Barchester Towers

A >> Anthony Trollope >> Barchester Towers


"Exactly," said Madeline. "She is just one of those English
nonentities who would tie her head up in a bag for three months every
summer, if her mother and her grandmother had tied up their heads
before her. It would never occur to her to think whether there was
any use in submitting to such a nuisance."

"It's very hard in a country like England, for a young woman to set
herself in opposition to prejudices of that sort," said the prudent
Charlotte.

"What you mean is that it's very hard for a fool not to be a fool,"
said Madeline.

Bertie Stanhope had been so much knocked about the world from his
earliest years that he had not retained much respect for the gravity
of English customs; but even to his mind an idea presented itself
that, perhaps in a wife, true British prejudice would not in the long
run be less agreeable than Anglo-Italian freedom from restraint. He
did not exactly say so, but he expressed the idea in another way.

"I fancy," said he, "that if I were to die, and then walk, I should
think that my widow looked better in one of those caps than any other
kind of head-dress."

"Yes--and you'd fancy also that she could do nothing better than shut
herself up and cry for you, or else burn herself. But she would think
differently. She'd probably wear one of those horrid she-helmets,
because she'd want the courage not to do so; but she'd wear it with a
heart longing for the time when she might be allowed to throw it off.
I hate such shallow false pretences. For my part I would let the world
say what it pleased, and show no grief if I felt none--and perhaps
not, if I did."

"But wearing a widow's cap won't lessen her fortune," said Charlotte.

"Or increase it," said Madeline. "Then why on earth does she do it?"

"But Lotte's object is to make her put it off," said Bertie.

"If it be true that she has got twelve hundred a year quite at her
own disposal, and she be not utterly vulgar in her manners, I would
advise you to marry her. I dare say she's to be had for the asking:
and as you are not going to marry her for love, it doesn't much
matter whether she is good-looking or not. As to your really marrying
a woman for love, I don't believe you are fool enough for that."

"Oh, Madeline!" exclaimed her sister.

"And oh, Charlotte!" said the other.

"You don't mean to say that no man can love a woman unless he be a
fool?"

"I mean very much the same thing--that any man who is willing to
sacrifice his interest to get possession of a pretty face is a fool.
Pretty faces are to be had cheaper than that. I hate your mawkish
sentimentality, Lotte. You know as well as I do in what way husbands
and wives generally live together; you know how far the warmth of
conjugal affection can withstand the trial of a bad dinner, of a
rainy day, or of the least privation which poverty brings with it;
you know what freedom a man claims for himself, what slavery he
would exact from his wife if he could! And you know also how wives
generally obey. Marriage means tyranny on one side and deceit on the
other. I say that a man is a fool to sacrifice his interests for
such a bargain. A woman, too generally, has no other way of living."

"But Bertie has no other way of living," said Charlotte.

"Then, in God's name, let him marry Mrs. Bold," said Madeline. And
so it was settled between them.

But let the gentle-hearted reader be under no apprehension
whatsoever. It is not destined that Eleanor shall marry Mr. Slope or
Bertie Stanhope. And here perhaps it may be allowed to the novelist
to explain his views on a very important point in the art of telling
tales. He ventures to reprobate that system which goes so far to
violate all proper confidence between the author and his readers by
maintaining nearly to the end of the third volume a mystery as to the
fate of their favourite personage. Nay, more, and worse than this, is
too frequently done. Have not often the profoundest efforts of genius
been used to baffle the aspirations of the reader, to raise false
hopes and false fears, and to give rise to expectations which are
never to be realized? Are not promises all but made of delightful
horrors, in lieu of which the writer produces nothing but most
commonplace realities in his final chapter? And is there not a species
of deceit in this to which the honesty of the present age should lend
no countenance?

And what can be the worth of that solicitude which a peep into the
third volume can utterly dissipate? What the value of those literary
charms which are absolutely destroyed by their enjoyment? When we
have once learnt what was that picture before which was hung Mrs.
Ratcliffe's solemn curtain, we feel no further interest about either
the frame or the veil. They are to us merely a receptacle for old
bones, an inappropriate coffin, which we would wish to have decently
buried out of our sight.

And then how grievous a thing it is to have the pleasure of your
novel destroyed by the ill-considered triumph of a previous reader.
"Oh, you needn't be alarmed for Augusta; of course she accepts
Gustavus in the end." "How very ill-natured you are, Susan," says
Kitty with tears in her eyes: "I don't care a bit about it now."
Dear Kitty, if you will read my book, you may defy the ill-nature of
your sister. There shall be no secret that she can tell you. Nay,
take the third volume if you please--learn from the last pages all
the results of our troubled story, and the story shall have lost none
of its interest, if indeed there be any interest in it to lose.

Our doctrine is that the author and the reader should move along
together in full confidence with each other. Let the personages
of the drama undergo ever so complete a comedy of errors among
themselves, but let the spectator never mistake the Syracusan for
the Ephesian; otherwise he is one of the dupes, and the part of a
dupe is never dignified.

I would not for the value of this chapter have it believed by a
single reader that my Eleanor could bring herself to marry Mr. Slope,
or that she should be sacrificed to a Bertie Stanhope. But among the
good folk of Barchester many believed both the one and the other.




CHAPTER XVI

Baby Worship


"Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle, dum, dum, dum," said or sung Eleanor
Bold.

"Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle, dum, dum, dum," continued Mary Bold,
taking up the second part in this concerted piece.

The only audience at the concert was the baby, who however gave such
vociferous applause that the performers, presuming it to amount to an
encore, commenced again.

"Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle, dum, dum, dum: hasn't he got lovely
legs?" said the rapturous mother.

"H'm 'm 'm 'm 'm," simmered Mary, burying her lips in the little
fellow's fat neck, by way of kissing him.

"H'm 'm 'm 'm 'm," simmered the mamma, burying her lips also in his
fat, round, short legs. "He's a dawty little bold darling, so he is;
and he has the nicest little pink legs in all the world, so he has;"
and the simmering and the kissing went on over again, as though the
ladies were very hungry and determined to eat him.

"Well, then, he's his own mother's own darling: well, he shall--oh,
oh--Mary, Mary--did you ever see? What am I to do? My naughty,
naughty, naughty, naughty little Johnny." All these energetic
exclamations were elicited by the delight of the mother in finding
that her son was strong enough and mischievous enough to pull all her
hair out from under her cap. "He's been and pulled down all Mamma's
hair, and he's the naughtiest, naughtiest, naughtiest little man that
ever, ever, ever, ever, ever--"

A regular service of baby worship was going on. Mary Bold was
sitting on a low easy chair, with the boy in her lap, and Eleanor was
kneeling before the object of her idolatry. As she tried to cover up
the little fellow's face with her long, glossy, dark brown locks, and
permitted him to pull them hither and thither as he would, she looked
very beautiful in spite of the widow's cap which she still wore.
There was a quiet, enduring, grateful sweetness about her face which
grew so strongly upon those who knew her, as to make the great praise
of her beauty which came from her old friends appear marvellously
exaggerated to those who were only slightly acquainted with her.
Her loveliness was like that of many landscapes, which require to
be often seen to be fully enjoyed. There was a depth of dark clear
brightness in her eyes which was lost upon a quick observer, a
character about her mouth which only showed itself to those with
whom she familiarly conversed, a glorious form of head the perfect
symmetry of which required the eye of an artist for its appreciation.
She had none of that dazzling brilliancy, of that voluptuous Rubens
beauty, of that pearly whiteness, and those vermilion tints which
immediately entranced with the power of a basilisk men who came
within reach of Madeline Neroni. It was all but impossible to resist
the signora, but no one was called upon for any resistance towards
Eleanor. You might begin to talk to her as though she were your
sister, and it would not be till your head was on your pillow that
the truth and intensity of her beauty would flash upon you, that the
sweetness of her voice would come upon your ear. A sudden half-hour
with the Neroni was like falling into a pit, an evening spent with
Eleanor like an unexpected ramble in some quiet fields of asphodel.

"We'll cover him up till there shan't be a morsel of his little
'ittle 'ittle 'ittle nose to be seen," said the mother, stretching
her streaming locks over the infant's face. The child screamed with
delight, and kicked till Mary Bold was hardly able to hold him.

At this moment the door opened, and Mr. Slope was announced. Up
jumped Eleanor and, with a sudden quick motion of her hands, pushed
back her hair over her shoulders. It would have been perhaps better
for her that she had not, for she thus showed more of her confusion
than she would have done had she remained as she was. Mr. Slope,
however, immediately recognized her loveliness and thought to himself
that, irrespective of her fortune, she would be an inmate that a man
might well desire for his house, a partner for his bosom's care very
well qualified to make care lie easy. Eleanor hurried out of the
room to readjust her cap, muttering some unnecessary apology about
her baby. And while she is gone, we will briefly go back and state
what had been hitherto the results of Mr. Slope's meditations on his
scheme of matrimony.

His inquiries as to the widow's income had at any rate been so
far successful as to induce him to determine to go on with the
speculation. As regarded Mr. Harding, he had also resolved to
do what he could without injury to himself. To Mrs. Proudie he
determined not to speak on the matter, at least not at present. His
object was to instigate a little rebellion on the part of the bishop.
He thought that such a state of things would be advisable, not only
in respect to Messrs. Harding and Quiverful, but also in the affairs
of the diocese generally. Mr. Slope was by no means of opinion that
Dr. Proudie was fit to rule, but he conscientiously thought it wrong
that his brother clergy should be subjected to petticoat government.
He therefore made up his mind to infuse a little of his spirit into
the bishop, sufficient to induce him to oppose his wife, though not
enough to make him altogether insubordinate.

He had therefore taken an opportunity of again speaking to his
lordship about the hospital, and had endeavoured to make it appear
that after all it would be unwise to exclude Mr. Harding from the
appointment. Mr. Slope, however, had a harder task than he had
imagined. Mrs. Proudie, anxious to assume to herself as much as
possible of the merit of patronage, had written to Mrs. Quiverful,
requesting her to call at the palace, and had then explained to that
matron, with much mystery, condescension, and dignity, the good that
was in store for her and her progeny. Indeed, Mrs. Proudie had been
so engaged at the very time that Mr. Slope had been doing the same
with the husband at Puddingdale Vicarage, and had thus in a measure
committed herself. The thanks, the humility, the gratitude, the
surprise of Mrs. Quiverful had been very overpowering; she had all
but embraced the knees of her patroness, and had promised that the
prayers of fourteen unprovided babes (so Mrs. Quiverful had described
her own family, the eldest of which was a stout young woman of
three-and-twenty) should be put up to heaven morning and evening for
the munificent friend whom God had sent to them. Such incense as this
was not unpleasing to Mrs. Proudie, and she made the most of it. She
offered her general assistance to the fourteen unprovided babes, if,
as she had no doubt, she should find them worthy; expressed a hope
that the eldest of them would be fit to undertake tuition in her
Sabbath-schools; and altogether made herself a very great lady in the
estimation of Mrs. Quiverful.

Having done this, she thought it prudent to drop a few words before
the bishop, letting him know that she had acquainted the Puddingdale
family with their good fortune; so that he might perceive that he
stood committed to the appointment. The husband well understood the
ruse of his wife, but he did not resent it. He knew that she was
taking the patronage out of his hands; he was resolved to put an end
to her interference and reassume his powers. But then he thought
this was not the best time to do it. He put off the evil hour, as
many a man in similar circumstances has done before him.

Such having been the case, Mr. Slope naturally encountered a
difficulty in talking over the bishop, a difficulty indeed which he
found could not be overcome except at the cost of a general outbreak
at the palace. A general outbreak at the present moment might be
good policy, but it also might not. It was at any rate not a step
to be lightly taken. He began by whispering to the bishop that he
feared that public opinion would be against him if Mr. Harding did
not reappear at the hospital. The bishop answered with some warmth
that Mr. Quiverful had been promised the appointment on Mr. Slope's
advice. "Not promised?" said Mr. Slope. "Yes, promised," replied
the bishop, "and Mrs. Proudie has seen Mrs. Quiverful on the
subject." This was quite unexpected on the part of Mr. Slope, but
his presence of mind did not fail him, and he turned the statement
to his own account.

"Ah, my lord," said he, "we shall all be in scrapes if the ladies
interfere."

This was too much in unison with my lord's feelings to be altogether
unpalatable, and yet such an allusion to interference demanded a
rebuke. My lord was somewhat astounded also, though not altogether
made miserable, by finding that there was a point of difference
between his wife and his chaplain.

"I don't know what you mean by interference," said the bishop mildly.
"When Mrs. Proudie heard that Mr. Quiverful was to be appointed, it
was not unnatural that she should wish to see Mrs. Quiverful about
the schools. I really cannot say that I see any interference."

"I only speak, my lord, for your own comfort," said Slope; "for your
own comfort and dignity in the diocese. I can have no other motive.
As far as personal feelings go, Mrs. Proudie is the best friend I
have. I must always remember that. But still, in my present position,
my first duty is to your lordship."

"I'm sure of that, Mr. Slope; I am quite sure of that;" said the
bishop, mollified: "and you really think that Mr. Harding should have
the hospital?"

"Upon my word, I'm inclined to think so. I am quite prepared to take
upon myself the blame of first suggesting Mr. Quiverful's name. But
since doing so, I have found that there is so strong a feeling in the
diocese in favour of Mr. Harding that I think your lordship should
give way. I hear also that Mr. Harding has modified the objections
he first felt to your lordship's propositions. And as to what has
passed between Mrs. Proudie and Mrs. Quiverful, the circumstance may
be a little inconvenient, but I really do not think that that should
weigh in a matter of so much moment."

And thus the poor bishop was left in a dreadfully undecided step as
to what he should do. His mind, however, slightly inclined itself to
the appointment of Mr. Harding, seeing that by such a step he should
have the assistance of Mr. Slope in opposing Mrs. Proudie.

Such was the state of affairs at the palace, when Mr. Slope called at
Mrs. Bold's house and found her playing with her baby. When she ran
out of the room, Mr. Slope began praising the weather to Mary Bold,
then he praised the baby and kissed him, and then he praised the
mother, and then he praised Miss Bold herself. Mrs. Bold, however,
was not long before she came back.

"I have to apologize for calling at so very early an hour," began Mr.
Slope, "but I was really so anxious to speak to you that I hope you
and Miss Bold will excuse me."

Eleanor muttered something in which the words "certainly," and
"of course," and "not early at all," were just audible, and then
apologized for her own appearance, declaring, with a smile, that her
baby was becoming such a big boy that he was quite unmanageable.

"He's a great big naughty boy," said she to the child, "and we must
send him away to a great big rough romping school, where they have
great big rods and do terrible things to naughty boys who don't do
what their own mammas tell them;" and she then commenced another
course of kissing, being actuated thereto by the terrible idea of
sending her child away which her own imagination had depicted.

"And where the masters don't have such beautiful long hair to be
dishevelled," said Mr. Slope, taking up the joke and paying a
compliment at the same time.

Eleanor thought he might as well have left the compliment alone, but
she said nothing and looked nothing, being occupied as she was with
the baby.

"Let me take him," said Mary. "His clothes are nearly off his back
with his romping," and so saying she left the room with the child.
Miss Bold had heard Mr. Slope say he had something pressing to say
to Eleanor, and thinking that she might be _de trop_, took this
opportunity of getting herself out of the room.

"Don't be long, Mary," said Eleanor as Miss Bold shut the door.

"I am glad, Mrs. Bold, to have the opportunity of having ten minutes'
conversation with you alone," began Mr. Slope. "Will you let me
openly ask you a plain question?"

"Certainly," said she.

"And I am sure you will give me a plain and open answer."

"Either that, or none at all," said she, laughing.

"My question is this, Mrs. Bold: is your father really anxious to go
back to the hospital?"

"Why do you ask me?" said she. "Why don't you ask himself?"

"My dear Mrs. Bold, I'll tell you why. There are wheels within
wheels, all of which I would explain to you, only I fear that there
is not time. It is essentially necessary that I should have an
answer to this question, otherwise I cannot know how to advance
your father's wishes; and it is quite impossible that I should ask
himself. No one can esteem your father more than I do, but I doubt
if this feeling is reciprocal." It certainly was not. "I must be
candid with you as the only means of avoiding ultimate consequences,
which may be most injurious to Mr. Harding. I fear there is a
feeling--I will not even call it a prejudice--with regard to
myself in Barchester, which is not in my favour. You remember that
sermon--"

"Oh, Mr. Slope, we need not go back to that," said Eleanor.

"For one moment, Mrs. Bold. It is not that I may talk of myself, but
because it is so essential that you should understand how matters
stand. That sermon may have been ill-judged--it was certainly
misunderstood; but I will say nothing about that now; only this, that
it did give rise to a feeling against myself which your father shares
with others. It may be that he has proper cause, but the result is
that he is not inclined to meet me on friendly terms. I put it to
yourself whether you do not know this to be the case."

Eleanor made no answer, and Mr. Slope, in the eagerness of his
address, edged his chair a little nearer to the widow's seat,
unperceived by her.

"Such being so," continued Mr. Slope, "I cannot ask him this question
as I can ask it of you. In spite of my delinquencies since I came to
Barchester you have allowed me to regard you as a friend." Eleanor
made a little motion with her head which was hardly confirmatory, but
Mr. Slope if he noticed it, did not appear to do so. "To you I can
speak openly and explain the feelings of my heart. This your father
would not allow. Unfortunately, the bishop has thought it right that
this matter of the hospital should pass through my hands. There have
been some details to get up with which he would not trouble himself,
and thus it has come to pass that I was forced to have an interview
with your father on the matter."

"I am aware of that," said Eleanor.

"Of course," said he. "In that interview Mr. Harding left the
impression on my mind that he did not wish to return to the
hospital."

"How could that be?" said Eleanor, at last stirred up to forget the
cold propriety of demeanour which she had determined to maintain.

"My dear Mrs. Bold, I give you my word that such was the case," said
he, again getting a little nearer to her. "And what is more than
that, before my interview with Mr. Harding, certain persons at the
palace--I do not mean the bishop--had told me that such was the fact.
I own, I hardly believed it; I own, I thought that your father would
wish on every account, for conscience' sake, for the sake of those
old men, for old association and the memory of dear days long gone
by, on every account I thought that he would wish to resume his
duties. But I was told that such was not his wish, and he certainly
left me with the impression that I had been told the truth."

"Well!" said Eleanor, now sufficiently roused on the matter.

"I hear Miss Bold's step," said Mr. Slope; "would it be asking too
great a favour to beg you to--I know you can manage anything with
Miss Bold."

Eleanor did not like the word manage, but still she went out and
asked Mary to leave them alone for another quarter of an hour.

"Thank you, Mrs. Bold--I am so very grateful for this confidence.
Well, I left your father with this impression. Indeed, I may say
that he made me understand that he declined the appointment."

"Not the appointment," said Eleanor. "I am sure he did not decline
the appointment. But he said that he would not agree--that is, that
he did not like the scheme about the schools and the services and all
that. I am quite sure he never said that he wished to refuse the
place."

"Oh, Mrs. Bold!" said Mr. Slope in a manner almost impassioned. "I
would not for the world say to so good a daughter a word against so
good a father. But you must, for his sake, let me show you exactly
how the matter stands at present. Mr. Harding was a little flurried
when I told him of the bishop's wishes about the school. I did so
perhaps with the less caution because you yourself had so perfectly
agreed with me on the same subject. He was a little put out and
spoke warmly. 'Tell the bishop,' said he, 'that I quite disagree
with him--and shall not return to the hospital as such conditions are
attached to it.' What he said was to that effect; indeed, his words
were, if anything, stronger than those. I had no alternative but to
repeat them to his lordship, who said that he could look on them in
no other light than a refusal. He also had heard the report that
your father did not wish for the appointment, and putting all these
things together, he thought he had no choice but to look for someone
else. He has consequently offered the place to Mr. Quiverful."

"Offered the place to Mr. Quiverful!" repeated Eleanor, her eyes
suffused with tears. "Then, Mr. Slope, there is an end of it."

"No, my friend--not so," said he. "It is to prevent such being the
end of it that I am now here. I may at any rate presume that I have
got an answer to my question, and that Mr. Harding is desirous of
returning."

"Desirous of returning--of course he is," said Eleanor; "of course
he wishes to have back his house and his income and his place in the
world; to have back what he gave up with such self-denying honesty,
if he can have them without restraints on his conduct to which at his
age it would be impossible that he should submit. How can the bishop
ask a man of his age to turn schoolmaster to a pack of children?"

"Out of the question," said Mr. Slope, laughing slightly; "of
course no such demand shall be made on your father. I can at any
rate promise you that I will not be the medium of any so absurd a
requisition. We wished your father to preach in the hospital, as the
inmates may naturally be too old to leave it, but even that shall not
be insisted on. We wished also to attach a Sabbath-day school to the
hospital, thinking that such an establishment could not but be useful
under the surveillance of so good a clergyman as Mr. Harding, and
also under your own. But, dear Mrs. Bold, we won't talk of these
things now. One thing is clear: we must do what we can to annul
this rash offer the bishop has made to Mr. Quiverful. Your father
wouldn't see Quiverful, would he? Quiverful is an honourable man,
and would not for a moment stand in your father's way."