nshared in the minds of many of the people the sanctity which belonged\nto the consecrated ground of the parish church. Mr. Arabin declared\nthat he should look on such tenets on the part of his parishioners as\nanything but orthodox. And Mrs. Grantly replied that she so entirely\ndisagreed with him as to think that no parish was in a proper state\nthat had not its priestess as well as its priest. \"The duties are\nnever well done,\" said she, \"unless they are so divided.\"\n\n\"I suppose, Papa,\" said Eleanor, \"that in the olden times the\npriestess bore all the sway herself. Mr. Arabin, perhaps, thinks\nthat such might be too much the case now if a sacred lady were\nadmitted within the parish.\"\n\n\"I think, at any rate,\" said he, \"that it is safer to run no such\nrisk. No priestly pride has ever exceeded that of sacerdotal females.\nA very lowly curate I might, perhaps, essay to rule, but a curatess\nwould be sure to get the better of me.\"\n\n\"There are certainly examples of such accidents happening,\" said Mrs.\nGrantly. \"They do say that there is a priestess at Barchester who is\nvery imperious in all things touching the altar. Perhaps the fear of\nsuch a fate as that is before your eyes.\"\n\nWhen they were joined by the archdeacon on the gravel before\nthe vicarage, they descended again to grave dullness. Not that\nArchdeacon Grantly was a dull man, but his frolic humours were of\na cumbrous kind, and his wit, when he was witty, did not generally\nextend itself to his auditors. On the present occasion he was soon\nmaking speeches about wounded roofs and walls, which he declared to\nbe in want of some surgeon's art. There was not a partition that\nhe did not tap, nor a block of chimneys that he did not narrowly\nexamine; all water-pipes, flues, cisterns, and sewers underwent an\ninvestigation; he even descended, in the care of his friend, so far\nas to bore sundry boards in the floors with a bradawl.\n\nMr. Arabin accompanied him through the rooms, trying to look wise in\nsuch domestic matters, and the other three also followed. Mrs. Grantly\nshowed that she had not herself been priestess of a parish twenty\nyears for nothing, and examined the bells and window-panes in a very\nknowing way.\n\n\"You will, at any rate, have a beautiful prospect out of your own\nwindow, if this is to be your private sanctum,\" said Eleanor. She\nwas standing at the lattice of a little room upstairs, from which the\nview certainly was very lovely. It was from the back of the vicarage,\nand there was nothing to interrupt the eye between the house and the\nglorious gray pile of the cathedral. The intermediate ground, however,\nwas beautifully studded with timber. In the immediate foreground ran\nthe little river which afterwards skirted the city, and, just to the\nright of the cathedral, the pointed gables and chimneys of Hiram's\nHospital peeped out of the elms which encompass it.\n\n\"Yes,\" said he, joining her. \"I shall have a beautifully complete\nview of my adversaries. I shall sit down before the hostile town and\nfire away at them at a very pleasant distance. I shall just be able\nto lodge a shot in the hospital, should the enemy ever get possession\nof it, and as for the palace, I have it within full range.\"\n\n\"I never saw anything like you clergymen,\" said Eleanor; \"You are\nalways thinking of fighting each other.\"\n\n\"Either that,\" said he, \"or else supporting each other. The pity is\nthat we cannot do the one without the other. But are we not here\nto fight? Is not ours a church militant? What is all our work but\nfighting, and hard fighting, if it be well done?\"\n\n\"But not with each other.\"\n\n\"That's as it may be. The same complaint which you make of me for\nbattling with another clergyman of our own church, the Mohammedan\nwould make against me for battling with the error of a priest of\nRome. Yet, surely, you would not be inclined to say that I should\nbe wrong to do battle with such as him. A pagan, too, with his\nmultiplicity of gods, would think it equally odd that the Christian\nand the Mohammedan should disagree.\"\n\n\"Ah! But you wage your wars about trifles so bitterly.\"\n\n\"Wars about trifles,\" said he, \"are always bitter, especially\namong neighbours. When the differences are great, and the parties\ncomparative strangers, men quarrel with courtesy. What combatants\nare ever so eager as two brothers?\"\n\n\"But do not such contentions bring scandal on the church?\"\n\n\"More scandal would fall on the church if there were no such\ncontentions. We have but one way to avoid them--by that of\nacknowledging a common head of our church, whose word on all\npoints of doctrine shall be authoritative. Such a termination\nof our difficulties is alluring enough. It has charms which are\nirresistible to many, and all but irresistible, I own, to me.\"\n\n\"You speak now of the Church of Rome?\" said Eleanor.\n\n\"No,\" said he, \"not necessarily of the Church of Rome; but of a\nchurch with a head. Had it pleased God to vouchsafe to us such a\nchurch our path would have been easy. But easy paths have not been\nthought good for us.\" He paused and stood silent for awhile, thinking\nof the time when he had so nearly sacrificed all he had, his powers\nof mind, his free agency, the fresh running waters of his mind's\nfountain, his very inner self, for an easy path in which no fighting\nwould be needed; and then he continued: \"What you say is partly true:\nour contentions do bring on us some scandal. The outer world, though\nit constantly reviles us for our human infirmities and throws in our\nteeth the fact that being clergymen we are still no more than men,\ndemands of us that we should do our work with godlike perfection.\nThere is nothing god-like about us: we differ from each other with\nthe acerbity common to man; we triumph over each other with human\nfrailty; we allow differences on subjects of divine origin to produce\namong us antipathies and enmities which are anything but divine. This\nis all true. But what would you have in place of it? There is no\ninfallible head for a church on earth. This dream of believing man\nhas been tried, and we see in Italy and in Spain what has come of it.\nGrant that there are and have been no bickerings within the pale of\nthe Pope's Church. Such an assumption would be utterly untrue, but\nlet us grant it, and then let us say which church has incurred the\nheavier scandals.\"\n\nThere was a quiet earnestness about Mr. Arabin, as he\nhalf-acknowledged and half-defended himself from the charge brought\nagainst him, which surprised Eleanor. She had been used all her life\nto listen to clerical discussion, but the points at issue between the\ndisputants had so seldom been of more than temporal significance as\nto have left on her mind no feeling of reverence for such subjects.\nThere had always been a hard worldly leaven of the love either of\nincome or of power in the strains she had heard; there had been no\npanting for the truth; no aspirations after religious purity. It had\nalways been taken for granted by those around her that they were\nindubitably right; that there was no ground for doubt; that the hard\nuphill work of ascertaining what the duty of a clergyman should be\nhad been already accomplished in full; and that what remained for an\nactive militant parson to do was to hold his own against all comers.\nHer father, it is true, was an exception to this, but then he was\nso essentially anti-militant in all things that she classed him in\nher own mind apart from all others. She had never argued the matter\nwithin herself, or considered whether this common tone was or was not\nfaulty; but she was sick of it without knowing that she was so. And\nnow she found to her surprise, and not without a certain pleasurable\nexcitement, that this new-comer among them spoke in a manner very\ndifferent from that to which she was accustomed.\n\n\"It is so easy to condemn,\" said he, continuing the thread of his\nthoughts. \"I know no life that must be so delicious as that of a\nwriter for newspapers, or a leading member of the opposition--to\nthunder forth accusations against men in power; to show up the worst\nside of everything that is produced; to pick holes in every coat;\nto be indignant, sarcastic, jocose, moral, or supercilious; to damn\nwith faint praise, or crush with open calumny! What can be so easy as\nthis when the critic has to be responsible for nothing? You condemn\nwhat I do, but put yourself in my position and do the reverse, and\nthen see if I cannot condemn you.\"\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Arabin, I do not condemn you.\"\n\n\"Pardon me, you do, Mrs. Bold--you as one of the world; you are now\nthe opposition member; you are now composing your leading article,\nand well and bitterly you do it. 'Let dogs delight to bark and\nbite'--you fitly begin with an elegant quotation--'but if we are to\nhave a church at all, in heaven's name let the pastors who preside\nover it keep their hands from each other's throats. Lawyers can live\nwithout befouling each other's names; doctors do not fight duels.\nWhy is it that clergymen alone should indulge themselves in such\nunrestrained liberty of abuse against each other?' and so you go on\nreviling us for our ungodly quarrels, our sectarian propensities,\nand scandalous differences. It will, however, give you no trouble to\nwrite another article next week in which we, or some of us, shall be\ntwitted with an unseemly apathy in matters of our vocation. It will\nnot fall on you to reconcile the discrepancy; your readers will\nnever ask you how the poor parson is to be urgent in season and out\nof season and yet never come in contact with men who think widely\ndifferently from him. You, when you condemn this foreign treaty, or\nthat official arrangement, will have to incur no blame for the graver\nfaults of any different measure. It is so easy to condemn--and so\npleasant too, for eulogy charms no listeners as detraction does.\"\n\nEleanor only half-followed him in his raillery, but she caught his\nmeaning. \"I know I ought to apologize for presuming to criticize\nyou,\" she said, \"but I was thinking with sorrow of the ill-will that\nhas lately come among us at Barchester, and I spoke more freely than\nI should have done.\"\n\n\"Peace on earth and goodwill among men, are, like heaven, promises\nfor the future;\" said he, following rather his own thoughts than\nhers. \"When that prophecy is accomplished, there will no longer be\nany need for clergymen.\"\n\nHere they were interrupted by the archdeacon, whose voice was heard\nfrom the cellar shouting to the vicar.\n\n\"Arabin, Arabin,\"--and then, turning to his wife, who was apparently\nat his elbow--\"where has he gone to? This cellar is perfectly\nabominable. It would be murder to put a bottle of wine into it till\nit has been roofed, walled, and floored. How on earth old Goodenough\never got on with it I cannot guess. But then Goodenough never had a\nglass of wine that any man could drink.\"\n\n\"What is it, Archdeacon?\" said the vicar, running downstairs and\nleaving Eleanor above to her meditations.\n\n\"This cellar must be roofed, walled, and floored,\" repeated the\narchdeacon. \"Now mind what I say, and don't let the architect\npersuade you that it will do; half of these fellows know nothing\nabout wine. This place as it is now would be damp and cold in winter\nand hot and muggy in summer. I wouldn't give a straw for the best\nwine that ever was vinted, after it had lain here a couple of years.\"\n\nMr. Arabin assented and promised that the cellar should be\nreconstructed according to the archdeacon's receipt.\n\n\"And, Arabin, look here; was such an attempt at a kitchen grate ever\nseen?\"\n\n\"The grate is really very bad,\" said Mrs. Grantly. \"I am sure the\npriestess won't approve of it, when she is brought home to the scene\nof her future duties. Really, Mr. Arabin, no priestess accustomed to\nsuch an excellent well as that above could put up with such a grate\nas this.\"\n\n\"If there must be a priestess at St. Ewold's at all, Mrs. Grantly, I\nthink we will leave her to her well and not call down her divine\nwrath on any of the imperfections rising from our human poverty.\nHowever, I own I am amenable to the attractions of a well-cooked\ndinner, and the grate shall certainly be changed.\"\n\nBy this time the archdeacon had again ascended, and was now in the\ndining-room. \"Arabin,\" said he, speaking in his usual loud, clear\nvoice and with that tone of dictation which was so common to him,\n\"you must positively alter this dining-room--that is, remodel it\naltogether. Look here, it is just sixteen feet by fifteen; did any\nman ever hear of a dining-room of such proportions!\" The archdeacon\nstepped the room long-ways and cross-ways with ponderous steps, as\nthough a certain amount of ecclesiastical dignity could be imparted\neven to such an occupation as that by the manner of doing it.\n\"Barely sixteen; you may call it a square.\"\n\n\"It would do very well for a round table,\" suggested the ex-warden.\n\nNow there was something peculiarly unorthodox, in the archdeacon's\nestimation, in the idea of a round table. He had always been\naccustomed to a goodly board of decent length, comfortably elongating\nitself according to the number of the guests, nearly black\nwith perpetual rubbing, and as bright as a mirror. Now round\ndinner-tables are generally of oak, or else of such new construction\nas not to have acquired the peculiar hue which was so pleasing to\nhim. He connected them with what he called the nasty newfangled\nmethod of leaving a cloth on the table, as though to warn people that\nthey were not to sit long. In his eyes there was something democratic\nand parvenu in a round table. He imagined that dissenters and\ncalico-printers chiefly used them, and perhaps a few literary lions\nmore conspicuous for their wit than their gentility. He was a little\nflurried at the idea of such an article being introduced into the\ndiocese by a protégé of his own, and at the instigation of his\nfather-in-law.\n\n\"A round dinner-table,\" said he with some heat, \"is the most\nabominable article of furniture that ever was invented. I hope that\nArabin has more taste than to allow such a thing in his house.\"\n\nPoor Mr. Harding felt himself completely snubbed, and of course said\nnothing further; but Mr. Arabin, who had yielded submissively in the\nsmall matters of the cellar and kitchen grate, found himself obliged\nto oppose reforms which might be of a nature too expensive for his\npocket.\n\n\"But it seems to me, Archdeacon, that I can't very well lengthen the\nroom without pulling down the wall, and if I pull down the wall, I\nmust build it up again; then if I throw out a bow on this side, I\nmust do the same on the other, and if I do it for the ground floor,\nI must carry it up to the floor above. That will be putting a new\nfront to the house and will cost, I suppose, a couple of hundred\npounds. The ecclesiastical commissioners will hardly assist me when\nthey hear that my grievance consists in having a dining-room only\nsixteen feet long.\"\n\nThe archdeacon proceeded to explain that nothing would be easier than\nadding six feet to the front of the dining-room without touching\nany other room in the house. Such irregularities of construction in\nsmall country-houses were, he said, rather graceful than otherwise,\nand he offered to pay for the whole thing out of his own pocket if\nit cost more than forty pounds. Mr. Arabin, however, was firm, and,\nalthough the archdeacon fussed and fumed about it, would not give\nway. Forty pounds, he said, was a matter of serious moment to\nhim, and his friends, if under such circumstances they would be\ngood-natured enough to come to him at all, must put up with the\nmisery of a square room. He was willing to compromise matters by\ndisclaiming any intention of having a round table.\n\n\"But,\" said Mrs. Grantly, \"what if the priestess insists on having\nboth the rooms enlarged?\"\n\n\"The priestess in that case must do it for herself, Mrs. Grantly.\"\n\n\"I have no doubt she will be well able to do so,\" replied the lady;\n\"to do that and many more wonderful things. I am quite sure that the\npriestess of St. Ewold, when she does come, won't come empty-handed.\"\n\nMr. Arabin, however, did not appear well inclined to enter into\nspeculative expenses on such a chance as this, and therefore any\nmaterial alterations in the house, the cost of which could not fairly\nbe made to lie at the door either of the ecclesiastical commissioners\nor of the estate of the late incumbent, were tabooed. With this\nessential exception, the archdeacon ordered, suggested, and carried\nall points before him in a manner very much to his own satisfaction.\nA close observer, had there been one there, might have seen that his\nwife had been quite as useful in the matter as himself. No one knew\nbetter than Mrs. Grantly the appurtenances necessary to a comfortable\nhouse. She did not, however, think it necessary to lay claim to any\nof the glory which her lord and master was so ready to appropriate as\nhis own.\n\nHaving gone through their work effectually and systematically, the\nparty returned to Plumstead well satisfied with their expedition.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nThe Thornes of Ullathorne\n\n\nOn the following Sunday Mr. Arabin was to read himself in at his new\nchurch. It was agreed at the rectory that the archdeacon should go\nover with him and assist at the reading desk, and that Mr. Harding\nshould take the archdeacon's duty at Plumstead Church. Mrs. Grantly\nhad her school and her buns to attend to, and professed that she could\nnot be spared, but Mrs. Bold was to accompany them. It was further\nagreed also that they would lunch at the squire's house and return\nhome after the afternoon service.\n\nWilfred Thorne, Esq., of Ullathorne, was the squire of St.\nEwold's--or, rather, the squire of Ullathorne, for the domain of the\nmodern landlord was of wider notoriety than the fame of the ancient\nsaint. He was a fair specimen of what that race has come to in our\ndays which, a century ago, was, as we are told, fairly represented\nby Squire Western. If that representation be a true one, few classes\nof men can have made faster strides in improvement. Mr. Thorne,\nhowever, was a man possessed of quite a sufficient number of foibles\nto lay him open to much ridicule. He was still a bachelor, being\nabout fifty, and was not a little proud of his person. When living\nat home at Ullathorne, there was not much room for such pride, and\nthere therefore he always looked like a gentleman and like that which\nhe certainly was, the first man in his parish. But during the month\nor six weeks which he annually spent in London, he tried so hard\nto look like a great man there also, which he certainly was not,\nthat he was put down as a fool by many at his club. He was a man of\nconsiderable literary attainment in a certain way and on certain\nsubjects. His favourite authors were Montaigne and Burton, and he\nknew more perhaps than any other man in his own county and the\nnext to it of the English essayists of the two last centuries. He\npossessed complete sets of the Idler, the Spectator, the Tatler, the\nGuardian, and the Rambler, and would discourse by hours together on\nthe superiority of such publications to anything which has since been\nproduced in our Edinburghs and Quarterlies. He was proficient in all\nquestions of genealogy, and knew enough of almost every gentleman's\nfamily in England to say of what blood and lineage were descended\nall those who had any claim to be considered as possessors of any\nsuch luxuries. For blood and lineage he himself had a most profound\nrespect. He counted back his own ancestors to some period long\nantecedent to the Conquest, and could tell you, if you would listen\nto him, how it had come to pass that they, like Cedric the Saxon,\nhad been permitted to hold their own among the Norman barons. It was\nnot, according to his showing, on account of any weak complaisance on\nthe part of his family towards their Norman neighbours. Some Ealfried\nof Ullathorne once fortified his own castle and held out, not only\nthat, but the then existing cathedral of Barchester also, against one\nGeoffrey De Burgh, in the time of King John; and Mr. Thorne possessed\nthe whole history of the siege written on vellum and illuminated in\na most costly manner. It little signified that no one could read the\nwriting, as, had that been possible, no one could have understood the\nlanguage. Mr. Thorne could, however, give you all the particulars in\ngood English, and had no objection to do so.\n\nIt would be unjust to say that he looked down on men whose families\nwere of recent date. He did not do so. He frequently consorted with\nsuch, and had chosen many of his friends from among them. But he\nlooked on them as great millionaires are apt to look on those who\nhave small incomes; as men who have Sophocles at their fingers' ends\nregard those who know nothing of Greek. They might doubtless be good\nsort of people, entitled to much praise for virtue, very admirable\nfor talent, highly respectable in every way, but they were without\nthe one great good gift. Such was Mr. Thorne's way of thinking on\nthis matter; nothing could atone for the loss of good blood; nothing\ncould neutralize its good effects. Few indeed were now possessed of\nit, but the possession was on that account the more precious. It\nwas very pleasant to hear Mr. Thorne descant on this matter. Were\nyou in your ignorance to surmise that such a one was of a good family\nbecause the head of his family was a baronet of an old date, he\nwould open his eyes with a delightful look of affected surprise, and\nmodestly remind you that baronetcies only dated from James I. He\nwould gently sigh if you spoke of the blood of the Fitzgeralds and De\nBurghs; would hardly allow the claims of the Howards and Lowthers;\nand has before now alluded to the Talbots as a family who had hardly\nyet achieved the full honours of a pedigree.\n\nIn speaking once of a wide-spread race whose name had received\nthe honours of three coronets, scions from which sat for various\nconstituencies, some one of whose members had been in almost every\ncabinet formed during the present century, a brilliant race such as\nthere are few in England, Mr. Thorne had called them all \"dirt.\"\nHe had not intended any disrespect to these men. He admired them\nin many senses, and allowed them their privileges without envy. He\nhad merely meant to express his feeling that the streams which ran\nthrough their veins were not yet purified by time to that perfection,\nhad not become so genuine an ichor, as to be worthy of being called\nblood in the genealogical sense.\n\nWhen Mr. Arabin was first introduced to him, Mr. Thorne had\nimmediately suggested that he was one of the Arabins of Uphill\nStanton. Mr. Arabin replied that he was a very distant relative\nof the family alluded to. To this Mr. Thorne surmised that the\nrelationship could not be very distant. Mr. Arabin assured him that\nit was so distant that the families knew nothing of each other. Mr.\nThorne laughed his gentle laugh at this and told Mr. Arabin that\nthere was now existing no branch of his family separated from the\nparent stock at an earlier date than the reign of Elizabeth, and\nthat therefore Mr. Arabin could not call himself distant. Mr. Arabin\nhimself was quite clearly an Arabin of Uphill Stanton.\n\n\"But,\" said the vicar, \"Uphill Stanton has been sold to the De Greys\nand has been in their hands for the last fifty years.\"\n\n\"And when it has been there one hundred and fifty, if it unluckily\nremain there so long,\" said Mr. Thorne, \"your descendants will not\nbe a whit the less entitled to describe themselves as being of the\nfamily of Uphill Stanton. Thank God no De Grey can buy that--and\nthank God no Arabin, and no Thorne, can sell it.\"\n\nIn politics Mr. Thorne was an unflinching conservative. He looked on\nthose fifty-three Trojans who, as Mr. Dod tells us, censured free\ntrade in November, 1852, as the only patriots left among the public\nmen of England. When that terrible crisis of free trade had arrived,\nwhen the repeal of the Corn Laws was carried by those very men whom\nMr. Thorne had hitherto regarded as the only possible saviours of\nhis country, he was for a time paralysed. His country was lost; but\nthat was comparatively a small thing. Other countries had flourished\nand fallen, and the human race still went on improving under God's\nprovidence. But now all trust in human faith must forever be at an\nend. Not only must ruin come, but it must come through the apostasy\nof those who had been regarded as the truest of true believers.\nPolitics in England, as a pursuit for gentlemen, must be at an end.\nHad Mr. Thorne been trodden under foot by a Whig, he could have\nborne it as a Tory and a martyr, but to be so utterly thrown over\nand deceived by those he had so earnestly supported, so thoroughly\ntrusted, was more than he could endure and live. He therefore ceased\nto live as a politician, and refused to hold any converse with the\nworld at large on the state of the country.\n\nSuch were Mr. Thorne's impressions for the first two or three years\nafter Sir Robert Peel's apostasy, but by degrees his temper, as did\nthat of others, cooled down. He began once more to move about, to\nfrequent the bench and the market, and to be seen at dinners shoulder\nto shoulder with some of those who had so cruelly betrayed him. It\nwas a necessity for him to live, and that plan of his for avoiding\nthe world did not answer. He, however, and others around him who\nstill maintained the same staunch principles of protection--men like\nhimself who were too true to flinch at the cry of a mob--had their\nown way of consoling themselves. They were, and felt themselves to\nbe, the only true depositaries left of certain Eleusinian mysteries,\nof certain deep and wondrous services of worship by which alone the\ngods could be rightly approached. To them and them only was it now\ngiven to know these things and to perpetuate them, if that might\nstill be done, by the careful and secret education of their children.\n\nWe have read how private and peculiar forms of worship have been\ncarried on from age to age in families which, to the outer world,\nhave apparently adhered to the services of some ordinary church. And\nso by degrees it was with Mr. Thorne. He learnt at length to listen\ncalmly while protection was talked of as a thing dead, although he\nknew within himself that it was still quick with a mystic life. Nor\nwas he without a certain pleasure that such knowledge, though given\nto him, should be debarred from the multitude. He became accustomed\nto hear even among country gentlemen that free trade was after all\nnot so bad, and to hear this without dispute, although conscious\nwithin himself that everything good in England had gone with his old\npalladium. He had within him something of the feeling of Cato, who\ngloried that he could kill himself because Romans were no longer\nworthy of their name. Mr. Thorne had no thought of killing himself,\nbeing a Christian and still possessing his £4000 a year, but the\nfeeling was not on that account the less comfortable.\n\nMr. Thorne was a sportsman, and had been active though not outrageous\nin his sports. Previous to the great downfall of politics in his\ncounty, he had supported the hunt by every means in his power. He\nhad preserved game till no goose or turkey could show a tail in the\nparish of St. Ewold's. He had planted gorse covers with more care\nthan oaks and larches. He had been more anxious for the comfort of\nhis foxes than of his ewes and lambs. No meet had been more popular\nthan Ullathorne; no man's stables had been more liberally open to\nthe horses of distant men than Mr. Thorne's; no man had said more,\nwritten more, or done more to keep the club up. The theory of\nprotection could expand itself so thoroughly in the practices of a\ncounty hunt! But when the great ruin came; when the noble master of\nthe Barsetshire hounds supported the recreant minister in the House\nof Lords and basely surrendered his truth, his manhood, his friends,\nand his honour for the hope of a garter, then Mr. Thorne gave up the\nhunt. He did not cut his covers, for that would not have been the\nact of a gentleman. He did not kill his foxes, for that according\nto his light would have been murder. He did not say that his covers\nshould not be drawn, or his earths stopped, for that would have been\nillegal according to the by-laws prevailing among country gentlemen.\nBut he absented himself from home on the occasion of every meet at\nUllathorne, left the covers to their fate, and could not be persuaded\nto take his pink coat out of his press, or his hunters out of his\nstable. This lasted for two years, and then by degrees he came\nround. He first appeared at a neighbouring meet on a pony, dressed\nin his shooting-coat, as though he had trotted in by accident; then\nhe walked up one morning on foot to see his favourite gorse drawn,\nand when his groom brought his mare out by chance, he did not\nrefuse to mount her. He was next persuaded, by one of the immortal\nfifty-three, to bring his hunting materials over to the other side\nof the county and take a fortnight with the hounds there; and\nso gradually he returned to his old life. But in hunting as in\nother things he was only supported by an inward feeling of mystic\nsuperiority to those with whom he shared the common breath of outer\nlife.\n\nMr. Thorne did not live in solitude at Ullathorne. He had a sister,\nwho was ten years older than himself and who participated in his\nprejudices and feelings so strongly that she was a living caricature\nof all his foibles. She would not open a modern quarterly, did not\nchoose to see a magazine in her drawing-room, and would not have\npolluted her fingers with a shred of the Times for any consideration.\nShe spoke of Addison, Swift, and Steele as though they were still\nliving, regarded Defoe as the best known novelist of his country,\nand thought of Fielding as a young but meritorious novice in the\nfields of romance. In poetry, she was familiar with names as late\nas Dryden, and had once been seduced into reading \"The Rape of the\nLock;\" but she regarded Spenser as the purest type of her country's\nliterature in this line. Genealogy was her favourite insanity.\nThose things which are the pride of most genealogists were to her\ncontemptible. Arms and mottoes set her beside herself. Ealfried of\nUllathorne had wanted no motto to assist him in cleaving to the\nbrisket Geoffrey De Burgh, and Ealfried's great grandfather, the\ngigantic Ullafrid, had required no other arms than those which nature\ngave him to hurl from the top of his own castle a cousin of the\nbase invading Norman. To her all modern English names were equally\ninsignificant: Hengist, Horsa, and such like had for her ears the\nonly true savour of nobility. She was not contented unless she\ncould go beyond the Saxons, and would certainly have christened her\nchildren, had she had children, by the names of the ancient Britons.\nIn some respects she was not unlike Scott's Ulrica, and had she been\ngiven to cursing, she would certainly have done so in the names of\nMista, Skogula, and Zernebock. Not having submitted to the embraces\nof any polluting Norman, as poor Ulrica had done, and having\nassisted no parricide, the milk of human kindness was not curdled\nin her bosom. She never cursed therefore, but blessed rather. This,\nhowever, she did in a strange uncouth Saxon manner that would have\nbeen unintelligible to any peasants but her own.\n\nAs a politician, Miss Thorne had been so thoroughly disgusted with\npublic life by base deeds long antecedent to the Corn Law question\nthat that had but little moved her. In her estimation her brother\nhad been a fast young man, hurried away by a too ardent temperament\ninto democratic tendencies. Now happily he was brought to sounder\nviews by seeing the iniquity of the world. She had not yet reconciled\nherself to the Reform Bill, and still groaned in spirit over the\ndefalcations of the Duke as touching the Catholic Emancipation. If\nasked whom she thought the Queen should take as her counsellor, she\nwould probably have named Lord Eldon, and when reminded that that\nvenerable man was no longer present in the flesh to assist us, she\nwould probably have answered with a sigh that none now could help us\nbut the dead.\n\nIn religion Miss Thorne was a pure Druidess. We would not have it\nunderstood by that that she did actually in these latter days assist\nat any human sacrifices, or that she was in fact hostile to the\nChurch of Christ. She had adopted the Christian religion as a milder\nform of the worship of her ancestors, and always appealed to her\ndoing so as evidence that she had no prejudices against reform, when\nit could be shown that reform was salutary. This reform was the most\nmodern of any to which she had as yet acceded, it being presumed that\nBritish ladies had given up their paint and taken to some sort of\npetticoats before the days of St. Augustine. That further feminine\nstep in advance which combines paint and petticoats together had not\nfound a votary in Miss Thorne.\n\nBut she was a Druidess in this, that she regretted she knew not what\nin the usages and practices of her Church. She sometimes talked and\nconstantly thought of good things gone by, though she had but the\nfaintest idea of what those good things had been. She imagined that\na purity had existed which was now gone, that a piety had adorned our\npastors and a simple docility our people, for which it may be feared\nhistory gave her but little true warrant. She was accustomed to speak\nof Cranmer as though he had been the firmest and most simple-minded\nof martyrs, and of Elizabeth as though the pure Protestant faith of\nher people had been the one anxiety of her life. It would have been\ncruel to undeceive her, had it been possible; but it would have been\nimpossible to make her believe that the one was a time-serving priest,\nwilling to go any length to keep his place, and that the other was in\nheart a papist, with this sole proviso, that she should be her own\npope.\n\nAnd so Miss Thorne went on sighing and regretting, looking back to\nthe divine right of kings as the ruling axiom of a golden age, and\ncherishing, low down in the bottom of her heart of hearts, a dear\nunmentioned wish for the restoration of some exiled Stuart. Who\nwould deny her the luxury of her sighs, or the sweetness of her soft\nregrets!\n\nIn her person and her dress she was perfect, and well she knew her\nown perfection. She was a small, elegantly made old woman, with\na face from which the glow of her youth had not departed without\nleaving some streaks of a roseate hue. She was proud of her colour,\nproud of her grey hair which she wore in short crisp curls peering\nout all around her face from her dainty white lace cap. To think of\nall the money that she spent in lace used to break the heart of poor\nMrs. Quiverful with her seven daughters. She was proud of her teeth,\nwhich were still white and numerous, proud of her bright cheery eye,\nproud of her short jaunty step; and very proud of the neat, precise,\nsmall feet with which those steps were taken. She was proud also,\nay, very proud, of the rich brocaded silk in which it was her custom\nto ruffle through her drawing-room.\n\nWe know what was the custom of the lady of Branksome--\n\n\n   Nine-and-twenty knights of fame\n   Hung their shields in Branksome Hall.\n\n\nThe lady of Ullathorne was not so martial in her habits, but hardly\nless costly. She might have boasted that nine-and-twenty silken\nskirts might have been produced in her chamber, each fit to stand\nalone. The nine-and-twenty shields of the Scottish heroes were less\nindependent and hardly more potent to withstand any attack that might\nbe made on them. Miss Thorne when fully dressed might be said to\nhave been armed cap-a-pie, and she was always fully dressed, as far\nas was ever known to mortal man.\n\nFor all this rich attire Miss Thorne was not indebted to the\ngenerosity of her brother. She had a very comfortable independence\nof her own, which she divided among juvenile relatives, the\nmilliners, and the poor, giving much the largest share to the latter.\nIt may be imagined, therefore, that with all her little follies she\nwas not unpopular. All her follies have, we believe, been told.\nHer virtues were too numerous to describe, and not sufficiently\ninteresting to deserve description.\n\nWhile we are on the subject of the Thornes, one word must be said of\nthe house they lived in. It was not a large house, nor a fine house,\nnor perhaps to modern ideas a very commodious house, but by those\nwho love the peculiar colour and peculiar ornaments of genuine Tudor\narchitecture it was considered a perfect gem. We beg to own ourselves\namong the number, and therefore take this opportunity to express our\nsurprise that so little is known by English men and women of the\nbeauties of English architecture. The ruins of the Colosseum, the\nCampanile at Florence, St. Mark's, Cologne, the Bourse and Notre Dame\nare with our tourists as familiar as household words; but they know\nnothing of the glories of Wiltshire, Dorsetshire, and Somersetshire.\nNay, we much question whether many noted travellers, men who have\npitched their tents perhaps under Mount Sinai, are not still ignorant\nthat there are glories in Wiltshire, Dorsetshire, and Somersetshire.\nWe beg that they will go and see.\n\nMr. Thorne's house was called Ullathorne Court--and was properly so\ncalled, for the house itself formed two sides of a quadrangle, which\nwas completed on the other two sides by a wall about twenty feet\nhigh. This wall was built of cut stone, rudely cut indeed, and now\nmuch worn, but of a beautiful, rich, tawny yellow colour, the effect\nof that stonecrop of minute growth which it had taken three centuries\nto produce. The top of this wall was ornamented by huge, round stone\nballs of the same colour as the wall itself. Entrance into the court\nwas had through a pair of iron gates so massive that no one could\ncomfortably open or close them--consequently, they were rarely\ndisturbed. From the gateway two paths led obliquely across the\ncourt: that to the left reaching the hall-door, which was in the\ncorner made by the angle of the house, and that to the right leading\nto the back entrance, which was at the further end of the longer\nportion of the building.\n\nWith those who are now adepts in contriving house accommodation, it\nwill militate much against Ullathorne Court that no carriage could be\nbrought to the hall-door. If you enter Ullathorne at all, you must\ndo so, fair reader, on foot, or at least in a bath-chair. No vehicle\ndrawn by horses ever comes within that iron gate. But this is\nnothing to the next horror that will encounter you. On entering the\nfront door, which you do by no very grand portal, you find yourself\nimmediately in the dining-room. What, no hall? exclaims my luxurious\nfriend, accustomed to all the comfortable appurtenances of modern\nlife. Yes, kind sir, a noble hall, if you will but observe it;\na true old English hall of excellent dimensions for a country\ngentleman's family; but, if you please, no dining-parlour.\n\nBoth Mr. and Miss Thorne were proud of this peculiarity of their\ndwelling, though the brother was once all but tempted by his friends\nto alter it. They delighted in the knowledge that they, like Cedric,\npositively dined in their true hall, even though they so dined\n_tête-à-tête_. But though they had never owned, they had felt and\nendeavoured to remedy the discomfort of such an arrangement. A huge\nscreen partitioned off the front door and a portion of the hall, and\nfrom the angle so screened off a second door led into a passage which\nran along the larger side of the house next to the courtyard. Either\nmy reader or I must be a bad hand at topography, if it be not clear\nthat the great hall forms the ground-floor of the smaller portion\nof the mansion, that which was to your left as you entered the iron\ngate, and that it occupies the whole of this wing of the building.\nIt must be equally clear that it looks out on a trim mown lawn,\nthrough three quadrangular windows with stone mullions, each window\ndivided into a larger portion at the bottom, and a smaller portion at\nthe top, and each portion again divided into five by perpendicular\nstone supporters. There may be windows which give a better light\nthan such as these, and it may be, as my utilitarian friend observes,\nthat the giving of light is the desired object of a window. I will\nnot argue the point with him. Indeed I cannot. But I shall not the\nless die in the assured conviction that no sort or description of\nwindow is capable of imparting half so much happiness to mankind as\nthat which had been adopted at Ullathorne Court. What, not an oriel?\nsays Miss Diana de Midellage. No, Miss Diana, not even an oriel,\nbeautiful as is an oriel window. It has not about it so perfect a\nfeeling of quiet English homely comfort. Let oriel windows grace a\ncollege, or the half-public mansion of a potent peer, but for the\nsitting room of quiet country ladies, of ordinary homely folk,\nnothing can equal the square, mullioned windows of the Tudor\narchitects.\n\nThe hall was hung round with family female insipidities by Lely and\nunprepossessing male Thornes in red coats by Kneller, each Thorne\nhaving been let into a panel in the wainscoting, in the proper\nmanner. At the further end of the room was a huge fire-place, which\nafforded much ground of difference between the brother and sister.\nAn antiquated grate that would hold about a hundredweight of coal,\nhad been stuck on to the hearth by Mr. Thorne's father. This hearth\nhad of course been intended for the consumption of wood faggots, and\nthe iron dogs for the purpose were still standing, though half-buried\nin the masonry of the grate. Miss Thorne was very anxious to revert\nto the dogs. The dear good old creature was always glad to revert to\nanything, and had she been systematically indulged, would doubtless\nin time have reflected that fingers were made before forks and have\nreverted accordingly. But in the affairs of the fire-place Mr.\nThorne would not revert. Country gentlemen around him all had\ncomfortable grates in their dining-rooms. He was not exactly the man\nto have suggested a modern usage, but he was not so far prejudiced\nas to banish those which his father had prepared for his use. Mr.\nThorne had indeed once suggested that with very little contrivance\nthe front door might have been so altered as to open at least into\nthe passage, but on hearing this, his sister Monica--such was Miss\nThorne's name--had been taken ill and had remained so for a week.\nBefore she came downstairs she received a pledge from her brother\nthat the entrance should never be changed in her lifetime.\n\nAt the end of the hall opposite to the fire-place a door led into the\ndrawing-room, which was of equal size, and lighted with precisely\nsimilar windows. But yet the aspect of the room was very different.\nIt was papered, and the ceiling, which in the hall showed the old\nrafters, was whitened and finished with a modern cornice. Miss\nThorne's drawing-room, or, as she always called it, withdrawing-room,\nwas a beautiful apartment. The windows opened on to the full extent\nof the lovely trim garden; immediately before the windows were\nplots of flowers in stiff, stately, stubborn little beds, each bed\nsurrounded by a stone coping of its own; beyond, there was a low\nparapet wall on which stood urns and images, fawns, nymphs, satyrs,\nand a whole tribe of Pan's followers; and then again, beyond that, a\nbeautiful lawn sloped away to a sunk fence which divided the garden\nfrom the park. Mr. Thorne's study was at the end of the drawing-room,\nand beyond that were the kitchen and the offices. Doors opened into\nboth Miss Thorne's withdrawing-room and Mr. Thorne's sanctum from\nthe passage above alluded to, which, as it came to the latter room,\nwidened itself so as to make space for the huge black oak stairs which\nled to the upper regions.\n\nSuch was the interior of Ullathorne Court. But having thus described\nit, perhaps somewhat too tediously, we beg to say that it is not the\ninterior to which we wish to call the English tourist's attention,\nthough we advise him to lose no legitimate opportunity of becoming\nacquainted with it in a friendly manner. It is the outside of\nUllathorne that is so lovely. Let the tourist get admission at\nleast into the garden and fling himself on that soft sward just\nopposite to the exterior angle of the house. He will there get the\ndouble frontage and enjoy that which is so lovely--the expanse of\narchitectural beauty without the formal dullness of one long line.\n\nIt is the colour of Ullathorne that is so remarkable. It is of that\ndelicious tawny hue which no stone can give, unless it has on it the\nvegetable richness of centuries. Strike the wall with your hand,\nand you will think that the stone has on it no covering, but rub it\ncarefully, and you will find that the colour comes off upon your\nfinger. No colourist that ever yet worked from a palette has been\nable to come up to this rich colouring of years crowding themselves\non years.\n\nUllathorne is a high building for a country-house, for it possesses\nthree stories, and in each story the windows are of the same sort\nas that described, though varying in size and varying also in their\nlines athwart the house. Those of the ground floor are all uniform\nin size and position. But those above are irregular both in size and\nplace, and this irregularity gives a bizarre and not unpicturesque\nappearance to the building. Along the top, on every side, runs a low\nparapet, which nearly hides the roof, and at the corners are more\nfigures of fawns and satyrs.\n\nSuch is Ullathorne House. But we must say one word of the approach\nto it, which shall include all the description which we mean to give\nof the church also. The picturesque old church of St. Ewold's stands\nimmediately opposite to the iron gates which open into the court, and\nis all but surrounded by the branches of the lime-trees which form\nthe avenue leading up to the house from both sides. This avenue is\nmagnificent, but it would lose much of its value in the eyes of many\nproprietors by the fact that the road through it is not private\nproperty. It is a public lane between hedgerows, with a broad grass\nmargin on each side of the road, from which the lime-trees spring.\nUllathorne Court, therefore, does not stand absolutely surrounded by\nits own grounds, though Mr. Thorne is owner of all the adjacent land.\nThis, however, is the source of very little annoyance to him. Men,\nwhen they are acquiring property, think much of such things, but they\nwho live where their ancestors have lived for years do not feel the\nmisfortune. It never occurred either to Mr. or Miss Thorne that they\nwere not sufficiently private because the world at large might, if it\nso wished, walk or drive by their iron gates. That part of the world\nwhich availed itself of the privilege was however very small.\n\nSuch a year or two since were the Thornes of Ullathorne. Such, we\nbelieve, are the inhabitants of many an English country-home. May it\nbe long before their number diminishes.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\nMr. Arabin Reads Himself in at St. Ewold's\n\n\nOn the Sunday morning the archdeacon with his sister-in-law and Mr.\nArabin drove over to Ullathorne, as had been arranged. On their way\nthither the new vicar declared himself to be considerably disturbed\nin his mind at the idea of thus facing his parishioners for the first\ntime. He had, he said, been always subject to _mauvaise honte_ and an\nannoying degree of bashfulness, which often unfitted him for any work\nof a novel description; and now he felt this so strongly that he\nfeared he should acquit himself badly in St. Ewold's reading-desk.\nHe knew, he said, that those sharp little eyes of Miss Thorne would\nbe on him, and that they would not approve. All this the archdeacon\ngreatly ridiculed. He himself knew not, and had never known, what it\nwas to be shy. He could not conceive that Miss Thorne, surrounded as\nshe would be by the peasants of Ullathorne and a few of the poorer\ninhabitants of the suburbs of Barchester, could in any way affect the\ncomposure of a man well accustomed to address the learned congregation\nof St. Mary's at Oxford, and he laughed accordingly at the idea of Mr.\nArabin's modesty.\n\nThereupon Mr. Arabin commenced to subtilize. The change, he said,\nfrom St. Mary's to St. Ewold's was quite as powerful on the spirits\nas would be that from St. Ewold's to St. Mary's. Would not a peer\nwho, by chance of fortune, might suddenly be driven to herd among\nnavvies be as afraid of the jeers of his companions as would any\nnavvy suddenly exalted to a seat among the peers? Whereupon the\narchdeacon declared with a loud laugh that he would tell Miss Thorne\nthat her new minister had likened her to a navvy. Eleanor, however,\npronounced such a conclusion to be unfair; a comparison might be very\njust in its proportions which did not at all assimilate the things\ncompared. But Mr. Arabin went on subtilizing, regarding neither the\narchdeacon's raillery nor Eleanor's defence. A young lady, he said,\nwould execute with most perfect self-possession a difficult piece\nof music in a room crowded with strangers, who would not be able\nto express herself in intelligible language, even on any ordinary\nsubject and among her most intimate friends, if she were required to\ndo so standing on a box somewhat elevated among them. It was all an\naffair of education, and he at forty found it difficult to educate\nhimself anew.\n\nEleanor dissented on the matter of the box, and averred she could\nspeak very well about dresses, or babies, or legs of mutton from any\nbox, provided it were big enough for her to stand upon without fear,\neven though all her friends were listening to her. The archdeacon\nwas sure she would not be able to say a word, but this proved nothing\nin favour of Mr. Arabin. Mr. Arabin said that he would try the\nquestion out with Mrs. Bold, and get her on a box some day when the\nrectory might be full of visitors. To this Eleanor assented, making\ncondition that the visitors should be of their own set, and the\narchdeacon cogitated in his mind whether by such a condition it was\nintended that Mr. Slope should be included, resolving also that,\nif so, the trial would certainly never take place in the rectory\ndrawing-room at Plumstead.\n\nAnd so arguing, they drove up to the iron gates of Ullathorne Court.\n\nMr. and Miss Thorne were standing ready dressed for church in the\nhall, and greeted their clerical visitors with cordiality. The\narchdeacon was an old favourite. He was a clergyman of the old\nschool, and this recommended him to the lady. He had always been an\nopponent of free trade as long as free trade was an open question,\nand now that it was no longer so, he, being a clergyman, had not\nbeen obliged, like most of his lay Tory companions, to read his\nrecantation. He could therefore be regarded as a supporter of the\nimmaculate fifty-three, and was on this account a favourite with Mr.\nThorne. The little bell was tinkling, and the rural population of\nthe parish were standing about the lane, leaning on the church-stile\nand against the walls of the old court, anxious to get a look at\ntheir new minister as he passed from the house to the rectory. The\narchdeacon's servant had already preceded them thither with the\nvestments.\n\nThey all went forth together, and when the ladies passed into the\nchurch, the three gentlemen tarried a moment in the lane, that\nMr. Thorne might name to the vicar with some kind of one-sided\nintroduction the most leading among his parishioners.\n\n\"Here are our churchwardens, Mr. Arabin--Farmer Greenacre and Mr.\nStiles. Mr. Stiles has the mill as you go into Barchester; and very\ngood churchwardens they are.\"\n\n\"Not very severe, I hope,\" said Mr. Arabin. The two ecclesiastical\nofficers touched their hats, and each made a leg in the approved rural\nfashion, assuring the vicar that they were very glad to have the\nhonour of seeing him, and adding that the weather was very good for\nthe harvest. Mr. Stiles, being a man somewhat versed in town life,\nhad an impression of his own dignity, and did not quite like leaving\nhis pastor under the erroneous idea that he being a churchwarden kept\nthe children in order during church time. 'Twas thus he understood\nMr. Arabin's allusion to his severity and hastened to put matters\nright by observing that \"Sexton Clodheve looked to the younguns,\nand perhaps sometimes there may be a thought too much stick going\non during sermon.\" Mr. Arabin's bright eye twinkled as he caught\nthat of the archdeacon, and he smiled to himself as he observed how\nignorant his officers were of the nature of their authority and of\nthe surveillance which it was their duty to keep even over himself.\n\nMr. Arabin read the lessons and preached. It was enough to put a man\na little out, let him have been ever so used to pulpit reading, to\nsee the knowing way in which the farmers cocked their ears and set\nabout a mental criticism as to whether their new minister did or did\nnot fall short of the excellence of him who had lately departed from\nthem. A mental and silent criticism it was for the existing moment,\nbut soon to be made public among the elders of St. Ewold's over the\ngreen graves of their children and forefathers. The excellence,\nhowever, of poor old Mr. Goodenough had not been wonderful, and\nthere were few there who did not deem that Mr. Arabin did his work\nsufficiently well, in spite of the slightly nervous affliction which\nat first impeded him, and which nearly drove the archdeacon beside\nhimself.\n\nBut the sermon was the thing to try the man. It often surprises us\nthat very young men can muster courage to preach for the first time\nto a strange congregation. Men who are as yet but little more than\nboys, who have but just left what indeed we may not call a school,\nbut a seminary intended for their tuition as scholars, whose thoughts\nhave been mostly of boating, cricketing, and wine-parties, ascend a\nrostrum high above the heads of the submissive crowd, not that they\nmay read God's word to those below, but that they may preach their\nown word for the edification of their hearers. It seems strange to\nus that they are not stricken dumb by the new and awful solemnity of\ntheir position. \"How am I, just turned twenty-three, who have never\nyet passed ten thoughtful days since the power of thought first came\nto me, how am I to instruct these greybeards who, with the weary\nthinking of so many years, have approached so near the grave? Can\nI teach them their duty? Can I explain to them that which I so\nimperfectly understand, that which years of study may have made\nso plain to them? Has my newly acquired privilege as one of God's\nministers imparted to me as yet any fitness for the wonderful work of\na preacher?\"\n\nIt must be supposed that such ideas do occur to young clergymen, and\nyet they overcome, apparently with ease, this difficulty which to us\nappears to be all but insurmountable. We have never been subjected\nin the way of ordination to the power of a bishop's hands. It may be\nthat there is in them something that sustains the spirit and banishes\nthe natural modesty of youth. But for ourselves we must own that the\ndeep affection which Dominie Sampson felt for his young pupils has\nnot more endeared him to us than the bashful spirit which sent him\nmute and inglorious from the pulpit when he rose there with the\nfutile attempt to preach God's gospel.\n\nThere is a rule in our church which forbids the younger order of our\nclergymen to perform a certain portion of the service. The absolution\nmust be read by a minister in priest's orders. If there be no such\nminister present, the congregation can have the benefit of no\nabsolution but that which each may succeed in administering to\nhimself. The rule may be a good one, though the necessity for it\nhardly comes home to the general understanding. But this forbearance\non the part of youth would be much more appreciated if it were\nextended likewise to sermons. The only danger would be that\ncongregations would be too anxious to prevent their young clergymen\nfrom advancing themselves in the ranks of the ministry. Clergymen who\ncould not preach would be such blessings that they would be bribed to\nadhere to their incompetence.\n\nMr. Arabin, however, had not the modesty of youth to impede him, and\nhe succeeded with his sermon even better than with the lessons. He\ntook for his text two verses out of the second epistle of St. John,\n\"Whosoever transgresseth, and abideth not in the doctrine of Christ,\nhath not God. He that abideth in the doctrine of Christ, he hath\nboth the Father and the Son. If there come any unto you, and bring\nnot this doctrine, receive him not into your house, neither bid him\nGod-speed.\" He told them that the house of theirs to which he alluded\nwas this their church, in which he now addressed them for the first\ntime; that their most welcome and proper manner of bidding him\nGod-speed would be their patient obedience to his teaching of the\ngospel; but that he could put forward no claim to such conduct on\ntheir part unless he taught them the great Christian doctrine of\nworks and faith combined. On this he enlarged, but not very amply,\nand after twenty minutes succeeded in sending his new friends home to\ntheir baked mutton and pudding well pleased with their new minister.\n\nThen came the lunch at Ullathorne. As soon as they were in the\nhall Miss Thorne took Mr. Arabin's hand and assured him that she\nreceived him into her house, into the temple, she said, in which she\nworshipped, and bade him God-speed with all her heart. Mr. Arabin\nwas touched and squeezed the spinster's hand without uttering a word\nin reply. Then Mr. Thorne expressed a hope that Mr. Arabin found the\nchurch well adapted for articulation, and Mr. Arabin having replied\nthat he had no doubt he should as soon as he had learnt to pitch his\nvoice to the building, they all sat down to the good things before\nthem.\n\nMiss Thorne took special care of Mrs. Bold. Eleanor still wore her\nwidow's weeds, and therefore had about her that air of grave and sad\nmaternity which is the lot of recent widows. This opened the soft\nheart of Miss Thorne, and made her look on her young guest as though\ntoo much could not be done for her. She heaped chicken and ham upon\nher plate and poured out for her a full bumper of port wine. When\nEleanor, who was not sorry to get it, had drunk a little of it, Miss\nThorne at once essayed to fill it again. To this Eleanor objected,\nbut in vain. Miss Thorne winked and nodded and whispered, saying\nthat it was the proper thing and must be done, and that she knew all\nabout it; and so she desired Mrs. Bold to drink it up and not mind\nanybody.\n\n\"It is your duty, you know, to support yourself,\" she said into the\near of the young mother; \"there's more than yourself depending on\nit;\" and thus she coshered up Eleanor with cold fowl and port wine.\nHow it is that poor men's wives, who have no cold fowl and port wine\non which to be coshered up, nurse their children without difficulty,\nwhereas the wives of rich men, who eat and drink everything that is\ngood, cannot do so, we will for the present leave to the doctors and\nthe mothers to settle between them.\n\nAnd then Miss Thorne was great about teeth. Little Johnny Bold\nhad been troubled for the last few days with his first incipient\nmasticator, and with that freemasonry which exists among ladies, Miss\nThorne became aware of the fact before Eleanor had half-finished her\nwing. The old lady prescribed at once a receipt which had been much\nin vogue in the young days of her grandmother, and warned Eleanor with\nsolemn voice against the fallacies of modern medicine.\n\n\"Take his coral, my dear,\" said she, \"and rub it well with\ncarrot-juice; rub it till the juice dries on it, and then give it him\nto play with--\"\n\n\"But he hasn't got a coral,\" said Eleanor.\n\n\"Not got a coral!\" said Miss Thorne with almost angry vehemence.\n\"Not got a coral--how can you expect that he should cut his teeth?\nHave you got Daffy's Elixir?\"\n\nEleanor explained that she had not. It had not been ordered by Mr.\nRerechild, the Barchester doctor whom she employed; and then the\nyoung mother mentioned some shockingly modern succedaneum which Mr.\nRerechild's new lights had taught him to recommend.\n\nMiss Thorne looked awfully severe. \"Take care, my dear,\" said she,\n\"that the man knows what he's about; take care he doesn't destroy\nyour little boy. But\"--and she softened into sorrow, as she said it,\nand spoke more in pity than in anger--\"but I don't know who there is\nin Barchester now that you can trust. Poor dear old Doctor Bumpwell,\nindeed--\"\n\n\"Why, Miss Thorne, he died when I was a little girl.\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear, he did, and an unfortunate day it was for Barchester.\nAs to those young men that have come up since\"--Mr. Rerechild, by the\nby, was quite as old as Miss Thorne herself--\"one doesn't know where\nthey came from or who they are, or whether they know anything about\ntheir business or not.\"\n\n\"I think there are very clever men in Barchester,\" said Eleanor.\n\n\"Perhaps there may be; only I don't know them: and it's admitted\non all sides that medical men aren't now what they used to be.\nThey used to be talented, observing, educated men. But now any\nwhipper-snapper out of an apothecary's shop can call himself a doctor.\nI believe no kind of education is now thought necessary.\"\n\nEleanor was herself the widow of a medical man and felt a little\ninclined to resent all these hard sayings. But Miss Thorne was so\nessentially good-natured that it was impossible to resent anything\nshe said. She therefore sipped her wine and finished her chicken.\n\n\"At any rate, my dear, don't forget the carrot-juice, and by all\nmeans get him a coral at once. My grandmother Thorne had the best\nteeth in the county and carried them to the grave with her at eighty.\nI have heard her say it was all the carrot-juice. She couldn't bear\nthe Barchester doctors. Even poor old Dr. Bumpwell didn't please\nher.\" It clearly never occurred to Miss Thorne that some fifty years\nago Dr. Bumpwell was only a rising man and therefore as much in need\nof character in the eyes of the then ladies of Ullathorne as the\npresent doctors were in her own.\n\nThe archdeacon made a very good lunch, and talked to his host\nabout turnip-drillers and new machines for reaping, while the host,\nthinking it only polite to attend to a stranger, and fearing that\nperhaps he might not care about turnip crops on a Sunday, mooted all\nmanner of ecclesiastical subjects.\n\n\"I never saw a heavier lot of wheat, Thorne, than you've got there\nin that field beyond the copse. I suppose that's guano,\" said the\narchdeacon.\n\n\"Yes, guano. I get it from Bristol myself. You'll find you often\nhave a tolerable congregation of Barchester people out here, Mr.\nArabin. They are very fond of St. Ewold's, particularly of an\nafternoon when the weather is not too hot for the walk.\"\n\n\"I am under an obligation to them for staying away to-day, at any\nrate,\" said the vicar. \"The congregation can never be too small for\na maiden sermon.\"\n\n\"I got a ton and a half at Bradley's in High Street,\" said the\narchdeacon, \"and it was a complete take in. I don't believe there\nwas five hundredweight of guano in it.\"\n\n\"That Bradley never has anything good,\" said Miss Thorne, who had\njust caught the name during her whisperings with Eleanor. \"And such\na nice shop as there used to be in that very house before he came.\nWilfred, don't you remember what good things old Ambleoff used to\nhave?\"\n\n\"There have been three men since Ambleoff's time,\" said the\narchdeacon, \"and each as bad as the other. But who gets it for you\nat Bristol, Thorne?\"\n\n\"I ran up myself this year and bought it out of the ship. I am\nafraid as the evenings get shorter, Mr. Arabin, you'll find the\nreading-desk too dark. I must send a fellow with an axe and make him\nlop off some of those branches.\"\n\nMr. Arabin declared that the morning light at any rate was perfect,\nand deprecated any interference with the lime-trees. And then they\ntook a stroll out among the trim parterres, and Mr. Arabin explained\nto Mrs. Bold the difference between a naiad and a dryad, and dilated\non vases and the shapes of urns. Miss Thorne busied herself among\nher pansies, and her brother, finding it quite impracticable to give\nanything of a peculiarly Sunday tone to the conversation, abandoned\nthe attempt and had it out with the archdeacon about the Bristol\nguano.\n\nAt three o'clock they again went into church, and now Mr. Arabin read\nthe service and the archdeacon preached. Nearly the same congregation\nwas present, with some adventurous pedestrians from the city, who had\nnot thought the heat of the midday August sun too great to deter them.\nThe archdeacon took his text from the epistle to Philemon. \"I beseech\nthee for my son Onesimus, whom I have begotten in my bonds.\" From\nsuch a text it may be imagined the kind of sermon which Dr. Grantly\npreached, and on the whole it was neither dull, nor bad, nor out of\nplace.\n\nHe told them that it had become his duty to look about for a pastor\nfor them, to supply the place of one who had been long among them,\nand that in this manner he regarded as a son him whom he had\nselected, as St. Paul had regarded the young disciple whom he sent\nforth. Then he took a little merit to himself for having studiously\nprovided the best man he could without reference to patronage or\nfavour; but he did not say that the best man according to his\nviews was he who was best able to subdue Mr. Slope, and make that\ngentleman's situation in Barchester too hot to be comfortable. As to\nthe bonds, they had consisted in the exceeding struggle which he had\nmade to get a good clergyman for them. He deprecated any comparison\nbetween himself and St. Paul, but said that he was entitled to beseech\nthem for their goodwill towards Mr. Arabin, in the same manner that\nthe apostle had besought Philemon and his household with regard to\nOnesimus.\n\nThe archdeacon's sermon--text, blessing, and all--was concluded\nwithin the half-hour. Then they shook hands with their Ullathorne\nfriends and returned to Plumstead. 'Twas thus that Mr. Arabin read\nhimself in at St. Ewold's.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\nMr. Slope Manages Matters Very Cleverly at Puddingdale\n\n\nThe next two weeks passed pleasantly enough at Plumstead. The whole\nparty there assembled seemed to get on well together. Eleanor made\nthe house agreeable, and the archdeacon and Mr. Grantly seemed to\nhave forgotten her iniquity as regarded Mr. Slope. Mr. Harding had\nhis violoncello, and played to them while his daughters accompanied\nhim. Johnny Bold, by the help either of Mr. Rerechild or else by that\nof his coral and carrot-juice, got through his teething troubles.\nThere had been gaieties, too, of all sorts. They had dined at\nUllathorne, and the Thornes had dined at the rectory. Eleanor had been\nduly put to stand on her box, and in that position had found herself\nquite unable to express her opinion on the merits of flounces, such\nhaving been the subject given to try her elocution. Mr. Arabin had\nof course been much in his own parish, looking to the doings at his\nvicarage, calling on his parishioners, and taking on himself the\nduties of his new calling. But still he had been every evening at\nPlumstead, and Mrs. Grantly was partly willing to agree with her\nhusband that he was a pleasant inmate in a house.\n\nThey had also been at a dinner-party at Dr. Stanhope's, of which Mr.\nArabin had made one. He also, mothlike, burnt his wings in the flames\nof the signora's candle. Mrs. Bold, too, had been there, and had\nfelt somewhat displeased with the taste--want of taste she called\nit--shown by Mr. Arabin in paying so much attention to Madame Neroni.\nIt was as infallible that Madeline should displease and irritate the\nwomen as that she should charm and captivate the men. The one result\nfollowed naturally on the other. It was quite true that Mr. Arabin\nhad been charmed. He thought her a very clever and a very handsome\nwoman; he thought also that her peculiar affliction entitled her to\nthe sympathy of all. He had never, he said, met so much suffering\njoined to such perfect beauty and so clear a mind. 'Twas thus he\nspoke of the signora, coming home in the archdeacon's carriage,\nand Eleanor by no means liked to hear the praise. It was, however,\nexceedingly unjust of her to be angry with Mr. Arabin, as she had\nherself spent a very pleasant evening with Bertie Stanhope, who had\ntaken her down to dinner and had not left her side for one moment\nafter the gentlemen came out of the dining-room. It was unfair that\nshe should amuse herself with Bertie and yet begrudge her new friend\nhis license of amusing himself with Bertie's sister. And yet she did\nso. She was half-angry with him in the carriage, and said something\nabout meretricious manners. Mr. Arabin did not understand the ways\nof women very well, or else he might have flattered himself that\nEleanor was in love with him.\n\nBut Eleanor was not in love with him. How many shades there are\nbetween love and indifference, and how little the graduated scale is\nunderstood! She had now been nearly three weeks in the same house\nwith Mr. Arabin, and had received much of his attention and listened\ndaily to his conversation. He had usually devoted at least some\nportion of his evening to her exclusively. At Dr. Stanhope's he had\ndevoted himself exclusively to another. It does not require that a\nwoman should be in love to be irritated at this; it does not require\nthat she should even acknowledge to herself that it is unpleasant\nto her. Eleanor had no such self-knowledge. She thought in her own\nheart that it was only on Mr. Arabin's account that she regretted\nthat he could condescend to be amused by the signora. \"I thought he\nhad more mind,\" she said to herself as she sat watching her baby's\ncradle on her return from the party. \"After all, I believe Mr.\nStanhope is the pleasanter man of the two.\" Alas for the memory\nof poor John Bold! Eleanor was not in love with Bertie Stanhope,\nnor was she in love with Mr. Arabin. But her devotion to her late\nhusband was fast fading when she could revolve in her mind, over the\ncradle of his infant, the faults and failings of other aspirants to\nher favour.\n\nWill anyone blame my heroine for this? Let him or her rather thank\nGod for all His goodness--for His mercy endureth forever.\n\nEleanor, in truth, was not in love; neither was Mr. Arabin. Neither\nindeed was Bertie Stanhope, though he had already found occasion to\nsay nearly as much as that he was. The widow's cap had prevented him\nfrom making a positive declaration, when otherwise he would have\nconsidered himself entitled to do so on a third or fourth interview.\nIt was, after all, but a small cap now, and had but little of the\nweeping willow left in its construction. It is singular how these\nemblems of grief fade away by unseen gradations. Each pretends to be\nthe counterpart of the forerunner, and yet the last little bit of\ncrimped white crape that sits so jauntily on the back of the head is\nas dissimilar to the first huge mountain of woe which disfigured the\nface of the weeper as the state of the Hindu is to the jointure of\nthe English dowager.\n\nBut let it be clearly understood that Eleanor was in love with\nno one, and that no one was in love with Eleanor. Under these\ncircumstances her anger against Mr. Arabin did not last long, and\nbefore two days were over they were both as good friends as ever. She\ncould not but like him, for every hour spent in his company was spent\npleasantly. And yet she could not quite like him, for there was always\napparent in his conversation a certain feeling on his part that he\nhardly thought it worth his while to be in earnest. It was almost as\nthough he were playing with a child. She knew well enough that he was\nin truth a sober, thoughtful man who, in some matters and on some\noccasions, could endure an agony of earnestness. And yet to her he was\nalways gently playful. Could she have seen his brow once clouded, she\nmight have learnt to love him.\n\nSo things went on at Plumstead, and on the whole not unpleasantly,\ntill a huge storm darkened the horizon and came down upon the\ninhabitants of the rectory with all the fury of a water-spout. It\nwas astonishing how in a few minutes the whole face of the heavens\nwas changed. The party broke up from breakfast in perfect harmony,\nbut fierce passions had arisen before the evening which did not admit\nof their sitting at the same board for dinner. To explain this it\nwill be necessary to go back a little.\n\nIt will be remembered that the bishop expressed to Mr. Slope in\nhis dressing-room his determination that Mr. Quiverful should be\nconfirmed in his appointment to the hospital, and that his lordship\nrequested Mr. Slope to communicate this decision to the archdeacon.\nIt will also be remembered that the archdeacon had indignantly\ndeclined seeing Mr. Slope, and had instead written a strong letter to\nthe bishop in which he all but demanded the situation of warden for\nMr. Harding. To this letter the archdeacon received an immediate\nformal reply from Mr. Slope, in which it was stated that the bishop\nhad received and would give his best consideration to the\narchdeacon's letter.\n\nThe archdeacon felt himself somewhat checkmated by this reply. What\ncould he do with a man who would neither see him, nor argue with\nhim by letter, and who had undoubtedly the power of appointing any\nclergyman he pleased? He had consulted with Mr. Arabin, who had\nsuggested the propriety of calling in the aid of the Master of\nLazarus. \"If,\" said he, \"you and Dr. Gwynne formally declare your\nintention of waiting upon the bishop, the bishop will not dare to\nrefuse to see you; and if two such men as you are see him together,\nyou will probably not leave him without carrying your point.\"\n\nThe archdeacon did not quite like admitting the necessity of his\nbeing backed by the Master of Lazarus before he could obtain\nadmission into the episcopal palace of Barchester, but still he felt\nthat the advice was good, and he resolved to take it. He wrote again\nto the bishop, expressing a hope that nothing further would be done\nin the matter of the hospital till the consideration promised by\nhis lordship had been given, and then sent off a warm appeal to his\nfriend the master, imploring him to come to Plumstead and assist\nin driving the bishop into compliance. The master had rejoined,\nraising some difficulty, but not declining, and the archdeacon had\nagain pressed his point, insisting on the necessity for immediate\naction. Dr. Gwynne unfortunately had the gout, and could therefore\nname no immediate day, but still agreed to come, if it should be\nfinally found necessary. So the matter stood, as regarded the party\nat Plumstead.\n\nBut Mr. Harding had another friend fighting his battle for him, quite\nas powerful as the Master of Lazarus, and this was Mr. Slope. Though\nthe bishop had so pertinaciously insisted on giving way to his wife\nin the matter of the hospital, Mr. Slope did not think it necessary\nto abandon his object. He had, he thought, daily more and more\nreason to imagine that the widow would receive his overtures\nfavourably, and he could not but feel that Mr. Harding at the\nhospital, and placed there by his means, would be more likely to\nreceive him as a son-in-law than Mr. Harding growling in opposition\nand disappointment under the archdeacon's wing at Plumstead.\nMoreover, to give Mr. Slope due credit, he was actuated by greater\nmotives even than these. He wanted a wife, and he wanted money, but\nhe wanted power more than either. He had fully realized the fact\nthat he must come to blows with Mrs. Proudie. He had no desire to\nremain in Barchester as her chaplain. Sooner than do so, he would\nrisk the loss of his whole connexion with the diocese. What! Was he\nto feel within him the possession of no ordinary talents--was he\nto know himself to be courageous, firm, and, in matters where his\nconscience did not interfere, unscrupulous--and yet he contented to\nbe the working factotum of a woman prelate? Mr. Slope had higher\nideas of his own destiny. Either he or Mrs. Proudie must go to the\nwall, and now had come the time when he would try which it should be.\n\nThe bishop had declared that Mr. Quiverful should be the new warden.\nAs Mr. Slope went downstairs, prepared to see the archdeacon, if\nnecessary, but fully satisfied that no such necessity would arise,\nhe declared to himself that Mr. Harding should be warden. With the\nobject of carrying this point, he rode over to Puddingdale and had a\nfurther interview with the worthy expectant of clerical good things.\nMr. Quiverful was on the whole a worthy man. The impossible task\nof bringing up as ladies and gentlemen fourteen children on an\nincome which was insufficient to give them with decency the common\nnecessaries of life, had had an effect upon him not beneficial either\nto his spirit or his keen sense of honour. Who can boast that he\nwould have supported such a burden with a different result? Mr.\nQuiverful was an honest, painstaking, drudging man, anxious indeed\nfor bread and meat, anxious for means to quiet his butcher and cover\nwith returning smiles the now sour countenance of the baker's wife;\nbut anxious also to be right with his own conscience. He was not\ncareful, as another might be who sat on an easier worldly seat,\nto stand well with those around him, to shun a breath which might\nsully his name or a rumour which might affect his honour. He could\nnot afford such niceties of conduct, such moral luxuries. It must\nsuffice for him to be ordinarily honest according to the ordinary\nhonesty of the world's ways, and to let men's tongues wag as they\nwould.\n\nHe had felt that his brother clergymen, men whom he had known for the\nlast twenty years, looked coldly on him from the first moment that\nhe had shown himself willing to sit at the feet of Mr. Slope; he had\nseen that their looks grew colder still when it became bruited about\nthat he was to be the bishop's new warden at Hiram's Hospital. This\nwas painful enough, but it was the cross which he was doomed to bear.\nHe thought of his wife, whose last new silk dress was six years in\nwear. He thought of all his young flock, whom he could hardly take\nto church with him on Sundays, for there were not decent shoes and\nstockings for them all to wear. He thought of the well-worn sleeves\nof his own black coat and of the stern face of the draper, from whom\nhe would fain ask for cloth to make another, did he not know that\nthe credit would be refused him. Then he thought of the comfortable\nhouse in Barchester, of the comfortable income, of his boys sent to\nschool, of his girls with books in their hands instead of darning\nneedles, of his wife's face again covered with smiles, and of his\ndaily board again covered with plenty. He thought of these things;\nand do thou also, reader, think of them, and then wonder, if thou\ncanst, that Mr. Slope had appeared to him to possess all those good\ngifts which could grace a bishop's chaplain. \"How beautiful upon the\nmountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings.\"\n\nWhy, moreover, should the Barchester clergy have looked coldly on Mr.\nQuiverful? Had they not all shown that they regarded with complacency\nthe loaves and fishes of their mother church? Had they not all, by\nsome hook or crook, done better for themselves than he had done? They\nwere not burdened as he was burdened. Dr. Grantly had five children\nand nearly as many thousands a year on which to feed them. It was\nvery well for him to turn up his nose at a new bishop who could do\nnothing for him, and a chaplain who was beneath his notice; but it\nwas cruel in a man so circumstanced to set the world against the\nfather of fourteen children because he was anxious to obtain for\nthem an honourable support! He, Mr. Quiverful, had not asked for the\nwardenship; he had not even accepted it till he had been assured that\nMr. Harding had refused it. How hard then that he should be blamed\nfor doing that which not to have done would have argued a most insane\nimprudence!\n\nThus in this matter of the hospital poor Mr. Quiverful had his\ntrials, and he had also his consolations. On the whole the\nconsolations were the more vivid of the two. The stern draper heard\nof the coming promotion, and the wealth of his warehouse was at Mr.\nQuiverful's disposal. Coming events cast their shadows before, and\nthe coming event of Mr. Quiverful's transference to Barchester\nproduced a delicious shadow in the shape of a new outfit for Mrs.\nQuiverful and her three elder daughters. Such consolations come\nhome to the heart of a man, and quite home to the heart of a woman.\nWhatever the husband might feel, the wife cared nothing for frowns\nof dean, archdeacon, or prebendary. To her the outsides and insides\nof her husband and fourteen children were everything. In her bosom\nevery other ambition had been swallowed up in that maternal ambition\nof seeing them and him and herself duly clad and properly fed.\nIt had come to that with her that life had now no other purpose.\nShe recked nothing of the imaginary rights of others. She had no\npatience with her husband when he declared to her that he could not\naccept the hospital unless he knew that Mr. Harding had refused it.\nHer husband had no right to be quixotic at the expense of fourteen\nchildren. The narrow escape of throwing away his good fortune which\nher lord had had, almost paralysed her. Now, indeed, they had\nreceived a full promise, not only from Mr. Slope, but also from\nMrs. Proudie. Now, indeed, they might reckon with safety on their\ngood fortune. But what if all had been lost? What if her fourteen\nbairns had been resteeped to the hips in poverty by the morbid\nsentimentality of their father? Mrs. Quiverful was just at present a\nhappy woman, but yet it nearly took her breath away when she thought\nof the risk they had run.\n\n\"I don't know what your father means when he talks so much of what is\ndue to Mr. Harding,\" she said to her eldest daughter. \"Does he think\nthat Mr. Harding would give him £450 a year out of fine feeling? And\nwhat signifies it whom he offends, as long as he gets the place?\nHe does not expect anything better. It passes me to think how your\nfather can be so soft, while everybody around him is so griping.\"\n\nThus, while the outer world was accusing Mr. Quiverful of rapacity\nfor promotion and of disregard to his honour, the inner world of his\nown household was falling foul of him, with equal vehemence, for\nhis willingness to sacrifice their interests to a false feeling of\nsentimental pride. It is astonishing how much difference the point\nof view makes in the aspect of all that we look at!\n\nSuch were the feelings of the different members of the family at\nPuddingdale on the occasion of Mr. Slope's second visit. Mrs.\nQuiverful, as soon as she saw his horse coming up the avenue from the\nvicarage gate, hastily packed up her huge basket of needlework and\nhurried herself and her daughter out of the room in which she was\nsitting with her husband. \"It's Mr. Slope,\" she said. \"He's come to\nsettle with you about the hospital. I do hope we shall now be able\nto move at once.\" And she hastened to bid the maid of all work go to\nthe door, so that the welcome great man might not be kept waiting.\n\nMr. Slope thus found Mr. Quiverful alone. Mrs. Quiverful went off to\nher kitchen and back settlements with anxious beating heart, almost\ndreading that there might be some slip between the cup of her\nhappiness and the lip of her fruition, but yet comforting herself\nwith the reflexion that after what had taken place, any such slip\ncould hardly be possible.\n\nMr. Slope was all smiles as he shook his brother clergyman's hand and\nsaid that he had ridden over because he thought it right at once to\nput Mr. Quiverful in possession of the facts of the matter regarding\nthe wardenship of the hospital. As he spoke, the poor expectant\nhusband and father saw at a glance that his brilliant hopes were\nto be dashed to the ground, and that his visitor was now there for\nthe purpose of unsaying what on his former visit he had said. There\nwas something in the tone of the voice, something in the glance of\nthe eye, which told the tale. Mr. Quiverful knew it all at once.\nHe maintained his self-possession, however, smiled with a slight\nunmeaning smile, and merely said that he was obliged to Mr. Slope\nfor the trouble he was taking.\n\n\"It has been a troublesome matter from first to last,\" said Mr.\nSlope, \"and the bishop has hardly known how to act. Between\nourselves--but mind this of course must go no further, Mr.\nQuiverful.\"\n\nMr. Quiverful said that of course it should not. \"The truth is that\npoor Mr. Harding has hardly known his own mind. You remember our\nlast conversation, no doubt.\"\n\nMr. Quiverful assured him that he remembered it very well indeed.\n\n\"You will remember that I told you that Mr. Harding had refused to\nreturn to the hospital.\"\n\nMr. Quiverful declared that nothing could be more distinct on his\nmemory.\n\n\"And acting on this refusal, I suggested that you should take the\nhospital,\" continued Mr. Slope.\n\n\"I understood you to say that the bishop had authorised you to offer\nit to me.\"\n\n\"Did I? Did I go so far as that? Well, perhaps it may be that in my\nanxiety in your behalf I did commit myself further than I should\nhave done. So far as my own memory serves me, I don't think I did go\nquite so far as that. But I own I was very anxious that you should\nget it, and I may have said more than was quite prudent.\"\n\n\"But,\" said Mr. Quiverful in his deep anxiety to prove his case, \"my\nwife received as distinct a promise from Mrs. Proudie as one human\nbeing could give to another.\"\n\nMr. Slope smiled and gently shook his head. He meant the smile for\na pleasant smile, but it was diabolical in the eyes of the man he\nwas speaking to. \"Mrs. Proudie!\" he said. \"If we are to go to what\npasses between the ladies in these matters, we shall really be in\na nest of troubles from which we shall never extricate ourselves.\nMrs. Proudie is a most excellent lady, kind-hearted, charitable,\npious, and in every way estimable. But, my dear Mr. Quiverful, the\npatronage of the diocese is not in her hands.\"\n\nMr. Quiverful for a moment sat panic-stricken and silent. \"Am I to\nunderstand, then, that I have received no promise?\" he said as soon\nas he had sufficiently collected his thoughts.\n\n\"If you will allow me, I will tell you exactly how the matter rests.\nYou certainly did receive a promise conditional on Mr. Harding's\nrefusal. I am sure you will do me the justice to remember that you\nyourself declared that you could accept the appointment on no other\ncondition than the knowledge that Mr. Harding had declined it.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mr. Quiverful; \"I did say that, certainly.\"\n\n\"Well, it now appears that he did not refuse it.\"\n\n\"But surely you told me, and repeated it more than once, that he had\ndone so in your own hearing.\"\n\n\"So I understood him. But it seems I was in error. But don't for a\nmoment, Mr. Quiverful, suppose that I mean to throw you over. No.\nHaving held out my hand to a man in your position, with your large\nfamily and pressing claims, I am not now going to draw it back again.\nI only want you to act with me fairly and honestly.\"\n\n\"Whatever I do I shall endeavour at any rate to act fairly,\" said the\npoor man, feeling that he had to fall back for support on the spirit\nof martyrdom within him.\n\n\"I am sure you will,\" said the other. \"I am sure you have no wish to\nobtain possession of an income which belongs by all right to another.\nNo man knows better than you do Mr. Harding's history, or can better\nappreciate his character. Mr. Harding is very desirous of returning\nto his old position, and the bishop feels that he is at the present\nmoment somewhat hampered, though of course he is not bound, by the\nconversation which took place on the matter between you and me.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Mr. Quiverful, dreadfully doubtful as to what his\nconduct under such circumstances should be, and fruitlessly striving\nto harden his nerves with some of that instinct of self-preservation\nwhich made his wife so bold.\n\n\"The wardenship of this little hospital is not the only thing in the\nbishop's gift, Mr. Quiverful, nor is it by many degrees the best.\nAnd his lordship is not the man to forget anyone whom he has once\nmarked with approval. If you would allow me to advise you as a\nfriend--\"\n\n\"Indeed, I shall be most grateful to you,\" said the poor vicar of\nPuddingdale.\n\n\"I should advise you to withdraw from any opposition to Mr. Harding's\nclaims. If you persist in your demand, I do not think you will\nultimately succeed. Mr. Harding has all but a positive right to the\nplace. But if you will allow me to inform the bishop that you decline\nto stand in Mr. Harding's way, I think I may promise you--though, by\nthe by, it must not be taken as a formal promise--that the bishop will\nnot allow you to be a poorer man than you would have been had you\nbecome warden.\"\n\nMr. Quiverful sat in his armchair, silent, gazing at vacancy. What\nwas he to say? All this that came from Mr. Slope was so true. Mr.\nHarding had a right to the hospital. The bishop had a great many\ngood things to give away. Both the bishop and Mr. Slope would be\nexcellent friends and terrible enemies to a man in his position. And\nthen he had no proof of any promise; he could not force the bishop to\nappoint him.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Quiverful, what do you say about it?\"\n\n\"Oh, of course, whatever you think fit, Mr. Slope. It's a great\ndisappointment, a very great disappointment. I won't deny that I am\na very poor man, Mr. Slope.\"\n\n\"In the end, Mr. Quiverful, you will find that it will have been\nbetter for you.\"\n\nThe interview ended in Mr. Slope receiving a full renunciation from\nMr. Quiverful of any claim he might have to the appointment in\nquestion. It was only given verbally and without witnesses, but then\nthe original promise was made in the same way.\n\nMr. Slope again assured him that he should not be forgotten, and then\nrode back to Barchester, satisfied that he would now be able to mould\nthe bishop to his wishes.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\nFourteen Arguments in Favour of Mr. Quiverful's Claims\n\n\nWe have most of us heard of the terrible anger of a lioness when,\nsurrounded by her cubs, she guards her prey. Few of us wish to disturb\nthe mother of a litter of puppies when mouthing a bone in the midst of\nher young family. Medea and her children are familiar to us, and so is\nthe grief of Constance. Mrs. Quiverful, when she first heard from her\nhusband the news which he had to impart, felt within her bosom all the\nrage of the lioness, the rapacity of the hound, the fury of the tragic\nqueen, and the deep despair of the bereaved mother.\n\nDoubting, but yet hardly fearing, what might have been the tenor of\nMr. Slope's discourse, she rushed back to her husband as soon as the\nfront door was closed behind the visitor. It was well for Mr. Slope\nthat he so escaped--the anger of such a woman, at such a moment,\nwould have cowed even him. As a general rule, it is highly desirable\nthat ladies should keep their temper: a woman when she storms always\nmakes herself ugly, and usually ridiculous also. There is nothing so\nodious to man as a virago. Though Theseus loved an Amazon, he showed\nhis love but roughly, and from the time of Theseus downward, no man\never wished to have his wife remarkable rather for forward prowess\nthan retiring gentleness. A low voice \"is an excellent thing in\nwoman.\"\n\nSuch may be laid down as a very general rule; and few women should\nallow themselves to deviate from it, and then only on rare occasions.\nBut if there be a time when a woman may let her hair to the winds,\nwhen she may loose her arms, and scream out trumpet-tongued to the\nears of men, it is when nature calls out within her not for her own\nwants, but for the wants of those whom her womb has borne, whom her\nbreasts have suckled, for those who look to her for their daily bread\nas naturally as man looks to his Creator.\n\nThere was nothing poetic in the nature of Mrs. Quiverful. She was\nneither a Medea nor a Constance. When angry, she spoke out her anger\nin plain words, and in a tone which might have been modulated with\nadvantage; but she did so, at any rate, without affectation. Now,\nwithout knowing it, she rose to a tragic vein.\n\n\"Well, my dear, we are not to have it.\" Such were the words with\nwhich her ears were greeted when she entered the parlour, still hot\nfrom the kitchen fire. And the face of her husband spoke even more\nplainly than his words:--\n\n\n   E'en such a man, so faint, so spiritless,\n   So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone,\n   Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night.\n\n\n\"What!\" said she--and Mrs. Siddons could not have put more passion\ninto a single syllable--\"What! Not have it? Who says so?\" And she\nsat opposite to her husband, with her elbows on the table, her hands\nclasped together, and her coarse, solid, but once handsome face\nstretched over it towards him.\n\nShe sat as silent as death while he told his story, and very dreadful\nto him her silence was. He told it very lamely and badly but still\nin such a manner that she soon understood the whole of it.\n\n\"And so you have resigned it?\" said she.\n\n\"I have had no opportunity of accepting it,\" he replied. \"I had no\nwitnesses to Mr. Slope's offer, even if that offer would bind the\nbishop. It was better for me, on the whole, to keep on good terms\nwith such men than to fight for what I should never get!\"\n\n\"Witnesses!\" she screamed, rising quickly to her feet and walking up\nand down the room. \"Do clergymen require witnesses to their words?\nHe made the promise in the bishop's name, and if it is to be broken,\nI'll know the reason why. Did he not positively say that the bishop\nhad sent him to offer you the place?\"\n\n\"He did, my dear. But that is now nothing to the purpose.\"\n\n\"It is everything to the purpose, Mr. Quiverful. Witnesses indeed!\nAnd then to talk of your honour being questioned because you wish to\nprovide for fourteen children. It is everything to the purpose; and\nso they shall know, if I scream it into their ears from the town\ncross of Barchester.\"\n\n\"You forget, Letitia, that the bishop has so many things in his gift.\nWe must wait a little longer. That is all.\"\n\n\"Wait! Shall we feed the children by waiting? Will waiting put George,\nand Tom, and Sam out into the world? Will it enable my poor girls to\ngive up some of their drudgery? Will waiting make Bessy and Jane fit\neven to be governesses? Will waiting pay for the things we got in\nBarchester last week?\"\n\n\"It is all we can do, my dear. The disappointment is as much to me\nas to you; and yet, God knows, I feel it more for your sake than my\nown.\"\n\nMrs. Quiverful was looking full into her husband's face, and saw a\nsmall hot tear appear on each of those furrowed cheeks. This was too\nmuch for her woman's heart. He also had risen, and was standing with\nhis back to the empty grate. She rushed towards him and, seizing him\nin her arms, sobbed aloud upon his bosom.\n\n\"You are too good, too soft, too yielding,\" she said at last. \"These\nmen, when they want you, they use you like a cat's paw; and when they\nwant you no longer, they throw you aside like an old shoe. This is\ntwice they have treated you so.\"\n\n\"In one way this will be all for the better,\" argued he. \"It will\nmake the bishop feel that he is bound to do something for me.\"\n\n\"At any rate he shall hear of it,\" said the lady, again reverting\nto her more angry mood. \"At any rate he shall hear of it, and that\nloudly; and so shall she. She little knows Letitia Quiverful, if she\nthinks I will sit down quietly with the loss after all that passed\nbetween us at the palace. If there's any feeling within her, I'll\nmake her ashamed of herself,\"--and she paced the room again, stamping\nthe floor as she went with her fat, heavy foot. \"Good heavens! What\na heart she must have within her to treat in such a way as this the\nfather of fourteen unprovided children!\"\n\nMr. Quiverful proceeded to explain that he didn't think that Mrs.\nProudie had had anything to do with it.\n\n\"Don't tell me,\" said Mrs. Quiverful; \"I know more about it than\nthat. Doesn't all the world know that Mrs. Proudie is bishop of\nBarchester and that Mr. Slope is merely her creature? Wasn't it she\nthat made me the promise, just as though the thing was in her own\nparticular gift? I tell you, it was that woman who sent him over\nhere to-day, because, for some reason of her own, she wants to go\nback from her word.\"\n\n\"My dear, you're wrong--\"\n\n\"Now, Q., don't be so soft,\" she continued. \"Take my word for it,\nthe bishop knows no more about it than Jemima does.\" Jemima was the\ntwo-year-old. \"And if you'll take my advice, you'll lose no time in\ngoing over and seeing him yourself.\"\n\nSoft, however, as Mr. Quiverful might be, he would not allow himself\nto be talked out of his opinion on this occasion, and proceeded with\nmuch minuteness to explain to his wife the tone in which Mr. Slope\nhad spoken of Mrs. Proudie's interference in diocesan matters. As he\ndid so, a new idea gradually instilled itself into the matron's head,\nand a new course of conduct presented itself to her judgement. What\nif, after all, Mrs. Proudie knew nothing of this visit of Mr. Slope's?\nIn that case, might it not be possible that that lady would still be\nstaunch to her in this matter, still stand her friend, and, perhaps,\npossibly carry her through in opposition to Mr. Slope? Mrs. Quiverful\nsaid nothing as this vague hope occurred to her, but listened with\nmore than ordinary patience to what her husband had to say. While he\nwas still explaining that in all probability the world was wrong in\nits estimation of Mrs. Proudie's power and authority, she had fully\nmade up her mind as to her course of action. She did not, however,\nproclaim her intention. She shook her head ominously as he continued\nhis narration, and when he had completed, she rose to go, merely\nobserving that it was cruel, cruel treatment. She then asked him if\nhe would mind waiting for a late dinner instead of dining at their\nusual hour of three; and, having received from him a concession on\nthis point, she proceeded to carry her purpose into execution.\n\nShe determined that she would at once go to the palace, that she\nwould do so, if possible, before Mrs. Proudie could have had an\ninterview with Mr. Slope, and that she would be either submissive,\npiteous, and pathetic, or else indignant, violent, and exacting,\naccording to the manner in which she was received.\n\nShe was quite confident in her own power. Strengthened as she was by\nthe pressing wants of fourteen children, she felt that she could make\nher way through legions of episcopal servants and force herself, if\nneed be, into the presence of the lady who had so wronged her. She\nhad no shame about it, no _mauvaise honte_, no dread of archdeacons.\nShe would, as she declared to her husband, make her wail heard in\nthe market-place if she did not get redress and justice. It might\nbe very well for an unmarried young curate to be shamefaced in such\nmatters; it might be all right that a snug rector, really in want of\nnothing, but still looking for better preferment, should carry on his\naffairs decently under the rose. But Mrs. Quiverful, with fourteen\nchildren, had given over being shamefaced and, in some things, had\ngiven over being decent. If it were intended that she should be\nill-used in the manner proposed by Mr. Slope, it should not be done\nunder the rose. All the world should know of it.\n\nIn her present mood, Mrs. Quiverful was not over-careful about her\nattire. She tied her bonnet under her chin, threw her shawl over her\nshoulders, armed herself with the old family cotton umbrella, and\nstarted for Barchester. A journey to the palace was not quite so\neasy a thing for Mrs. Quiverful as for our friend at Plumstead.\nPlumstead is nine miles from Barchester, and Puddingdale is but\nfour. But the archdeacon could order round his brougham, and his\nhigh-trotting fast bay gelding would take him into the city within\nthe hour. There was no brougham in the coach-house of Puddingdale\nVicarage, no bay horse in the stables. There was no method of\nlocomotion for its inhabitants but that which nature has assigned\nto man.\n\nMrs. Quiverful was a broad, heavy woman, not young, nor given to\nwalking. In her kitchen, and in the family dormitories, she was\nactive enough, but her pace and gait were not adapted for the road.\nA walk into Barchester and back in the middle of an August day would\nbe to her a terrible task, if not altogether impracticable. There\nwas living in the parish, about half a mile from the vicarage on the\nroad to the city, a decent, kindly farmer, well to do as regards this\nworld and so far mindful of the next that he attended his parish\nchurch with decent regularity. To him Mrs. Quiverful had before now\nappealed in some of her more pressing family troubles, and had not\nappealed in vain. At his door she now presented herself, and, having\nexplained to his wife that most urgent business required her to go at\nonce to Barchester, begged that Farmer Subsoil would take her thither\nin his tax-cart. The farmer did not reject her plan, and, as soon as\nPrince could be got into his collar, they started on their journey.\n\nMrs. Quiverful did not mention the purpose of her business, nor did\nthe farmer alloy his kindness by any unseemly questions. She merely\nbegged to be put down at the bridge going into the city and to be\ntaken up again at the same place in the course of two hours. The\nfarmer promised to be punctual to his appointment, and the lady,\nsupported by her umbrella, took the short cut to the close and, in\na few minutes, was at the bishop's door.\n\nHitherto she had felt no dread with regard to the coming interview.\nShe had felt nothing but an indignant longing to pour forth her\nclaims, and declare her wrongs, if those claims were not fully\nadmitted. But now the difficulty of her situation touched her a\nlittle. She had been at the palace once before, but then she went to\ngive grateful thanks. Those who have thanks to return for favours\nreceived find easy admittance to the halls of the great. Such is not\nalways the case with men, or even with women, who have favours to\nbeg. Still less easy is access for those who demand the fulfilment\nof promises already made.\n\nMrs. Quiverful had not been slow to learn the ways of the world. She\nknew all this, and she knew also that her cotton umbrella and all but\nragged shawl would not command respect in the eyes of the palatial\nservants. If she were too humble, she knew well that she would never\nsucceed. To overcome by imperious overbearing with such a shawl as\nhers upon her shoulders and such a bonnet on her head would have\nrequired a personal bearing very superior to that with which nature\nhad endowed her. Of this also Mrs. Quiverful was aware. She must\nmake it known that she was the wife of a gentleman and a clergyman,\nand must yet condescend to conciliate.\n\nThe poor lady knew but one way to overcome these difficulties at\nthe very threshold of her enterprise, and to this she resorted.\nLow as were the domestic funds at Puddingdale, she still retained\npossession of half a crown, and this she sacrificed to the avarice\nof Mrs. Proudie's metropolitan sesquipedalian serving-man. She\nwas, she said, Mrs. Quiverful of Puddingdale, the wife of the Rev.\nMr. Quiverful. She wished to see Mrs. Proudie. It was indeed quite\nindispensable that she should see Mrs. Proudie. James Fitzplush\nlooked worse than dubious, did not know whether his lady were out, or\nengaged, or in her bedroom; thought it most probable she was subject\nto one of these or to some other cause that would make her invisible;\nbut Mrs. Quiverful could sit down in the waiting-room while inquiry\nwas being made of Mrs. Proudie's maid.\n\n\"Look here, my man,\" said Mrs. Quiverful; \"I must see her;\" and she\nput her card and half-crown--think of it, my reader, think of it; her\nlast half-crown--into the man's hand and sat herself down on a chair\nin the waiting-room.\n\nWhether the bribe carried the day, or whether the bishop's wife\nreally chose to see the vicar's wife, it boots not now to inquire.\nThe man returned and, begging Mrs. Quiverful to follow him, ushered\nher into the presence of the mistress of the diocese.\n\nMrs. Quiverful at once saw that her patroness was in a smiling\nhumour. Triumph sat throned upon her brow, and all the joys of\ndominion hovered about her curls. Her lord had that morning\ncontested with her a great point. He had received an invitation to\nspend a couple of days with the archbishop. His soul longed for the\ngratification. Not a word, however, in his grace's note alluded to\nthe fact of his being a married man; if he went at all, he must go\nalone. This necessity would have presented no insurmountable bar to\nthe visit, or have militated much against the pleasure, had he been\nable to go without any reference to Mrs. Proudie. But this he could\nnot do. He could not order his portmanteau to be packed and start\nwith his own man, merely telling the lady of his heart that he would\nprobably be back on Saturday. There are men--may we not rather say\nmonsters?--who do such things, and there are wives--may we not rather\nsay slaves?--who put up with such usage. But Dr. and Mrs. Proudie\nwere not among the number.\n\nThe bishop, with some beating about the bush, made the lady\nunderstand that he very much wished to go. The lady, without any\nbeating about the bush, made the bishop understand that she wouldn't\nhear of it. It would be useless here to repeat the arguments that\nwere used on each side, and needless to record the result. Those\nwho are married will understand very well how the battle was lost\nand won, and those who are single will never understand it till\nthey learn the lesson which experience alone can give. When Mrs.\nQuiverful was shown into Mrs. Proudie's room, that lady had only\nreturned a few minutes from her lord. But before she left him she\nhad seen the answer to the archbishop's note written and sealed. No\nwonder that her face was wreathed with smiles as she received Mrs.\nQuiverful.\n\nShe instantly spoke of the subject which was so near the heart of her\nvisitor. \"Well, Mrs. Quiverful,\" said she, \"is it decided yet when\nyou are to move into Barchester?\"\n\n\"That woman,\" as she had an hour or two since been called, became\ninstantly re-endowed with all the graces that can adorn a bishop's\nwife. Mrs. Quiverful immediately saw that her business was to be\npiteous, and that nothing was to be gained by indignation--nothing,\nindeed, unless she could be indignant in company with her patroness.\n\n\"Oh, Mrs. Proudie,\" she began, \"I fear we are not to move to\nBarchester at all.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" said that lady sharply, dropping at a moment's notice her\nsmiles and condescension, and turning with her sharp quick way to\nbusiness which she saw at a glance was important.\n\nAnd then Mrs. Quiverful told her tale. As she progressed in the\nhistory of her wrongs she perceived that the heavier she leant upon\nMr. Slope the blacker became Mrs. Proudie's brow, but that such\nblackness was not injurious to her own case. When Mr. Slope was\nat Puddingdale Vicarage that morning she had regarded him as the\ncreature of the lady-bishop; now she perceived that they were\nenemies. She admitted her mistake to herself without any pain or\nhumiliation. She had but one feeling, and that was confined to her\nfamily. She cared little how she twisted and turned among these\nnew-comers at the bishop's palace so long as she could twist her\nhusband into the warden's house. She cared not which was her friend\nor which was her enemy, if only she could get this preferment which\nshe so sorely wanted.\n\nShe told her tale, and Mrs. Proudie listened to it almost in silence.\nShe told how Mr. Slope had cozened her husband into resigning his\nclaim, and had declared that it was the bishop's will that none but\nMr. Harding should be warden. Mrs. Proudie's brow became blacker\nand blacker. At last she started from her chair and, begging Mrs.\nQuiverful to sit and wait for her return, marched out of the room.\n\n\"Oh, Mrs. Proudie, it's for fourteen children--for fourteen\nchildren.\" Such was the burden that fell on her ear as she closed\nthe door behind her.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\nMrs. Proudie Wrestles and Gets a Fall\n\n\nIt was hardly an hour since Mrs. Proudie had left her husband's\napartment victorious, and yet so indomitable was her courage that\nshe now returned thither panting for another combat. She was greatly\nangry with what she thought was his duplicity. He had so clearly\ngiven her a promise on this matter of the hospital. He had been\nalready so absolutely vanquished on that point. Mrs. Proudie began\nto feel that if every affair was to be thus discussed and battled\nabout twice and even thrice, the work of the diocese would be too\nmuch even for her.\n\nWithout knocking at the door, she walked quickly into her husband's\nroom and found him seated at his office table, with Mr. Slope\nopposite to him. Between his fingers was the very note which he had\nwritten to the archbishop in her presence--and it was open! Yes, he\nhad absolutely violated the seal which had been made sacred by her\napproval. They were sitting in deep conclave, and it was too clear\nthat the purport of the archbishop's invitation had been absolutely\ncanvassed again, after it had been already debated and decided on in\nobedience to her behests! Mr. Slope rose from his chair and bowed\nslightly. The two opposing spirits looked each other fully in the\nface, and they knew that they were looking each at an enemy.\n\n\"What is this, Bishop, about Mr. Quiverful?\" said she, coming to the\nend of the table and standing there.\n\nMr. Slope did not allow the bishop to answer but replied himself.\n\"I have been out to Puddingdale this morning, ma'am, and have seen\nMr. Quiverful. Mr. Quiverful has abandoned his claim to the hospital\nbecause he is now aware that Mr. Harding is desirous to fill his\nold place. Under these circumstances I have strongly advised his\nlordship to nominate Mr. Harding.\"\n\n\"Mr. Quiverful has not abandoned anything,\" said the lady, with a\nvery imperious voice. \"His lordship's word has been pledged to him,\nand it must be respected.\"\n\nThe bishop still remained silent. He was anxiously desirous of\nmaking his old enemy bite the dust beneath his feet. His new ally\nhad told him that nothing was more easy for him than to do so. The\nally was there now at his elbow to help him, and yet his courage\nfailed him. It is so hard to conquer when the prestige of former\nvictories is all against one. It is so hard for the cock who has once\nbeen beaten out of his yard to resume his courage and again take a\nproud place upon a dunghill.\n\n\"Perhaps I ought not to interfere,\" said Mr. Slope, \"but yet--\"\n\n\"Certainly you ought not,\" said the infuriated dame.\n\n\"But yet,\" continued Mr. Slope, not regarding the interruption,\n\"I have thought it my imperative duty to recommend the bishop not to\nslight Mr. Harding's claims.\"\n\n\"Mr. Harding should have known his own mind,\" said the lady.\n\n\"If Mr. Harding be not replaced at the hospital, his lordship will\nhave to encounter much ill-will, not only in the diocese, but in the\nworld at large. Besides, taking a higher ground, his lordship, as I\nunderstand, feels it to be his duty to gratify, in this matter, so\nvery worthy a man and so good a clergyman as Mr. Harding.\"\n\n\"And what is to become of the Sabbath-day school and of the Sunday\nservices in the hospital?\" said Mrs. Proudie, with something very\nnearly approaching to a sneer on her face.\n\n\"I understand that Mr. Harding makes no objection to the Sabbath-day\nschool,\" said Mr. Slope. \"And as to the hospital services, that\nmatter will be best discussed after his appointment. If he has any\npermanent objection, then, I fear, the matter must rest.\"\n\n\"You have a very easy conscience in such matters, Mr. Slope,\" said\nshe.\n\n\"I should not have an easy conscience,\" he rejoined, \"but a conscience\nvery far from being easy, if anything said or done by me should lead\nthe bishop to act unadvisedly in this matter. It is clear that in the\ninterview I had with Mr. Harding I misunderstood him--\"\n\n\"And it is equally clear that you have misunderstood Mr. Quiverful,\"\nsaid she, now at the top of her wrath. \"What business have you at all\nwith these interviews? Who desired you to go to Mr. Quiverful this\nmorning? Who commissioned you to manage this affair? Will you answer\nme, sir? Who sent you to Mr. Quiverful this morning?\"\n\nThere was a dead pause in the room. Mr. Slope had risen from his\nchair, and was standing with his hand on the back of it, looking at\nfirst very solemn and now very black. Mrs. Proudie was standing as\nshe had at first placed herself, at the end of the table, and as she\ninterrogated her foe she struck her hand upon it with almost more\nthan feminine vigour. The bishop was sitting in his easy chair\ntwiddling his thumbs, turning his eyes now to his wife, and now to\nhis chaplain, as each took up the cudgels. How comfortable it would\nbe if they could fight it out between them without the necessity of\nany interference on his part; fight it out so that one should kill\nthe other utterly, as far as diocesan life was concerned, so that\nhe, the bishop, might know clearly by whom it behoved him to be led.\nThere would be the comfort of quiet in either case; but if the bishop\nhad a wish as to which might prove the victor, that wish was\ncertainly not antagonistic to Mr. Slope.\n\n\"Better the d---- you know than the d---- you don't know,\" is an old\nsaying, and perhaps a true one; but the bishop had not yet realized\nthe truth of it.\n\n\"Will you answer me, sir?\" she repeated. \"Who instructed you to call\non Mr. Quiverful this morning?\" There was another pause. \"Do you\nintend to answer me, sir?\"\n\n\"I think, Mrs. Proudie, that under all the circumstances it will be\nbetter for me not to answer such a question,\" said Mr. Slope. Mr.\nSlope had many tones in his voice, all duly under his command; among\nthem was a sanctified low tone and a sanctified loud tone--he now\nused the former.\n\n\"Did anyone send you, sir?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Proudie,\" said Mr. Slope, \"I am quite aware how much I owe\nto your kindness. I am aware also what is due by courtesy from a\ngentleman to a lady. But there are higher considerations than either\nof those, and I hope I shall be forgiven if I now allow myself to be\nactuated solely by them. My duty in this matter is to his lordship,\nand I can admit of no questioning but from him. He has approved of\nwhat I have done, and you must excuse me if I say that, having that\napproval and my own, I want none other.\"\n\nWhat horrid words were these which greeted the ear of Mrs. Proudie?\nThe matter was indeed too clear. There was premeditated mutiny in\nthe camp. Not only had ill-conditioned minds become insubordinate by\nthe fruition of a little power, but sedition had been overtly taught\nand preached. The bishop had not yet been twelve months in his chair,\nand rebellion had already reared her hideous head within the palace.\nAnarchy and misrule would quickly follow unless she took immediate\nand strong measures to put down the conspiracy which she had\ndetected.\n\n\"Mr. Slope,\" she said with slow and dignified voice, differing much\nfrom that which she had hitherto used, \"Mr. Slope, I will trouble\nyou, if you please, to leave the apartment. I wish to speak to my\nlord alone.\"\n\nMr. Slope also felt that everything depended on the present\ninterview. Should the bishop now be re-petticoated, his thraldom\nwould be complete and forever. The present moment was peculiarly\npropitious for rebellion. The bishop had clearly committed himself\nby breaking the seal of the answer to the archbishop; he had\ntherefore fear to influence him. Mr. Slope had told him that no\nconsideration ought to induce him to refuse the archbishop's\ninvitation; he had therefore hope to influence him. He had accepted\nMr. Quiverful's resignation and therefore dreaded having to renew\nthat matter with his wife. He had been screwed up to the pitch of\nasserting a will of his own, and might possibly be carried on till by\nan absolute success he should have been taught how possible it was\nto succeed. Now was the moment for victory or rout. It was now that\nMr. Slope must make himself master of the diocese, or else resign his\nplace and begin his search for fortune again. He saw all this plainly.\nAfter what had taken place any compromise between him and the lady\nwas impossible. Let him once leave the room at her bidding and leave\nthe bishop in her hands, and he might at once pack up his portmanteau\nand bid adieu to episcopal honours, Mrs. Bold, and the Signora Neroni.\n\nAnd yet it was not so easy to keep his ground when he was bidden by\na lady to go, or to continue to make a third in a party between a\nhusband and wife when the wife expressed a wish for a _tête-à-tête_\nwith her husband.\n\n\"Mr. Slope,\" she repeated, \"I wish to be alone with my lord.\"\n\n\"His lordship has summoned me on most important diocesan business,\"\nsaid Mr. Slope, glancing with uneasy eye at Dr. Proudie. He felt\nthat he must trust something to the bishop, and yet that that trust\nwas so woefully ill-placed. \"My leaving him at the present moment\nis, I fear, impossible.\"\n\n\"Do you bandy words with me, you ungrateful man?\" said she. \"My\nlord, will you do me the favour to beg Mr. Slope to leave the room?\"\n\nMy lord scratched his head, but for the moment said nothing. This was\nas much as Mr. Slope expected from him, and was on the whole, for him,\nan active exercise of marital rights.\n\n\"My lord,\" said the lady, \"is Mr. Slope to leave this room, or am I?\"\n\nHere Mrs. Proudie made a false step. She should not have alluded to\nthe possibility of retreat on her part. She should not have expressed\nthe idea that her order for Mr. Slope's expulsion could be treated\notherwise than by immediate obedience. In answer to such a question\nthe bishop naturally said in his own mind that, as it was necessary\nthat one should leave the room, perhaps it might be as well that Mrs.\nProudie did so. He did say so in his own mind, but externally he\nagain scratched his head and again twiddled his thumbs.\n\nMrs. Proudie was boiling over with wrath. Alas, alas! Could she but\nhave kept her temper as her enemy did, she would have conquered as\nshe had ever conquered. But divine anger got the better of her, as\nit has done of other heroines, and she fell.\n\n\"My lord,\" said she, \"am I to be vouchsafed an answer or am I not?\"\n\nAt last he broke his deep silence and proclaimed himself a Slopeite.\n\"Why, my dear,\" said he, \"Mr. Slope and I are very busy.\"\n\nThat was all. There was nothing more necessary. He had gone to the\nbattlefield, stood the dust and heat of the day, encountered the fury\nof the foe, and won the victory. How easy is success to those who\nwill only be true to themselves!\n\nMr. Slope saw at once the full amount of his gain, and turned on the\nvanquished lady a look of triumph which she never forgot and never\nforgave. Here he was wrong. He should have looked humbly at her\nand, with meek entreating eye, have deprecated her anger. He should\nhave said by his glance that he asked pardon for his success, and that\nhe hoped forgiveness for the stand which he had been forced to make\nin the cause of duty. So might he perchance have somewhat mollified\nthat imperious bosom and prepared the way for future terms. But Mr.\nSlope meant to rule without terms. Ah, forgetful, inexperienced\nman! Can you cause that little trembling victim to be divorced from\nthe woman that possesses him? Can you provide that they shall be\nseparated at bed and board? Is he not flesh of her flesh and bone of\nher bone, and must he not so continue? It is very well now for you\nto stand your ground and triumph as she is driven ignominiously from\nthe room, but can you be present when those curtains are drawn, when\nthat awful helmet of proof has been tied beneath the chin, when the\nsmall remnants of the bishop's prowess shall be cowed by the tassel\nabove his head? Can you then intrude yourself when the wife wishes\n\"to speak to my lord alone?\"\n\nBut for the moment Mr. Slope's triumph was complete, for Mrs. Proudie\nwithout further parley left the room and did not forget to shut the\ndoor after her. Then followed a close conference between the new\nallies, in which was said much which it astonished Mr. Slope to\nsay and the bishop to hear. And yet the one said it and the other\nheard it without ill-will. There was no mincing of matters now. The\nchaplain plainly told the bishop that the world gave him credit for\nbeing under the governance of his wife; that his credit and character\nin the diocese were suffering; that he would surely get himself in\nhot water if he allowed Mrs. Proudie to interfere in matters which\nwere not suitable for a woman's powers; and in fact that he would\nbecome contemptible if he did not throw off the yoke under which he\ngroaned. The bishop at first hummed and hawed and affected to deny\nthe truth of what was said. But his denial was not stout and quickly\nbroke down. He soon admitted by silence his state of vassalage and\npledged himself, with Mr. Slope's assistance, to change his courses.\nMr. Slope also did not make out a bad case for himself. He explained\nhow it grieved him to run counter to a lady who had always been his\npatroness, who had befriended him in so many ways, who had, in fact,\nrecommended him to the bishop's notice; but, as he stated, his duty\nwas now imperative; he held a situation of peculiar confidence, and\nwas immediately and especially attached to the bishop's person. In\nsuch a situation his conscience required that he should regard solely\nthe bishop's interests, and therefore he had ventured to speak out.\n\nThe bishop took this for what it was worth, and Mr. Slope only\nintended that he should do so. It gilded the pill which Mr. Slope\nhad to administer, and which the bishop thought would be less bitter\nthan that other pill which he had so long been taking.\n\n\"My lord,\" had his immediate reward, like a good child. He was\ninstructed to write and at once did write another note to the\narchbishop accepting his grace's invitation. This note Mr. Slope,\nmore prudent than the lady, himself took away and posted with his own\nhands. Thus he made sure that this act of self-jurisdiction should\nbe as nearly as possible a _fait accompli_. He begged, and coaxed,\nand threatened the bishop with a view of making him also write at\nonce to Mr. Harding, but the bishop, though temporally emancipated\nfrom his wife, was not yet enthralled to Mr. Slope. He said, and\nprobably said truly, that such an offer must be made in some official\nform; that he was not yet prepared to sign the form; and that he\nshould prefer seeing Mr. Harding before he did so. Mr. Slope might,\nhowever, beg Mr. Harding to call upon him. Not disappointed with his\nachievement Mr. Slope went his way. He first posted the precious\nnote which he had in his pocket, and then pursued other enterprises\nin which we must follow him in other chapters.\n\nMrs. Proudie, having received such satisfaction as was to be derived\nfrom slamming her husband's door, did not at once betake herself to\nMrs. Quiverful. Indeed, for the first few moments after her repulse\nshe felt that she could not again see that lady. She would have to\nown that she had been beaten, to confess that the diadem had passed\nfrom her brow, and the sceptre from her hand! No, she would send a\nmessage to her with a promise of a letter on the next day or the day\nafter. Thus resolving, she betook herself to her bedroom, but here\nshe again changed her mind. The air of that sacred enclosure somewhat\nrestored her courage and gave her more heart. As Achilles warmed at\nthe sight of his armour, as Don Quixote's heart grew strong when he\ngrasped his lance, so did Mrs. Proudie look forward to fresh laurels,\nas her eye fell on her husband's pillow. She would not despair.\nHaving so resolved, she descended with dignified mien and refreshed\ncountenance to Mrs. Quiverful.\n\nThis scene in the bishop's study took longer in the acting than in\nthe telling. We have not, perhaps, had the whole of the conversation.\nAt any rate Mrs. Quiverful was beginning to be very impatient, and\nwas thinking that Farmer Subsoil would be tired of waiting for her,\nwhen Mrs. Proudie returned. Oh, who can tell the palpitations of\nthat maternal heart, as the suppliant looked into the face of the\ngreat lady to see written there either a promise of house, income,\ncomfort and future competence, or else the doom of continued and\never-increasing poverty! Poor mother! Poor wife! There was little\nthere to comfort you!\n\n\"Mrs. Quiverful,\" thus spoke the lady with considerable austerity, and\nwithout sitting down herself, \"I find that your husband has behaved\nin this matter in a very weak and foolish manner.\"\n\nMrs. Quiverful immediately rose upon her feet, thinking it\ndisrespectful to remain sitting while the wife of the bishop stood.\nBut she was desired to sit down again, and made to do so, so that\nMrs. Proudie might stand and preach over her. It is generally\nconsidered an offensive thing for a gentleman to keep his seat while\nanother is kept standing before him, and we presume the same law\nholds with regard to ladies. It often is so felt, but we are inclined\nto say that it never produces half the discomfort or half the feeling\nof implied inferiority that is shown by a great man who desires his\nvisitor to be seated while he himself speaks from his legs. Such a\nsolecism in good breeding, when construed into English, means this:\n\"The accepted rules of courtesy in the world require that I should\noffer you a seat; if I did not do so, you would bring a charge\nagainst me in the world of being arrogant and ill-mannered; I will\nobey the world, but, nevertheless, I will not put myself on an\nequality with you. You may sit down, but I won't sit with you. Sit,\ntherefore, at my bidding, and I'll stand and talk at you!\"\n\nThis was just what Mrs. Proudie meant to say, and Mrs. Quiverful,\nthough she was too anxious and too flurried thus to translate the\nfull meaning of the manoeuvre, did not fail to feel its effect. She\nwas cowed and uncomfortable, and a second time essayed to rise from\nher chair.\n\n\"Pray be seated, Mrs. Quiverful, pray keep your seat. Your husband,\nI say, has been most weak and most foolish. It is impossible, Mrs.\nQuiverful, to help people who will not help themselves. I much fear\nthat I can now do nothing for you in this matter.\"\n\n\"Oh, Mrs. Proudie, don't say so,\" said the poor woman, again jumping\nup.\n\n\"_Pray_ be seated, Mrs. Quiverful. I must fear that I can do\nnothing further for you in this matter. Your husband has, in a most\nunaccountable manner, taken upon himself to resign that which I was\nempowered to offer him. As a matter of course, the bishop expects\nthat his clergy shall know their own minds. What he may ultimately\ndo--what we may finally decide on doing--I cannot now say. Knowing\nthe extent of your family--\"\n\n\"Fourteen children, Mrs. Proudie, fourteen of them! And barely\nbread--barely bread? It's hard for the children of a clergyman, it's\nhard for one who has always done his duty respectably!\" Not a word\nfell from her about herself, but the tears came streaming down her\nbig, coarse cheeks, on which the dust of the August road had left its\ntraces.\n\nMrs. Proudie has not been portrayed in these pages as an agreeable or\nan amiable lady. There has been no intention to impress the reader\nmuch in her favour. It is ordained that all novels should have a male\nand a female angel and a male and a female devil. If it be considered\nthat this rule is obeyed in these pages, the latter character must\nbe supposed to have fallen to the lot of Mrs. Proudie. But she was\nnot all devil. There was a heart inside that stiff-ribbed bodice,\nthough not, perhaps, of large dimensions, and certainly not easily\naccessible. Mrs. Quiverful, however, did gain access, and Mrs.\nProudie proved herself a woman. Whether it was the fourteen children\nwith their probable bare bread and their possible bare backs, or the\nrespectability of the father's work, or the mingled dust and tears on\nthe mother's face, we will not pretend to say. But Mrs. Proudie was\ntouched.\n\nShe did not show it as other women might have done. She did not give\nMrs. Quiverful eau-de-Cologne, or order her a glass of wine. She did\nnot take her to her toilet table and offer her the use of brushes\nand combs, towels and water. She did not say soft little speeches\nand coax her kindly back to equanimity. Mrs. Quiverful, despite her\nrough appearance, would have been as amenable to such little tender\ncares as any lady in the land. But none such were forthcoming.\nInstead of this, Mrs. Proudie slapped one hand upon the other and\ndeclared--not with an oath, for, as a lady and a Sabbatarian and a\nshe-bishop, she could not swear, but with an adjuration--that she\n\"wouldn't have it done.\"\n\nThe meaning of this was that she wouldn't have Mr. Quiverful's\npromised appointment cozened away by the treachery of Mr. Slope and\nthe weakness of her husband. This meaning she very soon explained to\nMrs. Quiverful.\n\n\"Why was your husband such a fool,\" said she, now dismounted from her\nhigh horse and sitting confidentially down close to her visitor, \"as\nto take the bait which that man threw to him? If he had not been so\nutterly foolish, nothing could have prevented your going to the\nhospital.\"\n\nPoor Mrs. Quiverful was ready enough with her own tongue in accusing\nher husband to his face of being soft, and perhaps did not always\nspeak of him to her children quite so respectfully as she might have\ndone. But she did not at all like to hear him abused by others, and\nbegan to vindicate him and to explain that of course he had taken Mr.\nSlope to be an emissary from Mrs. Proudie herself; that Mr. Slope\nwas thought to be peculiarly her friend; and that, therefore, Mr.\nQuiverful would have been failing in respect to her had he assumed to\ndoubt what Mr. Slope had said.\n\nThus mollified, Mrs. Proudie again declared that she \"would not have\nit done,\" and at last sent Mrs. Quiverful home with an assurance\nthat, to the furthest stretch of her power and influence in the\npalace, the appointment of Mr. Quiverful should be insisted on. As\nshe repeated the word \"insisted,\" she thought of the bishop in his\nnight-cap and, with compressed lips, slightly shook her head. Oh, my\naspiring pastors, divines to whose ears _nolo episcopari_ are the\nsweetest of words, which of you would be a bishop on such terms as\nthese?\n\nMrs. Quiverful got home in the farmer's cart, not indeed with a light\nheart, but satisfied that she had done right in making her visit.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\nA Love Scene\n\n\nMr. Slope, as we have said, left the palace with a feeling of\nconsiderable triumph. Not that he thought that his difficulties were\nall over--he did not so deceive himself--but he felt that he had\nplayed his first move well, as well as the pieces on the board would\nallow, and that he had nothing with which to reproach himself. He\nfirst of all posted the letter to the archbishop and, having made\nthat sure, proceeded to push the advantage which he had gained. Had\nMrs. Bold been at home, he would have called on her, but he knew that\nshe was at Plumstead, so he wrote the following note. It was the\nbeginning of what, he trusted, might be a long and tender series of\nepistles.\n\n\n   MY DEAR MRS. BOLD,\n\n   You will understand perfectly that I cannot at present\n   correspond with your father. I heartily wish that I could,\n   and hope the day may be not long distant when mists shall\n   have been cleared away, and we may know each other. But\n   I cannot preclude myself from the pleasure of sending\n   you these few lines to say that Mr. Q. has to-day, in\n   my presence, resigned any title that he ever had to the\n   wardenship of the hospital, and that the bishop has\n   assured me that it is his intention to offer it to your\n   esteemed father.\n\n   Will you, with my respectful compliments, ask him, who I\n   believe is now a fellow-visitor with you, to call on the\n   bishop either on Wednesday or Thursday, between ten and\n   one. _This is by the bishop's desire_. If you will so far\n   oblige me as to let me have a line naming either day, and\n   the hour which will suit Mr. Harding, I will take care\n   that the servants shall have orders to show him in without\n   delay. Perhaps I should say no more--but still I wish you\n   could make your father understand that no subject will be\n   mooted between his lordship and him which will refer at\n   all to the method in which he may choose to perform his\n   duty. I for one am persuaded that no clergyman could\n   perform it more satisfactorily than he did, or than he\n   will do again.\n\n   On a former occasion I was indiscreet and much too\n   impatient, considering your father's age and my own. I\n   hope he will not now refuse my apology. I still hope also\n   that with your aid and sweet pious labours we may live to\n   attach such a Sabbath-school to the old endowment as may,\n   by God's grace and furtherance, be a blessing to the poor\n   of this city.\n\n   You will see at once that this letter is confidential. The\n   subject, of course, makes it so. But, equally, of course,\n   it is for your parent's eye as well as for your own,\n   should you think proper to show it to him.\n\n   I hope my darling little friend Johnny is as strong as\n   ever--dear little fellow. Does he still continue his rude\n   assaults on those beautiful long silken tresses?\n\n   I can assure you your friends miss you from Barchester\n   sorely, but it would be cruel to begrudge you your sojourn\n   among flowers and fields during this truly sultry weather.\n\n   Pray believe me, my dear Mrs. Bold,\n   Yours most sincerely,\n   OBADIAH SLOPE\n\n   Barchester, Friday.\n\n\nNow this letter, taken as a whole, and with the consideration that\nMr. Slope wished to assume a great degree of intimacy with Eleanor,\nwould not have been bad but for the allusion to the tresses.\nGentlemen do not write to ladies about their tresses unless they are\non very intimate terms indeed. But Mr. Slope could not be expected\nto be aware of this. He longed to put a little affection into his\nepistle, and yet he thought it injudicious, as the letter would, he\nknew, be shown to Mr. Harding. He would have insisted that the letter\nshould be strictly private and seen by no eyes but Eleanor's own,\nhad he not felt that such an injunction would have been disobeyed.\nHe therefore restrained his passion, did not sign himself \"yours\naffectionately,\" and contented himself instead with the compliment\nto the tresses.\n\nHaving finished his letter, he took it to Mrs. Bold's house and,\nlearning there, from the servant, that things were to be sent out\nto Plumstead that afternoon, left it, with many injunctions, in her\nhands.\n\nWe will now follow Mr. Slope so as to complete the day with him and\nthen return to his letter and its momentous fate in the next chapter.\n\nThere is an old song which gives us some very good advice about\ncourting:--\n\n\n   It's gude to be off with the auld luve\n   Before ye be on wi' the new.\n\n\nOf the wisdom of this maxim Mr. Slope was ignorant, and accordingly,\nhaving written his letter to Mrs. Bold, he proceeded to call upon the\nSignora Neroni. Indeed, it was hard to say which was the old love\nand which the new, Mr. Slope having been smitten with both so nearly\nat the same time. Perhaps he thought it not amiss to have two strings\nto his bow. But two strings to Cupid's bow are always dangerous to\nhim on whose behalf they are to be used. A man should remember that\nbetween two stools he may fall to the ground.\n\nBut in sooth Mr. Slope was pursuing Mrs. Bold in obedience to his\nbetter instincts, and the signora in obedience to his worser. Had\nhe won the widow and worn her, no one could have blamed him. You, O\nreader, and I, and Eleanor's other friends would have received the\nstory of such a winning with much disgust and disappointment, but\nwe should have been angry with Eleanor, not with Mr. Slope. Bishop,\nmale and female, dean and chapter and diocesan clergy in full congress\ncould have found nothing to disapprove of in such an alliance.\nConvocation itself, that mysterious and mighty synod, could in no wise\nhave fallen foul of it. The possession of £1000 a year and a beautiful\nwife would not at all have hurt the voice of the pulpit charmer, or\nlessened the grace and piety of the exemplary clergyman.\n\nBut not of such a nature were likely to be his dealings with the\nSignora Neroni. In the first place he knew that her husband was\nliving, and therefore he could not woo her honestly. Then again she\nhad nothing to recommend her to his honest wooing, had such been\npossible. She was not only portionless, but also from misfortune\nunfitted to be chosen as the wife of any man who wanted a useful\nmate. Mr. Slope was aware that she was a helpless, hopeless cripple.\n\nBut Mr. Slope could not help himself. He knew that he was wrong in\ndevoting his time to the back drawing-room in Dr. Stanhope's house.\nHe knew that what took place there would, if divulged, utterly ruin\nhim with Mrs. Bold. He knew that scandal would soon come upon his\nheels and spread abroad among the black coats of Barchester some\ntidings, exaggerated tidings, of the sighs which he poured into\nthe lady's ears. He knew that he was acting against the recognized\nprinciples of his life, against those laws of conduct by which he\nhoped to achieve much higher success. But, as we have said, he could\nnot help himself. Passion, for the first time in his life, passion\nwas too strong for him.\n\nAs for the signora, no such plea can be put forward for her, for in\ntruth she cared no more for Mr. Slope than she did for twenty others\nwho had been at her feet before him. She willingly, nay greedily,\naccepted his homage. He was the finest fly that Barchester had\nhitherto afforded to her web, and the signora was a powerful spider\nthat made wondrous webs, and could in no way live without catching\nflies. Her taste in this respect was abominable, for she had no use\nfor the victims when caught. She could not eat them matrimonially,\nas young lady flies do whose webs are most frequently of their\nmothers' weaving. Nor could she devour them by any escapade of a\nless legitimate description. Her unfortunate affliction precluded\nher from all hope of levanting with a lover. It would be impossible\nto run away with a lady who required three servants to move her from\na sofa.\n\nThe signora was subdued by no passion. Her time for love was gone.\nShe had lived out her heart, such heart as she had ever had, in her\nearly years, at an age when Mr. Slope was thinking of the second book\nof Euclid and his unpaid bill at the buttery hatch. In age the lady\nwas younger than the gentleman, but in feelings, in knowledge of the\naffairs of love, in intrigue, he was immeasurably her junior. It\nwas necessary to her to have some man at her feet. It was the one\ncustomary excitement of her life. She delighted in the exercise of\npower which this gave her; it was now nearly the only food for her\nambition; she would boast to her sister that she could make a fool\nof any man, and the sister, as little imbued with feminine delicacy\nas herself, good-naturedly thought it but fair that such amusement\nshould be afforded to a poor invalid who was debarred from the\nordinary pleasures of life.\n\nMr. Slope was madly in love but hardly knew it. The Signora spitted\nhim, as a boy does a cockchafer on a cork, that she might enjoy the\nenergetic agony of his gyrations. And she knew very well what she\nwas doing.\n\nMr. Slope having added to his person all such adornments as are\npossible to a clergyman making a morning visit--such as a clean\nnecktie, clean handkerchief, new gloves, and a _soupçon_ of not\nunnecessary scent--called about three o'clock at the doctor's door.\nAt about this hour the signora was almost always alone in the back\ndrawing-room. The mother had not come down. The doctor was out or\nin his own room. Bertie was out, and Charlotte at any rate left the\nroom if anyone called whose object was specially with her sister.\nSuch was her idea of being charitable and sisterly.\n\nMr. Slope, as was his custom, asked for Mr. Stanhope, and was told, as\nwas the servant's custom, that the signora was in the drawing-room.\nUpstairs he accordingly went. He found her, as he always did, lying on\nher sofa with a French volume before her and a beautiful little inlaid\nwriting-case open on her table. At the moment of his entrance she was\nin the act of writing.\n\n\"Ah, my friend,\" said she, putting out her left hand to him across\nher desk, \"I did not expect you to-day and was this very instant\nwriting to you--\"\n\nMr. Slope, taking the soft, fair, delicate hand in his--and very soft\nand fair and delicate it was--bowed over it his huge red head and\nkissed it. It was a sight to see, a deed to record if the author\ncould fitly do it, a picture to put on canvas. Mr. Slope was big,\nawkward, cumbrous, and, having his heart in his pursuit, was ill at\nease. The lady was fair, as we have said, and delicate; everything\nabout her was fine and refined; her hand in his looked like a rose\nlying among carrots, and when he kissed it, he looked as a cow might\ndo on finding such a flower among her food. She was graceful as a\ncouchant goddess and, moreover, as self-possessed as Venus must have\nbeen when courting Adonis.\n\nOh, that such grace and such beauty should have condescended to waste\nitself on such a pursuit!\n\n\"I was in the act of writing to you,\" said she, \"but now my scrawl\nmay go into the basket;\" and she raised the sheet of gilded note-paper\nfrom off her desk as though to tear it.\n\n\"Indeed it shall not,\" said he, laying the embargo of half a stone\nweight of human flesh and blood upon the devoted paper. \"Nothing\nthat you write for my eyes, signora, shall be so desecrated,\" and he\ntook up the letter, put that also among the carrots and fed on it,\nand then proceeded to read it.\n\n\"Gracious me! Mr. Slope,\" said she, \"I hope you don't mean to say\nyou keep all the trash I write to you. Half my time I don't know\nwhat I write, and when I do, I know it is only fit for the back of\nthe fire. I hope you have not that ugly trick of keeping letters.\"\n\n\"At any rate, I don't throw them into a waste-paper basket. If\ndestruction is their doomed lot, they perish worthily, and are burnt\non a pyre, as Dido was of old.\"\n\n\"With a steel pen stuck through them, of course,\" said she, \"to make\nthe simile more complete. Of all the ladies of my acquaintance I\nthink Lady Dido was the most absurd. Why did she not do as Cleopatra\ndid? Why did she not take out her ships and insist on going with\nhim? She could not bear to lose the land she had got by a swindle,\nand then she could not bear the loss of her lover. So she fell\nbetween two stools. Mr. Slope, whatever you do, never mingle love\nand business.\"\n\nMr. Slope blushed up to his eyes and over his mottled forehead to\nthe very roots of his hair. He felt sure that the signora knew all\nabout his intentions with reference to Mrs Bold. His conscience told\nhim that he was detected. His doom was to be spoken; he was to be\npunished for his duplicity, and rejected by the beautiful creature\nbefore him. Poor man. He little dreamt that had all his intentions\nwith reference to Mrs. Bold been known to the signora, it would only\nhave added zest to that lady's amusement. It was all very well to\nhave Mr. Slope at her feet, to show her power by making an utter fool\nof a clergyman, to gratify her own infidelity by thus proving the\nlittle strength which religion had in controlling the passions even\nof a religious man; but it would be an increased gratification if she\ncould be made to understand that she was at the same time alluring\nher victim away from another, whose love if secured would be in every\nway beneficent and salutary.\n\nThe Signora had indeed discovered, with the keen instinct of such a\nwoman, that Mr. Slope was bent on matrimony with Mrs. Bold, but in\nalluding to Dido she had not thought of it. She instantly perceived,\nhowever, from her lover's blushes, what was on his mind and was not\nslow in taking advantage of it.\n\nShe looked him full in the face, not angrily, nor yet with a smile,\nbut with an intense and overpowering gaze; then, holding up her\nforefinger and slightly shaking her head, she said:--\n\n\"Whatever you do, my friend, do not mingle love and business. Either\nstick to your treasure and your city of wealth, or else follow your\nlove like a true man. But never attempt both. If you do, you'll\nhave to die with a broken heart as did poor Dido. Which is it to be\nwith you, Mr. Slope, love or money?\"\n\nMr. Slope was not so ready with a pathetic answer as he usually was\nwith touching episodes in his extempore sermons. He felt that he\nought to say something pretty, something also that should remove the\nimpression on the mind of his lady-love. But he was rather put about\nhow to do it.\n\n\"Love,\" said he, \"true overpowering love, must be the strongest\npassion a man can feel; it must control every other wish, and put\naside every other pursuit. But with me love will never act in that\nway unless it be returned;\" and he threw upon the signora a look of\ntenderness which was intended to make up for all the deficiencies of\nhis speech.\n\n\"Take my advice,\" said she. \"Never mind love. After all, what is it?\nThe dream of a few weeks. That is all its joy. The disappointment of\na life is its Nemesis. Who was ever successful in true love? Success\nin love argues that the love is false. True love is always despondent\nor tragical. Juliet loved, Haidee loved, Dido loved, and what came of\nit? Troilus loved and ceased to be a man.\"\n\n\"Troilus loved and was fooled,\" said the more manly chaplain. \"A man\nmay love and yet not be a Troilus. All women are not Cressidas.\"\n\n\"No, all women are not Cressidas. The falsehood is not always on the\nwoman's side. Imogen was true, but how was she rewarded? Her lord\nbelieved her to be the paramour of the first he who came near her in\nhis absence. Desdemona was true and was smothered. Ophelia was true\nand went mad. There is no happiness in love, except at the end of\nan English novel. But in wealth, money, houses, lands, goods, and\nchattels, in the good things of this world, yes, in them there is\nsomething tangible, something that can be retained and enjoyed.\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" said Mr. Slope, feeling himself bound to enter some protest\nagainst so very unorthodox a doctrine, \"this world's wealth will make\nno one happy.\"\n\n\"And what will make you happy--you--you?\" said she, raising herself\nup and speaking to him with energy across the table. \"From what\nsource do you look for happiness? Do not say that you look for none.\nI shall not believe you. It is a search in which every human being\nspends an existence.\"\n\n\"And the search is always in vain,\" said Mr. Slope. \"We look for\nhappiness on earth, while we ought to be content to hope for it in\nheaven.\"\n\n\"Pshaw! You preach a doctrine which you know you don't believe.\nIt is the way with you all. If you know that there is no earthly\nhappiness, why do you long to be a bishop or a dean? Why do you\nwant lands and income?\"\n\n\"I have the natural ambition of a man,\" said he.\n\n\"Of course you have, and the natural passions; and therefore I say\nthat you don't believe the doctrine you preach. St. Paul was an\nenthusiast. He believed so that his ambition and passions did not\nwar against his creed. So does the Eastern fanatic who passes half\nhis life erect upon a pillar. As for me, I will believe in no belief\nthat does not make itself manifest by outward signs. I will think\nno preaching sincere that is not recommended by the practice of the\npreacher.\"\n\nMr. Slope was startled and horrified, but he felt that he could not\nanswer. How could he stand up and preach the lessons of his Master,\nbeing there, as he was, on the devil's business? He was a true\nbeliever, otherwise this would have been nothing to him. He had\naudacity for most things, but he had not audacity to make a plaything\nof the Lord's word. All this the signora understood, and felt much\ninterest as she saw her cockchafer whirl round upon her pin.\n\n\"Your wit delights in such arguments,\" said he, \"but your heart and\nyour reason do not go along with them.\"\n\n\"My heart!\" said she; \"you quite mistake the principles of my\ncomposition if you imagine that there is such a thing about me.\"\nAfter all, there was very little that was false in anything that\nthe signora said. If Mr. Slope allowed himself to be deceived,\nit was his own fault. Nothing could have been more open than her\ndeclarations about herself.\n\nThe little writing-table with her desk was still standing before her,\na barrier, as it were, against the enemy. She was sitting as nearly\nupright as she ever did, and he had brought a chair close to the\nsofa, so that there was only the corner of the table between him and\nher. It so happened that as she spoke her hand lay upon the table,\nand as Mr. Slope answered her he put his hand upon hers.\n\n\"No heart!\" said he. \"That is a heavy charge which you bring against\nyourself, and one of which I cannot find you guilty--\"\n\nShe withdrew her hand, not quickly and angrily, as though insulted by\nhis touch, but gently and slowly.\n\n\"You are in no condition to give a verdict on the matter,\" said she,\n\"as you have not tried me. No, don't say that you intend doing so,\nfor you know you have no intention of the kind; nor indeed have I,\neither. As for you, you will take your vows where they will result\nin something more substantial than the pursuit of such a ghostlike,\nghastly love as mine--\"\n\n\"Your love should be sufficient to satisfy the dream of a monarch,\"\nsaid Mr. Slope, not quite clear as to the meaning of his words.\n\n\"Say an archbishop, Mr. Slope,\" said she. Poor fellow! She was very\ncruel to him. He went round again upon his cork on this allusion to\nhis profession. He tried, however, to smile and gently accused her\nof joking on a matter, which was, he said, to him of such vital\nmoment.\n\n\"Why--what gulls do you men make of us,\" she replied. \"How you fool\nus to the top of our bent; and of all men you clergymen are the most\nfluent of your honeyed, caressing words. Now look me in the face,\nMr. Slope, boldly and openly.\"\n\nMr. Slope did look at her with a languishing loving eye, and as he\ndid so he again put forth his hand to get hold of hers.\n\n\"I told you to look at me boldly, Mr. Slope, but confine your\nboldness to your eyes.\"\n\n\"Oh, Madeline!\" he sighed.\n\n\"Well, my name is Madeline,\" said she, \"but none except my own family\nusually call me so. Now look me in the face, Mr. Slope. Am I to\nunderstand that you say you love me?\"\n\nMr. Slope never had said so. If he had come there with any formed\nplan at all, his intention was to make love to the lady without\nuttering any such declaration. It was, however, quite impossible\nthat he should now deny his love. He had, therefore, nothing for it\nbut to go down on his knees distractedly against the sofa and swear\nthat he did love her with a love passing the love of man.\n\nThe signora received the assurance with very little palpitation or\nappearance of surprise. \"And now answer me another question,\" said\nshe. \"When are you to be married to my dear friend Eleanor Bold?\"\n\nPoor Mr. Slope went round and round in mortal agony. In such a\ncondition as his it was really very hard for him to know what answer\nto give. And yet no answer would be his surest condemnation. He\nmight as well at once plead guilty to the charge brought against him.\n\n\"And why do you accuse me of such dissimulation?\" said he.\n\n\"Dissimulation! I said nothing of dissimulation. I made no charge\nagainst you, and make none. Pray don't defend yourself to me. You\nswear that you are devoted to my beauty, and yet you are on the eve\nof matrimony with another. I feel this to be rather a compliment.\nIt is to Mrs. Bold that you must defend yourself. That you may\nfind difficult; unless, indeed, you can keep her in the dark. You\nclergymen are cleverer than other men.\"\n\n\"Signora, I have told you that I loved you, and now you rail at me.\"\n\n\"Rail at you. God bless the man; what would he have? Come, answer\nme this at your leisure--not without thinking now, but leisurely and\nwith consideration--are you not going to be married to Mrs. Bold?\"\n\n\"I am not,\" said he. And as he said it he almost hated, with an\nexquisite hatred, the woman whom he could not help loving with an\nexquisite love.\n\n\"But surely you are a worshipper of hers?\"\n\n\"I am not,\" said Mr. Slope, to whom the word worshipper was\npeculiarly distasteful. The signora had conceived that it would be\nso.\n\n\"I wonder at that,\" said she. \"Do you not admire her? To my eye she\nis the perfection of English beauty. And then she is rich, too. I\nshould have thought she was just the person to attract you. Come,\nMr. Slope, let me give you advice on this matter. Marry the charming\nwidow; she will be a good mother to your children and an excellent\nmistress of a clergyman's household.\"\n\n\"Oh, signora, how can you be so cruel?\"\n\n\"Cruel,\" said she, changing the voice of banter which she had been\nusing for one which was expressively earnest in its tone; \"is that\ncruelty?\"\n\n\"How can I love another while my heart is entirely your own?\"\n\n\"If that were cruelty, Mr. Slope, what might you say of me if I were\nto declare that I returned your passion? What would you think if I\nbound you even by a lover's oath to do daily penance at this couch\nof mine? What can I give in return for a man's love? Ah, dear friend,\nyou have not realized the conditions of my fate.\"\n\nMr. Slope was not on his knees all this time. After his declaration\nof love, he had risen from them as quickly as he thought consistent\nwith the new position which he now filled, and as he stood was\nleaning on the back of his chair. This outburst of tenderness on the\nsignora's part quite overcame him and made him feel for the moment\nthat he could sacrifice everything to be assured of the love of the\nbeautiful creature before him, maimed, lame, and already married as\nshe was.\n\n\"And can I not sympathize with your lot?\" said he, now seating\nhimself on her sofa and pushing away the table with his foot.\n\n\"Sympathy is so near to pity!\" said she. \"If you pity me, cripple as\nI am, I shall spurn you from me.\"\n\n\"Oh, Madeline, I will only love you,\" and again he caught her hand\nand devoured it with kisses. Now she did not draw it from him, but\nsat there as he kissed it, looking at him with her great eyes, just\nas a great spider would look at a great fly that was quite securely\ncaught.\n\n\"Suppose Signor Neroni were to come to Barchester,\" said she. \"Would\nyou make his acquaintance?\"\n\n\"Signor Neroni!\" said he.\n\n\"Would you introduce him to the bishop, and Mrs. Proudie, and the\nyoung ladies?\" said she, again having recourse to that horrid\nquizzing voice which Mr. Slope so particularly hated.\n\n\"Why do you ask such a question?\" said he.\n\n\"Because it is necessary that you should know that there is a Signor\nNeroni. I think you had forgotten it.\"\n\n\"If I thought that you retained for that wretch one particle of\nthe love of which he was never worthy, I would die before I would\ndistract you by telling you what I feel. No! Were your husband the\nmaster of your heart, I might perhaps love you, but you should never\nknow it.\"\n\n\"My heart again! How you talk. And you consider then that if a\nhusband be not master of his wife's heart, he has no right to her\nfealty; if a wife ceases to love, she may cease to be true. Is\nthat your doctrine on this matter, as a minister of the Church of\nEngland?\"\n\nMr. Slope tried hard within himself to cast off the pollution with\nwhich he felt that he was defiling his soul. He strove to tear\nhimself away from the noxious siren that had bewitched him. But he\ncould not do it. He could not be again heart free. He had looked\nfor rapturous joy in loving this lovely creature, and he already\nfound that he met with little but disappointment and self-rebuke. He\nhad come across the fruit of the Dead Sea, so sweet and delicious to\nthe eye, so bitter and nauseous to the taste. He had put the apple\nto his mouth, and it had turned to ashes between his teeth. Yet he\ncould not tear himself away. He knew, he could not but know, that\nshe jeered at him, ridiculed his love, and insulted the weakness\nof his religion. But she half-permitted his adoration, and that\nhalf-permission added such fuel to his fire that all the fountain of\nhis piety could not quench it. He began to feel savage, irritated,\nand revengeful. He meditated some severity of speech, some taunt\nthat should cut her, as her taunts cut him. He reflected as he stood\nthere for a moment, silent before her, that if he desired to quell\nher proud spirit, he should do so by being prouder even than herself;\nthat if he wished to have her at his feet suppliant for his love, it\nbehoved him to conquer her by indifference. All this passed through\nhis mind. As far as dead knowledge went, he knew, or thought he\nknew, how a woman should be tamed. But when he essayed to bring\nhis tactics to bear, he failed like a child. What chance has dead\nknowledge with experience in any of the transactions between man and\nman? What possible chance between man and woman? Mr. Slope loved\nfuriously, insanely and truly, but he had never played the game of\nlove. The signora did not love at all, but she was up to every move\nof the board. It was Philidor pitted against a schoolboy.\n\nAnd so she continued to insult him, and he continued to bear it.\n\n\"Sacrifice the world for love!\" she said in answer to some renewed\nvapid declaration of his passion. \"How often has the same thing been\nsaid, and how invariably with the same falsehood!\"\n\n\"Falsehood,\" said he. \"Do you say that I am false to you? Do you\nsay that my love is not real?\"\n\n\"False? Of course it is false, false as the father of falsehood--if\nindeed falsehoods need a sire and are not self-begotten since the\nworld began. You are ready to sacrifice the world for love? Come\nlet us see what you will sacrifice. I care nothing for nuptial vows.\nThe wretch, I think you were kind enough to call him so, whom I\nswore to love and obey is so base that he can only be thought of\nwith repulsive disgust. In the council chamber of my heart I have\ndivorced him. To me that is as good as though aged lords had gloated\nfor months over the details of his licentious life. I care nothing\nfor what the world can say. Will you be as frank? Will you take\nme to your home as your wife? Will you call me Mrs. Slope before\nbishop, dean, and prebendaries?\" The poor tortured wretch stood\nsilent, not knowing what to say. \"What! You won't do that. Tell\nme, then, what part of the world is it that you will sacrifice for\nmy charms?\"\n\n\"Were you free to marry, I would take you to my house to-morrow and\nwish no higher privilege.\"\n\n\"I am free,\" said she, almost starting up in her energy. For though\nthere was no truth in her pretended regard for her clerical admirer,\nthere was a mixture of real feeling in the scorn and satire with\nwhich she spoke of love and marriage generally. \"I am free--free\nas the winds. Come, will you take me as I am? Have your wish;\nsacrifice the world, and prove yourself a true man.\"\n\nMr. Slope should have taken her at her word. She would have drawn\nback, and he would have had the full advantage of the offer. But\nhe did not. Instead of doing so, he stood wrapt in astonishment,\npassing his fingers through his lank red hair and thinking, as he\nstared upon her animated countenance, that her wondrous beauty grew\nmore wonderful as he gazed on it. \"Ha! ha! ha!\" she laughed out\nloud. \"Come, Mr. Slope, don't talk of sacrificing the world again.\nPeople beyond one-and-twenty should never dream of such a thing. You\nand I, if we have the dregs of any love left in us, if we have the\nremnants of a passion remaining in our hearts, should husband our\nresources better. We are not in our première jeunesse. The world\nis a very nice place. Your world, at any rate, is so. You have all\nmanner of fat rectories to get and possible bishoprics to enjoy.\nCome, confess; on second thoughts you would not sacrifice such\nthings for the smiles of a lame lady?\"\n\nIt was impossible for him to answer this. In order to be in any way\ndignified, he felt that he must be silent.\n\n\"Come,\" said she, \"don't boody with me: don't be angry because I\nspeak out some home truths. Alas, the world, as I have found it, has\ntaught me bitter truths. Come, tell me that I am forgiven. Are we\nnot to be friends?\" and she again put out her hand to him.\n\nHe sat himself down in the chair beside her, took her proffered hand,\nand leant over her.\n\n\"There,\" said she with her sweetest, softest smile--a smile to\nwithstand which a man should be cased in triple steel, \"there; seal\nyour forgiveness on it,\" and she raised it towards his face. He\nkissed it again and again, and stretched over her as though desirous\nof extending the charity of his pardon beyond the hand that was\noffered to him. She managed, however, to check his ardour. For one\nso easily allured as this poor chaplain, her hand was surely enough.\n\n\"Oh, Madeline!\" said he, \"tell me that you love me--do you--do you\nlove me?\"\n\n\"Hush,\" said she. \"There is my mother's step. Our _tête-à-tête_ has\nbeen of monstrous length. Now you had better go. But we shall see\nyou soon again, shall we not?\"\n\nMr. Slope promised that he would call again on the following day.\n\n\"And, Mr. Slope,\" she continued, \"pray answer my note. You have it\nin your hand, though I declare during these two hours you have not\nbeen gracious enough to read it. It is about the Sabbath-school and\nthe children. You know how anxious I am to have them here. I have\nbeen learning the catechism myself, on purpose. You must manage\nit for me next week. I will teach them, at any rate, to submit\nthemselves to their spiritual pastors and masters.\"\n\nMr. Slope said but little on the subject of Sabbath-schools, but he\nmade his adieu, and betook himself home with a sad heart, troubled\nmind, and uneasy conscience.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\nMrs. Bold is Entertained by Dr. and Mrs. Grantly at Plumstead\n\n\nIt will be remembered that Mr. Slope, when leaving his _billet-doux_\nat the house of Mrs. Bold, had been informed that it would be sent out\nto her at Plumstead that afternoon. The archdeacon and Mr. Harding\nhad in fact come into town together in the brougham, and it had been\narranged that they should call for Eleanor's parcels as they left on\ntheir way home. Accordingly they did so call, and the maid, as she\nhanded to the coachman a small basket and large bundle carefully and\nneatly packed, gave in at the carriage window Mr. Slope's epistle.\nThe archdeacon, who was sitting next to the window, took it and\nimmediately recognized the hand-writing of his enemy.\n\n\"Who left this?\" said he.\n\n\"Mr. Slope called with it himself, your Reverence,\" said the girl,\n\"and was very anxious that Missus should have it to-day.\"\n\nSo the brougham drove off, and the letter was left in the archdeacon's\nhand. He looked at it as though he held a basket of adders. He could\nnot have thought worse of the document had he read it and discovered\nit to be licentious and atheistical. He did, moreover, what so\nmany wise people are accustomed to do in similar circumstances; he\nimmediately condemned the person to whom the letter was written, as\nthough she were necessarily a _particeps criminis_.\n\nPoor Mr. Harding, though by no means inclined to forward Mr. Slope's\nintimacy with his daughter, would have given anything to have kept\nthe letter from his son-in-law. But that was now impossible. There\nit was in his hand, and he looked as thoroughly disgusted as though\nhe were quite sure that it contained all the rhapsodies of a favoured\nlover.\n\n\"It's very hard on me,\" said he after awhile, \"that this should go on\nunder my roof.\"\n\nNow here the archdeacon was certainly most unreasonable. Having\ninvited his sister-in-law to his house, it was a natural consequence\nthat she should receive her letters there. And if Mr. Slope chose to\nwrite to her, his letter would, as a matter of course, be sent after\nher. Moreover, the very fact of an invitation to one's house implies\nconfidence on the part of the inviter. He had shown that he thought\nMrs. Bold to be a fit person to stay with him by his asking her to\ndo so, and it was most cruel to her that he should complain of her\nviolating the sanctity of his roof-tree, when the laches committed\nwere none of her committing.\n\nMr. Harding felt this, and felt also that when the archdeacon talked\nthus about his roof, what he said was most offensive to himself as\nEleanor's father. If Eleanor did receive a letter from Mr. Slope,\nwhat was there in that to pollute the purity of Dr. Grantly's\nhousehold? He was indignant that his daughter should be so judged\nand so spoken of, and he made up his mind that even as Mrs. Slope\nshe must be dearer to him than any other creature on God's earth. He\nalmost broke out and said as much, but for the moment he restrained\nhimself.\n\n\"Here,\" said the archdeacon, handing the offensive missile to his\nfather-in-law, \"I am not going to be the bearer of his love-letters.\nYou are her father and may do as you think fit with it.\"\n\nBy doing as he thought fit with it, the archdeacon certainly meant\nthat Mr. Harding would be justified in opening and reading the letter,\nand taking any steps which might in consequence be necessary. To\ntell the truth, Dr. Grantly did feel rather a stronger curiosity\nthan was justified by his outraged virtue to see the contents of the\nletter. Of course he could not open it himself, but he wished to\nmake Mr. Harding understand that he, as Eleanor's father, would be\nfully justified in doing so. The idea of such a proceeding never\noccurred to Mr. Harding. His authority over Eleanor ceased when she\nbecame the wife of John Bold. He had not the slightest wish to pry\ninto her correspondence. He consequently put the letter into his\npocket, and only wished that he had been able to do so without the\narchdeacon's knowledge. They both sat silent during half the journey\nhome, and then Dr. Grantly said, \"Perhaps Susan had better give it to\nher. She can explain to her sister better than either you or I can\ndo how deep is the disgrace of such an acquaintance.\"\n\n\"I think you are very hard upon Eleanor,\" replied Mr. Harding. \"I\nwill not allow that she has disgraced herself, nor do I think it\nlikely that she will do so. She has a right to correspond with whom\nshe pleases, and I shall not take upon myself to blame her because\nshe gets a letter from Mr. Slope.\"\n\n\"I suppose,\" said Dr. Grantly, \"you don't wish her to marry the man.\nI suppose you'll admit that she would disgrace herself if she did do\nso.\"\n\n\"I do not wish her to marry him,\" said the perplexed father. \"I do\nnot like him, and do not think he would make a good husband. But\nif Eleanor chooses to do so, I shall certainly not think that she\ndisgraces herself.\"\n\n\"Good heavens!\" exclaimed Dr. Grantly and threw himself back into the\ncorner of his brougham. Mr. Harding said nothing more, but commenced\nplaying a dirge with an imaginary fiddle bow upon an imaginary\nvioloncello, for which there did not appear to be quite room enough\nin the carriage; he continued the tune, with sundry variations, till\nhe arrived at the rectory door.\n\nThe archdeacon had been meditating sad things in his mind. Hitherto\nhe had always looked on his father-in-law as a true partisan, though\nhe knew him to be a man devoid of all the combative qualifications\nfor that character. He had felt no fear that Mr. Harding would go\nover to the enemy, though he had never counted much on the ex-warden's\nprowess in breaking the hostile ranks. Now, however, it seemed that\nEleanor, with her wiles, had completely trepanned and bewildered\nher father, cheated him out of his judgement, robbed him of the\npredilections and tastes of his life, and caused him to be tolerant\nof a man whose arrogance and vulgarity would, a few years since, have\nbeen unendurable to him. That the whole thing was as good as arranged\nbetween Eleanor and Mr. Slope there was no longer any room to doubt.\nThat Mr. Harding knew that such was the case, even this could hardly\nbe doubted. It was too manifest that he at any rate suspected it and\nwas prepared to sanction it.\n\nAnd to tell the truth, such was the case. Mr. Harding disliked\nMr. Slope as much as it was in his nature to dislike any man. Had\nhis daughter wished to do her worst to displease him by a second\nmarriage, she could hardly have succeeded better than by marrying\nMr. Slope. But, as he said to himself now very often, what right had\nhe to condemn her if she did nothing that was really wrong? If she\nliked Mr. Slope, it was her affair. It was indeed miraculous to him\nthat a woman with such a mind, so educated, so refined, so nice in\nher tastes, should like such a man. Then he asked himself whether it\nwas possible that she did so.\n\nAh, thou weak man; most charitable, most Christian, but weakest\nof men! Why couldn't thou not have asked herself? Was she not the\ndaughter of thy loins, the child of thy heart, the best beloved\nto thee of all humanity? Had she not proved to thee, by years of\nclosest affection, her truth and goodness and filial obedience? And\nyet, knowing and feeling all this, thou couldst endure to go groping\nin darkness, hearing her named in strains which wounded thy loving\nheart, and being unable to defend her as thou shouldst have done!\n\nMr. Harding had not believed, did not believe, that his daughter\nmeant to marry this man, but he feared to commit himself to such an\nopinion. If she did do it there would be then no means of retreat.\nThe wishes of his heart were: first, that there should be no truth\nin the archdeacon's surmises; and in this wish he would have fain\ntrusted entirely, had he dared so to do; secondly, that the match\nmight be prevented, if unfortunately, it had been contemplated by\nEleanor; thirdly, that should she be so infatuated as to marry this\nman, he might justify his conduct and declare that no cause existed\nfor his separating himself from her.\n\nHe wanted to believe her incapable of such a marriage; he wanted to\nshow that he so believed of her; but he wanted also to be able to say\nhereafter that she had done nothing amiss, if she should unfortunately\nprove herself to be different from what he thought her to be.\n\nNothing but affection could justify such fickleness, but affection\ndid justify it. There was but little of the Roman about Mr. Harding.\nHe could not sacrifice his Lucretia even though she should be polluted\nby the accepted addresses of the clerical Tarquin at the palace. If\nTarquin could be prevented, well and good, but if not, the father\nwould still open his heart to his daughter and accept her as she\npresented herself, Tarquin and all.\n\nDr. Grantly's mind was of a stronger calibre, and he was by no means\ndeficient in heart. He loved with an honest genuine love his wife\nand children and friends. He loved his father-in-law, and was quite\nprepared to love Eleanor too, if she would be one of his party, if\nshe would be on his side, if she would regard the Slopes and the\nProudies as the enemies of mankind and acknowledge and feel the\ncomfortable merits of the Gwynnes and Arabins. He wished to be what\nhe called \"safe\" with all those whom he had admitted to the penetralia\nof his house and heart. He could luxuriate in no society that was\ndeficient in a certain feeling of faithful, staunch High Churchism,\nwhich to him was tantamount to freemasonry. He was not strict in his\nlines of definition. He endured without impatience many different\nshades of Anglo-church conservatism; but with the Slopes and Proudies\nhe could not go on all fours.\n\nHe was wanting in, moreover, or perhaps it would be more correct to\nsay, he was not troubled by that womanly tenderness which was so\npeculiar to Mr. Harding. His feelings towards his friends were that\nwhile they stuck to him, he would stick to them; that he would work\nwith them shoulder and shoulder; that he would be faithful to the\nfaithful. He knew nothing of that beautiful love which can be true\nto a false friend.\n\nAnd thus these two men, each miserable enough in his own way,\nreturned to Plumstead.\n\nIt was getting late when they arrived there, and the ladies had\nalready gone up to dress. Nothing more was said as the two parted\nin the hall. As Mr. Harding passed to his own room he knocked at\nEleanor's door and handed in the letter. The archdeacon hurried\nto his own territory, there to unburden his heart to his faithful\npartner.\n\nWhat colloquy took place between the marital chamber and the\nadjoining dressing-room shall not be detailed. The reader, now\nintimate with the persons concerned, can well imagine it. The whole\ntenor of it also might be read in Mrs. Grantly's brow as she came\ndown to dinner.\n\nEleanor, when she received the letter from her father's hand, had no\nidea from whom it came. She had never seen Mr. Slope's handwriting,\nor if so had forgotten it, and did not think of him as she twisted\nthe letter as people do twist letters when they do not immediately\nrecognize their correspondents either by the writing or the seal.\nShe was sitting at her glass, brushing her hair and rising every\nother minute to play with her boy, who was sprawling on the bed and\nwho engaged pretty nearly the whole attention of the maid as well as\nof his mother.\n\nAt last, sitting before her toilet-table, she broke the seal and,\nturning over the leaf, saw Mr. Slope's name. She first felt surprised,\nand then annoyed, and then anxious. As she read it she became\ninterested. She was so delighted to find that all obstacles to her\nfather's return to the hospital were apparently removed that she did\nnot observe the fulsome language in which the tidings were conveyed.\nShe merely perceived that she was commissioned to tell her father\nthat such was the case, and she did not realize the fact that such a\ncommunication should not have been made, in the first instance, to her\nby an unmarried young clergyman. She felt, on the whole, grateful to\nMr. Slope and anxious to get on her dress that she might run with the\nnews to her father. Then she came to the allusion to her own pious\nlabours, and she said in her heart that Mr. Slope was an affected ass.\nThen she went on again and was offended by her boy being called Mr.\nSlope's darling--he was nobody's darling but her own, or at any rate\nnot the darling of a disagreeable stranger like Mr. Slope. Lastly she\narrived at the tresses and felt a qualm of disgust. She looked up in\nthe glass, and there they were before her, long and silken, certainly,\nand very beautiful. I will not say but that she knew them to be so,\nbut she felt angry with them and brushed them roughly and carelessly.\nShe crumpled the letter up with angry violence, and resolved, almost\nwithout thinking of it, that she would not show it to her father. She\nwould merely tell him the contents of it. She then comforted herself\nagain with her boy, had her dress fastened, and went down to dinner.\n\nAs she tripped down the stairs she began to ascertain that there was\nsome difficulty in her situation. She could not keep from her father\nthe news about the hospital, nor could she comfortably confess the\nletter from Mr. Slope before the Grantlys. Her father had already\ngone down. She had heard his step upon the lobby. She resolved\ntherefore to take him aside and tell him her little bit of news.\nPoor girl! She had no idea how severely the unfortunate letter had\nalready been discussed.\n\nWhen she entered the drawing-room, the whole party were there,\nincluding Mr. Arabin, and the whole party looked glum and sour.\nThe two girls sat silent and apart as though they were aware that\nsomething was wrong. Even Mr. Arabin was solemn and silent. Eleanor\nhad not seen him since breakfast. He had been the whole day at St.\nEwold's, and such having been the case, it was natural that he should\ntell how matters were going on there. He did nothing of the kind,\nhowever, but remained solemn and silent. They were all solemn and\nsilent. Eleanor knew in her heart that they had been talking about\nher, and her heart misgave her as she thought of Mr. Slope and his\nletter. At any rate she felt it to be quite impossible to speak to\nher father alone while matters were in this state.\n\nDinner was soon announced, and Dr. Grantly, as was his wont, gave\nEleanor his arm. But he did so as though the doing it were an\noutrage on his feelings rendered necessary by sternest necessity.\nWith quick sympathy Eleanor felt this, and hardly put her fingers on\nhis coat-sleeve. It may be guessed in what way the dinner-hour was\npassed. Dr. Grantly said a few words to Mr. Arabin, Mr. Arabin said\na few words to Mrs. Grantly, she said a few words to her father, and\nhe tried to say a few words to Eleanor. She felt that she had been\ntried and found guilty of something, though she knew not what. She\nlonged to say out to them all, \"Well, what is it that I have done;\nout with it, and let me know my crime; for heaven's sake let me hear\nthe worst of it;\" but she could not. She could say nothing, but sat\nthere silent, half-feeling that she was guilty, and trying in vain to\npretend even to eat her dinner.\n\nAt last the cloth was drawn, and the ladies were not long following\nit. When they were gone, the gentlemen were somewhat more sociable\nbut not much so. They could not of course talk over Eleanor's sins.\nThe archdeacon had indeed so far betrayed his sister-in-law as to\nwhisper into Mr. Arabin's ear in the study, as they met there before\ndinner, a hint of what he feared. He did so with the gravest and\nsaddest of fears, and Mr. Arabin became grave and apparently sad\nenough as he heard it. He opened his eyes, and his mouth and said in\na sort of whisper \"Mr. Slope!\" in the same way as he might have said\n\"The Cholera!\" had his friend told him that that horrid disease was\nin his nursery. \"I fear so, I fear so,\" said the archdeacon, and\nthen together they left the room.\n\nWe will not accurately analyse Mr. Arabin's feelings on receipt\nof such astounding tidings. It will suffice to say that he was\nsurprised, vexed, sorrowful, and ill at ease. He had not perhaps\nthought very much about Eleanor, but he had appreciated her influence,\nand had felt that close intimacy with her in a country-house was\npleasant to him, and also beneficial. He had spoken highly of her\nintelligence to the archdeacon, and had walked about the shrubberies\nwith her, carrying her boy on his back. When Mr. Arabin had called\nJohnny his darling, Eleanor was not angry.\n\nThus the three men sat over their wine, all thinking of the same\nsubject, but unable to speak of it to each other. So we will leave\nthem and follow the ladies into the drawing-room.\n\nMrs. Grantly had received a commission from her husband, and had\nundertaken it with some unwillingness. He had desired her to speak\ngravely to Eleanor and to tell her that, if she persisted in her\nadherence to Mr. Slope, she could no longer look for the countenance\nof her present friends. Mrs. Grantly probably knew her sister better\nthan the doctor did, and assured him that it would be in vain to talk\nto her. The only course likely to be of any service in her opinion\nwas to keep Eleanor away from Barchester. Perhaps she might have\nadded, for she had a very keen eye in such things, that there might\nalso be ground for hope in keeping Eleanor near Mr. Arabin. Of this,\nhowever, she said nothing. But the archdeacon would not be talked\nover; he spoke much of his conscience, and declared that, if Mrs.\nGrantly would not do it, he would. So instigated, the lady undertook\nthe task, stating, however, her full conviction that her interference\nwould be worse than useless. And so it proved.\n\nAs soon as they were in the drawing-room Mrs. Grantly found some\nexcuse for sending her girls away, and then began her task. She knew\nwell that she could exercise but very slight authority over her\nsister. Their various modes of life, and the distance between their\nresidences, had prevented any very close confidence. They had hardly\nlived together since Eleanor was a child. Eleanor had, moreover,\nespecially in latter years, resented in a quiet sort of way the\ndictatorial authority which the archdeacon seemed to exercise over\nher father, and on this account had been unwilling to allow the\narchdeacon's wife to exercise authority over herself.\n\n\"You got a note just before dinner, I believe,\" began the eldest\nsister.\n\nEleanor acknowledged that she had done so, and felt that she turned\nred as she acknowledged it. She would have given anything to have\nkept her colour, but the more she tried to do so the more signally\nshe failed.\n\n\"Was it not from Mr. Slope?\"\n\nEleanor said that the letter was from Mr. Slope.\n\n\"Is he a regular correspondent of yours, Eleanor?\"\n\n\"Not exactly,\" said she, already beginning to feel angry at the\ncross-examination. She determined, and why it would be difficult to\nsay, that nothing should induce her to tell her sister Susan what was\nthe subject of the letter. Mrs. Grantly, she knew, was instigated\nby the archdeacon, and she would not plead to any arraignment made\nagainst her by him.\n\n\"But, Eleanor dear, why do you get letters from Mr. Slope at all,\nknowing, as you do, he is a person so distasteful to Papa, and to the\narchdeacon, and indeed to all your friends?\"\n\n\"In the first place, Susan, I don't get letters from him; and in the\nnext place, as Mr. Slope wrote the one letter which I have got, and\nas I only received it, which I could not very well help doing, as\nPapa handed it to me, I think you had better ask Mr. Slope instead of\nme.\"\n\n\"What was his letter about, Eleanor?\"\n\n\"I cannot tell you,\" said she, \"because it was confidential. It was\non business respecting a third person.\"\n\n\"It was in no way personal to yourself then?\"\n\n\"I won't exactly say that, Susan,\" said she, getting more and more\nangry at her sister's questions.\n\n\"Well, I must say it's rather singular,\" said Mrs. Grantly, affecting\nto laugh, \"that a young lady in your position should receive a letter\nfrom an unmarried gentleman of which she will not tell the contents\nand which she is ashamed to show to her sister.\"\n\n\"I am not ashamed,\" said Eleanor, blazing up. \"I am not ashamed of\nanything in the matter; only I do not choose to be cross-examined as\nto my letters by anyone.\"\n\n\"Well, dear,\" said the other, \"I cannot but tell you that I do not\nthink Mr. Slope a proper correspondent for you.\"\n\n\"If he be ever so improper, how can I help his having written to\nme? But you are all prejudiced against him to such an extent that\nthat which would be kind and generous in another man is odious\nand impudent in him. I hate a religion that teaches one to be so\none-sided in one's charity.\"\n\n\"I am sorry, Eleanor, that you hate the religion you find here, but\nsurely you should remember that in such matters the archdeacon must\nknow more of the world than you do. I don't ask you to respect or\ncomply with me, although I am, unfortunately, so many years your\nsenior; but surely, in such a matter as this, you might consent to\nbe guided by the archdeacon. He is most anxious to be your friend,\nif you will let him.\"\n\n\"In such a matter as what?\" said Eleanor very testily. \"Upon my word\nI don't know what this is all about.\"\n\n\"We all want you to drop Mr. Slope.\"\n\n\"You all want me to be as illiberal as yourselves. That I shall\nnever be. I see no harm in Mr. Slope's acquaintance, and I shall not\ninsult the man by telling him that I do. He has thought it necessary\nto write to me, and I do not want the archdeacon's advice about the\nletter. If I did, I would ask it.\"\n\n\"Then, Eleanor, it is my duty to tell you,\" and now she spoke with\na tremendous gravity, \"that the archdeacon thinks that such a\ncorrespondence is disgraceful, and that he cannot allow it to go on\nin his house.\"\n\nEleanor's eyes flashed fire as she answered her sister, jumping\nup from her seat as she did so. \"You may tell the archdeacon that\nwherever I am I shall receive what letters I please and from whom I\nplease. And as for the word 'disgraceful,' if Dr. Grantly has used\nit of me, he has been unmanly and inhospitable,\" and she walked off\nto the door. \"When Papa comes from the dining-room I will thank you\nto ask him to step up to my bedroom. I will show him Mr. Slope's\nletter, but I will show it to no one else.\" And so saying, she\nretreated to her baby.\n\nShe had no conception of the crime with which she was charged. The\nidea that she could be thought by her friends to regard Mr. Slope as\na lover had never flashed upon her. She conceived that they were all\nprejudiced and illiberal in their persecution of him, and therefore\nshe would not join in the persecution, even though she greatly\ndisliked the man.\n\nEleanor was very angry as she seated herself in a low chair by her\nopen window at the foot of her child's bed. \"To dare to say I have\ndisgraced myself,\" she repeated to herself more than once. \"How Papa\ncan put up with that man's arrogance! I will certainly not sit down\nto dinner in his house again unless he begs my pardon for that word.\"\nAnd then a thought struck her that Mr. Arabin might perchance hear\nof her \"disgraceful\" correspondence with Mr. Slope, and she turned\ncrimson with pure vexation. Oh, if she had known the truth! If she\ncould have conceived that Mr. Arabin had been informed as a fact that\nshe was going to marry Mr. Slope!\n\nShe had not been long in her room before her father joined her. As\nhe left the drawing-room Mrs. Grantly took her husband into the\nrecess of the window and told him how signally she had failed.\n\n\"I will speak to her myself before I go to bed,\" said the archdeacon.\n\n\"Pray do no such thing,\" said she; \"you can do no good and will only\nmake an unseemly quarrel in the house. You have no idea how\nheadstrong she can be.\"\n\nThe archdeacon declared that as to that he was quite indifferent. He\nknew his duty and would do it. Mr. Harding was weak in the extreme\nin such matters. He would not have it hereafter on his conscience\nthat he had not done all that in him lay to prevent so disgraceful an\nalliance. It was in vain that Mrs. Grantly assured him that speaking\nto Eleanor angrily would only hasten such a crisis and render\nit certain, if at present there were any doubt. He was angry,\nself-willed, and sore. The fact that a lady of his household had\nreceived a letter from Mr. Slope had wounded his pride in the sorest\nplace, and nothing could control him.\n\nMr. Harding looked worn and woe-begone as he entered his daughter's\nroom. These sorrows worried him sadly. He felt that if they were\ncontinued, he must go to the wall in the manner so kindly prophesied\nto him by the chaplain. He knocked gently at his daughter's door,\nwaited till he was distinctly bade to enter, and then appeared as\nthough he and not she were the suspected criminal.\n\nEleanor's arm was soon within his, and she had soon kissed his\nforehead and caressed him, not with joyous but with eager love.\n\"Oh, Papa,\" she said, \"I do so want to speak to you. They have been\ntalking about me downstairs to-night--don't you know they have, Papa?\"\n\nMr. Harding confessed with a sort of murmur that the archdeacon had\nbeen speaking of her.\n\n\"I shall hate Dr. Grantly soon--\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear!\"\n\n\"Well, I shall. I cannot help it. He is so uncharitable, so unkind,\nso suspicious of everyone that does not worship himself: and then he\nis so monstrously arrogant to other people who have a right to their\nopinions as well as he has to his own.\"\n\n\"He is an earnest, eager man, my dear, but he never means to be\nunkind.\"\n\n\"He is unkind, Papa, most unkind. There, I got that letter from Mr.\nSlope before dinner. It was you yourself who gave it to me. There,\npray read it. It is all for you. It should have been addressed to\nyou. You know how they have been talking about it downstairs. You\nknow how they behaved to me at dinner. And since dinner Susan has\nbeen preaching to me, till I could not remain in the room with her.\nRead it, Papa, and then say whether that is a letter that need make\nDr. Grantly so outrageous.\"\n\nMr. Harding took his arm from his daughter's waist and slowly read\nthe letter. She expected to see his countenance lit with joy as he\nlearnt that his path back to the hospital was made so smooth; but she\nwas doomed to disappointment, as had once been the case before on a\nsomewhat similar occasion. His first feeling was one of unmitigated\ndisgust that Mr. Slope should have chosen to interfere in his behalf.\nHe had been anxious to get back to the hospital, but he would have\ninfinitely sooner resigned all pretensions to the place than have\nowed it in any manner to Mr. Slope's influence in his favour. Then\nhe thoroughly disliked the tone of Mr. Slope's letter; it was\nunctuous, false, and unwholesome, like the man. He saw, which\nEleanor had failed to see, that much more had been intended than was\nexpressed. The appeal to Eleanor's pious labours as separate from\nhis own grated sadly against his feelings as a father. And then,\nwhen he came to the \"darling boy\" and the \"silken tresses,\" he slowly\nclosed and folded the letter in despair. It was impossible that\nMr. Slope should so write unless he had been encouraged. It was\nimpossible Eleanor should have received such a letter, and have\nreceived it without annoyance, unless she were willing to encourage\nhim. So at least Mr. Harding argued to himself.\n\nHow hard it is to judge accurately of the feelings of others. Mr.\nHarding, as he came to the close of the letter, in his heart\ncondemned his daughter for indelicacy, and it made him miserable to\ndo so. She was not responsible for what Mr. Slope might write. True.\nBut then she expressed no disgust at it. She had rather expressed\napproval of the letter as a whole. She had given it to him to read, as\na vindication for herself and also for him. The father's spirits sank\nwithin him as he felt that he could not acquit her.\n\nAnd yet it was the true feminine delicacy of Eleanor's mind which\nbrought on her this condemnation. Listen to me, ladies, and I\nbeseech you to acquit her. She thought of this man, this lover of\nwhom she was so unconscious, exactly as her father did, exactly as\nthe Grantlys did. At least she esteemed him personally as they did.\nBut she believed him to be in the main an honest man, and one truly\ninclined to assist her father. She felt herself bound, after what\nhad passed, to show this letter to Mr. Harding. She thought it\nnecessary that he should know what Mr. Slope had to say. But she\ndid not think it necessary to apologize for, or condemn, or even\nallude to the vulgarity of the man's tone, which arose, as does all\nvulgarity, from ignorance. It was nauseous to her to have a man like\nMr. Slope commenting on her personal attractions, and she did not\nthink it necessary to dilate with her father upon what was nauseous.\nShe never supposed they could disagree on such a subject. It would\nhave been painful for her to point it out, painful for her to speak\nstrongly against a man of whom, on the whole, she was anxious to\nthink and speak well. In encountering such a man she had encountered\nwhat was disagreeable, as she might do in walking the streets. But\nin such encounters she never thought it necessary to dwell on what\ndisgusted her.\n\nAnd he, foolish, weak, loving man, would not say one word, though\none word would have cleared up everything. There would have been\na deluge of tears, and in ten minutes everyone in the house would\nhave understood how matters really were. The father would have been\ndelighted. The sister would have kissed her sister and begged a\nthousand pardons. The archdeacon would have apologized and wondered,\nand raised his eyebrows, and gone to bed a happy man. And Mr.\nArabin--Mr. Arabin would have dreamt of Eleanor, have awoke in the\nmorning with ideas of love, and retired to rest the next evening with\nschemes of marriage. But, alas, all this was not to be.\n\nMr. Harding slowly folded the letter, handed it back to her, kissed\nher forehead, and bade God bless her. He then crept slowly away to\nhis own room.\n\nAs soon as he had left the passage, another knock was given at\nEleanor's door, and Mrs. Grantly's very demure own maid, entering\non tiptoe, wanted to know would Mrs. Bold be so kind as to speak to\nthe archdeacon for two minutes in the archdeacon's study, if not\ndisagreeable. The archdeacon's compliments, and he wouldn't detain\nher two minutes.\n\nEleanor thought it was very disagreeable; she was tired and fagged\nand sick at heart; her present feelings towards Dr. Grantly were\nanything but those of affection. She was, however, no coward, and\ntherefore promised to be in the study in five minutes. So she\narranged her hair, tied on her cap, and went down with a palpitating\nheart.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\nA Serious Interview\n\n\nThere are people who delight in serious interviews, especially when\nto them appertains the part of offering advice or administering\nrebuke, and perhaps the archdeacon was one of these. Yet on this\noccasion he did not prepare himself for the coming conversation with\nmuch anticipation of pleasure. Whatever might be his faults he was\nnot an inhospitable man, and he almost felt that he was sinning\nagainst hospitality in upbraiding Eleanor in his own house. Then,\nalso, he was not quite sure that he would get the best of it. His\nwife had told him that he decidedly would not, and he usually gave\ncredit to what his wife said. He was, however, so convinced of\nwhat he considered to be the impropriety of Eleanor's conduct, and\nso assured also of his own duty in trying to check it, that his\nconscience would not allow him to take his wife's advice and go to\nbed quietly.\n\nEleanor's face as she entered the room was not such as to reassure\nhim. As a rule she was always mild in manner and gentle in conduct;\nbut there was that in her eye which made it not an easy task to scold\nher. In truth she had been little used to scolding. No one since\nher childhood had tried it but the archdeacon, and he had generally\nfailed when he did try it. He had never done so since her marriage;\nand now, when he saw her quiet, easy step as she entered his room, he\nalmost wished that he had taken his wife's advice.\n\nHe began by apologizing for the trouble he was giving her. She begged\nhim not to mention it, assured him that walking downstairs was no\ntrouble to her at all, and then took a seat and waited patiently for\nhim to begin his attack.\n\n\"My dear Eleanor,\" he said, \"I hope you believe me when I assure you\nthat you have no sincerer friend than I am.\" To this Eleanor answered\nnothing, and therefore he proceeded. \"If you had a brother of your\nown, I should not probably trouble you with what I am going to say.\nBut as it is I cannot but think that it must be a comfort to you to\nknow that you have near you one who is as anxious for your welfare as\nany brother of your own could be.\"\n\n\"I never had a brother,\" said she.\n\n\"I know you never had, and it is therefore that I speak to you.\"\n\n\"I never had a brother,\" she repeated, \"but I have hardly felt the\nwant. Papa has been to me both father and brother.\"\n\n\"Your father is the fondest and most affectionate of men. But--\"\n\n\"He is--the fondest and most affectionate of men, and the best of\ncounsellors. While he lives I can never want advice.\"\n\nThis rather put the archdeacon out. He could not exactly contradict\nwhat his sister-in-law said about her father, and yet he did not at\nall agree with her. He wanted her to understand that he tendered his\nassistance because her father was a soft, good-natured gentleman\nnot sufficiently knowing in the ways of the world; but he could not\nsay this to her. So he had to rush into the subject-matter of his\nproffered counsel without any acknowledgement on her part that she\ncould need it, or would be grateful for it.\n\n\"Susan tells me that you received a letter this evening from Mr.\nSlope.\"\n\n\"Yes; Papa brought it in the brougham. Did he not tell you?\"\n\n\"And Susan says that you objected to let her know what it was about.\"\n\n\"I don't think she asked me. But had she done so, I should not have\ntold her. I don't think it nice to be asked about one's letters. If\none wishes to show them, one does so without being asked.\"\n\n\"True. Quite so. What you say is quite true. But is not the fact\nof your receiving letters from Mr. Slope, which you do not wish to\nshow to your friends, a circumstance which must excite some--some\nsurprise--some suspicion--\"\n\n\"Suspicion!\" said she, not speaking above her usual voice, speaking\nstill in a soft, womanly tone but yet with indignation. \"Suspicion!\nAnd who suspects me, and of what?\" And then there was a pause, for\nthe archdeacon was not quite ready to explain the ground of his\nsuspicion. \"No, Dr. Grantly, I did not choose to show Mr. Slope's\nletter to Susan. I could not show it to anyone till Papa had seen\nit. If you have any wish to read it now, you can do so,\" and she\nhanded the letter to him over the table.\n\nThis was an amount of compliance which he had not at all expected, and\nwhich rather upset him in his tactics. However, he took the letter,\nperused it carefully, and then refolding it, kept it on the table\nunder his hand. To him it appeared to be in almost every respect\nthe letter of a declared lover; it seemed to corroborate his worst\nsuspicions; and the fact of Eleanor's showing it to him was all but\ntantamount to a declaration on her part that it was her pleasure to\nreceive love-letters from Mr. Slope. He almost entirely overlooked\nthe real subject-matter of the epistle, so intent was he on the\nforthcoming courtship and marriage.\n\n\"I'll thank you to give it me back, if you please, Dr. Grantly.\"\n\nHe took it in his hand and held it up, but made no immediate overture\nto return it. \"And Mr. Harding has seen this?\" said he.\n\n\"Of course he has,\" said she; \"it was written that he might see it.\nIt refers solely to his business--of course I showed it to him.\"\n\n\"And, Eleanor, do you think that that is a proper letter for you--for\na person in your condition--to receive from Mr. Slope?\"\n\n\"Quite a proper letter,\" said she, speaking, perhaps, a little out of\nobstinacy, probably forgetting at the moment the objectionable\nmention of her silken curls.\n\n\"Then, Eleanor, it is my duty to tell you that I wholly differ from\nyou.\"\n\n\"So I suppose,\" said she, instigated now by sheer opposition and\ndetermination not to succumb. \"You think Mr. Slope is a messenger\ndirect from Satan. I think he is an industrious, well-meaning\nclergyman. It's a pity that we differ as we do. But, as we do\ndiffer, we had probably better not talk about it.\"\n\nHere Eleanor undoubtedly put herself in the wrong. She might probably\nhave refused to talk to Dr. Grantly on the matter in dispute without\nany impropriety, but, having consented to listen to him, she had no\nbusiness to tell him that he regarded Mr. Slope as an emissary from\nthe evil one; nor was she justified in praising Mr. Slope, seeing\nthat in her heart of hearts she did not think well of him. She was,\nhowever, wounded in spirit, and angry, and bitter. She had been\nsubjected to contumely and cross-questioning and ill-usage through\nthe whole evening. No one, not even Mr. Arabin, not even her father,\nhad been kind to her. All this she attributed to the prejudice and\nconceit of the archdeacon, and therefore she resolved to set no\nbounds to her antagonism to him. She would neither give nor take\nquarter. He had greatly presumed in daring to question her about her\ncorrespondence, and she was determined to show that she thought so.\n\n\"Eleanor, you are forgetting yourself,\" said he, looking very sternly\nat her. \"Otherwise you would never tell me that I conceive any man\nto be a messenger from Satan.\"\n\n\"But you do,\" said she. \"Nothing is too bad for him. Give me that\nletter, if you please;\" and she stretched out her hand and took it\nfrom him. \"He has been doing his best to serve Papa, doing more than\nany of Papa's friends could do; and yet, because he is the chaplain\nof a bishop whom you don't like, you speak of him as though he had no\nright to the usage of a gentleman.\"\n\n\"He has done nothing for your father.\"\n\n\"I believe that he has done a great deal; and, as far as I am\nconcerned, I am grateful to him. Nothing that you can say can prevent\nmy being so. I judge people by their acts, and his, as far as I can\nsee them, are good.\" She then paused for a moment. \"If you have\nnothing further to say, I shall be obliged by being permitted to say\ngood night--I am very tired.\"\n\nDr. Grantly had, as he thought, done his best to be gracious to his\nsister-in-law. He had endeavoured not to be harsh to her, and had\nstriven to pluck the sting from his rebuke. But he did not intend\nthat she should leave him without hearing him.\n\n\"I have something to say, Eleanor, and I fear I must trouble you to\nhear it. You profess that it is quite proper that you should receive\nfrom Mr. Slope such letters as that you have in your hand. Susan and\nI think very differently. You are, of course, your own mistress, and\nmuch as we both must grieve should anything separate you from us, we\nhave no power to prevent you from taking steps which may lead to such\na separation. If you are so wilful as to reject the counsel of your\nfriends, you must be allowed to cater for yourself. But, Eleanor, I\nmay at any rate ask you this. Is it worth your while to break away\nfrom all those you have loved--from all who love you--for the sake of\nMr. Slope?\"\n\n\"I don't know what you mean, Dr. Grantly; I don't know what you're\ntalking about. I don't want to break away from anybody.\"\n\n\"But you will do so if you connect yourself with Mr. Slope. Eleanor,\nI must speak out to you. You must choose between your sister and\nmyself and our friends, and Mr. Slope and his friends. I say nothing\nof your father, as you may probably understand his feelings better\nthan I do.\"\n\n\"What do you mean, Dr. Grantly? What am I to understand? I never\nheard such wicked prejudice in my life.\"\n\n\"It is no prejudice, Eleanor. I have known the world longer than you\nhave done. Mr. Slope is altogether beneath you. You ought to know\nand feel that he is so. Pray--pray think of this before it is too\nlate.\"\n\n\"Too late!\"\n\n\"Or if you will not believe me, ask Susan; you cannot think she is\nprejudiced against you. Or even consult your father--he is not\nprejudiced against you. Ask Mr. Arabin--\"\n\n\"You haven't spoken to Mr. Arabin about this!\" said she, jumping up\nand standing before him.\n\n\"Eleanor, all the world in and about Barchester will be speaking of\nit soon.\"\n\n\"But have you spoken to Mr. Arabin about me and Mr. Slope?\"\n\n\"Certainly I have, and he quite agrees with me.\"\n\n\"Agrees with what?\" said she. \"I think you are trying to drive me\nmad.\"\n\n\"He agrees with me and Susan that it is quite impossible you should\nbe received at Plumstead as Mrs. Slope.\"\n\nNot being favourites with the tragic muse, we do not dare to attempt\nany description of Eleanor's face when she first heard the name of\nMrs. Slope pronounced as that which would or should or might at some\ntime appertain to herself. The look, such as it was, Dr. Grantly\ndid not soon forget. For a moment or two she could find no words to\nexpress her deep anger and deep disgust; indeed, at this conjuncture,\nwords did not come to her very freely.\n\n\"How dare you be so impertinent?\" at last she said, and then she\nhurried out of the room without giving the archdeacon the opportunity\nof uttering another word. It was with difficulty she contained\nherself till she reached her own room; and then, locking the door,\nshe threw herself on her bed and sobbed as though her heart would\nbreak.\n\nBut even yet she had no conception of the truth. She had no idea\nthat her father and her sister had for days past conceived in sober\nearnest the idea that she was going to marry this man. She did not\neven then believe that the archdeacon thought that she would do so.\nBy some manoeuvre of her brain she attributed the origin of the\naccusation to Mr. Arabin, and as she did so her anger against him was\nexcessive, and the vexation of her spirit almost unendurable. She\ncould not bring herself to think that the charge was made seriously.\nIt appeared to her most probable that the archdeacon and Mr. Arabin\nhad talked over her objectionable acquaintance with Mr. Slope; that\nMr. Arabin in his jeering, sarcastic way had suggested the odious\nmatch as being the severest way of treating with contumely her\nacquaintance with his enemy; and that the archdeacon, taking the idea\nfrom him, thought proper to punish her by the allusion. The whole\nnight she lay awake thinking of what had been said, and this appeared\nto be the most probable solution.\n\nBut the reflexion that Mr. Arabin should have in any way mentioned\nher name in connexion with that of Mr. Slope was overpowering; and\nthe spiteful ill-nature of the archdeacon in repeating the charge to\nher made her wish to leave his house almost before the day had broken.\nOne thing was certain: nothing should make her stay there beyond the\nfollowing morning, and nothing should make her sit down to breakfast\nin company with Dr. Grantly. When she thought of the man whose name\nhad been linked with her own, she cried from sheer disgust. It was\nonly because she would be thus disgusted, thus pained and shocked and\ncut to the quick, that the archdeacon had spoken the horrid word.\nHe wanted to make her quarrel with Mr. Slope, and therefore he had\noutraged her by his abominable vulgarity. She determined that at any\nrate he should know that she appreciated it.\n\nNor was the archdeacon a bit better satisfied with the result of his\nserious interview than was Eleanor. He gathered from it, as indeed\nhe could hardly fail to do, that she was very angry with him, but he\nthought that she was thus angry, not because she was suspected of\nan intention to marry Mr. Slope, but because such an intention was\nimputed to her as a crime. Dr. Grantly regarded this supposed union\nwith disgust, but it never occurred to him that Eleanor was outraged\nbecause she looked at it exactly in the same light.\n\nHe returned to his wife, vexed and somewhat disconsolate, but\nnevertheless confirmed in his wrath against his sister-in-law. \"Her\nwhole behaviour,\" said he, \"has been most objectionable. She handed\nme his love-letter to read as though she were proud of it. And she\nis proud of it. She is proud of having this slavering, greedy man at\nher feet. She will throw herself and John Bold's money into his lap;\nshe will ruin her boy, disgrace her father and you, and be a wretched\nmiserable woman.\"\n\nHis spouse, who was sitting at her toilet-table, continued her\navocations, making no answer to all this. She had known that the\narchdeacon would gain nothing by interfering, but she was too\ncharitable to provoke him by saying so while he was in such deep\nsorrow.\n\n\"This comes of a man making such a will as that of Bold's,\" he\ncontinued. \"Eleanor is no more fitted to be trusted with such an\namount of money in her own hands than is a charity-school girl.\"\nStill Mrs. Grantly made no reply. \"But I have done my duty; I can do\nnothing further. I have told her plainly that she cannot be allowed to\nform a link of connexion between me and that man. From henceforward\nit will not be in my power to make her welcome at Plumstead. I cannot\nhave Mr. Slope's love-letters coming here. Susan, I think you had\nbetter let her understand that, as her mind on this subject seems\nto be irrevocably fixed, it will be better for all parties that she\nshould return to Barchester.\"\n\nNow Mrs. Grantly was angry with Eleanor--nearly as angry as her\nhusband--but she had no idea of turning her sister out of the house.\nShe therefore at length spoke out and explained to the archdeacon in\nher own mild, seducing way that he was fuming and fussing and fretting\nhimself very unnecessarily. She declared that things, if left alone,\nwould arrange themselves much better than he could arrange them, and\nat last succeeded in inducing him to go to bed in a somewhat less\ninhospitable state of mind.\n\nOn the following morning Eleanor's maid was commissioned to send\nword into the dining-room that her mistress was not well enough to\nattend prayers and that she would breakfast in her own room. Here\nshe was visited by her father, and declared to him her intention of\nreturning immediately to Barchester. He was hardly surprised by the\nannouncement. All the household seemed to be aware that something had\ngone wrong. Everyone walked about with subdued feet, and people's\nshoes seemed to creak more than usual. There was a look of conscious\nintelligence on the faces of the women, and the men attempted, but\nin vain, to converse as though nothing were the matter. All this had\nweighed heavily on the heart of Mr. Harding, and when Eleanor told him\nthat her immediate return to Barchester was a necessity, he merely\nsighed piteously and said that he would be ready to accompany her.\n\nBut here she objected strenuously. She had a great wish, she said,\nto go alone; a great desire that it might be seen that her father was\nnot implicated in her quarrel with Dr. Grantly. To this at last he\ngave way; but not a word passed between them about Mr. Slope--not a\nword was said, not a question asked as to the serious interview on\nthe preceding evening. There was, indeed, very little confidence\nbetween them, though neither of them knew why it should be so. Eleanor\nonce asked him whether he would not call upon the bishop, but he\nanswered rather tartly that he did not know--he did not think he\nshould, but he could not say just at present. And so they parted. Each\nwas miserably anxious for some show of affection, for some return\nof confidence, for some sign of the feeling that usually bound them\ntogether. But none was given. The father could not bring himself to\nquestion his daughter about her supposed lover, and the daughter\nwould not sully her mouth by repeating the odious word with which Dr.\nGrantly had roused her wrath. And so they parted.\n\nThere was some trouble in arranging the method of Eleanor's return.\nShe begged her father to send for a post-chaise, but when Mrs.\nGrantly heard of this, she objected strongly. If Eleanor would go\naway in dudgeon with the archdeacon, why should she let all the\nservants and all the neighbourhood know that she had done so? So at\nlast Eleanor consented to make use of the Plumstead carriage, and\nas the archdeacon had gone out immediately after breakfast and was\nnot to return till dinner-time, she also consented to postpone her\njourney till after lunch, and to join the family at that time. As to\nthe subject of the quarrel not a word was said by anyone. The affair\nof the carriage was arranged by Mr. Harding, who acted as Mercury\nbetween the two ladies; they, when they met, kissed each other very\nlovingly and then sat down each to her crochet work as though nothing\nwas amiss in all the world.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\nAnother Love Scene\n\n\nBut there was another visitor at the rectory whose feelings in this\nunfortunate matter must be somewhat strictly analysed. Mr. Arabin\nhad heard from his friend of the probability of Eleanor's marriage\nwith Mr. Slope with amazement, but not with incredulity. It has been\nsaid that he was not in love with Eleanor, and up to this period\nthis certainly had been true. But as soon as he heard that she loved\nsomeone else, he began to be very fond of her himself. He did not\nmake up his mind that he wished to have her for his wife; he had\nnever thought of her, and did not now think of her, in connexion with\nhimself; but he experienced an inward, indefinable feeling of deep\nregret, a gnawing sorrow, an unconquerable depression of spirits,\nand also a species of self-abasement that he--he, Mr. Arabin--had\nnot done something to prevent that other he, that vile he whom he so\nthoroughly despised, from carrying off this sweet prize.\n\nWhatever man may have reached the age of forty unmarried without\nknowing something of such feelings must have been very successful or\nelse very cold-hearted.\n\nMr. Arabin had never thought of trimming the sails of his bark so\nthat he might sail as convoy to this rich argosy. He had seen that\nMrs. Bold was beautiful, but he had not dreamt of making her beauty\nhis own. He knew that Mrs. Bold was rich, but he had had no more\nidea of appropriating her wealth than that of Dr. Grantly. He had\ndiscovered that Mrs. Bold was intelligent, warm-hearted, agreeable,\nsensible, all in fact that a man could wish his wife to be; but the\nhigher were her attractions, the greater her claims to consideration,\nthe less had he imagined that he might possibly become the possessor\nof them. Such had been his instinct rather than his thoughts, so\nhumble and so diffident. Now his diffidence was to be rewarded by\nhis seeing this woman, whose beauty was to his eyes perfect, whose\nwealth was such as to have deterred him from thinking of her, whose\nwidowhood would have silenced him had he not been so deterred, by his\nseeing her become the prey of--Obadiah Slope!\n\nOn the morning of Mrs. Bold's departure he got on his horse to ride\nover to St. Ewold's. As he rode he kept muttering to himself a line\nfrom Van Artevelde,\n\n\n   How little flattering is woman's love.\n\n\nAnd then he strove to recall his mind and to think of other\naffairs--his parish, his college, his creed--but his thoughts would\nrevert to Mr. Slope and the Flemish chieftain.\n\n\n      When we think upon it,\n   How little flattering is woman's love,\n   Given commonly to whosoe'er is nearest\n   And propped with most advantage.\n\n\nIt was not that Mrs. Bold should marry anyone but him--he had not put\nhimself forward as a suitor--but that she should marry Mr. Slope; and\nso he repeated over again--\n\n\n      Outward grace\n   Nor inward light is needful--day by day\n   Men wanting both are mated with the best\n   And loftiest of God's feminine creation,\n   Whose love takes no distinction but of gender,\n   And ridicules the very name of choice.\n\n\nAnd so he went on, troubled much in his mind.\n\nHe had but an uneasy ride of it that morning, and little good did he\ndo at St. Ewold's.\n\nThe necessary alterations in his house were being fast completed, and\nhe walked through the rooms, and went up and down the stairs, and\nrambled through the garden, but he could not wake himself to much\ninterest about them. He stood still at every window to look out and\nthink upon Mr. Slope. At almost every window he had before stood and\nchatted with Eleanor. She and Mrs. Grantly had been there continually;\nand while Mrs. Grantly had been giving orders, and seeing that orders\nhad been complied with, he and Eleanor had conversed on all things\nappertaining to a clergyman's profession. He thought how often\nhe had laid down the law to her and how sweetly she had borne with\nhis somewhat dictatorial decrees. He remembered her listening\nintelligence, her gentle but quick replies, her interest in all that\nconcerned the church, in all that concerned him; and then he struck\nhis riding-whip against the window-sill and declared to himself that\nit was impossible that Eleanor Bold should marry Mr. Slope.\n\nAnd yet he did not really believe, as he should have done, that it\nwas impossible. He should have known her well enough to feel that it\nwas truly impossible. He should have been aware that Eleanor had\nthat within her which would surely protect her from such degradation.\nBut he, like so many others, was deficient in confidence in woman.\nHe said to himself over and over again that it was impossible that\nEleanor Bold should become Mrs. Slope, and yet he believed that she\nwould do so. And so he rambled about, and could do and think of\nnothing. He was thoroughly uncomfortable, thoroughly ill at ease,\ncross with himself and everybody else, and feeding in his heart on\nanimosity towards Mr. Slope. This was not as it should be, as he\nknew and felt, but he could not help himself. In truth Mr. Arabin\nwas now in love with Mrs. Bold, though ignorant of the fact himself.\nHe was in love and, though forty years old, was in love without being\naware of it. He fumed and fretted and did not know what was the\nmatter, as a youth might do at one-and-twenty. And so having done no\ngood at St. Ewold's, he rode back much earlier than was usual with\nhim, instigated by some inward, unacknowledged hope that he might see\nMrs. Bold before she left.\n\nEleanor had not passed a pleasant morning. She was irritated with\neveryone, and not least with herself. She felt that she had been\nhardly used, but she felt also that she had not played her own cards\nwell. She should have held herself so far above suspicion as to have\nreceived her sister's innuendoes and the archdeacon's lecture with\nindifference. She had not done this, but had shown herself angry\nand sore, and was now ashamed of her own petulance, yet unable to\ndiscontinue it.\n\nThe greater part of the morning she had spent alone, but after awhile\nher father joined her. He had fully made up his mind that, come what\ncome might, nothing should separate him from his younger daughter.\nIt was a hard task for him to reconcile himself to the idea of seeing\nher at the head of Mr. Slope's table, but he got through it. Mr.\nSlope, as he argued to himself, was a respectable man and a clergyman,\nand he, as Eleanor's father, had no right even to endeavour to prevent\nher from marrying such a one. He longed to tell her how he had\ndetermined to prefer her to all the world, how he was prepared to\nadmit that she was not wrong, how thoroughly he differed from Dr.\nGrantly; but he could not bring himself to mention Mr. Slope's name.\nThere was yet a chance that they were all wrong in their surmise, and\nbeing thus in doubt, he could not bring himself to speak openly to her\non the subject.\n\nHe was sitting with her in the drawing-room, with his arm round her\nwaist, saying every now and then some little soft words of affection\nand working hard with his imaginary fiddle-bow, when Mr. Arabin\nentered the room. He immediately got up, and the two made some trite\nremarks to each other, neither thinking of what he was saying, while\nEleanor kept her seat on the sofa, mute and moody. Mr. Arabin was\nincluded in the list of those against whom her anger was excited.\nHe, too, had dared to talk about her acquaintance with Mr. Slope; he,\ntoo, had dared to blame her for not making an enemy of his enemy.\nShe had not intended to see him before her departure, and was now but\nlittle inclined to be gracious.\n\nThere was a feeling through the whole house that something was wrong.\nMr. Arabin, when he saw Eleanor, could not succeed in looking or\nin speaking as though he knew nothing of all this. He could not be\ncheerful and positive and contradictory with her, as was his wont.\nHe had not been two minutes in the room before he felt that he had\ndone wrong to return; and the moment he heard her voice, he thoroughly\nwished himself back at St. Ewold's. Why, indeed, should he have wished\nto have aught further to say to the future wife of Mr. Slope?\n\n\"I am sorry to hear that you are to leave us so soon,\" said he,\nstriving in vain to use his ordinary voice. In answer to this she\nmuttered something about the necessity of her being in Barchester,\nand betook herself most industriously to her crochet work.\n\nThen there was a little more trite conversation between Mr. Arabin\nand Mr. Harding--trite, and hard, and vapid, and senseless. Neither\nof them had anything to say to the other, and yet neither at such a\nmoment liked to remain silent. At last Mr. Harding, taking advantage\nof a pause, escaped out of the room, and Eleanor and Mr. Arabin were\nleft together.\n\n\"Your going will be a great break-up to our party,\" said he.\n\nShe again muttered something which was all but inaudible, but kept\nher eyes fixed upon her work.\n\n\"We have had a very pleasant month here,\" said he; \"at least I have;\nand I am sorry it should be so soon over.\"\n\n\"I have already been from home longer than I intended,\" said she,\n\"and it is time that I should return.\"\n\n\"Well, pleasant hours and pleasant days must come to an end. It is a\npity that so few of them are pleasant; or perhaps, rather--\"\n\n\"It is a pity, certainly, that men and women do so much to destroy\nthe pleasantness of their days,\" said she, interrupting him. \"It is\na pity that there should be so little charity abroad.\"\n\n\"Charity should begin at home,\" said he, and he was proceeding to\nexplain that he as a clergyman could not be what she would call\ncharitable at the expense of those principles which he considered it\nhis duty to teach, when he remembered that it would be worse than vain\nto argue on such a matter with the future wife of Mr. Slope. \"But\nyou are just leaving us,\" he continued, \"and I will not weary your\nlast hour with another lecture. As it is, I fear I have given you\ntoo many.\"\n\n\"You should practise as well as preach, Mr. Arabin.\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly I should. So should we all. All of us who presume to\nteach are bound to do our utmost towards fulfilling our own lessons.\nI thoroughly allow my deficiency in doing so, but I do not quite know\nnow to what you allude. Have you any special reason for telling me\nnow that I should practise as well as preach?\"\n\nEleanor made no answer. She longed to let him know the cause of her\nanger, to upbraid him for speaking of her disrespectfully, and then\nat last to forgive him, and so part friends. She felt that she would\nbe unhappy to leave him in her present frame of mind, but yet she\ncould hardly bring herself to speak to him of Mr. Slope. And how\ncould she allude to the innuendo thrown out by the archdeacon, and\nthrown out, as she believed, at the instigation of Mr. Arabin? She\nwanted to make him know that he was wrong, to make him aware that he\nhad ill-treated her, in order that the sweetness of her forgiveness\nmight be enhanced. She felt that she liked him too well to be\ncontented to part with him in displeasure, yet she could not get over\nher deep displeasure without some explanation, some acknowledgement\non his part, some assurance that he would never again so sin against\nher.\n\n\"Why do you tell me that I should practise what I preach?\" continued\nhe.\n\n\"All men should do so.\"\n\n\"Certainly. That is as it were understood and acknowledged. But you\ndo not say so to all men, or to all clergymen. The advice, good as\nit is, is not given except in allusion to some special deficiency.\nIf you will tell me my special deficiency, I will endeavour to profit\nby the advice.\"\n\nShe paused for awhile and then, looking full in his face, she said,\n\"You are not bold enough, Mr. Arabin, to speak out to me openly and\nplainly, and yet you expect me, a woman, to speak openly to you. Why\ndid you speak calumny of me to Dr. Grantly behind my back?\"\n\n\"Calumny!\" said he, and his whole face became suffused with blood.\n\"What calumny? If I have spoken calumny of you, I will beg your\npardon, and his to whom I spoke it, and God's pardon also. But what\ncalumny have I spoken of you to Dr. Grantly?\"\n\nShe also blushed deeply. She could not bring herself to ask him\nwhether he had not spoken of her as another man's wife. \"You know\nthat best yourself,\" said she. \"But I ask you as a man of honour, if\nyou have not spoken of me as you would not have spoken of your own\nsister--or rather I will not ask you,\" she continued, finding that he\ndid not immediately answer her. \"I will not put you to the necessity\nof answering such a question. Dr. Grantly has told me what you\nsaid.\"\n\n\"Dr. Grantly certainly asked me for my advice, and I gave it. He\nasked me--\"\n\n\"I know he did, Mr. Arabin. He asked you whether he would be doing\nright to receive me at Plumstead if I continued my acquaintance with\na gentleman who happens to be personally disagreeable to yourself and\nto him.\"\n\n\"You are mistaken, Mrs. Bold. I have no personal knowledge of Mr.\nSlope; I never met him in my life.\"\n\n\"You are not the less individually hostile to him. It is not for me\nto question the propriety of your enmity, but I had a right to expect\nthat my name should not have been mixed up in your hostilities. This\nhas been done, and been done by you in a manner the most injurious\nand the most distressing to me as a woman. I must confess, Mr. Arabin,\nthat from you I expected a different sort of usage.\"\n\nAs she spoke she with difficulty restrained her tears--but she did\nrestrain them. Had she given way and sobbed aloud, as in such cases\na woman should do, he would have melted at once, implored her pardon,\nperhaps knelt at her feet and declared his love. Everything would\nhave been explained, and Eleanor would have gone back to Barchester\nwith a contented mind. How easily would she have forgiven and\nforgotten the archdeacon's suspicions had she but heard the whole\ntruth from Mr. Arabin. But then where would have been my novel?\nShe did not cry, and Mr. Arabin did not melt.\n\n\"You do me an injustice,\" said he. \"My advice was asked by Dr.\nGrantly, and I was obliged to give it.\"\n\n\"Dr. Grantly has been most officious, most impertinent. I have as\ncomplete a right to form my acquaintance as he has to form his. What\nwould you have said had I consulted you as to the propriety of my\nbanishing Dr. Grantly from my house because he knows Lord Tattenham\nCorner? I am sure Lord Tattenham is quite as objectionable an\nacquaintance for a clergyman as Mr. Slope is for a clergyman's\ndaughter.\"\n\n\"I do not know Lord Tattenham Corner.\"\n\n\"No, but Dr. Grantly does. It is nothing to me if he knows all the\nyoung lords on every race-course in England. I shall not interfere\nwith him, nor shall he with me.\"\n\n\"I am sorry to differ with you, Mrs. Bold, but as you have spoken to\nme on this matter, and especially as you blame me for what little I\nsaid on the subject, I must tell you that I do differ from you. Dr.\nGrantly's position as a man in the world gives him a right to choose\nhis own acquaintances, subject to certain influences. If he chooses\nthem badly, those influences will be used. If he consorts with\npersons unsuitable to him, his bishop will interfere. What the\nbishop is to Dr. Grantly, Dr. Grantly is to you.\"\n\n\"I deny it. I utterly deny it,\" said Eleanor, jumping from her\nseat and literally flashing before Mr. Arabin, as she stood on the\ndrawing-room floor. He had never seen her so excited, he had never\nseen her look half so beautiful.\n\n\"I utterly deny it,\" said she. \"Dr. Grantly has no sort of\njurisdiction over me whatsoever. Do you and he forget that I am not\naltogether alone in the world? Do you forget that I have a father?\nDr. Grantly, I believe, always has forgotten it.\n\n\"From you, Mr. Arabin,\" she continued, \"I would have listened to\nadvice because I should have expected it to have been given as one\nfriend may advise another--not as a schoolmaster gives an order to\na pupil. I might have differed from you--on this matter I should\nhave done so--but had you spoken to me in your usual manner and\nwith your usual freedom, I should not have been angry. But now--was\nit manly of you, Mr. Arabin, to speak of me in this way--so\ndisrespectful--so--? I cannot bring myself to repeat what you said.\nYou must understand what I feel. Was it just of you to speak of me\nin such a way and to advise my sister's husband to turn me out of my\nsister's house because I chose to know a man of whose doctrine you\ndisapprove?\"\n\n\"I have no alternative left to me, Mrs. Bold,\" said he, standing\nwith his back to the fire-place, looking down intently at the carpet\npattern, and speaking with a slow, measured voice, \"but to tell you\nplainly what did take place between me and Dr. Grantly.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said she, finding that he paused for a moment.\n\n\"I am afraid that what I may say may pain you.\"\n\n\"It cannot well do so more than what you have already done,\" said\nshe.\n\n\"Dr. Grantly asked me whether I thought it would be prudent for him\nto receive you in his house as the wife of Mr. Slope, and I told him\nthat I thought it would be imprudent. Believing it to be utterly\nimpossible that Mr. Slope and--\"\n\n\"Thank you, Mr. Arabin, that is sufficient. I do not want to know\nyour reasons,\" said she, speaking with a terribly calm voice. \"I\nhave shown to this gentleman the commonplace civility of a neighbour;\nand because I have done so, because I have not indulged against him\nin all the rancour and hatred which you and Dr. Grantly consider due\nto all clergymen who do not agree with yourselves, you conclude that\nI am to marry him; or rather you do not conclude so--no rational man\ncould really come to such an outrageous conclusion without better\nground; you have not thought so, but, as I am in a position in which\nsuch an accusation must be peculiarly painful, it is made in order\nthat I may be terrified into hostility against this enemy of yours.\"\n\nAs she finished speaking, she walked to the drawing-room window and\nstepped out into the garden. Mr. Arabin was left in the room, still\noccupied in counting the pattern on the carpet. He had, however,\ndistinctly heard and accurately marked every word that she had\nspoken. Was it not clear from what she had said that the archdeacon\nhad been wrong in imputing to her any attachment to Mr. Slope? Was\nit not clear that Eleanor was still free to make another choice? It\nmay seem strange that he should for a moment have had a doubt, and\nyet he did doubt. She had not absolutely denied the charge; she had\nnot expressly said that it was untrue. Mr. Arabin understood little\nof the nature of a woman's feelings, or he would have known how\nimprobable it was that she should make any clearer declaration than\nshe had done. Few men do understand the nature of a woman's heart,\ntill years have robbed such understanding of its value. And it is\nwell that it should be so, or men would triumph too easily.\n\nMr. Arabin stood counting the carpet, unhappy, wretchedly unhappy,\nat the hard words that had been spoken to him, and yet happy,\nexquisitely happy, as he thought that after all the woman whom he\nso regarded was not to become the wife of the man whom he so much\ndisliked. As he stood there he began to be aware that he was himself\nin love. Forty years had passed over his head, and as yet woman's\nbeauty had never given him an uneasy hour. His present hour was very\nuneasy.\n\nNot that he remained there for half or a quarter of that time. In\nspite of what Eleanor had said, Mr. Arabin was, in truth, a manly man.\nHaving ascertained that he loved this woman, and having now reason\nto believe that she was free to receive his love, at least if she\npleased to do so, he followed her into the garden to make such wooing\nas he could.\n\nHe was not long in finding her. She was walking to and fro beneath\nthe avenue of elms that stood in the archdeacon's grounds, skirting\nthe churchyard. What had passed between her and Mr. Arabin had not,\nalas, tended to lessen the acerbity of her spirit. She was very\nangry--more angry with him than with anyone. How could he have so\nmisunderstood her? She had been so intimate with him, had allowed\nhim such latitude in what he had chosen to say to her, had complied\nwith his ideas, cherished his views, fostered his precepts, cared for\nhis comforts, made much of him in every way in which a pretty woman\ncan make much of an unmarried man without committing herself or her\nfeelings! She had been doing this, and while she had been doing it\nhe had regarded her as the affianced wife of another man.\n\nAs she passed along the avenue, every now and then an unbidden tear\nwould force itself on her cheek, and as she raised her hand to brush\nit away, she stamped with her little foot upon the sward with very\nspite to think that she had been so treated.\n\nMr. Arabin was very near to her when she first saw him, and she\nturned short round and retraced her steps down the avenue, trying to\nrid her cheeks of all trace of the tell-tale tears. It was a needless\nendeavour, for Mr. Arabin was in a state of mind that hardly allowed\nhim to observe such trifles. He followed her down the walk and\novertook her just as she reached the end of it.\n\nHe had not considered how he would address her; he had not thought\nwhat he would say. He had only felt that it was wretchedness to him\nto quarrel with her, and that it would be happiness to be allowed to\nlove her. And yet he could not lower himself by asking her pardon.\nHe had done her no wrong. He had not calumniated her, not injured\nher, as she had accused him of doing. He could not confess sins of\nwhich he had not been guilty. He could only let the past be past and\nask her as to her and his hopes for the future.\n\n\"I hope we are not to part as enemies?\" said he.\n\n\"There shall be no enmity on my part,\" said Eleanor; \"I endeavour to\navoid all enmities. It would be a hollow pretence were I to say that\nthere can be true friendship between us, after what has just passed.\nPeople cannot make their friends of those whom they despise.\"\n\n\"And am I despised?\"\n\n\"I must have been so before you could have spoken of me as you did.\nAnd I was deceived, cruelly deceived. I believed that you thought\nwell of me; I believed that you esteemed me.\"\n\n\"Thought well of you and esteemed you!\" said he. \"In justifying\nmyself before you, I must use stronger words than those.\" He paused\nfor a moment, and Eleanor's heart beat with painful violence within\nher bosom as she waited for him to go on. \"I have esteemed, do\nesteem you, as I never yet esteemed any woman. Think well of you!\nI never thought to think so well, so much of any human creature.\nSpeak calumny of you! Insult you! Wilfully injure you! I wish it\nwere my privilege to shield you from calumny, insult, and injury.\nCalumny! Ah me! 'Twere almost better that it were so. Better than\nto worship with a sinful worship; sinful and vain also.\" And then\nhe walked along beside her, with his hands clasped behind his back,\nlooking down on the grass beneath his feet and utterly at a loss how\nto express his meaning. And Eleanor walked beside him determined at\nleast to give him no assistance.\n\n\"Ah me!\" he uttered at last, speaking rather to himself than to her.\n\"Ah me! These Plumstead walks were pleasant enough, if one could\nhave but heart's ease, but without that the dull, dead stones of\nOxford were far preferable--and St. Ewold's, too. Mrs. Bold, I am\nbeginning to think that I mistook myself when I came hither. A\nRomish priest now would have escaped all this. Oh, Father of heaven,\nhow good for us would it be if thou couldest vouchsafe to us a\ncertain rule.\"\n\n\"And have we not a certain rule, Mr. Arabin?\"\n\n\"Yes--yes, surely; 'Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from\nevil.' But what is temptation? What is evil? Is this evil--is this\ntemptation?\"\n\nPoor Mr. Arabin! It would not come out of him, that deep, true love\nof his. He could not bring himself to utter it in plain language\nthat would require and demand an answer. He knew not how to say to\nthe woman by his side, \"Since the fact is that you do not love that\nother man, that you are not to be his wife, can you love me, will\nyou be my wife?\" These were the words which were in his heart, but\nwith all his sighs he could not draw them to his lips. He would have\ngiven anything, everything for power to ask this simple question, but\nglib as was his tongue in pulpits and on platforms, now he could not\nfind a word wherewith to express the plain wish of his heart.\n\nAnd yet Eleanor understood him as thoroughly as though he had\ndeclared his passion with all the elegant fluency of a practised\nLothario. With a woman's instinct, she followed every bend of his\nmind as he spoke of the pleasantness of Plumstead and the stones of\nOxford, as he alluded to the safety of the Romish priest and the\nhidden perils of temptation. She knew that it all meant love. She\nknew that this man at her side, this accomplished scholar, this\npractised orator, this great polemical combatant, was striving and\nstriving in vain to tell her that his heart was no longer his own.\n\nShe knew this, and felt a sort of joy in knowing it; yet she would\nnot come to his aid. He had offended her deeply, had treated her\nunworthily, the more unworthily seeing that he had learnt to love\nher, and Eleanor could not bring herself to abandon her revenge. She\ndid not ask herself whether or no she would ultimately accept his\nlove. She did not even acknowledge to herself that she now perceived\nit with pleasure. At the present moment it did not touch her heart;\nit merely appeased her pride and flattered her vanity. Mr. Arabin\nhad dared to associate her name with that of Mr. Slope, and now her\nspirit was soothed by finding that he would fain associate it with\nhis own. And so she walked on beside him, inhaling incense but\ngiving out no sweetness in return.\n\n\"Answer me this,\" said Mr. Arabin, stopping suddenly in his walk and\nstepping forward so that he faced his companion. \"Answer me this one\nquestion. You do not love Mr. Slope? You do not intend to be his\nwife?\"\n\nMr. Arabin certainly did not go the right way to win such a woman\nas Eleanor Bold. Just as her wrath was evaporating, as it was\ndisappearing before the true warmth of his untold love, he rekindled\nit by a most useless repetition of his original sin. Had he known\nwhat he was about, he should never have mentioned Mr. Slope's name\nbefore Eleanor Bold, till he had made her all his own. Then, and not\ntill then, he might have talked of Mr. Slope with as much triumph as\nhe chose.\n\n\"I shall answer no such question,\" said she; \"and what is more,\nI must tell you that nothing can justify your asking it. Good\nmorning!\"\n\nAnd so saying, she stepped proudly across the lawn and, passing\nthrough the drawing-room window, joined her father and sister at\nlunch in the dining-room. Half an hour afterwards she was in the\ncarriage, and so she left Plumstead without again seeing Mr. Arabin.\n\nHis walk was long and sad among the sombre trees that overshadowed\nthe churchyard. He left the archdeacon's grounds that he might\nescape attention, and sauntered among the green hillocks under which\nlay at rest so many of the once loving swains and forgotten beauties\nof Plumstead. To his ears Eleanor's last words sounded like a knell\nnever to be reversed. He could not comprehend that she might be\nangry with him, indignant with him, remorseless with him, and yet\nlove him. He could not make up his mind whether or no Mr. Slope was\nin truth a favoured rival. If not, why should she not have answered\nhis question?\n\nPoor Mr. Arabin--untaught, illiterate, boorish, ignorant man! That\nat forty years of age you should know so little of the workings of a\nwoman's heart!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\nThe Bishop's Library\n\n\nAnd thus the pleasant party at Plumstead was broken up. It had been\na very pleasant party as long as they had all remained in good humour\nwith one another. Mrs. Grantly had felt her house to be gayer and\nbrighter than it had been for many a long day, and the archdeacon had\nbeen aware that the month had passed pleasantly without attributing\nthe pleasure to any other special merits than those of his own\nhospitality. Within three or four days of Eleanor's departure, Mr.\nHarding had also returned, and Mr. Arabin had gone to Oxford to\nspend one week there previous to his settling at the vicarage of St.\nEwold's. He had gone laden with many messages to Dr. Gwynne touching\nthe iniquity of the doings in Barchester palace and the peril in\nwhich it was believed the hospital still stood in spite of the\nassurances contained in Mr. Slope's inauspicious letter.\n\nDuring Eleanor's drive into Barchester she had not much opportunity\nof reflecting on Mr. Arabin. She had been constrained to divert her\nmind both from his sins and his love by the necessity of conversing\nwith her sister and maintaining the appearance of parting with her\non good terms. When the carriage reached her own door, and while she\nwas in the act of giving her last kiss to her sister and nieces, Mary\nBold ran out and exclaimed:\n\n\"Oh, Eleanor, have you heard? Oh, Mrs. Grantly, have you heard what\nhas happened? The poor dean!\"\n\n\"Good heavens!\" said Mrs. Grantly. \"What--what has happened?\"\n\n\"This morning at nine he had a fit of apoplexy, and he has not spoken\nsince. I very much fear that by this time he is no more.\"\n\nMrs. Grantly had been very intimate with the dean, and was therefore\nmuch shocked. Eleanor had not known him so well; nevertheless, she\nwas sufficiently acquainted with his person and manners to feel\nstartled and grieved also at the tidings she now received. \"I will\ngo at once to the deanery,\" said Mrs. Grantly; \"the archdeacon, I am\nsure, will be there. If there is any news to send you, I will let\nThomas call before he leaves town.\" And so the carriage drove off,\nleaving Eleanor and her baby with Mary Bold.\n\nMrs. Grantly had been quite right. The archdeacon was at the deanery.\nHe had come into Barchester that morning by himself, not caring to\nintrude himself upon Eleanor, and he also immediately on his arrival\nhad heard of the dean's fit. There was, as we have before said, a\nlibrary or reading-room connecting the cathedral with the dean's\nhouse. This was generally called the bishop's library, because a\ncertain bishop of Barchester was supposed to have added it to the\ncathedral. It was built immediately over a portion of the cloisters,\nand a flight of stairs descended from it into the room in which the\ncathedral clergymen put their surplices on and off. As it also opened\ndirectly into the dean's house, it was the passage through which that\ndignitary usually went to his public devotions. Who had or had not the\nright of entry into it, it might be difficult to say; but the people\nof Barchester believed that it belonged to the dean, and the clergymen\nof Barchester believed that it belonged to the chapter.\n\nOn the morning in question most of the resident clergymen who\nconstituted the chapter, and some few others, were here assembled,\nand among them as usual the archdeacon towered with high authority.\nHe had heard of the dean's fit before he was over the bridge which\nled into the town, and had at once come to the well-known clerical\ntrysting place. He had been there by eleven o'clock, and had remained\never since. From time to time the medical men who had been called\nin came through from the deanery into the library, uttered little\nbulletins, and then returned. There was, it appears, very little\nhope of the old man's rallying, indeed no hope of anything like a\nfinal recovery. The only question was whether he must die at once\nspeechless, unconscious, stricken to death by his first heavy fit, or\nwhether by due aid of medical skill he might not be so far brought\nback to this world as to become conscious of his state and enabled to\naddress one prayer to his Maker before he was called to meet Him face\nto face at the judgement seat.\n\nSir Omicron Pie had been sent for from London. That great man had\nshown himself a wonderful adept at keeping life still moving within\nan old man's heart in the case of good old Bishop Grantly, and it\nmight be reasonably expected that he would be equally successful with\na dean. In the meantime Dr. Fillgrave and Mr. Rerechild were doing\ntheir best, and poor Miss Trefoil sat at the head of her father's\nbed, longing, as in such cases daughters do long, to be allowed to\ndo something to show her love--if it were only to chafe his feet\nwith her hands, or wait in menial offices on those autocratic\ndoctors--anything so that now in the time of need she might be of\nuse.\n\nThe archdeacon alone of the attendant clergy had been admitted for\na moment into the sick man's chamber. He had crept in with creaking\nshoes, had said with smothered voice a word of consolation to the\nsorrowing daughter, had looked on the distorted face of his old\nfriend with solemn but yet eager scrutinising eye, as though he said\nin his heart \"and so some day it will probably be with me,\" and then,\nhaving whispered an unmeaning word or two to the doctors, had creaked\nhis way back again into the library.\n\n\"He'll never speak again, I fear,\" said the archdeacon as he\nnoiselessly closed the door, as though the unconscious dying man,\nfrom whom all sense had fled, would have heard in his distant chamber\nthe spring of the lock which was now so carefully handled.\n\n\"Indeed! Indeed! Is he so bad?\" said the meagre little prebendary,\nturning over in his own mind all the probable candidates for the\ndeanery and wondering whether the archdeacon would think it worth his\nwhile to accept it. \"The fit must have been very violent.\"\n\n\"When a man over seventy has a stroke of apoplexy, it seldom comes\nvery lightly,\" said the burly chancellor.\n\n\"He was an excellent, sweet-tempered man,\" said one of the vicars\nchoral. \"Heaven knows how we shall repair his loss.\"\n\n\"He was indeed,\" said a minor canon, \"and a great blessing to all\nthose privileged to take a share in the services of our cathedral.\nI suppose the government will appoint, Mr. Archdeacon. I trust we\nmay have no stranger.\"\n\n\"We will not talk about his successor,\" said the archdeacon, \"while\nthere is yet hope.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, of course not,\" said the minor canon. \"It would be\nexceedingly indecorous; but--\"\n\n\"I know of no man,\" said the meagre little prebendary, \"who has\nbetter interest with the present government than Mr. Slope.\"\n\n\"Mr. Slope,\" said two or three at once almost sotto voce. \"Mr. Slope\nDean of Barchester!\"\n\n\"Pooh!\" exclaimed the burly chancellor.\n\n\"The bishop would do anything for him,\" said the little prebendary.\n\n\"And so would Mrs. Proudie,\" said the vicar choral.\n\n\"Pooh!\" said the chancellor.\n\nThe archdeacon had almost turned pale at the idea. What if Mr. Slope\nshould become Dean of Barchester? To be sure there was no adequate\nground, indeed no ground at all, for presuming that such a desecration\ncould even be contemplated. But nevertheless it was on the cards. Dr.\nProudie had interest with the government, and the man carried as it\nwere Dr. Proudie in his pocket. How should they all conduct themselves\nif Mr. Slope were to become Dean of Barchester? The bare idea for a\nmoment struck even Dr. Grantly dumb.\n\n\"It would certainly not be very pleasant for us to have Mr. Slope at\nthe deanery,\" said the little prebendary, chuckling inwardly at the\nevident consternation which his surmise had created.\n\n\"About as pleasant and as probable as having you in the palace,\" said\nthe chancellor.\n\n\"I should think such an appointment highly improbable,\" said the\nminor canon, \"and, moreover, extremely injudicious. Should not you,\nMr. Archdeacon?\"\n\n\"I should presume such a thing to be quite out of the question,\" said\nthe archdeacon, \"but at the present moment I am thinking rather of\nour poor friend who is lying so near us than of Mr. Slope.\"\n\n\"Of course, of course,\" said the vicar choral with a very solemn air;\n\"of course you are. So are we all. Poor Dr. Trefoil; the best of men,\nbut--\"\n\n\"It's the most comfortable dean's residence in England,\" said a\nsecond prebendary. \"Fifteen acres in the grounds. It is better than\nmany of the bishops' palaces.\"\n\n\"And full two thousand a year,\" said the meagre doctor.\n\n\"It is cut down to £1,200,\" said the chancellor.\n\n\"No,\" said the second prebendary. \"It is to be fifteen. A special\ncase was made.\"\n\n\"No such thing,\" said the chancellor.\n\n\"You'll find I'm right,\" said the prebendary.\n\n\"I'm sure I read it in the report,\" said the minor canon.\n\n\"Nonsense,\" said the chancellor. \"They couldn't do it. There were\nto be no exceptions but London and Durham.\"\n\n\"And Canterbury and York,\" said the vicar choral modestly.\n\n\"What do you say, Grantly?\" said the meagre little doctor.\n\n\"Say about what?\" said the archdeacon, who had been looking as though\nhe were thinking about his friend the dean, but who had in reality\nbeen thinking about Mr. Slope.\n\n\"What is the next dean to have, twelve or fifteen?\"\n\n\"Twelve,\" said the archdeacon authoritatively, thereby putting an end\nat once to all doubt and dispute among his subordinates as far as\nthat subject was concerned.\n\n\"Well, I certainly thought it was fifteen,\" said the minor canon.\n\n\"Pooh!\" said the burly chancellor. At this moment the door opened\nand in came Dr. Fillgrave.\n\n\"How is he?\" \"Is he conscious?\" \"Can he speak?\" \"I hope not dead?\"\n\"No worse news, Doctor, I trust?\" \"I hope, I trust, something\nbetter, Doctor?\" said half a dozen voices all at once, each in a tone\nof extremest anxiety. It was pleasant to see how popular the good\nold dean was among his clergy.\n\n\"No change, gentlemen; not the slightest change. But a telegraphic\nmessage has arrived--Sir Omicron Pie will be here by the 9.15 P.M.\ntrain. If any man can do anything, Sir Omicron Pie will do it. But\nall that skill can do has been done.\"\n\n\"We are sure of that, Dr. Fillgrave,\" said the archdeacon; \"we are\nquite sure of that. But yet you know--\"\n\n\"Oh, quite right,\" said the doctor, \"quite right--I should have\ndone just the same--I advised it at once. I said to Rerechild at\nonce that with such a life and such a man, Sir Omicron should be\nsummoned--of course I knew expense was nothing--so distinguished, you\nknow, and so popular. Nevertheless, all that human skill can do has\nbeen done.\"\n\nJust at this period Mrs. Grantly's carriage drove into the close, and\nthe archdeacon went down to confirm the news which she had heard\nbefore.\n\nBy the 9.15 P.M. train Sir Omicron Pie did arrive. And in the course\nof the night a sort of consciousness returned to the poor old dean.\nWhether this was due to Sir Omicron Pie is a question on which it may\nbe well not to offer an opinion. Dr. Fillgrave was very clear in his\nown mind, but Sir Omicron himself is thought to have differed from\nthat learned doctor. At any rate Sir Omicron expressed an opinion\nthat the dean had yet some days to live.\n\nFor the eight or ten next days, accordingly, the poor dean remained\nin the same state, half-conscious and half-comatose; and the\nattendant clergy began to think that no new appointment would be\nnecessary for some few months to come.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII\n\nA New Candidate for Ecclesiastical Honours\n\n\nThe dean's illness occasioned much mental turmoil in other places\nbesides the deanery and adjoining library, and the idea which occurred\nto the meagre little prebendary about Mr. Slope did not occur to him\nalone.\n\nThe bishop was sitting listlessly in his study when the news reached\nhim of the dean's illness. It was brought to him by Mr. Slope, who\nof course was not the last person in Barchester to hear it. It was\nalso not slow in finding its way to Mrs. Proudie's ears. It may be\npresumed that there was not just then much friendly intercourse\nbetween these two rival claimants for his lordship's obedience.\nIndeed, though living in the same house, they had not met since the\nstormy interview between them in the bishop's study on the preceding\nday.\n\nOn that occasion Mrs. Proudie had been defeated. That the prestige\nof continual victory should have been torn from her standards was a\nsubject of great sorrow to that militant lady; but, though defeated,\nshe was not overcome. She felt that she might yet recover her lost\nground, that she might yet hurl Mr. Slope down to the dust from which\nshe had picked him, and force her sinning lord to sue for pardon in\nsackcloth and ashes.\n\nOn that memorable day, memorable for his mutiny and rebellion against\nher high behests, he had carried his way with a high hand, and had\nreally begun to think it possible that the days of his slavery were\ncounted. He had begun to hope that he was now about to enter into a\nfree land, a land delicious with milk which he himself might quaff\nand honey which would not tantalize him by being only honey to the\neye. When Mrs. Proudie banged the door as she left his room, he felt\nhimself every inch a bishop. To be sure, his spirit had been a little\ncowed by his chaplain's subsequent lecture, but on the whole he was\nhighly pleased with himself, and he flattered himself that the worst\nwas over. \"_Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coûte_,\" he reflected, and\nnow that the first step had been so magnanimously taken, all the rest\nwould follow easily.\n\nHe met his wife as a matter of course at dinner, where little or\nnothing was said that could ruffle the bishop's happiness. His\ndaughters and the servants were present and protected him.\n\nHe made one or two trifling remarks on the subject of his projected\nvisit to the archbishop, in order to show to all concerned that he\nintended to have his own way; the very servants, perceiving the\nchange, transferred a little of their reverence from their mistress\nto their master. All which the master perceived, and so also did the\nmistress. But Mrs. Proudie bided her time.\n\nAfter dinner he returned to his study, where Mr. Slope soon found\nhim, and there they had tea together and planned many things. For\nsome few minutes the bishop was really happy; but as the clock on the\nchimney-piece warned him that the stilly hours of night were drawing\non, as he looked at his chamber candlestick and knew that he must\nuse it, his heart sank within him again. He was as a ghost, all\nwhose power of wandering free through these upper regions ceases at\ncock-crow; or, rather, he was the opposite of the ghost, for till\ncock-crow he must again be a serf. And would that be all? Could he\ntrust himself to come down to breakfast a free man in the morning?\n\nHe was nearly an hour later than usual when he betook himself to his\nrest. Rest! What rest? However, he took a couple of glasses of sherry\nand mounted the stairs. Far be it from us to follow him thither. There\nare some things which no novelist, no historian, should attempt; some\nfew scenes in life's drama which even no poet should dare to paint.\nLet that which passed between Dr. Proudie and his wife on this night\nbe understood to be among them.\n\nHe came down the following morning a sad and thoughtful man. He was\nattenuated in appearance--one might almost say emaciated. I doubt\nwhether his now grizzled locks had not palpably become more grey than\non the preceding evening. At any rate he had aged materially. Years\ndo not make a man old gradually and at an even pace. Look through\nthe world and see if this is not so always, except in those\nrare cases in which the human being lives and dies without joys\nand without sorrows, like a vegetable. A man shall be possessed\nof florid, youthful blooming health till, it matters not what\nage--thirty; forty; fifty--then comes some nipping frost, some period\nof agony, that robs the fibres of the body of their succulence, and\nthe hale and hearty man is counted among the old.\n\nHe came down and breakfasted alone; Mrs. Proudie, being indisposed,\ntook her coffee in her bedroom, and her daughters waited upon her\nthere. He ate his breakfast alone, and then, hardly knowing what he\ndid, he betook himself to his usual seat in his study. He tried to\nsolace himself with his coming visit to the archbishop. That effort\nof his own free will at any rate remained to him as an enduring\ntriumph. But somehow, now that he had achieved it, he did not seem\nto care so much about it. It was his ambition that had prompted him\nto take his place at the archiepiscopal table, and his ambition was\nnow quite dead within him.\n\nHe was thus seated when Mr. Slope made his appearance, with\nbreathless impatience.\n\n\"My lord, the dean is dead.\"\n\n\"Good heavens!\" exclaimed the bishop, startled out of his apathy by\nan announcement so sad and so sudden.\n\n\"He is either dead or now dying. He has had an apoplectic fit, and I\nam told that there is not the slightest hope; indeed, I do not doubt\nthat by this time he is no more.\"\n\nBells were rung, and servants were immediately sent to inquire.\nIn the course of the morning the bishop, leaning on his chaplain's\narm, himself called at the deanery door. Mrs. Proudie sent to Miss\nTrefoil all manner of offers of assistance. The Misses Proudie sent\nalso, and there was immense sympathy between the palace and the\ndeanery. The answer to all inquiries was unvaried. The dean was\njust the same, and Sir Omicron Pie was expected down by the 9.15 P.M.\ntrain.\n\nAnd then Mr. Slope began to meditate, as others also had done, as to\nwho might possibly be the new dean, and it occurred to him, as it had\nalso occurred to others, that it might be possible that he should be\nthe new dean himself. And then the question as to the twelve hundred,\nor fifteen hundred, or two thousand ran in his mind, as it had run\nthrough those of the other clergymen in the cathedral library.\n\nWhether it might be two thousand, or fifteen, or twelve hundred, it\nwould in any case undoubtedly be a great thing for him, if he could\nget it. The gratification to his ambition would be greater even than\nthat of his covetousness. How glorious to out-top the archdeacon in\nhis own cathedral city; to sit above prebendaries and canons and have\nthe cathedral pulpit and all the cathedral services altogether at his\nown disposal!\n\nBut it might be easier to wish for this than to obtain it. Mr.\nSlope, however, was not without some means of forwarding his views,\nand he at any rate did not let the grass grow under his feet. In the\nfirst place, he thought--and not vainly--that he could count upon\nwhat assistance the bishop could give him. He immediately changed\nhis views with regard to his patron; he made up his mind that if he\nbecame dean, he would hand his lordship back again to his wife's\nvassalage; and he thought it possible that his lordship might not be\nsorry to rid himself of one of his mentors. Mr. Slope had also taken\nsome steps towards making his name known to other men in power.\nThere was a certain chief-commissioner of national schools, who at\nthe present moment was presumed to stand especially high in the\ngood graces of the government bigwigs, and with him Mr. Slope had\ncontrived to establish a sort of epistolary intimacy. He thought\nthat he might safely apply to Sir Nicholas Fitzwhiggin, and he felt\nsure that if Sir Nicholas chose to exert himself, the promise of such\na piece of preferment would be had for the asking.\n\nThen he also had the press at his bidding, or flattered himself that\nhe had so. \"The Daily Jupiter\" had taken his part in a very thorough\nmanner in those polemical contests of his with Mr. Arabin; he had on\nmore than one occasion absolutely had an interview with a gentleman\non the staff of that paper who, if not the editor, was as good as the\neditor; and he had long been in the habit of writing telling letters\non all manner of ecclesiastical abuses, which he signed with his\ninitials, and sent to his editorial friend with private notes signed\nin his own name. Indeed, he and Mr. Towers--such was the name of the\npowerful gentleman of the press with whom he was connected--were\ngenerally very amiable with each other. Mr. Slope's little productions\nwere always printed and occasionally commented upon; and thus, in a\nsmall sort of way, he had become a literary celebrity. This public\nlife had great charms for him, though it certainly also had its\ndrawbacks. On one occasion, when speaking in the presence of\nreporters, he had failed to uphold and praise and swear by that\nspecial line of conduct which had been upheld and praised and sworn\nby in \"The Jupiter,\" and then he had been much surprised and at\nthe moment not a little irritated to find himself lacerated most\nunmercifully by his old ally. He was quizzed and bespattered and made\na fool of, just as though, or rather worse than if, he had been a\nconstant enemy instead of a constant friend. He had hitherto not\nlearnt that a man who aspires to be on the staff of \"The Jupiter\" must\nsurrender all individuality. But ultimately this little castigation\nhad broken no bones between him and his friend Mr. Towers. Mr. Slope\nwas one of those who understood the world too well to show himself\nangry with such a potentate as \"The Jupiter.\" He had kissed the rod\nthat scourged him, and now thought that he might fairly look for his\nreward. He determined that he would at once let Mr. Towers know that\nhe was a candidate for the place which was about to become vacant.\nMore than one piece of preferment had lately been given away much in\naccordance with advice tendered to the government in the columns of\n\"The Jupiter.\"\n\nBut it was incumbent on Mr. Slope first to secure the bishop. He\nspecially felt that it behoved him to do this before the visit to the\narchbishop was made. It was really quite providential that the dean\nshould have fallen ill just at the very nick of time. If Dr. Proudie\ncould be instigated to take the matter up warmly, he might manage\na good deal while staying at the archbishop's palace. Feeling this\nvery strongly, Mr. Slope determined to sound the bishop that very\nafternoon. He was to start on the following morning to London, and\ntherefore not a moment could be lost with safety.\n\nHe went into the bishop's study about five o'clock and found him\nstill sitting alone. It might have been supposed that he had hardly\nmoved since the little excitement occasioned by his walk to the\ndean's door. He still wore on his face that dull, dead look of\nhalf-unconscious suffering. He was doing nothing, reading nothing,\nthinking of nothing, but simply gazing on vacancy when Mr. Slope for\nthe second time that day entered his room.\n\n\"Well, Slope,\" said he somewhat impatiently, for, to tell the truth,\nhe was not anxious just at present to have much conversation with Mr.\nSlope.\n\n\"Your lordship will be sorry to hear that as yet the poor dean has\nshown no sign of amendment.\"\n\n\"Oh--ah--hasn't he? Poor man! I'm sure I'm very sorry. I suppose\nSir Omicron has not arrived yet?\"\n\n\"No, not till the 9.15 P.M. train.\"\n\n\"I wonder they didn't have a special. They say Dr. Trefoil is very\nrich.\"\n\n\"Very rich, I believe,\" said Mr. Slope. \"But the truth is, all the\ndoctors in London can do no good--no other good than to show that\nevery possible care has been taken. Poor Dr. Trefoil is not long for\nthis world, my lord.\"\n\n\"I suppose not--I suppose not.\"\n\n\"Oh, no; indeed, his best friends could not wish that he should\noutlive such a shock, for his intellects cannot possibly survive it.\"\n\n\"Poor man! Poor man!\" said the bishop.\n\n\"It will naturally be a matter of much moment to your lordship who\nis to succeed him,\" said Mr. Slope. \"It would be a great thing if\nyou could secure the appointment for some person of your own way\nof thinking on important points. The party hostile to us are very\nstrong here in Barchester--much too strong.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes. If poor Dr. Trefoil is to go, it will be a great thing to\nget a good man in his place.\"\n\n\"It will be everything to your lordship to get a man on whose\nco-operation you can reckon. Only think what trouble we might have if\nDr. Grantly, or Dr. Hyandry, or any of that way of thinking were to\nget it.\"\n\n\"It is not very probable that Lord ---- will give it to any of that\nschool; why should he?\"\n\n\"No. Not probable; certainly not; but it's possible. Great interest\nwill probably be made. If I might venture to advise your lordship, I\nwould suggest that you should discuss the matter with his grace next\nweek. I have no doubt that your wishes, if made known and backed by\nhis grace, would be paramount with Lord ----.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know that; Lord ---- has always been very kind to me,\nvery kind. But I am unwilling to interfere in such matters unless\nasked. And indeed if asked, I don't know whom, at this moment, I\nshould recommend.\"\n\nMr. Slope, even Mr. Slope, felt at the present rather abashed. He\nhardly knew how to frame his little request in language sufficiently\nmodest. He had recognized and acknowledged to himself the necessity\nof shocking the bishop in the first instance by the temerity of his\napplication, and his difficulty was how best to remedy that by his\nadroitness and eloquence. \"I doubted myself,\" said he, \"whether your\nlordship would have anyone immediately in your eye, and it is on this\naccount that I venture to submit to you an idea that I have been\nturning over in my own mind. If poor Dr. Trefoil must go, I really\ndo not see why, with your lordship's assistance, I should not hold\nthe preferment myself.\"\n\n\"You!\" exclaimed the bishop in a manner that Mr. Slope could hardly\nhave considered complimentary.\n\nThe ice was now broken, and Mr. Slope became fluent enough. \"I have\nbeen thinking of looking for it. If your lordship will press the\nmatter on the archbishop, I do not doubt but I shall succeed. You\nsee I shall be the first to move, which is a great matter. Then I\ncan count upon assistance from the public press: my name is known,\nI may say, somewhat favourably known, to that portion of the press\nwhich is now most influential with the government; and I have friends\nalso in the government. But nevertheless it is to you, my lord,\nthat I look for assistance. It is from your hands that I would most\nwillingly receive the benefit. And, which should ever be the chief\nconsideration in such matters, you must know better than any other\nperson whatsoever what qualifications I possess.\"\n\nThe bishop sat for awhile dumbfounded. Mr. Slope Dean of Barchester!\nThe idea of such a transformation of character would never have\noccurred to his own unaided intellect. At first he went on thinking\nwhy, for what reasons, on what account, Mr. Slope should be Dean of\nBarchester. But by degrees the direction of his thoughts changed,\nand he began to think why, for what reasons, on what account, Mr.\nSlope should not be Dean of Barchester. As far as he himself, the\nbishop, was concerned, he could well spare the services of his\nchaplain. That little idea of using Mr. Slope as a counterpoise\nto his wife had well nigh evaporated. He had all but acknowledged\nthe futility of the scheme. If indeed he could have slept in his\nchaplain's bedroom instead of his wife's, there might have been\nsomething in it. But--. And thus as Mr. Slope was speaking, the\nbishop began to recognize the idea that that gentleman might become\nDean of Barchester without impropriety--not moved, indeed, by Mr.\nSlope's eloquence, for he did not follow the tenor of his speech, but\nled thereto by his own cogitations.\n\n\"I need not say,\" continued Mr. Slope, \"that it would be my chief\ndesire to act in all matters connected with the cathedral as far as\npossible in accordance with your views. I know your lordship so well\n(and I hope you know me well enough to have the same feelings) that I\nam satisfied that my being in that position would add materially to\nyour own comfort, and enable you to extend the sphere of your useful\ninfluence. As I said before, it is most desirable that there should\nbe but one opinion among the dignitaries of the same diocese. I\ndoubt much whether I would accept such an appointment in any diocese\nin which I should be constrained to differ much from the bishop. In\nthis case there would be a delightful uniformity of opinion.\"\n\nMr. Slope perfectly well perceived that the bishop did not follow a\nword that he said, but nevertheless he went on talking. He knew it\nwas necessary that Dr. Proudie should recover from his surprise,\nand he knew also that he must give him the opportunity of appearing\nto have been persuaded by argument. So he went on and produced a\nmultitude of fitting reasons all tending to show that no one on\nearth could make so good a Dean of Barchester as himself, that the\ngovernment and the public would assuredly coincide in desiring that\nhe, Mr. Slope, should be Dean of Barchester, but that for high\nconsiderations of ecclesiastical polity it would be especially\ndesirable that this piece of preferment should be so bestowed through\nthe instrumentality of the bishop of the diocese.\n\n\"But I really don't know what I could do in the matter,\" said the\nbishop.\n\n\"If you would mention it to the archbishop; if you could tell his\ngrace that you consider such an appointment very desirable, that you\nhave it much at heart with a view to putting an end to schism in the\ndiocese; if you did this with your usual energy, you would probably\nfind no difficulty in inducing his grace to promise that he would\nmention it to Lord ----. Of course you would let the archbishop\nknow that I am not looking for the preferment solely through his\nintervention; that you do not exactly require him to ask it as a\nfavour; that you expect that I shall get it through other sources,\nas is indeed the case; but that you are very anxious that his grace\nshould express his approval of such an arrangement to Lord ----.\"\n\nIt ended in the bishop promising to do as he was bid. Not that he\nso promised without a stipulation. \"About that hospital,\" he said\nin the middle of the conference. \"I was never so troubled in my\nlife\"--which was about the truth. \"You haven't spoken to Mr. Harding\nsince I saw you?\"\n\nMr. Slope assured his patron that he had not.\n\n\"Ah well, then--I think upon the whole it will be better to let\nQuiverful have it. It has been half-promised to him, and he has\na large family and is very poor. I think on the whole it will be\nbetter to make out the nomination for Mr. Quiverful.\"\n\n\"But, my lord,\" said Mr. Slope, still thinking that he was bound to\nmake a fight for his own view on this matter, and remembering that it\nstill behoved him to maintain his lately acquired supremacy over Mrs.\nProudie, lest he should fail in his views regarding the deanery,\n\"but, my lord, I am really much afraid--\"\n\n\"Remember, Mr. Slope,\" said the bishop, \"I can hold out no sort of\nhope to you in this matter of succeeding poor Dr. Trefoil. I will\ncertainly speak to the archbishop, as you wish it, but I cannot\nthink--\"\n\n\"Well, my lord,\" said Mr. Slope, fully understanding the bishop and\nin his turn interrupting him, \"perhaps your lordship is right about\nMr. Quiverful. I have no doubt I can easily arrange matters with Mr.\nHarding, and I will make out the nomination for your signature as you\ndirect.\"\n\n\"Yes, Slope, I think that will be best; and you may be sure that any\nlittle that I can do to forward your views shall be done.\"\n\nAnd so they parted.\n\nMr. Slope had now much business on his hands. He had to make his\ndaily visit to the signora. This common prudence should have now\ninduced him to omit, but he was infatuated, and could not bring\nhimself to be commonly prudent. He determined therefore that he\nwould drink tea at the Stanhopes', and he determined also, or thought\nthat he determined, that having done so he would go thither no more.\nHe had also to arrange his matters with Mrs. Bold. He was of opinion\nthat Eleanor would grace the deanery as perfectly as she would the\nchaplain's cottage, and he thought, moreover, that Eleanor's fortune\nwould excellently repair any dilapidations and curtailments in\nthe dean's stipend which might have been made by that ruthless\necclesiastical commission.\n\nTouching Mrs. Bold his hopes now soared high. Mr. Slope was one of\nthat numerous multitude of swains who think that all is fair in love,\nand he had accordingly not refrained from using the services of Mrs.\nBold's own maid. From her he had learnt much of what had taken place\nat Plumstead--not exactly with truth, for \"the own maid\" had not been\nable to divine the exact truth, but with some sort of similitude to\nit. He had been told that the archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly and Mr.\nHarding and Mr. Arabin had all quarrelled with \"missus\" for having\nreceived a letter from Mr. Slope; that \"missus\" had positively\nrefused to give the letter up; that she had received from the\narchdeacon the option of giving up either Mr. Slope and his letter,\nor else the society of Plumstead Rectory; and that \"missus\" had\ndeclared, with much indignation, that \"she didn't care a straw for\nthe society of Plumstead Rectory,\" and that she wouldn't give up Mr.\nSlope for any of them.\n\nConsidering the source from whence this came, it was not quite so\nuntrue as might have been expected. It showed pretty plainly what\nhad been the nature of the conversation in the servants' hall; and,\ncoupled as it was with the certainty of Eleanor's sudden return, it\nappeared to Mr. Slope to be so far worthy of credit as to justify him\nin thinking that the fair widow would in all human probability accept\nhis offer.\n\nAll this work was therefore to be done. It was desirable, he\nthought, that he should make his offer before it was known that\nMr. Quiverful was finally appointed to the hospital. In his letter\nto Eleanor he had plainly declared that Mr. Harding was to have the\nappointment. It would be very difficult to explain this away, and\nwere he to write another letter to Eleanor, telling the truth and\nthrowing the blame on the bishop, it would naturally injure him in\nher estimation. He determined therefore to let that matter disclose\nitself as it would, and to lose no time in throwing himself at her\nfeet.\n\nThen he had to solicit the assistance of Sir Nicholas Fitzwhiggin and\nMr. Towers, and he went directly from the bishop's presence to\ncompose his letters to those gentlemen. As Mr. Slope was esteemed an\nadept at letter writing, they shall be given in full.\n\n\n   (Private)              Palace, Barchester, Sept. 185--\n\n   MY DEAR SIR NICHOLAS,\n\n   I hope that the intercourse which has been between us will\n   preclude you from regarding my present application as an\n   intrusion. You cannot, I imagine, have yet heard that poor\n   old Dr. Trefoil has been seized with apoplexy. It is a\n   subject of profound grief to everyone in Barchester, for\n   he has always been an excellent man--excellent as a man\n   and as a clergyman. He is, however, full of years, and\n   his life could not under any circumstances have been much\n   longer spared. You may probably have known him.\n\n   There is, it appears, no probable chance of his recovery.\n   Sir Omicron Pie is, I believe, at present with him. At\n   any rate the medical men here have declared that one or\n   two days more must limit the tether of his mortal coil.\n   I sincerely trust that his soul may wing its flight to\n   that haven where it may forever be at rest and forever be\n   happy.\n\n   The bishop has been speaking to me about the preferment,\n   and he is anxious that it should be conferred on me. I\n   confess that I can hardly venture, at my age, to look\n   for such advancement, but I am so far encouraged by his\n   lordship that I believe I shall be induced to do so.\n   His lordship goes to ---- to-morrow and is intent on\n   mentioning the subject to the archbishop.\n\n   I know well how deservedly great is your weight with\n   the present government. In any matter touching church\n   preferment you would of course be listened to. Now that\n   the matter has been put into my head, I am of course\n   anxious to be successful. If you can assist me by your\n   good word, you will confer on me one additional favour.\n\n   I had better add, that Lord ---- cannot as yet know of\n   this piece of preferment having fallen in, or rather of\n   its certainty of falling (for poor dear Dr. Trefoil is\n   past hope). Should Lord ---- first hear it from you, that\n   might probably be thought to give you a fair claim to\n   express your opinion.\n\n   Of course our grand object is that we should all be of\n   one opinion in church matters. This is most desirable at\n   Barchester; it is this that makes our good bishop so\n   anxious about it. You may probably think it expedient to\n   point this out to Lord ---- if it shall be in your power\n   to oblige me by mentioning the subject to his lordship.\n\n   Believe me,\n   My dear Sir Nicholas,\n   Your most faithful servant,\n\n   OBADIAH SLOPE\n\n\nHis letter to Mr. Towers was written in quite a different strain.\nMr. Slope conceived that he completely understood the difference in\ncharacter and position of the two men whom he addressed. He knew\nthat for such a man as Sir Nicholas Fitzwhiggin a little flummery was\nnecessary, and that it might be of the easy, everyday description.\nAccordingly his letter to Sir Nicholas was written, _currente calamo_,\nwith very little trouble. But to such a man as Mr. Towers it was not\nso easy to write a letter that should be effective and yet not\noffensive, that should carry its point without undue interference.\nIt was not difficult to flatter Dr. Proudie or Sir Nicholas\nFitzwhiggin, but very difficult to flatter Mr. Towers without letting\nthe flattery declare itself. This, however, had to be done.\nMoreover, this letter must, in appearance at least, be written\nwithout effort, and be fluent, unconstrained, and demonstrative of no\ndoubt or fear on the part of the writer. Therefore the epistle to\nMr. Towers was studied, and re-copied, and elaborated at the cost of\nso many minutes that Mr. Slope had hardly time to dress himself and\nreach Dr. Stanhope's that evening.\n\nWhen dispatched, it ran as follows:--\n\n\n   (Private.)           Barchester. Sept. 185--\n\n\n(He purposely omitted any allusion to the \"palace,\" thinking that Mr.\nTowers might not like it. A great man, he remembered, had been once\nmuch condemned for dating a letter from Windsor Castle.)\n\n\n   MY DEAR SIR,\n\n   We were all a good deal shocked here this morning by\n   hearing that poor old Dean Trefoil had been stricken with\n   apoplexy. The fit took him about 9 A.M. I am writing now\n   to save the post, and he is still alive, but past all hope\n   or possibility, I believe, of living. Sir Omicron Pie\n   is here, or will be very shortly, but all that even Sir\n   Omicron can do is to ratify the sentence of his less\n   distinguished brethren that nothing can be done. Poor\n   Dr. Trefoil's race on this side the grave is run. I do\n   not know whether you knew him. He was a good, quiet,\n   charitable man, of the old school, of course, as any\n   clergyman over seventy years of age must necessarily be.\n\n   But I do not write merely with the object of sending you\n   such news as this: doubtless someone of your Mercuries\n   will have seen and heard and reported so much; I write, as\n   you usually do yourself, rather with a view to the future\n   than to the past.\n\n   Rumour is already rife here as to Dr. Trefoil's successor,\n   and among those named as possible future deans your humble\n   servant is, I believe, not the least frequently spoken\n   of; in short, I am looking for the preferment. You may\n   probably know that since Bishop Proudie came to the\n   diocese I have exerted myself here a good deal and, I may\n   certainly say, not without some success. He and I are\n   nearly always of the same opinion on points of doctrine\n   as well as church discipline, and therefore I have had,\n   as his confidential chaplain, very much in my own hands;\n   but I confess to you that I have a higher ambition than to\n   remain the chaplain of any bishop.\n\n   There are no positions in which more energy is now needed\n   than those of our deans. The whole of our enormous\n   cathedral establishments have been allowed to go to\n   sleep--nay, they are all but dead and ready for the\n   sepulchre! And yet of what prodigious moment they might be\n   made if, as was intended, they were so managed as to lead\n   the way and show an example for all our parochial clergy!\n\n   The bishop here is most anxious for my success; indeed, he\n   goes to-morrow to press the matter on the archbishop. I\n   believe also I may count on the support of at least one\n   most effective member of the government. But I confess\n   that the support of \"The Jupiter,\" if I be thought worthy\n   of it, would be more gratifying to me than any other;\n   more gratifying if by it I should be successful, and more\n   gratifying also if, although so supported, I should be\n   unsuccessful.\n\n   The time has, in fact, come in which no government can\n   venture to fill up the high places of the Church in\n   defiance of the public press. The age of honourable\n   bishops and noble deans has gone by, and any clergyman\n   however humbly born can now hope for success if his\n   industry, talent, and character be sufficient to call\n   forth the manifest opinion of the public in his favour.\n\n   At the present moment we all feel that any counsel\n   given in such matters by \"The Jupiter\" has the greatest\n   weight--is, indeed, generally followed; and we feel\n   also--I am speaking of clergymen of my own age and\n   standing--that it should be so. There can be no patron\n   less interested than \"The Jupiter,\" and none that more\n   thoroughly understands the wants of the people.\n\n   I am sure you will not suspect me of asking from you any\n   support which the paper with which you are connected\n   cannot conscientiously give me. My object in writing is to\n   let you know that I am a candidate for the appointment. It\n   is for you to judge whether or no you can assist my views.\n   I should not, of course, have written to you on such a\n   matter had I not believed (and I have had good reason so\n   to believe) that \"The Jupiter\" approves of my views on\n   ecclesiastical polity.\n\n   The bishop expresses a fear that I may be considered too\n   young for such a station, my age being thirty-six. I\n   cannot think that at the present day any hesitation need\n   be felt on such a point. The public has lost its love for\n   antiquated servants. If a man will ever be fit to do good\n   work, he will be fit at thirty-six years of age.\n\n   Believe me very faithfully yours,\n   OBADIAH SLOPE\n\n   T. TOWERS, ESQ.,\n   ---- Court,\n   Middle Temple.\n\n\nHaving thus exerted himself, Mr. Slope posted his letters and passed\nthe remainder of the evening at the feet of his mistress.\n\nMr. Slope will be accused of deceit in his mode of canvassing. It\nwill be said that he lied in the application he made to each of his\nthree patrons. I believe it must be owned that he did so. He could\nnot hesitate on account of his youth and yet be quite assured that\nhe was not too young. He could not count chiefly on the bishop's\nsupport and chiefly also on that of the newspaper. He did not\nthink that the bishop was going to ---- to press the matter on the\narchbishop. It must be owned that in his canvassing Mr. Slope was as\nfalse as he well could be.\n\nLet it, however, be asked of those who are conversant with such\nmatters, whether he was more false than men usually are on such\noccasions. We English gentlemen hate the name of a lie, but how\noften do we find public men who believe each other's words?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII\n\nMrs. Proudie Victrix\n\n\nThe next week passed over at Barchester with much apparent\ntranquillity. The hearts, however, of some of the inhabitants were\nnot so tranquil as the streets of the city. The poor old dean still\ncontinued to live, just as Sir Omicron Pie had prophesied that he\nwould do, much to the amazement, and some thought disgust, of Dr.\nFillgrave. The bishop still remained away. He had stayed a day or\ntwo in town and had also remained longer at the archbishop's than\nhe had intended. Mr. Slope had as yet received no line in answer\nto either of his letters, but he had learnt the cause of this.\nSir Nicholas was stalking a deer, or attending the Queen, in the\nHighlands, and even the indefatigable Mr. Towers had stolen an autumn\nholiday, and had made one of the yearly tribe who now ascend Mont\nBlanc. Mr. Slope learnt that he was not expected back till the last\nday of September.\n\nMrs. Bold was thrown much with the Stanhopes, of whom she became\nfonder and fonder. If asked, she would have said that Charlotte\nStanhope was her especial friend, and so she would have thought.\nBut, to tell the truth, she liked Bertie nearly as well; she had no\nmore idea of regarding him as a lover than she would have had of\nlooking at a big tame dog in such a light. Bertie had become very\nintimate with her, and made little speeches to her, and said little\nthings of a sort very different from the speeches and sayings of\nother men. But then this was almost always done before his sisters;\nand he, with his long silken beard, his light blue eyes, and strange\ndress, was so unlike other men. She admitted him to a kind of\nfamiliarity which she had never known with anyone else, and of which\nshe by no means understood the danger. She blushed once at finding\nthat she had called him Bertie and, on the same day, only barely\nremembered her position in time to check herself from playing upon\nhim some personal practical joke to which she was instigated by\nCharlotte.\n\nIn all this Eleanor was perfectly innocent, and Bertie Stanhope could\nhardly be called guilty. But every familiarity into which Eleanor\nwas entrapped was deliberately planned by his sister. She knew well\nhow to play her game, and played it without mercy; she knew, none so\nwell, what was her brother's character, and she would have handed\nover to him the young widow, and the young widow's money, and the\nmoney of the widow's child, without remorse. With her pretended\nfriendship and warm cordiality, she strove to connect Eleanor so\nclosely with her brother as to make it impossible that she should\ngo back even if she wished it. But Charlotte Stanhope knew really\nnothing of Eleanor's character, did not even understand that there\nwere such characters. She did not comprehend that a young and pretty\nwoman could be playful and familiar with a man such as Bertie\nStanhope and yet have no idea in her head, no feeling in her heart,\nthat she would have been ashamed to own to all the world. Charlotte\nStanhope did not in the least conceive that her new friend was a\nwoman whom nothing could entrap into an inconsiderate marriage, whose\nmind would have revolted from the slightest impropriety had she been\naware that any impropriety existed.\n\nMiss Stanhope, however, had tact enough to make herself and her\nfather's house very agreeable to Mrs. Bold. There was with them all\nan absence of stiffness and formality which was peculiarly agreeable\nto Eleanor after the great dose of clerical arrogance which she had\nlately been constrained to take. She played chess with them, walked\nwith them, and drank tea with them; studied or pretended to study\nastronomy; assisted them in writing stories in rhyme, in turning\nprose tragedy into comic verse, or comic stories into would-be tragic\npoetry. She had no idea before that she had any such talents. She\nhad not conceived the possibility of her doing such things as she\nnow did. She found with the Stanhopes new amusements and employments,\nnew pursuits, which in themselves could not be wrong, and which were\nexceedingly alluring.\n\nIs it not a pity that people who are bright and clever should so\noften be exceedingly improper, and that those who are never improper\nshould so often be dull and heavy? Now Charlotte Stanhope was always\nbright and never heavy, but then her propriety was doubtful.\n\nBut during all this time Eleanor by no means forgot Mr. Arabin, nor\ndid she forget Mr. Slope. She had parted from Mr. Arabin in her\nanger. She was still angry at what she regarded as his impertinent\ninterference, but nevertheless she looked forward to meeting him\nagain, and also looked forward to forgiving him. The words that Mr.\nArabin had uttered still sounded in her ears. She knew that if not\nintended for a declaration of love, they did signify that he loved\nher, and she felt also that if he ever did make such a declaration,\nit might be that she should not receive it unkindly. She was still\nangry with him, very angry with him; so angry that she would bite her\nlip and stamp her foot as she thought of what he had said and done.\nNevertheless, she yearned to let him know that he was forgiven; all\nthat she required was that he should own that he had sinned.\n\nShe was to meet him at Ullathorne on the last day of the present\nmonth. Miss Thorne had invited all the country round to a breakfast\non the lawn. There were to be tents, and archery, and dancing for\nthe ladies on the lawn and for the swains and girls in the paddock.\nThere were to be fiddlers and fifers, races for the boys, poles to\nbe climbed, ditches full of water to be jumped over, horse-collars\nto be grinned through (this latter amusement was an addition of the\nstewards, and not arranged by Miss Thorne in the original programme),\nand every game to be played which, in a long course of reading, Miss\nThorne could ascertain to have been played in the good days of Queen\nElizabeth. Everything of more modern growth was to be tabooed, if\npossible. On one subject Miss Thorne was very unhappy. She had been\nturning in her mind the matter of a bull-ring, but could not succeed\nin making anything of it. She would not for the world have done, or\nallowed to be done, anything that was cruel; as to the promoting the\ntorture of a bull for the amusement of her young neighbours, it need\nhardly be said that Miss Thorne would be the last to think of it.\nAnd yet there was something so charming in the name. A bull-ring,\nhowever, without a bull would only be a memento of the decadence of\nthe times, and she felt herself constrained to abandon the idea.\nQuintains, however, she was determined to have, and had poles and\nswivels and bags of flour prepared accordingly. She would no doubt\nhave been anxious for something small in the way of a tournament,\nbut, as she said to her brother, that had been tried, and the age had\nproved itself too decidedly inferior to its forerunners to admit of\nsuch a pastime. Mr. Thorne did not seem to participate much in her\nregret, feeling perhaps that a full suit of chain-armour would have\nadded but little to his own personal comfort.\n\nThis party at Ullathorne had been planned in the first place as a\nsort of welcoming to Mr. Arabin on his entrance into St. Ewold's\nparsonage; an intended harvest-home gala for the labourers and their\nwives and children had subsequently been amalgamated with it, and\nthus it had grown to its present dimensions. All the Plumstead party\nhad of course been asked, and at the time of the invitation Eleanor\nhad intended to have gone with her sister. Now her plans were\naltered, and she was going with the Stanhopes. The Proudies were\nalso to be there, and, as Mr. Slope had not been included in the\ninvitation to the palace, the signora, whose impudence never deserted\nher, asked permission of Miss Thorne to bring him.\n\nThis permission Miss Thorne gave, having no other alternative; but\nshe did so with a trembling heart, fearing Mr. Arabin would be\noffended. Immediately on his return she apologized, almost with\ntears, so dire an enmity was presumed to rage between the two\ngentlemen. But Mr. Arabin comforted her by an assurance that he\nshould meet Mr. Slope with the greatest pleasure imaginable and made\nher promise that she would introduce them to each other.\n\nBut this triumph of Mr. Slope's was not so agreeable to Eleanor, who\nsince her return to Barchester had done her best to avoid him. She\nwould not give way to the Plumstead folk when they so ungenerously\naccused her of being in love with this odious man; but, nevertheless,\nknowing that she was so accused, she was fully alive to the\nexpediency of keeping out of his way and dropping him by degrees.\nShe had seen very little of him since her return. Her servant had\nbeen instructed to say to all visitors that she was out. She could\nnot bring herself to specify Mr. Slope particularly, and in order to\navoid him she had thus debarred herself from all her friends. She\nhad excepted Charlotte Stanhope and, by degrees, a few others also.\nOnce she had met him at the Stanhopes', but as a rule, Mr. Slope's\nvisits there were made in the morning and hers in the evening. On\nthat one occasion Charlotte had managed to preserve her from any\nannoyance. This was very good-natured on the part of Charlotte, as\nEleanor thought, and also very sharp-witted, as Eleanor had told her\nfriend nothing of her reasons for wishing to avoid that gentleman.\nThe fact, however, was that Charlotte had learnt from her sister that\nMr. Slope would probably put himself forward as a suitor for the\nwidow's hand, and she was consequently sufficiently alive to the\nexpediency of guarding Bertie's future wife from any danger in that\nquarter.\n\nNevertheless the Stanhopes were pledged to take Mr. Slope with\nthem to Ullathorne. An arrangement was therefore necessarily made,\nwhich was very disagreeable to Eleanor. Dr. Stanhope, with herself,\nCharlotte, and Mr. Slope, were to go together, and Bertie was to\nfollow with his sister Madeline. It was clearly visible by Eleanor's\nface that this assortment was very disagreeable to her, and\nCharlotte, who was much encouraged thereby in her own little plan,\nmade a thousand apologies.\n\n\"I see you don't like it, my dear,\" said she, \"but we could not\nmanage otherwise. Bertie would give his eyes to go with you, but\nMadeline cannot possibly go without him. Nor could we possibly put\nMr. Slope and Madeline in the same carriage without anyone else.\nThey'd both be ruined forever, you know, and not admitted inside\nUllathorne gates, I should imagine, after such an impropriety.\"\n\n\"Of course that wouldn't do,\" said Eleanor, \"but couldn't I go in the\ncarriage with the signora and your brother?\"\n\n\"Impossible!\" said Charlotte. \"When she is there, there is only room\nfor two.\" The Signora, in truth, did not care to do her travelling in\nthe presence of strangers.\n\n\"Well, then,\" said Eleanor, \"you are all so kind, Charlotte, and so\ngood to me that I am sure you won't be offended, but I think I'll not\ngo at all.\"\n\n\"Not go at all!--what nonsense!--indeed you shall.\" It had been\nabsolutely determined in family counsel that Bertie should propose on\nthat very occasion.\n\n\"Or I can take a fly,\" said Eleanor. \"You know I am not embarrassed\nby so many difficulties as you young ladies; I can go alone.\"\n\n\"Nonsense, my dear! Don't think of such a thing; after all, it is\nonly for an hour or so; and, to tell the truth, I don't know what it\nis you dislike so. I thought you and Mr. Slope were great friends.\nWhat is it you dislike?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing particular,\" said Eleanor; \"only I thought it would be a\nfamily party.\"\n\n\"Of course it would be much nicer, much more snug, if Bertie could go\nwith us. It is he that is badly treated. I can assure you he is much\nmore afraid of Mr. Slope than you are. But you see Madeline cannot go\nout without him--and she, poor creature, goes out so seldom! I am sure\nyou don't begrudge her this, though her vagary does knock about our\nown party a little.\"\n\nOf course Eleanor made a thousand protestations and uttered a thousand\nhopes that Madeline would enjoy herself. And of course she had to give\nway and undertake to go in the carriage with Mr. Slope. In fact, she\nwas driven either to do this or to explain why she would not do so.\nNow she could not bring herself to explain to Charlotte Stanhope all\nthat had passed at Plumstead.\n\nBut it was to her a sore necessity. She thought of a thousand little\nschemes for avoiding it; she would plead illness and not go at all;\nshe would persuade Mary Bold to go, although not asked, and then make\na necessity of having a carriage of her own to take her sister-in-law;\nanything, in fact, she could do, rather than be seen by Mr. Arabin\ngetting out of the same carriage with Mr. Slope. However, when the\nmomentous morning came, she had no scheme matured, and then Mr. Slope\nhanded her into Dr. Stanhope's carriage and, following her steps, sat\nopposite to her.\n\nThe bishop returned on the eve of the Ullathorne party, and was\nreceived at home with radiant smiles by the partner of all his cares.\nOn his arrival he crept up to his dressing-room with somewhat of a\npalpitating heart; he had overstayed his alloted time by three days,\nand was not without much fear of penalties. Nothing, however, could\nbe more affectionately cordial than the greeting he received; the\ngirls came out and kissed him in a manner that was quite soothing to\nhis spirit; and Mrs. Proudie, \"albeit, unused to the melting mood,\"\nsqueezed him in her arms and almost in words called him her dear,\ndarling, good, pet, little bishop. All this was a very pleasant\nsurprise.\n\nMrs. Proudie had somewhat changed her tactics; not that she had seen\nany cause to disapprove of her former line of conduct, but she had\nnow brought matters to such a point that she calculated that she\nmight safely do so. She had got the better of Mr. Slope, and she now\nthought well to show her husband that when allowed to get the better\nof everybody, when obeyed by him and permitted to rule over others,\nshe would take care that he should have his reward. Mr. Slope had\nnot a chance against her; not only could she stun the poor bishop by\nher midnight anger, but she could assuage and soothe him, if she so\nwilled, by daily indulgences. She could furnish his room for him,\nturn him out as smart a bishop as any on the bench, give him good\ndinners, warm fires, and an easy life--all this she would do if\nhe would but be quietly obedient. But, if not,--! To speak sooth,\nhowever, his sufferings on that dreadful night had been so poignant\nas to leave him little spirit for further rebellion.\n\nAs soon as he had dressed himself, she returned to his room. \"I hope\nyou enjoyed yourself at ----,\" said she, seating herself on one side\nof the fire while he remained in his armchair on the other, stroking\nthe calves of his legs. It was the first time he had had a fire in\nhis room since the summer, and it pleased him, for the good bishop\nloved to be warm and cosy. Yes, he said, he had enjoyed himself very\nmuch. Nothing could be more polite than the archbishop, and Mrs.\nArchbishop had been equally charming.\n\nMrs. Proudie was delighted to hear it; nothing, she declared, pleased\nher so much as to think\n\n\n   Her bairn respectit like the lave.\n\n\nShe did not put it precisely in these words, but what she said came\nto the same thing; and then, having petted and fondled her little man\nsufficiently, she proceeded to business.\n\n\"The poor dean is still alive,\" said she.\n\n\"So I hear, so I hear,\" said the bishop. \"I'll go to the deanery\ndirectly after breakfast to-morrow.\"\n\n\"We are going to this party at Ullathorne to-morrow morning, my dear;\nwe must be there early, you know--by twelve o'clock I suppose.\"\n\n\"Oh--ah!\" said the bishop; \"then I'll certainly call the next day.\"\n\n\"Was much said about it at ----?\" asked Mrs. Proudie.\n\n\"About what?\" said the bishop.\n\n\"Filling up the dean's place,\" said Mrs. Proudie. As she spoke, a\nspark of the wonted fire returned to her eye, and the bishop felt\nhimself to be a little less comfortable than before.\n\n\"Filling up the dean's place; that is, if the dean dies? Very\nlittle, my dear. It was mentioned, just mentioned.\"\n\n\"And what did you say about it, Bishop?\"\n\n\"Why, I said that I thought that if, that is, should--should the\ndean die, that is, I said I thought--\" As he went on stammering and\nfloundering, he saw that his wife's eye was fixed sternly on him.\nWhy should he encounter such evil for a man whom he loved so slightly\nas Mr. Slope? Why should he give up his enjoyments and his ease and\nsuch dignity as might be allowed to him to fight a losing battle for\na chaplain? The chaplain, after all, if successful, would be as great\na tyrant as his wife. Why fight at all? Why contend? Why be uneasy?\nFrom that moment he determined to fling Mr. Slope to the winds and\ntake the goods the gods provided.\n\n\"I am told,\" said Mrs. Proudie, speaking very slowly, \"that Mr. Slope\nis looking to be the new dean.\"\n\n\"Yes--certainly, I believe he is,\" said the bishop.\n\n\"And what does the archbishop say about that?\" asked Mrs. Proudie.\n\n\"Well, my dear, to tell the truth, I promised Mr. Slope to speak to\nthe archbishop. Mr. Slope spoke to me about it. It is very arrogant\nof him, I must say--but that is nothing to me.\"\n\n\"Arrogant!\" said Mrs. Proudie; \"it is the most impudent piece of\npretension I ever heard of in my life. Mr. Slope Dean of Barchester,\nindeed! And what did you do in the matter, Bishop?\"\n\n\"Why, my dear, I did speak to the archbishop.\"\n\n\"You don't mean to tell me,\" said Mrs. Proudie, \"that you are\ngoing to make yourself ridiculous by lending your name to such a\npreposterous attempt as this? Mr. Slope Dean of Barchester, indeed!\"\nAnd she tossed her head and put her arms akimbo with an air of\nconfident defiance that made her husband quite sure that Mr. Slope\nnever would be Dean of Barchester. In truth, Mrs. Proudie was all\nbut invincible; had she married Petruchio, it may be doubted whether\nthat arch wife-tamer would have been able to keep her legs out of\nthose garments which are presumed by men to be peculiarly unfitted\nfor feminine use.\n\n\"It is preposterous, my dear.\"\n\n\"Then why have you endeavoured to assist him?\"\n\n\"Why--my dear, I haven't assisted him--much.\"\n\n\"But why have you done it at all? Why have you mixed your name up in\nanything so ridiculous? What was it you did say to the archbishop?\"\n\n\"Why, I just did mention it; I just did say that--that in the event\nof the poor dean's death, Mr. Slope would--would--\"\n\n\"Would what?\"\n\n\"I forget how I put it--would take it if he could get it; something\nof that sort. I didn't say much more than that.\"\n\n\"You shouldn't have said anything at all. And what did the\narchbishop say?\"\n\n\"He didn't say anything; he just bowed and rubbed his hands. Somebody\nelse came up at the moment, and as we were discussing the new\nparochial universal school committee, the matter of the new dean\ndropped; after that I didn't think it wise to renew it.\"\n\n\"Renew it! I am very sorry you ever mentioned it. What will the\narchbishop think of you?\"\n\n\"You may be sure, my dear, the archbishop thought very little about\nit.\"\n\n\"But why did you think about it, Bishop? How could you think of\nmaking such a creature as that Dean of Barchester? Dean of Barchester!\nI suppose he'll be looking for a bishopric some of these days--a man\nthat hardly knows who his own father was; a man that I found without\nbread to his mouth or a coat to his back. Dean of Barchester, indeed!\nI'll dean him.\"\n\nMrs. Proudie considered herself to be in politics a pure Whig; all\nher family belonged to the Whig party. Now, among all ranks of\nEnglishmen and Englishwomen (Mrs. Proudie should, I think, be ranked\namong the former on the score of her great strength of mind), no one\nis so hostile to lowly born pretenders to high station as the pure\nWhig.\n\nThe bishop thought it necessary to exculpate himself. \"Why, my dear,\"\nsaid he, \"it appeared to me that you and Mr. Slope did not get on\nquite so well as you used to do!\"\n\n\"Get on!\" said Mrs. Proudie, moving her foot uneasily on the\nhearth-rug and compressing her lips in a manner that betokened much\ndanger to the subject of their discourse.\n\n\"I began to find that he was objectionable to you\"--Mrs. Proudie's\nfoot worked on the hearth-rug with great rapidity--\"and that you\nwould be more comfortable if he was out of the palace\"--Mrs.\nProudie smiled, as a hyena may probably smile before he begins his\nlaugh--\"and therefore I thought that if he got this place, and so\nceased to be my chaplain, you might be pleased at such an arrangement.\"\n\nAnd then the hyena laughed out. Pleased at such an arrangement!\nPleased at having her enemy converted into a dean with twelve hundred\na year! Medea, when she describes the customs of her native country\n(I am quoting from Robson's edition), assures her astonished auditor\nthat in her land captives, when taken, are eaten.\n\n\"You pardon them?\" says Medea.\n\n\"We do indeed,\" says the mild Grecian.\n\n\"We eat them!\" says she of Colchis, with terrific energy.\n\nMrs. Proudie was the Medea of Barchester; she had no idea of not\neating Mr. Slope. Pardon him! Merely get rid of him! Make a dean\nof him! It was not so they did with their captives in her country,\namong people of her sort! Mr. Slope had no such mercy to expect; she\nwould pick him to the very last bone.\n\n\"Oh, yes, my dear, of course he'll cease to be your chaplain,\" said\nshe. \"After what has passed, that must be a matter of course. I\ncouldn't for a moment think of living in the same house with such a\nman. Besides, he has shown himself quite unfit for such a situation;\nmaking broils and quarrels among the clergy; getting you, my dear,\ninto scrapes; and taking upon himself as though he were as good as\nbishop himself. Of course he'll go. But because he leaves the palace,\nthat is no reason why he should get into the deanery.\"\n\n\"Oh, of course not!\" said the bishop; \"but to save appearances, you\nknow, my dear--\"\n\n\"I don't want to save appearances; I want Mr. Slope to appear just\nwhat he is--a false, designing, mean, intriguing man. I have my eye\non him; he little knows what I see. He is misconducting himself\nin the most disgraceful way with that lame Italian woman. That\nfamily is a disgrace to Barchester, and Mr. Slope is a disgrace\nto Barchester. If he doesn't look well to it, he'll have his gown\nstripped off his back instead of having a dean's hat on his head.\nDean, indeed! The man has gone mad with arrogance.\"\n\nThe bishop said nothing further to excuse either himself or his\nchaplain, and having shown himself passive and docile, was again\ntaken into favour. They soon went to dinner, and he spent the\npleasantest evening he had had in his own house for a long time. His\ndaughter played and sang to him as he sipped his coffee and read\nhis newspaper, and Mrs. Proudie asked good-natured little questions\nabout the archbishop; and then he went happily to bed and slept as\nquietly as though Mrs. Proudie had been Griselda herself. While\nshaving himself in the morning and preparing for the festivities of\nUllathorne, he fully resolved to run no more tilts against a warrior\nso fully armed at all points as was Mrs. Proudie.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV\n\nOxford--The Master and Tutor of Lazarus\n\n\nMr. Arabin, as we have said, had but a sad walk of it under the trees\nof Plumstead churchyard. He did not appear to any of the family till\ndinner-time, and then he seemed, as far as their judgement went, to\nbe quite himself. He had, as was his wont, asked himself a great many\nquestions and given himself a great many answers; and the upshot of\nthis was that he had sent himself down for an ass. He had determined\nthat he was much too old and much too rusty to commence the manoeuvres\nof love-making; that he had let the time slip through his hands which\nshould have been used for such purposes; and that now he must lie on\nhis bed as he had made it. Then he asked himself whether in truth\nhe did love this woman; and he answered himself, not without a long\nstruggle, but at last honestly, that he certainly did love her. He\nthen asked himself whether he did not also love her money, and he\nagain answered himself that he did so. But here he did not answer\nhonestly. It was and ever had been his weakness to look for impure\nmotives for his own conduct. No doubt, circumstanced as he was, with a\nsmall living and a fellowship, accustomed as he had been to collegiate\nluxuries and expensive comforts, he might have hesitated to marry a\npenniless woman had he felt ever so strong a predilection for the\nwoman herself; no doubt Eleanor's fortune put all such difficulties\nout of the question; but it was equally without doubt that his love\nfor her had crept upon him without the slightest idea on his part that\nhe could ever benefit his own condition by sharing her wealth.\n\nWhen he had stood on the hearth-rug, counting the pattern and counting\nalso the future chances of his own life, the remembrances of Mrs.\nBold's comfortable income had certainly not damped his first assured\nfeeling of love for her. And why should it have done so? Need it have\ndone so with the purest of men? Be that as it may, Mr. Arabin decided\nagainst himself; he decided that it had done so in his case, and that\nhe was not the purest of men.\n\nHe also decided, which was more to his purpose, that Eleanor did not\ncare a straw for him, and that very probably she did care a straw\nfor his rival. Then he made up his mind not to think of her any\nmore, and went on thinking of her till he was almost in a state to\ndrown himself in the little brook which ran at the bottom of the\narchdeacon's grounds.\n\nAnd ever and again his mind would revert to the Signora Neroni, and\nhe would make comparisons between her and Eleanor Bold, not always in\nfavour of the latter. The signora had listened to him, and flattered\nhim, and believed in him; at least she had told him so. Mrs. Bold\nhad also listened to him, but had never flattered him; had not always\nbelieved in him; and now had broken from him in violent rage. The\nsignora, too, was the more lovely woman of the two, and had also\nthe additional attraction of her affliction--for to him it was an\nattraction.\n\nBut he never could have loved the Signora Neroni as he felt that he\nnow loved Eleanor; and so he flung stones into the brook, instead of\nflinging in himself, and sat down on its margin as sad a gentleman as\nyou shall meet in a summer's day.\n\nHe heard the dinner-bell ring from the churchyard, and he knew that\nit was time to recover his self-possession. He felt that he was\ndisgracing himself in his own eyes, that he had been idling his\ntime and neglecting the high duties which he had taken upon himself\nto perform. He should have spent this afternoon among the poor at\nSt. Ewold's, instead of wandering about at Plumstead, an ancient,\nlove-lorn swain, dejected and sighing, full of imaginary sorrows and\nWertherian grief. He was thoroughly ashamed of himself, and determined\nto lose no time in retrieving his character, so damaged in his own\neyes.\n\nThus when he appeared at dinner he was as animated as ever and was\nthe author of most of the conversation which graced the archdeacon's\nboard on that evening. Mr. Harding was ill at ease and sick at heart,\nand did not care to appear more comfortable than he really was; what\nlittle he did say was said to his daughter. He thought that the\narchdeacon and Mr. Arabin had leagued together against Eleanor's\ncomfort, and his wish now was to break away from the pair and undergo\nin his Barchester lodgings whatever Fate had in store for him. He\nhated the name of the hospital; his attempt to regain his lost\ninheritance there had brought upon him so much suffering. As far as\nhe was concerned, Mr. Quiverful was now welcome to the place.\n\nAnd the archdeacon was not very lively. The poor dean's illness was\nof course discussed in the first place. Dr. Grantly did not mention\nMr. Slope's name in connexion with the expected event of Dr. Trefoil's\ndeath; he did not wish to say anything about Mr. Slope just at\npresent, nor did he wish to make known his sad surmises; but the idea\nthat his enemy might possibly become Dean of Barchester made him very\ngloomy. Should such an event take place, such a dire catastrophe\ncome about, there would be an end to his life as far as his life was\nconnected with the city of Barchester. He must give up all his old\nhaunts, all his old habits, and live quietly as a retired rector at\nPlumstead. It had been a severe trial for him to have Dr. Proudie in\nthe palace, but with Mr. Slope also in the deanery he felt that he\nshould be unable to draw his breath in Barchester close.\n\nThus it came to pass that in spite of the sorrow at his heart, Mr.\nArabin was apparently the gayest of the party. Both Mr. Harding and\nMrs. Grantly were in a slight degree angry with him on account of his\nwant of gloom. To the one it appeared as though he were triumphing\nat Eleanor's banishment, and to the other that he was not affected as\nhe should have been by all the sad circumstances of the day--Eleanor's\nobstinacy, Mr. Slope's success, and the poor dean's apoplexy. And so\nthey were all at cross-purposes.\n\nMr. Harding left the room almost together with the ladies, and then\nthe archdeacon opened his heart to Mr. Arabin. He still harped upon\nthe hospital. \"What did that fellow mean,\" said he, \"by saying in\nhis letter to Mrs. Bold that if Mr. Harding would call on the bishop,\nit would be all right? Of course I would not be guided by anything\nhe might say, but still it may be well that Mr. Harding should see\nthe bishop. It would be foolish to let the thing slip through our\nfingers because Mrs. Bold is determined to make a fool of herself.\"\n\nMr. Arabin hinted that he was not quite so sure that Mrs. Bold would\nmake a fool of herself. He said that he was not convinced that\nshe did regard Mr. Slope so warmly as she was supposed to do. The\narchdeacon questioned and cross-questioned him about this, but\nelicited nothing, and at last remained firm in his own conviction\nthat he was destined, _malgré lui_, to be the brother-in-law of Mr.\nSlope. Mr. Arabin strongly advised that Mr. Harding should take no\nstep regarding the hospital in connexion with, or in consequence\nof, Mr. Slope's letter. \"If the bishop really means to confer the\nappointment on Mr. Harding,\" argued Mr. Arabin, \"he will take care to\nlet him have some other intimation than a message conveyed through a\nletter to a lady. Were Mr. Harding to present himself at the palace,\nhe might merely be playing Mr. Slope's game;\" and thus it was settled\nthat nothing should be done till the great Dr. Gwynne's arrival, or\nat any rate without that potentate's sanction.\n\nIt was droll to observe how these men talked of Mr. Harding as though\nhe were a puppet, and planned their intrigues and small ecclesiastical\nmanoeuvres in reference to Mr. Harding's future position without\ndreaming of taking him into their confidence. There was a comfortable\nhouse and income in question, and it was very desirable, and certainly\nvery just, that Mr. Harding should have them; but that at present\nwas not the main point; it was expedient to beat the bishop and, if\npossible, to smash Mr. Slope. Mr. Slope had set up, or was supposed to\nhave set up, a rival candidate. Of all things the most desirable would\nhave been to have had Mr. Quiverful's appointment published to the\npublic and then annulled by the clamour of an indignant world, loud in\nthe defence of Mr. Harding's rights. But of such an event the chance\nwas small; a slight fraction only of the world would be indignant, and\nthat fraction would be one not accustomed to loud speaking. And then\nthe preferment had, in a sort of way, been offered to Mr. Harding and\nhad, in a sort of way, been refused by him.\n\nMr. Slope's wicked, cunning hand had been peculiarly conspicuous\nin the way in which this had been brought to pass, and it was the\nsuccess of Mr. Slope's cunning which was so painfully grating to the\nfeelings of the archdeacon. That which of all things he most dreaded\nwas that he should be outgeneralled by Mr. Slope; and just at present\nit appeared probable that Mr. Slope would turn his flank, steal a\nmarch on him, cut off his provisions, carry his strong town by a _coup\nde main_, and at last beat him thoroughly in a regular pitched battle.\nThe archdeacon felt that his flank had been turned when desired to\nwait on Mr. Slope instead of the bishop, that a march had been stolen\nwhen Mr. Harding was induced to refuse the bishop's offer, that his\nprovisions would be cut off when Mr. Quiverful got the hospital,\nthat Eleanor was the strong town doomed to be taken, and that Mr.\nSlope, as Dean of Barchester, would be regarded by all the world as\nconqueror in the final conflict.\n\nDr. Gwynne was the _Deus ex machina_ who was to come down upon the\nBarchester stage and bring about deliverance from these terrible\nevils. But how can melodramatic _dénouements_ be properly brought\nabout, how can vice and Mr. Slope be punished, and virtue and the\narchdeacon be rewarded, while the avenging god is laid up with the\ngout? In the mean time evil may be triumphant, and poor innocence,\ntransfixed to the earth by an arrow from Dr. Proudie's quiver, may\nlie dead upon the ground, not to be resuscitated even by Dr. Gwynne.\n\nTwo or three days after Eleanor's departure, Mr. Arabin went to\nOxford and soon found himself closeted with the august head of his\ncollege. It was quite clear that Dr. Gwynne was not very sanguine as\nto the effects of his journey to Barchester, and not over-anxious to\ninterfere with the bishop. He had had the gout, but was very nearly\nconvalescent, and Mr. Arabin at once saw that had the mission been\none of which the master thoroughly approved, he would before this\nhave been at Plumstead.\n\nAs it was, Dr. Gwynne was resolved on visiting his friend, and\nwillingly promised to return to Barchester with Mr. Arabin. He could\nnot bring himself to believe that there was any probability that Mr.\nSlope would be made Dean of Barchester. Rumour, he said, had reached\neven his ears, not at all favourable to that gentleman's character,\nand he expressed himself strongly of opinion that any such\nappointment was quite out of the question. At this stage of the\nproceedings, the master's right-hand man, Tom Staple, was called in\nto assist at the conference. Tom Staple was the Tutor of Lazarus\nand, moreover, a great man at Oxford. Though universally known by a\nspecies of nomenclature so very undignified, Tom Staple was one who\nmaintained a high dignity in the university. He was, as it were, the\nleader of the Oxford tutors, a body of men who consider themselves\ncollectively as being by very little, if at all, second in importance\nto the heads themselves. It is not always the case that the master,\nor warden, or provost, or principal can hit it off exactly with his\ntutor. A tutor is by no means indisposed to have a will of his own.\nBut at Lazarus they were great friends and firm allies at the time of\nwhich we are writing.\n\nTom Staple was a hale, strong man of about forty-five, short in\nstature, swarthy in face, with strong, sturdy black hair and crisp\nblack beard of which very little was allowed to show itself in shape\nof whiskers. He always wore a white neckcloth, clean indeed, but\nnot tied with that scrupulous care which now distinguishes some of\nour younger clergy. He was, of course, always clothed in a seemly\nsuit of solemn black. Mr. Staple was a decent cleanly liver, not\nover-addicted to any sensuality; but nevertheless a somewhat warmish\nhue was beginning to adorn his nose, the peculiar effect, as his\nfriends averred, of a certain pipe of port introduced into the cellars\nof Lazarus the very same year in which the tutor entered it as a\nfreshman. There was also, perhaps, a little redolence of port wine, as\nit were the slightest possible twang, in Mr. Staple's voice.\n\nIn these latter days Tom Staple was not a happy man; university\nreform had long been his bugbear, and now was his bane. It was not\nwith him, as with most others, an affair of politics, respecting\nwhich, when the need existed, he could, for parties' sake or on\nbehalf of principle, maintain a certain amount of necessary zeal;\nit was not with him a subject for dilettante warfare and courteous,\ncommonplace opposition. To him it was life and death. The _status\nquo_ of the university was his only idea of life, and any reformation\nwas as bad to him as death. He would willingly have been a martyr in\nthe cause, had the cause admitted of martyrdom.\n\nAt the present day, unfortunately, public affairs will allow of no\nmartyrs, and therefore it is that there is such a deficiency of zeal.\nCould gentlemen of £10,000 a year have died on their own door-steps\nin defence of protection, no doubt some half-dozen glorious old\nbaronets would have so fallen, and the school of protection would at\nthis day have been crowded with scholars. Who can fight strenuously\nin any combat in which there is no danger? Tom Staple would have\nwillingly been impaled before a Committee of the House, could he by\nsuch self-sacrifice have infused his own spirit into the component\nmembers of the hebdomadal board.\n\nTom Staple was one of those who in his heart approved of the credit\nsystem which had of old been in vogue between the students and\ntradesmen of the university. He knew and acknowledged to himself\nthat it was useless in these degenerate days publicly to contend with\n\"The Jupiter\" on such a subject. \"The Jupiter\" had undertaken to rule\nthe university, and Tom Staple was well aware that \"The Jupiter\" was\ntoo powerful for him. But in secret, and among his safe companions,\nhe would argue that the system of credit was an ordeal good for young\nmen to undergo.\n\nThe bad men, said he, the weak and worthless, blunder into danger and\nburn their feet; but the good men, they who have any character, they\nwho have that within them which can reflect credit on their alma\nmater, they come through scatheless. What merit will there be to a\nyoung man to get through safely, if he be guarded and protected and\nrestrained like a schoolboy? By so doing, the period of the ordeal\nis only postponed, and the manhood of the man will be deferred from\nthe age of twenty to that of twenty-four. If you bind him with\nleading-strings at college, he will break loose while eating for the\nbar in London; bind him there, and he will break loose afterwards,\nwhen he is a married man. The wild oats must be sown somewhere.\n'Twas thus that Tom Staple would argue of young men, not, indeed,\nwith much consistency, but still with some practical knowledge of the\nsubject gathered from long experience.\n\nAnd now Tom Staple proffered such wisdom as he had for the assistance\nof Dr. Gwynne and Mr. Arabin.\n\n\"Quite out of the question,\" said he, arguing that Mr. Slope could\nnot possibly be made the new Dean of Barchester.\n\n\"So I think,\" said the master. \"He has no standing, and, if all I\nhear be true, very little character.\"\n\n\"As to character,\" said Tom Staple, \"I don't think much of that.\nThey rather like loose parsons for deans; a little fast living, or a\ndash of infidelity, is no bad recommendation to a cathedral close.\nBut they couldn't make Mr. Slope; the last two deans have been\nCambridge men; you'll not show me an instance of their making three\nmen running from the same university. We don't get our share and\nnever shall, I suppose, but we must at least have one out of three.\"\n\n\"Those sort of rules are all gone by now,\" said Mr. Arabin.\n\n\"Everything has gone by, I believe,\" said Tom Staple. \"The cigar has\nbeen smoked out, and we are the ashes.\"\n\n\"Speak for yourself, Staple,\" said the master.\n\n\"I speak for all,\" said the tutor stoutly. \"It is coming to that,\nthat there will be no life left anywhere in the country. No one\nis any longer fit to rule himself, or those belonging to him. The\nGovernment is to find us all in everything, and the press is to find\nthe Government. Nevertheless, Mr. Slope won't be Dean of\nBarchester.\"\n\n\"And who will be warden of the hospital?\" said Mr. Arabin.\n\n\"I hear that Mr. Quiverful is already appointed,\" said Tom Staple.\n\n\"I think not,\" said the master. \"And I think, moreover, that Dr.\nProudie will not be so short-sighted as to run against such a rock:\nMr. Slope should himself have sense enough to prevent it.\"\n\n\"But perhaps Mr. Slope may have no objection to see his patron on a\nrock,\" said the suspicious tutor.\n\n\"What could he get by that?\" asked Mr. Arabin.\n\n\"It is impossible to see the doubles of such a man,\" said Mr. Staple.\n\"It seems quite clear that Bishop Proudie is altogether in his hands,\nand it is equally clear that he has been moving heaven and earth to\nget this Mr. Quiverful into the hospital, although he must know that\nsuch an appointment would be most damaging to the bishop. It is\nimpossible to understand such a man, and dreadful to think,\" added Tom\nStaple, sighing deeply, \"that the welfare and fortunes of good men\nmay depend on his intrigues.\"\n\nDr. Gwynne or Mr. Staple were not in the least aware, nor even was\nMr. Arabin, that this Mr. Slope, of whom they were talking, had been\nusing his utmost efforts to put their own candidate into the hospital,\nand that in lieu of being permanent in the palace, his own expulsion\ntherefrom had been already decided on by the high powers of the\ndiocese.\n\n\"I'll tell you what,\" said the tutor, \"if this Quiverful is thrust\ninto the hospital and Dr. Trefoil does die, I should not wonder if\nthe Government were to make Mr. Harding Dean of Barchester. They\nwould feel bound to do something for him after all that was said when\nhe resigned.\"\n\nDr. Gwynne at the moment made no reply to this suggestion, but it did\nnot the less impress itself on his mind. If Mr. Harding could not be\nwarden of the hospital, why should he not be Dean of Barchester?\n\nAnd so the conference ended without any very fixed resolution, and\nDr. Gwynne and Mr. Arabin prepared for their journey to Plumstead on\nthe morrow.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV\n\nMiss Thorne's Fête Champêtre\n\n\nThe day of the Ullathorne party arrived, and all the world were\nthere--or at least so much of the world as had been included in Miss\nThorne's invitation. As we have said, the bishop returned home on\nthe previous evening, and on the same evening and by the same train\ncame Dr. Gwynne and Mr. Arabin from Oxford. The archdeacon with his\nbrougham was in waiting for the Master of Lazarus, so that there was\na goodly show of church dignitaries on the platform of the railway.\n\nThe Stanhope party was finally arranged in the odious manner already\ndescribed, and Eleanor got into the doctor's carriage full of\napprehension and presentiment of further misfortune, whereas Mr.\nSlope entered the vehicle elate with triumph.\n\nHe had received that morning a very civil note from Sir Nicholas\nFitzwhiggin, not promising much, indeed, but then Mr. Slope knew,\nor fancied that he knew, that it was not etiquette for government\nofficers to make promises. Though Sir Nicholas promised nothing he\nimplied a good deal, declared his conviction that Mr. Slope would\nmake an excellent dean, and wished him every kind of success. To be\nsure he added that, not being in the cabinet, he was never consulted\non such matters, and that even if he spoke on the subject, his voice\nwould go for nothing. But all this Mr. Slope took for the prudent\nreserve of official life. To complete his anticipated triumphs,\nanother letter was brought to him just as he was about to start to\nUllathorne.\n\nMr. Slope also enjoyed the idea of handing Mrs. Bold out of Dr.\nStanhope's carriage before the multitude at Ullathorne gate as much\nas Eleanor dreaded the same ceremony. He had fully made up his mind\nto throw himself and his fortune at the widow's feet, and had almost\ndetermined to select the present propitious morning for doing so.\nThe signora had of late been less than civil to him. She had indeed\nadmitted his visits and listened, at any rate without anger, to his\nlove, but she had tortured him and reviled him, jeered at him and\nridiculed him, while she allowed him to call her the most beautiful\nof living women, to kiss her hand, and to proclaim himself with\nreiterated oaths her adorer, her slave and worshipper.\n\nMiss Thorne was in great perturbation, yet in great glory, on the\nmorning of the gala day. Mr. Thorne also, though the party was none\nof his giving, had much heavy work on his hands. But perhaps the\nmost overtasked, the most anxious, and the most effective of all the\nUllathorne household was Mr. Plomacy, the steward. This last personage\nhad, in the time of Mr. Thorne's father, when the Directory held\ndominion in France, gone over to Paris with letters in his boot-heel\nfor some of the royal party, and such had been his good luck that\nhe had returned safe. He had then been very young and was now very\nold, but the exploit gave him a character for political enterprise\nand secret discretion which still availed him as thoroughly as it\nhad done in its freshest gloss. Mr. Plomacy had been steward of\nUllathorne for more than fifty years, and a very easy life he had had\nof it. Who could require much absolute work from a man who had carried\nsafely at his heel that which, if discovered, would have cost him\nhis head? Consequently Mr. Plomacy had never worked hard, and of\nlatter years had never worked at all. He had a taste for timber, and\ntherefore he marked the trees that were to be cut down; he had a taste\nfor gardening, and would therefore allow no shrub to be planted or\nbed to be made without his express sanction. In these matters he was\nsometimes driven to run counter to his mistress, but he rarely allowed\nhis mistress to carry the point against him.\n\nBut on occasions such as the present Mr. Plomacy came out strong. He\nhad the honour of the family at heart; he thoroughly appreciated the\nduties of hospitality; and therefore, when gala doings were going on,\nhe always took the management into his own hands and reigned supreme\nover master and mistress.\n\nTo give Mr. Plomacy his due, old as he was, he thoroughly understood\nsuch work as he had in hand, and did it well.\n\nThe order of the day was to be as follows. The quality, as the upper\nclasses in rural districts are designated by the lower with so much\ntrue discrimination, were to eat a breakfast, and the non-quality\nwere to eat a dinner. Two marquees had been erected for these two\nbanquets: that for the quality on the esoteric or garden side of a\ncertain deep ha-ha; and that for the non-quality on the exoteric or\npaddock side of the same. Both were of huge dimensions--that on the\nouter side was, one may say, on an egregious scale--but Mr. Plomacy\ndeclared that neither would be sufficient. To remedy this, an\nauxiliary banquet was prepared in the dining-room, and a subsidiary\nboard was to be spread _sub dio_ for the accommodation of the lower\nclass of yokels on the Ullathorne property.\n\nNo one who has not had a hand in the preparation of such an affair\ncan understand the manifold difficulties which Miss Thorne encountered\nin her project. Had she not been made throughout of the very finest\nwhalebone, riveted with the best Yorkshire steel, she must have sunk\nunder them. Had not Mr. Plomacy felt how much was justly expected from\na man who at one time carried the destinies of Europe in his boot,\nhe would have given way, and his mistress, so deserted, must have\nperished among her poles and canvas.\n\nIn the first place there was a dreadful line to be drawn. Who were\nto dispose themselves within the ha-ha, and who without? To this\nthe unthinking will give an off-hand answer, as they will to every\nponderous question. Oh, the bishop and such-like within the ha-ha,\nand Farmer Greenacre and such-like without. True, my unthinking\nfriend, but who shall define these such-likes? It is in such\ndefinitions that the whole difficulty of society consists. To seat\nthe bishop on an arm-chair on the lawn and place Farmer Greenacre at\nthe end of a long table in the paddock is easy enough, but where will\nyou put Mrs. Lookaloft, whose husband, though a tenant on the estate,\nhunts in a red coat, whose daughters go to a fashionable seminary\nin Barchester, who calls her farm-house Rosebank, and who has a\npianoforte in her drawing-room? The Misses Lookaloft, as they call\nthemselves, won't sit contented among the bumpkins. Mrs. Lookaloft\nwon't squeeze her fine clothes on a bench and talk familiarly about\ncream and ducklings to good Mrs. Greenacre. And yet Mrs. Lookaloft\nis no fit companion and never has been the associate of the Thornes\nand the Grantlys. And if Mrs. Lookaloft be admitted within the\nsanctum of fashionable life, if she be allowed with her three\ndaughters to leap the ha-ha, why not the wives and daughters of other\nfamilies also? Mrs. Greenacre is at present well contented with the\npaddock, but she might cease to be so if she saw Mrs. Lookaloft on\nthe lawn. And thus poor Miss Thorne had a hard time of it.\n\nAnd how was she to divide her guests between the marquee and the\nparlour? She had a countess coming, an Honourable John and an\nHonourable George, and a whole bevy of Ladies Amelia, Rosina,\nMargaretta, &c; she had a leash of baronets with their baronettes;\nand, as we all know, she had a bishop. If she put them on the lawn,\nno one would go into the parlour; if she put them into the parlour,\nno one would go into the tent. She thought of keeping the old people\nin the house and leaving the lawn to the lovers. She might as well\nhave seated herself at once in a hornet's nest. Mr. Plomacy knew\nbetter than this. \"Bless your soul, ma'am,\" said he, \"there won't be\nno old ladies--not one, barring yourself and old Mrs. Clantantram.\"\n\nPersonally Miss Thorne accepted this distinction in her favour as a\ncompliment to her good sense, but nevertheless she had no desire to\nbe closeted on the coming occasion with Mrs. Clantantram. She gave\nup all idea of any arbitrary division of her guests and determined if\npossible to put the bishop on the lawn and the countess in the house,\nto sprinkle the baronets, and thus divide the attractions. What to\ndo with the Lookalofts even Mr. Plomacy could not decide. They must\ntake their chance. They had been specially told in the invitation\nthat all the tenants had been invited, and they might probably have\nthe good sense to stay away if they objected to mix with the rest of\nthe tenantry.\n\nThen Mr. Plomacy declared his apprehension that the Honourable Johns\nand Honourable Georges would come in a sort of amphibious costume,\nhalf-morning, half-evening, satin neck-handkerchiefs, frock-coats,\nprimrose gloves, and polished boots; and that, being so dressed, they\nwould decline riding at the quintain, or taking part in any of the\nathletic games which Miss Thorne had prepared with so much fond care.\nIf the Lord Johns and Lord Georges didn't ride at the quintain, Miss\nThorne might be sure that nobody else would.\n\n\"But,\" said she in dolorous voice, all but overcome by her cares, \"it\nwas specially signified that there were to be sports.\"\n\n\"And so there will be, of course,\" said Mr. Plomacy. \"They'll all be\nsporting with the young ladies in the laurel walks. Them's the sports\nthey care most about now-a-days. If you gets the young men at the\nquintain, you'll have all the young women in the pouts.\"\n\n\"Can't they look on as their great grandmothers did before them?\" said\nMiss Thorne.\n\n\"It seems to me that the ladies ain't contented with looking\nnow-a-days. Whatever the men do they'll do. If you'll have\nside-saddles on the nags; and let them go at the quintain too, it'll\nanswer capital, no doubt.\"\n\nMiss Thorne made no reply. She felt that she had no good ground on\nwhich to defend her sex of the present generation from the sarcasm\nof Mr. Plomacy. She had once declared, in one of her warmer moments,\n\"that now-a-days the gentlemen were all women, and the ladies all\nmen.\" She could not alter the debased character of the age. But,\nsuch being the case, why should she take on herself to cater for the\namusement of people of such degraded tastes? This question she asked\nherself more than once, and she could only answer herself with a\nsigh. There was her own brother Wilfred, on whose shoulders rested\nall the ancient honours of Ullathorne house; it was very doubtful\nwhether even he would consent to \"go at the quintain,\" as Mr. Plomacy\nnot injudiciously expressed it.\n\nAnd now the morning arrived. The Ullathorne household was early on\nthe move. Cooks were cooking in the kitchen long before daylight,\nand men were dragging out tables and hammering red baize on to\nbenches at the earliest dawn. With what dread eagerness did Miss\nThorne look out at the weather as soon as the parting veil of night\npermitted her to look at all! In this respect, at any rate, there\nwas nothing to grieve her. The glass had been rising for the last\nthree days, and the morning broke with that dull, chill, steady,\ngrey haze which in autumn generally presages a clear and dry day.\nBy seven she was dressed and down. Miss Thorne knew nothing of the\nmodern luxury of _déshabilles_. She would as soon have thought of\nappearing before her brother without her stockings as without her\nstays--and Miss Thorne's stays were no trifle.\n\nAnd yet there was nothing for her to do when down. She fidgeted out\nto the lawn and then back into the kitchen. She put on her high-heeled\nclogs and fidgeted out into the paddock. Then she went into the small\nhome park where the quintain was erected. The pole and cross-bar and\nthe swivel and the target and the bag of flour were all complete. She\ngot up on a carpenter's bench and touched the target with her hand;\nit went round with beautiful ease; the swivel had been oiled to\nperfection. She almost wished to take old Plomacy at his word, to get\non a side-saddle and have a tilt at it herself. What must a young man\nbe, thought she, who could prefer maundering among laurel trees with a\nwishy-washy school-girl to such fun as this? \"Well,\" said she aloud to\nherself, \"one man can take a horse to water, but a thousand can't make\nhim drink. There it is. If they haven't the spirit to enjoy it, the\nfault shan't be mine;\" and so she returned to the house.\n\nAt a little after eight her brother came down, and they had a sort of\nscrap breakfast in his study. The tea was made without the customary\nurn, and they dispensed with the usual rolls and toast. Eggs also\nwere missing, for every egg in the parish had been whipped into\ncustards, baked into pies, or boiled into lobster salad. The allowance\nof fresh butter was short, and Mr. Thorne was obliged to eat the leg\nof a fowl without having it devilled in the manner he loved.\n\n\"I have been looking at the quintain, Wilfred,\" said she, \"and it\nappears to be quite right.\"\n\n\"Oh--ah, yes,\" said he. \"It seemed to be so yesterday when I saw\nit.\" Mr. Thorne was beginning to be rather bored by his sister's\nlove of sports, and had especially no affection for this quintain\npost.\n\n\"I wish you'd just try it after breakfast,\" said she. \"You could\nhave the saddle put on Mark Antony, and the pole is there all handy.\nYou can take the flour bag off, you know, if you think Mark Antony\nwon't be quick enough,\" added Miss Thorne, seeing that her brother's\ncountenance was not indicative of complete accordance with her little\nproposition.\n\nNow Mark Antony was a valuable old hunter, excellently suited to\nMr. Thorne's usual requirements, steady indeed at his fences, but\nextremely sure, very good in deep ground, and safe on the roads. But\nhe had never yet been ridden at a quintain, and Mr. Thorne was not\ninclined to put him to the trial, either with or without the bag of\nflour. He hummed and hawed and finally declared that he was afraid\nMark Antony would shy.\n\n\"Then try the cob,\" said the indefatigable Miss Thorne.\n\n\"He's in physic,\" said Wilfred.\n\n\"There's the Beelzebub colt,\" said his sister. \"I know he's in the\nstable because I saw Peter exercising him just now.\"\n\n\"My dear Monica, he's so wild that it's as much as I can do to manage\nhim at all. He'd destroy himself and me, too, if I attempted to ride\nhim at such a rattletrap as that.\"\n\nA rattletrap! The quintain that she had put up with so much anxious\ncare; the game that she had prepared for the amusement of the\nstalwart yeomen of the country; the sport that had been honoured by\nthe affection of so many of their ancestors! It cut her to the heart\nto hear it so denominated by her own brother. There were but the two\nof them left together in the world, and it had ever been one of the\nrules by which Miss Thorne had regulated her conduct through life to\nsay nothing that could provoke her brother. She had often had to\nsuffer from his indifference to time-honoured British customs, but\nshe had always suffered in silence. It was part of her creed that\nthe head of the family should never be upbraided in his own house,\nand Miss Thorne had lived up to her creed. Now, however, she was\ngreatly tried. The colour mounted to her ancient cheek, and the\nfire blazed in her still bright eyes; but yet she said nothing. She\nresolved that, at any rate, to him nothing more should be said about\nthe quintain that day.\n\nShe sipped her tea in silent sorrow and thought with painful\nregret of the glorious days when her great ancestor Ealfried had\nsuccessfully held Ullathorne against a Norman invader. There was no\nsuch spirit now left in her family except that small useless spark\nwhich burnt in her own bosom. And she herself, was not she at this\nmoment intent on entertaining a descendant of those very Normans,\na vain proud countess with a Frenchified name who would only think\nthat she graced Ullathorne too highly by entering its portals? Was it\nlikely that an Honourable John, the son of an Earl De Courcy, should\nride at a quintain in company with Saxon yeomen? And why should\nshe expect her brother to do that which her brother's guests would\ndecline to do?\n\nSome dim faint idea of the impracticability of her own views flitted\nacross her brain. Perhaps it was necessary that races doomed to live\non the same soil should give way to each other and adopt each other's\npursuits. Perhaps it was impossible that after more than five\ncenturies of close intercourse, Normans should remain Normans, and\nSaxons, Saxons. Perhaps, after all, her neighbours were wiser than\nherself. Such ideas did occasionally present themselves to Miss\nThorne's mind and make her sad enough. But it never occurred to\nher that her favourite quintain was but a modern copy of a Norman\nknight's amusement, an adaptation of the noble tourney to the tastes\nand habits of the Saxon yeomen. Of this she was ignorant, and it\nwould have been cruelty to instruct her.\n\nWhen Mr. Thorne saw the tear in her eye, he repented himself of his\ncontemptuous expression. By him also it was recognized as a binding\nlaw that every whim of his sister was to be respected. He was not\nperhaps so firm in his observances to her as she was in hers to him.\nBut his intentions were equally good, and whenever he found that he\nhad forgotten them, it was matter of grief to him.\n\n\"My dear Monica,\" said he, \"I beg your pardon. I don't in the least\nmean to speak ill of the game. When I called it a rattletrap, I\nmerely meant that it was so for a man of my age. You know you always\nforget that I an't a young man.\"\n\n\"I am quite sure you are not an old man, Wilfred,\" said she,\naccepting the apology in her heart and smiling at him with the tear\nstill on her cheek.\n\n\"If I was five-and-twenty, or thirty,\" continued he, \"I should like\nnothing better than riding at the quintain all day.\"\n\n\"But you are not too old to hunt or to shoot,\" said she. \"If you can\njump over a ditch and hedge, I am sure you could turn the quintain\nround.\"\n\n\"But when I ride over the hedges, my dear--and it isn't very often I\ndo that--but when I do ride over the hedges, there isn't any bag of\nflour coming after me. Think how I'd look taking the countess out to\nbreakfast with the back of my head all covered with meal.\"\n\nMiss, Thorne said nothing further. She didn't like the allusion to\nthe countess. She couldn't be satisfied with the reflection that\nthe sports at Ullathorne should be interfered with by the personal\nattentions necessary for a Lady De Courcy. But she saw that it was\nuseless for her to push the matter further. It was conceded that Mr.\nThorne was to be spared the quintain, and Miss Thorne determined to\ntrust wholly to a youthful knight of hers, an immense favourite, who,\nas she often declared, was a pattern to the young men of the age and\nan excellent sample of an English yeoman.\n\nThis was Farmer Greenacre's eldest son, who, to tell the truth, had\nfrom his earliest years taken the exact measure of Miss Thorne's\nfoot. In his boyhood he had never failed to obtain from her apples,\npocket-money, and forgiveness for his numerous trespasses; and now in\nhis early manhood he got privileges and immunities which were equally\nvaluable. He was allowed a day or two's shooting in September; he\nschooled the squire's horses; got slips of trees out of the orchard\nand roots of flowers out of the garden; and had the fishing of the\nlittle river altogether in his own hands. He had undertaken to come\nmounted on a nag of his father's and show the way at the quintain\npost. Whatever young Greenacre did the others would do after him.\nThe juvenile Lookalofts might stand aloof, but the rest of the youth\nof Ullathorne would be sure to venture if Harry Greenacre showed the\nway. And so Miss Thorne made up her mind to dispense with the noble\nJohns and Georges and trust, as her ancestors had done before her, to\nthe thews and sinews of native Ullathorne growth.\n\nAt about nine the lower orders began to congregate in the paddock and\npark, under the surveillance of Mr. Plomacy and the head gardener and\nhead groom, who were sworn in as his deputies and were to assist him\nin keeping the peace and promoting the sports. Many of the younger\ninhabitants of the neighbourhood, thinking that they could not have\ntoo much of a good thing, had come at a very early hour, and the road\nbetween the house and the church had been thronged for some time\nbefore the gates were thrown open.\n\nAnd then another difficulty of huge dimensions arose, a difficulty\nwhich Mr. Plomacy had indeed foreseen and for which he was in some\nsort provided. Some of those who wished to share Miss Thorne's\nhospitality were not so particular as they should have been as to the\npreliminary ceremony of an invitation. They doubtless conceived that\nthey had been overlooked by accident, and instead of taking this in\ndudgeon, as their betters would have done, they good-naturedly put up\nwith the slight, and showed that they did so by presenting themselves\nat the gate in their Sunday best.\n\nMr. Plomacy, however, well-knew who were welcome and who were not.\nTo some, even though uninvited, he allowed ingress. \"Don't be too\nparticular, Plomacy,\" his mistress had said, \"especially with the\nchildren. If they live anywhere near, let them in.\"\n\nActing on this hint, Mr. Plomacy did let in many an eager urchin and\na few tidily dressed girls with their swains who in no way belonged\nto the property. But to the denizens of the city he was inexorable.\nMany a Barchester apprentice made his appearance there that day and\nurged with piteous supplication that he had been working all the week\nin making saddles and boots for the use of Ullathorne, in compounding\ndoses for the horses, or cutting up carcasses for the kitchen. No\nsuch claim was allowed. Mr. Plomacy knew nothing about the city\napprentices; he was to admit the tenants and labourers on the estate;\nMiss Thorne wasn't going to take in the whole city of Barchester; and\nso on.\n\nNevertheless, before the day was half over, all this was found to be\nuseless. Almost anybody who chose to come made his way into the park,\nand the care of the guardians was transferred to the tables on which\nthe banquet was spread. Even here there was many an unauthorised\nclaimant for a place, of whom it was impossible to get quit without\nmore commotion than the place and food were worth.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI\n\nUllathorne Sports--Act I\n\n\nThe trouble in civilized life of entertaining company, as it is called\ntoo generally without much regard to strict veracity, is so great\nthat it cannot but be matter of wonder that people are so fond of\nattempting it. It is difficult to ascertain what is the _quid pro\nquo_. If they who give such laborious parties, and who endure such\ntoil and turmoil in the vain hope of giving them successfully, really\nenjoyed the parties given by others, the matter could be understood. A\nsense of justice would induce men and women to undergo, in behalf of\nothers, those miseries which others had undergone in their behalf. But\nthey all profess that going out is as great a bore as receiving, and\nto look at them when they are out, one cannot but believe them.\n\nEntertain! Who shall have sufficient self-assurance, who shall feel\nsufficient confidence in his own powers to dare to boast that he can\nentertain his company? A clown can sometimes do so, and sometimes\na dancer in short petticoats and stuffed pink legs; occasionally,\nperhaps, a singer. But beyond these, success in this art of\nentertaining is not often achieved. Young men and girls linking\nthemselves kind with kind, pairing like birds in spring because\nnature wills it, they, after a simple fashion, do entertain each\nother. Few others even try.\n\nLadies, when they open their houses, modestly confessing, it may\nbe presumed, their own incapacity, mainly trust to wax candles and\nupholstery. Gentlemen seem to rely on their white waistcoats. To\nthese are added, for the delight of the more sensual, champagne and\nsuch good things of the table as fashion allows to be still considered\nas comestible. Even in this respect the world is deteriorating. All\nthe good soups are now tabooed, and at the houses of one's accustomed\nfriends--small barristers, doctors, government clerks, and such-like\n(for we cannot all of us always live as grandees, surrounded by an\nelysium of livery servants)--one gets a cold potato handed to one as\na sort of finale to one's slice of mutton. Alas for those happy days\nwhen one could say to one's neighbour, \"Jones, shall I give you some\nmashed turnip? May I trouble you for a little cabbage?\" And then the\npleasure of drinking wine with Mrs. Jones and Miss Smith--with all the\nJoneses and all the Smiths! These latter-day habits are certainly more\neconomical.\n\nMiss Thorne, however, boldly attempted to leave the modern, beaten\ntrack, and made a positive effort to entertain her guests. Alas! She\ndid so with but moderate success. They had all their own way of going,\nand would not go her way. She piped to them, but they would not dance.\nShe offered to them good, honest household cake made of currants and\nflour and eggs and sweetmeat, but they would feed themselves on trashy\nwafers from the shop of the Barchester pastry-cook, on chalk and gum\nand adulterated sugar. Poor Miss Thorne! Yours is not the first honest\nsoul that has vainly striven to recall the glories of happy days\ngone by! If fashion suggests to a Lady De Courcy that, when invited\nto a _déjeuner_ at twelve she ought to come at three, no eloquence\nof thine will teach her the advantage of a nearer approach to\npunctuality.\n\nShe had fondly thought that when she called on her friends to come at\ntwelve, and specially begged them to believe that she meant it, she\nwould be able to see them comfortably seated in their tents at two.\nVain woman--or rather ignorant woman--ignorant of the advances of\nthat civilization which the world had witnessed while she was growing\nold. At twelve she found herself alone, dressed in all the glory of\nthe newest of her many suits of raiment--with strong shoes however,\nand a serviceable bonnet on her head, and a warm, rich shawl on her\nshoulders. Thus clad, she peered out into the tent, went to the\nha-ha, and satisfied herself that at any rate the youngsters were\namusing themselves, spoke a word to Mrs. Greenacre over the ditch,\nand took one look at the quintain. Three or four young farmers were\nturning the machine round and round and poking at the bag of flour\nin a manner not at all intended by the inventor of the game; but no\nmounted sportsmen were there. Miss Thorne looked at her watch. It was\nonly fifteen minutes past twelve, and it was understood that Harry\nGreenacre was not to begin till the half-hour.\n\nMiss Thorne returned to her drawing-room rather quicker than was her\nwont, fearing that the countess might come and find none to welcome\nher. She need not have hurried, for no one was there. At half-past\ntwelve she peeped into the kitchen; at a quarter to one she was\njoined by her brother; and just then the first fashionable arrival\ntook place. Mrs. Clantantram was announced.\n\nNo announcement was necessary, indeed, for the good lady's voice\nwas heard as she walked across the courtyard to the house, scolding\nthe unfortunate postilion who had driven her from Barchester. At\nthe moment Miss Thorne could not but be thankful that the other\nguests were more fashionable and were thus spared the fury of Mrs.\nClantantram's indignation.\n\n\"Oh, Miss Thorne, look here!\" said she as soon as she found herself\nin the drawing-room; \"do look at my roque-laure. It's clean spoilt,\nand forever. I wouldn't but wear it because I knew you wished us all\nto be grand to-day, and yet I had my misgivings. Oh dear, oh dear!\nIt was five-and-twenty shillings a yard.\"\n\nThe Barchester post-horses had misbehaved in some unfortunate manner\njust as Mrs. Clantantram was getting out of the chaise and had nearly\nthrown her under the wheel.\n\nMrs. Clantantram belonged to other days, and therefore, though she\nhad but little else to recommend her, Miss Thorne was to a certain\nextent fond of her. She sent the roque-laure away to be cleaned, and\nlent her one of her best shawls out of her own wardrobe.\n\nThe next comer was Mr. Arabin, who was immediately informed of Mrs.\nClantantram's misfortune and of her determination to pay neither\nmaster nor post-boy, although, as she remarked, she intended to get\nher lift home before she made known her mind upon that matter. Then\na good deal of rustling was heard in the sort of lobby that was used\nfor the ladies' outside cloaks, and the door having been thrown wide\nopen, the servant announced, not in the most confident of voices,\nMrs. Lookaloft, and the Miss Lookalofts, and Mr. Augustus Lookaloft.\n\nPoor man!--we mean the footman. He knew, none better, that Mrs.\nLookaloft had no business there, that she was not wanted there, and\nwould not be welcome. But he had not the courage to tell a stout lady\nwith a low dress, short sleeves, and satin at eight shillings a yard\nthat she had come to the wrong tent; he had not dared to hint to young\nladies with white dancing shoes and long gloves that there was a place\nready for them in the paddock. And thus Mrs. Lookaloft carried her\npoint, broke through the guards, and made her way into the citadel.\nThat she would have to pass an uncomfortable time there she had\nsurmised before. But nothing now could rob her of the power of\nboasting that she had consorted on the lawn with the squire and Miss\nThorne, with a countess, a bishop, and the county grandees, while Mrs.\nGreenacre and such-like were walking about with the ploughboys in\nthe park. It was a great point gained by Mrs. Lookaloft, and it might\nbe fairly expected that from this time forward the tradesmen of\nBarchester would, with undoubting pens, address her husband as T.\nLookaloft, Esquire.\n\nMrs. Lookaloft's pluck carried her through everything, and she walked\ntriumphant into the Ullathorne drawing-room; but her children did\nfeel a little abashed at the sort of reception they met with. It was\nnot in Miss Thorne's heart to insult her own guests, but neither was\nit in her disposition to overlook such effrontery.\n\n\"Oh, Mrs. Lookaloft, is this you?\" said she. \"And your daughters and\nson? Well, we're very glad to see you, but I'm sorry you've come in\nsuch low dresses, as we are all going out of doors. Could we lend\nyou anything?\"\n\n\"Oh dear, no thank ye, Miss Thorne,\" said the mother; \"the girls and\nmyself are quite used to low dresses, when we're out.\"\n\n\"Are you, indeed?\" said Miss Thorne shuddering--but the shudder was\nlost on Mrs. Lookaloft.\n\n\"And where's Lookaloft?\" said the master of the house, coming up to\nwelcome his tenant's wife. Let the faults of the family be what they\nwould, he could not but remember that their rent was well paid; he\nwas therefore not willing to give them a cold shoulder.\n\n\"Such a headache, Mr. Thorne!\" said Mrs. Lookaloft. \"In fact he\ncouldn't stir, or you may be certain on such a day he would not have\nabsented hisself.\"\n\n\"Dear me,\" said Miss Thorne. \"If he is so ill, I'm sure you'd wish\nto be with him.\"\n\n\"Not at all!\" said Mrs. Lookaloft. \"Not at all, Miss Thorne. It is\nonly bilious you know, and when he's that way, he can bear nobody\nnigh him.\"\n\nThe fact, however, was that Mr. Lookaloft, having either more sense\nor less courage than his wife, had not chosen to intrude on Miss\nThorne's drawing-room, and as he could not very well have gone among\nthe plebeians while his wife was with the patricians, he thought it\nmost expedient to remain at Rosebank.\n\nMrs. Lookaloft soon found herself on a sofa, and the Miss Lookalofts\non two chairs, while Mr. Augustus stood near the door; and here they\nremained till in due time they were seated, all four together, at the\nbottom of the dining-room table.\n\nThen the Grantlys came--the archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly and the two\ngirls, and Dr. Gwynne and Mr. Harding. As ill-luck would have it,\nthey were closely followed by Dr. Stanhope's carriage. As Eleanor\nlooked out of the carriage window, she saw her brother-in-law helping\nthe ladies out and threw herself back into her seat, dreading to be\ndiscovered. She had had an odious journey. Mr. Slope's civility had\nbeen more than ordinarily greasy; and now, though he had not in fact\nsaid anything which she could notice, she had for the first time\nentertained a suspicion that he was intending to make love to her.\nWas it after all true that she had been conducting herself in a way\nthat justified the world in thinking that she liked the man? After\nall, could it be possible that the archdeacon and Mr. Arabin were\nright, and that she was wrong? Charlotte Stanhope had also been\nwatching Mr. Slope and had come to the conclusion that it behoved her\nbrother to lose no further time, if he meant to gain the widow. She\nalmost regretted that it had not been contrived that Bertie should be\nat Ullathorne before them.\n\nDr. Grantly did not see his sister-in-law in company with Mr. Slope,\nbut Mr. Arabin did. Mr. Arabin came out with Mr. Thorne to the front\ndoor to welcome Mrs. Grantly, and he remained in the courtyard till\nall their party had passed on. Eleanor hung back in the carriage as\nlong as she well could, but she was nearest to the door, and when Mr.\nSlope, having alighted, offered her his hand, she had no alternative\nbut to take it. Mr. Arabin, standing at the open door while Mrs.\nGrantly was shaking hands with someone within, saw a clergyman alight\nfrom the carriage whom he at once knew to be Mr. Slope, and then\nhe saw this clergyman hand out Mrs. Bold. Having seen so much, Mr.\nArabin, rather sick at heart, followed Mrs. Grantly into the house.\n\nEleanor was, however, spared any further immediate degradation, for\nDr. Stanhope gave her his arm across the courtyard, and Mr. Slope was\nfain to throw away his attention upon Charlotte.\n\nThey had hardly passed into the house, and from the house to the lawn,\nwhen, with a loud rattle and such noise as great men and great women\nare entitled to make in their passage through the world, the Proudies\ndrove up. It was soon apparent that no everyday comer was at the\ndoor. One servant whispered to another that it was the bishop, and\nthe word soon ran through all the hangers-on and strange grooms and\ncoachmen about the place. There was quite a little cortège to see\nthe bishop and his \"lady\" walk across the courtyard, and the good man\nwas pleased to see that the church was held in such respect in the\nparish of St. Ewold's.\n\nAnd now the guests came fast and thick, and the lawn began to be\ncrowded, and the room to be full. Voices buzzed, silk rustled against\nsilk, and muslin crumpled against muslin. Miss Thorne became more\nhappy than she had been, and again bethought her of her sports. There\nwere targets and bows and arrows prepared at the further end of the\nlawn. Here the gardens of the place encroached with a somewhat wide\nsweep upon the paddock and gave ample room for the doings of the\ntoxophilites. Miss Thorne got together such daughters of Diana as\ncould bend a bow and marshalled them to the targets. There were the\nGrantly girls and the Proudie girls and the Chadwick girls, and the\ntwo daughters of the burly chancellor, and Miss Knowle; and with them\nwent Frederick and Augustus Chadwick, and young Knowle of Knowle\nPark, and Frank Foster of the Elms, and Mr. Vellem Deeds, the dashing\nattorney of the High Street, and the Rev. Mr. Green, and the Rev. Mr.\nBrown, and the Rev. Mr. White, all of whom, as in duty bound, attended\nthe steps of the three Miss Proudies.\n\n\"Did you ever ride at the quintain, Mr. Foster?\" said Miss Thorne as\nshe walked with her party across the lawn.\n\n\"The quintain?\" said young Foster, who considered himself a dab at\nhorsemanship. \"Is it a sort of gate, Miss Thorne?\"\n\nMiss Thorne had to explain the noble game she spoke of, and Frank\nFoster had to own that he never had ridden at the quintain.\n\n\"Would you like to come and see?\" said Miss Thorne. \"There'll be\nplenty here you know without you, if you like it.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't mind,\" said Frank. \"I suppose the ladies can come\ntoo.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" said Miss Thorne; \"those who like it. I have no doubt\nthey'll go to see your prowess, if you'll ride, Mr. Foster.\"\n\nMr. Foster looked down at a most unexceptionable pair of pantaloons,\nwhich had arrived from London only the day before. They were the\nvery things, at least he thought so, for a picnic or fête champêtre,\nbut he was not prepared to ride in them. Nor was he more encouraged\nthan had been Mr. Thorne by the idea of being attacked from behind by\nthe bag of flour, which Miss Thorne had graphically described to him.\n\n\"Well, I don't know about riding, Miss Thorne,\" said he; \"I fear I'm\nnot quite prepared.\"\n\nMiss Thorne sighed but said nothing further. She left the toxophilites\nto their bows and arrows and returned towards the house. But as she\npassed by the entrance to the small park, she thought that she might\nat any rate encourage the yeomen by her presence, as she could not\ninduce her more fashionable guests to mix with them in their manly\namusements. Accordingly she once more betook herself to the quintain\npost.\n\nHere to her great delight she found Harry Greenacre ready mounted,\nwith his pole in his hand, and a lot of comrades standing round him,\nencouraging him to the assault. She stood at a little distance and\nnodded to him in token of her good pleasure.\n\n\"Shall I begin, ma'am?\" said Harry, fingering his long staff in a\nrather awkward way, while his horse moved uneasily beneath him, not\naccustomed to a rider armed with such a weapon.\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" said Miss Thorne, standing triumphant as the queen of\nbeauty on an inverted tub which some chance had brought thither from\nthe farmyard.\n\n\"Here goes then,\" said Harry as he wheeled his horse round to get the\nnecessary momentum of a sharp gallop. The quintain post stood right\nbefore him, and the square board at which he was to tilt was fairly\nin his way. If he hit that duly in the middle, and maintained his\npace as he did so, it was calculated that he would be carried out\nof reach of the flour bag, which, suspended at the other end of the\ncross-bar on the post, would swing round when the board was struck.\nIt was also calculated that if the rider did not maintain his pace,\nhe would get a blow from the flour bag just at the back of his\nhead, and bear about him the signs of his awkwardness to the great\namusement of the lookers-on.\n\nHarry Greenacre did not object to being powdered with flour in the\nservice of his mistress and therefore gallantly touched his steed\nwith his spur, having laid his lance in rest to the best of his\nability. But his ability in this respect was not great, and his\nappurtenances probably not very good; consequently, he struck his\nhorse with his pole unintentionally on the side of the head as he\nstarted. The animal swerved and shied and galloped off wide of the\nquintain. Harry, well-accustomed to manage a horse, but not to do\nso with a twelve-foot rod on his arm, lowered his right hand to the\nbridle, and thus the end of the lance came to the ground and got\nbetween the legs of the steed. Down came rider and steed and staff.\nYoung Greenacre was thrown some six feet over the horse's head, and\npoor Miss Thorne almost fell off her tub in a swoon.\n\n\"Oh, gracious, he's killed,\" shrieked a woman who was near him when\nhe fell.\n\n\"The Lord be good to him! His poor mother, his poor mother!\" said\nanother.\n\n\"Well, drat them dangerous plays all the world over,\" said an old\ncrone.\n\n\"He has broke his neck sure enough, if ever man did,\" said a fourth.\n\nPoor Miss Thorne. She heard all this and yet did not quite swoon.\nShe made her way through the crowd as best she could, sick herself\nalmost to death. Oh, his mother--his poor mother! How could she\never forgive herself. The agony of that moment was terrific. She\ncould hardly get to the place where the poor lad was lying, as three\nor four men in front were about the horse, which had risen with some\ndifficulty, but at last she found herself close to the young farmer.\n\n\"Has he marked himself? For heaven's sake tell me that: has he marked\nhis knees?\" said Harry, slowly rising and rubbing his left shoulder\nwith his right hand and thinking only of his horse's legs. Miss Thorne\nsoon found that he had not broken his neck, nor any of his bones, nor\nbeen injured in any essential way. But from that time forth she never\ninstigated anyone to ride at a quintain.\n\nEleanor left Dr. Stanhope as soon as she could do so civilly and went\nin quest of her father, whom she found on the lawn in company with Mr.\nArabin. She was not sorry to find them together. She was anxious to\ndisabuse at any rate her father's mind as to this report which had got\nabroad respecting her, and would have been well pleased to have been\nable to do the same with regard to Mr. Arabin. She put her own through\nher father's arm, coming up behind his back, and then tendered her\nhand also to the vicar of St. Ewold's.\n\n\"And how did you come?\" said Mr. Harding, when the first greeting was\nover.\n\n\"The Stanhopes brought me,\" said she; \"their carriage was obliged\nto come twice, and has now gone back for the signora.\" As she spoke\nshe caught Mr. Arabin's eye and saw that he was looking pointedly at\nher with a severe expression. She understood at once the accusation\ncontained in his glance. It said as plainly as an eye could speak,\n\"Yes, you came with the Stanhopes, but you did so in order that you\nmight be in company with Mr. Slope.\"\n\n\"Our party,\" said she, still addressing her father, \"consisted of\nthe doctor and Charlotte Stanhope, myself, and Mr. Slope.\" As she\nmentioned the last name she felt her father's arm quiver slightly\nbeneath her touch. At the same moment Mr. Arabin turned away from\nthem and, joining his hands behind his back, strolled slowly away by\none of the paths.\n\n\"Papa,\" said she, \"it was impossible to help coming in the same\ncarriage with Mr. Slope; it was quite impossible. I had promised to\ncome with them before I dreamt of his coming, and afterwards I could\nnot get out of it without explaining and giving rise to talk. You\nweren't at home, you know. I couldn't possibly help it.\" She said\nall this so quickly that by the time her apology was spoken she was\nquite out of breath.\n\n\"I don't know why you should have wished to help it, my dear,\" said\nher father.\n\n\"Yes, Papa, you do. You must know, you do know all the things they\nsaid at Plumstead. I am sure you do. You know all the archdeacon\nsaid. How unjust he was; and Mr. Arabin too. He's a horrid man, a\nhorrid odious man, but--\"\n\n\"Who is an odious man, my dear? Mr. Arabin?\"\n\n\"No; but Mr. Slope. You know I mean Mr. Slope. He's the most odious\nman I ever met in my life, and it was most unfortunate my having to\ncome here in the same carriage with him. But how could I help it?\"\n\nA great weight began to move itself off Mr. Harding's mind. So, after\nall, the archdeacon with all his wisdom, and Mrs. Grantly with all her\ntact, and Mr. Arabin with all his talent, were in the wrong. His own\nchild, his Eleanor, the daughter of whom he was so proud, was not to\nbecome the wife of a Mr. Slope. He had been about to give his sanction\nto the marriage, so certified had he been of the fact, and now he\nlearnt that this imputed lover of Eleanor's was at any rate as much\ndisliked by her as by any one of the family. Mr. Harding, however, was\nby no means sufficiently a man of the world to conceal the blunder he\nhad made. He could not pretend that he had entertained no suspicion;\nhe could not make believe that he had never joined the archdeacon in\nhis surmises. He was greatly surprised, and gratified beyond measure,\nand he could not help showing that such was the case.\n\n\"My darling girl,\" said he, \"I am so delighted, so overjoyed. My own\nchild; you have taken such a weight off my mind.\"\n\n\"But surely, Papa, _you_ didn't think--\"\n\n\"I didn't know what to think, my dear. The archdeacon told me\nthat--\"\n\n\"The archdeacon!\" said Eleanor, her face lighting up with passion.\n\"A man like the archdeacon might, one would think, be better employed\nthan in traducing his sister-in-law and creating bitterness between a\nfather and his daughter!\"\n\n\"He didn't mean to do that, Eleanor.\"\n\n\"What did he mean then? Why did he interfere with me and fill your\nmind with such falsehood?\"\n\n\"Never mind it now, my child; never mind it now. We shall all know\nyou better now.\"\n\n\"Oh, Papa, that you should have thought it! That you should have\nsuspected me!\"\n\n\"I don't know what you mean by suspicion, Eleanor. There would be\nnothing disgraceful, you know, nothing wrong in such a marriage.\nNothing that could have justified my interfering as your father.\"\nAnd Mr. Harding would have proceeded in his own defence to make out\nthat Mr. Slope after all was a very good sort of man and a very\nfitting second husband for a young widow, had he not been interrupted\nby Eleanor's greater energy.\n\n\"It would be disgraceful,\" said she; \"it would be wrong; it would\nbe abominable. Could I do such a horrid thing, I should expect no\none to speak to me. Ugh--\" and she shuddered as she thought of the\nmatrimonial torch which her friends had been so ready to light on her\nbehalf. \"I don't wonder at Dr. Grantly; I don't wonder at Susan; but,\noh, Papa, I do wonder at you. How could you, how could you believe\nit?\" Poor Eleanor, as she thought of her father's defalcation, could\nresist her tears no longer, and was forced to cover her face with her\nhandkerchief.\n\nThe place was not very opportune for her grief. They were walking\nthrough the shrubberies, and there were many people near them. Poor\nMr. Harding stammered out his excuse as best he could, and Eleanor\nwith an effort controlled her tears and returned her handkerchief to\nher pocket. She did not find it difficult to forgive her father, nor\ncould she altogether refuse to join him in the returning gaiety of\nspirit to which her present avowal gave rise. It was such a load off\nhis heart to think that he should not be called on to welcome Mr.\nSlope as his son-in-law. It was such a relief to him to find that\nhis daughter's feelings and his own were now, as they ever had been,\nin unison. He had been so unhappy for the last six weeks about this\nwretched Mr. Slope! He was so indifferent as to the loss of the\nhospital, so thankful for the recovery of his daughter, that, strong\nas was the ground for Eleanor's anger, she could not find it in her\nheart to be long angry with him.\n\n\"Dear Papa,\" she said, hanging closely to his arm, \"never suspect me\nagain: promise me that you never will. Whatever I do you may be sure\nI shall tell you first; you may be sure I shall consult you.\"\n\nAnd Mr. Harding did promise, and owned his sin, and promised again.\nAnd so, while he promised amendment and she uttered forgiveness, they\nreturned together to the drawing-room windows.\n\nAnd what had Eleanor meant when she declared that _whatever she did_,\nshe would tell her father first? What was she thinking of doing?\n\nSo ended the first act of the melodrama which Eleanor was called on\nto perform this day at Ullathorne.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII\n\nThe Signora Neroni, the Countess De Courcy, and Mrs. Proudie Meet\nEach Other at Ullathorne\n\n\nAnd now there were new arrivals. Just as Eleanor reached the\ndrawing-room the signora was being wheeled into it. She had been\nbrought out of the carriage into the dining-room and there placed on\na sofa, and was now in the act of entering the other room, by the\njoint aid of her brother and sister, Mr. Arabin, and two servants in\nlivery. She was all in her glory, and looked so pathetically happy,\nso full of affliction and grace, was so beautiful, so pitiable, and\nso charming that it was almost impossible not to be glad she was\nthere.\n\nMiss Thorne was unaffectedly glad to welcome her. In fact, the signora\nwas a sort of lion; and though there was no drop of the Leohunter\nblood in Miss Thorne's veins, she nevertheless did like to see\nattractive people at her house. The signora was attractive, and on her\nfirst settlement in the dining-room she had whispered two or three\nsoft feminine words into Miss Thorne's ear which, at the moment, had\nquite touched that lady's heart.\n\n\"Oh, Miss Thorne; where is Miss Thorne?\" she said as soon as her\nattendants had placed her in her position just before one of the\nwindows, from whence she could see all that was going on upon the\nlawn. \"How am I to thank you for permitting a creature like me to be\nhere? But if you knew the pleasure you give me, I am sure you would\nexcuse the trouble I bring with me.\" And as she spoke she squeezed\nthe spinster's little hand between her own.\n\n\"We are delighted to see you here,\" said Miss Thorne; \"you give us no\ntrouble at all, and we think it a great favour conferred by you to\ncome and see us--don't we, Wilfred?\"\n\n\"A very great favour indeed,\" said Mr. Thorne with a gallant bow but\nof a somewhat less cordial welcome than that conceded by his sister.\nMr. Thorne had heard perhaps more of the antecedents of his guest\nthan his sister had done, and had not as yet undergone the power of\nthe signora's charms.\n\nBut while the mother of the last of the Neros was thus in her full\nsplendour, with crowds of people gazing at her and the élite of the\ncompany standing round her couch, her glory was paled by the arrival\nof the Countess De Courcy. Miss Thorne had now been waiting three\nhours for the countess, and could not therefore but show very evident\ngratification when the arrival at last took place. She and her\nbrother of course went off to welcome the titled grandees, and with\nthem, alas, went many of the signora's admirers.\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Thorne,\" said the countess, while in the act of being\ndisrobed of her fur cloaks and rerobed in her gauze shawls, \"what\ndreadful roads you have; perfectly frightful.\"\n\nIt happened that Mr. Thorne was waywarden for the district and, not\nliking the attack, began to excuse his roads.\n\n\"Oh, yes, indeed they are,\" said the countess not minding him in the\nleast; \"perfectly dreadful--are they not, Margaretta? Why, my dear\nMiss Thorne, we left Courcy Castle just at eleven; it was only just\npast eleven, was it not, George? And--\"\n\n\"Just past one I think you mean,\" said the Honourable George, turning\nfrom the group and eyeing the signora through his glass. The signora\ngave him back his own, as the saying is, and more with it, so that\nthe young nobleman was forced to avert his glance and drop his glass.\n\n\"I say, Thorne,\" whispered he, \"who the deuce is that on the sofa?\"\n\n\"Dr. Stanhope's daughter,\" whispered back Mr. Thorne. \"Signora\nNeroni, she calls herself.\"\n\n\"Whew--ew--ew!\" whistled the Honourable George. \"The devil she is.\nI have heard no end of stories about that filly. You must positively\nintroduce me, Thorne; you positively must.\"\n\nMr. Thorne, who was respectability itself, did not quite like having\na guest about whom the Honourable George De Courcy had heard no end\nof stories, but he couldn't help himself. He merely resolved that\nbefore he went to bed he would let his sister know somewhat of the\nhistory of the lady she was so willing to welcome. The innocence of\nMiss Thorne at her time of life was perfectly charming, but even\ninnocence may be dangerous.\n\n\"George may say what he likes,\" continued the countess, urging her\nexcuses to Miss Thorne; \"I am sure we were past the castle gate before\ntwelve--weren't we, Margaretta?\"\n\n\"Upon my word I don't know,\" said the Lady Margaretta, \"for I was\nhalf-asleep. But I do know that I was called some time in the middle\nof the night and was dressing myself before daylight.\"\n\nWise people, when they are in the wrong, always put themselves right\nby finding fault with the people against whom they have sinned. Lady\nDe Courcy was a wise woman, and therefore, having treated Miss Thorne\nvery badly by staying away till three o'clock, she assumed the\noffensive and attacked Mr. Thorne's roads. Her daughter, not less\nwise, attacked Miss Thorne's early hours. The art of doing this\nis among the most precious of those usually cultivated by persons\nwho know how to live. There is no withstanding it. Who can go\nsystematically to work and, having done battle with the primary\naccusation and settled that, then bring forward a countercharge and\nsupport that also? Life is not long enough for such labours. A man\nin the right relies easily on his rectitude and therefore goes about\nunarmed. His very strength is his weakness. A man in the wrong knows\nthat he must look to his weapons; his very weakness is his strength.\nThe one is never prepared for combat, the other is always ready.\nTherefore it is that in this world the man that is in the wrong almost\ninvariably conquers the man that is in the right, and invariably\ndespises him.\n\nA man must be an idiot or else an angel who, after the age of forty,\nshall attempt to be just to his neighbours. Many like the Lady\nMargaretta have learnt their lesson at a much earlier age. But this\nof course depends on the school in which they have been taught.\n\nPoor Miss Thorne was altogether overcome. She knew very well that\nshe had been ill-treated, and yet she found herself making apologies\nto Lady De Courcy. To do her ladyship justice, she received them very\ngraciously, and allowed herself, with her train of daughters, to be\nled towards the lawn.\n\nThere were two windows in the drawing-room wide open for the countess\nto pass through, but she saw that there was a woman on a sofa, at\nthe third window, and that that woman had, as it were, a following\nattached to her. Her ladyship therefore determined to investigate\nthe woman. The De Courcy's were hereditarily shortsighted, and had\nbeen so for thirty centuries at least. So Lady De Courcy, who when\nshe entered the family had adopted the family habits, did as her son\nhad done before her and, taking her glass to investigate the Signora\nNeroni, pressed in among the gentlemen who surrounded the couch, and\nbowed slightly to those whom she chose to honour by her acquaintance.\n\nIn order to get to the window she had to pass close to the front of\nthe couch, and as she did so she stared hard at the occupant. The\noccupant, in return, stared hard at the countess. The countess, who,\nsince her countess-ship commenced, had been accustomed to see all\neyes not royal, ducal, or marquesal fall before her own, paused as\nshe went on, raised her eyebrows, and stared even harder than before.\nBut she had now to do with one who cared little for countesses. It\nwas, one may say, impossible for mortal man or woman to abash Madeline\nNeroni. She opened her large, bright, lustrous eyes wider and wider,\ntill she seemed to be all eyes. She gazed up into the lady's face, not\nas though she did it with an effort, but as if she delighted in doing\nit. She used no glass to assist her effrontery, and needed none. The\nfaintest possible smile of derision played round her mouth, and her\nnostrils were slightly dilated, as if in sure anticipation of her\ntriumph. And it was sure. The Countess De Courcy, in spite of her\nthirty centuries and De Courcy Castle, and the fact that Lord De\nCourcy was grand master of the ponies to the Prince of Wales, had not\na chance with her. At first the little circlet of gold wavered in\nthe countess's hand, then the hand shook, then the circlet fell, the\ncountess's head tossed itself into the air, and the countess's feet\nshambled out to the lawn. She did not, however, go so fast but what\nshe heard the signora's voice, asking:\n\n\"Who on earth is that woman, Mr. Slope?\"\n\n\"That is Lady De Courcy.\"\n\n\"Oh, ah. I might have supposed so. Ha, ha, ha. Well, that's as good\nas a play.\"\n\nIt was as good as a play to any there who had eyes to observe it and\nwit to comment on what they observed.\n\nBut the Lady De Courcy soon found a congenial spirit on the lawn.\nThere she encountered Mrs. Proudie, and as Mrs. Proudie was not only\nthe wife of a bishop but was also the cousin of an earl, Lady De\nCourcy considered her to be the fittest companion she was likely to\nmeet in that assemblage. They were accordingly delighted to see each\nother. Mrs. Proudie by no means despised a countess, and as this\ncountess lived in the county and within a sort of extensive visiting\ndistance of Barchester, she was glad to have this opportunity of\ningratiating herself.\n\n\"My dear Lady De Courcy, I am so delighted,\" said she, looking as\nlittle grim as it was in her nature to do. \"I hardly expected to see\nyou here. It is such a distance, and then, you know, such a crowd.\"\n\n\"And such roads, Mrs. Proudie! I really wonder how the people ever\nget about. But I don't suppose they ever do.\"\n\n\"Well, I really don't know, but I suppose not. The Thornes don't, I\nknow,\" said Mrs. Proudie. \"Very nice person, Miss Thorne, isn't she?\"\n\n\"Oh, delightful, and so queer; I've known her these twenty years. A\ngreat pet of mine is dear Miss Thorne. She is so very strange, you\nknow. She always makes me think of the Eskimos and the Indians. Isn't\nher dress quite delightful?\"\n\n\"Delightful,\" said Mrs. Proudie. \"I wonder now whether she paints.\nDid you ever see such colour?\"\n\n\"Oh, of course,\" said Lady De Courcy; \"that is, I have no doubt\nshe does. But, Mrs. Proudie, who is that woman on the sofa by the\nwindow? Just step this way and you'll see her, there--\" and the\ncountess led her to a spot where she could plainly see the signora's\nwell-remembered face and figure.\n\nShe did not however do so without being equally well seen by the\nsignora. \"Look, look,\" said that lady to Mr. Slope, who was still\nstanding near to her; \"see the high spiritualities and temporalities\nof the land in league together, and all against poor me. I'll wager\nmy bracelet, Mr. Slope, against your next sermon that they've taken\nup their position there on purpose to pull me to pieces. Well, I\ncan't rush to the combat, but I know how to protect myself if the\nenemy come near me.\"\n\nBut the enemy knew better. They could gain nothing by contact with\nthe Signora Neroni, and they could abuse her as they pleased at a\ndistance from her on the lawn.\n\n\"She's that horrid Italian woman, Lady De Courcy; you must have heard\nof her.\"\n\n\"What Italian woman?\" said her ladyship, quite alive to the coming\nstory. \"I don't think I've heard of any Italian woman coming into\nthe country. She doesn't look Italian, either.\"\n\n\"Oh, you must have heard of her,\" said Mrs. Proudie. \"No, she's not\nabsolutely Italian. She is Dr. Stanhope's daughter--Dr. Stanhope the\nprebendary--and she calls herself the Signora Neroni.\"\n\n\"Oh-h-h-h!\" exclaimed the countess.\n\n\"I was sure you had heard of her,\" continued Mrs. Proudie. \"I don't\nknow anything about her husband. They do say that some man named\nNeroni is still alive. I believe she did marry such a man abroad,\nbut I do not at all know who or what he was.\"\n\n\"Oh-h-h-h!\" exclaimed the countess, shaking her head with much\nintelligence, as every additional \"h\" fell from her lips. \"I know\nall about it now. I have heard George mention her. George knows all\nabout her. George heard about her in Rome.\"\n\n\"She's an abominable woman, at any rate,\" said Mrs. Proudie.\n\n\"Insufferable,\" said the countess.\n\n\"She made her way into the palace once, before I knew anything about\nher, and I cannot tell you how dreadfully indecent her conduct was.\"\n\n\"Was it?\" said the delighted countess.\n\n\"Insufferable,\" said the prelatess.\n\n\"But why does she lie on a sofa?\" asked Lady De Courcy.\n\n\"She has only one leg,\" replied Mrs. Proudie.\n\n\"Only one leg!\" said Lady De Courcy, who felt to a certain degree\ndissatisfied that the signora was thus incapacitated. \"Was she born\nso?\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" said Mrs. Proudie--and her ladyship felt some what\nrecomforted by the assurance--\"she had two. But that Signor Neroni\nbeat her, I believe, till she was obliged to have one amputated. At\nany rate, she entirely lost the use of it.\"\n\n\"Unfortunate creature!\" said the countess, who herself knew something\nof matrimonial trials.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mrs. Proudie, \"one would pity her in spite of her past\nbad conduct, if she now knew how to behave herself. But she does not.\nShe is the most insolent creature I ever put my eyes on.\"\n\n\"Indeed she is,\" said Lady De Courcy.\n\n\"And her conduct with men is so abominable that she is not fit to be\nadmitted into any lady's drawing-room.\"\n\n\"Dear me!\" said the countess, becoming again excited, happy and\nmerciless.\n\n\"You saw that man standing near her--the clergyman with the red hair?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes.\"\n\n\"She has absolutely ruined that man. The bishop--or I should rather\ntake the blame on myself, for it was I--I brought him down from London\nto Barchester. He is a tolerable preacher, an active young man, and I\ntherefore introduced him to the bishop. That woman, Lady De Courcy,\nhas got hold of him and has so disgraced him that I am forced to\nrequire that he shall leave the palace; and I doubt very much whether\nhe won't lose his gown!\"\n\n\"Why, what an idiot the man must be!\" said the countess.\n\n\"You don't know the intriguing villainy of that woman,\" said Mrs.\nProudie, remembering her torn flounces.\n\n\"But you say she has only got one leg!\"\n\n\"She is as full of mischief as tho' she had ten. Look at her eyes,\nLady De Courcy. Did you ever see such eyes in a decent woman's head?\"\n\n\"Indeed, I never did, Mrs. Proudie.\"\n\n\"And her effrontery, and her voice! I quite pity her poor father, who\nis really a good sort of man.\"\n\n\"Dr. Stanhope, isn't he?\"\n\n\"Yes, Dr. Stanhope. He is one of our prebendaries--a good, quiet sort\nof man himself. But I am surprised that he should let his daughter\nconduct herself as she does.\"\n\n\"I suppose he can't help it,\" said the countess.\n\n\"But a clergyman, you know, Lady De Courcy! He should at any rate\nprevent her from exhibiting in public, if he cannot induce her to\nbehave at home. But he is to be pitied. I believe he has a desperate\nlife of it with the lot of them. That apish-looking man there, with\nthe long beard and the loose trousers--he is the woman's brother. He\nis nearly as bad as she is. They are both of them infidels.\"\n\n\"Infidels!\" said Lady De Courcy, \"and their father a prebendary!\"\n\n\"Yes, and likely to be the new dean, too,\" said Mrs. Proudie.\n\n\"Oh, yes, poor dear Dr. Trefoil!\" said the countess, who had once in\nher life spoken to that gentleman. \"I was so distressed to hear it,\nMrs. Proudie. And so Dr. Stanhope is to be the new dean! He comes\nof an excellent family, and I wish him success in spite of his\ndaughter. Perhaps, Mrs. Proudie, when he is dean, they'll be better\nable to see the error of their ways.\"\n\nTo this Mrs. Proudie said nothing. Her dislike of the Signora Neroni\nwas too deep to admit of her even hoping that that lady should see\nthe error of her ways. Mrs. Proudie looked on the signora as one of\nthe lost--one of those beyond the reach of Christian charity--and was\ntherefore able to enjoy the luxury of hating her without the drawback\nof wishing her eventually well out of her sins.\n\nAny further conversation between these congenial souls was prevented\nby the advent of Mr. Thorne, who came to lead the countess to the\ntent. Indeed, he had been desired to do so some ten minutes since,\nbut he had been delayed in the drawing-room by the signora. She had\ncontrived to detain him, to get him near to her sofa, and at last\nto make him seat himself on a chair close to her beautiful arm. The\nfish took the bait, was hooked, and caught, and landed. Within that\nten minutes he had heard the whole of the signora's history in such\nstrains as she chose to use in telling it. He learnt from the lady's\nown lips the whole of that mysterious tale to which the Honourable\nGeorge had merely alluded. He discovered that the beautiful creature\nlying before him had been more sinned against than sinning. She had\nowned to him that she had been weak, confiding, and indifferent to the\nworld's opinion, and that she had therefore been ill-used, deceived,\nand evil spoken of. She had spoken to him of her mutilated limb, her\nyouth destroyed in fullest bloom, her beauty robbed of its every\ncharm, her life blighted, her hopes withered, and as she did so a tear\ndropped from her eye to her cheek. She had told him of these things\nand asked for his sympathy.\n\nWhat could a good-natured, genial, Anglo-Saxon Squire Thorne do but\npromise to sympathize with her? Mr. Thorne did promise to sympathize;\npromised also to come and see the last of the Neros, to hear more of\nthose fearful Roman days, of those light and innocent but dangerous\nhours which flitted by so fast on the shores of Como, and to make\nhimself the confidant of the signora's sorrows.\n\nWe need hardly say that he dropped all idea of warning his sister\nagainst the dangerous lady. He had been mistaken--never so much\nmistaken in his life. He had always regarded that Honourable George\nas a coarse, brutal-minded young man; now he was more convinced than\never that he was so. It was by such men as the Honourable George that\nthe reputations of such women as Madeline Neroni were imperilled and\ndamaged. He would go and see the lady in her own house; he was fully\nsure in his own mind of the soundness of his own judgement; if he\nfound her, as he believed he should do, an injured, well-disposed,\nwarm-hearted woman, he would get his sister Monica to invite her out\nto Ullathorne.\n\n\"No,\" said she, as at her instance he got up to leave her and declared\nthat he himself would attend upon her wants; \"no, no, my friend; I\npositively put a veto upon your doing so. What, in your own house,\nwith an assemblage round you such as there is here! Do you wish to\nmake every woman hate me and every man stare at me? I lay a positive\norder on you not to come near me again to-day. Come and see me at\nhome. It is only at home that I can talk, it is only at home that I\nreally can live and enjoy myself. My days of going out, days such as\nthese, are rare indeed. Come and see me at home, Mr. Thorne, and then\nI will not bid you to leave me.\"\n\nIt is, we believe, common with young men of five-and-twenty to look\non their seniors--on men of, say, double their own age--as so many\nstocks and stones--stocks and stones, that is, in regard to feminine\nbeauty. There never was a greater mistake. Women, indeed, generally\nknow better, but on this subject men of one age are thoroughly\nignorant of what is the very nature of mankind of other ages. No\nexperience of what goes on in the world, no reading of history, no\nobservation of life, has any effect in teaching the truth. Men of\nfifty don't dance mazurkas, being generally too fat and wheezy; nor\ndo they sit for the hour together on river-banks at their mistresses'\nfeet, being somewhat afraid of rheumatism. But for real true\nlove--love at first sight, love to devotion, love that robs a man of\nhis sleep, love that \"will gaze an eagle blind,\" love that \"will hear\nthe lowest sound when the suspicious tread of theft is stopped,\" love\nthat is \"like a Hercules, still climbing trees in the Hesperides\"--we\nbelieve the best age is from forty-five to seventy; up to that, men\nare generally given to mere flirting.\n\nAt the present moment Mr. Thorne, _ætat_. fifty, was over head and\nears in love at first sight with the Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni,\nnata Stanhope.\n\nNevertheless, he was sufficiently master of himself to offer his arm\nwith all propriety to Lady De Courcy, and the countess graciously\npermitted herself to be led to the tent. Such had been Miss Thorne's\norders, as she had succeeded in inducing the bishop to lead old Lady\nKnowle to the top of the dining-room. One of the baronets was sent\noff in quest of Mrs. Proudie and found that lady on the lawn not in\nthe best of humours. Mr. Thorne and the countess had left her too\nabruptly; she had in vain looked about for an attendant chaplain, or\neven a stray curate; they were all drawing long bows with the young\nladies at the bottom of the lawn, or finding places for their graceful\nco-toxophilites in some snug corner of the tent. In such position Mrs.\nProudie had been wont in earlier days to fall back upon Mr. Slope, but\nnow she could never fall back upon him again. She gave her head one\nshake as she thought of her lone position, and that shake was as good\nas a week deducted from Mr. Slope's longer sojourn in Barchester. Sir\nHarkaway Gorse, however, relieved her present misery, though his doing\nso by no means mitigated the sinning chaplain's doom.\n\nAnd now the eating and drinking began in earnest. Dr. Grantly, to\nhis great horror, found himself leagued to Mrs. Clantantram. Mrs.\nClantantram had a great regard for the archdeacon, which was not\ncordially returned, and when she, coming up to him, whispered in his\near, \"Come, Archdeacon, I'm sure you won't begrudge an old friend the\nfavour of your arm,\" and then proceeded to tell him the whole history\nof her roquelaure, he resolved that he would shake her off before he\nwas fifteen minutes older. But latterly the archdeacon had not been\nsuccessful in his resolutions, and on the present occasion Mrs.\nClantantram stuck to him till the banquet was over.\n\nDr. Gwynne got a baronet's wife, and Mrs. Grantly fell to the lot\nof a baronet. Charlotte Stanhope attached herself to Mr. Harding in\norder to make room for Bertie, who succeeded in sitting down in the\ndining-room next to Mrs. Bold. To speak sooth, now that he had love\nin earnest to make, his heart almost failed him.\n\nEleanor had been right glad to avail herself of his arm, seeing that\nMr. Slope was hovering nigh her. In striving to avoid that terrible\nCharybdis of a Slope she was in great danger of falling into an\nunseen Scylla on the other hand, that Scylla being Bertie Stanhope.\nNothing could be more gracious than she was to Bertie. She almost\njumped at his proffered arm. Charlotte perceived this from a distance\nand triumphed in her heart; Bertie felt it and was encouraged; Mr.\nSlope saw it and glowered with jealousy. Eleanor and Bertie sat down\nto table in the dining-room, and as she took her seat at his right\nhand she found that Mr. Slope was already in possession of the chair\nat her own.\n\nAs these things were going on in the dining-room, Mr. Arabin was\nhanging enraptured and alone over the signora's sofa, and Eleanor\nfrom her seat could look through the open door and see that he was\ndoing so.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII\n\nThe Bishop Sits Down to Breakfast, and the Dean Dies\n\n\nThe Bishop of Barchester said grace over the well-spread board in the\nUllathorne dining-room; while he did so, the last breath was flying\nfrom the Dean of Barchester as he lay in his sick room in the deanery.\nWhen the Bishop of Barchester raised his first glass of champagne to\nhis lips, the deanship of Barchester was a good thing in the gift\nof the prime minister. Before the Bishop of Barchester had left the\ntable, the minister of the day was made aware of the fact at his\ncountry-seat in Hampshire, and had already turned over in his mind the\nnames of five very respectable aspirants for the preferment. It is at\npresent only necessary to say that Mr. Slope's name was not among the\nfive.\n\n\"'Twas merry in the hall when the beards wagged all,\" and the clerical\nbeards wagged merrily in the hall of Ullathorne that day. It was\nnot till after the last cork had been drawn, the last speech made,\nthe last nut cracked, that tidings reached and were whispered about\nthat the poor dean was no more. It was well for the happiness of\nthe clerical beards that this little delay took place, as otherwise\ndecency would have forbidden them to wag at all.\n\nBut there was one sad man among them that day. Mr. Arabin's beard\ndid not wag as it should have done. He had come there hoping the\nbest, striving to think the best, about Eleanor; turning over in his\nmind all the words he remembered to have fallen from her about Mr.\nSlope, and trying to gather from them a conviction unfavourable to\nhis rival. He had not exactly resolved to come that day to some\ndecisive proof as to the widow's intention, but he had meant, if\npossible, to recultivate his friendship with Eleanor, and in his\npresent frame of mind any such recultivation must have ended in a\ndeclaration of love.\n\nHe had passed the previous night alone at his new parsonage, and it\nwas the first night that he had so passed. It had been dull and sombre\nenough. Mrs. Grantly had been right in saying that a priestess would\nbe wanting at St. Ewold's. He had sat there alone with his glass\nbefore him, and then with his tea-pot, thinking about Eleanor Bold.\nAs is usual in such meditations, he did little but blame her; blame\nher for liking Mr. Slope, and blame her for not liking him; blame\nher for her cordiality to himself, and blame her for her want of\ncordiality; blame her for being stubborn, headstrong, and passionate;\nand yet the more he thought of her the higher she rose in his\naffection. If only it should turn out, if only it could be made to\nturn out, that she had defended Mr. Slope, not from love, but on\nprinciple, all would be right. Such principle in itself would be\nadmirable, lovable, womanly; he felt that he could be pleased to\nallow Mr. Slope just so much favour as that. But if--And then Mr.\nArabin poked his fire most unnecessarily, spoke crossly to his new\nparlour-maid who came in for the tea-things, and threw himself back in\nhis chair determined to go to sleep. Why had she been so stiff-necked\nwhen asked a plain question? She could not but have known in what\nlight he regarded her. Why had she not answered a plain question and\nso put an end to his misery? Then, instead of going to sleep in his\narmchair, Mr. Arabin walked about the room as though he had been\npossessed.\n\nOn the following morning, when he attended Miss Thorne's behests, he\nwas still in a somewhat confused state. His first duty had been to\nconverse with Mrs. Clantantram, and that lady had found it impossible\nto elicit the slightest sympathy from him on the subject of her\nroquelaure. Miss Thorne had asked him whether Mrs. Bold was coming\nwith the Grantlys, and the two names of Bold and Grantly together had\nnearly made him jump from his seat.\n\nHe was in this state of confused uncertainty, hope, and doubt, when he\nsaw Mr. Slope, with his most polished smile, handing Eleanor out of\nher carriage. He thought of nothing more. He never considered whether\nthe carriage belonged to her or to Mr. Slope, or to anyone else to\nwhom they might both be mutually obliged without any concert between\nthemselves. This sight in his present state of mind was quite enough\nto upset him and his resolves. It was clear as noon-day. Had he seen\nher handed into a carriage by Mr. Slope at a church door with a white\nveil over her head, the truth could not be more manifest. He went into\nthe house and, as we have seen, soon found himself walking with Mr.\nHarding. Shortly afterwards Eleanor came up, and then he had to leave\nhis companion and either go about alone or find another. While in this\nstate he was encountered by the archdeacon.\n\n\"I wonder,\" said Dr. Grantly, \"if it be true that Mr. Slope and Mrs.\nBold came here together. Susan says she is almost sure she saw their\nfaces in the same carriage as she got out of her own.\"\n\nMr. Arabin had nothing for it but to bear his testimony to the\ncorrectness of Mrs. Grantly's eyesight.\n\n\"It is perfectly shameful,\" said the archdeacon; \"or, I should\nrather say, shameless. She was asked here as my guest, and if she be\ndetermined to disgrace herself, she should have feeling enough not to\ndo so before my immediate friends. I wonder how that man got himself\ninvited. I wonder whether she had the face to bring him.\"\n\nTo this Mr. Arabin could answer nothing, nor did he wish to answer\nanything. Though he abused Eleanor to himself, he did not choose to\nabuse her to anyone else, nor was he well-pleased to hear anyone else\nspeak ill of her. Dr. Grantly, however, was very angry and did not\nspare his sister-in-law. Mr. Arabin therefore left him as soon as he\ncould and wandered back into the house.\n\nHe had not been there long when the signora was brought in. For some\ntime he kept himself out of temptation, and merely hovered round her\nat a distance; but as soon as Mr. Thorne had left her, he yielded\nhimself up to the basilisk and allowed himself to be made prey of.\n\nIt is impossible to say how the knowledge had been acquired, but the\nsignora had a sort of instinctive knowledge that Mr. Arabin was an\nadmirer of Mrs. Bold. Men hunt foxes by the aid of dogs, and are\naware that they do so by the strong organ of smell with which the\ndog is endowed. They do not, however, in the least comprehend how\nsuch a sense can work with such acuteness. The organ by which women\ninstinctively, as it were, know and feel how other women are regarded\nby men, and how also men are regarded by other women, is equally\nstrong, and equally incomprehensible. A glance, a word, a motion,\nsuffices: by some such acute exercise of her feminine senses the\nsignora was aware that Mr. Arabin loved Eleanor Bold; therefore, by a\nfurther exercise of her peculiar feminine propensities, it was quite\nnatural for her to entrap Mr. Arabin into her net.\n\nThe work was half-done before she came to Ullathorne, and when could\nshe have a better opportunity of completing it? She had had almost\nenough of Mr. Slope, though she could not quite resist the fun of\ndriving a very sanctimonious clergyman to madness by a desperate\nand ruinous passion. Mr. Thorne had fallen too easily to give much\npleasure in the chase. His position as a man of wealth might make\nhis alliance of value, but as a lover he was very second-rate. We\nmay say that she regarded him somewhat as a sportsman does a pheasant.\nThe bird is so easily shot that he would not be worth the shooting\nwere it not for the very respectable appearance that he makes in a\nlarder. The signora would not waste much time in shooting Mr. Thorne,\nbut still he was worth bagging for family uses.\n\nBut Mr. Arabin was game of another sort. The signora was herself\npossessed of quite sufficient intelligence to know that Mr. Arabin\nwas a man more than usually intellectual. She knew also that, as a\nclergyman, he was of a much higher stamp than Mr. Slope and that, as\na gentleman, he was better educated than Mr. Thorne. She would never\nhave attempted to drive Mr. Arabin into ridiculous misery as she did\nMr. Slope, nor would she think it possible to dispose of him in ten\nminutes as she had done with Mr. Thorne.\n\nSuch were her reflexions about Mr. Arabin. As to Mr. Arabin, it\ncannot be said that he reflected at all about the signora. He knew\nthat she was beautiful, and he felt that she was able to charm him.\nHe required charming in his present misery, and therefore he went\nand stood at the head of her couch. She knew all about it. Such\nwere her peculiar gifts. It was her nature to see that he required\ncharming, and it was her province to charm him. As the Eastern idler\nswallows his dose of opium, as the London reprobate swallows his\ndose of gin, so with similar desires and for similar reasons did Mr.\nArabin prepare to swallow the charms of the Signora Neroni.\n\n\"Why an't you shooting with bows and arrows, Mr. Arabin?\" said she,\nwhen they were nearly alone together in the drawing-room, \"or talking\nwith young ladies in shady bowers, or turning your talents to account\nin some way? What was a bachelor like you asked here for? Don't you\nmean to earn your cold chicken and champagne? Were I you, I should\nbe ashamed to be so idle.\"\n\nMr. Arabin murmured some sort of answer. Though he wished to be\ncharmed, he was hardly yet in a mood to be playful in return.\n\n\"Why what ails you, Mr. Arabin?\" said she. \"Here you are in your own\nparish--Miss Thorne tells me that her party is given expressly in\nyour honour--and yet you are the only dull man at it. Your friend\nMr. Slope was with me a few minutes since, full of life and spirits;\nwhy don't you rival him?\"\n\nIt was not difficult for so acute an observer as Madeline Neroni to\nsee that she had hit the nail on the head and driven the bolt home.\nMr. Arabin winced visibly before her attack, and she knew at once\nthat he was jealous of Mr. Slope.\n\n\"But I look on you and Mr. Slope as the very antipodes of men,\" said\nshe. \"There is nothing in which you are not each the reverse of the\nother, except in belonging to the same profession--and even in that\nyou are so unlike as perfectly to maintain the rule. He is gregarious;\nyou are given to solitude. He is active; you are passive. He works;\nyou think. He likes women; you despise them. He is fond of position\nand power; and so are you, but for directly different reasons. He\nloves to be praised; you very foolishly abhor it. He will gain his\nrewards, which will be an insipid, useful wife, a comfortable income,\nand a reputation for sanctimony; you will also gain yours.\"\n\n\"Well, and what will they be?\" said Mr. Arabin, who knew that he was\nbeing flattered and yet suffered himself to put up with it. \"What will\nbe my rewards?\"\n\n\"The heart of some woman whom you will be too austere to own that you\nlove, and the respect of some few friends which you will be too proud\nto own that you value.\"\n\n\"Rich rewards,\" said he; \"but of little worth, if they are to be so\ntreated.\"\n\n\"Oh, you are not to look for such success as awaits Mr. Slope. He is\nborn to be a successful man. He suggests to himself an object and\nthen starts for it with eager intention. Nothing will deter him from\nhis pursuit. He will have no scruples, no fears, no hesitation. His\ndesire is to be a bishop with a rising family--the wife will come\nfirst, and in due time the apron. You will see all this, and then--\"\n\n\"Well, and what then?\"\n\n\"Then you will begin to wish that you had done the same.\"\n\nMr. Arabin looked placidly out at the lawn and, resting his shoulder\non the head of the sofa, rubbed his chin with his hand. It was a trick\nhe had when he was thinking deeply, and what the signora said made him\nthink. Was it not all true? Would he not hereafter look back, if not\nat Mr. Slope, at some others, perhaps not equally gifted with himself,\nwho had risen in the world while he had lagged behind, and then wish\nthat he had done the same?\n\n\"Is not such the doom of all speculative men of talent?\" said she.\n\"Do they not all sit wrapt as you now are, cutting imaginary silken\ncords with their fine edges, while those not so highly tempered sever\nthe everyday Gordian knots of the world's struggle and win wealth and\nrenown? Steel too highly polished, edges too sharp, do not do for\nthis world's work, Mr. Arabin.\"\n\nWho was this woman that thus read the secrets of his heart and\nre-uttered to him the unwelcome bodings of his own soul? He looked\nfull into her face when she had done speaking and said, \"Am I one of\nthose foolish blades, too sharp and too fine to do a useful day's\nwork?\"\n\n\"Why do you let the Slopes of the world outdistance you?\" said she.\n\"Is not the blood in your veins as warm as his? Does not your pulse\nbeat as fast? Has not God made you a man and intended you to do a\nman's work here, ay, and to take a man's wages also?\"\n\nMr. Arabin sat ruminating, rubbing his face, and wondering why these\nthings were said to him, but he replied nothing. The signora went\non:\n\n\"The greatest mistake any man ever made is to suppose that the good\nthings of the world are not worth the winning. And it is a mistake\nso opposed to the religion which you preach! Why does God permit\nhis bishops one after another to have their five thousands and ten\nthousands a year if such wealth be bad and not worth having? Why are\nbeautiful things given to us, and luxuries and pleasant enjoyments,\nif they be not intended to be used? They must be meant for someone,\nand what is good for a layman surely cannot be bad for a clerk. You\ntry to despise these good things, but you only try--you don't\nsucceed.\"\n\n\"Don't I?\" said Mr. Arabin, still musing, not knowing what he said.\n\n\"I ask you the question: do you succeed?\"\n\nMr. Arabin looked at her piteously. It seemed to him as though he\nwere being interrogated by some inner spirit of his own, to whom he\ncould not refuse an answer, and to whom he did not dare to give a\nfalse reply.\n\n\"Come, Mr. Arabin, confess; do you succeed? Is money so contemptible?\nIs worldly power so worthless? Is feminine beauty a trifle to be so\nslightly regarded by a wise man?\"\n\n\"Feminine beauty!\" said he, gazing into her face, as though all the\nfeminine beauty in the world were concentrated there. \"Why do you say\nI do not regard it?\"\n\n\"If you look at me like that, Mr. Arabin, I shall alter my\nopinion--or should do so, were I not of course aware that I have no\nbeauty of my own worth regarding.\"\n\nThe gentleman blushed crimson, but the lady did not blush at all. A\nslightly increased colour animated her face, just so much so as to\ngive her an air of special interest. She expected a compliment from\nher admirer, but she was rather gratified than otherwise by finding\nthat he did not pay it to her. Messrs. Slope and Thorne, Messrs.\nBrown, Jones, and Robinson, they all paid her compliments. She was\nrather in hopes that she would ultimately succeed in inducing Mr.\nArabin to abuse her.\n\n\"But your gaze,\" said she, \"is one of wonder, not of admiration. You\nwonder at my audacity in asking you such questions about yourself.\"\n\n\"Well, I do rather,\" said he.\n\n\"Nevertheless, I expect an answer, Mr. Arabin. Why were women made\nbeautiful if men are not to regard them?\"\n\n\"But men do regard them,\" he replied.\n\n\"And why not you?\"\n\n\"You are begging the question, Madame Neroni.\"\n\n\"I am sure I shall beg nothing, Mr. Arabin, which you will not grant,\nand I do beg for an answer. Do you not as a rule think women below\nyour notice as companions? Let us see. There is the Widow Bold looking\nround at you from her chair this minute. What would you say to her as\na companion for life?\"\n\nMr. Arabin, rising from his position, leaned over the sofa and looked\nthrough the drawing-room door to the place where Eleanor was seated\nbetween Bertie Stanhope and Mr. Slope. She at once caught his glance\nand averted her own. She was not pleasantly placed in her present\nposition. Mr. Slope was doing his best to attract her attention, and\nshe was striving to prevent his doing so by talking to Mr. Stanhope,\nwhile her mind was intently fixed on Mr. Arabin and Madame Neroni.\nBertie Stanhope endeavoured to take advantage of her favours, but he\nwas thinking more of the manner in which he would by and by throw\nhimself at her feet than of amusing her at the present moment.\n\n\"There,\" said the signora. \"She was stretching her beautiful neck\nto look at you, and now you have disturbed her. Well, I declare I\nbelieve I am wrong about you; I believe that you do think Mrs. Bold a\ncharming woman. Your looks seem to say so, and by her looks I should\nsay that she is jealous of me. Come, Mr. Arabin, confide in me, and\nif it is so, I'll do all in my power to make up the match.\"\n\nIt is needless to say that the signora was not very sincere in her\noffer. She was never sincere on such subjects. She never expected\nothers to be so, nor did she expect others to think her so. Such\nmatters were her playthings, her billiard table, her hounds and\nhunters, her waltzes and polkas, her picnics and summer-day\nexcursions. She had little else to amuse her, and therefore played\nat love-making in all its forms. She was now playing at it with Mr.\nArabin, and did not at all expect the earnestness and truth of his\nanswer.\n\n\"All in your power would be nothing,\" said he, \"for Mrs. Bold is, I\nimagine, already engaged to another.\"\n\n\"Then you own the impeachment yourself.\"\n\n\"You cross-question me rather unfairly,\" he replied, \"and I do not\nknow why I answer you at all. Mrs. Bold is a very beautiful woman,\nand as intelligent as beautiful. It is impossible to know her without\nadmiring her.\"\n\n\"So you think the widow a very beautiful woman?\"\n\n\"Indeed I do.\"\n\n\"And one that would grace the parsonage of St. Ewold's.\"\n\n\"One that would well grace any man's house.\"\n\n\"And you really have the effrontery to tell me this,\" said she; \"to\ntell me, who, as you very well know, set up to be a beauty myself, and\nwho am at this very moment taking such an interest in your affairs,\nyou really have the effrontery to tell me that Mrs. Bold is the most\nbeautiful woman you know.\"\n\n\"I did not say so,\" said Mr. Arabin; \"you are more beautiful--\"\n\n\"Ah, come now, that is something like. I thought you could not be so\nunfeeling.\"\n\n\"You are more beautiful, perhaps more clever.\"\n\n\"Thank you, thank you, Mr. Arabin. I knew that you and I should be\nfriends.\"\n\n\"But--\"\n\n\"Not a word further. I will not hear a word further. If you talk till\nmidnight you cannot improve what you have said.\"\n\n\"But Madame Neroni, Mrs. Bold--\"\n\n\"I will not hear a word about Mrs. Bold. Dread thoughts of strychnine\ndid pass across my brain, but she is welcome to the second place.\"\n\n\"Her place--\"\n\n\"I won't hear anything about her or her place. I am satisfied, and\nthat is enough. But Mr. Arabin, I am dying with hunger; beautiful and\nclever as I am, you know I cannot go to my food, and yet you do not\nbring it to me.\"\n\nThis at any rate was so true as to make it necessary that Mr. Arabin\nshould act upon it, and he accordingly went into the dining-room and\nsupplied the signora's wants.\n\n\"And yourself?\" said she.\n\n\"Oh,\" said he, \"I am not hungry. I never eat at this hour.\"\n\n\"Come, come, Mr. Arabin, don't let love interfere with your appetite.\nIt never does with mine. Give me half a glass more champagne and\nthen go to the table. Mrs. Bold will do me an injury if you stay\ntalking to me any longer.\"\n\nMr. Arabin did as he was bid. He took her plate and glass from her\nand, going into the dining-room, helped himself to a sandwich from\nthe crowded table and began munching it in a corner.\n\nAs he was doing so Miss Thorne, who had hardly sat down for a moment,\ncame into the room and, seeing him standing, was greatly distressed.\n\n\"Oh, my dear Mr. Arabin,\" said she, \"have you never sat down yet?\nI am so distressed. You of all men, too.\"\n\nMr. Arabin assured her that he had only just come into the room.\n\n\"That is the very reason why you should lose no more time. Come, I'll\nmake room for you. Thank'ee, my dear,\" she said, seeing that Mrs.\nBold was making an attempt to move from her chair, \"but I would not\nfor worlds see you stir, for all the ladies would think it necessary\nto follow. But, perhaps, if Mr. Stanhope has done--just for a minute,\nMr. Stanhope, till I can get another chair.\"\n\nAnd so Bertie had to rise to make way for his rival. This he did, as\nhe did everything, with an air of good-humoured pleasantry which made\nit impossible for Mr. Arabin to refuse the proffered seat.\n\n\"His bishopric let another take,\" said Bertie, the quotation being\ncertainly not very appropriate either for the occasion or the person\nspoken to. \"I have eaten and am satisfied; Mr. Arabin, pray take my\nchair. I wish for your sake that it really was a bishop's seat.\"\n\nMr. Arabin did sit down, and as he did so Mrs. Bold got up as though\nto follow her neighbour.\n\n\"Pray, pray don't move,\" said Miss Thorne, almost forcing Eleanor\nback into her chair. \"Mr. Stanhope is not going to leave us. He will\nstand behind you like a true knight as he is. And now I think of it,\nMr. Arabin, let me introduce you to Mr. Slope. Mr. Slope, Mr. Arabin.\"\nAnd the two gentlemen bowed stiffly to each other across the lady\nwhom they both intended to marry, while the other gentleman who also\nintended to marry her stood behind, watching them.\n\nThe two had never met each other before, and the present was certainly\nnot a good opportunity for much cordial conversation, even if cordial\nconversation between them had been possible. As it was, the whole four\nwho formed the party seemed as though their tongues were tied. Mr.\nSlope, who was wide awake to what he hoped was his coming opportunity,\nwas not much concerned in the interest of the moment. His wish was to\nsee Eleanor move, that he might pursue her. Bertie was not exactly\nin the same frame of mind; the evil day was near enough; there was\nno reason why he should precipitate it. He had made up his mind to\nmarry Eleanor Bold if he could, and was resolved to-day to take the\nfirst preliminary step towards doing so. But there was time enough\nbefore him. He was not going to make an offer of marriage over the\ntable-cloth. Having thus good-naturedly made way for Mr. Arabin, he\nwas willing also to let him talk to the future Mrs. Stanhope as long\nas they remained in their present position.\n\nMr. Arabin, having bowed to Mr. Slope, began eating his food without\nsaying a word further. He was full of thought, and though he ate he\ndid so unconsciously.\n\nBut poor Eleanor was the most to be pitied. The only friend on whom\nshe thought she could rely was Bertie Stanhope, and he, it seemed,\nwas determined to desert her. Mr. Arabin did not attempt to address\nher. She said a few words in reply to some remarks from Mr. Slope\nand then, feeling the situation too much for her, started from her\nchair in spite of Miss Thorne and hurried from the room. Mr. Slope\nfollowed her, and young Stanhope lost the occasion.\n\nMadeline Neroni, when she was left alone, could not help pondering\nmuch on the singular interview she had had with this singular man.\nNot a word that she had spoken to him had been intended by her to be\nreceived as true, and yet he had answered her in the very spirit of\ntruth. He had done so, and she had been aware that he had so done.\nShe had wormed from him his secret, and he, debarred as it would seem\nfrom man's usual privilege of lying, had innocently laid bare his\nwhole soul to her. He loved Eleanor Bold, but Eleanor was not in\nhis eye so beautiful as herself. He would fain have Eleanor for his\nwife, but yet he had acknowledged that she was the less gifted of the\ntwo. The man had literally been unable to falsify his thoughts when\nquestioned, and had been compelled to be true _malgré lui_, even when\ntruth must have been so disagreeable to him.\n\nThis teacher of men, this Oxford pundit, this double-distilled\nquintessence of university perfection, this writer of religious\ntreatises, this speaker of ecclesiastical speeches, had been like a\nlittle child in her hands; she had turned him inside out and read his\nvery heart as she might have done that of a young girl. She could not\nbut despise him for his facile openness, and yet she liked him for it,\ntoo. It was a novelty to her, a new trait in a man's character. She\nfelt also that she could never so completely make a fool of him as she\ndid of the Slopes and Thornes. She felt that she never could induce\nMr. Arabin to make protestations to her that were not true, or to\nlisten to nonsense that was mere nonsense.\n\nIt was quite clear that Mr. Arabin was heartily in love with Mrs.\nBold; and the signora, with very unwonted good nature, began to turn\nit over in her mind whether she could not do him a good turn. Of\ncourse Bertie was to have the first chance. It was an understood\nfamily arrangement that her brother was, if possible, to marry the\nWidow Bold. Madeline knew too well his necessities and what was due\nto her sister to interfere with so excellent a plan, as long as it\nmight be feasible. But she had strong suspicion that it was not\nfeasible. She did not think it likely that Mrs. Bold would accept\na man in her brother's position, and she had frequently said so\nto Charlotte. She was inclined to believe that Mr. Slope had more\nchance of success, and with her it would be a labour of love to rob\nMr. Slope of his wife.\n\nAnd so the signora resolved, should Bertie fail, to do a good-natured\nact for once in her life and give up Mr. Arabin to the woman whom he\nloved.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX\n\nThe Lookalofts and the Greenacres\n\n\nOn the whole, Miss Thorne's provision for the amusement and feeding\nof the outer classes in the exoteric paddock was not unsuccessful.\n\nTwo little drawbacks to the general happiness did take place, but they\nwere of a temporary nature, and apparent rather than real. The first\nwas the downfall of young Harry Greenacre, and the other the uprise of\nMrs. Lookaloft and her family.\n\nAs to the quintain, it became more popular among the boys on foot than\nit would ever have been among the men on horseback, even had young\nGreenacre been more successful. It was twirled round and round till it\nwas nearly twirled out of the ground, and the bag of flour was used\nwith great gusto in powdering the backs and heads of all who could be\ncoaxed within its vicinity.\n\nOf course it was reported all through the assemblage that Harry was\ndead, and there was a pathetic scene between him and his mother when\nit was found that he had escaped scatheless from the fall. A good deal\nof beer was drunk on the occasion, and the quintain was \"dratted\" and\n\"bothered,\" and very generally anathematized by all the mothers who\nhad young sons likely to be placed in similar jeopardy. But the affair\nof Mrs. Lookaloft was of a more serious nature.\n\n\"I do tell 'ee plainly--face to face--she be there in madam's\ndrawing-room; herself and Gussy, and them two walloping gals, dressed\nup to their very eyeses.\" This was said by a very positive, very\nindignant, and very fat farmer's wife, who was sitting on the end of\na bench leaning on the handle of a huge, cotton umbrella.\n\n\"But: you didn't zee her, Dame Guffern?\" said Mrs. Greenacre, whom\nthis information, joined to the recent peril undergone by her son,\nalmost overpowered. Mr. Greenacre held just as much land as Mr.\nLookaloft, paid his rent quite as punctually, and his opinion in the\nvestry room was reckoned to be every whit as good. Mrs. Lookaloft's\nrise in the world had been wormwood to Mrs. Greenacre. She had no\ntaste herself for the sort of finery which had converted Barleystubb\nfarm into Rosebank and which had occasionally graced Mr. Lookaloft's\nletters with the dignity of esquirehood. She had no wish to convert\nher own homestead into Violet Villa, or to see her goodman go about\nwith a new-fangled handle to his name. But it was a mortal injury to\nher that Mrs. Lookaloft should be successful in her hunt after such\nhonours. She had abused and ridiculed Mrs. Lookaloft to the extent\nof her little power. She had pushed against her going out of church,\nand had excused herself with all the easiness of equality. \"Ah, dame,\nI axes pardon, but you be grown so mortal stout these times.\" She had\ninquired with apparent cordiality of Mr. Lookaloft after \"the woman\nthat owned him,\" and had, as she thought, been on the whole able to\nhold her own pretty well against her aspiring neighbour. Now, however,\nshe found herself distinctly put into a separate and inferior class.\nMrs. Lookaloft was asked into the Ullathorne drawing-room merely\nbecause she called her house Rosebank and had talked over her husband\ninto buying pianos and silk dresses instead of putting his money by to\nstock farms for his sons.\n\nMrs. Greenacre, much as she reverenced Miss Thorne, and highly as she\nrespected her husband's landlord, could not but look on this as an act\nof injustice done to her and hers. Hitherto the Lookalofts had never\nbeen recognized as being of a different class from the Greenacres.\nTheir pretensions were all self-pretensions, their finery was all\npaid for by themselves and not granted to them by others. The local\nsovereigns of the vicinity, the district fountains of honour, had\nhitherto conferred on them the stamp of no rank. Hitherto their\ncrinoline petticoats, late hours, and mincing gait had been a fair\nsubject of Mrs. Greenacre's raillery, and this raillery had been a\nsafety-valve for her envy. Now, however, and from henceforward, the\ncase would be very different. Now the Lookalofts would boast that their\naspirations had been sanctioned by the gentry of the country; now they\nwould declare with some show of truth that their claims to peculiar\nconsideration had been recognized. They had sat as equal guests in the\npresence of bishops and baronets; they had been curtseyed to by Miss\nThorne on her own drawing-room carpet; they were about to sit down to\ntable in company with a live countess! Bab Lookaloft, as she had always\nbeen called by the young Greenacres in the days of their juvenile\nequality, might possibly sit next to the Honourable George, and that\nwretched Gussy might be permitted to hand a custard to the Lady\nMargaretta De Courcy.\n\nThe fruition of those honours, or such of them as fell to the lot of\nthe envied family, was not such as should have caused much envy. The\nattention paid to the Lookalofts by the De Courcys was very limited,\nand the amount of entertainment which they received from the bishop's\nsociety was hardly in itself a recompense for the dull monotony of\ntheir day. But of what they endured Mrs. Greenacre took no account;\nshe thought only of what she considered they must enjoy, and of the\ndreadfully exalted tone of living which would be manifested by the\nRosebank family, as the consequence of their present distinction.\n\n\"But did 'ee zee 'em there, dame, did 'ee zee 'em there with your own\neyes?\" asked poor Mrs. Greenacre, still hoping that there might be\nsome ground for doubt.\n\n\"And how could I do that, unless so be I was there myself?\" asked\nMrs. Guffern. \"I didn't zet eyes on none of them this blessed morning,\nbut I zee'd them as did. You know our John; well, he will be for\nkeeping company with Betsey Rusk, madam's own maid, you know. And\nBetsey isn't none of your common kitchen wenches. So Betsey, she come\nout to our John, you know, and she's always vastly polite to me, is\nBetsey Rusk, I must say. So before she took so much as one turn with\nJohn she told me every ha'porth that was going on up in the house.\"\n\n\"Did she now?\" said Mrs. Greenacre.\n\n\"Indeed she did,\" said Mrs. Guffern.\n\n\"And she told you them people was up there in the drawing-room?\"\n\n\"She told me she zee'd 'em come in--that they was dressed finer by\nhalf nor any of the family, with all their neckses and buzoms stark\nnaked as a born babby.\"\n\n\"The minxes!\" exclaimed Mrs. Greenacre, who felt herself more put\nabout by this than any other mark of aristocratic distinction which\nher enemies had assumed.\n\n\"Yes, indeed,\" continued Mrs. Guffern, \"as naked as you please, while\nall the quality was dressed just as you and I be, Mrs. Greenacre.\"\n\n\"Drat their impudence,\" said Mrs. Greenacre, from whose well-covered\nbosom all milk of human kindness was receding, as far as the family\nof the Lookalofts were concerned.\n\n\"So says I,\" said Mrs. Guffern; \"and so says my goodman, Thomas\nGuffern, when he hear'd it. 'Molly,' says he to me, 'if ever you\ntakes to going about o' mornings with yourself all naked in them\nways, I begs you won't come back no more to the old house.' So says I,\n'Thomas, no more I wull.' 'But,' says he, 'drat it, how the deuce does\nshe manage with her rheumatiz, and she not a rag on her;'\" and Mrs.\nGuffern laughed loudly as she thought of Mrs. Lookaloft's probable\nsufferings from rheumatic attacks.\n\n\"But to liken herself that way to folk that ha' blood in their\nveins,\" said Mrs. Greenacre.\n\n\"Well, but that warn't all neither that Betsey told. There they all\nswelled into madam's drawing-room, like so many turkey cocks, as much\nas to say, 'and who dare say no to us?' and Gregory was thinking of\ntelling of 'em to come down here, only his heart failed him 'cause of\nthe grand way they was dressed. So in they went, but madam looked at\nthem as glum as death.\"\n\n\"Well, now,\" said Mrs. Greenacre, greatly relieved, \"so they wasn't\naxed different from us at all then?\"\n\n\"Betsey says that Gregory says that madam wasn't a bit too well\npleased to see them where they was, and that to his believing they\nwas expected to come here just like the rest of us.\"\n\nThere was great consolation in this. Not that Mrs. Greenacre was\naltogether satisfied. She felt that justice to herself demanded that\nMrs. Lookaloft should not only not be encouraged, but that she should\nalso be absolutely punished. What had been done at that scriptural\nbanquet, of which Mrs. Greenacre so often read the account to her\nfamily? Why had not Miss Thorne boldly gone to the intruder and said,\n\"Friend, thou hast come up hither to high places not fitted to thee.\nGo down lower, and thou wilt find thy mates.\" Let the Lookalofts be\ntreated at the present moment with ever so cold a shoulder, they\nwould still be enabled to boast hereafter of their position, their\naspirations, and their honour.\n\n\"Well, with all her grandeur, I do wonder that she be so mean,\"\ncontinued Mrs. Greenacre, unable to dismiss the subject. \"Did you\nhear, goodman?\" she went on, about to repeat the whole story to her\nhusband who then came up. \"There's Dame Lookaloft and Bab and Gussy\nand the lot of 'em all sitting as grand as fivepence in madam's\ndrawing-room, and they not axed no more nor you nor me. Did you ever\nhear tell the like o' that?\"\n\n\"Well, and what for shouldn't they?\" said Farmer Greenacre.\n\n\"Likening theyselves to the quality, as though they was estated folk,\nor the like o' that!\" said Mrs. Guffern.\n\n\"Well, if they likes it, and madam likes it, they's welcome for me,\"\nsaid the farmer. \"Now I likes this place better, 'cause I be more at\nhome-like, and don't have to pay for them fine clothes for the missus.\nEveryone to his taste, Mrs. Guffern, and if neighbour Lookaloft thinks\nthat he has the best of it, he's welcome.\"\n\nMrs. Greenacre sat down by her husband's side to begin the heavy\nwork of the banquet, and she did so in some measure with restored\ntranquillity, but nevertheless she shook her head at her gossip to\nshow that in this instance she did not quite approve of her husband's\ndoctrine.\n\n\"And I'll tell 'ee what, dames,\" continued he; \"if so be that we\ncannot enjoy the dinner that madam gives us because Mother Lookaloft\nis sitting up there on a grand sofa, I think we ought all to go home.\nIf we greet at that, what'll we do when true sorrow comes across us?\nHow would you be now, Dame, if the boy there had broke his neck when\nhe got the tumble?\"\n\nMrs. Greenacre was humbled and said nothing further on the matter.\nBut let prudent men such as Mr. Greenacre preach as they will, the\nfamily of the Lookalofts certainly does occasion a good deal of\nheart-burning in the world at large.\n\nIt was pleasant to see Mr. Plomacy as, leaning on his stout stick, he\nwent about among the rural guests, acting as a sort of head constable\nas well as master of the revels. \"Now, young'un, if you can't manage\nto get along without that screeching, you'd better go to the other\nside of the twelve-acre field and take your dinner with you. Come,\ngirls, what do you stand there for, twirling of your thumbs? Come out,\nand let the lads see you; you've no need to be so ashamed of your\nfaces. Hollo there, who are you? How did you make your way in here?\"\n\nThis last disagreeable question was put to a young man of about\ntwenty-four who did not, in Mr. Plomacy's eye, bear sufficient\nvestiges of a rural education and residence.\n\n\"If you please, your Worship, Master Barrell the coachman let me in\nat the church wicket, 'cause I do be working mostly al'ays for the\nfamily.\"\n\n\"Then Master Barrell the coachman may let you out again,\" said Mr.\nPlomacy, not even conciliated by the magisterial dignity which had\nbeen conceded to him. \"What's your name? And what trade are you?\nAnd who do you work for?\"\n\n\"I'm Stubbs, your worship, Bob Stubbs; and--and--and--\"\n\n\"And what's your trade, Stubbs?\"\n\n\"Plasterer, please your worship.\"\n\n\"I'll plaster you, and Barrell too; you'll just walk out of this 'ere\nfield as quick as you walked in. We don't want no plasterers; when we\ndo, we'll send for 'em. Come my buck, walk.\"\n\nStubbs the plasterer was much downcast at this dreadful edict. He\nwas a sprightly fellow, and had contrived since his ingress into the\nUllathorne elysium to attract to himself a forest nymph, to whom\nhe was whispering a plasterer's usual soft nothings, when he was\nencountered by the great Mr. Plomacy. It was dreadful to be thus\ndissevered from his dryad and sent howling back to a Barchester\npandemonium just as the nectar and ambrosia were about to descend on\nthe fields of asphodel. He began to try what prayers would do, but\ncity prayers were vain against the great rural potentate. Not only\ndid Mr. Plomacy order his exit but, raising his stick to show the way\nwhich led to the gate that had been left in the custody of that false\nCerberus Barrell, proceeded himself to see the edict of banishment\ncarried out.\n\nThe goddess Mercy, however, the sweetest goddess that ever sat upon\na cloud, and the dearest to poor, frail, erring man, appeared on the\nfield in the person of Mr. Greenacre. Never was interceding goddess\nmore welcome.\n\n\"Come, man,\" said Mr. Greenacre, \"never stick at trifles such a day as\nthis. I know the lad well. Let him bide at my axing. Madam won't miss\nwhat he can eat and drink, I know.\"\n\nNow Mr. Plomacy and Mr. Greenacre were sworn friends. Mr. Plomacy had\nat his own disposal as comfortable a room as there was in Ullathorne\nHouse, but he was a bachelor, and alone there, and, moreover, smoking\nin the house was not allowed even to Mr. Plomacy. His moments of\ntruest happiness were spent in a huge armchair in the warmest corner\nof Mrs. Greenacre's beautifully clean front kitchen. 'Twas there that\nthe inner man dissolved itself and poured itself out in streams of\npleasant chat; 'twas there that he was respected and yet at his ease;\n'twas there, and perhaps there only, that he could unburden himself\nfrom the ceremonies of life without offending the dignity of those\nabove him, or incurring the familiarity of those below. 'Twas\nthere that his long pipe was always to be found on the accustomed\nchimney-board, not only permitted but encouraged.\n\nSuch being the state of the case, it was not to be supposed that Mr.\nPlomacy could refuse such a favour to Mr. Greenacre; but nevertheless\nhe did not grant it without some further show of austere authority.\n\n\"Eat and drink, Mr. Greenacre! No. It's not what he eats and\ndrinks, but the example such a chap shows, coming in where he's not\ninvited--a chap of his age, too. He too that never did a day's work\nabout Ullathorne since he was born. Plasterer! I'll plaster him!\"\n\n\"He worked long enough for me, then, Mr. Plomacy. And a good hand\nhe is at setting tiles as any in Barchester,\" said the other, not\nsticking quite to veracity, as indeed mercy never should. \"Come, come,\nlet him alone to-day and quarrel with him to-morrow. You wouldn't\nshame him before his lass there?\"\n\n\"It goes against the grain with me, then,\" said Mr. Plomacy. \"And take\ncare, you Stubbs, and behave yourself. If I hear a row, I shall know\nwhere it comes from. I'm up to you Barchester journeymen; I know what\nstuff you're made of.\"\n\nAnd so Stubbs went off happy, pulling at the forelock of his shock\nhead of hair in honour of the steward's clemency and giving another\ndouble pull at it in honour of the farmer's kindness. And as he went\nhe swore within his grateful heart that if ever Farmer Greenacre\nwanted a day's work done for nothing, he was the lad to do it for\nhim. Which promise it was not probable that he would ever be called\non to perform.\n\nBut Mr. Plomacy was not quite happy in his mind, for he thought of\nthe unjust steward and began to reflect whether he had not made for\nhimself friends of the mammon of unrighteousness. This, however, did\nnot interfere with the manner in which he performed his duties at the\nbottom of the long board; nor did Mr. Greenacre perform his the worse\nat the top on account of the good wishes of Stubbs the plasterer.\nMoreover the guests did not think it anything amiss when Mr. Plomacy,\nrising to say grace, prayed that God would make them all truly\nthankful for the good things which Madame Thorne in her great\nliberality had set before them!\n\nAll this time the quality in the tent on the lawn were getting on\nswimmingly--that is, if champagne without restriction can enable\nquality folk to swim. Sir Harkaway Gorse proposed the health of Miss\nThorne, and likened her to a blood race-horse, always in condition\nand not to be tired down by any amount of work. Mr. Thorne returned\nthanks, saying he hoped his sister would always be found able to run\nwhen called upon, and then gave the health and prosperity of the De\nCourcy family. His sister was very much honoured by seeing so many of\nthem at her poor board. They were all aware that important avocations\nmade the absence of the earl necessary. As his duty to his prince had\ncalled him from his family hearth, he, Mr. Thorne, could not venture\nto regret that he did not see him at Ullathorne; but nevertheless he\nwould venture to say--that was, to express a wish--an opinion, he\nmeant to say--And so Mr. Thorne became somewhat gravelled, as country\ngentlemen in similar circumstances usually do; but he ultimately sat\ndown, declaring that he had much satisfaction in drinking the noble\nearl's health, together with that of the countess, and all the family\nof De Courcy Castle.\n\nAnd then the Honourable George returned thanks. We will not follow\nhim through the different periods of his somewhat irregular eloquence.\nThose immediately in his neighbourhood found it at first rather\ndifficult to get him on his legs, but much greater difficulty was\nsoon experienced in inducing him to resume his seat. One of two\narrangements should certainly be made in these days: either let all\nspeech-making on festive occasions be utterly tabooed and made as it\nwere impossible; or else let those who are to exercise the privilege\nbe first subjected to a competing examination before the civil-service\nexamining commissioners. As it is now, the Honourable Georges do but\nlittle honour to our exertions in favour of British education.\n\nIn the dining-room the bishop went through the honours of the day\nwith much more neatness and propriety. He also drank Miss Thorne's\nhealth, and did it in a manner becoming the bench which he adorned.\nThe party there was perhaps a little more dull, a shade less lively\nthan that in the tent. But what was lost in mirth was fully made up\nin decorum.\n\nAnd so the banquets passed off at the various tables with great éclat\nand universal delight.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL\n\nUllathorne Sports--Act II\n\n\n\"That which has made them drunk has made me bold.\" 'Twas thus that\nMr. Slope encouraged himself, as he left the dining-room in pursuit\nof Eleanor. He had not indeed seen in that room any person really\nintoxicated, but there had been a good deal of wine drunk, and Mr.\nSlope had not hesitated to take his share, in order to screw himself\nup to the undertaking which he had in hand. He is not the first man\nwho has thought it expedient to call in the assistance of Bacchus on\nsuch an occasion.\n\nEleanor was out through the window and on the grass before she\nperceived that she was followed. Just at that moment the guests were\nnearly all occupied at the tables. Here and there were to be seen a\nconstant couple or two, who preferred their own sweet discourse to\nthe jingle of glasses or the charms of rhetoric which fell from the\nmouths of the Honourable George and the Bishop of Barchester; but the\ngrounds were as nearly vacant as Mr. Slope could wish them to be.\n\nEleanor saw that she was pursued, and as a deer, when escape is no\nlonger possible, will turn to bay and attack the hounds, so did she\nturn upon Mr. Slope.\n\n\"Pray don't let me take you from the room,\" said she, speaking with\nall the stiffness which she knew how to use. \"I have come out to look\nfor a friend. I must beg of you, Mr. Slope, to go back.\"\n\nBut Mr. Slope would not be thus entreated. He had observed all day\nthat Mrs. Bold was not cordial to him, and this had to a certain\nextent oppressed him. But he did not deduce from this any assurance\nthat his aspirations were in vain. He saw that she was angry with\nhim. Might she not be so because he had so long tampered with her\nfeelings--might it not arise from his having, as he knew was the\ncase, caused her name to be bruited about in conjunction with his own\nwithout having given her the opportunity of confessing to the world\nthat henceforth their names were to be one and the same? Poor lady.\nHe had within him a certain Christian conscience-stricken feeling\nof remorse on this head. It might be that he had wronged her by his\ntardiness. He had, however, at the present moment imbibed too much\nof Mr. Thorne's champagne to have any inward misgivings. He was right\nin repeating the boast of Lady Macbeth: he was not drunk, but he was\nbold enough for anything. It was a pity that in such a state he could\nnot have encountered Mrs. Proudie.\n\n\"You must permit me to attend you,\" said he; \"I could not think of\nallowing you to go alone.\"\n\n\"Indeed you must, Mr. Slope,\" said Eleanor still very stiffly, \"for\nit is my special wish to be alone.\"\n\nThe time for letting the great secret escape him had already come.\nMr. Slope saw that it must be now or never, and he was determined\nthat it should be now. This was not his first attempt at winning a\nfair lady. He had been on his knees, looked unutterable things with\nhis eyes, and whispered honeyed words before this. Indeed, he was\nsomewhat an adept at these things, and had only to adapt to the\nperhaps different taste of Mrs. Bold the well-remembered rhapsodies\nwhich had once so much gratified Olivia Proudie.\n\n\"Do not ask me to leave you, Mrs. Bold,\" said he with an impassioned\nlook, impassioned and sanctified as well, with that sort of look\nwhich is not uncommon with gentlemen of Mr. Slope's school and which\nmay perhaps be called the tender-pious. \"Do not ask me to leave you\ntill I have spoken a few words with which my heart is full--which I\nhave come hither purposely to say.\"\n\nEleanor saw how it was now. She knew directly what it was she was\nabout to go through, and very miserable the knowledge made her. Of\ncourse she could refuse Mr. Slope, and there would be an end of\nthat, one might say. But there would not be an end of it, as far as\nEleanor was concerned. The very fact of Mr. Slope's making an offer\nto her would be a triumph to the archdeacon and, in a great measure,\na vindication of Mr. Arabin's conduct. The widow could not bring\nherself to endure with patience the idea that she had been in the\nwrong. She had defended Mr. Slope, she had declared herself quite\njustified in admitting him among her acquaintance, had ridiculed the\nidea of his considering himself as more than an acquaintance, and had\nresented the archdeacon's caution in her behalf: now it was about\nto be proved to her in a manner sufficiently disagreeable that the\narchdeacon had been right, and she herself had been entirely wrong.\n\n\"I don't know what you can have to say to me, Mr. Slope, that you\ncould not have said when we were sitting at table just now;\" and she\nclosed her lips, and steadied her eyeballs, and looked at him in a\nmanner that ought to have frozen him.\n\nBut gentlemen are not easily frozen when they are full of champagne,\nand it would not at any time have been easy to freeze Mr. Slope.\n\n\"There are things, Mrs. Bold, which a man cannot well say before a\ncrowd; which perhaps he cannot well say at any time; which indeed he\nmay most fervently desire to get spoken, and which he may yet find\nit almost impossible to utter. It is such things as these that I now\nwish to say to you;\" and then the tender-pious look was repeated,\nwith a little more emphasis even than before.\n\nEleanor had not found it practicable to stand stock still before the\ndining-room window, there receive his offer in full view of Miss\nThorne's guests. She had therefore in self-defence walked on, and\nthus Mr. Slope had gained his object of walking with her. He now\noffered her his arm.\n\n\"Thank you, Mr. Slope, I am much obliged to you; but for the very\nshort time that I shall remain with you I shall prefer walking\nalone.\"\n\n\"And must it be so short?\" said he. \"Must it be--\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Eleanor, interrupting him, \"as short as possible, if you\nplease, sir.\"\n\n\"I had hoped, Mrs. Bold--I had hoped--\"\n\n\"Pray hope nothing, Mr. Slope, as far as I am concerned; pray do not;\nI do not know and need not know what hope you mean. Our acquaintance\nis very slight, and will probably remain so. Pray, pray let that be\nenough; there is at any rate no necessity for us to quarrel.\"\n\nMrs. Bold was certainly treating Mr. Slope rather cavalierly, and he\nfelt it so. She was rejecting him before he had offered himself, and\ninforming him at the same time that he was taking a great deal too\nmuch on himself to be so familiar. She did not even make an attempt\n\n\n   From such a sharp and waspish word as \"no\"\n   To pluck the sting.\n\n\nHe was still determined to be very tender and very pious, seeing that,\nin spite of all Mrs. Bold had said to him, he had not yet abandoned\nhope; but he was inclined also to be somewhat angry. The widow was\nbearing herself, as he thought, with too high a hand, was speaking of\nherself in much too imperious a tone. She had clearly no idea that an\nhonour was being conferred on her. Mr. Slope would be tender as long\nas he could, but he began to think if that failed it would not be\namiss if he also mounted himself for awhile on his high horse. Mr.\nSlope could undoubtedly be very tender, but he could be very savage\nalso, and he knew his own abilities.\n\n\"That is cruel,\" said he, \"and unchristian, too. The worst of us are\nstill bidden to hope. What have I done that you should pass on me so\nsevere a sentence?\" And then he paused a moment, during which the\nwidow walked steadily on with measured steps, saying nothing further.\n\n\"Beautiful woman,\" at last he burst forth, \"beautiful woman, you\ncannot pretend to be ignorant that I adore you. Yes, Eleanor, yes, I\nlove you. I love you with the truest affection which man can bear to\nwoman. Next to my hopes of heaven are my hopes of possessing you.\"\n(Mr. Slope's memory here played him false, or he would not have\nomitted the deanery.) \"How sweet to walk to heaven with you by my\nside, with you for my guide, mutual guides. Say, Eleanor, dearest\nEleanor, shall we walk that sweet path together?\"\n\nEleanor had no intention of ever walking together with Mr. Slope on\nany other path than that special one of Miss Thorne's which they now\noccupied, but as she had been unable to prevent the expression of Mr.\nSlope's wishes and aspirations, she resolved to hear him out to the\nend before she answered him.\n\n\"Ah, Eleanor,\" he continued, and it seemed to be his idea that as he\nhad once found courage to pronounce her Christian name, he could not\nutter it often enough. \"Ah, Eleanor, will it not be sweet, with the\nLord's assistance, to travel hand in hand through this mortal valley\nwhich His mercies will make pleasant to us, till hereafter we shall\ndwell together at the foot of His throne?\" And then a more tenderly\npious glance than ever beamed from the lover's eyes. \"Ah, Eleanor--\"\n\n\"My name, Mr. Slope, is Mrs. Bold,\" said Eleanor, who, though\ndetermined to hear out the tale of his love, was too much disgusted\nby his blasphemy to be able to bear much more of it.\n\n\"Sweetest angel, be not so cold,\" said he, and as he said it the\nchampagne broke forth, and he contrived to pass his arm round her\nwaist. He did this with considerable cleverness, for up to this point\nEleanor had contrived with tolerable success to keep her distance from\nhim. They had got into a walk nearly enveloped by shrubs, and Mr.\nSlope therefore no doubt considered that as they were now alone it was\nfitting that he should give her some outward demonstration of that\naffection of which he talked so much. It may perhaps be presumed that\nthe same stamp of measures had been found to succeed with Olivia\nProudie. Be this as it may, it was not successful with Eleanor Bold.\n\nShe sprang from him as she would have jumped from an adder, but she\ndid not spring far--not, indeed, beyond arm's length--and then, quick\nas thought, she raised her little hand and dealt him a box on the\near with such right goodwill that it sounded among the trees like a\nminiature thunderclap.\n\nAnd now it is to be feared that every well-bred reader of these pages\nwill lay down the book with disgust, feeling that, after all, the\nheroine is unworthy of sympathy. She is a hoyden, one will say. At any\nrate she is not a lady, another will exclaim. I have suspected her all\nthrough, a third will declare; she has no idea of the dignity of a\nmatron, or of the peculiar propriety which her position demands. At\none moment she is romping with young Stanhope; then she is making eyes\nat Mr. Arabin; anon she comes to fisticuffs with a third lover--and\nall before she is yet a widow of two years' standing.\n\nShe cannot altogether be defended, and yet it may be averred that she\nis not a hoyden, not given to romping nor prone to boxing. It were to\nbe wished devoutly that she had not struck Mr. Slope in the face. In\ndoing so she derogated from her dignity and committed herself. Had she\nbeen educated in Belgravia, had she been brought up by any sterner\nmentor than that fond father, had she lived longer under the rule of a\nhusband, she might, perhaps, have saved herself from this great fault.\nAs it was, the provocation was too much for her, the temptation to\ninstant resentment of the insult too strong. She was too keen in the\nfeeling of independence, a feeling dangerous for a young woman, but\none in which her position peculiarly tempted her to indulge. And then\nMr. Slope's face, tinted with a deeper dye than usual by the wine he\nhad drunk, simpering and puckering itself with pseudo-pity and tender\ngrimaces, seemed specially to call for such punishment. She had, too,\na true instinct as to the man; he was capable of rebuke in this way\nand in no other. To him the blow from her little hand was as much\nan insult as a blow from a man would have been to another. It went\ndirectly to his pride. He conceived himself lowered in his dignity and\npersonally outraged. He could almost have struck at her again in his\nrage. Even the pain was a great annoyance to him, and the feeling that\nhis clerical character had been wholly disregarded sorely vexed him.\n\nThere are such men: men who can endure no taint on their personal\nself-respect, even from a woman; men whose bodies are to themselves\nsuch sacred temples that a joke against them is desecration, and\na rough touch downright sacrilege. Mr. Slope was such a man, and\ntherefore the slap on the face that he got from Eleanor was, as\nfar as he was concerned, the fittest rebuke which could have been\nadministered to him.\n\nBut nevertheless, she should not have raised her hand against the\nman. Ladies' hands, so soft, so sweet, so delicious to the touch, so\ngraceful to the eye, so gracious in their gentle doings, were not made\nto belabour men's faces. The moment the deed was done Eleanor felt\nthat she had sinned against all propriety, and would have given little\nworlds to recall the blow. In her first agony of sorrow she all but\nbegged the man's pardon. Her next impulse, however, and the one which\nshe obeyed, was to run away.\n\n\"I never, never will speak another word to you,\" she said, gasping\nwith emotion and the loss of breath which her exertion and violent\nfeelings occasioned her, and so saying she put foot to the ground and\nran quickly back along the path to the house.\n\nBut how shall I sing the divine wrath of Mr. Slope, or how invoke the\ntragic muse to describe the rage which swelled the celestial bosom\nof the bishop's chaplain? Such an undertaking by no means befits the\nlow-heeled buskin of modern fiction. The painter put a veil over\nAgamemnon's face when called on to depict the father's grief at the\nearly doom of his devoted daughter. The god, when he resolved to\npunish the rebellious winds, abstained from mouthing empty threats.\nWe will not attempt to tell with what mighty surgings of the inner\nheart Mr. Slope swore to revenge himself on the woman who had\ndisgraced him, nor will we vainly strive to depict his deep agony of\nsoul.\n\nThere he is, however, alone in the garden walk, and we must contrive\nto bring him out of it. He was not willing to come forth quite at\nonce. His cheek was stinging with the weight of Eleanor's fingers,\nand he fancied that everyone who looked at him would be able to\nsee on his face the traces of what he had endured. He stood awhile,\nbecoming redder and redder with rage. He stood motionless, undecided,\nglaring with his eyes, thinking of the pains and penalties of Hades,\nand meditating how he might best devote his enemy to the infernal\ngods with all the passion of his accustomed eloquence. He longed in\nhis heart to be preaching at her. 'Twas thus that he was ordinarily\navenged of sinning mortal men and women. Could he at once have\nascended his Sunday rostrum and fulminated at her such denunciations\nas his spirit delighted in, his bosom would have been greatly eased.\n\nBut how preach to Mr. Thorne's laurels, or how preach indeed at all\nin such a vanity fair as this now going on at Ullathorne? And then\nhe began to feel a righteous disgust at the wickedness of the doings\naround him. He had been justly chastised for lending, by his presence,\na sanction to such worldly lures. The gaiety of society, the mirth of\nbanquets, the laughter of the young, and the eating and drinking of\nthe elders were, for awhile, without excuse in his sight. What had he\nnow brought down upon himself by sojourning thus in the tents of the\nheathen? He had consorted with idolaters round the altars of Baal, and\ntherefore a sore punishment had come upon him. He then thought of the\nSignora Neroni, and his soul within him was full of sorrow. He had an\ninkling--a true inkling--that he was a wicked, sinful man, but it led\nhim in no right direction; he could admit no charity in his heart.\nHe felt debasement coming on him, and he longed to shake it off, to\nrise up in his stirrup, to mount to high places and great power, that\nhe might get up into a mighty pulpit and preach to the world a loud\nsermon against Mrs. Bold.\n\nThere he stood fixed to the gravel for about ten minutes. Fortune\nfavoured him so far that no prying eyes came to look upon him in his\nmisery. Then a shudder passed over his whole frame; he collected\nhimself and slowly wound his way round to the lawn, advancing along\nthe path and not returning in the direction which Eleanor had taken.\nWhen he reached the tent, he found the bishop standing there in\nconversation with the Master of Lazarus. His lordship had come out\nto air himself after the exertion of his speech.\n\n\"This is very pleasant--very pleasant, my lord, is it not?\" said\nMr. Slope with his most gracious smile, pointing to the tent; \"very\npleasant. It is delightful to see so many persons enjoying themselves\nso thoroughly.\"\n\nMr. Slope thought he might force the bishop to introduce him to Dr.\nGwynne. A very great example had declared and practised the wisdom of\nbeing everything to everybody, and Mr. Slope was desirous of following\nit. His maxim was never to lose a chance. The bishop, however, at the\npresent moment was not very anxious to increase Mr. Slope's circle\nof acquaintance among his clerical brethren. He had his own reasons\nfor dropping any marked allusion to his domestic chaplain, and he\ntherefore made his shoulder rather cold for the occasion.\n\n\"Very, very,\" said he without turning round, or even deigning to look\nat Mr. Slope. \"And therefore, Dr. Gwynne, I really think that you will\nfind that the hebdomadal board will exercise as wide and as general an\nauthority as at the present moment. I, for one, Dr. Gwynne--\"\n\n\"Dr. Gwynne,\" said Mr. Slope, raising his hat and resolving not to\nbe outwitted by such an insignificant little goose as the Bishop of\nBarchester.\n\nThe Master of Lazarus also raised his hat and bowed very politely to\nMr. Slope. There is not a more courteous gentleman in the queen's\ndominions than the Master of Lazarus.\n\n\"My lord,\" said Mr. Slope, \"pray do me the honour of introducing me\nto Dr. Gwynne. The opportunity is too much in my favour to be lost.\"\n\nThe bishop had no help for it. \"My chaplain, Dr. Gwynne,\" said he,\n\"my present chaplain, Mr. Slope.\" He certainly made the introduction\nas unsatisfactory to the chaplain as possible, and by the use of the\nword \"present\" seemed to indicate that Mr. Slope might probably not\nlong enjoy the honour which he now held. But Mr. Slope cared nothing\nfor this. He understood the innuendo, and disregarded it. It might\nprobably come to pass that he would be in a situation to resign his\nchaplaincy before the bishop was in a situation to dismiss him from\nit. What need the future Dean of Barchester care for the bishop, or\nfor the bishop's wife? Had not Mr. Slope, just as he was entering Dr.\nStanhope's carriage, received an all-important note from Tom Towers\nof \"The Jupiter\"? Had he not that note this moment in his pocket?\n\nSo disregarding the bishop, he began to open out a conversation with\nthe Master of Lazarus.\n\nBut suddenly an interruption came, not altogether unwelcome to Mr.\nSlope. One of the bishop's servants came up to his master's shoulder\nwith a long, grave face and whispered into the bishop's ear.\n\n\"What is it, John?\" said the bishop.\n\n\"The dean, my lord; he is dead.\"\n\nMr. Slope had no further desire to converse with the Master of\nLazarus, and was very soon on his road back to Barchester.\n\nEleanor, as we have said, having declared her intention of never\nholding further communication with Mr. Slope, ran hurriedly back\ntowards the house. The thought, however, of what she had done grieved\nher greatly, and she could not abstain from bursting into tears.\n'Twas thus she played the second act in that day's melodrama.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLI\n\nMrs. Bold Confides Her Sorrow to Her Friend Miss Stanhope\n\n\nWhen Mrs. Bold came to the end of the walk and faced the lawn, she\nbegan to bethink herself what she should do. Was she to wait there\ntill Mr. Slope caught her, or was she to go in among the crowd with\ntears in her eyes and passion in her face? She might in truth have\nstood there long enough without any reasonable fear of further\nimmediate persecution from Mr. Slope, but we are all inclined to\nmagnify the bugbears which frighten us. In her present state of dread\nshe did not know of what atrocity he might venture to be guilty. Had\nanyone told her a week ago that he would have put his arm round her\nwaist at this party of Miss Thorne's, she would have been utterly\nincredulous. Had she been informed that he would be seen on the\nfollowing Sunday walking down the High Street in a scarlet coat\nand top boots, she would not have thought such a phenomenon more\nimprobable.\n\nBut this improbable iniquity he had committed, and now there was\nnothing she could not believe of him. In the first place it was quite\nmanifest that he was tipsy; in the next place it was to be taken as\nproved that all his religion was sheer hypocrisy; and finally the man\nwas utterly shameless. She therefore stood watching for the sound of\nhis footfall, not without some fear that he might creep out at her\nsuddenly from among the bushes.\n\nAs she thus stood she saw Charlotte Stanhope at a little distance\nfrom her, walking quickly across the grass. Eleanor's handkerchief\nwas in her hand, and putting it to her face so as to conceal her\ntears, she ran across the lawn and joined her friend.\n\n\"Oh, Charlotte,\" she said, almost too much out of breath to speak\nvery plainly; \"I am so glad I have found you.\"\n\n\"Glad you have found me!\" said Charlotte, laughing; \"that's a good\njoke. Why Bertie and I have been looking for you everywhere. He swears\nthat you have gone off with Mr. Slope, and is now on the point of\nhanging himself.\"\n\n\"Oh, Charlotte, don't,\" said Mrs. Bold.\n\n\"Why, my child, what on earth is the matter with you?\" said Miss\nStanhope, perceiving that Eleanor's hand trembled on her own arm,\nand finding also that her companion was still half-choked by tears.\n\"Goodness heaven! Something has distressed you. What is it? What\ncan I do for you?\"\n\nEleanor answered her only by a sort of spasmodic gurgle in her throat.\nShe was a good deal upset, as people say, and could not at the moment\ncollect herself.\n\n\"Come here, this way, Mrs. Bold; come this way, and we shall not be\nseen. What has happened to vex you so? What can I do for you? Can\nBertie do anything?\"\n\n\"Oh, no, no, no, no,\" said Eleanor. \"There is nothing to be done. Only\nthat horrid man--\"\n\n\"What horrid man?\" asked Charlotte.\n\nThere are some moments in life in which both men and women feel\nthemselves imperatively called on to make a confidence, in which not\nto do so requires a disagreeable resolution and also a disagreeable\nsuspicion. There are people of both sexes who never make confidences,\nwho are never tempted by momentary circumstances to disclose their\nsecrets, but such are generally dull, close, unimpassioned spirits,\n\"gloomy gnomes, who live in cold dark mines.\" There was nothing of\nthe gnome about Eleanor, and she therefore resolved to tell Charlotte\nStanhope the whole story about Mr. Slope.\n\n\"That horrid man; that Mr. Slope,\" said she. \"Did you not see that he\nfollowed me out of the dining-room?\"\n\n\"Of course I did, and was sorry enough, but I could not help it.\nI knew you would be annoyed. But you and Bertie managed it badly\nbetween you.\"\n\n\"It was not his fault nor mine either. You know how I disliked the\nidea of coming in the carriage with that man.\"\n\n\"I am sure I am very sorry if that has led to it.\"\n\n\"I don't know what has led to it,\" said Eleanor, almost crying again.\n\"But it has not been my fault.\"\n\n\"But what has he done, my dear?\"\n\n\"He's an abominable, horrid, hypocritical man, and it would serve him\nright to tell the bishop all about it.\"\n\n\"Believe me, if you want to do him an injury, you had far better tell\nMrs. Proudie. But what did he do, Mrs. Bold?\"\n\n\"Ugh!\" exclaimed Eleanor.\n\n\"Well, I must confess he's not very nice,\" said Charlotte Stanhope.\n\n\"Nice!\" said Eleanor. \"He is the most fulsome, fawning, abominable\nman I ever saw. What business had he to come to me?--I that never\ngave him the slightest tittle of encouragement--I that always hated\nhim, though I did take his part when others ran him down.\"\n\n\"That's just where it is, my dear. He has heard that and therefore\nfancied that of course you were in love with him.\"\n\nThis was wormwood to Eleanor. It was in fact the very thing which\nall her friends had been saying for the last month past--and which\nexperience now proved to be true. Eleanor resolved within herself\nthat she would never again take any man's part. The world, with all\nits villainy and all its ill-nature, might wag as it liked: she would\nnot again attempt to set crooked things straight.\n\n\"But what did he do, my dear?\" said Charlotte, who was really rather\ninterested in the subject.\n\n\"He--he--he--\"\n\n\"Well--come, it can't have been anything so very horrid, for the man\nwas not tipsy.\"\n\n\"Oh, I am sure he was\" said Eleanor. \"I am sure he must have been\ntipsy.\"\n\n\"Well, I declare I didn't observe it. But what was it, my love?\"\n\n\"Why, I believe I can hardly tell you. He talked such horrid stuff\nthat you never heard the like: about religion, and heaven, and love.\nOh, dear--he is such a nasty man.\"\n\n\"I can easily imagine the sort of stuff he would talk. Well--and\nthen--?\"\n\n\"And then--he took hold of me.\"\n\n\"Took hold of you?\"\n\n\"Yes--he somehow got close to me and took hold of me--\"\n\n\"By the waist?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Eleanor shuddering.\n\n\"And then--\"\n\n\"Then I jumped away from him, and gave him a slap on the face, and\nran away along the path till I saw you.\"\n\n\"Ha, ha, ha!\" Charlotte Stanhope laughed heartily at the finale to\nthe tragedy. It was delightful to her to think that Mr. Slope had\nhad his ears boxed. She did not quite appreciate the feeling which\nmade her friend so unhappy at the result of the interview. To her\nthinking the matter had ended happily enough as regarded the widow,\nwho indeed was entitled to some sort of triumph among her friends.\nWhereas to Mr. Slope would be due all those gibes and jeers which\nwould naturally follow such an affair. His friends would ask him\nwhether his ears tingled whenever he saw a widow, and he would be\ncautioned that beautiful things were made to be looked at and not to\nbe touched.\n\nSuch were Charlotte Stanhope's views on such matters, but she did not\nat the present moment clearly explain them to Mrs. Bold. Her object\nwas to endear herself to her friend, and therefore, having had her\nlaugh, she was ready enough to offer sympathy. Could Bertie do\nanything? Should Bertie speak to the man and warn him that in future\nhe must behave with more decorum? Bertie indeed, she declared, would\nbe more angry than anyone else when he heard to what insult Mrs. Bold\nhad been subjected.\n\n\"But you won't tell him?\" said Mrs. Bold with a look of horror.\n\n\"Not if you don't like it,\" said Charlotte; \"but considering\neverything, I would strongly advise it. If you had a brother, you\nknow, it would be unnecessary. But it is very right that Mr. Slope\nshould know that you have somebody by you that will and can protect\nyou.\"\n\n\"But my father is here.\"\n\n\"Yes, but it is so disagreeable for clergymen to have to quarrel with\neach other; and circumstanced as your father is just at this moment,\nit would be very inexpedient that there should be anything unpleasant\nbetween him and Mr. Slope. Surely you and Bertie are intimate enough\nfor you to permit him to take your part.\"\n\nCharlotte Stanhope was very anxious that her brother should at once\non that very day settle matters with his future wife. Things had now\ncome to that point between him and his father, and between him and\nhis creditors, that he must either do so, or leave Barchester; either\ndo that, or go back to his unwashed associates, dirty lodgings, and\npoor living at Carrara. Unless he could provide himself with an\nincome, he must go to Carrara, or to ----. His father the prebendary\nhad not said this in so many words, but had he done so, he could not\nhave signified it more plainly.\n\nSuch being the state of the case it was very necessary that no more\ntime should be lost. Charlotte had seen her brother's apathy, when\nhe neglected to follow Mrs. Bold out of the room, with anger which\nshe could hardly suppress. It was grievous to think that Mr. Slope\nshould have so distanced him. Charlotte felt that she had played her\npart with sufficient skill. She had brought them together and induced\nsuch a degree of intimacy that her brother was really relieved from\nall trouble and labour in the matter. And moreover it was quite plain\nthat Mrs. Bold was very fond of Bertie. And now it was plain enough\nalso that he had nothing to fear from his rival, Mr. Slope.\n\nThere was certainly an awkwardness in subjecting Mrs. Bold to a\nsecond offer on the same day. It would have been well perhaps to\nhave put the matter off for a week, could a week have been spared.\nBut circumstances are frequently too peremptory to be arranged as we\nwould wish to arrange them, and such was the case now. This being\nso, could not this affair of Mr. Slope's be turned to advantage?\nCould it not be made the excuse for bringing Bertie and Mrs. Bold\ninto still closer connexion--into such close connexion that they\ncould not fail to throw themselves into each other's arms? Such was\nthe game which Miss Stanhope now at a moment's notice resolved to\nplay.\n\nAnd very well she played it. In the first place it was arranged that\nMr. Slope should not return in the Stanhopes' carriage to Barchester.\nIt so happened that Mr. Slope was already gone, but of that of course\nthey knew nothing. The signora should be induced to go first, with\nonly the servants and her sister, and Bertie should take Mr. Slope's\nplace in the second journey. Bertie was to be told in confidence of\nthe whole affair, and when the carriage was gone off with its first\nload, Eleanor was to be left under Bertie's special protection, so as\nto insure her from any further aggression from Mr. Slope. While the\ncarriage was getting ready, Bertie was to seek out that gentleman\nand make him understand that he must provide himself with another\nconveyance back to Barchester. Their immediate object should be to\nwalk about together in search of Bertie. Bertie in short was to be\nthe Pegasus on whose wings they were to ride out of their present\ndilemma.\n\nThere was a warmth of friendship and cordial kindliness in all this\nthat was very soothing to the widow; but yet, though she gave way\nto it, she was hardly reconciled to doing so. It never occurred to\nher that, now that she had killed one dragon, another was about to\nspring up in her path; she had no remote idea that she would have to\nencounter another suitor in her proposed protector, but she hardly\nliked the thought of putting herself so much into the hands of young\nStanhope. She felt that if she wanted protection, she should go to\nher father. She felt that she should ask him to provide a carriage\nfor her back to Barchester. Mrs. Clantantram she knew would give her\na seat. She knew that she should not throw herself entirely upon\nfriends whose friendship dated, as it were, but from yesterday. But\nyet she could not say no to one who was so sisterly in her kindness,\nso eager in her good nature, so comfortably sympathetic as Charlotte\nStanhope. And thus she gave way to all the propositions made to her.\n\nThey first went into the dining-room, looking for their champion, and\nfrom thence to the drawing-room. Here they found Mr. Arabin, still\nhanging over the signora's sofa; or rather they found him sitting near\nher head, as a physician might have sat had the lady been his patient.\nThere was no other person in the room. The guests were some in the\ntent, some few still in the dining room, some at the bows and arrows,\nbut most of them walking with Miss Thorne through the park and looking\nat the games that were going on.\n\nAll that had passed, and was passing between Mr. Arabin and the lady,\nit is unnecessary to give in detail. She was doing with him as she\ndid with all others. It was her mission to make fools of men, and she\nwas pursuing her mission with Mr. Arabin. She had almost got him to\nown his love for Mrs. Bold and had subsequently almost induced him to\nacknowledge a passion for herself. He, poor man, was hardly aware what\nhe was doing or saying, hardly conscious whether was in heaven or in\nhell. So little had he known of female attractions of that peculiar\nclass which the signora owned, that he became affected with a kind\nof temporary delirium when first subjected to its power. He lost his\nhead rather than this heart, and toppled about mentally, reeling in\nhis ideas as a drunken man does on his legs. She had whispered to him\nwords that really meant nothing but which, coming from such beautiful\nlips and accompanied by such lustrous glances, seemed to have a\nmysterious significance, which he felt though he could not understand.\n\nIn being thus besirened, Mr. Arabin behaved himself very differently\nfrom Mr. Slope. The signora had said truly that the two men were the\ncontrasts of each other--that the one was all for action, the other\nall for thought. Mr. Slope, when this lady laid upon his senses the\noverpowering breath of her charms, immediately attempted to obtain\nsome fruition, to achieve some mighty triumph. He began by catching\nat her hand and progressed by kissing it. He made vows of love and\nasked for vows in return. He promised everlasting devotion, knelt\nbefore her, and swore that had she been on Mount Ida, Juno would have\nhad no cause to hate the offspring of Venus. But Mr. Arabin uttered\nno oaths, kept his hand mostly in his trousers pocket, and had no\nmore thought of kissing Madame Neroni than of kissing the Countess De\nCourcy.\n\nAs soon as Mr. Arabin saw Mrs. Bold enter the room he blushed and\nrose from his chair; then he sat down again, and then again got up.\nThe signora saw the blush at once and smiled at the poor victim, but\nEleanor was too much confused to see anything.\n\n\"Oh, Madeline,\" said Charlotte, \"I want to speak to you particularly;\nwe must arrange about the carriage, you know,\" and she stooped down\nto whisper to her sister. Mr. Arabin immediately withdrew to a little\ndistance, and as Charlotte had in fact much to explain before she\ncould make the new carriage arrangement intelligible, he had nothing\nto do but to talk to Mrs. Bold.\n\n\"We have had a very pleasant party,\" said he, using the tone he would\nhave used had he declared that the sun was shining very brightly, or\nthe rain falling very fast.\n\n\"Very,\" said Eleanor, who never in her life had passed a more\nunpleasant day.\n\n\"I hope Mr. Harding has enjoyed himself.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, very much,\" said Eleanor, who had not seen her father since\nshe parted from him soon after her arrival.\n\n\"He returns to Barchester to-night, I suppose.\"\n\n\"Yes, I believe so--that is, I think he is staying at Plumstead.\"\n\n\"Oh, staying at Plumstead,\" said Mr. Arabin.\n\n\"He came from there this morning. I believe he is going back, he\ndidn't exactly say, however.\"\n\n\"I hope Mrs. Grantly is quite well.\"\n\n\"She seemed to be quite well. She is here; that is, unless she has\ngone away.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, to be sure. I was talking to her. Looking very well indeed.\"\nThen there was a considerable pause; for Charlotte could not at once\nmake Madeline understand why she was to be sent home in a hurry\nwithout her brother.\n\n\"Are you returning to Plumstead, Mrs. Bold?\" Mr. Arabin merely asked\nthis by way of making conversation, but he immediately perceived that\nhe was approaching dangerous ground.\n\n\"No,\" said Mrs. Bold very quietly; \"I am going home to Barchester.\"\n\n\"Oh, ah, yes. I had forgotten that you had returned.\" And then Mr.\nArabin, finding it impossible to say anything further, stood silent\ntill Charlotte had completed her plans, and Mrs. Bold stood equally\nsilent, intently occupied as it appeared in the arrangement of her\nrings.\n\nAnd yet these two people were thoroughly in love with each other; and\nthough one was a middle-aged clergyman, and the other a lady at any\nrate past the wishy-washy bread-and-butter period of life, they were\nas unable to tell their own minds to each other as any Damon and\nPhillis, whose united ages would not make up that to which Mr. Arabin\nhad already attained.\n\nMadeline Neroni consented to her sister's proposal, and then the two\nladies again went off in quest of Bertie Stanhope.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLII\n\nUllathorne Sports--Act III\n\n\nAnd now Miss Thorne's guests were beginning to take their departure,\nand the amusement of those who remained was becoming slack. It was\ngetting dark, and ladies in morning costumes were thinking that, if\nthey were to appear by candlelight, they ought to readjust themselves.\nSome young gentlemen had been heard to talk so loud that prudent\nmammas determined to retire judiciously, and the more discreet of the\nmale sex, whose libations had been moderate, felt that there was not\nmuch more left for them to do.\n\nMorning parties, as a rule, are failures. People never know how to\nget away from them gracefully. A picnic on an island or a mountain\nor in a wood may perhaps be permitted. There is no master of the\nmountain bound by courtesy to bid you stay while in his heart he is\nlonging for your departure. But in a private house or in private\ngrounds a morning party is a bore. One is called on to eat and drink\nat unnatural hours. One is obliged to give up the day, which is\nuseful, and is then left without resource for the evening, which is\nuseless. One gets home fagged and _désoeuvré_, and yet at an hour too\nearly for bed. There is no comfortable resource left. Cards in these\ngenteel days are among the things tabooed, and a rubber of whist is\nimpracticable.\n\nAll this began now to be felt. Some young people had come with some\namount of hope that they might get up a dance in the evening, and\nwere unwilling to leave till all such hope was at an end. Others,\nfearful of staying longer than was expected, had ordered their\ncarriages early, and were doing their best to go, solicitous for\ntheir servants and horses. The countess and her noble brood were\namong the first to leave, and as regarded the Hon. George, it was\ncertainly time that he did so. Her ladyship was in a great fret and\nfume. Those horrid roads would, she was sure, be the death of her if\nunhappily she were caught in them by the dark night. The lamps she\nwas assured were good, but no lamp could withstand the jolting of the\nroads of East Barsetshire. The De Courcy property lay in the western\ndivision of the county.\n\nMrs. Proudie could not stay when the countess was gone. So the bishop\nwas searched for by the Revs. Messrs. Grey and Green and found in one\ncorner of the tent enjoying himself thoroughly in a disquisition on\nthe hebdomadal board. He obeyed, however, the behests of his lady\nwithout finishing the sentence in which he was promising to Dr.\nGwynne that his authority at Oxford should remain unimpaired, and the\nepiscopal horses turned their noses towards the palatial stables. Then\nthe Grantlys went. Before they did so, Mr. Harding managed to whisper\na word into his daughter's ear. Of course, he said, he would undeceive\nthe Grantlys as to that foolish rumour about Mr. Slope.\n\n\"No, no, no,\" said Eleanor; \"pray do not--pray wait till I see you.\nYou will be home in a day or two, and then I will explain to you\neverything.\"\n\n\"I shall be home to-morrow,\" said he.\n\n\"I am so glad,\" said Eleanor. \"You will come and dine with me, and\nthen we shall be so comfortable.\"\n\nMr. Harding promised. He did not exactly know what there was to be\nexplained, or why Dr. Grantly's mind should not be disabused of the\nmistake into which he had fallen, but nevertheless he promised. He\nowed some reparation to his daughter, and he thought that he might\nbest make it by obedience.\n\nAnd thus the people were thinning off by degrees as Charlotte and\nEleanor walked about in quest of Bertie. Their search might have been\nlong had they not happened to hear his voice. He was comfortably\nensconced in the ha-ha, with his back to the sloping side, smoking a\ncigar, and eagerly engaged in conversation with some youngster from\nthe further side of the county, whom he had never met before, who was\nalso smoking under Bertie's pupilage and listening with open ears to\nan account given by his companion of some of the pastimes of Eastern\nclime.\n\n\"Bertie, I am seeking you everywhere,\" said Charlotte. \"Come up here\nat once.\"\n\nBertie looked up out of the ha-ha and saw the two ladies before him.\nAs there was nothing for him but to obey, he got up and threw away\nhis cigar. From the first moment of his acquaintance with her he had\nliked Eleanor Bold. Had he been left to his own devices, had she\nbeen penniless, and had it then been quite out of the question that\nhe should marry her, he would most probably have fallen violently in\nlove with her. But now he could not help regarding her somewhat as\nhe did the marble workshops at Carrara, as he had done his easel and\npalette, as he had done the lawyer's chambers in London--in fact, as\nhe had invariably regarded everything by which it had been proposed\nto him to obtain the means of living. Eleanor Bold appeared before\nhim, no longer as a beautiful woman, but as a new profession called\nmatrimony. It was a profession indeed requiring but little labour,\nand one in which an income was insured to him. But nevertheless he\nhad been as it were goaded on to it; his sister had talked to him of\nEleanor, just as she had talked of busts and portraits. Bertie did\nnot dislike money, but he hated the very thought of earning it. He\nwas now called away from his pleasant cigar to earn it, by offering\nhimself as a husband to Mrs. Bold. The work indeed was made easy\nenough, for in lieu of his having to seek the widow, the widow had\napparently come to seek him.\n\nHe made some sudden absurd excuse to his auditor and then, throwing\naway his cigar, climbed up the wall of the ha-ha and joined the ladies\non the lawn.\n\n\"Come and give Mrs. Bold an arm,\" said Charlotte, \"while I set you on\na piece of duty which, as a _preux chevalier_, you must immediately\nperform. Your personal danger will, I fear, be insignificant, as your\nantagonist is a clergyman.\"\n\nBertie immediately gave his arm to Eleanor, walking between her and\nhis sister. He had lived too long abroad to fall into the Englishman's\nhabit of offering each an arm to two ladies at the same time--a habit,\nby the by, which foreigners regard as an approach to bigamy, or a sort\nof incipient Mormonism.\n\nThe little history of Mr. Slope's misconduct was then told to Bertie\nby his sister, Eleanor's ears tingling the while. And well they might\ntingle. If it were necessary to speak of the outrage at all, why\nshould it be spoken of to such a person as Mr. Stanhope, and why\nin her own hearing? She knew she was wrong, and was unhappy and\ndispirited, yet she could think of no way to extricate herself, no way\nto set herself right. Charlotte spared her as much as she possibly\ncould, spoke of the whole thing as though Mr. Slope had taken a glass\nof wine too much, said that of course there would be nothing more\nabout it, but that steps must be taken to exclude Mr. Slope from the\ncarriage.\n\n\"Mrs. Bold need be under no alarm about that,\" said Bertie, \"for\nMr. Slope has gone this hour past. He told me that business made it\nnecessary that he should start at once for Barchester.\"\n\n\"He is not so tipsy, at any rate, but what he knows his fault,\" said\nCharlotte. \"Well, my dear, that is one difficulty over. Now I'll\nleave you with your true knight and get Madeline off as quickly as I\ncan. The carriage is here, I suppose, Bertie?\"\n\n\"It has been here for the last hour.\"\n\n\"That's well. Good-bye, my dear. Of course you'll come in to tea. I\nshall trust to you to bring her, Bertie, even by force if necessary.\"\nAnd so saying, Charlotte ran off across the lawn, leaving her brother\nalone with the widow.\n\nAs Miss Stanhope went off, Eleanor bethought herself that, as Mr.\nSlope had taken his departure, there no longer existed any necessity\nfor separating Mr. Stanhope from his sister Madeline, who so much\nneeded his aid. It had been arranged that he should remain so as to\npreoccupy Mr. Slope's place in the carriage, and act as a social\npoliceman to effect the exclusion of that disagreeable gentleman. But\nMr. Slope had effected his own exclusion, and there was no possible\nreason now why Bertie should not go with his sister--at least Eleanor\nsaw none, and she said as much.\n\n\"Oh, let Charlotte have her own way,\" said he. \"She has arranged it,\nand there will be no end of confusion if we make another change.\nCharlotte always arranges everything in our house and rules us like a\ndespot.\"\n\n\"But the signora?\" said Eleanor.\n\n\"Oh, the signora can do very well without me. Indeed, she will have\nto do without me,\" he added, thinking rather of his studies in Carrara\nthan of his Barchester hymeneals.\n\n\"Why, you are not going to leave us?\" asked Eleanor.\n\nIt has been said that Bertie Stanhope was a man without principle. He\ncertainly was so. He had no power of using active mental exertion to\nkeep himself from doing evil. Evil had no ugliness in his eyes; virtue\nno beauty. He was void of any of these feelings which actuate men to\ndo good. But he was perhaps equally void of those which actuate men to\ndo evil. He got into debt with utter recklessness, thinking nothing\nas to whether the tradesmen would ever be paid or not. But he did not\ninvent active schemes of deceit for the sake of extracting the goods\nof others. If a man gave him credit, that was the man's look-out;\nBertie Stanhope troubled himself nothing further. In borrowing money\nhe did the same; he gave people references to \"his governor;\" told\nthem that the \"old chap\" had a good income; and agreed to pay sixty\nper cent for the accommodation. All this he did without a scruple of\nconscience; but then he never contrived active villainy.\n\nIn this affair of his marriage it had been represented to him as a\nmatter of duty that he ought to put himself in possession of Mrs.\nBold's hand and fortune, and at first he had so regarded it. About\nher he had thought but little. It was the customary thing for men\nsituated as he was to marry for money, and there was no reason why\nhe should not do what others around him did. And so he consented.\nBut now he began to see the matter in another light. He was setting\nhimself down to catch this woman, as a cat sits to catch a mouse.\nHe was to catch her, and swallow her up, her and her child, and her\nhouses and land, in order that he might live on her instead of on\nhis father. There was a cold, calculating, cautious cunning about\nthis quite at variance with Bertie's character. The prudence of the\nmeasure was quite as antagonistic to his feelings as the iniquity.\n\nAnd then, should he be successful, what would be the reward? Having\nsatisfied his creditors with half of the widow's fortune, he would be\nallowed to sit down quietly at Barchester, keeping economical house\nwith the remainder. His duty would be to rock the cradle of the\nlate Mr. Bold's child, and his highest excitement a demure party at\nPlumstead Rectory, should it ultimately turn out that the archdeacon\nwould be sufficiently reconciled to receive him.\n\nThere was very little in the programme to allure such a man as Bertie\nStanhope. Would not the Carrara workshop, or whatever worldly career\nfortune might have in store for him, would not almost anything be\nbetter than this? The lady herself was undoubtedly all that was\ndesirable, but the most desirable lady becomes nauseous when she has\nto be taken as a pill. He was pledged to his sister, however, and let\nhim quarrel with whom he would, it behoved him not to quarrel with\nher. If she were lost to him, all would be lost that he could ever\nhope to derive henceforward from the paternal roof-tree. His mother\nwas apparently indifferent to his weal or woe, to his wants or his\nwarfare. His father's brow got blacker and blacker from day to day,\nas the old man looked at his hopeless son. And as for Madeline--poor\nMadeline, whom of all of them he liked the best--she had enough to do\nto shift for herself. No; come what might, he must cling to his sister\nand obey her behests, let them be ever so stern--or at the very least\nseem to obey them. Could not some happy deceit bring him through in\nthis matter, so that he might save appearances with his sister and\nyet not betray the widow to her ruin? What if he made a confederate\nof Eleanor? 'Twas in this spirit that Bertie Stanhope set about his\nwooing.\n\n\"But you are not going to leave Barchester?\" asked Eleanor.\n\n\"I do not know,\" he replied; \"I hardly know yet what I am going to\ndo. But it is at any rate certain that I must do something.\"\n\n\"You mean about your profession?\" said she.\n\n\"Yes, about my profession, if you can call it one.\"\n\n\"And is it not one?\" said Eleanor. \"Were I a man, I know none I should\nprefer to it, except painting. And I believe the one is as much in\nyour power as the other.\"\n\n\"Yes, just about equally so,\" said Bertie with a little touch of\ninward satire directed at himself. He knew in his heart that he would\nnever make a penny by either.\n\n\"I have often wondered, Mr. Stanhope, why you do not exert yourself\nmore,\" said Eleanor, who felt a friendly fondness for the man with\nwhom she was walking. \"But I know it is very impertinent in me to say\nso.\"\n\n\"Impertinent!\" said he. \"Not so, but much too kind. It is much too\nkind in you to take any interest in so idle a scamp.\"\n\n\"But you are not a scamp, though you are perhaps idle. And I do take\nan interest in you, a very great interest,\" she added in a voice\nwhich almost made him resolve to change his mind. \"And when I call\nyou idle, I know you are only so for the present moment. Why can't\nyou settle steadily to work here in Barchester?\"\n\n\"And make busts of the bishop, dean, and chapter? Or perhaps, if I\nachieve a great success, obtain a commission to put up an elaborate\ntombstone over a prebendary's widow, a dead lady with a Grecian nose,\na bandeau, and an intricate lace veil; lying of course on a marble\nsofa from among the legs of which death will be creeping out and\npoking at his victim with a small toasting-fork.\"\n\nEleanor laughed, but yet she thought that if the surviving prebendary\npaid the bill, the object of the artist as a professional man would\nin a great measure be obtained.\n\n\"I don't know about the dean and chapter and the prebendary's widow,\"\nsaid Eleanor. \"Of course you must take them as they come. But the fact\nof your having a great cathedral in which such ornaments are required\ncould not but be in your favour.\"\n\n\"No real artist could descend to the ornamentation of a cathedral,\"\nsaid Bertie, who had his ideas of the high ecstatic ambition of art,\nas indeed all artists have who are not in receipt of a good income.\n\"Buildings should be fitted to grace the sculpture, not the sculpture\nto grace the building.\"\n\n\"Yes, when the work of art is good enough to merit it. Do you, Mr.\nStanhope, do something sufficiently excellent and we ladies of\nBarchester will erect for it a fitting receptacle. Come, what shall\nthe subject be?\"\n\n\"I'll put you in your pony chair, Mrs. Bold, as Dannecker put Ariadne\non her lion. Only you must promise to sit for me.\"\n\n\"My ponies are too tame, I fear, and my broad-brimmed straw hat will\nnot look so well in marble as the lace veil of the prebendary's wife.\"\n\n\"If you will not consent to that, Mrs. Bold, I will consent to try no\nother subject in Barchester.\"\n\n\"You are determined then to push your fortune in other lands?\"\n\n\"I am determined,\" said Bertie slowly and significantly, as he tried\nto bring up his mind to a great resolve; \"I am determined in this\nmatter to be guided wholly by you.\"\n\n\"Wholly by me?\" said Eleanor, astonished at, and not quite liking, his\naltered manner.\n\n\"Wholly by you,\" said Bertie, dropping his companion's arm and\nstanding before her on the path. In their walk they had come exactly\nto the spot in which Eleanor had been provoked into slapping Mr.\nSlope's face. Could it be possible that this place was peculiarly\nunpropitious to her comfort? Could it be possible that she should\nhere have to encounter yet another amorous swain?\n\n\"If you will be guided by me, Mr. Stanhope, you will set yourself\ndown to steady and persevering work, and you will be ruled by your\nfather as to the place in which it will be most advisable for you to\ndo so.\"\n\n\"Nothing could be more prudent, if only it were practicable. But now,\nif you will let me, I will tell you how it is that I will be guided\nby you, and why. Will you let me tell you?\"\n\n\"I really do not know what you can have to tell.\"\n\n\"No, you cannot know. It is impossible that you should. But we have\nbeen very good friends, Mrs. Bold, have we not?\"\n\n\"Yes, I think we have,\" said she, observing in his demeanour an\nearnestness very unusual with him.\n\n\"You were kind enough to say just now that you took an interest in me,\nand I was perhaps vain enough to believe you.\"\n\n\"There is no vanity in that; I do so as your sister's brother--and as\nmy own friend also.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't deserve that you should feel so kindly towards me,\"\nsaid Bertie, \"but upon my word I am very grateful for it,\" and he\npaused awhile, hardly knowing how to introduce the subject that he\nhad in hand.\n\nAnd it was no wonder that he found it difficult. He had to make known\nto his companion the scheme that had been prepared to rob her of her\nwealth, he had to tell her that he had intended to marry her without\nloving her, or else that he loved her without intending to marry her;\nand he had also to bespeak from her not only his own pardon, but also\nthat of his sister, and induce Mrs. Bold to protest in her future\ncommunion with Charlotte that an offer had been duly made to her and\nduly rejected.\n\nBertie Stanhope was not prone to be very diffident of his own\nconversational powers, but it did seem to him that he was about to\ntax them almost too far. He hardly knew where to begin, and he hardly\nknew where he should end.\n\nBy this time Eleanor was again walking on slowly by his side, not\ntaking his arm as she had heretofore done but listening very intently\nfor whatever Bertie might have to say to her.\n\n\"I wish to be guided by you,\" said he; \"indeed, in this matter there\nis no one else who can set me right.\"\n\n\"Oh, that must be nonsense,\" said she.\n\n\"Well, listen to me now, Mrs. Bold, and if you can help it, pray don't\nbe angry with me.\"\n\n\"Angry!\" said she.\n\n\"Oh, indeed you will have cause to be so. You know how very much\nattached to you my sister Charlotte is.\"\n\nEleanor acknowledged that she did.\n\n\"Indeed she is; I never knew her to love anyone so warmly on so short\nan acquaintance. You know also how well she loves me?\"\n\nEleanor now made no answer, but she felt the blood tingle in her\ncheek as she gathered from what he said the probable result of this\ndouble-barrelled love on the part of Miss Stanhope.\n\n\"I am her only brother, Mrs. Bold, and it is not to be wondered at\nthat she should love me. But you do not yet know Charlotte--you do\nnot know how entirely the well-being of our family hangs on her.\nWithout her to manage for us, I do not know how we should get on from\nday to day. You cannot yet have observed all this.\"\n\nEleanor had indeed observed a good deal of this; she did not, however,\nnow say so, but allowed him to proceed with his story.\n\n\"You cannot therefore be surprised that Charlotte should be most\nanxious to do the best for us all.\"\n\nEleanor said that she was not at all surprised.\n\n\"And she has had a very difficult game to play, Mrs. Bold--a very\ndifficult game. Poor Madeline's unfortunate marriage and terrible\naccident, my mother's ill-health, my father's absence from England,\nand last, and worse perhaps, my own roving, idle spirit have almost\nbeen too much for her. You cannot wonder if among all her cares one\nof the foremost is to see me settled in the world.\"\n\nEleanor on this occasion expressed no acquiescence. She certainly\nsupposed that a formal offer was to be made and could not but think\nthat so singular an exordium was never before made by a gentleman in\na similar position. Mr. Slope had annoyed her by the excess of his\nardour. It was quite clear that no such danger was to be feared from\nMr. Stanhope. Prudential motives alone actuated him. Not only was\nhe about to make love because his sister told him, but he also took\nthe precaution of explaining all this before he began. 'Twas thus,\nwe may presume, that the matter presented itself to Mrs. Bold.\n\nWhen he had got so far, Bertie began poking the gravel with a little\ncane which he carried. He still kept moving on, but very slowly, and\nhis companion moved slowly by his side, not inclined to assist him in\nthe task the performance of which appeared to be difficult to him.\n\n\"Knowing how fond she is of yourself, Mrs. Bold, cannot you imagine\nwhat scheme should have occurred to her?\"\n\n\"I can imagine no better scheme, Mr. Stanhope, than the one I\nproposed to you just now.\"\n\n\"No,\" said he somewhat lackadaisically; \"I suppose that would be the\nbest, but Charlotte thinks another plan might be joined with it. She\nwants me to marry you.\"\n\nA thousand remembrances flashed across Eleanor's mind all in a\nmoment--how Charlotte had talked about and praised her brother, how\nshe had continually contrived to throw the two of them together,\nhow she had encouraged all manner of little intimacies, how she had\nwith singular cordiality persisted in treating Eleanor as one of the\nfamily. All this had been done to secure her comfortable income for\nthe benefit of one of the family!\n\nSuch a feeling as this is very bitter when it first impresses itself\non a young mind. To the old, such plots and plans, such matured\nschemes for obtaining the goods of this world without the trouble of\nearning them, such long-headed attempts to convert \"tuum\" into \"meum\"\nare the ways of life to which they are accustomed. 'Tis thus that\nmany live, and it therefore behoves all those who are well-to-do in\nthe world to be on their guard against those who are not. With them\nit is the success that disgusts, not the attempt. But Eleanor had\nnot yet learnt to look on her money as a source of danger; she had\nnot begun to regard herself as fair game to be hunted down by hungry\ngentlemen. She had enjoyed the society of the Stanhopes, she had\ngreatly liked the cordiality of Charlotte, and had been happy in her\nnew friends. Now she saw the cause of all this kindness, and her\nmind was opened to a new phase of human life.\n\n\"Miss Stanhope,\" said she haughtily, \"has been contriving for me a\ngreat deal of honour, but she might have saved herself the trouble.\nI am not sufficiently ambitious.\"\n\n\"Pray don't be angry with her, Mrs. Bold,\" said he, \"or with me\neither.\"\n\n\"Certainly not with you, Mr. Stanhope,\" said she with considerable\nsarcasm in her tone. \"Certainly not with you.\"\n\n\"No--nor with her,\" said he imploringly.\n\n\"And why, may I ask you, Mr. Stanhope, have you told me this singular\nstory? For I may presume I may judge by your manner of telling it\nthat--that--that you and your sister are not exactly of one mind on\nthe subject.\"\n\n\"No, we are not.\"\n\n\"And if so,\" said Mrs. Bold, who was now really angry with the\nunnecessary insult which she thought had been offered to her. \"And\nif so, why has it been worth your while to tell me all this?\"\n\n\"I did once think, Mrs. Bold--that you--that you--\"\n\nThe widow now again became entirely impassive, and would not lend the\nslightest assistance to her companion.\n\n\"I did once think that you perhaps might--might have been taught to\nregard me as more than a friend.\"\n\n\"Never!\" said Mrs. Bold, \"never. If I have ever allowed myself to\ndo anything to encourage such an idea, I have been very much to\nblame--very much to blame indeed.\"\n\n\"You never have,\" said Bertie, who really had a good-natured anxiety\nto make what he said as little unpleasant as possible. \"You never\nhave, and I have seen for some time that I had no chance--but my\nsister's hopes ran higher. I have not mistaken you, Mrs. Bold, though\nperhaps she has.\"\n\n\"Then why have you said all this to me?\"\n\n\"Because I must not anger her.\"\n\n\"And will not this anger her? Upon my word, Mr. Stanhope, I do not\nunderstand the policy of your family. Oh, how I wish I was at home!\"\nAnd as she expressed the wish she could restrain herself no longer\nand burst out into a flood of tears.\n\nPoor Bertie was greatly moved. \"You shall have the carriage to\nyourself going home,\" said he; \"at least you and my father. As for\nme, I can walk, or for the matter of that it does not much signify\nwhat I do.\" He perfectly understood that part of Eleanor's grief\narose from the apparent necessity of her going back to Barchester\nin the carriage with her second suitor.\n\nThis somewhat mollified her. \"Oh, Mr. Stanhope,\" said she, \"why\nshould you have made me so miserable? What will you have gained by\ntelling me all this?\"\n\nHe had not even yet explained to her the most difficult part of his\nproposition; he had not told her that she was to be a party to the\nlittle deception which he intended to play off upon his sister. This\nsuggestion had still to be made, and as it was absolutely necessary,\nhe proceeded to make it.\n\nWe need not follow him through the whole of his statement. At last,\nand not without considerable difficulty, he made Eleanor understand\nwhy he had let her into his confidence, seeing that he no longer\nintended her the honour of a formal offer. At last he made her\ncomprehend the part which she was destined to play in this little\nfamily comedy.\n\nBut when she did understand it, she was only more angry with him than\never; more angry, not only with him, but with Charlotte also. Her fair\nname was to be bandied about between them in different senses, and\neach sense false. She was to be played off by the sister against the\nfather, and then by the brother against the sister. Her dear friend\nCharlotte, with all her agreeable sympathy and affection, was striving\nto sacrifice her for the Stanhope family welfare; and Bertie, who, as\nhe now proclaimed himself, was over head and ears in debt, completed\nthe compliment of owning that he did not care to have his debts paid\nat so great a sacrifice of himself. Then she was asked to conspire\ntogether with this unwilling suitor for the sake of making the family\nbelieve that he had in obedience to their commands done his best to\nthrow himself thus away!\n\nShe lifted up her face when he had finished, and looking at him with\nmuch dignity, even through her tears, she said:\n\n\"I regret to say it, Mr. Stanhope, but after what has passed I believe\nthat all intercourse between your family and myself had better cease.\"\n\n\"Well, perhaps it had,\" said Bertie naïvely; \"perhaps that will be\nbetter at any rate for a time; and then Charlotte will think you are\noffended at what I have done.\"\n\n\"And now I will go back to the house, if you please,\" said Eleanor.\n\"I can find my way by myself, Mr. Stanhope: after what has passed,\"\nshe added, \"I would rather go alone.\"\n\n\"But I must find the carriage for you, Mrs. Bold; and I must tell\nmy father that you will return with him alone; and I must make some\nexcuse to him for not going with you; and I must bid the servant put\nyou down at your own house, for I suppose you will not now choose to\nsee them again in the close.\"\n\nThere was a truth about this, and a perspicuity in making arrangements\nfor lessening her immediate embarrassment, which had some effect in\nsoftening Eleanor's anger. So she suffered herself to walk by his side\nover the now deserted lawn, till they came to the drawing-room window.\nThere was something about Bertie Stanhope which gave him, in the\nestimation of everyone, a different standing from that which any other\nman would occupy under similar circumstances. Angry as Eleanor was,\nand great as was her cause for anger, she was not half as angry with\nhim as she would have been with anyone else. He was apparently so\nsimple, so good-natured, so unaffected and easy to talk to, that\nshe had already half-forgiven him before he was at the drawing-room\nwindow.\n\nWhen they arrived there, Dr. Stanhope was sitting nearly alone with\nMr. and Miss Thorne; one or two other unfortunates were there, who\nfrom one cause or another were still delayed in getting away, but\nthey were every moment getting fewer in number.\n\nAs soon as he had handed Eleanor over to his father, Bertie started\noff to the front gate in search of the carriage, and there he waited\nleaning patiently against the front wall, comfortably smoking a\ncigar, till it came up. When he returned to the room, Dr. Stanhope\nand Eleanor were alone with their hosts.\n\n\"At last, Miss Thorne,\" said he cheerily, \"I have come to relieve\nyou. Mrs. Bold and my father are the last roses of the very delightful\nsummer you have given us, and desirable as Mrs. Bold's society always\nis, now at least you must be glad to see the last flowers plucked from\nthe tree.\"\n\nMiss Thorne declared that she was delighted to have Mrs. Bold and Dr.\nStanhope still with her, and Mr. Thorne would have said the same, had\nhe not been checked by a yawn, which he could not suppress.\n\n\"Father, will you give your arm to Mrs. Bold?\" said Bertie: and so\nthe last adieux were made, and the prebendary led out Mrs. Bold,\nfollowed by his son.\n\n\"I shall be home soon after you,\" said he as the two got into the\ncarriage.\n\n\"Are you not coming in the carriage?\" said the father.\n\n\"No, no; I have someone to see on the road, and shall walk. John,\nmind you drive to Mrs. Bold's house first.\"\n\nEleanor, looking out of the window, saw him with his hat in his hand,\nbowing to her with his usual gay smile, as though nothing had happened\nto mar the tranquillity of the day. It was many a long year before\nshe saw him again. Dr. Stanhope hardly spoke to her on her way home,\nand she was safely deposited by John at her own hall-door before the\ncarriage drove into the close.\n\nAnd thus our heroine played the last act of that day's melodrama.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIII\n\nMr. and Mrs. Quiverful Are Made Happy.\nMr. Slope is Encouraged by the Press\n\n\nBefore she started for Ullathorne, Mrs. Proudie, careful soul, caused\ntwo letters to be written, one by herself and one by her lord, to the\ninhabitants of Puddingdale vicarage, which made happy the hearth of\nthose within it.\n\nAs soon as the departure of the horses left the bishop's stable-groom\nfree for other services, that humble denizen of the diocese started\non the bishop's own pony with the two dispatches. We have had so\nmany letters lately that we will spare ourselves these. That from\nthe bishop was simply a request that Mr. Quiverful would wait upon\nhis lordship the next morning at 11 A.M.; that from the lady was as\nsimply a request that Mrs. Quiverful would do the same by her, though\nit was couched in somewhat longer and more grandiloquent phraseology.\n\nIt had become a point of conscience with Mrs. Proudie to urge the\nsettlement of this great hospital question. She was resolved that\nMr. Quiverful should have it. She was resolved that there should be\nno more doubt or delay, no more refusals and resignations, no more\nsecret negotiations carried on by Mr. Slope on his own account in\nopposition to her behests.\n\n\"Bishop,\" she said immediately after breakfast on the morning of that\neventful day, \"have you signed the appointment yet?\"\n\n\"No, my dear, not yet; it is not exactly signed as yet.\"\n\n\"Then do it,\" said the lady.\n\nThe bishop did it, and a very pleasant day indeed he spent at\nUllathorne. And when he got home, he had a glass of hot negus in his\nwife's sitting-room, and read the last number of the Little Dorrit of\nthe day with great inward satisfaction. Oh, husbands, oh, my marital\nfriends, what great comfort is there to be derived from a wife well\nobeyed!\n\nMuch perturbation and flutter, high expectation and renewed hopes,\nwere occasioned at Puddingdale, by the receipt of these episcopal\ndispatches. Mrs. Quiverful, whose careful ear caught the sound of\nthe pony's feet as he trotted up to the vicarage kitchen door,\nbrought them in hurriedly to her husband. She was at the moment\nconcocting the Irish stew destined to satisfy the noonday wants of\nfourteen young birds, let alone the parent couple. She had taken the\nletters from the man's hands between the folds of her capacious apron\nso as to save them from the contamination of the stew, and in this\nguise she brought them to her husband's desk.\n\nThey at once divided the spoil, each taking that addressed to the\nother. \"Quiverful,\" said she with impressive voice, \"you are to be\nat the palace at eleven to-morrow.\"\n\n\"And so are you, my dear,\" said he, almost gasping with the\nimportance of the tidings--and then they exchanged letters.\n\n\"She'd never have sent for me again,\" said the lady, \"if it wasn't\nall right.\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear, don't be too certain,\" said the gentleman, \"Only think\nif it should be wrong.\"\n\n\"She'd never have sent for me, Q., if it wasn't all right,\" again\nargued the lady. \"She's stiff and hard and proud as piecrust, but I\nthink she's right at bottom.\" Such was Mrs. Quiverful's verdict about\nMrs. Proudie, to which in after times she always adhered. People\nwhen they get their income doubled usually think that those through\nwhose instrumentality this little ceremony is performed are right at\nbottom.\n\n\"Oh, Letty!\" said Mr. Quiverful, rising from his well-worn seat.\n\n\"Oh, Q.!\" said Mrs. Quiverful, and then the two, unmindful of the\nkitchen apron, the greasy fingers, and the adherent Irish stew, threw\nthemselves warmly into each other's arms.\n\n\"For heaven's sake, don't let anyone cajole you out of it again,\"\nsaid the wife.\n\n\"Let me alone for that,\" said the husband with a look of almost\nfierce determination, pressing his fist as he spoke rigidly on his\ndesk, as though he had Mr. Slope's head below his knuckles and meant\nto keep it there.\n\n\"I wonder how soon it will be?\" said she.\n\n\"I wonder whether it will be at all?\" said he, still doubtful.\n\n\"Well, I won't say too much,\" said the lady. \"The cup has slipped\ntwice before, and it may fall altogether this time, but I'll not\nbelieve it. He'll give you the appointment to-morrow. You'll find\nhe will.\"\n\n\"Heaven send he may,\" said Mr. Quiverful solemnly. And who that\nconsiders the weight of the burden on this man's back will say that\nthe prayer was an improper one? There were fourteen of them--fourteen\nof them living--as Mrs. Quiverful had so powerfully urged in the\npresence of the bishop's wife. As long as promotion cometh from any\nhuman source, whether north or south, east or west, will not such a\nclaim as this hold good, in spite of all our examination tests, _detur\ndigniori's_, and optimist tendencies? It is fervently to be hoped that\nit may. Till we can become divine, we must be content to be human,\nlest in our hurry for a change we sink to something lower.\n\nAnd then the pair, sitting down lovingly together, talked over all\ntheir difficulties, as they so often did, and all their hopes, as they\nso seldom were enabled to do.\n\n\"You had better call on that man, Q., as you come away from the\npalace,\" said Mrs. Quiverful, pointing to an angry call for money\nfrom the Barchester draper, which the postman had left at the\nvicarage that morning. Cormorant that he was, unjust, hungry\ncormorant! When rumour first got abroad that the Quiverfuls were to\ngo to the hospital, this fellow with fawning eagerness had pressed\nhis goods upon the wants of the poor clergyman. He had done so,\nfeeling that he should be paid from the hospital funds, and\nflattering himself that a man with fourteen children, and money\nwherewithal to clothe them, could not but be an excellent customer.\nAs soon as the second rumour reached him, he applied for his money\nangrily.\n\nAnd \"the fourteen\"--or such of them as were old enough to hope and\ndiscuss their hopes--talked over their golden future. The tall grown\ngirls whispered to each other of possible Barchester parties, of\npossible allowances for dress, of a possible piano--the one they had\nin the vicarage was so weather-beaten with the storms of years and\nchildren as to be no longer worthy of the name--of the pretty garden,\nand the pretty house. 'Twas of such things it most behoved them to\nwhisper.\n\nAnd the younger fry, they did not content themselves with whispers,\nbut shouted to each other of their new playground beneath our dear\nex-warden's well-loved elms, of their future own gardens, of marbles\nto be procured in the wished-for city, and of the rumour which had\nreached them of a Barchester school.\n\n'Twas in vain that their cautious mother tried to instil into their\nbreasts the very feeling she had striven to banish from that of their\nfather; 'twas in vain that she repeated to the girls that \"there's\nmany a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip;\" 'twas in vain she attempted\nto make the children believe that they were to live at Puddingdale\nall their lives. Hopes mounted high, and would not have themselves\nquelled. The neighbouring farmers heard the news and came in to\ncongratulate them. 'Twas Mrs. Quiverful herself who had kindled the\nfire, and in the first outbreak of her renewed expectations she did\nit so thoroughly that it was quite past her power to put it out\nagain.\n\nPoor matron! Good, honest matron, doing thy duty in the state to\nwhich thou hast been called, heartily if not contentedly; let the\nfire burn on; on this occasion the flames will not scorch; they shall\nwarm thee and thine. 'Tis ordained that that husband of thine, that\nQ. of thy bosom, shall reign supreme for years to come over the\nbedesmen of Hiram's Hospital.\n\nAnd the last in all Barchester to mar their hopes, had he heard and\nseen all that passed at Puddingdale that day, would have been Mr.\nHarding. What wants had he to set in opposition to those of such a\nregiment of young ravens? There are fourteen of them living! With\nhim, at any rate, let us say that that argument would have been\nsufficient for the appointment of Mr. Quiverful.\n\nIn the morning Q. and his wife kept their appointments with that\npunctuality which bespeaks an expectant mind. The friendly farmer's\ngig was borrowed, and in that they went, discussing many things by\nthe way. They had instructed the household to expect them back by\none, and injunctions were given to the eldest pledge to have ready\nby that accustomed hour the remainder of the huge stew which the\nprovident mother had prepared on the previous day. The hands of the\nkitchen clock came round to two, three, four, before the farmer's gig\nwheels were again heard at the vicarage gate. With what palpitating\nhearts were the returning wanderers greeted!\n\n\"I suppose, children, you all thought we were never coming back any\nmore?\" said the mother as she slowly let down her solid foot till it\nrested on the step of the gig. \"Well, such a day as we've had!\" and\nthen leaning heavily on a big boy's shoulder, she stepped once more\non terra firma.\n\nThere was no need for more than the tone of her voice to tell them\nthat all was right. The Irish stew might burn itself to cinders now.\n\nThen there was such kissing and hugging, such crying and laughing.\nMr. Quiverful could not sit still at all, but kept walking from room\nto room, then out into the garden, then down the avenue into the\nroad, and then back again to his wife. She, however, lost no time so\nidly.\n\n\"We must go to work at once, girls, and that in earnest. Mrs.\nProudie expects us to be in the hospital house on the 15th of\nOctober.\"\n\nHad Mrs. Proudie expressed a wish that they should all be there on\nthe next morning, the girls would have had nothing to say against it.\n\n\"And when will the pay begin?\" asked the eldest boy.\n\n\"To-day, my dear,\" said the gratified mother.\n\n\"Oh, that is jolly,\" said the boy.\n\n\"Mrs. Proudie insisted on our going down to the house,\" continued\nthe mother, \"and when there, I thought I might save a journey by\nmeasuring some of the rooms and windows; so I got a knot of tape from\nBobbins. Bobbins is as civil as you please, now.\"\n\n\"I wouldn't thank him,\" said Letty the younger.\n\n\"Oh, it's the way of the world, my dear. They all do just the same.\nYou might just as well be angry with the turkey cock for gobbling at\nyou. It's the bird's nature.\" And as she enunciated to her bairns\nthe upshot of her practical experience, she pulled from her pocket\nthe portions of tape which showed the length and breadth of the\nvarious rooms at the hospital house.\n\nAnd so we will leave her happy in her toils.\n\nThe Quiverfuls had hardly left the palace, and Mrs. Proudie was still\nholding forth on the matter to her husband, when another visitor was\nannounced in the person of Dr. Gwynne. The Master of Lazarus had\nasked for the bishop and not for Mrs. Proudie, and therefore when he\nwas shown into the study, he was surprised rather than rejoiced to\nfind the lady there.\n\nBut we must go back a little, and it shall be but a little, for\na difficulty begins to make itself manifest in the necessity of\ndisposing of all our friends in the small remainder of this one\nvolume. Oh, that Mr. Longman would allow me a fourth! It should\ntranscend the other three as the seventh heaven transcends all the\nlower stages of celestial bliss.\n\nGoing home in the carriage that evening from Ullathorne, Dr. Gwynne\nhad not without difficulty brought round his friend the archdeacon to\na line of tactics much less bellicose than that which his own taste\nwould have preferred. \"It will be unseemly in us to show ourselves\nin a bad humour; moreover, we have no power in this matter, and it\nwill therefore be bad policy to act as though we had.\" 'Twas thus\nthe Master of Lazarus argued. \"If,\" he continued, \"the bishop be\ndetermined to appoint another to the hospital, threats will not\nprevent him, and threats should not be lightly used by an archdeacon\nto his bishop. If he will place a stranger in the hospital, we can\nonly leave him to the indignation of others. It is probable that\nsuch a step may not eventually injure your father-in-law. I will see\nthe bishop, if you will allow me--alone.\" At this the archdeacon\nwinced visibly. \"Yes, alone; for so I shall be calmer; and then I\nshall at any rate learn what he does mean to do in the matter.\"\n\nThe archdeacon puffed and blew, put up the carriage window and then\nput it down again, argued the matter up to his own gate, and at last\ngave way. Everybody was against him, his own wife, Mr. Harding, and\nDr. Gwynne.\n\n\"Pray keep him out of hot water, Dr. Gwynne,\" Mrs. Grantly had said\nto her guest.\n\n\"My dearest madam, I'll do my best,\" the courteous master had\nreplied. 'Twas thus he did it and earned for himself the gratitude\nof Mrs. Grantly.\n\nAnd now we may return to the bishop's study.\n\nDr. Gwynne had certainly not foreseen the difficulty which here\npresented itself. He--together with all the clerical world of\nEngland--had heard it rumoured about that Mrs. Proudie did not\nconfine herself to her wardrobes, still-rooms, and laundries; but yet\nit had never occurred to him that if he called on a bishop at one\no'clock in the day, he could by any possibility find him closeted\nwith his wife; or that if he did so, the wife would remain longer\nthan necessary to make her curtsey. It appeared, however, as though\nin the present case Mrs. Proudie had no idea of retreating.\n\nThe bishop had been very much pleased with Dr. Gwynne on the\npreceding day, and of course thought that Dr. Gwynne had been as much\npleased with him. He attributed the visit solely to compliment, and\nthought it an extremely gracious and proper thing for the Master of\nLazarus to drive over from Plumstead specially to call at the palace\nso soon after his arrival in the country. The fact that they were\nnot on the same side either in politics or doctrines made the\ncompliment the greater. The bishop, therefore, was all smiles. And\nMrs. Proudie, who liked people with good handles to their names, was\nalso very well disposed to welcome the Master of Lazarus.\n\n\"We had a charming party at Ullathorne, Master, had we not?\" said\nshe. \"I hope Mrs. Grantly got home without fatigue.\"\n\nDr. Gwynne said that they had all been a little tired, but were none\nthe worse this morning.\n\n\"An excellent person, Miss Thorne,\" suggested the bishop.\n\n\"And an exemplary Christian, I am told,\" said Mrs. Proudie.\n\nDr. Gwynne declared that he was very glad to hear it.\n\n\"I have not seen her Sabbath-day schools yet,\" continued the lady,\n\"but I shall make a point of doing so before long.\"\n\nDr. Gwynne merely bowed at this intimation. He had heard something\nof Mrs. Proudie and her Sunday-schools, both from Dr. Grantly and\nMr. Harding.\n\n\"By the by, Master,\" continued the lady, \"I wonder whether Mrs.\nGrantly would like me to drive over and inspect her Sabbath-day\nschool. I hear that it is most excellently kept.\"\n\nDr. Gwynne really could not say. He had no doubt Mrs. Grantly would\nbe most happy to see Mrs. Proudie any day Mrs. Proudie would do her\nthe honour of calling: that was, of course, if Mrs. Grantly should\nhappen to be at home.\n\nA slight cloud darkened the lady's brow. She saw that her offer was\nnot taken in good part. This generation of unregenerated vipers\nwas still perverse, stiff-necked, and hardened in their iniquity.\n\"The archdeacon, I know,\" said she, \"sets his face against these\ninstitutions.\"\n\nAt this Dr. Gwynne laughed slightly. It was but a smile. Had he\ngiven his cap for it he could not have helped it.\n\nMrs. Proudie frowned again. \"'Suffer little children, and forbid\nthem not,'\" she said. \"Are we not to remember that, Dr. Gwynne?\n'Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones.' Are we not\nto remember that, Dr. Gwynne?\" And at each of these questions she\nraised at him her menacing forefinger.\n\n\"Certainly, madam, certainly,\" said the master, \"and so does the\narchdeacon, I am sure, on weekdays as well as on Sundays.\"\n\n\"On weekdays you can't take heed not to despise them,\" said Mrs.\nProudie, \"because then they are out in the fields. On weekdays they\nbelong to their parents, but on Sundays they ought to belong to the\nclergyman.\" And the finger was again raised.\n\nThe master began to understand and to share the intense disgust\nwhich the archdeacon always expressed when Mrs. Proudie's name was\nmentioned. What was he to do with such a woman as this? To take his\nhat and go would have been his natural resource, but then he did not\nwish to be foiled in his object.\n\n\"My lord,\" said he, \"I wanted to ask you a question on business, if\nyou could spare me one moment's leisure. I know I must apologize for\nso disturbing you, but in truth I will not detain you five minutes.\"\n\n\"Certainly, Master, certainly,\" said the bishop; \"my time is quite\nyours--pray make no apology, pray make no apology.\"\n\n\"You have a great deal to do just at the present moment, Bishop. Do\nnot forget how extremely busy you are at present,\" said Mrs. Proudie,\nwhose spirit was now up, for she was angry with her visitor.\n\n\"I will not delay his lordship much above a minute,\" said the Master\nof Lazarus, rising from his chair and expecting that Mrs. Proudie\nwould now go, or else that the bishop would lead the way into another\nroom.\n\nBut neither event seemed likely to occur, and Dr. Gwynne stood for a\nmoment silent in the middle of the room.\n\n\"Perhaps it's about Hiram's Hospital?\" suggested Mrs. Proudie.\n\nDr. Gwynne, lost in astonishment, and not knowing what else on earth\nto do, confessed that his business with the bishop was connected with\nHiram's Hospital.\n\n\"His lordship has finally conferred the appointment on Mr. Quiverful\nthis morning,\" said the lady.\n\nDr. Gwynne made a simple reference to the bishop, and finding that\nthe lady's statement was formally confirmed, he took his leave.\n\"That comes of the reform bill,\" he said to himself as he walked down\nthe bishop's avenue. \"Well, at any rate the Greek play bishops were\nnot so bad as that.\"\n\nIt has been said that Mr. Slope, as he started for Ullathorne,\nreceived a dispatch from his friend Mr. Towers, which had the effect\nof putting him in that high good humour which subsequent events\nsomewhat untowardly damped. It ran as follows. Its shortness will\nbe its sufficient apology.\n\n\n   MY DEAR SIR,\n\n   I wish you every success. I don't know that I can help you,\n   but if I can, I will.\n\n   Yours ever,\n   T. T.\n\n   30/9/185--\n\n\nThere was more in this than in all Sir Nicholas Fitzwhiggin's\nflummery; more than in all the bishop's promises, even had they been\never so sincere; more than in any archbishop's good word, even had\nit been possible to obtain it. Tom Towers would do for him what he\ncould.\n\nMr. Slope had from his youth upwards been a firm believer in the\npublic press. He had dabbled in it himself ever since he had taken\nhis degree, and he regarded it as the great arranger and distributor\nof all future British terrestrial affairs whatever. He had not yet\narrived at the age, an age which sooner or later comes to most of\nus, which dissipates the golden dreams of youth. He delighted in the\nidea of wresting power from the hands of his country's magnates and\nplacing it in a custody which was at any rate nearer to his own\nreach. Sixty thousand broadsheets dispersing themselves daily among\nhis reading fellow citizens formed in his eyes a better depot for\nsupremacy than a throne at Windsor, a cabinet in Downing Street, or\neven an assembly at Westminster. And on this subject we must not\nquarrel with Mr. Slope, for the feeling is too general to be met with\ndisrespect.\n\nTom Towers was as good, if not better, than his promise. On the\nfollowing morning \"The Jupiter,\" spouting forth public opinion with\nsixty thousand loud clarions, did proclaim to the world that Mr.\nSlope was the fitting man for the vacant post. It was pleasant for\nMr. Slope to read the following lines in the Barchester news-room,\nwhich he did within thirty minutes after the morning train from\nLondon had reached the city.\n\n\n   It is just now five years since we called the attention\n   of our readers to the quiet city of Barchester. From that\n   day to this, we have in no way meddled with the affairs\n   of that happy ecclesiastical community. Since then, an\n   old bishop has died there, and a young bishop has been\n   installed; but we believe we did not do more than give\n   some customary record of the interesting event. Nor are\n   we now about to meddle very deeply in the affairs of the\n   diocese. If any of the chapter feel a qualm of conscience\n   on reading thus far, let it be quieted. Above all, let the\n   mind of the new bishop be at rest. We are now not armed\n   for war, but approach the reverend towers of the old\n   cathedral with an olive branch in our hands.\n\n   It will be remembered that at the time alluded to, now\n   five years past, we had occasion to remark on the state\n   of a charity in Barchester called Hiram's Hospital. We\n   thought that it was maladministered, and that the very\n   estimable and reverend gentleman who held the office of\n   warden was somewhat too highly paid for duties which were\n   somewhat too easily performed. This gentleman--and we say\n   it in all sincerity and with no touch of sarcasm--had\n   never looked on the matter in this light before. We do not\n   wish to take praise to ourselves whether praise be due to\n   us or not. But the consequence of our remark was that the\n   warden did look into the matter, and finding on so doing\n   that he himself could come to no other opinion than\n   that expressed by us, he very creditably threw up the\n   appointment. The then bishop as creditably declined to\n   fill the vacancy till the affair was put on a better\n   footing. Parliament then took it up, and we have now\n   the satisfaction of informing our readers that Hiram's\n   Hospital will be immediately reopened under new auspices.\n   Heretofore, provision was made for the maintenance of\n   twelve old men. This will now be extended to the fair sex,\n   and twelve elderly women, if any such can be found in\n   Barchester, will be added to the establishment. There will\n   be a matron; there will, it is hoped, be schools attached\n   for the poorest of the children of the poor, and there\n   will be a steward. The warden, for there will still be a\n   warden, will receive an income more in keeping with the\n   extent of the charity than that heretofore paid. The\n   stipend we believe will be £450. We may add that the\n   excellent house which the former warden inhabited will\n   still be attached to the situation.\n\n   Barchester Hospital cannot perhaps boast a world-wide\n   reputation, but as we adverted to its state of decadence,\n   we think it right also to advert to its renaissance. May\n   it go on and prosper. Whether the salutary reform which\n   has been introduced within its walls has been carried\n   as far as could have been desired may be doubtful. The\n   important question of the school appears to be somewhat\n   left to the discretion of the new warden. This might have\n   been made the most important part of the establishment,\n   and the new warden, whom we trust we shall not offend by\n   the freedom of our remarks, might have been selected with\n   some view to his fitness as schoolmaster. But we will not\n   now look a gift-horse in the mouth. May the hospital go on\n   and prosper! The situation of warden has of course been\n   offered to the gentleman who so honourably vacated it five\n   years since, but we are given to understand that he has\n   declined it. Whether the ladies who have been introduced\n   be in his estimation too much for his powers of control,\n   whether it be that the diminished income does not offer to\n   him sufficient temptation to resume his old place, or that\n   he has in the meantime assumed other clerical duties, we\n   do not know. We are, however, informed that he has refused\n   the offer and that the situation has been accepted by Mr.\n   Quiverful, the vicar of Puddingdale.\n\n   So much we think is due to Hiram redivivus. But while we\n   are on the subject of Barchester, we will venture with\n   all respectful humility to express our opinion on another\n   matter connected with the ecclesiastical polity of that\n   ancient city. Dr. Trefoil, the dean, died yesterday. A\n   short record of his death, giving his age and the various\n   pieces of preferment which he has at different times held,\n   will be found in another column of this paper. The only\n   fault we knew in him was his age, and as that is a crime\n   of which we all hope to be guilty, we will not bear\n   heavily on it. May he rest in peace! But though the great\n   age of an expiring dean cannot be made matter of reproach,\n   we are not inclined to look on such a fault as at all\n   pardonable in a dean just brought to the birth. We do hope\n   that the days of sexagenarian appointments are past. If\n   we want deans, we must want them for some purpose. That\n   purpose will necessarily be better fulfilled by a man of\n   forty than by a man of sixty. If we are to pay deans at\n   all, we are to pay them for some sort of work. That work,\n   be it what it may, will be best performed by a workman in\n   the prime of life. Dr. Trefoil, we see, was eighty when he\n   died. As we have as yet completed no plan for pensioning\n   superannuated clergymen, we do not wish to get rid of any\n   existing deans of that age. But we prefer having as few\n   such as possible. If a man of seventy be now appointed, we\n   beg to point out to Lord ---- that he will be past all use\n   in a year or two, if indeed he be not so at the present\n   moment. His lordship will allow us to remind him that all\n   men are not evergreens like himself.\n\n   We hear that Mr. Slope's name has been mentioned for\n   this preferment. Mr. Slope is at present chaplain to the\n   bishop. A better man could hardly be selected. He is a man\n   of talent, young, active, and conversant with the affairs\n   of the cathedral; he is moreover, we conscientiously\n   believe, a truly pious clergyman. We know that his\n   services in the city of Barchester have been highly\n   appreciated. He is an eloquent preacher and a ripe\n   scholar. Such a selection as this would go far to raise\n   the confidence of the public in the present administration\n   of church patronage and would teach men to believe that\n   from henceforth the establishment of our church will not\n   afford easy couches to worn-out clerical voluptuaries.\n\n\nStanding at a reading-desk in the Barchester news-room, Mr. Slope\ndigested this article with considerable satisfaction. What was\ntherein said as to the hospital was now comparatively a matter of\nindifference to him. He was certainly glad that he had not succeeded\nin restoring to the place the father of that virago who had so\naudaciously outraged all decency in his person, and was so far\nsatisfied. But Mrs. Proudie's nominee was appointed, and he was so\nfar dissatisfied. His mind, however, was now soaring above Mrs. Bold\nor Mrs. Proudie. He was sufficiently conversant with the tactics\nof \"The Jupiter\" to know that the pith of the article would lie in\nthe last paragraph. The place of honour was given to him, and it\nwas indeed as honourable as even he could have wished. He was very\ngrateful to his friend Mr. Towers, and with full heart looked forward\nto the day when he might entertain him in princely style at his own\nfull-spread board in the deanery dining-room.\n\nIt had been well for Mr. Slope that Dr. Trefoil had died in the\nautumn. Those caterers for our morning repast, the staff of \"The\nJupiter,\" had been sorely put to it for the last month to find a\nsufficiency of proper pabulum. Just then there was no talk of a new\nAmerican president. No wonderful tragedies had occurred on railway\ntrains in Georgia, or elsewhere. There was a dearth of broken banks,\nand a dead dean with the necessity for a live one was a godsend. Had\nDr. Trefoil died in June, Mr. Towers would probably not have known so\nmuch about the piety of Mr. Slope.\n\nAnd here we will leave Mr. Slope for awhile in his triumph,\nexplaining, however, that his feelings were not altogether of\na triumphant nature. His rejection by the widow, or rather the\nmethod of his rejection, galled him terribly. For days to come he\npositively felt the sting upon his cheek whenever he thought of what\nhad been done to him. He could not refrain from calling her by harsh\nnames, speaking to himself as he walked through the streets of\nBarchester. When he said his prayers, he could not bring himself to\nforgive her. When he strove to do so, his mind recoiled from the\nattempt, and in lieu of forgiving ran off in a double spirit of\nvindictiveness, dwelling on the extent of the injury he had received.\nAnd so his prayers dropped senseless from his lips.\n\nAnd then the signora--what would he not have given to be able to hate\nher also? As it was, he worshipped the very sofa on which she was\never lying.\n\nAnd thus it was not all rose colour with Mr. Slope, although his\nhopes ran high.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIV\n\nMrs. Bold at Home\n\n\nPoor Mrs. Bold, when she got home from Ullathorne on the evening of\nMiss Thorne's party, was very unhappy and, moreover, very tired.\nNothing fatigues the body so much as weariness of spirit, and\nEleanor's spirit was indeed weary.\n\nDr. Stanhope had civilly but not very cordially asked her in to tea,\nand her manner of refusal convinced the worthy doctor that he need\nnot repeat the invitation. He had not exactly made himself a party\nto the intrigue which was to convert the late Mr. Bold's patrimony\ninto an income for his hopeful son, but he had been well aware what\nwas going on. And he was well aware also, when he perceived that\nBertie declined accompanying them home in the carriage, that the\naffair had gone off.\n\nEleanor was very much afraid that Charlotte would have darted out\nupon her, as the prebendary got out at his own door, but Bertie had\nthoughtfully saved her from this by causing the carriage to go round\nby her own house. This also Dr. Stanhope understood and allowed to\npass by without remark.\n\nWhen she got home, she found Mary Bold in the drawing-room with the\nchild in her lap. She rushed forward and, throwing herself on her\nknees, kissed the little fellow till she almost frightened him.\n\n\"Oh, Mary, I am so glad you did not go. It was an odious party.\"\n\nNow the question of Mary's going had been one greatly mooted between\nthem. Mrs. Bold, when invited, had been the guest of the Grantlys,\nand Miss Thorne, who had chiefly known Eleanor at the hospital\nor at Plumstead Rectory, had forgotten all about Mary Bold. Her\nsister-in-law had implored her to go under her wing and had offered to\nwrite to Miss Thorne, or to call on her. But Miss Bold had declined.\nIn fact, Mr. Bold had not been very popular with such people as the\nThornes, and his sister would not go among them unless she were\nspecially asked to do so.\n\n\"Well, then,\" said Mary cheerfully, \"I have the less to regret.\"\n\n\"You have nothing to regret; but oh! Mary, I have--so much--so much;\"\nand then she began kissing her boy, whom her caresses had roused from\nhis slumbers. When she raised her head, Mary saw that the tears were\nrunning down her cheeks.\n\n\"Good heavens, Eleanor, what is the matter? What has happened to\nyou--Eleanor--dearest Eleanor--what is the matter?\" and Mary got up\nwith the boy still in her arms.\n\n\"Give him to me--give him to me,\" said the young mother. \"Give him\nto me, Mary,\" and she almost tore the child out of her sister's arms.\nThe poor little fellow murmured somewhat at the disturbance but\nnevertheless nestled himself close into his mother's bosom.\n\n\"Here, Mary, take the cloak from me. My own own darling, darling,\ndarling jewel. You are not false to me. Everybody else is false;\neverybody else is cruel. Mamma will care for nobody, nobody, nobody,\nbut her own, own, own little man;\" and she again kissed and pressed\nthe baby and cried till the tears ran down over the child's face.\n\n\"Who has been cruel to you, Eleanor?\" said Mary. \"I hope I have\nnot.\"\n\nNow in this matter Eleanor had great cause for mental uneasiness.\nShe could not certainly accuse her loving sister-in-law of cruelty;\nbut she had to do that which was more galling: she had to accuse\nherself of imprudence against which her sister-in-law had warned\nher. Miss Bold had never encouraged Eleanor's acquaintance with Mr.\nSlope, and she had positively discouraged the friendship of the\nStanhopes, as far as her usual gentle mode of speaking had permitted.\nEleanor had only laughed at her, however, when she said that she\ndisapproved of married women who lived apart from their husbands\nand suggested that Charlotte Stanhope never went to church. Now,\nhowever, Eleanor must either hold her tongue, which was quite\nimpossible, or confess herself to have been utterly wrong, which\nwas nearly equally so. So she staved off the evil day by more tears,\nand consoled herself by inducing little Johnny to rouse himself\nsufficiently to return her caresses.\n\n\"He is a darling--as true as gold. What would mamma do without him?\nMamma would lie down and die if she had not her own Johnny Bold to\ngive her comfort.\" This and much more she said of the same kind, and\nfor a time made no other answer to Mary's inquiries.\n\nThis kind of consolation from the world's deceit is very common.\nMothers obtain it from their children, and men from their dogs. Some\nmen even do so from their walking-sticks, which is just as rational.\nHow is it that we can take joy to ourselves in that we are not\ndeceived by those who have not attained the art to deceive us? In a\ntrue man, if such can be found, or a true woman, much consolation may\nindeed be taken.\n\nIn the caresses of her child, however, Eleanor did receive\nconsolation, and may ill befall the man who would begrudge it to\nher. The evil day, however, was only postponed. She had to tell her\ndisagreeable tale to Mary, and she had also to tell it to her father.\nMust it not, indeed, be told to the whole circle of her acquaintance\nbefore she could be made to stand all right with them? At the\npresent moment there was no one to whom she could turn for comfort.\nShe hated Mr. Slope; that was a matter of course; in that feeling she\nrevelled. She hated and despised the Stanhopes; but that feeling\ndistressed her greatly. She had, as it were, separated herself from\nher old friends to throw herself into the arms of this family; and\nthen how had they intended to use her? She could hardly reconcile\nherself to her own father, who had believed ill of her. Mary Bold\nhad turned Mentor. That she could have forgiven had the Mentor\nturned out to be in the wrong, but Mentors in the right are not to\nbe pardoned. She could not but hate the archdeacon, and now she\nhated him worse than ever, for she must in some sort humble herself\nbefore him. She hated her sister, for she was part and parcel of the\narchdeacon. And she would have hated Mr. Arabin if she could. He\nhad pretended to regard her, and yet before her face he had hung over\nthat Italian woman as though there had been no beauty in the world\nbut hers--no other woman worth a moment's attention. And Mr. Arabin\nwould have to learn all this about Mr. Slope! She told herself that\nshe hated him, and she knew that she was lying to herself as she did\nso. She had no consolation but her baby, and of that she made the\nmost. Mary, though she could not surmise what it was that had so\nviolently affected her sister-in-law, saw at once that her grief was\ntoo great to be kept under control and waited patiently till the\nchild should be in his cradle.\n\n\"You'll have some tea, Eleanor,\" she said.\n\n\"Oh, I don't care,\" said she, though in fact she must have been very\nhungry, for she had eaten nothing at Ullathorne.\n\nMary quietly made the tea, and buttered the bread, laid aside the\ncloak, and made things look comfortable.\n\n\"He's fast asleep,\" said she; \"you're very tired; let me take him up\nto bed.\"\n\nBut Eleanor would not let her sister touch him. She looked wistfully\nat her baby's eyes, saw that they were lost in the deepest slumber,\nand then made a sort of couch for him on the sofa. She was\ndetermined that nothing should prevail upon her to let him out of her\nsight that night.\n\n\"Come, Nelly,\" said Mary, \"don't be cross with me. I at least have\ndone nothing to offend you.\"\n\n\"I an't cross,\" said Eleanor.\n\n\"Are you angry then? Surely you can't be angry with me.\"\n\n\"No, I an't angry--at least not with you.\"\n\n\"If you are not, drink the tea I have made for you. I am sure you\nmust want it.\"\n\nEleanor did drink it, and allowed herself to be persuaded. She ate\nand drank, and as the inner woman was recruited she felt a little\nmore charitable towards the world at large. At last she found words\nto begin her story, and before she went to bed she had made a clean\nbreast of it and told everything--everything, that is, as to the\nlovers she had rejected; of Mr. Arabin she said not a word.\n\n\"I know I was wrong,\" said she, speaking of the blow she had given to\nMr. Slope; \"but I didn't know what he might do, and I had to protect\nmyself.\"\n\n\"He richly deserved it,\" said Mary.\n\n\"Deserved it!\" said Eleanor, whose mind as regarded Mr. Slope was\nalmost bloodthirsty. \"Had I stabbed him with a dagger, he would have\ndeserved it. But what will they say about it at Plumstead?\"\n\n\"I don't think I should tell them,\" said Mary. Eleanor began to\nthink that she would not.\n\nThere could have been no kinder comforter than Mary Bold. There\nwas not the slightest dash of triumph about her when she heard of\nthe Stanhope scheme, nor did she allude to her former opinion when\nEleanor called her late friend Charlotte a base, designing woman.\nShe re-echoed all the abuse that was heaped on Mr. Slope's head and\nnever hinted that she had said as much before. \"I told you so, I\ntold you so!\" is the croak of a true Job's comforter. But Mary, when\nshe found her friend lying in her sorrow and scraping herself with\npotsherds, forbore to argue and to exult. Eleanor acknowledged\nthe merit of the forbearance, and at length allowed herself to be\ntranquilised.\n\nOn the next day she did not go out of the house. Barchester she\nthought would be crowded with Stanhopes and Slopes; perhaps also\nwith Arabins and Grantlys. Indeed, there was hardly anyone among her\nfriends whom she could have met without some cause of uneasiness.\n\nIn the course of the afternoon she heard that the dean was dead, and\nshe also heard that Mr. Quiverful had been finally appointed to the\nhospital.\n\nIn the evening her father came to her, and then the story, or as much\nof it as she could bring herself to tell him, had to be repeated. He\nwas not in truth much surprised at Mr. Slope's effrontery, but he was\nobliged to act as though he had been to save his daughter's feelings.\nHe was, however, anything but skilful in his deceit, and she saw\nthrough it.\n\n\"I see,\" said she, \"that you think it only in the common course of\nthings that Mr. Slope should have treated me in this way.\" She had\nsaid nothing to him about the embrace, nor yet of the way in which it\nhad been met.\n\n\"I do not think it at all strange,\" said he, \"that anyone should\nadmire my Eleanor.\"\n\n\"It is strange to me,\" said she, \"that any man should have so much\naudacity, without ever having received the slightest encouragement.\"\n\nTo this Mr. Harding answered nothing. With the archdeacon it would\nhave been the text for a rejoinder which would not have disgraced\nBildad the Shuhite.\n\n\"But you'll tell the archdeacon?\" asked Mr. Harding.\n\n\"Tell him what?\" said she sharply.\n\n\"Or Susan?\" continued Mr. Harding. \"You'll tell Susan; you'll\nlet them know that they wronged you in supposing that this man's\naddresses would be agreeable to you.\"\n\n\"They may find that out their own way,\" said she; \"I shall not ever\nwillingly mention Mr. Slope's name to either of them.\"\n\n\"But I may.\"\n\n\"I have no right to hinder you from doing anything that may be\nnecessary to your own comfort, but pray do not do it for my sake.\nDr. Grantly never thought well of me, and never will. I don't know\nnow that I am even anxious that he should do so.\"\n\nAnd then they went to the affair of the hospital. \"But is it true,\nPapa?\"\n\n\"What, my dear?\" said he. \"About the dean? Yes, I fear quite true.\nIndeed I know there is no doubt about it.\"\n\n\"Poor Miss Trefoil, I am so sorry for her. But I did not mean that,\"\nsaid Eleanor. \"But about the hospital, Papa?\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear. I believe it is true that Mr. Quiverful is to have\nit.\"\n\n\"Oh, what a shame.\"\n\n\"No, my dear, not at all, not at all a shame: I am sure I hope it\nwill suit him.\"\n\n\"But, Papa, you know it is a shame. After all your hopes, all your\nexpectations to get back to your old house, to see it given away in\nthis way to a perfect stranger!\"\n\n\"My dear, the bishop had a right to give it to whom he pleased.\"\n\n\"I deny that, Papa. He had no such right. It is not as though you\nwere a candidate for a new piece of preferment. If the bishop has a\ngrain of justice--\"\n\n\"The bishop offered it to me on his terms, and as I did not like the\nterms, I refused it. After that, I cannot complain.\"\n\n\"Terms! He had no right to make terms.\"\n\n\"I don't know about that; but it seems he had the power. But to tell\nyou the truth, Nelly, I am as well satisfied as it is. When the\naffair became the subject of angry discussion, I thoroughly wished to\nbe rid of it altogether.\"\n\n\"But you did want to go back to the old house, Papa. You told me so\nyourself.\"\n\n\"Yes, my dear, I did. For a short time I did wish it. And I was\nfoolish in doing so. I am getting old now, and my chief worldly wish\nis for peace and rest. Had I gone back to the hospital, I should\nhave had endless contentions with the bishop, contentions with\nhis chaplain, and contentions with the archdeacon. I am not up to\nthis now; I am not able to meet such troubles; and therefore I am\nnot ill-pleased to find myself left to the little church of St.\nCuthbert's. I shall never starve,\" added he, laughing, \"as long as\nyou are here.\"\n\n\"But will you come and live with me, Papa?\" she said earnestly,\ntaking him by both his hands. \"If you will do that, if you will\npromise that, I will own that you are right.\"\n\n\"I will dine with you to-day at any rate.\"\n\n\"No, but live here altogether. Give up that close, odious little\nroom in High Street.\"\n\n\"My dear, it's a very nice little room, and you are really quite\nuncivil.\"\n\n\"Oh, Papa, don't joke. It's not a nice place for you. You say you\nare growing old, though I am sure you are not.\"\n\n\"Am not I, my dear?\"\n\n\"No, Papa, not old--not to say old. But you are quite old enough\nto feel the want of a decent room to sit in. You know how lonely\nMary and I are here. You know nobody ever sleeps in the big front\nbedroom. It is really unkind of you to remain up there alone, when\nyou are so much wanted here.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Nelly--thank you. But, my dear--\"\n\n\"If you had been living here, Papa, with us, as I really think you\nought to have done, considering how lonely we are, there would have\nbeen none of all this dreadful affair about Mr. Slope.\"\n\nMr. Harding, however, did not allow himself to be talked over into\ngiving up his own and only little _pied à terre_ in the High Street.\nHe promised to come and dine with his daughter, and stay with her,\nand visit her, and do everything but absolutely live with her. It\ndid not suit the peculiar feelings of the man to tell his daughter\nthat though she had rejected Mr. Slope, and been ready to reject Mr.\nStanhope, some other more favoured suitor would probably soon appear,\nand that on the appearance of such a suitor the big front bedroom\nmight perhaps be more frequently in requisition than at present. But\ndoubtless such an idea crossed his mind, and added its weight to\nthe other reasons which made him decide on still keeping the close,\nodious little room in High Street.\n\nThe evening passed over quietly and in comfort. Eleanor was always\nhappier with her father than with anyone else. He had not, perhaps,\nany natural taste for baby-worship, but he was always ready to\nsacrifice himself, and therefore made an excellent third in a trio\nwith his daughter and Mary Bold in singing the praises of the\nwonderful child.\n\nThey were standing together over their music in the evening, the baby\nhaving again been put to bed upon the sofa, when the servant brought\nin a very small note in a beautiful pink envelope. It quite filled\nthe room with perfume as it lay upon the small salver. Mary Bold and\nMrs. Bold were both at the piano, and Mr. Harding was sitting close\nto them, with the violoncello between his legs, so that the elegancy\nof the epistle was visible to them all.\n\n\"Please ma'am, Dr. Stanhope's coachman says he is to wait for an\nanswer,\" said the servant.\n\nEleanor got very red in the face as she took the note in her hand.\nShe had never seen the writing before. Charlotte's epistles, to\nwhich she was well accustomed, were of a very different style and\nkind. She generally wrote on large note-paper; she twisted up her\nletters into the shape and sometimes into the size of cocked hats;\nshe addressed them in a sprawling, manly hand, and not unusually added\na blot or a smudge, as though such were her own peculiar sign-manual.\nThe address of this note was written in a beautiful female hand, and\nthe gummed wafer bore on it an impress of a gilt coronet. Though\nEleanor had never seen such a one before, she guessed that it came\nfrom the signora. Such epistles were very numerously sent out from\nany house in which the signora might happen to be dwelling, but they\nwere rarely addressed to ladies. When the coachman was told by the\nlady's maid to take the letter to Mrs. Bold, he openly expressed his\nopinion that there was some mistake about it. Whereupon the lady's\nmaid boxed the coachman's ears. Had Mr. Slope seen in how meek a\nspirit the coachman took the rebuke, he might have learnt a useful\nlesson, both in philosophy and religion.\n\nThe note was as follows. It may be taken as a faithful promise that\nno further letter whatever shall be transcribed at length in these\npages.\n\n\n   MY DEAR MRS. BOLD,\n\n   May I ask you, as a great favour, to call on me to-morrow.\n   You can say what hour will best suit you, but quite early,\n   if you can. I need hardly say that if I could call upon\n   you, I should not take this liberty with you.\n\n   I partly know what occurred the other day, and I promise\n   you that you shall meet with no annoyance if you will come\n   to me. My brother leaves us for London to-day; from thence\n   he goes to Italy.\n\n   It will probably occur to you that I should not thus\n   intrude on you, unless I had that to say to you which may\n   be of considerable moment. Pray therefore excuse me, even\n   if you do not grant my request.\n\n   And believe me,\n   Very sincerely yours,\n\n   M. VESEY NERONI\n\n   Thursday Evening\n\n\nThe three of them sat in consultation on this epistle for some ten or\nfifteen minutes, and then decided that Eleanor should write a line\nsaying that she would see the signora the next morning at twelve\no'clock.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLV\n\nThe Stanhopes at Home\n\n\nWe must now return to the Stanhopes and see how they behaved\nthemselves on their return from Ullathorne.\n\nCharlotte, who came back in the first homeward journey with her\nsister, waited in palpitating expectation till the carriage drove\nup to the door a second time. She did not run down, or stand at the\nwindow, or show in any outward manner that she looked for anything\nwonderful to occur; but when she heard the carriage wheels, she stood\nup with erect ears, listening for Eleanor's footfall on the pavement,\nor the cheery sound of Bertie's voice welcoming her in. Had she\nheard either, she would have felt that all was right; but neither\nsound was there for her to hear. She heard only her father's slow\nstep as he ponderously let himself down from the carriage and slowly\nwalked along the hall, till he got into his own private room on the\nground floor. \"Send Miss Stanhope to me,\" he said to the servant.\n\n\"There's something wrong now,\" said Madeline, who was lying on her\nsofa in the back drawing-room.\n\n\"It's all up with Bertie,\" replied Charlotte. \"I know, I know,\" she\nsaid to the servant as he brought up the message. \"Tell my father I\nwill be with him immediately.\"\n\n\"Bertie's wooing has gone astray,\" said Madeline. \"I knew it would.\"\n\n\"It has been his own fault then. She was ready enough, I am quite\nsure,\" said Charlotte with that sort of ill-nature which is not\nuncommon when one woman speaks of another.\n\n\"What will you say to him now?\" By \"him,\" the signora meant their\nfather.\n\n\"That will be as I find him. He was ready to pay two hundred pounds\nfor Bertie to stave off the worst of his creditors, if this marriage\nhad gone on. Bertie must now have the money instead and go and take\nhis chance.\"\n\n\"Where is he now?\"\n\n\"Heaven knows! Smoking in the bottom of Mr. Thorne's ha-ha, or\nphilandering with some of those Miss Chadwicks. Nothing will ever\nmake an impression on him. But he'll be furious if I don't go down.\"\n\n\"No, nothing ever will. But don't be long, Charlotte, for I want my\ntea.\"\n\nAnd so Charlotte went down to her father. There was a very black\ncloud on the old man's brow--blacker than his daughter could ever yet\nremember to have seen there. He was sitting in his own armchair, not\ncomfortably over the fire, but in the middle of the room, waiting\ntill she should come and listen to him.\n\n\"What has become of your brother?\" he said as soon as the door was\nshut.\n\n\"I should rather ask you,\" said Charlotte. \"I left you both at\nUllathorne when I came away. What have you done with Mrs. Bold?\"\n\n\"Mrs. Bold! Nonsense. The woman has gone home as she ought to do.\nAnd heartily glad I am that she should not be sacrificed to so\nheartless a reprobate.\"\n\n\"Oh, Papa!\"\n\n\"A heartless reprobate! Tell me now where he is and what he is going\nto do. I have allowed myself to be fooled between you. Marriage,\nindeed! Who on earth that has money, or credit, or respect in the\nworld to lose would marry him?\"\n\n\"It is no use your scolding me, Papa. I have done the best I could\nfor him and you.\"\n\n\"And Madeline is nearly as bad,\" said the prebendary, who was in\ntruth very, very angry.\n\n\"Oh, I suppose we are all bad,\" replied Charlotte.\n\nThe old man emitted a huge, leonine sigh. If they were all bad,\nwho had made them so? If they were unprincipled, selfish, and\ndisreputable, who was to be blamed for the education which had had\nso injurious an effect?\n\n\"I know you'll ruin me among you,\" said he.\n\n\"Why, Papa, what nonsense that is. You are living within your income\nthis minute, and if there are any new debts, I don't know of them.\nI am sure there ought to be none, for we are dull enough here.\"\n\n\"Are those bills of Madeline's paid?\"\n\n\"No, they are not. Who was to pay them?\"\n\n\"Her husband may pay them.\"\n\n\"Her husband! Would you wish me to tell her you say so? Do you wish\nto turn her out of your house?\"\n\n\"I wish she would know how to behave herself.\"\n\n\"Why, what on earth has she done now? Poor Madeline! To-day is only\nthe second time she has gone out since we came to this vile town.\"\n\nHe then sat silent for a time, thinking in what shape he would\ndeclare his resolve. \"Well, Papa,\" said Charlotte, \"shall I stay\nhere, or may I go upstairs and give Mamma her tea?\"\n\n\"You are in your brother's confidence. Tell me what he is going to\ndo.\"\n\n\"Nothing, that I am aware of.\"\n\n\"Nothing--nothing! Nothing but eat and drink and spend every\nshilling of my money he can lay his hands upon. I have made up my\nmind, Charlotte. He shall eat and drink no more in this house.\"\n\n\"Very well. Then I suppose he must go back to Italy.\"\n\n\"He may go where he pleases.\"\n\n\"That's easily said, Papa, but what does it mean? You can't let\nhim--\"\n\n\"It means this?\" said the doctor, speaking more loudly than was his\nwont and with wrath flashing from his eyes; \"that as sure as God\nrules in heaven I will not maintain him any longer in idleness.\"\n\n\"Oh, ruling in heaven!\" said Charlotte. \"It is no use talking about\nthat. You must rule him here on earth; and the question is, how can\nyou do it. You can't turn him out of the house penniless, to beg\nabout the street.\"\n\n\"He may beg where he likes.\"\n\n\"He must go back to Carrara. That is the cheapest place he can live\nat, and nobody there will give him credit for above two or three\nhundred pauls. But you must let him have the means of going.\"\n\n\"As sure as--\"\n\n\"Oh, Papa, don't swear. You know you must do it. You were ready to\npay two hundred pounds for him if this marriage came off. Half that\nwill start him to Carrara.\"\n\n\"What? Give him a hundred pounds?\"\n\n\"You know we are all in the dark, Papa,\" said she, thinking it\nexpedient to change the conversation. \"For anything we know he may\nbe at this moment engaged to Mrs. Bold.\"\n\n\"Fiddlestick,\" said the father, who had seen the way in which Mrs.\nBold had got into the carriage while his son stood apart without even\noffering her his hand.\n\n\"Well, then, he must go to Carrara,\" said Charlotte.\n\nJust at this moment the lock of the front door was heard, and\nCharlotte's quick ears detected her brother's catlike step in the\nhall. She said nothing, feeling that for the present Bertie had\nbetter keep out of her father's way. But Dr. Stanhope also heard the\nsound of the lock.\n\n\"Who's that?\" he demanded. Charlotte made no reply, and he asked\nagain, \"Who is that that has just come in? Open the door. Who is\nit?\"\n\n\"I suppose it is Bertie.\"\n\n\"Bid him come here,\" said the father. But Bertie, who was close to\nthe door and heard the call, required no further bidding, but walked\nin with a perfectly unconcerned and cheerful air. It was this\npeculiar _insouciance_ which angered Dr. Stanhope, even more than his\nson's extravagance.\n\n\"Well, sir?\" said the doctor.\n\n\"And how did you get home, sir, with your fair companion?\" said\nBertie. \"I suppose she is not upstairs, Charlotte?\"\n\n\"Bertie,\" said Charlotte, \"Papa is in no humour for joking. He is\nvery angry with you.\"\n\n\"Angry!\" said Bertie, raising his eyebrows as though he had never yet\ngiven his parent cause for a single moment's uneasiness.\n\n\"Sit down, if you please, sir,\" said Dr. Stanhope very sternly\nbut not now very loudly. \"And I'll trouble you to sit down, too,\nCharlotte. Your mother can wait for her tea a few minutes.\"\n\nCharlotte sat down on the chair nearest to the door in somewhat of a\nperverse sort of manner, as much as though she would say--\"Well, here\nI am; you shan't say I don't do what I am bid; but I'll be whipped if\nI give way to you.\" And she was determined not to give way. She too\nwas angry with Bertie, but she was not the less ready on that account\nto defend him from his father. Bertie also sat down. He drew his\nchair close to the library-table, upon which he put his elbow, and\nthen resting his face comfortably on one hand, he began drawing\nlittle pictures on a sheet of paper with the other. Before the scene\nwas over he had completed admirable figures of Miss Thorne, Mrs.\nProudie, and Lady De Courcy, and begun a family piece to comprise the\nwhole set of the Lookalofts.\n\n\"Would it suit you, sir,\" said the father, \"to give me some idea as\nto what your present intentions are? What way of living you propose\nto yourself?\"\n\n\"I'll do anything you can suggest, sir,\" replied Bertie.\n\n\"No, I shall suggest nothing further. My time for suggesting has\ngone by. I have only one order to give, and that is that you leave\nmy house.\"\n\n\"To-night?\" said Bertie, and the simple tone of the question left the\ndoctor without any adequately dignified method of reply.\n\n\"Papa does not quite mean to-night,\" said Charlotte; \"at least I\nsuppose not.\"\n\n\"To-morrow, perhaps,\" suggested Bertie.\n\n\"Yes, sir, to-morrow,\" said the doctor. \"You shall leave this\nto-morrow.\"\n\n\"Very well, sir. Will the 4.30 P.M. train be soon enough?\" and\nBertie, as he asked, put the finishing touch to Miss Thorne's\nhigh-heeled boots.\n\n\"You may go how and when and where you please, so that you leave\nmy house to-morrow. You have disgraced me, sir; you have disgraced\nyourself, and me, and your sisters.\"\n\n\"I am glad at least, sir, that I have not disgraced my mother,\" said\nBertie.\n\nCharlotte could hardly keep her countenance, but the doctor's brow\ngrew still blacker than ever. Bertie was executing his _chef d'oeuvre_\nin the delineation of Mrs. Proudie's nose and mouth.\n\n\"You are a heartless reprobate, sir; a heartless, thankless,\ngood-for-nothing reprobate. I have done with you. You are my son--that\nI cannot help--but you shall have no more part or parcel in me as my\nchild, nor I in you as your father.\"\n\n\"Oh, Papa, Papa! You must not, shall not say so,\" said Charlotte.\n\n\"I will say so, and do say so,\" said the father, rising from his\nchair. \"And now leave the room, sir.\"\n\n\"Stop, stop,\" said Charlotte. \"Why don't you speak, Bertie? Why\ndon't you look up and speak? It is your manner that makes Papa so\nangry.\"\n\n\"He is perfectly indifferent to all decency, to all propriety,\" said\nthe doctor; then he shouted out, \"Leave the room, sir! Do you hear\nwhat I say?\"\n\n\"Papa, Papa, I will not let you part so. I know you will be sorry\nfor it.\" And then she added, getting up and whispering into his ear,\n\"Is he only to blame? Think of that. We have made our own bed, and,\nsuch as it is, we must lie on it. It is no use for us to quarrel\namong ourselves,\" and as she finished her whisper, Bertie finished\noff the countess's bustle, which was so well done that it absolutely\nseemed to be swaying to and fro on the paper with its usual lateral\nmotion.\n\n\"My father is angry at the present time,\" said Bertie, looking up for\na moment from his sketches, \"because I am not going to marry Mrs.\nBold. What can I say on the matter? It is true that I am not going\nto marry her. In the first place--\"\n\n\"That is not true, sir,\" said Dr. Stanhope, \"but I will not argue\nwith you.\"\n\n\"You were angry just this moment because I would not speak,\" said\nBertie, going on with a young Lookaloft.\n\n\"Give over drawing,\" said Charlotte, going up to him and taking the\npaper from under his hand. The caricatures, however, she preserved\nand showed them afterwards to the friends of the Thornes, the\nProudies, and De Courcys. Bertie, deprived of his occupation, threw\nhimself back in his chair and waited further orders.\n\n\"I think it will certainly be for the best that Bertie should leave\nthis at once; perhaps to-morrow,\" said Charlotte; \"but pray, Papa,\nlet us arrange some scheme together.\"\n\n\"If he will leave this to-morrow, I will give him £10, and he shall\nbe paid £5 a month by the banker at Carrara as long as he stays\npermanently in that place.\"\n\n\"Well, sir, it won't be long,\" said Bertie, \"for I shall be starved\nto death in about three months.\"\n\n\"He must have marble to work with,\" said Charlotte.\n\n\"I have plenty there in the studio to last me three months,\" said\nBertie. \"It will be no use attempting anything large in so limited a\ntime--unless I do my own tombstone.\"\n\nTerms, however, were ultimately come to somewhat more liberal than\nthose proposed, and the doctor was induced to shake hands with his\nson and bid him good night. Dr. Stanhope would not go up to tea, but\nhad it brought to him in his study by his daughter.\n\nBut Bertie went upstairs and spent a pleasant evening. He finished\nthe Lookalofts, greatly to the delight of his sisters, though the\nmanner of portraying their _décolleté_ dresses was not the most\nrefined. Finding how matters were going, he by degrees allowed it to\nescape from him that he had not pressed his suit upon the widow in a\nvery urgent way.\n\n\"I suppose, in point of fact, you never proposed at all?\" said\nCharlotte.\n\n\"Oh, she understood that she might have me if she wished,\" said he.\n\n\"And she didn't wish,\" said the Signora.\n\n\"You have thrown me over in the most shameful manner,\" said\nCharlotte. \"I suppose you told her all about my little plan?\"\n\n\"Well, it came out somehow--at least the most of it.\"\n\n\"There's an end of that alliance,\" said Charlotte, \"but it doesn't\nmatter much. I suppose we shall all be back at Como soon.\"\n\n\"I am sure I hope so,\" said the signora. \"I'm sick of the sight of\nblack coats. If that Mr. Slope comes here any more, he'll be the\ndeath of me.\"\n\n\"You've been the ruin of him, I think,\" said Charlotte.\n\n\"And as for a second black-coated lover of mine, I am going to make a\npresent of him to another lady with most singular disinterestedness.\"\n\nThe next day, true to his promise, Bertie packed up and went off by\nthe 4.30 P.M. train, with £20 in his pocket, bound for the marble\nquarries of Carrara. And so he disappears from our scene.\n\nAt twelve o'clock on the day following that on which Bertie went,\nMrs. Bold, true also to her word, knocked at Dr. Stanhope's door with\na timid hand and palpitating heart. She was at once shown up to the\nback drawing-room, the folding doors of which were closed, so that\nin visiting the signora Eleanor was not necessarily thrown into any\ncommunion with those in the front room. As she went up the stairs,\nshe saw none of the family and was so far saved much of the annoyance\nwhich she had dreaded.\n\n\"This is very kind of you, Mrs. Bold; very kind, after what has\nhappened,\" said the lady on the sofa with her sweetest smile.\n\n\"You wrote in such a strain that I could not but come to you.\"\n\n\"I did, I did; I wanted to force you to see me.\"\n\n\"Well, signora, I am here.\"\n\n\"How cold you are to me. But I suppose I must put up with that.\nI know you think you have reason to be displeased with us all.\nPoor Bertie; if you knew all, you would not be angry with him.\"\n\n\"I am not angry with your brother--not in the least. But I hope you\ndid not send for me here to talk about him.\"\n\n\"If you are angry with Charlotte, that is worse, for you have no\nwarmer friend in all Barchester. But I did not send for you to talk\nabout this--pray bring your chair nearer, Mrs. Bold, so that I may\nlook at you. It is so unnatural to see you keeping so far off from\nme.\"\n\nEleanor did as she was bid and brought her chair close to the sofa.\n\n\"And now, Mrs. Bold, I am going to tell you something which you may\nperhaps think indelicate, but yet I know that I am right in doing\nso.\"\n\nHereupon Mrs. Bold said nothing but felt inclined to shake in her\nchair. The signora, she knew, was not very particular, and that\nwhich to her appeared to be indelicate might to Mrs. Bold appear to\nbe extremely indecent.\n\n\"I believe you know Mr. Arabin?\"\n\nMrs. Bold would have given the world not to blush, but her blood was\nnot at her own command. She did blush up to her forehead, and the\nsignora, who had made her sit in a special light in order that she\nmight watch her, saw that she did so.\n\n\"Yes, I am acquainted with him. That is, slightly. He is an intimate\nfriend of Dr. Grantly, and Dr. Grantly is my brother-in-law.\"\n\n\"Well, if you know Mr. Arabin, I am sure you must like him. I know\nand like him much. Everybody that knows him must like him.\"\n\nMrs. Bold felt it quite impossible to say anything in reply to this.\nHer blood was rushing about her body she knew not how or why. She\nfelt as though she were swinging in her chair, and she knew that she\nwas not only red in the face but also almost suffocated with heat.\nHowever, she sat still and said nothing.\n\n\"How stiff you are with me, Mrs. Bold,\" said the signora; \"and I the\nwhile am doing for you all that one woman can do to serve another.\"\n\nA kind of thought came over the widow's mind that perhaps the\nsignora's friendship was real, and that at any rate it could not hurt\nher; and another kind of thought, a glimmering of a thought, came to\nher also--that Mr. Arabin was too precious to be lost. She despised\nthe signora, but might she not stoop to conquer? It should be but\nthe smallest fraction of a stoop!\n\n\"I don't want to be stiff,\" she said, \"but your questions are so very\nsingular.\"\n\n\"Well, then, I will ask you one more singular still,\" said Madeline\nNeroni, raising herself on her elbow and turning her own face full\nupon her companion's. \"Do you love him, love him with all your heart\nand soul, with all the love your bosom can feel? For I can tell\nyou that he loves you, adores you, worships you, thinks of you and\nnothing else, is now thinking of you as he attempts to write his\nsermon for next Sunday's preaching. What would I not give to be\nloved in such a way by such a man, that is, if I were an object fit\nfor any man to love!\"\n\nMrs. Bold got up from her seat and stood speechless before the woman\nwho was now addressing her in this impassioned way. When the signora\nthus alluded to herself, the widow's heart was softened, and she\nput her own hand, as though caressingly, on that of her companion,\nwhich was resting on the table. The signora grasped it and went on\nspeaking.\n\n\"What I tell you is God's own truth; and it is for you to use it as\nmay be best for your own happiness. But you must not betray me. He\nknows nothing of this. He knows nothing of my knowing his inmost\nheart. He is simple as a child in these matters. He told me his\nsecret in a thousand ways because he could not dissemble, but he does\nnot dream that he has told it. You know it now, and I advise you to\nuse it.\"\n\nEleanor returned the pressure of the other's hand with an\ninfinitesimal _soupçon_ of a squeeze.\n\n\"And remember,\" continued the signora, \"he is not like other men.\nYou must not expect him to come to you with vows and oaths and pretty\npresents, to kneel at your feet, and kiss your shoe-strings. If you\nwant that, there are plenty to do it, but he won't be one of them.\"\nEleanor's bosom nearly burst with a sigh, but Madeline, not heeding\nher, went on. \"With him, yea will stand for yea, and nay for nay.\nThough his heart should break for it, the woman who shall reject him\nonce will have rejected him once and for all. Remember that. And\nnow, Mrs. Bold, I will not keep you, for you are fluttered. I partly\nguess what use you will make of what I have said to you. If ever you\nare a happy wife in that man's house, we shall be far away, but I\nshall expect you to write me one line to say that you have forgiven\nthe sins of the family.\"\n\nEleanor half-whispered that she would, and then, without uttering\nanother word, crept out of the room and down the stairs, opened the\nfront door for herself without hearing or seeing anyone, and found\nherself in the close.\n\nIt would be difficult to analyse Eleanor's feelings as she walked\nhome. She was nearly stupefied by the things that had been said to\nher. She felt sore that her heart should have been so searched and\nriddled by a comparative stranger, by a woman whom she had never\nliked and never could like. She was mortified that the man whom she\nowned to herself that she loved should have concealed his love from\nher and shown it to another. There was much to vex her proud spirit.\nBut there was, nevertheless, an under stratum of joy in all this\nwhich buoyed her up wondrously. She tried if she could disbelieve\nwhat Madame Neroni had said to her, but she found that she could\nnot. It was true; it must be true. She could not, would not, did not\ndoubt it.\n\nOn one point she fully resolved to follow the advice given her.\nIf it should ever please Mr. Arabin to put such a question to her\nas that suggested, her \"yea\" should be \"yea.\" Would not all her\nmiseries be at an end if she could talk of them to him openly, with\nher head resting on his shoulder?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVI\n\nMr. Slope's Parting Interview with the Signora\n\n\nOn the following day the signora was in her pride. She was dressed\nin her brightest of morning dresses, and had quite a levée round\nher couch. It was a beautifully bright October afternoon; all the\ngentlemen of the neighbourhood were in Barchester, and those who\nhad the entry of Dr. Stanhope's house were in the signora's back\ndrawing-room. Charlotte and Mrs. Stanhope were in the front room, and\nsuch of the lady's squires as could not for the moment get near the\ncentre of attraction had to waste their fragrance on the mother and\nsister.\n\nThe first who came and the last to leave was Mr. Arabin. This was the\nsecond visit he had paid to Madame Neroni since he had met her at\nUllathorne. He came, he knew not why, to talk about, he knew not what.\nBut, in truth, the feelings which now troubled him were new to him,\nand he could not analyse them. It may seem strange that he should\nthus come dangling about Madame Neroni because he was in love with\nMrs. Bold; but it was nevertheless the fact; and though he could not\nunderstand why he did so, Madame Neroni understood it well enough.\n\nShe had been gentle and kind to him and had encouraged his staying.\nTherefore he stayed on. She pressed his hand when he first greeted\nher; she made him remain near her and whispered to him little\nnothings. And then her eye, brilliant and bright, now mirthful,\nnow melancholy, and invincible in either way! What man with warm\nfeelings, blood unchilled, and a heart not guarded by a triple steel\nof experience could have withstood those eyes! The lady, it is true,\nintended to do him no mortal injury; she merely chose to inhale a\nslight breath of incense before she handed the casket over to another.\nWhether Mrs. Bold would willingly have spared even so much is another\nquestion.\n\nAnd then came Mr. Slope. All the world now knew that Mr. Slope was a\ncandidate for the deanery and that he was generally considered to be\nthe favourite. Mr. Slope, therefore, walked rather largely upon the\nearth. He gave to himself a portly air, such as might become a dean,\nspoke but little to other clergymen, and shunned the bishop as much as\npossible. How the meagre little prebendary, and the burly chancellor,\nand all the minor canons and vicars choral, ay, and all the\nchoristers, too, cowered and shook and walked about with long faces\nwhen they read or heard of that article in \"The Jupiter.\" Now were\ncoming the days when nothing would avail to keep the impure spirit\nfrom the cathedral pulpit. That pulpit would indeed be his own.\nPrecentors, vicars, and choristers might hang up their harps on the\nwillows. Ichabod! Ichabod! The glory of their house was departing from\nthem.\n\nMr. Slope, great as he was with embryo grandeur, still came to see\nthe signora. Indeed, he could not keep himself away. He dreamed of\nthat soft hand which he had kissed so often, and of that imperial brow\nwhich his lips had once pressed; and he then dreamed also of further\nfavours.\n\nAnd Mr. Thorne was there also. It was the first visit he had ever\npaid to the signora, and he made it not without due preparation. Mr.\nThorne was a gentleman usually precise in his dress and prone to make\nthe most of himself in an unpretending way. The grey hairs in his\nwhiskers were eliminated perhaps once a month; those on his head were\nsoftened by a mixture which we will not call a dye--it was only a\nwash. His tailor lived in St. James's Street, and his bootmaker at\nthe corner of that street and Piccadilly. He was particular in the\narticle of gloves, and the getting up of his shirts was a matter not\nlightly thought of in the Ullathorne laundry. On the occasion of the\npresent visit he had rather overdone his usual efforts, and caused\nsome little uneasiness to his sister, who had not hitherto received\nvery cordially the proposition for a lengthened visit from the\nsignora at Ullathorne.\n\nThere were others also there--young men about the city who had not\nmuch to do and who were induced by the lady's charms to neglect that\nlittle--but all gave way to Mr. Thorne, who was somewhat of a grand\nsignor, as a country gentleman always is in a provincial city.\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Thorne, this is so kind of you!\" said the signora. \"You\npromised to come, but I really did not expect it. I thought you\ncountry gentlemen never kept your pledges.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, sometimes,\" said Mr. Thorne, looking rather sheepish and\nmaking his salutations a little too much in the style of the last\ncentury.\n\n\"You deceive none but your consti--stit--stit--what do you call the\npeople that carry you about in chairs and pelt you with eggs and\napples when they make you a member of Parliament?\"\n\n\"One another also, sometimes, signora,\" said Mr. Slope, with a very\ndeanish sort of smirk on his face. \"Country gentlemen do deceive one\nanother sometimes, don't they, Mr. Thorne?\"\n\nMr. Thorne gave him a look which undeaned him completely for the\nmoment, but he soon remembered his high hopes and, recovering himself\nquickly, sustained his probable coming dignity by a laugh at Mr.\nThorne's expense.\n\n\"I never deceive a lady, at any rate,\" said Mr. Thorne, \"especially\nwhen the gratification of my own wishes is so strong an inducement to\nkeep me true, as it now is.\"\n\nMr. Thorne went on thus awhile with antediluvian grimaces and\ncompliments which he had picked up from Sir Charles Grandison, and\nthe signora at every grimace and at every bow smiled a little smile\nand bowed a little bow. Mr. Thorne, however, was kept standing at\nthe foot of the couch, for the new dean sat in the seat of honour\nnear the table. Mr. Arabin the while was standing with his back to\nthe fire, his coat-tails under his arms, gazing at her with all his\neyes--not quite in vain, for every now and again a glance came up at\nhim, bright as a meteor out of heaven.\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Thorne, you promised to let me introduce my little girl to\nyou. Can you spare a moment--will you see her now?\"\n\nMr. Thorne assured her that he could and would see the young lady with\nthe greatest pleasure in life. \"Mr. Slope, might I trouble you to ring\nthe bell?\" said she, and when Mr. Slope got up, she looked at Mr.\nThorne and pointed to the chair. Mr. Thorne, however, was much too slow\nto understand her, and Mr. Slope would have recovered his seat had not\nthe signora, who never chose to be unsuccessful, somewhat summarily\nordered him out of it.\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Slope, I must ask you to let Mr. Thorne sit here just for a\nmoment or two. I am sure you will pardon me. We can take a liberty\nwith you this week. Next week, you know, when you move into the dean's\nhouse, we shall all be afraid of you.\"\n\nMr. Slope, with an air of much indifference, rose from his seat and,\nwalking into the next room, became greatly interested in Mrs.\nStanhope's worsted work.\n\nAnd then the child was brought in. She was a little girl, about eight\nyears of age, like her mother, only that her enormous eyes were\nblack, and her hair quite jet. Her complexion, too, was very dark and\nbespoke her foreign blood. She was dressed in the most outlandish and\nextravagant way in which clothes could be put on a child's back. She\nhad great bracelets on her naked little arms, a crimson fillet braided\nwith gold round her head, and scarlet shoes with high heels. Her dress\nwas all flounces and stuck out from her as though the object were to\nmake it lie off horizontally from her little hips. It did not nearly\ncover her knees, but this was atoned for by a loose pair of drawers,\nwhich seemed made throughout of lace; then she had on pink silk\nstockings. It was thus that the last of the Neros was habitually\ndressed at the hour when visitors were wont to call.\n\n\"Julia, my love,\" said the mother--Julia was ever a favourite name\nwith the ladies of that family. \"Julia, my love, come here. I was\ntelling you about the beautiful party poor Mamma went to. This is Mr.\nThorne; will you give him a kiss, dearest?\"\n\nJulia put up her face to be kissed, as she did to all her mother's\nvisitors, and then Mr. Thorne found that he had got her and, what was\nmuch more terrific to him, all her finery, into his arms. The lace\nand starch crumpled against his waistcoat and trousers, the greasy\nblack curls hung upon his cheek, and one of the bracelet clasps\nscratched his ear. He did not at all know how to hold so magnificent\na lady, nor holding her what to do with her. However, he had on other\noccasions been compelled to fondle little nieces and nephews, and now\nset about the task in the mode he always had used.\n\n\"Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle,\" said he, putting the child on\none knee and working away with it as though he were turning a\nknife-grinder's wheel with his foot.\n\n\"Mamma, Mamma,\" said Julia crossly, \"I don't want to be diddle\ndiddled. Let me go, you naughty old man, you.\"\n\nPoor Mr. Thorne put the child down quietly on the ground and drew\nback his chair; Mr. Slope, who had returned to the pole star that\nattracted him, laughed aloud; Mr. Arabin winced and shut his eyes;\nand the signora pretended not to hear her daughter.\n\n\"Go to Aunt Charlotte, lovey,\" said the mamma, \"and ask her if it is\nnot time for you to go out.\"\n\nBut little Miss Julia, though she had not exactly liked the nature of\nMr. Thorne's attention, was accustomed to be played with by gentlemen,\nand did not relish the idea of being sent so soon to her aunt.\n\n\"Julia, go when I tell you, my dear.\" But Julia still went pouting\nabout the room. \"Charlotte, do come and take her,\" said the signora.\n\"She must go out, and the days get so short now.\" And thus ended the\nmuch-talked-of interview between Mr. Thorne and the last of the Neros.\n\nMr. Thorne recovered from the child's crossness sooner than from Mr.\nSlope's laughter. He could put up with being called an old man by an\ninfant, but he did not like to be laughed at by the bishop's chaplain,\neven though that chaplain was about to become a dean. He said nothing,\nbut he showed plainly enough that he was angry.\n\nThe signora was ready enough to avenge him. \"Mr. Slope,\" said she,\n\"I hear that you are triumphing on all sides.\"\n\n\"How so?\" said he, smiling. He did not dislike being talked to about\nthe deanery, though, of course, he strongly denied the imputation.\n\n\"You carry the day both in love and war.\" Mr. Slope hereupon did not\nlook quite so satisfied as he had done.\n\n\"Mr. Arabin,\" continued the signora, \"don't you think Mr. Slope is a\nvery lucky man?\"\n\n\"Not more so than he deserves, I am sure,\" said Mr. Arabin.\n\n\"Only think, Mr. Thorne, he is to be our new dean; of course we all\nknow that.\"\n\n\"Indeed, signora,\" said Mr. Slope, \"we all know nothing about it.\nI can assure you I myself--\"\n\n\"He is to be the new dean--there is no manner of doubt of it, Mr.\nThorne.\"\n\n\"Hum!\" said Mr. Thorne.\n\n\"Passing over the heads of old men like my father and Archdeacon\nGrantly--\"\n\n\"Oh--oh!\" said Mr. Slope.\n\n\"The archdeacon would not accept it,\" said Mr. Arabin, whereupon Mr.\nSlope smiled abominably and said, as plainly as a look could speak,\nthat the grapes were sour.\n\n\"Going over all our heads,\" continued the signora, \"for of course I\nconsider myself one of the chapter.\"\n\n\"If I am ever dean,\" said Mr. Slope, \"that is, were I ever to become\nso, I should glory in such a canoness.\"\n\n\"Oh, Mr. Slope, stop; I haven't half done. There is another canoness\nfor you to glory in. Mr. Slope is not only to have the deanery but a\nwife to put in it.\"\n\nMr. Slope again looked disconcerted.\n\n\"A wife with a large fortune, too. It never rains but it pours, does\nit, Mr. Thorne?\"\n\n\"No, never,\" said Mr. Thorne, who did not quite relish talking about\nMr. Slope and his affairs.\n\n\"When will it be, Mr. Slope?\"\n\n\"When will what be?\" said he.\n\n\"Oh, we know when the affair of the dean will be: a week will settle\nthat. The new hat, I have no doubt, has been already ordered. But when\nwill the marriage come off?\"\n\n\"Do you mean mine or Mr. Arabin's?\" said he, striving to be facetious.\n\n\"Well, just then I meant yours, though, perhaps, after all, Mr.\nArabin's may be first. But we know nothing of him. He is too close\nfor any of us. Now all is open and above board with you--which, by\nthe by, Mr. Arabin, I beg to tell you I like much the best. He who\nruns can read that Mr. Slope is a favoured lover. Come, Mr. Slope,\nwhen is the widow to be made Mrs. Dean?\"\n\nTo Mr. Arabin this badinage was peculiarly painful, and yet he could\nnot tear himself away and leave it. He believed, still believed with\nthat sort of belief which the fear of a thing engenders, that Mrs.\nBold would probably become the wife of Mr. Slope. Of Mr. Slope's\nlittle adventure in the garden he knew nothing. For aught he knew,\nMr. Slope might have had an adventure of quite a different character.\nHe might have thrown himself at the widow's feet, been accepted, and\nthen returned to town a jolly, thriving wooer. The signora's jokes\nwere bitter enough to Mr. Slope, but they were quite as bitter to Mr.\nArabin. He still stood leaning against the fire-place, fumbling with\nhis hands in his trousers pockets.\n\n\"Come, come, Mr. Slope, don't be so bashful,\" continued the signora.\n\"We all know that you proposed to the lady the other day at\nUllathorne. Tell us with what words she accepted you. Was it with a\nsimple 'yes,' or with the two 'no no's' which make an affirmative?\nOr did silence give consent? Or did she speak out with that spirit\nwhich so well becomes a widow and say openly, 'By my troth, sir, you\nshall make me Mrs. Slope as soon as it is your pleasure to do so.'\"\n\nMr. Slope had seldom in his life felt himself less at his ease.\nThere sat Mr. Thorne, laughing silently. There stood his old\nantagonist, Mr. Arabin, gazing at him with all his eyes. There round\nthe door between the two rooms were clustered a little group of\npeople, including Miss Stanhope and the Revs. Messrs. Grey and Green,\nall listening to his discomfiture. He knew that it depended solely\non his own wit whether or no he could throw the joke back upon the\nlady. He knew that it stood him to do so if he possibly could, but\nhe had not a word. \"'Tis conscience that makes cowards of us all.\"\nHe felt on his cheek the sharp points of Eleanor's fingers, and\ndid not know who might have seen the blow, who might have told the\ntale to this pestilent woman who took such delight in jeering him.\nHe stood there, therefore, red as a carbuncle and mute as a fish;\ngrinning sufficiently to show his teeth; an object of pity.\n\nBut the signora had no pity; she knew nothing of mercy. Her present\nobject was to put Mr. Slope down, and she was determined to do it\nthoroughly, now that she had him in her power.\n\n\"What, Mr. Slope, no answer? Why it can't possibly be that the woman\nhas been fool enough to refuse you? She can't surely be looking\nout after a bishop. But I see how it is, Mr. Slope. Widows are\nproverbially cautious. You should have let her alone till the new hat\nwas on your head, till you could show her the key of the deanery.\"\n\n\"Signora,\" said he at last, trying to speak in a tone of dignified\nreproach, \"you really permit yourself to talk on solemn subjects in a\nvery improper way.\"\n\n\"Solemn subjects--what solemn subject? Surely a dean's hat is not such\na solemn subject.\"\n\n\"I have no aspirations such as those you impute to me. Perhaps you\nwill drop the subject.\"\n\n\"Oh, certainly, Mr. Slope; but one word first. Go to her again with\nthe prime minister's letter in your pocket. I'll wager my shawl to\nyour shovel she does not refuse you then.\"\n\n\"I must say, signora, that I think you are speaking of the lady in a\nvery unjustifiable manner.\"\n\n\"And one other piece of advice, Mr. Slope; I'll only offer you one\nother;\" and then she commenced singing--\n\n\n   \"It's gude to be merry and wise, Mr. Slope;\n      It's gude to be honest and true;\n    It's gude to be off with the old love--Mr. Slope,\n      Before you are on with the new.\n\n\n\"Ha, ha, ha!\"\n\nAnd the signora, throwing herself back on her sofa, laughed merrily.\nShe little recked how those who heard her would, in their own\nimaginations, fill up the little history of Mr. Slope's first love.\nShe little cared that some among them might attribute to her the\nhonour of his earlier admiration. She was tired of Mr. Slope and\nwanted to get rid of him; she had ground for anger with him, and she\nchose to be revenged.\n\nHow Mr. Slope got out of that room he never himself knew. He did\nsucceed ultimately, and probably with some assistance, in getting his\nhat and escaping into the air. At last his love for the signora was\ncured. Whenever he again thought of her in his dreams, it was not as\nof an angel with azure wings. He connected her rather with fire and\nbrimstone, and though he could still believe her to be a spirit, he\nbanished her entirely out of heaven and found a place for her among\nthe infernal gods. When he weighed in the balance, as he not seldom\ndid, the two women to whom he had attached himself in Barchester, the\npre-eminent place in his soul's hatred was usually allotted to the\nsignora.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVII\n\nThe Dean Elect\n\n\nDuring the entire next week Barchester was ignorant who was to be its\nnew dean. On Sunday morning Mr. Slope was decidedly the favourite,\nbut he did not show himself in the cathedral, and then he sank a point\nor two in the betting. On Monday he got a scolding from the bishop in\nthe hearing of the servants, and down he went till nobody would have\nhim at any price; but on Tuesday he received a letter, in an official\ncover, marked private, by which he fully recovered his place in the\npublic favour. On Wednesday he was said to be ill, and that did not\nlook well; but on Thursday morning he went down to the railway station\nwith a very jaunty air; and when it was ascertained that he had taken\na first-class ticket for London, there was no longer any room for\ndoubt on the matter.\n\nWhile matters were in this state of ferment at Barchester, there was\nnot much mental comfort at Plumstead. Our friend the archdeacon had\nmany grounds for inward grief. He was much displeased at the result\nof Dr. Gwynne's diplomatic mission to the palace, and did not even\nscruple to say to his wife that had he gone himself, he would have\nmanaged the affair much better. His wife did not agree with him, but\nthat did not mend the matter.\n\nMr. Quiverful's appointment to the hospital was, however, a _fait\naccompli_, and Mr. Harding's acquiescence in that appointment was not\nless so. Nothing would induce Mr. Harding to make a public appeal\nagainst the bishop, and the Master of Lazarus quite approved of his\nnot doing so.\n\n\"I don't know what has come to the master,\" said the archdeacon over\nand over again. \"He used to be ready enough to stand up for his\norder.\"\n\n\"My dear Archdeacon,\" Mrs. Grantly would say in reply, \"what is the\nuse of always fighting? I really think the master is right.\" The\nmaster, however, had taken steps of his own of which neither the\narchdeacon nor his wife knew anything.\n\nThen Mr. Slope's successes were henbane to Dr. Grantly, and Mrs.\nBold's improprieties were as bad. What would be all the world to\nArchdeacon Grantly if Mr. Slope should become Dean of Barchester and\nmarry his wife's sister! He talked of it and talked of it till he was\nnearly ill. Mrs. Grantly almost wished that the marriage were done and\nover, so that she might hear no more about it.\n\nAnd there was yet another ground of misery which cut him to the quick\nnearly as closely as either of the others. That paragon of a clergyman\nwhom he had bestowed upon St. Ewold's, that college friend of whom he\nhad boasted so loudly, that ecclesiastical knight before whose lance\nMr. Slope was to fall and bite the dust, that worthy bulwark of the\nchurch as it should be, that honoured representative of Oxford's\nbest spirit, was--so at least his wife had told him half a dozen\ntimes--misconducting himself!\n\nNothing had been seen of Mr. Arabin at Plumstead for the last week,\nbut a good deal had, unfortunately, been heard of him. As soon as Mrs.\nGrantly had found herself alone with the archdeacon, on the evening of\nthe Ullathorne party, she had expressed herself very forcibly as to\nMr. Arabin's conduct on that occasion. He had, she declared, looked\nand acted and talked very unlike a decent parish clergyman. At first\nthe archdeacon had laughed at this, and assured her that she need not\ntrouble herself--that Mr. Arabin would be found to be quite safe. But\nby degrees he began to find that his wife's eyes had been sharper than\nhis own. Other people coupled the signora's name with that of Mr.\nArabin. The meagre little prebendary who lived in the close told him\nto a nicety how often Mr. Arabin had visited at Dr. Stanhope's, and\nhow long he had remained on the occasion of each visit. He had asked\nafter Mr. Arabin at the cathedral library, and an officious little\nvicar choral had offered to go and see whether he could be found at\nDr. Stanhope's. Rumour, when she has contrived to sound the first\nnote on her trumpet, soon makes a loud peal audible enough. It was\ntoo clear that Mr. Arabin had succumbed to the Italian woman, and\nthat the archdeacon's credit would suffer fearfully if something were\nnot done to rescue the brand from the burning. Besides, to give the\narchdeacon his due, he was really attached to Mr. Arabin, and grieved\ngreatly at his backsliding.\n\nThey were sitting, talking over their sorrows, in the drawing-room\nbefore dinner on the day after Mr. Slope's departure for London, and\non this occasion Mrs. Grantly spoke out her mind freely. She had\nopinions of her own about parish clergymen, and now thought it right\nto give vent to them.\n\n\"If you would have been led by me, Archdeacon, you would never have\nput a bachelor into St. Ewold's.\"\n\n\"But my dear, you don't meant to say that all bachelor clergymen\nmisbehave themselves.\"\n\n\"I don't know that clergymen are so much better than other men,\"\nsaid Mrs. Grantly. \"It's all very well with a curate, whom you have\nunder your own eye and whom you can get rid of if he persists in\nimproprieties.\"\n\n\"But Mr. Arabin was a fellow, and couldn't have had a wife.\"\n\n\"Then I would have found someone who could.\"\n\n\"But, my dear, are fellows never to get livings?\"\n\n\"Yes, to be sure they are, when they get engaged. I never would put\na young man into a living unless he were married, or engaged to be\nmarried. Now, here is Mr. Arabin. The whole responsibility lies upon\nyou.\"\n\n\"There is not at this moment a clergyman in all Oxford more respected\nfor morals and conduct than Arabin.\"\n\n\"Oh, Oxford!\" said the lady, with a sneer. \"What men choose to do at\nOxford nobody ever hears of. A man may do very well at Oxford who\nwould bring disgrace on a parish; and to tell you the truth, it seems\nto me that Mr. Arabin is just such a man.\"\n\nThe archdeacon groaned deeply, but he had no further answer to make.\n\n\"You really must speak to him, Archdeacon. Only think what the Thornes\nwill say if they hear that their parish clergyman spends his whole\ntime philandering with this woman.\"\n\nThe archdeacon groaned again. He was a courageous man, and knew well\nenough how to rebuke the younger clergymen of the diocese, when\nnecessary. But there was that about Mr. Arabin which made the doctor\nfeel that it would be very difficult to rebuke him with good effect.\n\n\"You can advise him to find a wife for himself, and he will understand\nwell enough what that means,\" said Mrs. Grantly.\n\nThe archdeacon had nothing for it but groaning. There was Mr. Slope:\nhe was going to be made dean; he was going to take a wife; he was\nabout to achieve respectability and wealth, an excellent family\nmansion, and a family carriage; he would soon be among the comfortable\n_élite_ of the ecclesiastical world of Barchester; whereas his own\n_protégé_, the true scion of the true church, by whom he had sworn,\nwould be still but a poor vicar, and that with a very indifferent\ncharacter for moral conduct! It might be all very well recommending\nMr. Arabin to marry, but how would Mr. Arabin, when married, support\na wife?\n\nThings were ordering themselves thus in Plumstead drawing-room when\nDr. and Mrs. Grantly were disturbed in their sweet discourse by the\nquick rattle of a carriage and pair of horses on the gravel sweep.\nThe sound was not that of visitors, whose private carriages are\ngenerally brought up to country-house doors with demure propriety,\nbut betokened rather the advent of some person or persons who were\nin a hurry to reach the house, and had no intention of immediately\nleaving it. Guests invited to stay a week, and who were conscious of\narriving after the first dinner-bell, would probably approach in such\na manner. So might arrive an attorney with the news of a granduncle's\ndeath, or a son from college with all the fresh honours of a double\nfirst. No one would have had himself driven up to the door of a\ncountry-house in such a manner who had the slightest doubt of his own\nright to force an entry.\n\n\"Who is it?\" said Mrs. Grantly, looking at her husband.\n\n\"Who on earth can it be?\" said the archdeacon to his wife. He then\nquietly got up and stood with the drawing-room door open in his hand.\n\"Why, it's your father!\"\n\nIt was indeed Mr. Harding, and Mr. Harding alone. He had come by\nhimself in a post-chaise with a couple of horses from Barchester,\narriving almost after dark, and evidently full of news. His visits\nhad usually been made in the quietest manner; he had rarely presumed\nto come without notice, and had always been driven up in a modest\nold green fly, with one horse, that hardly made itself heard as it\ncrawled up to the hall-door.\n\n\"Good gracious, Warden, is it you?\" said the archdeacon, forgetting in\nhis surprise the events of the last few years. \"But come in; nothing\nthe matter, I hope.\"\n\n\"We are very glad you are come, Papa,\" said his daughter. \"I'll go\nand get your room ready at once.\"\n\n\"I an't warden, Archdeacon,\" said Mr. Harding; \"Mr. Quiverful is\nwarden.\"\n\n\"Oh, I know, I know,\" said the archdeacon petulantly. \"I forgot all\nabout it at the moment. Is anything the matter?\"\n\n\"Don't go this moment, Susan,\" said Mr. Harding. \"I have something to\ntell you.\"\n\n\"The dinner-bell will ring in five minutes,\" said she.\n\n\"Will it?\" said Mr. Harding. \"Then perhaps I had better wait.\" He was\nbig with news which he had come to tell, but which he knew could not\nbe told without much discussion. He had hurried away to Plumstead as\nfast as two horses could bring him, and now, finding himself there, he\nwas willing to accept the reprieve which dinner would give him.\n\n\"If you have anything of moment to tell us,\" said the archdeacon,\n\"pray let us hear it at once. Has Eleanor gone off?\"\n\n\"No, she has not,\" said Mr. Harding with a look of great displeasure.\n\n\"Has Slope been made dean?\"\n\n\"No, he has not, but--\"\n\n\"But what?\" said the archdeacon, who was becoming very impatient.\n\n\"They have--\"\n\n\"They have what?\" said the archdeacon.\n\n\"They have offered it to me,\" said Mr. Harding, with a modesty which\nalmost prevented his speaking.\n\n\"Good heavens!\" said the archdeacon, and sunk back exhausted in an\neasy chair.\n\n\"My dear, dear father,\" said Mrs. Grantly, and threw her arms round\nher father's neck.\n\n\"So I thought I had better come out and consult with you at once,\"\nsaid Mr. Harding.\n\n\"Consult!\" shouted the archdeacon. \"But, my dear Harding, I\ncongratulate you with my whole heart--with my whole heart; I do\nindeed. I never heard anything in my life that gave me so much\npleasure;\" and he got hold of both his father-in-law's hands, and\nshook them as though he were going to shake them off, and walked\nround and round the room, twirling a copy of \"The Jupiter\" over his\nhead to show his extreme exultation.\n\n\"But--\" began Mr. Harding.\n\n\"But me no buts,\" said the archdeacon. \"I never was so happy in my\nlife. It was just the proper thing to do. Upon my honour I'll never\nsay another word against Lord ---- the longest day I have to live.\"\n\n\"That's Dr. Gwynne's doing, you may be sure,\" said Mrs. Grantly, who\ngreatly liked the Master of Lazarus, he being an orderly married man\nwith a large family.\n\n\"I suppose it is,\" said the archdeacon.\n\n\"Oh, Papa, I am so truly delighted!\" said Mrs. Grantly, getting up\nand kissing her father.\n\n\"But, my dear,\" said Mr. Harding. It was all in vain that he strove to\nspeak; nobody would listen to him.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Dean,\" said the archdeacon, triumphing, \"the deanery\ngardens will be some consolation for the hospital elms. Well, poor\nQuiverful! I won't begrudge him his good fortune any longer.\"\n\n\"No, indeed,\" said Mrs. Grantly. \"Poor woman, she has fourteen\nchildren. I am sure I am very glad they have got it.\"\n\n\"So am I,\" said Mr. Harding.\n\n\"I would give twenty pounds,\" said the archdeacon, \"to see how\nMr. Slope will look when he hears it.\" The idea of Mr. Slope's\ndiscomfiture formed no small part of the archdeacon's pleasure.\n\nAt last Mr. Harding was allowed to go upstairs and wash his hands,\nhaving, in fact, said very little of all that he had come out to\nPlumstead on purpose to say. Nor could anything more be said till\nthe servants were gone after dinner. The joy of Dr. Grantly was\nso uncontrollable that he could not refrain from calling his\nfather-in-law Mr. Dean before the men, and therefore it was soon\nmatter of discussion in the lower regions how Mr. Harding, instead of\nhis daughter's future husband, was to be the new dean, and various\nwere the opinions on the matter. The cook and butler, who were\nadvanced in years, thought that it was just as it should be; but the\nfootman and lady's maid, who were younger, thought it was a great\nshame that Mr. Slope should lose his chance.\n\n\"He's a mean chap all the same,\" said the footman, \"and it an't along\nof him that I says so. But I always did admire the missus's sister;\nand she'd well become the situation.\"\n\nWhile these were the ideas downstairs, a very great difference of\nopinion existed above. As soon as the cloth was drawn and the wine on\nthe table, Mr. Harding made for himself an opportunity of speaking.\nIt was, however, with much inward troubling that he said:\n\n\"It's very kind of Lord ----, very kind, and I feel it deeply, most\ndeeply. I am, I must confess, gratified by the offer--\"\n\n\"I should think so,\" said the archdeacon.\n\n\"But all the same I am afraid that I can't accept it.\"\n\nThe decanter almost fell from the archdeacon's hand upon the table,\nand the start he made was so great as to make his wife jump up from\nher chair. Not accept the deanship! If it really ended in this, there\nwould be no longer any doubt that his father-in-law was demented. The\nquestion now was whether a clergyman with low rank and preferment\namounting to less than £200 a year should accept high rank, £1,200 a\nyear, and one of the most desirable positions which his profession had\nto afford!\n\n\"What!\" said the archdeacon, gasping for breath and staring at his\nguest as though the violence of his emotion had almost thrown him\ninto a fit. \"What!\"\n\n\"I do not find myself fit for new duties,\" urged Mr. Harding.\n\n\"New duties! What duties?\" said the archdeacon with unintended\nsarcasm.\n\n\"Oh, Papa,\" said Mrs. Grantly, \"nothing can be easier than what a\ndean has to do. Surely you are more active than Dr. Trefoil.\"\n\n\"He won't have half as much to do as he has at present,\" said Dr.\nGrantly.\n\n\"Did you see what 'The Jupiter' said the other day about young men?\"\n\n\"Yes, and I saw that 'The Jupiter' said all that it could to induce\nthe appointment of Mr. Slope. Perhaps you would wish to see Mr. Slope\nmade dean.\"\n\nMr. Harding made no reply to this rebuke, though he felt it strongly.\nHe had not come over to Plumstead to have further contention with his\nson-in-law about Mr. Slope, so he allowed it to pass by.\n\n\"I know I cannot make you understand my feeling,\" he said, \"for we\nhave been cast in different moulds. I may wish that I had your spirit\nand energy and power of combatting; but I have not. Every day that is\nadded to my life increases my wish for peace and rest.\"\n\n\"And where on earth can a man have peace and rest if not in a\ndeanery!\" said the archdeacon.\n\n\"People will say that I am too old for it.\"\n\n\"Good heavens! People! What people? What need you care for any\npeople?\"\n\n\"But I think myself I am too old for any new place.\"\n\n\"Dear Papa,\" said Mrs. Grantly, \"men ten years older than you are\nappointed to new situations day after day.\"\n\n\"My dear,\" said he, \"it is impossible that I should make you\nunderstand my feelings, nor do I pretend to any great virtue in the\nmatter. The truth is, I want the force of character which might\nenable me to stand against the spirit of the times. The call on all\nsides now is for young men, and I have not the nerve to put myself\nin opposition to the demand. Were 'The Jupiter,' when it hears\nof my appointment, to write article after article setting forth my\nincompetency, I am sure it would cost me my reason. I ought to be\nable to bear with such things, you will say. Well, my dear, I own\nthat I ought. But I feel my weakness, and I know that I can't. And\nto tell you the truth, I know no more than a child what the dean has\nto do.\"\n\n\"Pshaw!\" exclaimed the archdeacon.\n\n\"Don't be angry with me, Archdeacon: don't let us quarrel about it,\nSusan. If you knew how keenly I feel the necessity of having to\ndisoblige you in this matter, you would not be angry with me.\"\n\nThis was a dreadful blow to Dr. Grantly. Nothing could possibly have\nsuited him better than having Mr. Harding in the deanery. Though he\nhad never looked down on Mr. Harding on account of his recent poverty,\nhe did fully recognize the satisfaction of having those belonging to\nhim in comfortable positions. It would be much more suitable that Mr.\nHarding should be Dean of Barchester than vicar of St. Cuthbert's and\nprecentor to boot. And then the great discomfiture of that arch-enemy\nof all that was respectable in Barchester, of that new Low Church\nclerical parvenu that had fallen amongst them, that alone would be\nworth more, almost, than the situation itself. It was frightful to\nthink that such unhoped-for good fortune should be marred by the\nabsurd crotchets and unwholesome hallucinations by which Mr. Harding\nallowed himself to be led astray. To have the cup so near his lips\nand then to lose the drinking of it was more than Dr. Grantly could\nendure.\n\nAnd yet it appeared as though he would have to endure it. In vain he\nthreatened and in vain he coaxed. Mr. Harding did not indeed speak\nwith perfect decision of refusing the proffered glory, but he would\nnot speak with anything like decision of accepting it. When pressed\nagain and again, he would again and again allege that he was wholly\nunfitted to new duties. It was in vain that the archdeacon tried to\ninsinuate, though he could not plainly declare, that there were no\nnew duties to perform. It was in vain he hinted that in all cases\nof difficulty he, he the archdeacon, was willing and able to guide\na weak-minded dean. Mr. Harding seemed to have a foolish idea, not\nonly that there were new duties to do, but that no one should accept\nthe place who was not himself prepared to do them.\n\nThe conference ended in an understanding that Mr. Harding should\nat once acknowledge the letter he had received from the minister's\nprivate secretary, and should beg that he might be allowed two days to\nmake up his mind; and that during those two days the matter should be\nconsidered.\n\nOn the following morning the archdeacon was to drive Mr. Harding back\nto Barchester.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVIII\n\nMiss Thorne Shows Her Talent at Match-Making\n\n\nOn Mr. Harding's return to Barchester from Plumstead, which was\neffected by him in due course in company with the archdeacon, more\ntidings of a surprising nature met him. He was, during the journey,\nsubjected to such a weight of unanswerable argument, all of which\nwent to prove that it was his bounden duty not to interfere with the\npaternal Government that was so anxious to make him a dean, that when\nhe arrived at the chemist's door in High Street, he hardly knew which\nway to turn himself in the matter. But, perplexed as he was, he was\ndoomed to further perplexity. He found a note there from his daughter\nbegging him most urgently to come to her immediately. But we must\nagain go back a little in our story.\n\nMiss Thorne had not been slow to hear the rumours respecting Mr.\nArabin which had so much disturbed the happiness of Mrs. Grantly.\nAnd she, also, was unhappy to think that her parish clergyman should\nbe accused of worshipping a strange goddess. She, also, was of\nopinion that rectors and vicars should all be married, and with that\ngood-natured energy which was characteristic of her, she put her wits\nto work to find a fitting match for Mr. Arabin. Mrs. Grantly, in this\ndifficulty, could think of no better remedy than a lecture from the\narchdeacon. Miss Thorne thought that a young lady, marriageable and\nwith a dowry, might be of more efficacy. In looking through the\ncatalogue of her unmarried friends who might possibly be in want of\na husband, and might also be fit for such promotion as a country\nparsonage affords, she could think of no one more eligible than Mrs.\nBold; consequently, losing no time, she went into Barchester on the\nday of Mr. Slope's discomfiture, the same day that her brother had\nhad his interesting interview with the last of the Neros, and invited\nMrs. Bold to bring her nurse and baby to Ullathorne and make them a\nprotracted visit.\n\nMiss Thorne suggested a month or two, intending to use her influence\nafterwards in prolonging it so as to last out the winter, in order\nthat Mr. Arabin might have an opportunity of becoming fairly intimate\nwith his intended bride. \"We'll have Mr. Arabin, too,\" said Miss\nThorne to herself; \"and before the spring they'll know each other;\nand in twelve or eighteen months' time, if all goes well, Mrs. Bold\nwill be domiciled at St. Ewold's;\" and then the kind-hearted lady\ngave herself some not undeserved praise for her match-making genius.\n\nEleanor was taken a little by surprise, but the matter ended in her\npromising to go to Ullathorne for at any rate a week or two; on the\nday previous to that on which her father drove out to Plumstead, she\nhad had herself driven out to Ullathorne.\n\nMiss Thorne would not perplex her with her embryo lord on that same\nevening, thinking that she would allow her a few hours to make herself\nat home; but on the following morning Mr. Arabin arrived. \"And now,\"\nsaid Miss Thorne to herself, \"I must contrive to throw them in each\nother's way.\" That same day, after dinner, Eleanor, with an assumed\nair of dignity which she could not maintain, with tears which she\ncould not suppress, with a flutter which she could not conquer, and a\njoy which she could not hide, told Miss Thorne that she was engaged\nto marry Mr. Arabin and that it behoved her to get back home to\nBarchester as quick as she could.\n\nTo say simply that Miss Thorne was rejoiced at the success of the\nscheme would give a very faint idea of her feelings on the occasion.\nMy readers may probably have dreamt before now that they have had\nbefore them some terribly long walk to accomplish, some journey of\ntwenty or thirty miles, an amount of labour frightful to anticipate,\nand that immediately on starting they have ingeniously found some\naccommodating short cut which has brought them without fatigue to\ntheir work's end in five minutes. Miss Thorne's waking feelings were\nsomewhat of the same nature. My readers may perhaps have had to do\nwith children, and may on some occasion have promised to their young\ncharges some great gratification intended to come off, perhaps at\nthe end of the winter, or at the beginning of summer. The impatient\njuveniles, however, will not wait, and clamorously demand their treat\nbefore they go to bed. Miss Thorne had a sort of feeling that her\nchildren were equally unreasonable. She was like an inexperienced\ngunner, who has ill-calculated the length of the train that he has\nlaid. The gun-powder exploded much too soon, and poor Miss Thorne\nfelt that she was blown up by the strength of her own petard.\n\nMiss Thorne had had lovers of her own, but they had been gentlemen\nof old-fashioned and deliberate habits. Miss Thorne's heart also had\nnot always been hard, though she was still a virgin spinster; but it\nhad never yielded in this way at the first assault. She had intended\nto bring together a middle-aged, studious clergyman and a discreet\nmatron who might possibly be induced to marry again, and in doing so\nshe had thrown fire among tinder. Well, it was all as it should be,\nbut she did feel perhaps a little put out by the precipitancy of her\nown success, and perhaps a little vexed at the readiness of Mrs. Bold\nto be wooed.\n\nShe said, however, nothing about it to anyone, and ascribed it all to\nthe altered manners of the new age. Their mothers and grandmothers\nwere perhaps a little more deliberate, but it was admitted on all\nsides that things were conducted very differently now than in former\ntimes. For aught Miss Thorne knew of the matter, a couple of hours\nmight be quite sufficient under the new régime to complete that for\nwhich she in her ignorance had allotted twelve months.\n\nBut we must not pass over the wooing so cavalierly. It has been\ntold, with perhaps tedious accuracy, how Eleanor disposed of two\nof her lovers at Ullathorne; and it must also be told with equal\naccuracy, and if possible with less tedium, how she encountered Mr.\nArabin.\n\nIt cannot be denied that when Eleanor accepted Miss Thorne's\ninvitation she remembered that Ullathorne was in the parish of St.\nEwold's. Since her interview with the signora she had done little\nelse than think about Mr. Arabin and the appeal that had been made to\nher. She could not bring herself to believe, or try to bring herself\nto believe, that what she had been told was untrue. Think of it how\nshe would, she could not but accept it as a fact that Mr. Arabin was\nfond of her; and then when she went further and asked herself the\nquestion, she could not but accept it as a fact also that she was\nfond of him. If it were destined for her to be the partner of his\nhopes and sorrows, to whom could she look for friendship so properly\nas to Miss Thorne? This invitation was like an ordained step towards\nthe fulfilment of her destiny, and when she also heard that Mr. Arabin\nwas expected to be at Ullathorne on the following day, it seemed as\nthough all the world were conspiring in her favour. Well, did she\nnot deserve it? In that affair of Mr. Slope had not all the world\nconspired against her?\n\nShe could not, however, make herself easy and at home. When, in the\nevening after dinner, Miss Thorne expatiated on the excellence of Mr.\nArabin's qualities, and hinted that any little rumour which might be\nill-naturedly spread abroad concerning him really meant nothing, Mrs.\nBold found herself unable to answer. When Miss Thorne went a little\nfurther and declared that she did not know a prettier vicarage-house\nin the county than St. Ewold's, Mrs. Bold, remembering the projected\nbow-window and the projected priestess, still held her tongue, though\nher ears tingled with the conviction that all the world knew that she\nwas in love with Mr. Arabin. Well, what would that matter if they\ncould only meet and tell each other what each now longed to tell?\n\nAnd they did meet. Mr. Arabin came early in the day and found the two\nladies together at work in the drawing-room. Miss Thorne, who, had\nshe known all the truth, would have vanished into air at once, had\nno conception that her immediate absence would be a blessing, and\nremained chatting with them till luncheon-time. Mr. Arabin could talk\nabout nothing but the Signora Neroni's beauty, would discuss no people\nbut the Stanhopes. This was very distressing to Eleanor and not very\nsatisfactory to Miss Thorne. But yet there was evidence of innocence\nin his open avowal of admiration.\n\nAnd then they had lunch, and then Mr. Arabin went out on parish duty,\nand Eleanor and Miss Thorne were left to take a walk together.\n\n\"Do you think the Signora Neroni is so lovely as people say?\" Eleanor\nasked as they were coming home.\n\n\"She is very beautiful, certainly, very beautiful,\" Miss Thorne\nanswered; \"but I do not know that anyone considers her lovely. She\nis a woman all men would like to look at, but few, I imagine, would\nbe glad to take her to their hearths, even were she unmarried and not\nafflicted as she is.\"\n\nThere was some little comfort in this. Eleanor made the most of\nit till she got back to the house. She was then left alone in the\ndrawing-room, and just as it was getting dark Mr. Arabin came in.\n\nIt was a beautiful afternoon in the beginning of October, and Eleanor\nwas sitting in the window to get the advantage of the last daylight\nfor her novel. There was a fire in the comfortable room, but the\nweather was not cold enough to make it attractive; and as she could\nsee the sun set from where she sat, she was not very attentive to her\nbook.\n\nMr. Arabin, when he entered, stood awhile with his back to the\nfire in his usual way, merely uttering a few commonplace remarks\nabout the beauty of the weather, while he plucked up courage for\nmore interesting converse. It cannot probably be said that he\nhad resolved then and there to make an offer to Eleanor. Men, we\nbelieve, seldom make such resolves. Mr. Slope and Mr. Stanhope had\ndone so, it is true, but gentlemen generally propose without any\nabsolutely defined determination as to their doing so. Such was now\nthe case with Mr. Arabin.\n\n\"It is a lovely sunset,\" said Eleanor, answering him on the dreadfully\ntrite subject which he had chosen.\n\nMr. Arabin could not see the sunset from the hearth-rug, so he had to\ngo close to her.\n\n\"Very lovely,\" said he, standing modestly so far away from her as to\navoid touching the flounces of her dress. Then it appeared that he\nhad nothing further to say; so, after gazing for a moment in silence\nat the brightness of the setting sun, he returned to the fire.\n\nEleanor found that it was quite impossible for herself to commence a\nconversation. In the first place she could find nothing to say; words,\nwhich were generally plenty enough with her, would not come to her\nrelief. And moreover, do what she would, she could hardly prevent\nherself from crying.\n\n\"Do you like Ullathorne?\" said Mr. Arabin, speaking from the safely\ndistant position which he had assumed on the hearth-rug.\n\n\"Yes, indeed, very much!\"\n\n\"I don't mean Mr. and Miss Thorne--I know you like them--but the style\nof the house. There is something about old-fashioned mansions, built\nas this is, and old-fashioned gardens, that to me is especially\ndelightful.\"\n\n\"I like everything old-fashioned,\" said Eleanor; \"old-fashioned things\nare so much the honestest.\"\n\n\"I don't know about that,\" said Mr. Arabin, gently laughing. \"That\nis an opinion on which very much may be said on either side. It is\nstrange how widely the world is divided on a subject which so nearly\nconcerns us all, and which is so close beneath our eyes. Some think\nthat we are quickly progressing towards perfection, while others\nimagine that virtue is disappearing from the earth.\"\n\n\"And you, Mr. Arabin, what do you think?\" said Eleanor. She felt\nsomewhat surprised at the tone which his conversation was taking, and\nyet she was relieved at his saying something which enabled herself to\nspeak without showing her own emotion.\n\n\"What do I think, Mrs. Bold?\" and then he rumbled his money with his\nhands in his trousers pockets, and looked and spoke very little like a\nthriving lover. \"It is the bane of my life that on important subjects\nI acquire no fixed opinion. I think, and think, and go on thinking,\nand yet my thoughts are running ever in different directions. I hardly\nknow whether or no we do lean more confidently than our fathers did on\nthose high hopes to which we profess to aspire.\"\n\n\"I think the world grows more worldly every day,\" said Eleanor.\n\n\"That is because you see more of it than when you were younger. But\nwe should hardly judge by what we see--we see so very, very little.\"\nThere was then a pause for awhile, during which Mr. Arabin continued\nto turn over his shillings and half-crowns. \"If we believe in\nScripture, we can hardly think that mankind in general will now be\nallowed to retrograde.\"\n\nEleanor, whose mind was certainly engaged otherwise than on the\ngeneral state of mankind, made no answer to this. She felt thoroughly\ndissatisfied with herself. She could not force her thoughts away from\nthe topic on which the signora had spoken to her in so strange a way,\nand yet she knew that she could not converse with Mr. Arabin in an\nunrestrained, natural tone till she did so. She was most anxious not\nto show to him any special emotion, and yet she felt that if he looked\nat her, he would at once see that she was not at ease.\n\nBut he did not look at her. Instead of doing so, he left the\nfire-place and began walking up and down the room. Eleanor took up her\nbook resolutely, but she could not read, for there was a tear in her\neye, and do what she would, it fell on her cheek. When Mr. Arabin's\nback was turned to her, she wiped it away; but another was soon\ncoursing down her face in its place. They would come--not a deluge\nof tears that would have betrayed her at once, but one by one, single\nmonitors. Mr. Arabin did not observe her closely, and they passed\nunseen.\n\nMr. Arabin, thus pacing up and down the room, took four or five turns\nbefore he spoke another word, and Eleanor sat equally silent with her\nface bent over her book. She was afraid that her tears would get the\nbetter of her, and was preparing for an escape from the room, when\nMr. Arabin in his walk stood opposite to her. He did not come close\nup but stood exactly on the spot to which his course brought him, and\nthen, with his hands under his coat-tails, thus made his confession.\n\n\"Mrs. Bold,\" said he, \"I owe you retribution for a great offence of\nwhich I have been guilty towards you.\" Eleanor's heart beat so that\nshe could not trust herself to say that he had never been guilty of\nany offence. So Mr. Arabin thus went on.\n\n\"I have thought much of it since, and I am now aware that I was wholly\nunwarranted in putting to you a question which I once asked you. It\nwas indelicate on my part, and perhaps unmanly. No intimacy which may\nexist between myself and your connexion, Dr. Grantly, could justify\nit. Nor could the acquaintance which existed between ourselves.\" This\nword acquaintance struck cold on Eleanor's heart. Was this to be her\ndoom after all? \"I therefore think it right to beg your pardon in a\nhumble spirit, and I now do so.\"\n\nWhat was Eleanor to say to him? She could not say much because she\nwas crying, and yet she must say something. She was most anxious to\nsay that something graciously, kindly, and yet not in such a manner\nas to betray herself. She had never felt herself so much at a loss\nfor words.\n\n\"Indeed, I took no offence, Mr. Arabin.\"\n\n\"Oh, but you did! And had you not done so, you would not have been\nyourself. You were as right to be offended as I was wrong so to\noffend you. I have not forgiven myself, but I hope to hear that you\nforgive me.\"\n\nShe was now past speaking calmly, though she still continued to hide\nher tears; and Mr. Arabin, after pausing a moment in vain for her\nreply, was walking off towards the door. She felt that she could not\nallow him to go unanswered without grievously sinning against all\ncharity; so, rising from her seat, she gently touched his arm and\nsaid, \"Oh, Mr. Arabin, do not go till I speak to you! I do forgive\nyou. You know that I forgive you.\"\n\nHe took the hand that had so gently touched his arm and then gazed\ninto her face as if he would peruse there, as though written in a\nbook, the whole future destiny of his life; as he did so, there was\na sober, sad seriousness in his own countenance which Eleanor found\nherself unable to sustain. She could only look down upon the carpet,\nlet her tears trickle as they would, and leave her hand within his.\n\nIt was but for a minute that they stood so, but the duration of that\nminute was sufficient to make it ever memorable to them both. Eleanor\nwas sure now that she was loved. No words, be their eloquence what it\nmight, could be more impressive than that eager, melancholy gaze.\n\nWhy did he look so into her eyes? Why did he not speak to her? Could\nit be that he looked for her to make the first sign?\n\nAnd he, though he knew but little of women, even he knew that he\nwas loved. He had only to ask, and it would be all his own, that\ninexpressible loveliness, those ever-speaking but yet now mute eyes,\nthat feminine brightness and eager, loving spirit which had so\nattracted him since first he had encountered it at St. Ewold's. It\nmight, must, all be his own now. On no other supposition was it\npossible that she should allow her hand to remain thus clasped within\nhis own. He had only to ask. Ah, but that was the difficulty. Did a\nminute suffice for all this? Nay, perhaps it might be more than a\nminute.\n\n\"Mrs. Bold--\" at last he said and then stopped himself.\n\nIf he could not speak, how was she to do so? He had called her by her\nname, the same name that any merest stranger would have used! She\nwithdrew her hand from his and moved as though to return to her seat.\n\"Eleanor!\" he then said in his softest tone, as though the courage of\na lover were as yet but half-assumed, as though he were still afraid\nof giving offence by the freedom which he took. She looked slowly,\ngently, almost piteously up into his face. There was at any rate no\nanger there to deter him.\n\n\"Eleanor!\" he again exclaimed, and in a moment he had her clasped to\nhis bosom. How this was done, whether the doing was with him or her,\nwhether she had flown thither conquered by the tenderness of his\nvoice, or he with a violence not likely to give offence had drawn her\nto his breast, neither of them knew; nor can I declare. There was\nnow that sympathy between them which hardly admitted of individual\nmotion. They were one and the same--one flesh--one spirit--one life.\n\n\"Eleanor, my own Eleanor, my own, my wife!\" She ventured to look up at\nhim through her tears, and he, bowing his face down over hers, pressed\nhis lips upon her brow--his virgin lips, which, since a beard first\ngrew upon his chin, had never yet tasted the luxury of a woman's\ncheek.\n\nShe had been told that her yea must be yea, or her nay, nay, but she\nwas called on for neither the one nor the other. She told Miss Thorne\nthat she was engaged to Mr. Arabin, but no such words had passed\nbetween them, no promises had been asked or given.\n\n\"Oh, let me go,\" said she, \"let me go now. I am too happy to\nremain--let me go, that I may be alone.\" He did not try to hinder\nher; he did not repeat the kiss; he did not press another on her\nlips. He might have done so, had he been so minded. She was now all\nhis own. He took his arm from round her waist, his arm that was\ntrembling with a new delight, and let her go. She fled like a roe to\nher own chamber, and then, having turned the bolt, she enjoyed the\nfull luxury of her love. She idolised, almost worshipped this man\nwho had so meekly begged her pardon. And he was now her own. Oh, how\nshe wept and cried and laughed as the hopes and fears and miseries of\nthe last few weeks passed in remembrance through her mind.\n\nMr. Slope! That anyone should have dared to think that she who had\nbeen chosen by him could possibly have mated herself with Mr. Slope!\nThat they should have dared to tell him, also, and subject her bright\nhappiness to such needless risk! And then she smiled with joy as she\nthought of all the comforts that she could give him--not that he cared\nfor comforts, but that it would be so delicious for her to give.\n\nShe got up and rang for her maid that she might tell her little boy of\nhis new father, and in her own way she did tell him. She desired her\nmaid to leave her, in order that she might be alone with her child;\nand then, while he lay sprawling on the bed, she poured forth the\npraises, all unmeaning to him, of the man she had selected to guard\nhis infancy.\n\nShe could not be happy, however, till she had made Mr. Arabin take\nthe child to himself and thus, as it were, adopt him as his own. The\nmoment the idea struck her she took the baby up in her arms and,\nopening her door, ran quickly down to the drawing-room. She at once\nfound, by his step still pacing on the floor, that he was there, and\na glance within the room told her that he was alone. She hesitated a\nmoment and then hurried in with her precious charge.\n\nMr. Arabin met her in the middle of the room. \"There,\" said she,\nbreathless with her haste; \"there, take him--take him, and love him.\"\n\nMr. Arabin took the little fellow from her and, kissing him again and\nagain, prayed God to bless him. \"He shall be all as my own--all as\nmy own,\" said he. Eleanor, as she stooped to take back her child,\nkissed the hand that held him and then rushed back with her treasure\nto her chamber.\n\nIt was thus that Mr. Harding's younger daughter was won for the second\ntime. At dinner neither she nor Mr. Arabin were very bright, but their\nsilence occasioned no remark. In the drawing-room, as we have before\nsaid, she told Miss Thorne what had occurred. The next morning she\nreturned to Barchester, and Mr. Arabin went over with his budget of\nnews to the archdeacon. As Doctor Grantly was not there, he could only\nsatisfy himself by telling Mrs. Grantly how that he intended himself\nthe honour of becoming her brother-in-law. In the ecstasy of her joy\nat hearing such tidings Mrs. Grantly vouchsafed him a warmer welcome\nthan any he had yet received from Eleanor.\n\n\"Good heavens!\" she exclaimed--it was the general exclamation of the\nrectory. \"Poor Eleanor! Dear Eleanor! What a monstrous injustice\nhas been done her! Well, it shall all be made up now.\" And then she\nthought of the signora. \"What lies people tell,\" she said to herself.\n\nBut people in this matter had told no lies at all.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIX\n\nThe Beelzebub Colt\n\n\nWhen Miss Thorne left the dining-room, Eleanor had formed no intention\nof revealing to her what had occurred, but when she was seated beside\nher hostess on the sofa, the secret dropped from her almost unawares.\nEleanor was but a bad hypocrite, and she found herself quite unable to\ncontinue talking about Mr. Arabin as though he were a stranger while\nher heart was full of him. When Miss Thorne, pursuing her own scheme\nwith discreet zeal, asked the young widow whether, in her opinion,\nit would not be a good thing for Mr. Arabin to get married, she had\nnothing for it but to confess the truth. \"I suppose it would,\" said\nEleanor rather sheepishly. Whereupon Miss Thorne amplified on the\nidea. \"Oh, Miss Thorne,\" said Eleanor, \"he is going to be married: I\nam engaged to him.\"\n\nNow Miss Thorne knew very well that there had been no such engagement\nwhen she had been walking with Mrs. Bold in the morning. She had also\nheard enough to be tolerably sure that there had been no preliminaries\nto such an engagement. She was, therefore, as we have before\ndescribed, taken a little by surprise. But nevertheless, she embraced\nher guest and cordially congratulated her.\n\nEleanor had no opportunity of speaking another word to Mr. Arabin that\nevening, except such words as all the world might hear; and these,\nas may be supposed, were few enough. Miss Thorne did her best to\nleave them in privacy, but Mr. Thorne, who knew nothing of what had\noccurred, and another guest, a friend of his, entirely interfered with\nher good intentions. So poor Eleanor had to go to bed without one sign\nof affection. Her state, nevertheless, was not to be pitied.\n\nThe next morning she was up early. It was probable, she thought, that\nby going down a little before the usual hour of breakfast she might\nfind Mr. Arabin alone in the dining-room. Might it not be that he\nalso would calculate that an interview would thus be possible? Thus\nthinking, Eleanor was dressed a full hour before the time fixed in the\nUllathorne household for morning prayers. She did not at once go down.\nShe was afraid to seem to be too anxious to meet her lover, though\nheaven knows her anxiety was intense enough. She therefore sat herself\ndown at her window, and repeatedly looking at her watch, nursed her\nchild till she thought she might venture forth.\n\nWhen she found herself at the dining-room door, she stood a moment,\nhesitating to turn the handle; but when she heard Mr. Thorne's voice\ninside she hesitated no longer. Her object was defeated, and she might\nnow go in as soon as she liked without the slightest imputation on her\ndelicacy. Mr. Thorne and Mr. Arabin were standing on the hearth-rug,\ndiscussing the merits of the Beelzebub colt; or rather, Mr. Thorne\nwas discussing, and Mr. Arabin was listening. That interesting animal\nhad rubbed the stump of his tail against the wall of his stable and\noccasioned much uneasiness to the Ullathorne master of the horse. Had\nEleanor but waited another minute, Mr. Thorne would have been in the\nstables.\n\nMr. Thorne, when he saw his lady guest, repressed his anxiety. The\nBeelzebub colt must do without him. And so the three stood, saying\nlittle or nothing to each other, till at last the master of the house,\nfinding that he could no longer bear his present state of suspense\nrespecting his favourite young steed, made an elaborate apology to\nMrs. Bold and escaped. As he shut the door behind him Eleanor almost\nwished that he had remained. It was not that she was afraid of Mr.\nArabin, but she hardly yet knew how to address him.\n\nHe, however, soon relieved her from her embarrassment. He came up to\nher, and taking both her hands in his, he said, \"So, Eleanor, you and\nI are to be man and wife. Is it so?\"\n\nShe looked up into his face, and her lips formed themselves into a\nsingle syllable. She uttered no sound, but he could read the\naffirmative plainly in her face.\n\n\"It is a great trust,\" said he, \"a very great trust.\"\n\n\"It is--it is,\" said Eleanor, not exactly taking what he had said in\nthe sense that he had meant. \"It is a very, very great trust, and I\nwill do my utmost to deserve it.\"\n\n\"And I also will do my utmost to deserve it,\" said Mr. Arabin very\nsolemnly. And then, winding his arm round her waist, he stood there\ngazing at the fire, and she, with her head leaning on his shoulder,\nstood by him, well satisfied with her position. They neither of them\nspoke, or found any want of speaking. All that was needful for them\nto say had been said. The yea, yea, had been spoken by Eleanor in her\nown way--and that way had been perfectly satisfactory to Mr. Arabin.\n\nAnd now it remained to them each to enjoy the assurance of the other's\nlove. And how great that luxury is! How far it surpasses any other\npleasure which God has allowed to his creatures! And to a woman's\nheart how doubly delightful!\n\nWhen the ivy has found its tower, when the delicate creeper has found\nits strong wall, we know how the parasite plants grow and prosper.\nThey were not created to stretch forth their branches alone, and\nendure without protection the summer's sun and the winter's storm.\nAlone they but spread themselves on the ground and cower unseen in\nthe dingy shade. But when they have found their firm supporters, how\nwonderful is their beauty; how all-pervading and victorious! What\nis the turret without its ivy, or the high garden wall without the\njasmine which gives it its beauty and fragrance? The hedge without\nthe honeysuckle is but a hedge.\n\nThere is a feeling still half-existing, but now half-conquered by the\nforce of human nature, that a woman should be ashamed of her love till\nthe husband's right to her compels her to acknowledge it. We would\nfain preach a different doctrine. A woman should glory in her love,\nbut on that account let her take the more care that it be such as to\njustify her glory.\n\nEleanor did glory in hers, and she felt, and had cause to feel, that\nit deserved to be held as glorious. She could have stood there for\nhours with his arm round her, had fate and Mr. Thorne permitted it.\nEach moment she crept nearer to his bosom and felt more and more\ncertain that there was her home. What now to her was the archdeacon's\narrogance, her sister's coldness, or her dear father's weakness? What\nneed she care for the duplicity of such friends as Charlotte Stanhope?\nShe had found the strong shield that should guard her from all wrongs,\nthe trusty pilot that should henceforward guide her through the shoals\nand rocks. She would give up the heavy burden of her independence, and\nonce more assume the position of a woman and the duties of a trusting\nand loving wife.\n\nAnd he, too, stood there fully satisfied with his place. They were\nboth looking intently on the fire, as though they could read there\ntheir future fate, till at last Eleanor turned her face towards his.\n\"How sad you are,\" she said, smiling; and indeed his face was, if not\nsad, at least serious. \"How sad you are, love!\"\n\n\"Sad,\" said he, looking down at her; \"no, certainly not sad.\" Her\nsweet, loving eyes were turned towards him, and she smiled softly as\nhe answered her. The temptation was too strong even for the demure\npropriety of Mr. Arabin, and bending over her, he pressed his lips to\nhers.\n\nImmediately after this Mr. Thorne appeared, and they were both\ndelighted to hear that the tail of the Beelzebub colt was not\nmaterially injured.\n\nIt had been Mr. Harding's intention to hurry over to Ullathorne as\nsoon as possible after his return to Barchester, in order to secure\nthe support of his daughter in his meditated revolt against the\narchdeacon as touching the deanery; but he was spared the additional\njourney by hearing that Mrs. Bold had returned unexpectedly home. As\nsoon as he had read her note he started off, and found her waiting\nfor him in her own house.\n\nHow much each of them had to tell the other, and how certain each was\nthat the story which he or she had to tell would astonish the other!\n\n\"My dear, I am so anxious to see you,\" said Mr. Harding, kissing his\ndaughter.\n\n\"Oh, Papa, I have so much to tell you!\" said the daughter, returning\nthe embrace.\n\n\"My dear, they have offered me the deanery!\" said Mr. Harding,\nanticipating by the suddenness of the revelation the tidings which\nEleanor had to give him.\n\n\"Oh, Papa,\" said she, forgetting her own love and happiness in her joy\nat the surprising news. \"Oh, Papa, can it be possible? Dear Papa, how\nthoroughly, thoroughly happy that makes me!\"\n\n\"But, my dear, I think it best to refuse it.\"\n\n\"Oh, Papa!\"\n\n\"I am sure you will agree with me, Eleanor, when I explain it to you.\nYou know, my dear, how old I am. If I live I--\"\n\n\"But, Papa, I must tell you about myself.\"\n\n\"Well, my dear.\"\n\n\"I do so wonder how you'll take it.\"\n\n\"Take what?\"\n\n\"If you don't rejoice at it, if it doesn't make you happy, if you\ndon't encourage me, I shall break my heart.\"\n\n\"If that be the case, Nelly, I certainly will encourage you.\"\n\n\"But I fear you won't. I do so fear you won't. And yet you can't but\nthink I am the most fortunate woman living on God's earth.\"\n\n\"Are you, dearest? Then I certainly will rejoice with you. Come,\nNelly, come to me and tell me what it is.\"\n\n\"I am going--\"\n\nHe led her to the sofa and, seating himself beside her, took both her\nhands in his. \"You are going to be married, Nelly. Is not that it?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she said faintly. \"That is, if you will approve;\" and then\nshe blushed as she remembered the promise which she had so lately\nvolunteered to him and which she had so utterly forgotten in making\nher engagement with Mr. Arabin.\n\nMr. Harding thought for a moment who the man could be whom he was to\nbe called upon to welcome as his son-in-law. A week since he would\nhave had no doubt whom to name. In that case he would have been\nprepared to give his sanction, although he would have done so with a\nheavy heart. Now he knew that at any rate it would not be Mr. Slope,\nthough he was perfectly at a loss to guess who could possibly have\nfilled the place. For a moment he thought that the man might be\nBertie Stanhope, and his very soul sank within him.\n\n\"Well, Nelly?\"\n\n\"Oh, Papa, promise to me that, for my sake, you will love him.\"\n\n\"Come, Nelly, come; tell me who it is.\"\n\n\"But will you love him, Papa?\"\n\n\"Dearest, I must love anyone that you love.\" Then she turned her face\nto his and whispered into his ear the name of Mr. Arabin.\n\nNo man that she could have named could have more surprised or more\ndelighted him. Had he looked round the world for a son-in-law to his\ntaste, he could have selected no one whom he would have preferred to\nMr. Arabin. He was a clergyman; he held a living in the neighbourhood;\nhe was of a set to which all Mr. Harding's own partialities most\nclosely adhered; he was the great friend of Dr. Grantly; and he was,\nmoreover, a man of whom Mr. Harding knew nothing but what he approved.\nNevertheless, his surprise was so great as to prevent the immediate\nexpression of his joy. He had never thought of Mr. Arabin in connexion\nwith his daughter; he had never imagined that they had any feeling\nin common. He had feared that his daughter had been made hostile to\nclergymen of Mr. Arabin's stamp by her intolerance of the archdeacon's\npretensions. Had he been put to wish, he might have wished for Mr.\nArabin for a son-in-law; but had he been put to guess, the name would\nnever have occurred to him.\n\n\"Mr. Arabin!\" he exclaimed; \"impossible!\"\n\n\"Oh, Papa, for heaven's sake don't say anything against him! If you\nlove me, don't say anything against him. Oh, Papa, it's done and\nmustn't be undone--oh, Papa!\"\n\nFickle Eleanor! Where was the promise that she would make no choice\nfor herself without her father's approval? She had chosen, and now\ndemanded his acquiescence. \"Oh, Papa, isn't he good? Isn't he noble?\nIsn't he religious, high-minded, everything that a good man possibly\ncan be?\" She clung to her father, beseeching him for his consent.\n\n\"My Nelly, my child, my own daughter! He is; he is noble and good and\nhigh-minded; he is all that a woman can love and a man admire. He\nshall be my son, my own son. He shall be as close to my heart as you\nare. My Nelly, my child, my happy, happy child!\"\n\nWe need not pursue the interview any further. By degrees they returned\nto the subject of the new promotion. Eleanor tried to prove to him,\nas the Grantlys had done, that his age could be no bar to his being a\nvery excellent dean, but those arguments had now even less weight on\nhim than before. He said little or nothing but sat, meditative. Every\nnow and then he would kiss his daughter and say \"yes,\" or \"no,\" or\n\"very true,\" or \"well, my dear, I can't quite agree with you there,\"\nbut he could not be got to enter sharply into the question of \"to be,\nor not to be\" Dean of Barchester. Of her and her happiness, of Mr.\nArabin and his virtues, he would talk as much as Eleanor desired--and\nto tell the truth, that was not a little--but about the deanery\nhe would now say nothing further. He had got a new idea into his\nhead--why should not Mr. Arabin be the new dean?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER L\n\nThe Archdeacon Is Satisfied with the State of Affairs\n\n\nThe archdeacon, in his journey into Barchester, had been assured\nby Mr. Harding that all their prognostications about Mr. Slope and\nEleanor were groundless. Mr. Harding, however, had found it very\ndifficult to shake his son-in-law's faith in his own acuteness. The\nmatter had, to Dr. Grantly, been so plainly corroborated by such\npatent evidence, borne out by such endless circumstances, that he at\nfirst refused to take as true the positive statement which Mr. Harding\nmade to him of Eleanor's own disavowal of the impeachment. But at last\nhe yielded in a qualified way. He brought himself to admit that he\nwould at the present regard his past convictions as a mistake, but in\ndoing this he so guarded himself that if, at any future time, Eleanor\nshould come forth to the world as Mrs. Slope, he might still be able\nto say: \"There, I told you so. Remember what you said and what I\nsaid; and remember also for coming years, that I was right in this\nmatter--as in all others.\"\n\nHe carried, however, his concession so far as to bring himself to\nundertake to call at Eleanor's house, and he did call accordingly,\nwhile the father and daughter were yet in the middle of their\nconference. Mr. Harding had had so much to hear and to say that he\nhad forgotten to advise Eleanor of the honour that awaited her, and\nshe heard her brother-in-law's voice in the hall while she was quite\nunprepared to see him.\n\n\"There's the archdeacon,\" she said, springing up.\n\n\"Yes, my dear. He told me to tell you that he would come and see you;\nbut to tell the truth I had forgotten all about it.\"\n\nEleanor fled away, regardless of all her father's entreaties. She\ncould not now, in the first hours of her joy, bring herself to bear\nall the archdeacon's retractions, apologies, and congratulations.\nHe would have so much to say, and would be so tedious in saying it;\nconsequently, the archdeacon, when he was shown into the drawing-room,\nfound no one there but Mr. Harding.\n\n\"You must excuse Eleanor,\" said Mr. Harding.\n\n\"Is anything the matter?\" asked the doctor, who at once anticipated\nthat the whole truth about Mr. Slope had at last come out.\n\n\"Well, something is the matter. I wonder now whether you will be much\nsurprised.\"\n\nThe archdeacon saw by his father-in-law's manner that after all he\nhad nothing to tell him about Mr. Slope. \"No,\" said he, \"certainly\nnot--nothing will ever surprise me again.\" Very many men now-a-days\nbesides the archdeacon adopt or affect to adopt the _nil admirari_\ndoctrine; but nevertheless, to judge from their appearance, they\nare just as subject to sudden emotions as their grandfathers and\ngrandmothers were before them.\n\n\"What do you think Mr. Arabin has done?\"\n\n\"Mr. Arabin! It's nothing about that daughter of Stanhope's, I hope?\"\n\n\"No, not that woman,\" said Mr. Harding, enjoying his joke in his\nsleeve.\n\n\"Not that woman! Is he going to do anything about any woman? Why can't\nyou speak out, if you have anything to say? There is nothing I hate so\nmuch as these sort of mysteries.\"\n\n\"There shall be no mystery with you, Archdeacon, though of course it\nmust go no further at present.\"\n\n\"Well.\"\n\n\"Except Susan. You must promise me you'll tell no one else.\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" exclaimed the archdeacon, who was becoming angry in his\nsuspense. \"You can't have any secret about Mr. Arabin.\"\n\n\"Only this--that he and Eleanor are engaged.\"\n\nIt was quite clear to see, by the archdeacon's face, that he did not\nbelieve a word of it. \"Mr. Arabin! It's impossible!\"\n\n\"Eleanor, at any rate, has just now told me so.\"\n\n\"It's impossible,\" repeated the archdeacon.\n\n\"Well, I can't say I think it impossible. It certainly took me by\nsurprise, but that does not make it impossible.\"\n\n\"She must be mistaken.\"\n\nMr. Harding assured him that there was no mistake; that he would find,\non returning home, that Mr. Arabin had been at Plumstead with the\nexpress object of making the same declaration; that even Miss Thorne\nknew all about it; and that, in fact, the thing was as clearly settled\nas any such arrangement between a lady and a gentleman could well be.\n\n\"Good heavens!\" said the archdeacon, walking up and down Eleanor's\ndrawing-room. \"Good heavens! Good heavens!\"\n\nNow these exclamations certainly betokened faith. Mr. Harding properly\ngathered from it that, at last, Dr. Grantly did believe the fact. The\nfirst utterance clearly evinced a certain amount of distaste at the\ninformation he had received; the second simply indicated surprise;\nin the tone of the third Mr. Harding fancied that he could catch a\ncertain gleam of satisfaction.\n\nThe archdeacon had truly expressed the workings of his mind. He could\nnot but be disgusted to find how utterly astray he had been in all his\nanticipations. Had he only been lucky enough to have suggested this\nmarriage himself when he first brought Mr. Arabin into the country,\nhis character for judgement and wisdom would have received an addition\nwhich would have classed him at any rate next to Solomon. And why had\nhe not done so? Might he not have foreseen that Mr. Arabin would want\na wife in his parsonage? He had foreseen that Eleanor would want a\nhusband, but should he not also have perceived that Mr. Arabin was a\nman much more likely to attract her than Mr. Slope? The archdeacon\nfound that he had been at fault and, of course, could not immediately\nget over his discomfiture.\n\nThen his surprise was intense. How sly this pair of young turtle-doves\nhad been with him. How egregiously they had hoaxed him. He had\npreached to Eleanor against her fancied attachment to Mr. Slope at the\nvery time that she was in love with his own protégé, Mr. Arabin, and\nhad absolutely taken that same Mr. Arabin into his confidence with\nreference to his dread of Mr. Slope's alliance. It was very natural\nthat the archdeacon should feel surprise.\n\nBut there was also great ground for satisfaction. Looking at the\nmatch by itself, it was the very thing to help the doctor out of his\ndifficulties. In the first place, the assurance that he should never\nhave Mr. Slope for his brother-in-law was in itself a great comfort.\nThen Mr. Arabin was, of all men, the one with whom it would best suit\nhim to be so intimately connected. But the crowning comfort was the\nblow which this marriage would give to Mr. Slope. He had now certainly\nlost his wife; rumour was beginning to whisper that he might possibly\nlose his position in the palace; and if Mr. Harding would only be\ntrue, the great danger of all would be surmounted. In such case it\nmight be expected that Mr. Slope would own himself vanquished, and take\nhimself altogether away from Barchester. And so the archdeacon would\nagain be able to breathe pure air.\n\n\"Well, well,\" said he. \"Good heavens! Good heavens!\" and the tone of\nthe fifth exclamation made Mr. Harding fully aware that content was\nreigning in the archdeacon's bosom.\n\nAnd then slowly, gradually, and craftily Mr. Harding propounded his\nown new scheme. Why should not Mr. Arabin be the new dean?\n\nSlowly, gradually, and thoughtfully Dr. Grantly fell into his\nfather-in-law's views. Much as he liked Mr. Arabin, sincere as was his\nadmiration for that gentleman's ecclesiastical abilities, he would not\nhave sanctioned a measure which would rob his father-in-law of his\nfairly earned promotion, were it at all practicable to induce his\nfather-in-law to accept the promotion which he had earned. But the\narchdeacon had, on a former occasion, received proof of the obstinacy\nwith which Mr. Harding could adhere to his own views in opposition to\nthe advice of all his friends. He knew tolerably well that nothing\nwould induce the meek, mild man before him to take the high place\noffered to him, if he thought it wrong to do so. Knowing this, he\nalso said to himself more than once: \"Why should not Mr. Arabin be\nDean of Barchester?\" It was at last arranged between them that they\nwould together start to London by the earliest train on the following\nmorning, making a little detour to Oxford on their journey. Dr.\nGwynne's counsels, they imagined, might perhaps be of assistance to\nthem.\n\nThese matters settled, the archdeacon hurried off, that he might\nreturn to Plumstead and prepare for his journey. The day was extremely\nfine, and he came into the city in an open gig. As he was driving up\nthe High Street he encountered Mr. Slope at a crossing. Had he not\npulled up rather sharply, he would have run over him. The two had\nnever spoken to each other since they had met on a memorable occasion\nin the bishop's study. They did not speak now, but they looked each\nother full in the face, and Mr. Slope's countenance was as impudent,\nas triumphant, as defiant as ever. Had Dr. Grantly not known to the\ncontrary, he would have imagined that his enemy had won the deanship,\nthe wife, and all the rich honours for which he had been striving. As\nit was, he had lost everything that he had in the world, and had just\nreceived his _congé_ from the bishop.\n\nIn leaving the town the archdeacon drove by the well-remembered\nentrance of Hiram's Hospital. There, at the gate, was a large, untidy\nfarmer's wagon, laden with untidy-looking furniture; and there,\ninspecting the arrival, was good Mrs. Quiverful--not dressed in her\nSunday best, not very clean in her apparel, not graceful as to her\nbonnet and shawl, or, indeed, with many feminine charms as to her\nwhole appearance. She was busy at domestic work in her new house, and\nhad just ventured out, expecting to see no one on the arrival of the\nfamily chattels. The archdeacon was down upon her before she knew\nwhere she was.\n\nHer acquaintance with Dr. Grantly or his family was very slight\nindeed. The archdeacon, as a matter of course, knew every clergyman\nin the archdeaconry--it may almost be said in the diocese--and had\nsome acquaintance, more or less intimate, with their wives and\nfamilies. With Mr. Quiverful he had been concerned on various matters\nof business, but of Mrs. Q. he had seen very little. Now, however, he\nwas in too gracious a mood to pass her by unnoticed. The Quiverfuls,\none and all, had looked for the bitterest hostility from Dr. Grantly;\nthey knew his anxiety that Mr. Harding should return to his old home\nat the hospital, and they did not know that a new home had been\noffered to him at the deanery. Mrs. Quiverful was therefore not a\nlittle surprised, and not a little rejoiced also, at the tone in which\nshe was addressed.\n\n\"How do you do, Mrs. Quiverful, how do you do?\" said he, stretching\nhis left hand out of the gig as he spoke to her. \"I am very glad\nto see you employed in so pleasant and useful a manner; very glad\nindeed.\"\n\nMrs. Quiverful thanked him, and shook hands with him, and looked into\nhis face suspiciously. She was not sure whether the congratulations\nand kindness were or were not ironical.\n\n\"Pray tell Mr. Quiverful from me,\" he continued, \"that I am rejoiced\nat his appointment. It's a comfortable place, Mrs. Quiverful,\nand a comfortable house, and I am very glad to see you in it.\nGood-bye--good-bye.\" And he drove on, leaving the lady well pleased\nand astonished at his good nature. On the whole things were going well\nwith the archdeacon, and he could afford to be charitable to Mrs.\nQuiverful. He looked forth from his gig smilingly on all the world,\nand forgave everyone in Barchester their sins, excepting only Mrs.\nProudie and Mr. Slope. Had he seen the bishop, he would have felt\ninclined to pat even him kindly on the head.\n\nHe determined to go home by St. Ewold's. This would take him some\nthree miles out of his way, but he felt that he could not leave\nPlumstead comfortably without saying one word of good-fellowship to\nMr. Arabin. When he reached the parsonage, the vicar was still out,\nbut from what he had heard, he did not doubt but that he would meet\nhim on the road between their two houses. He was right in this, for\nabout half-way home, at a narrow turn, he came upon Mr. Arabin, who\nwas on horseback.\n\n\"Well, well, well, well,\" said the archdeacon loudly, joyously, and\nwith supreme good humour; \"well, well, well, well; so, after all, we\nhave no further cause to fear Mr. Slope.\"\n\n\"I hear from Mrs. Grantly that they have offered the deanery to Mr.\nHarding,\" said the other.\n\n\"Mr. Slope has lost more than the deanery I find,\" and then the\narchdeacon laughed jocosely. \"Come, come, Arabin, you have kept your\nsecret well enough. I know all about it now.\"\n\n\"I have had no secret, Archdeacon,\" said the other with a quiet smile.\n\"None at all--not for a day. It was only yesterday that I knew my\nown good fortune, and to-day I went over to Plumstead to ask your\napproval. From what Mrs. Grantly has said to me, I am led to hope that\nI shall have it.\"\n\n\"With all my heart, with all my heart,\" said the archdeacon\ncordially, holding his friend fast by the hand. \"It's just as I would\nhave it. She is an excellent young woman; she will not come to you\nempty-handed; and I think she will make you a good wife. If she does\nher duty by you as her sister does by me, you'll be a happy man;\nthat's all I can say.\" And as he finished speaking a tear might have\nbeen observed in each of the doctor's eyes.\n\nMr. Arabin warmly returned the archdeacon's grasp, but he said little.\nHis heart was too full for speaking, and he could not express the\ngratitude which he felt. Dr. Grantly understood him as well as though\nhe had spoken for an hour.\n\n\"And mind, Arabin,\" said he, \"no one but myself shall tie the knot.\nWe'll get Eleanor out to Plumstead, and it shall come off there. I'll\nmake Susan stir herself, and we'll do it in style. I must be off to\nLondon to-morrow on special business. Harding goes with me. But I'll\nbe back before your bride has got her wedding-dress ready.\" And so\nthey parted.\n\nOn his journey home the archdeacon occupied his mind with preparations\nfor the marriage festivities. He made a great resolve that he would\natone to Eleanor for all the injury he had done her by the munificence\nof his future treatment. He would show her what was the difference\nin his eyes between a Slope and an Arabin. On one other thing also\nhe decided with a firm mind: if the affair of the dean should not be\nsettled in Mr. Arabin's favour, nothing should prevent him putting a\nnew front and bow-window to the dining-room at St. Ewold's parsonage.\n\n\"So we're sold after all, Sue,\" said he to his wife, accosting her\nwith a kiss as soon as he entered his house. He did not call his wife\nSue above twice or thrice in a year, and these occasions were great\nhigh days.\n\n\"Eleanor has had more sense than we gave her credit for,\" said Mrs.\nGrantly.\n\nAnd there was great content in Plumstead Rectory that evening. Mrs.\nGrantly promised her husband that she would now open her heart and\ntake Mr. Arabin into it. Hitherto she had declined to do so.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LI\n\nMr. Slope Bids Farewell to the Palace and Its Inhabitants\n\n\nWe must now take leave of Mr. Slope, and of the bishop also, and of\nMrs. Proudie. These leave-takings in novels are as disagreeable as\nthey are in real life; not so sad, indeed, for they want the reality\nof sadness; but quite as perplexing, and generally less satisfactory.\nWhat novelist, what Fielding, what Scott, what George Sand, or Sue, or\nDumas, can impart an interest to the last chapter of his fictitious\nhistory? Promises of two children and superhuman happiness are of no\navail, nor assurance of extreme respectability carried to an age far\nexceeding that usually allotted to mortals. The sorrows of our heroes\nand heroines, they are your delight, oh public!--their sorrows, or\ntheir sins, or their absurdities; not their virtues, good sense,\nand consequent rewards. When we begin to tint our final pages with\n_couleur de rose_, as in accordance with fixed rule we must do, we\naltogether extinguish our own powers of pleasing. When we become dull,\nwe offend your intellect; and we must become dull or we should offend\nyour taste. A late writer, wishing to sustain his interest to the last\npage, hung his hero at the end of the third volume. The consequence\nwas that no one would read his novel. And who can apportion out\nand dovetail his incidents, dialogues, characters, and descriptive\nmorsels so as to fit them all exactly into 930 pages, without either\ncompressing them unnaturally, or extending them artificially at the\nend of his labour? Do I not myself know that I am at this moment in\nwant of a dozen pages, and that I am sick with cudgelling my brains\nto find them? And then, when everything is done, the kindest-hearted\ncritic of them all invariably twits us with the incompetency and\nlameness of our conclusion. We have either become idle and neglected\nit, or tedious and overlaboured it. It is insipid or unnatural,\noverstrained or imbecile. It means nothing, or attempts too much. The\nlast scene of all, as all last scenes we fear must be,\n\n\n   Is second childishness, and mere oblivion,\n   Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.\n\n\nI can only say that if some critic who thoroughly knows his work, and\nhas laboured on it till experience has made him perfect, will write\nthe last fifty pages of a novel in the way they should be written, I,\nfor one, will in future do my best to copy the example. Guided by my\nown lights only, I confess that I despair of success.\n\nFor the last week or ten days Mr. Slope had seen nothing of Mrs.\nProudie, and very little of the bishop. He still lived in the palace,\nand still went through his usual routine work; but the confidential\ndoings of the diocese had passed into other hands. He had seen this\nclearly and marked it well, but it had not much disturbed him. He\nhad indulged in other hopes till the bishop's affairs had become dull\nto him, and he was moreover aware that, as regarded the diocese, Mrs.\nProudie had checkmated him. It has been explained, in the beginning\nof these pages, how three or four were contending together as to\nwho, in fact, should be Bishop of Barchester. Each of these had now\nadmitted to himself (or boasted to herself) that Mrs. Proudie was\nvictorious in the struggle. They had gone through a competitive\nexamination of considerable severity, and she had come forth the\nwinner, _facile princeps_. Mr. Slope had for a moment run her hard,\nbut it was only for a moment. It had become, as it were, acknowledged\nthat Hiram's Hospital should be the testing-point between them, and\nnow Mr. Quiverful was already in the hospital, the proof of Mrs.\nProudie's skill and courage.\n\nAll this did not break down Mr. Slope's spirit, because he had other\nhopes. But, alas, at last there came to him a note from his friend\nSir Nicholas, informing him that the deanship was disposed of. Let\nus give Mr. Slope his due. He did not lie prostrate under this blow,\nor give himself up to vain lamentations; he did not henceforward\ndespair of life and call upon gods above and gods below to carry him\noff. He sat himself down in his chair, counted out what monies he had\nin hand for present purposes and what others were coming in to him,\nbethought himself as to the best sphere for his future exertions, and\nat once wrote off a letter to a rich sugar-refiner's wife in Baker\nStreet, who, as he well knew, was much given to the entertainment and\nencouragement of serious young evangelical clergymen. He was again, he\nsaid, \"upon the world, having found the air of a cathedral town, and\nthe very nature of cathedral services, uncongenial to his spirit;\" and\nthen he sat awhile, making firm resolves as to his manner of parting\nfrom the bishop, and also as to his future conduct.\n\n\n   At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue (black),\n   To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.\n\n\nHaving received a formal command to wait upon the bishop, he rose and\nproceeded to obey it. He rang the bell and desired the servant to\ninform his master that, if it suited his lordship, he, Mr. Slope, was\nready to wait upon him. The servant, who well understood that Mr.\nSlope was no longer in the ascendant, brought back a message saying\nthat \"his lordship desired that Mr. Slope would attend him immediately\nin his study.\" Mr. Slope waited about ten minutes more to prove his\nindependence, and then he went into the bishop's room. There, as he\nhad expected, he found Mrs. Proudie, together with her husband.\n\n\"Hum, ha--Mr. Slope, pray take a chair,\" said the gentleman bishop.\n\n\"Pray be seated, Mr. Slope,\" said the lady bishop.\n\n\"Thank ye, thank ye,\" said Mr. Slope, and walking round to the fire,\nhe threw himself into one of the armchairs that graced the hearth-rug.\n\n\"Mr. Slope,\" said the bishop, \"it has become necessary that I should\nspeak to you definitively on a matter that has for some time been\npressing itself on my attention.\"\n\n\"May I ask whether the subject is in any way connected with myself?\"\nsaid Mr. Slope.\n\n\"It is so--certainly--yes, it certainly is connected with yourself,\nMr. Slope.\"\n\n\"Then, my lord, if I may be allowed to express a wish, I would prefer\nthat no discussion on the subject should take place between us in the\npresence of a third person.\"\n\n\"Don't alarm yourself, Mr. Slope,\" said Mrs. Proudie, \"no discussion\nis at all necessary. The bishop merely intends to express his own\nwishes.\"\n\n\"I merely intend, Mr. Slope, to express my own wishes--no discussion\nwill be at all necessary,\" said the bishop, reiterating his wife's\nwords.\n\n\"That is more, my lord, than we any of us can be sure of,\" said Mr.\nSlope; \"I cannot, however, force Mrs. Proudie to leave the room; nor\ncan I refuse to remain here if it be your lordship's wish that I\nshould do so.\"\n\n\"It is his lordship's wish, certainly,\" said Mrs. Proudie.\n\n\"Mr. Slope,\" began the bishop in a solemn, serious voice, \"it\ngrieves me to have to find fault. It grieves me much to have to find\nfault with a clergyman--but especially so with a clergyman in your\nposition.\"\n\n\"Why, what have I done amiss, my lord?\" demanded Mr. Slope boldly.\n\n\"What have you done amiss, Mr. Slope?\" said Mrs. Proudie, standing\nerect before the culprit and raising that terrible forefinger. \"Do\nyou dare to ask the bishop what you have done amiss? Does not your\nconscience--\"\n\n\"Mrs. Proudie, pray let it be understood, once for all, that I will\nhave no words with you.\"\n\n\"Ah, sir, but you will have words,\" said she; \"you must have words.\nWhy have you had so many words with that Signora Neroni? Why have you\ndisgraced yourself, you a clergyman, too, by constantly consorting\nwith such a woman as that--with a married woman--with one altogether\nunfit for a clergyman's society?\"\n\n\"At any rate I was introduced to her in your drawing-room,\" retorted\nMr. Slope.\n\n\"And shamefully you behaved there,\" said Mrs. Proudie; \"most\nshamefully. I was wrong to allow you to remain in the house a day\nafter what I then saw. I should have insisted on your instant\ndismissal.\"\n\n\"I have yet to learn, Mrs. Proudie, that you have the power to insist\neither on my going from hence or on my staying here.\"\n\n\"What!\" said the lady. \"I am not to have the privilege of saying who\nshall and who shall not frequent my own drawing-room! I am not to\nsave my servants and dependants from having their morals corrupted by\nimproper conduct! I am not to save my own daughters from impurity!\nI will let you see, Mr. Slope, whether I have the power or whether\nI have not. You will have the goodness to understand that you no\nlonger fill any situation about the bishop, and as your room will be\nimmediately wanted in the palace for another chaplain, I must ask you\nto provide yourself with apartments as soon as may be convenient to\nyou.\"\n\n\"My lord,\" said Mr. Slope, appealing to the bishop, and so turning his\nback completely on the lady, \"will you permit me to ask that I may\nhave from your own lips any decision that you may have come to on this\nmatter?\"\n\n\"Certainly, Mr. Slope, certainly,\" said the bishop; \"that is but\nreasonable. Well, my decision is that you had better look for some\nother preferment. For the situation which you have lately held I do\nnot think that you are well suited.\"\n\n\"And what, my lord, has been my fault?\"\n\n\"That Signora Neroni is one fault,\" said Mrs. Proudie; \"and a very\nabominable fault she is; very abominable and very disgraceful. Fie,\nMr. Slope, fie! You an evangelical clergyman indeed!\"\n\n\"My lord, I desire to know for what fault I am turned out of your\nlordship's house.\"\n\n\"You hear what Mrs. Proudie says,\" said the bishop.\n\n\"When I publish the history of this transaction, my lord, as I\ndecidedly shall do in my own vindication, I presume you will\nnot wish me to state that you have discarded me at your wife's\nbidding--because she has objected to my being acquainted with another\nlady, the daughter of one of the prebendaries of the chapter?\"\n\n\"You may publish what you please, sir,\" said Mrs. Proudie. \"But you\nwill not be insane enough to publish any of your doings in Barchester.\nDo you think I have not heard of your kneelings at that creature's\nfeet--that is, if she has any feet--and of your constant slobbering\nover her hand? I advise you to beware, Mr. Slope, of what you do and\nsay. Clergymen have been unfrocked for less than what you have been\nguilty of.\"\n\n\"My lord, if this goes on I shall be obliged to indict this\nwoman--Mrs. Proudie I mean--for defamation of character.\"\n\n\"I think, Mr. Slope, you had better now retire,\" said the bishop. \"I\nwill enclose to you a cheque for any balance that may be due to you;\nunder the present circumstances, it will of course be better for all\nparties that you should leave the palace at the earliest possible\nmoment. I will allow you for your journey back to London and for\nyour maintenance in Barchester for a week from this date.\"\n\n\"If, however, you wish to remain in this neighbourhood;\" said Mrs.\nProudie, \"and will solemnly pledge yourself never again to see that\nwoman, and will promise also to be more circumspect in your conduct,\nthe bishop will mention your name to Mr. Quiverful, who now wants a\ncurate at Puddingdale. The house is, I imagine, quite sufficient for\nyour requirements, and there will moreover be a stipend of fifty\npounds a year.\"\n\n\"May God forgive you, madam, for the manner in which you have treated\nme,\" said Mr. Slope, looking at her with a very heavenly look; \"and\nremember this, madam, that you yourself may still have a fall;\" and\nhe looked at her with a very worldly look. \"As to the bishop, I pity\nhim!\" And so saying, Mr. Slope left the room. Thus ended the intimacy\nof the Bishop of Barchester with his first confidential chaplain.\n\nMrs. Proudie was right in this; namely, that Mr. Slope was not insane\nenough to publish to the world any of his doings in Barchester. He\ndid not trouble his friend Mr. Towers with any written statement of\nthe iniquity of Mrs. Proudie, or the imbecility of her husband. He was\naware that it would be wise in him to drop for the future all allusion\nto his doings in the cathedral city. Soon after the interview just\nrecorded he left Barchester, shaking the dust off his feet as he\nentered the railway carriage; and he gave no longing, lingering look\nafter the cathedral towers as the train hurried him quickly out of\ntheir sight.\n\nIt is well known that the family of the Slopes never starve: they\nalways fall on their feet, like cats; and let them fall where they\nwill, they live on the fat of the land. Our Mr. Slope did so. On his\nreturn to town he found that the sugar-refiner had died and that his\nwidow was inconsolable--in other words, in want of consolation. Mr.\nSlope consoled her, and soon found himself settled with much comfort\nin the house in Baker Street. He possessed himself, also, before long,\nof a church in the vicinity of the Red Road, and became known to fame\nas one of the most eloquent preachers and pious clergymen in that part\nof the metropolis. There let us leave him.\n\nOf the bishop and his wife very little further need be said. From that\ntime forth nothing material occurred to interrupt the even course of\ntheir domestic harmony. Very speedily, a further vacancy on the bench\nof bishops gave to Dr. Proudie the seat in the House of Lords, which\nhe at first so anxiously longed for. But by this time he had become a\nwiser man. He did certainly take his seat, and occasionally registered\na vote in favour of Government views on ecclesiastical matters. But he\nhad thoroughly learnt that his proper sphere of action lay in close\ncontiguity with Mrs. Proudie's wardrobe. He never again aspired to\ndisobey, or seemed even to wish for autocratic diocesan authority. If\never he thought of freedom, he did so as men think of the millennium,\nas of a good time which may be coming, but which nobody expects to\ncome in their day. Mrs. Proudie might be said still to bloom, and was,\nat any rate, strong, and the bishop had no reason to apprehend that he\nwould be speedily visited with the sorrows of a widower's life.\n\nHe is still Bishop of Barchester. He has so graced that throne that\nthe Government has been averse to translate him, even to higher\ndignities. There may he remain, under safe pupilage, till the\nnewfangled manners of the age have discovered him to be superannuated\nand bestowed on him a pension. As for Mrs. Proudie, our prayers for\nher are that she may live forever.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LII\n\nThe New Dean Takes Possession of the Deanery,\nand the New Warden of the Hospital\n\n\nMr. Harding and the archdeacon together made their way to Oxford, and\nthere, by dint of cunning argument, they induced the Master of Lazarus\nalso to ask himself this momentous question: \"Why should not Mr.\nArabin be Dean of Barchester?\" He, of course, for awhile tried his\nhand at persuading Mr. Harding that he was foolish, overscrupulous,\nself-willed, and weak-minded; but he tried in vain. If Mr. Harding\nwould not give way to Dr. Grantly, it was not likely that he would\ngive way to Dr. Gwynne, more especially now that so admirable a scheme\nas that of inducting Mr. Arabin into the deanery had been set on foot.\nWhen the master found that his eloquence was vain, and heard also that\nMr. Arabin was about to become Mr. Harding's son-in-law, he confessed\nthat he also would, under such circumstances, be glad to see his\nold friend and protégé, the fellow of his college, placed in the\ncomfortable position that was going a-begging.\n\n\"It might be the means you know, Master, of keeping Mr. Slope out,\"\nsaid the archdeacon with grave caution.\n\n\"He has no more chance of it,\" said the master, \"than our college\nchaplain. I know more about it than that.\"\n\nMrs. Grantly had been right in her surmise. It was the Master of\nLazarus who had been instrumental in representing in high places the\nclaims which Mr. Harding had upon the Government, and he now consented\nto use his best endeavours towards getting the offer transferred to\nMr. Arabin. The three of them went on to London together, and there\nthey remained a week, to the great disgust of Mrs. Grantly, and most\nprobably also of Mrs. Gwynne. The minister was out of town in one\ndirection, and his private secretary in another. The clerks who\nremained could do nothing in such a matter as this, and all was\ndifficulty and confusion. The two doctors seemed to have plenty to do;\nthey bustled here and they bustled there, and complained at their club\nin the evenings that they had been driven off their legs; but Mr.\nHarding had no occupation. Once or twice he suggested that he might\nperhaps return to Barchester. His request, however, was peremptorily\nrefused, and he had nothing for it but to while away his time in\nWestminster Abbey.\n\nAt length an answer from the great man came. The Master of Lazarus had\nmade his proposition through the Bishop of Belgravia. Now this bishop,\nthough but newly gifted with his diocesan honours, was a man of much\nweight in the clerico-political world. He was, if not as pious, at any\nrate as wise as St. Paul, and had been with so much effect all things\nto all men that, though he was great among the dons of Oxford, he\nhad been selected for the most favourite seat on the bench by a Whig\nprime minister. To him Dr. Gwynne had made known his wishes and his\narguments, and the bishop had made them known to the Marquis of\nKensington-Gore. The marquis, who was Lord High Steward of the Pantry\nBoard, and who by most men was supposed to hold the highest office\nout of the cabinet, trafficked much in affairs of this kind. He not\nonly suggested the arrangement to the minister over a cup of coffee,\nstanding on a drawing-room rug in Windsor Castle, but he also\nfavourably mentioned Mr. Arabin's name in the ear of a distinguished\nperson.\n\nAnd so the matter was arranged. The answer of the great man came, and\nMr. Arabin was made Dean of Barchester. The three clergymen who had\ncome up to town on this important mission dined together with great\nglee on the day on which the news reached them. In a silent, decent,\nclerical manner they toasted Mr. Arabin with full bumpers of claret.\nThe satisfaction of all of them was supreme. The Master of Lazarus had\nbeen successful in his attempt, and success is dear to us all. The\narchdeacon had trampled upon Mr. Slope, and had lifted to high honours\nthe young clergyman whom he had induced to quit the retirement and\ncomfort of the university. So at least the archdeacon thought; though,\nto speak sooth, not he, but circumstances, had trampled on Mr. Slope.\nBut the satisfaction of Mr. Harding was, of all, perhaps, the most\ncomplete. He laid aside his usual melancholy manner and brought forth\nlittle quiet jokes from the inmost mirth of his heart; he poked his\nfun at the archdeacon about Mr. Slope's marriage and quizzed him for\nhis improper love for Mrs. Proudie. On the following day they all\nreturned to Barchester.\n\nIt was arranged that Mr. Arabin should know nothing of what had been\ndone till he received the minister's letter from the hands of his\nembryo father-in-law. In order that no time might be lost, a message\nhad been sent to him by the preceding night's post, begging him to be\nat the deanery at the hour that the train from London arrived. There\nwas nothing in this which surprised Mr. Arabin. It had somehow got\nabout through all Barchester that Mr. Harding was the new dean, and\nall Barchester was prepared to welcome him with pealing bells and full\nhearts. Mr. Slope had certainly had a party; there had certainly been\nthose in Barchester who were prepared to congratulate him on his\npromotion with assumed sincerity, but even his own party was not\nbroken-hearted by his failure. The inhabitants of the city, even\nthe high-souled, ecstatic young ladies of thirty-five, had begun to\ncomprehend that their welfare, and the welfare of the place, was\nconnected in some mysterious manner with daily chants and bi-weekly\nanthems. The expenditure of the palace had not added much to the\npopularity of the bishop's side of the question; and, on the whole,\nthere was a strong reaction. When it became known to all the world that\nMr. Harding was to be the new dean, all the world rejoiced heartily.\n\nMr. Arabin, we have said, was not surprised at the summons which\ncalled him to the deanery. He had not as yet seen Mr. Harding since\nEleanor had accepted him, nor had he seen him since he had learnt his\nfuture father-in-law's preferment. There was nothing more natural,\nmore necessary, than that they should meet each other at the earliest\npossible moment. Mr. Arabin was waiting in the deanery parlour when\nMr. Harding and Dr. Grantly were driven up from the station.\n\nThere was some excitement in the bosoms of them all, as they met and\nshook hands; by far too much to enable either of them to begin his\nstory and tell it in a proper equable style of narrative. Mr. Harding\nwas some minutes quite dumbfounded, and Mr. Arabin could only talk in\nshort, spasmodic sentences about his love and good fortune. He slipped\nin, as best he could, some sort of congratulation about the deanship,\nand then went on with his hopes and fears--hopes that he might be\nreceived as a son, and fears that he hardly deserved such good\nfortune. Then he went back to the dean; it was the most thoroughly\nsatisfactory appointment, he said, of which he had ever heard.\n\n\"But! But! But--\" said Mr. Harding, and then, failing to get any\nfurther, he looked imploringly at the archdeacon.\n\n\"The truth is, Arabin,\" said the doctor, \"that, after all you are not\ndestined to be son-in-law to a dean. Nor am I either: more's the\npity.\"\n\nMr. Arabin looked at him for explanation. \"Is not Mr. Harding to be\nthe new dean?\"\n\n\"It appears not,\" said the archdeacon. Mr. Arabin's face fell a\nlittle, and he looked from one to the other. It was plainly to be\nseen from them both that there was no cause of unhappiness in the\nmatter, at least not of unhappiness to them; but there was as yet no\nelucidation of the mystery.\n\n\"Think how old I am,\" said Mr. Harding imploringly.\n\n\"Fiddlestick!\" said the archdeacon.\n\n\"That's all very well, but it won't make a young man of me,\" said Mr.\nHarding.\n\n\"And who is to be dean?\" asked Mr. Arabin.\n\n\"Yes, that's the question,\" said the archdeacon. \"Come, Mr. Precentor,\nsince you obstinately refuse to be anything else, let us know who is\nto be the man. He has got the nomination in his pocket.\"\n\nWith eyes brim full of tears, Mr. Harding pulled out the letter and\nhanded it to his future son-in-law. He tried to make a little speech\nbut failed altogether. Having given up the document, he turned round\nto the wall, feigning to blow his nose, and then sat himself down on\nthe old dean's dingy horsehair sofa. And here we find it necessary to\nbring our account of the interview to an end.\n\nNor can we pretend to describe the rapture with which Mr. Harding was\nreceived by his daughter. She wept with grief and wept with joy--with\ngrief that her father should, in his old age, still be without that\nrank and worldly position which, according to her ideas, he had so\nwell earned; and with joy in that he, her darling father, should have\nbestowed on that other dear one the good things of which he himself\nwould not open his hand to take possession. And here Mr. Harding again\nshowed his weakness. In the _mêlée_ of this exposal of their loves and\nreciprocal affection, he found himself unable to resist the entreaties\nof all parties that the lodgings in the High Street should be given\nup. Eleanor would not live in the deanery, she said, unless her\nfather lived there also. Mr. Arabin would not be dean, unless Mr.\nHarding would be co-dean with him. The archdeacon declared that his\nfather-in-law should not have his own way in everything, and Mrs.\nGrantly carried him off to Plumstead, that he might remain there\ntill Mr. and Mrs. Arabin were in a state to receive him in their own\nmansion.\n\nPressed by such arguments as these, what could a weak old man do but\nyield?\n\nBut there was yet another task which it behoved Mr. Harding to do\nbefore he could allow himself to be at rest. Little has been said in\nthese pages of the state of those remaining old men who had lived\nunder his sway at the hospital. But not on this account must it be\npresumed that he had forgotten them, or that in their state of anarchy\nand in their want of due government he had omitted to visit them. He\nvisited them constantly, and had latterly given them to understand\nthat they would soon be required to subscribe their adherence to a\nnew master. There were now but five of them, one of them having been\nbut quite lately carried to his rest--but five of the full number,\nwhich had hitherto been twelve, and which was now to be raised to\ntwenty-four, including women. Of these, old Bunce, who for many years\nhad been the favourite of the late warden, was one; and Abel Handy,\nwho had been the humble means of driving that warden from his home,\nwas another.\n\nMr. Harding now resolved that he himself would introduce the new\nwarden to the hospital. He felt that many circumstances might conspire\nto make the men receive Mr. Quiverful with aversion and disrespect;\nhe felt also that Mr. Quiverful might himself feel some qualms of\nconscience if he entered the hospital with an idea that he did so in\nhostility to his predecessor. Mr. Harding therefore determined to walk\nin, arm in arm with Mr. Quiverful, and to ask from these men their\nrespectful obedience to their new master.\n\nOn returning to Barchester, he found that Mr. Quiverful had not\nyet slept in the hospital house, or entered on his new duties.\nHe accordingly made known to that gentleman his wishes, and his\nproposition was not rejected.\n\nIt was a bright, clear morning, though in November, that Mr. Harding\nand Mr. Quiverful, arm in arm, walked through the hospital gate. It\nwas one trait in our old friend's character that he did nothing with\nparade. He omitted, even in the more important doings of his life,\nthat sort of parade by which most of us deem it necessary to grace\nour important doings. We have house-warmings, christenings, and gala\ndays; we keep, if not our own birthdays, those of our children; we\nare apt to fuss ourselves if called upon to change our residences and\nhave, almost all of us, our little state occasions. Mr. Harding had\nno state occasions. When he left his old house, he went forth from\nit with the same quiet composure as though he were merely taking his\ndaily walk; now that he re-entered it with another warden under his\nwing, he did so with the same quiet step and calm demeanour. He was\na little less upright than he had been five years, nay, it was now\nnearly six years ago; he walked perhaps a little slower; his footfall\nwas perhaps a thought less firm; otherwise one might have said that he\nwas merely returning with a friend under his arm.\n\nThis friendliness was everything to Mr. Quiverful. To him, even in\nhis poverty, the thought that he was supplanting a brother clergyman\nso kind and courteous as Mr. Harding had been very bitter. Under his\ncircumstances it had been impossible for him to refuse the proffered\nboon; he could not reject the bread that was offered to his children,\nor refuse to ease the heavy burden that had so long oppressed that\npoor wife of his; nevertheless, it had been very grievous to him to\nthink that in going to the hospital he might encounter the ill-will\nof his brethren in the diocese. All this Mr. Harding had fully\ncomprehended. It was for such feelings as these, for the nice\ncomprehension of such motives, that his heart and intellect were\npeculiarly fitted. In most matters of worldly import the archdeacon\nset down his father-in-law as little better than a fool. And perhaps\nhe was right. But in some other matters, equally important if they be\nrightly judged, Mr. Harding, had he been so minded, might with as much\npropriety have set down his son-in-law for a fool. Few men, however,\nare constituted as was Mr. Harding. He had that nice appreciation of\nthe feelings of others which belongs of right exclusively to women.\n\nArm in arm they walked into the inner quadrangle of the building, and\nthere the five old men met them. Mr. Harding shook hands with them\nall, and then Mr. Quiverful did the same. With Bunce Mr. Harding shook\nhands twice, and Mr. Quiverful was about to repeat the same ceremony,\nbut the old man gave him no encouragement.\n\n\"I am very glad to know that at last you have a new warden,\" said Mr.\nHarding in a very cheery voice.\n\n\"We be very old for any change,\" said one of them, \"but we do suppose\nit be all for the best.\"\n\n\"Certainly--certainly it is for the best,\" said Mr. Harding. \"You\nwill again have a clergyman of your own church under the same roof\nwith you, and a very excellent clergyman you will have. It is a great\nsatisfaction to me to know that so good a man is coming to take care\nof you, and that it is no stranger, but a friend of my own who will\nallow me from time to time to come in and see you.\"\n\n\"We be very thankful to your Reverence,\" said another of them.\n\n\"I need not tell you, my good friends,\" said Mr. Quiverful, \"how\nextremely grateful I am to Mr. Harding for his kindness to me--I must\nsay his uncalled-for, unexpected kindness.\"\n\n\"He be always very kind,\" said a third.\n\n\"What I can do to fill the void which he left here I will do. For your\nsake and my own I will do so, and especially for his sake. But to you\nwho have known him, I can never be the same well-loved friend and\nfather that he has been.\"\n\n\"No, sir, no,\" said old Bunce, who hitherto had held his peace; \"no\none can be that. Not if the new bishop sent a hangel to us out of\nheaven. We doesn't doubt you'll do your best, sir, but you'll not be\nlike the old master--not to us old ones.\"\n\n\"Fie, Bunce, fie; how dare you talk in that way?\" said Mr. Harding;\nbut as he scolded the old man he still held him by his arm and pressed\nit with warm affection.\n\nThere was no getting up any enthusiasm in the matter. How could five\nold men tottering away to their final resting place be enthusiastic\non the reception of a stranger? What could Mr. Quiverful be to them,\nor they to Mr. Quiverful? Had Mr. Harding indeed come back to them,\nsome last flicker of joyous light might have shone forth on their aged\ncheeks; but it was in vain to bid them rejoice because Mr. Quiverful\nwas about to move his fourteen children from Puddingdale into the\nhospital house. In reality they did no doubt receive advantage,\nspiritual as well as corporal, but this they could neither anticipate\nnor acknowledge.\n\nIt was a dull affair enough, this introduction of Mr. Quiverful, but\nstill it had its effect. The good which Mr. Harding intended did not\nfall to the ground. All the Barchester world, including the five\nold bedesmen, treated Mr. Quiverful with the more respect because\nMr. Harding had thus walked in, arm in arm with him, on his first\nentrance to his duties.\n\nAnd here in their new abode we will leave Mr. and Mrs. Quiverful\nand their fourteen children. May they enjoy the good things which\nProvidence has at length given to them!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIII\n\nConclusion\n\n\nThe end of a novel, like the end of a children's dinner party, must\nbe made up of sweetmeats and sugar-plums. There is now nothing else\nto be told but the gala doings of Mr. Arabin's marriage, nothing more\nto be described than the wedding-dresses, no further dialogue to\nbe recorded than that which took place between the archdeacon, who\nmarried them, and Mr. Arabin and Eleanor, who were married.\n\n\"Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife,\" and \"wilt thou have\nthis man to thy wedded husband, to live together according to God's\nordinance?\"\n\nMr. Arabin and Eleanor each answered, \"I will.\"\n\nWe have no doubt that they will keep their promises, the more\nespecially as the Signora Neroni had left Barchester before the\nceremony was performed.\n\nMrs. Bold had been somewhat more than two years a widow before she\nwas married to her second husband, and little Johnny was then able\nwith due assistance to walk on his own legs into the drawing-room to\nreceive the salutations of the assembled guests. Mr. Harding gave\naway the bride, the archdeacon performed the service, and the two\nMiss Grantlys, who were joined in their labours by other young ladies\nof the neighbourhood, performed the duties of bridesmaids with\nequal diligence and grace. Mrs. Grantly superintended the breakfast\nand bouquets, and Mary Bold distributed the cards and cake. The\narchdeacon's three sons had also come home for the occasion. The\nelder was great with learning, being regarded by all who knew him as\na certain future double first. The second, however, bore the palm\non this occasion, being resplendent in a new uniform. The third was\njust entering the university, and was probably the proudest of the\nthree.\n\nBut the most remarkable feature in the whole occasion was the\nexcessive liberality of the archdeacon. He literally made presents\nto everybody. As Mr. Arabin had already moved out of the parsonage\nof St. Ewold's, that scheme of elongating the dining-room was of\ncourse abandoned; but he would have refurnished the whole deanery\nhad he been allowed. He sent down a magnificent piano by Erard, gave\nMr. Arabin a cob which any dean in the land might have been proud to\nbestride, and made a special present to Eleanor of a new pony chair\nthat had gained a prize in the Exhibition. Nor did he even stay his\nhand here; he bought a set of cameos for his wife and a sapphire\nbracelet for Miss Bold; showered pearls and work-boxes on his\ndaughters; and to each of his sons he presented a check for £20.\nOn Mr. Harding he bestowed a magnificent violoncello with all the\nnew-fashioned arrangements and expensive additions, which on account\nof these novelties that gentleman could never use with satisfaction\nto his audience or pleasure to himself.\n\nThose who knew the archdeacon well perfectly understood the causes of\nhis extravagance. 'Twas thus that he sang his song of triumph over\nMr. Slope. This was his pæan, his hymn of thanksgiving, his loud\noration. He had girded himself with his sword and gone forth to the\nwar; now he was returning from the field laden with the spoils of\nthe foe. The cob and the cameos, the violoncello and the pianoforte,\nwere all as it were trophies reft from the tent of his now-conquered\nenemy.\n\nThe Arabins after their marriage went abroad for a couple of months,\naccording to the custom in such matters now duly established, and\nthen commenced their deanery life under good auspices. And nothing\ncan be more pleasant than the present arrangement of ecclesiastical\naffairs in Barchester. The titular bishop never interfered, and Mrs.\nProudie not often. Her sphere is more extended, more noble, and more\nsuited to her ambition than that of a cathedral city. As long as she\ncan do what she pleases with the diocese, she is willing to leave\nthe dean and chapter to themselves. Mr. Slope tried his hand at\nsubverting the old-established customs of the close, and from his\nfailure she had learnt experience. The burly chancellor and the\nmeagre little prebendary are not teased by any application respecting\nSabbath-day schools, the dean is left to his own dominions, and the\nintercourse between Mrs. Proudie and Mrs. Arabin is confined to\na yearly dinner given by each to the other. At these dinners Dr.\nGrantly will not take a part, but he never fails to ask for and\nreceive a full account of all that Mrs. Proudie either does or says.\n\nHis ecclesiastical authority has been greatly shorn since the palmy\ndays in which he reigned supreme as mayor of the palace to his\nfather, but nevertheless such authority as is now left to him he\ncan enjoy without interference. He can walk down the High Street of\nBarchester without feeling that those who see him are comparing his\nclaims with those of Mr. Slope. The intercourse between Plumstead\nand the deanery is of the most constant and familiar description.\nSince Eleanor has been married to a clergyman, and especially to a\ndignitary of the church, Mrs. Grantly has found many more points of\nsympathy with her sister; and on a coming occasion, which is much\nlooked forward to by all parties, she intends to spend a month or two\nat the deanery. She never thought of spending a month in Barchester\nwhen little Johnny Bold was born!\n\nThe two sisters do not quite agree on matters of church doctrine,\nthough their differences are of the most amicable description. Mrs.\nArabin's church is two degrees higher than that of Mrs. Grantly.\nThis may seem strange to those who will remember that Eleanor was\nonce accused of partiality to Mr. Slope, but it is no less the fact.\nShe likes her husband's silken vest, she likes his adherence to the\nrubric, she specially likes the eloquent philosophy of his sermons,\nand she likes the red letters in her own prayer-book. It must not\nbe presumed that she has a taste for candles, or that she is at\nall astray about the real presence, but she has an inkling that\nway. She sent a handsome subscription towards certain very heavy\necclesiastical legal expenses which have lately been incurred in\nBath, her name of course not appearing; she assumes a smile of gentle\nridicule when the Archbishop of Canterbury is named; and she has put\nup a memorial window in the cathedral.\n\nMrs. Grantly, who belongs to the high and dry church, the High Church\nas it was some fifty years since, before tracts were written and\nyoung clergymen took upon themselves the highly meritorious duty\nof cleaning churches, rather laughs at her sister. She shrugs her\nshoulders and tells Miss Thorne that she supposes Eleanor will have\nan oratory in the deanery before she has done. But she is not on\nthat account a whit displeased. A few High Church vagaries do not,\nshe thinks, sit amiss on the shoulders of a young dean's wife. It\nshows at any rate that her heart is in the subject, and it shows\nmoreover that she is removed, wide as the poles asunder, from that\ncesspool of abomination in which it was once suspected that she would\nwallow and grovel. Anathema maranatha! Let anything else be held as\nblessed, so that that be well cursed. Welcome kneelings and bowings,\nwelcome matins and complines, welcome bell, book, and candle, so that\nMr. Slope's dirty surplices and ceremonial Sabbaths be held in due\nexecration!\n\nIf it be essentially and absolutely necessary to choose between\nthe two, we are inclined to agree with Mrs. Grantly that the bell,\nbook, and candle are the lesser evil of the two. Let it however be\nunderstood that no such necessity is admitted in these pages.\n\nDr. Arabin (we suppose he must have become a doctor when he became a\ndean) is more moderate and less outspoken on doctrinal points than\nhis wife, as indeed in his station it behoves him to be. He is a\nstudious, thoughtful, hard-working man. He lives constantly at the\ndeanery and preaches nearly every Sunday. His time is spent in\nsifting and editing old ecclesiastical literature and in producing\nthe same articles new. At Oxford he is generally regarded as the\nmost promising clerical ornament of the age. He and his wife live\ntogether in perfect mutual confidence. There is but one secret in\nher bosom which he has not shared. He has never yet learned how Mr.\nSlope had his ears boxed.\n\nThe Stanhopes soon found that Mr. Slope's power need no longer\noperate to keep them from the delight of their Italian villa. Before\nEleanor's marriage they had all migrated back to the shores of Como.\nThey had not been resettled long before the signora received from\nMrs. Arabin a very pretty though very short epistle, in which she\nwas informed of the fate of the writer. This letter was answered by\nanother--bright, charming, and witty, as the signora's letters always\nwere--and so ended the friendship between Eleanor and the Stanhopes.\n\nOne word of Mr. Harding, and we have done. He is still precentor of\nBarchester and still pastor of the little church of St. Cuthbert's.\nIn spite of what he has so often said himself, he is not even\nyet an old man. He does such duties as fall to his lot well and\nconscientiously, and is thankful that he has never been tempted to\nassume others for which he might be less fitted.\n\nThe author now leaves him in the hands of his readers: not as a hero,\nnot as a man to be admired and talked of, not as a man who should be\ntoasted at public dinners and spoken of with conventional absurdity\nas a perfect divine, but as a good man, without guile, believing\nhumbly in the religion which he has striven to teach, and guided by\nthe precepts which he has striven to learn."