Barchester Towers

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Mr. Slope felt pretty sure that Dr. Grantly would decline the honour
of seeing him, and such turned out to be the case. The archdeacon,
when the palace door was opened to him, was greeted by a note.
Mr. Slope presented his compliments, &c. &c. The bishop was ill in
his room and very greatly regretted, &c. &c. Mr. Slope had been
charged with the bishop's views, and if agreeable to the archdeacon,
would do himself the honour, &c. &c. The archdeacon, however, was
not agreeable, and having read his note in the hall, crumpled it up
in his hand, and muttering something about sorrow for his lordship's
illness, took his leave, without sending as much as a verbal message
in answer to Mr. Slope's note.

"Ill!" said the archdeacon to himself as he flung himself into his
brougham. "The man is absolutely a coward. He is afraid to see me.
Ill, indeed!" The archdeacon was never ill himself, and did not
therefore understand that anyone else could in truth be prevented by
illness from keeping an appointment. He regarded all such excuses as
subterfuges, and in the present instance he was not far wrong.

Dr. Grantly desired to be driven to his father-in-law's lodgings in
the High Street, and hearing from the servant that Mr. Harding was
at his daughter's, followed him to Mrs. Bold's house, and there
found him. The archdeacon was fuming with rage when he got into the
drawing-room, and had by this time nearly forgotten the pusillanimity
of the bishop in the villainy of the chaplain.

"Look at that," said he, throwing Mr. Slope's crumpled note to Mr.
Harding. "I am to be told that if I choose I may have the honour of
seeing Mr. Slope, and that too after a positive engagement with the
bishop."

"But he says the bishop is ill," said Mr. Harding.

"Pshaw! You don't mean to say that you are deceived by such an
excuse as that. He was well enough yesterday. Now I tell you what,
I will see the bishop, and I will tell him also very plainly what I
think of his conduct. I will see him, or else Barchester will soon
be too hot to hold him."

Eleanor was sitting in the room, but Dr. Grantly had hardly noticed
her in his anger. Eleanor now said to him with the greatest innocence,
"I wish you had seen Mr. Slope, Dr. Grantly, because I think perhaps
it might have done good."

The archdeacon turned on her with almost brutal wrath. Had she at
once owned that she had accepted Mr. Slope for her second husband, he
could hardly have felt more convinced of her belonging body and soul
to the Slope and Proudie party than he now did on hearing her express
such a wish as this. Poor Eleanor!

"See him!" said the archdeacon glaring at her. "And why am I to be
called on to lower myself in the world's esteem and my own by coming
in contact with such a man as that? I have hitherto lived among
gentlemen, and do not mean to be dragged into other company by
anybody."

Poor Mr. Harding well knew what the archdeacon meant, but Eleanor
was as innocent as her own baby. She could not understand how the
archdeacon could consider himself to be dragged into bad company
by condescending to speak to Mr. Slope for a few minutes when the
interests of her father might be served by his doing so.

"I was talking for a full hour yesterday to Mr. Slope," said she with
some little assumption of dignity, "and I did not find myself lowered
by it."

"Perhaps not," said he. "But if you'll be good enough to allow me, I
shall judge for myself in such matters. And I tell you what, Eleanor;
it will be much better for you if you will allow yourself to be
guided also by the advice of those who are your friends. If you do
not, you will be apt to find that you have no friends left who can
advise you."

Eleanor blushed up to the roots of her hair. But even now she had
not the slightest idea of what was passing in the archdeacon's mind.
No thought of love-making or love-receiving had yet found its way to
her heart since the death of poor John Bold, and if it were possible
that such a thought should spring there, the man must be far different
from Mr. Slope that could give it birth.

Nevertheless Eleanor blushed deeply, for she felt she was charged
with improper conduct, and she did so with the more inward pain
because her father did not instantly rally to her side--that father
for whose sake and love she had submitted to be the receptacle of Mr.
Slope's confidence. She had given a detailed account of all that had
passed to her father, and though he had not absolutely agreed with
her about Mr. Slope's views touching the hospital, yet he had said
nothing to make her think that she had been wrong in talking to him.

She was far too angry to humble herself before her brother-in-law.
Indeed, she had never accustomed herself to be very abject before
him, and they had never been confidential allies. "I do not the
least understand what you mean, Dr. Grantly," said she. "I do not
know that I can accuse myself of doing anything that my friends
should disapprove. Mr. Slope called here expressly to ask what
Papa's wishes were about the hospital, and as I believe he called
with friendly intentions, I told him."

"Friendly intentions!" sneered the archdeacon.

"I believe you greatly wrong Mr. Slope," continued Eleanor, "but
I have explained this to Papa already; and as you do not seem to
approve of what I say, Dr. Grantly, I will with your permission leave
you and Papa together;" so saying, she walked slowly out of the room.

All this made Mr. Harding very unhappy. It was quite clear that
the archdeacon and his wife had made up their minds that Eleanor
was going to marry Mr. Slope. Mr. Harding could not really bring
himself to think that she would do so, but yet he could not deny
that circumstances made it appear that the man's company was not
disagreeable to her. She was now constantly seeing him, and yet she
received visits from no other unmarried gentleman. She always took
his part when his conduct was canvassed, although she was aware how
personally objectionable he was to her friends. Then, again, Mr.
Harding felt that if she should choose to become Mrs. Slope, he had
nothing that he could justly urge against her doing so. She had full
right to please herself, and he, as a father, could not say that she
would disgrace herself by marrying a clergyman who stood so well
before the world as Mr. Slope did. As for quarrelling with his
daughter on account of such a marriage, and separating himself from
her as the archdeacon had threatened to do, that, with Mr. Harding,
would be out of the question. If she should determine to marry this
man, he must get over his aversion as best he could. His Eleanor,
his own old companion in their old happy home, must still be the
friend of his bosom, the child of his heart. Let who would cast
her off, he would not. If it were fated that he should have to sit
in his old age at the same table with that man whom of all men he
disliked the most, he would meet his fate as best he might. Anything
to him would be preferable to the loss of his daughter.

Such being his feelings, he hardly knew how to take part with Eleanor
against the archdeacon, or with the archdeacon against Eleanor. It
will be said that he should never have suspected her.--Alas! he
never should have done so. But Mr. Harding was by no means a perfect
character. In his indecision, his weakness, his proneness to be led
by others, his want of self-confidence, he was very far from being
perfect. And then it must be remembered that such a marriage as that
which the archdeacon contemplated with disgust, which we who know
Mr. Slope so well would regard with equal disgust, did not appear so
monstrous to Mr. Harding because in his charity he did not hate the
chaplain as the archdeacon did, and as we do.

He was, however, very unhappy when his daughter left the room, and he
had recourse to an old trick of his that was customary to him in his
times of sadness. He began playing some slow tune upon an imaginary
violoncello, drawing one hand slowly backwards and forwards as though
he held a bow in it, and modulating the unreal chords with the other.

"She'll marry that man as sure as two and two make four," said the
practical archdeacon.

"I hope not, I hope not," said the father. "But if she does, what
can I say to her? I have no right to object to him."

"No right!" exclaimed Dr. Grantly.

"No right as her father. He is in my own profession and, for aught
we know, a good man."

To this the archdeacon would by no means assent. It was not well,
however, to argue the case against Eleanor in her own drawing-room,
and so they both walked forth and discussed the matter in all its
bearings under the elm-trees of the close. Mr. Harding also explained
to his son-in-law what had been the purport, at any rate the alleged
purport, of Mr. Slope's last visit to the widow. He, however, stated
that he could not bring himself to believe that Mr. Slope had any real
anxiety such as that he had pretended. "I cannot forget his demeanour
to myself," said Mr. Harding, "and it is not possible that his ideas
should have changed so soon."

"I see it all," said the archdeacon. "The sly _tartuffe_! He thinks
to buy the daughter by providing for the father. He means to show how
powerful he is, how good he is, and how much he is willing to do for
her _beaux yeux_; yes, I see it all now. But we'll be too many for him
yet, Mr. Harding;" he said, turning to his companion with some gravity
and pressing his hand upon the other's arm. "It would, perhaps, be
better for you to lose the hospital than get it on such terms."

"Lose it!" said Mr. Harding; "why I've lost it already. I don't want
it. I've made up my mind to do without it. I'll withdraw altogether.
I'll just go and write a line to the bishop and tell him that I
withdraw my claim altogether."

Nothing would have pleased him better than to be allowed to escape
from the trouble and difficulty in such a manner. But he was now
going too fast for the archdeacon.

"No--no--no! We'll do no such thing," said Dr. Grantly. "We'll still
have the hospital. I hardly doubt but that we'll have it. But not by
Mr. Slope's assistance. If that be necessary, we'll lose it; but we'll
have it, spite of his teeth, if we can. Arabin will be at Plumstead
to-morrow; you must come over and talk to him."

The two now turned into the cathedral library, which was used by the
clergymen of the close as a sort of ecclesiastical club-room, for
writing sermons and sometimes letters; also for reading theological
works and sometimes magazines and newspapers. The theological works
were not disturbed, perhaps, quite as often as from the appearance of
the building the outside public might have been led to expect. Here
the two allies settled on their course of action. The archdeacon
wrote a letter to the bishop, strongly worded, but still respectful,
in which he put forward his father-in-law's claim to the appointment
and expressed his own regret that he had not been able to see his
lordship when he called. Of Mr. Slope he made no mention whatsoever.
It was then settled that Mr. Harding should go out to Plumstead on
the following day, and after considerable discussion on the matter
the archdeacon proposed to ask Eleanor there also, so as to withdraw
her, if possible, from Mr. Slope's attentions. "A week or two," said
he, "may teach her what he is, and while she is there she will be out
of harm's way. Mr. Slope won't come there after her."

Eleanor was not a little surprised when her brother-in-law came back
and very civilly pressed her to go out to Plumstead with her father.
She instantly perceived that her father had been fighting her battles
for her behind her back. She felt thankful to him, and for his sake
she would not show her resentment to the archdeacon by refusing his
invitation. But she could not, she said, go on the morrow; she had
an invitation to drink tea at the Stanhopes, which she had promised
to accept. She would, she added, go with her father on the next day,
if he would wait; or she would follow him.

"The Stanhopes!" said Dr. Grantly. "I did not know you were so
intimate with them."

"I did not know it myself," said she, "till Miss Stanhope called
yesterday. However, I like her very much, and I have promised to go
and play chess with some of them."

"Have they a party there?" said the archdeacon, still fearful of Mr.
Slope.

"Oh, no," said Eleanor; "Miss Stanhope said there was to be nobody
at all. But she had heard that Mary had left me for a few weeks, and
she had learnt from someone that I play chess, and so she came over
on purpose to ask me to go in."

"Well, that's very friendly," said the ex-warden. "They certainly do
look more like foreigners than English people, but I dare say they
are none the worse for that."

The archdeacon was inclined to look upon the Stanhopes with favourable
eyes, and had nothing to object on the matter. It was therefore
arranged that Mr. Harding should postpone his visit to Plumstead for
one day and then take with him Eleanor, the baby, and the nurse.

Mr. Slope is certainly becoming of some importance in Barchester.




CHAPTER XIX

Barchester by Moonlight


There was much cause for grief and occasional perturbation of spirits
in the Stanhope family, but yet they rarely seemed to be grieved or
to be disturbed. It was the peculiar gift of each of them that each
was able to bear his or her own burden without complaint, and perhaps
without sympathy. They habitually looked on the sunny side of the
wall, if there was a gleam on either side for them to look at; if
there was none, they endured the shade with an indifference which,
if not stoical, answered the end at which the Stoics aimed. Old
Stanhope could not but feel that he had ill-performed his duties as a
father and a clergyman, and could hardly look forward to his own death
without grief at the position in which he would leave his family.
His income for many years had been as high as L3,000 a year, and yet
they had among them no other provision than their mother's fortune
of L10,000. He had not only spent his income, but was in debt. Yet
with all this he seldom showed much outward sign of trouble.

It was the same with the mother. If she added little to the pleasures
of her children, she detracted still less: she neither grumbled at
her lot, nor spoke much of her past or future sufferings; as long as
she had a maid to adjust her dress, and had those dresses well made,
nature with her was satisfied. It was the same with the children.
Charlotte never rebuked her father with the prospect of their future
poverty, nor did it seem to grieve her that she was becoming an old
maid so quickly; her temper was rarely ruffled, and, if we might
judge by her appearance, she was always happy. The signora was not so
sweet-tempered, but she possessed much enduring courage; she seldom
complained--never, indeed, to her family. Though she had a cause for
affliction which would have utterly broken down the heart of most
women as beautiful as she and as devoid of all religious support, yet
she bore her suffering in silence, or alluded to it only to elicit
the sympathy and stimulate the admiration of the men with whom she
flirted. As to Bertie, one would have imagined from the sound of his
voice and the gleam of his eye that he had not a sorrow nor a care in
the world. Nor had he. He was incapable of anticipating to-morrow's
griefs. The prospect of future want no more disturbed his appetite
than does that of the butcher's knife disturb the appetite of the
sheep.

Such was the usual tenor of their way; but there were rare exceptions.
Occasionally the father would allow an angry glance to fall from his
eye, and the lion would send forth a low dangerous roar as though he
meditated some deed of blood. Occasionally also Madame Neroni would
become bitter against mankind, more than usually antagonistic to the
world's decencies, and would seem as though she was about to break from
her moorings and allow herself to be carried forth by the tide of her
feelings to utter ruin and shipwreck. She, however, like the rest of
them, had no real feelings, could feel no true passion. In that was her
security. Before she resolved on any contemplated escapade she would
make a small calculation, and generally summed up that the Stanhope
villa or even Barchester close was better than the world at large.

They were most irregular in their hours. The father was generally the
earliest in the breakfast-parlour, and Charlotte would soon follow and
give him his coffee, but the others breakfasted anywhere, anyhow, and
at any time. On the morning after the archdeacon's futile visit to the
palace, Dr. Stanhope came downstairs with an ominously dark look about
his eyebrows; his white locks were rougher than usual, and he breathed
thickly and loudly as he took his seat in his armchair. He had open
letters in his hand, and when Charlotte came into the room, he was
still reading them. She went up and kissed him as was her wont, but he
hardly noticed her as she did so, and she knew at once that something
was the matter.

"What's the meaning of that?" said he, throwing over the table a
letter with a Milan postmark. Charlotte was a little frightened as
she took it up, but her mind was relieved when she saw that it
was merely the bill of their Italian milliner. The sum total was
certainly large, but not so large as to create an important row.

"It's for our clothes, Papa, for six months before we came here. The
three of us can't dress for nothing, you know."

"Nothing, indeed!" said he, looking at the figures which, in Milanese
denominations, were certainly monstrous.

"The man should have sent it to me," said Charlotte.

"I wish he had with all my heart--if you would have paid it. I see
enough in it to know that three quarters of it are for Madeline."

"She has little else to amuse her, sir," said Charlotte with true
good nature.

"And I suppose he has nothing else to amuse him," said the doctor,
throwing over another letter to his daughter. It was from some
member of the family of Sidonia, and politely requested the father to
pay a small trifle of L700, being the amount of a bill discounted in
favour of Mr. Ethelbert Stanhope and now overdue for a period of nine
months.

Charlotte read the letter, slowly folded it up, and put it under the
edge of the tea-tray.

"I suppose he has nothing to amuse him but discounting bills with
Jews. Does he think I'll pay that?"

"I am sure he thinks no such thing," said she.

"And who does he think will pay it?"

"As far as honesty goes I suppose it won't much matter if it is never
paid," said she. "I dare say he got very little of it."

"I suppose it won't much matter either," said the father, "if he goes
to prison and rots there. It seems to me that that's the other
alternative."

Dr. Stanhope spoke of the custom of his youth. But his daughter,
though she had lived so long abroad, was much more completely versed
in the ways of the English world. "If the man arrests him," said
she, "he must go through the court."

It is thus, thou great family of Sidonia--it is thus that we Gentiles
treat thee, when, in our extremest need, thou and thine have aided
us with mountains of gold as big as lions--and occasionally with
wine-warrants and orders for dozens of dressing-cases.

"What, and become an insolvent?" said the doctor.

"He's that already," said Charlotte, wishing always to get over a
difficulty.

"What a condition," said the doctor, "for the son of a clergyman of
the Church of England."

"I don't see why clergymen's sons should pay their debts more than
other young men," said Charlotte.

"He's had as much from me since he left school as is held sufficient
for the eldest son of many a nobleman," said the angry father.

"Well, sir," said Charlotte, "give him another chance."

"What!" said the doctor, "do you mean that I am to pay that Jew?"

"Oh, no! I wouldn't pay him, he must take his chance; and if the
worst comes to the worst, Bertie must go abroad. But I want you to
be civil to Bertie and let him remain here as long as we stop. He
has a plan in his head that may put him on his feet after all."

"Has he any plan for following up his profession?"

"Oh, he'll do that too; but that must follow. He's thinking of
getting married."

Just at that moment the door opened, and Bertie came in whistling.
The doctor immediately devoted himself to his egg and allowed Bertie
to whistle himself round to his sister's side without noticing him.

Charlotte gave a sign to him with her eye, first glancing at her
father, and then at the letter, the corner of which peeped out from
under the tea-tray. Bertie saw and understood, and with the quiet
motion of a cat he abstracted the letter and made himself acquainted
with its contents. The doctor, however, had seen him, deep as he
appeared to be mersed in his egg-shell, and said in his harshest
voice, "Well, sir, do you know that gentleman?"

"Yes, sir," said Bertie. "I have a sort of acquaintance with him,
but none that can justify him in troubling you. If you will allow
me, sir, I will answer this."

"At any rate I shan't," said the father, and then he added, after a
pause, "Is it true, sir, that you owe the man L700?"

"Well," said Bertie, "I think I should be inclined to dispute the
amount, if I were in a condition to pay him such of it as I really do
owe him."

"Has he your bill for L700?" said the father, speaking very loudly
and very angrily.

"Well, I believe he has," said Bertie, "but all the money I ever got
from him was L150."

"And what became of the L550?"

"Why, sir, the commission was L100 or so, and I took the remainder in
paving-stones and rocking-horses."

"Paving-stones and rocking-horses!" said the doctor. "Where are
they?"

"Oh, sir, I suppose they are in London somewhere--but I'll inquire if
you wish for them."

"He's an idiot," said the doctor, "and it's sheer folly to waste more
money on him. Nothing can save him from ruin," and so saying, the
unhappy father walked out of the room.

"Would the governor like to have the paving-stones?" said Bertie to
his sister.

"I'll tell you what," said she. "If you don't take care, you will
find yourself loose upon the world without even a house over your
head; you don't know him as well as I do. He's very angry."

Bertie stroked his big beard, sipped his tea, chatted over his
misfortunes in a half-comic, half-serious tone, and ended by
promising his sister that he would do his very best to make himself
agreeable to the Widow Bold. Then Charlotte followed her father to
his own room, softened down his wrath, and persuaded him to say
nothing more about the Jew bill discounter, at any rate for a few
weeks. He even went so far as to say he would pay the L700, or at
any rate settle the bill, if he saw a certainty of his son's securing
for himself anything like a decent provision in life. Nothing was
said openly between them about poor Eleanor, but the father and the
daughter understood each other.

They all met together in the drawing-room at nine o'clock, in perfect
good humour with each other, and about that hour Mrs. Bold was
announced. She had never been in the house before, though she had of
course called, and now she felt it strange to find herself there in
her usual evening dress, entering the drawing-room of these strangers
in this friendly, unceremonious way, as though she had known them
all her life. But in three minutes they made her at home. Charlotte
tripped downstairs and took her bonnet from her, and Bertie came to
relieve her from her shawl, and the signora smiled on her as she
could smile when she chose to be gracious, and the old doctor shook
hands with her in a kind benedictory manner that went to her heart at
once and made her feel that he must be a good man.

She had not been seated for above five minutes when the door again
opened and Mr. Slope was announced. She felt rather surprised,
because she was told that nobody was to be there, and it was very
evident from the manner of some of them that Mr. Slope was not
unexpected. But still there was not much in it. In such invitations
a bachelor or two more or less are always spoken of as nobodies,
and there was no reason why Mr. Slope should not drink tea at Dr.
Stanhope's as well as Eleanor herself. He, however, was very much
surprised and not very much gratified at finding that his own embryo
spouse made one of the party. He had come there to gratify himself
by gazing on Madame Neroni's beauty and listening to and returning
her flattery: and though he had not owned as much to himself, he
still felt that if he spent the evening as he had intended to do, he
might probably not thereby advance his suit with Mrs. Bold.

The signora, who had no idea of a rival, received Mr. Slope with
her usual marks of distinction. As he took her hand, she made some
confidential communication to him in a low voice, declaring that
she had a plan to communicate to him after tea, and was evidently
prepared to go on with her work of reducing the chaplain to a state
of captivity. Poor Mr. Slope was rather beside himself. He thought
that Eleanor could not but have learnt from his demeanour that he was
an admirer of her own, and he had also flattered himself that the
idea was not unacceptable to her. What would she think of him if he
now devoted himself to a married woman!