Barchester Towers

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"What?" said Eleanor. "Ask a man with fourteen children to give up
his preferment! I am quite sure he will do no such thing."

"I suppose not," said Slope, and he again drew near to Mrs. Bold, so
that now they were very close to each other. Eleanor did not think
much about it but instinctively moved away a little. How greatly
would she have increased the distance could she have guessed what had
been said about her at Plumstead! "I suppose not. But it is out of
the question that Quiverful should supersede your father--quite out
of the question. The bishop has been too rash. An idea occurs to me
which may perhaps, with God's blessing, put us right. My dear Mrs.
Bold, would you object to seeing the bishop yourself?"

"Why should not my father see him?" said Eleanor. She had once
before in her life interfered in her father's affairs, and then not
to much advantage. She was older now and felt that she should take
no step in a matter so vital to him without his consent.

"Why, to tell the truth," said Mr. Slope with a look of sorrow, as
though he greatly bewailed the want of charity in his patron, "the
bishop fancies that he has cause of anger against your father. I
fear an interview would lead to further ill-will."

"Why," said Eleanor, "my father is the mildest, the gentlest man
living."

"I only know," said Slope, "that he has the best of daughters. So
you would not see the bishop? As to getting an interview, I could
manage that for you without the slightest annoyance to yourself."

"I could do nothing, Mr. Slope, without consulting my father."

"Ah!" said he, "that would be useless; you would then only be your
father's messenger. Does anything occur to yourself? Something must
be done. Your father shall not be ruined by so ridiculous a
misunderstanding."

Eleanor said that nothing occurred to her, but that it was very hard;
the tears came to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Mr. Slope
would have given much to have had the privilege of drying them, but
he had tact enough to know that he had still a great deal to do
before he could even hope for any privilege with Mrs. Bold.

"It cuts me to the heart to see you so grieved," said he. "But
pray let me assure you that your father's interests shall not be
sacrificed if it be possible for me to protect them. I will tell the
bishop openly what are the facts. I will explain to him that he has
hardly the right to appoint any other than your father, and will show
him that if he does so he will be guilty of great injustice--and you,
Mrs. Bold, you will have the charity at any rate to believe this of
me, that I am truly anxious for your father's welfare--for his and
for your own."

The widow hardly knew what answer to make. She was quite aware that
her father would not be at all thankful to Mr. Slope; she had a
strong wish to share her father's feelings; and yet she could not
but acknowledge that Mr. Slope was very kind. Her father, who was
generally so charitable to all men, who seldom spoke ill of anyone,
had warned her against Mr. Slope, and yet she did not know how to
abstain from thanking him. What interest could he have in the matter
but that which he professed? Nevertheless there was that in his
manner which even she distrusted. She felt, she did not know why,
that there was something about him which ought to put her on her
guard.

Mr. Slope read all this in her hesitating manner just as plainly as
though she had opened her heart to him. It was the talent of the
man that he could so read the inward feelings of women with whom he
conversed. He knew that Eleanor was doubting him, and that, if she
thanked him, she would only do so because she could not help it,
but yet this did not make him angry or even annoy him. Rome was not
built in a day.

"I did not come for thanks," continued he, seeing her hesitation,
"and do not want them--at any rate before they are merited. But this
I do want, Mrs. Bold, that I may make to myself friends in this fold
to which it has pleased God to call me as one of the humblest of his
shepherds. If I cannot do so, my task here must indeed be a sad one.
I will at any rate endeavour to deserve them."

"I'm sure," said she, "you will soon make plenty of friends." She
felt herself obliged to say something.

"That will be nothing unless they are such as will sympathize with
my feelings; unless they are such as I can reverence and admire--and
love. If the best and purest turn away from me, I cannot bring
myself to be satisfied with the friendship of the less estimable. In
such case I must live alone."

"Oh, I'm sure you will not do that, Mr. Slope." Eleanor meant
nothing, but it suited him to appear to think some special allusion
had been intended.

"Indeed, Mrs. Bold, I shall live alone, quite alone as far as the
heart is concerned, if those with whom I yearn to ally myself turn
away from me. But enough of this; I have called you my friend, and
I hope you will not contradict me. I trust the time may come when I
may also call your father so. May God bless you, Mrs. Bold, you and
your darling boy. And tell your father from me that what can be done
for his interest shall be done."

And so he took his leave, pressing the widow's hand rather more
closely than usual. Circumstances, however, seemed just then to make
this intelligible, and the lady did not feel called on to resent it.

"I cannot understand him," said Eleanor to Mary Bold a few minutes
afterwards. "I do not know whether he is a good man or a bad
man--whether he is true or false."

"Then give him the benefit of the doubt," said Mary, "and believe the
best."

"On the whole, I think I do," said Eleanor. "I think I do believe
that he means well--and if so, it is a shame that we should revile
him and make him miserable while he is among us. But, oh, Mary, I
fear Papa will be disappointed in the hospital."




CHAPTER XVII

Who Shall Be Cock of the Walk?


All this time things were going somewhat uneasily at the palace. The
hint or two which Mr. Slope had given was by no means thrown away upon
the bishop. He had a feeling that if he ever meant to oppose the now
almost unendurable despotism of his wife, he must lose no further time
in doing so; that if he ever meant to be himself master in his own
diocese, let alone his own house, he should begin at once. It would
have been easier to have done so from the day of his consecration
than now, but easier now than when Mrs. Proudie should have succeeded
in thoroughly mastering the diocesan details. Then the proffered
assistance of Mr. Slope was a great thing for him, a most unexpected
and invaluable aid. Hitherto he had looked on the two as allied forces
and had considered that, as allies, they were impregnable. He had begun
to believe that his only chance of escape would be by the advancement
of Mr. Slope to some distant and rich preferment. But now it seemed
that one of his enemies, certainly the least potent of them, but
nevertheless one very important, was willing to desert his own camp.
Assisted by Mr. Slope what might he not do? He walked up and down his
little study, almost thinking that the time might come when he would be
able to appropriate to his own use the big room upstairs in which his
predecessor had always sat.

As he revolved these things in his mind a note was brought to him
from Archdeacon Grantly, in which that divine begged his lordship to
do him the honour of seeing him on the morrow--would his lordship
have the kindness to name an hour? Dr. Grantly's proposed visit
would have reference to the reappointment of Mr. Harding to the
wardenship of Barchester Hospital. The bishop having read his note
was informed that the archdeacon's servant was waiting for an answer.

Here at once a great opportunity offered itself to the bishop of
acting on his own responsibility. He bethought himself however of
his new ally and rang the bell for Mr. Slope. It turned out that Mr.
Slope was not in the house, and then, greatly daring, the bishop with
his own unassisted spirit wrote a note to the archdeacon saving that
he would see him, and naming an hour for doing so. Having watched
from his study-window that the messenger got safely off from the
premises with this dispatch, he began to turn over in his mind what
step he should next take.

To-morrow he would have to declare to the archdeacon either that Mr.
Harding should have the appointment, or that he should not have it.
The bishop felt that he could not honestly throw over the Quiverfuls
without informing Mrs. Proudie, and he resolved at last to brave the
lioness in her den and tell her that circumstances were such that it
behoved him to reappoint Mr. Harding. He did not feel that he should
at all derogate from his new courage by promising Mrs. Proudie that
the very first piece of available preferment at his disposal should
be given to Quiverful to atone for the injury done to him. If he
could mollify the lioness with such a sop, how happy would he think
his first efforts to have been!

Not without many misgivings did he find himself in Mrs. Proudie's
boudoir. He had at first thought of sending for her. But it was not at
all impossible that she might choose to take such a message amiss, and
then also it might be some protection to him to have his daughters
present at the interview. He found her sitting with her account-books
before her, nibbling the end of her pencil, evidently immersed in
pecuniary difficulties, and harassed in mind by the multiplicity
of palatial expenses and the heavy cost of episcopal grandeur. Her
daughters were around her. Olivia was reading a novel, Augusta was
crossing a note to her bosom friend in Baker Street, and Netta was
working diminutive coach wheels for the bottom of a petticoat. If the
bishop could get the better of his wife in her present mood, he would
be a man indeed. He might then consider the victory his own forever.
After all, in such cases the matter between husband and wife stands
much the same as it does between two boys at the same school, two cocks
in the same yard, or two armies on the same continent. The conqueror
once is generally the conqueror forever after. The prestige of victory
is everything.

"Ahem--my dear," began the bishop, "if you are disengaged, I wished
to speak to you." Mrs. Proudie put her pencil down carefully at the
point to which she had totted her figures, marked down in her memory
the sum she had arrived at, and then looked up, sourly enough, into
her helpmate's face. "If you are busy, another time will do as
well," continued the bishop, whose courage, like Bob Acres', had
oozed out now that he found himself on the ground of battle.

"What is it about, Bishop?" asked the lady.

"Well--it was about those Quiverfuls--but I see you are engaged.
Another time will do just as well for me."

"What about the Quiverfuls? It is quite understood, I believe, that
they are to come to the hospital. There is to be no doubt about that,
is there?" and as she spoke she kept her pencil sternly and vigorously
fixed on the column of figures before her.

"Why, my dear, there is a difficulty," said the bishop.

"A difficulty!" said Mrs. Proudie, "what difficulty? The place has
been promised to Mr. Quiverful, and of course he must have it. He has
made all his arrangements. He has written for a curate for Puddingdale,
he has spoken to the auctioneer about selling his farm, horses, and
cows, and in all respects considers the place as his own. Of course
he must have it."

Now, Bishop, look well to thyself and call up all the manhood that is
in thee. Think how much is at stake. If now thou art not true to thy
guns, no Slope can hereafter aid thee. How can he who deserts his own
colours at the first smell of gunpowder expect faith in any ally? Thou
thyself hast sought the battle-field: fight out the battle manfully
now thou art there. Courage, Bishop, courage! Frowns cannot kill, nor
can sharp words break any bones. After all, the apron is thine own. She
can appoint no wardens, give away no benefices, nominate no chaplains,
an' thou art but true to thyself. Up, man, and at her with a constant
heart.

Some little monitor within the bishop's breast so addressed him. But
then there was another monitor there which advised him differently,
and as follows. Remember, Bishop, she is a woman, and such a woman
too as thou well knowest: a battle of words with such a woman is the
very mischief. Were it not better for thee to carry on this war, if
it must be waged, from behind thine own table in thine own study?
Does not every cock fight best on his own dunghill? Thy daughters
also are here, the pledges of thy love, the fruits of thy loins: is
it well that they should see thee in the hour of thy victory over
their mother? Nay, is it well that they should see thee in the
possible hour of thy defeat? Besides, hast thou not chosen thy
opportunity with wonderful little skill, indeed with no touch of
that sagacity for which thou art famous? Will it not turn out that
thou art wrong in this matter and thine enemy right; that thou hast
actually pledged thyself in this matter of the hospital, and that now
thou wouldest turn upon thy wife because she requires from thee but
the fulfilment of thy promise? Art thou not a Christian bishop, and
is not thy word to be held sacred whatever be the result? Return,
Bishop, to thy sanctum on the lower floor and postpone thy combative
propensities for some occasion in which at least thou mayest fight
the battle against odds less tremendously against thee.

All this passed within the bishop's bosom while Mrs. Proudie still
sat with her fixed pencil, and the figures of her sum still enduring
on the tablets of her memory. "L4 17s. 7d." she said to herself.
"Of course Mr. Quiverful must have the hospital," she said out loud
to her lord.

"Well, my dear, I merely wanted to suggest to you that Mr. Slope
seems to think that if Mr. Harding be not appointed, public feeling
in the matter would be against us, and that the press might perhaps
take it up."

"Mr. Slope seems to think!" said Mrs. Proudie in a tone of voice
which plainly showed the bishop that he was right in looking for a
breach in that quarter. "And what has Mr. Slope to do with it? I
hope, my lord, you are not going to allow yourself to be governed by
a chaplain." And now in her eagerness the lady lost her place in her
account.

"Certainly not, my dear. Nothing I can assure you is less probable.
But still, Mr. Slope may be useful in finding how the wind blows, and
I really thought that if we could give something else as good to the
Quiverfuls--"

"Nonsense," said Mrs. Proudie; "it would be years before you could
give them anything else that could suit them half as well, and as for
the press and the public and all that, remember there are two ways of
telling a story. If Mr. Harding is fool enough to tell his tale, we
can also tell ours. The place was offered to him, and he refused it.
It has now been given to someone else, and there's an end of it. At
least I should think so."

"Well, my dear, I rather believe you are right," said the bishop, and
sneaking out of the room, he went downstairs, troubled in his mind as
to how he should receive the archdeacon on the morrow. He felt himself
not very well just at present, and began to consider that he might,
not improbably, be detained in his room the next morning by an attack
of bile. He was, unfortunately, very subject to bilious annoyances.

"Mr. Slope, indeed! I'll Slope him," said the indignant matron to
her listening progeny. "I don't know what has come to Mr. Slope.
I believe he thinks he is to be Bishop of Barchester himself, because
I've taken him by the hand and got your father to make him his
domestic chaplain."

"He was always full of impudence," said Olivia; "I told you so once
before, Mamma." Olivia, however, had not thought him too impudent
when once before he had proposed to make her Mrs. Slope.

"Well, Olivia, I always thought you liked him," said Augusta, who at
that moment had some grudge against her sister. "I always disliked
the man, because I think him thoroughly vulgar."

"There you're wrong," said Mrs. Proudie; "he's not vulgar at all; and
what is more, he is a soul-stirring, eloquent preacher; but he must
be taught to know his place if he is to remain in this house."

"He has the horridest eyes I ever saw in a man's head," said Netta;
"and I tell you what, he's terribly greedy; did you see all the
currant pie he ate yesterday?"

When Mr. Slope got home he soon learnt from the bishop, as much from
his manner as his words, that Mrs. Proudie's behests in the matter
of the hospital were to be obeyed. Dr. Proudie let fall something
as to "this occasion only" and "keeping all affairs about patronage
exclusively in his own hands." But he was quite decided about Mr.
Harding; and as Mr. Slope did not wish to have both the prelate and
the prelatess against him, he did not at present see that he could
do anything but yield.

He merely remarked that he would of course carry out the bishop's
views and that he was quite sure that if the bishop trusted to his
own judgement things in the diocese would certainly be well ordered.
Mr. Slope knew that if you hit a nail on the head often enough, it
will penetrate at last.

He was sitting alone in his room on the same evening when a light
knock was made on his door, and before he could answer it the door
was opened, and his patroness appeared. He was all smiles in a
moment, but so was not she also. She took, however, the chair that
was offered to her, and thus began her expostulation:

"Mr. Slope, I did not at all approve your conduct the other night
with that Italian woman. Anyone would have thought that you were her
lover."

"Good gracious, my dear madam," said Mr. Slope with a look of horror.
"Why, she is a married woman."

"That's more than I know," said Mrs. Proudie; "however she chooses to
pass for such. But married or not married, such attention as you paid
to her was improper. I cannot believe that you would wish to give
offence in my drawing-room, Mr. Slope, but I owe it to myself and my
daughters to tell you that I disapprove of your conduct."

Mr. Slope opened wide his huge protruding eyes and stared out of them
with a look of well-feigned surprise. "Why, Mrs. Proudie," said he,
"I did but fetch her something to eat when she said she was hungry."

"And you have called on her since," continued she, looking at the
culprit with the stern look of a detective policeman in the act of
declaring himself.

Mr. Slope turned over in his mind whether it would be well for him to
tell this termagant at once that he should call on whom he liked and
do what he liked, but he remembered that his footing in Barchester
was not yet sufficiently firm, and that it would be better for him to
pacify her.

"I certainly called since at Dr. Stanhope's house, and certainly saw
Madame Neroni."

"Yes, and you saw her alone," said the episcopal Argus.

"Undoubtedly, I did," said Mr. Slope, "but that was because nobody
else happened to be in the room. Surely it was no fault of mine if
the rest of the family were out."

"Perhaps not, but I assure you, Mr. Slope, you will fall greatly in
my estimation if I find that you allow yourself to be caught by the
lures of that woman. I know women better than you do, Mr. Slope,
and you may believe me that that signora, as she calls herself, is
not a fitting companion for a strict evangelical unmarried young
clergyman."

How Mr. Slope would have liked to laugh at her, had he dared! But he
did not dare. So he merely said, "I can assure you, Mrs. Proudie,
the lady in question is nothing to me."

"Well, I hope not, Mr. Slope. But I have considered it my duty to
give you this caution. And now there is another thing I feel myself
called on to speak about: it is your conduct to the bishop, Mr.
Slope."

"My conduct to the bishop," said he, now truly surprised and ignorant
what the lady alluded to.

"Yes, Mr. Slope, your conduct to the bishop. It is by no means what
I would wish to see it."

"Has the bishop said anything, Mrs. Proudie?"

"No, the bishop has said nothing. He probably thinks that any remarks
on the matter will come better from me, who first introduced you
to his lordship's notice. The fact is, Mr. Slope, you are a little
inclined to take too much upon yourself."

An angry spot showed itself on Mr. Slope's cheeks, and it was with
difficulty that he controlled himself. But he did do so, and sat
quite silent while the lady went on.

"It is the fault of many young men in your position, and therefore
the bishop is not inclined at present to resent it. You will, no
doubt, soon learn what is required from you and what is not. If you
will take my advice, however, you will be careful not to obtrude
advice upon the bishop in any matter touching patronage. If his
lordship wants advice, he knows where to look for it." And then
having added to her counsel a string of platitudes as to what was
desirable and what not desirable in the conduct of a strictly
evangelical unmarried young clergyman, Mrs. Proudie retreated,
leaving the chaplain to his thoughts.

The upshot of his thoughts was this, that there certainly was not
room in the diocese for the energies of both himself and Mrs.
Proudie, and that it behoved him quickly to ascertain whether his
energies or hers were to prevail.




CHAPTER XVIII

The Widow's Persecution


Early on the following morning Mr. Slope was summoned to the bishop's
dressing-room, and went there fully expecting that he should find his
lordship very indignant and spirited up by his wife to repeat the
rebuke which she had administered on the previous day. Mr. Slope had
resolved that at any rate from him he would not stand it, and entered
the dressing-room in rather a combative disposition; but he found
the bishop in the most placid and gentlest of humours. His lordship
complained of being rather unwell, had a slight headache, and was
not quite the thing in his stomach; but there was nothing the matter
with his temper.

"Oh, Slope," said he, taking the chaplain's proffered hand,
"Archdeacon Grantly is to call on me this morning, and I really am
not fit to see him. I fear I must trouble you to see him for me;"
and then Dr. Proudie proceeded to explain what it was that must be
said to Dr. Grantly. He was to be told in fact, in the civilest words
in which the tidings could be conveyed, that Mr. Harding having
refused the wardenship, the appointment had been offered to Mr.
Quiverful and accepted by him.

Mr. Slope again pointed out to his patron that he thought he was
perhaps not quite wise in his decision, and this he did _sotto voce_.
But even with this precaution it was not safe to say much, and during
the little that he did say, the bishop made a very slight, but still
a very ominous gesture with his thumb towards the door which opened
from his dressing-room to some inner sanctuary. Mr. Slope at once
took the hint and said no more, but he perceived that there was to be
confidence between him and his patron, that the league desired by him
was to be made, and that this appointment of Mr. Quiverful was to be
the last sacrifice offered on the altar of conjugal obedience. All
this Mr. Slope read in the slight motion of the bishop's thumb, and
he read it correctly. There was no need of parchments and seals,
of attestations, explanations, and professions. The bargain was
understood between them, and Mr. Slope gave the bishop his hand
upon it. The bishop understood the little extra squeeze, and an
intelligible gleam of assent twinkled in his eye.

"Pray be civil to the archdeacon, Mr. Slope," said he out loud, "but
make him quite understand that in this matter Mr. Harding has put it
out of my power to oblige him."

It would be a calumny on Mrs. Proudie to suggest that she was sitting
in her bedroom with her ear at the keyhole during this interview.
She had within her a spirit of decorum which prevented her from
descending to such baseness. To put her ear to a keyhole, or to
listen at a chink, was a trick for a housemaid. Mrs. Proudie knew
this, and therefore did not do it; but she stationed herself as near
to the door as she well could, that she might, if possible, get the
advantage which the housemaid would have had, without descending to
the housemaid's artifice.

It was little, however, that she heard, and that little was only
sufficient to deceive her. She saw nothing of that friendly
pressure, perceived nothing of that concluded bargain; she did not
even dream of the treacherous resolves which those two false men had
made together to upset her in the pride of her station, to dash the
cup from her lip before she had drunk of it, to sweep away all her
power before she had tasted its sweets! Traitors that they were,
the husband of her bosom and the outcast whom she had fostered and
brought to the warmth of the world's brightest fireside! But neither
of them had the magnanimity of this woman. Though two men have thus
leagued themselves together against her, even yet the battle is not
lost.