Barchester Towers

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"And have we not a certain rule, Mr. Arabin?"

"Yes--yes, surely; 'Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from
evil.' But what is temptation? What is evil? Is this evil--is this
temptation?"

Poor Mr. Arabin! It would not come out of him, that deep, true love
of his. He could not bring himself to utter it in plain language
that would require and demand an answer. He knew not how to say to
the woman by his side, "Since the fact is that you do not love that
other man, that you are not to be his wife, can you love me, will
you be my wife?" These were the words which were in his heart, but
with all his sighs he could not draw them to his lips. He would have
given anything, everything for power to ask this simple question, but
glib as was his tongue in pulpits and on platforms, now he could not
find a word wherewith to express the plain wish of his heart.

And yet Eleanor understood him as thoroughly as though he had
declared his passion with all the elegant fluency of a practised
Lothario. With a woman's instinct, she followed every bend of his
mind as he spoke of the pleasantness of Plumstead and the stones of
Oxford, as he alluded to the safety of the Romish priest and the
hidden perils of temptation. She knew that it all meant love. She
knew that this man at her side, this accomplished scholar, this
practised orator, this great polemical combatant, was striving and
striving in vain to tell her that his heart was no longer his own.

She knew this, and felt a sort of joy in knowing it; yet she would
not come to his aid. He had offended her deeply, had treated her
unworthily, the more unworthily seeing that he had learnt to love
her, and Eleanor could not bring herself to abandon her revenge. She
did not ask herself whether or no she would ultimately accept his
love. She did not even acknowledge to herself that she now perceived
it with pleasure. At the present moment it did not touch her heart;
it merely appeased her pride and flattered her vanity. Mr. Arabin
had dared to associate her name with that of Mr. Slope, and now her
spirit was soothed by finding that he would fain associate it with
his own. And so she walked on beside him, inhaling incense but
giving out no sweetness in return.

"Answer me this," said Mr. Arabin, stopping suddenly in his walk and
stepping forward so that he faced his companion. "Answer me this one
question. You do not love Mr. Slope? You do not intend to be his
wife?"

Mr. Arabin certainly did not go the right way to win such a woman
as Eleanor Bold. Just as her wrath was evaporating, as it was
disappearing before the true warmth of his untold love, he rekindled
it by a most useless repetition of his original sin. Had he known
what he was about, he should never have mentioned Mr. Slope's name
before Eleanor Bold, till he had made her all his own. Then, and not
till then, he might have talked of Mr. Slope with as much triumph as
he chose.

"I shall answer no such question," said she; "and what is more,
I must tell you that nothing can justify your asking it. Good
morning!"

And so saying, she stepped proudly across the lawn and, passing
through the drawing-room window, joined her father and sister at
lunch in the dining-room. Half an hour afterwards she was in the
carriage, and so she left Plumstead without again seeing Mr. Arabin.

His walk was long and sad among the sombre trees that overshadowed
the churchyard. He left the archdeacon's grounds that he might
escape attention, and sauntered among the green hillocks under which
lay at rest so many of the once loving swains and forgotten beauties
of Plumstead. To his ears Eleanor's last words sounded like a knell
never to be reversed. He could not comprehend that she might be
angry with him, indignant with him, remorseless with him, and yet
love him. He could not make up his mind whether or no Mr. Slope was
in truth a favoured rival. If not, why should she not have answered
his question?

Poor Mr. Arabin--untaught, illiterate, boorish, ignorant man! That
at forty years of age you should know so little of the workings of a
woman's heart!




CHAPTER XXXI

The Bishop's Library


And thus the pleasant party at Plumstead was broken up. It had been
a very pleasant party as long as they had all remained in good humour
with one another. Mrs. Grantly had felt her house to be gayer and
brighter than it had been for many a long day, and the archdeacon had
been aware that the month had passed pleasantly without attributing
the pleasure to any other special merits than those of his own
hospitality. Within three or four days of Eleanor's departure, Mr.
Harding had also returned, and Mr. Arabin had gone to Oxford to
spend one week there previous to his settling at the vicarage of St.
Ewold's. He had gone laden with many messages to Dr. Gwynne touching
the iniquity of the doings in Barchester palace and the peril in
which it was believed the hospital still stood in spite of the
assurances contained in Mr. Slope's inauspicious letter.

During Eleanor's drive into Barchester she had not much opportunity
of reflecting on Mr. Arabin. She had been constrained to divert her
mind both from his sins and his love by the necessity of conversing
with her sister and maintaining the appearance of parting with her
on good terms. When the carriage reached her own door, and while she
was in the act of giving her last kiss to her sister and nieces, Mary
Bold ran out and exclaimed:

"Oh, Eleanor, have you heard? Oh, Mrs. Grantly, have you heard what
has happened? The poor dean!"

"Good heavens!" said Mrs. Grantly. "What--what has happened?"

"This morning at nine he had a fit of apoplexy, and he has not spoken
since. I very much fear that by this time he is no more."

Mrs. Grantly had been very intimate with the dean, and was therefore
much shocked. Eleanor had not known him so well; nevertheless, she
was sufficiently acquainted with his person and manners to feel
startled and grieved also at the tidings she now received. "I will
go at once to the deanery," said Mrs. Grantly; "the archdeacon, I am
sure, will be there. If there is any news to send you, I will let
Thomas call before he leaves town." And so the carriage drove off,
leaving Eleanor and her baby with Mary Bold.

Mrs. Grantly had been quite right. The archdeacon was at the deanery.
He had come into Barchester that morning by himself, not caring to
intrude himself upon Eleanor, and he also immediately on his arrival
had heard of the dean's fit. There was, as we have before said, a
library or reading-room connecting the cathedral with the dean's
house. This was generally called the bishop's library, because a
certain bishop of Barchester was supposed to have added it to the
cathedral. It was built immediately over a portion of the cloisters,
and a flight of stairs descended from it into the room in which the
cathedral clergymen put their surplices on and off. As it also opened
directly into the dean's house, it was the passage through which that
dignitary usually went to his public devotions. Who had or had not the
right of entry into it, it might be difficult to say; but the people
of Barchester believed that it belonged to the dean, and the clergymen
of Barchester believed that it belonged to the chapter.

On the morning in question most of the resident clergymen who
constituted the chapter, and some few others, were here assembled,
and among them as usual the archdeacon towered with high authority.
He had heard of the dean's fit before he was over the bridge which
led into the town, and had at once come to the well-known clerical
trysting place. He had been there by eleven o'clock, and had remained
ever since. From time to time the medical men who had been called
in came through from the deanery into the library, uttered little
bulletins, and then returned. There was, it appears, very little
hope of the old man's rallying, indeed no hope of anything like a
final recovery. The only question was whether he must die at once
speechless, unconscious, stricken to death by his first heavy fit, or
whether by due aid of medical skill he might not be so far brought
back to this world as to become conscious of his state and enabled to
address one prayer to his Maker before he was called to meet Him face
to face at the judgement seat.

Sir Omicron Pie had been sent for from London. That great man had
shown himself a wonderful adept at keeping life still moving within
an old man's heart in the case of good old Bishop Grantly, and it
might be reasonably expected that he would be equally successful with
a dean. In the meantime Dr. Fillgrave and Mr. Rerechild were doing
their best, and poor Miss Trefoil sat at the head of her father's
bed, longing, as in such cases daughters do long, to be allowed to
do something to show her love--if it were only to chafe his feet
with her hands, or wait in menial offices on those autocratic
doctors--anything so that now in the time of need she might be of
use.

The archdeacon alone of the attendant clergy had been admitted for
a moment into the sick man's chamber. He had crept in with creaking
shoes, had said with smothered voice a word of consolation to the
sorrowing daughter, had looked on the distorted face of his old
friend with solemn but yet eager scrutinising eye, as though he said
in his heart "and so some day it will probably be with me," and then,
having whispered an unmeaning word or two to the doctors, had creaked
his way back again into the library.

"He'll never speak again, I fear," said the archdeacon as he
noiselessly closed the door, as though the unconscious dying man,
from whom all sense had fled, would have heard in his distant chamber
the spring of the lock which was now so carefully handled.

"Indeed! Indeed! Is he so bad?" said the meagre little prebendary,
turning over in his own mind all the probable candidates for the
deanery and wondering whether the archdeacon would think it worth his
while to accept it. "The fit must have been very violent."

"When a man over seventy has a stroke of apoplexy, it seldom comes
very lightly," said the burly chancellor.

"He was an excellent, sweet-tempered man," said one of the vicars
choral. "Heaven knows how we shall repair his loss."

"He was indeed," said a minor canon, "and a great blessing to all
those privileged to take a share in the services of our cathedral.
I suppose the government will appoint, Mr. Archdeacon. I trust we
may have no stranger."

"We will not talk about his successor," said the archdeacon, "while
there is yet hope."

"Oh, no, of course not," said the minor canon. "It would be
exceedingly indecorous; but--"

"I know of no man," said the meagre little prebendary, "who has
better interest with the present government than Mr. Slope."

"Mr. Slope," said two or three at once almost sotto voce. "Mr. Slope
Dean of Barchester!"

"Pooh!" exclaimed the burly chancellor.

"The bishop would do anything for him," said the little prebendary.

"And so would Mrs. Proudie," said the vicar choral.

"Pooh!" said the chancellor.

The archdeacon had almost turned pale at the idea. What if Mr. Slope
should become Dean of Barchester? To be sure there was no adequate
ground, indeed no ground at all, for presuming that such a desecration
could even be contemplated. But nevertheless it was on the cards. Dr.
Proudie had interest with the government, and the man carried as it
were Dr. Proudie in his pocket. How should they all conduct themselves
if Mr. Slope were to become Dean of Barchester? The bare idea for a
moment struck even Dr. Grantly dumb.

"It would certainly not be very pleasant for us to have Mr. Slope at
the deanery," said the little prebendary, chuckling inwardly at the
evident consternation which his surmise had created.

"About as pleasant and as probable as having you in the palace," said
the chancellor.

"I should think such an appointment highly improbable," said the
minor canon, "and, moreover, extremely injudicious. Should not you,
Mr. Archdeacon?"

"I should presume such a thing to be quite out of the question," said
the archdeacon, "but at the present moment I am thinking rather of
our poor friend who is lying so near us than of Mr. Slope."

"Of course, of course," said the vicar choral with a very solemn air;
"of course you are. So are we all. Poor Dr. Trefoil; the best of men,
but--"

"It's the most comfortable dean's residence in England," said a
second prebendary. "Fifteen acres in the grounds. It is better than
many of the bishops' palaces."

"And full two thousand a year," said the meagre doctor.

"It is cut down to L1,200," said the chancellor.

"No," said the second prebendary. "It is to be fifteen. A special
case was made."

"No such thing," said the chancellor.

"You'll find I'm right," said the prebendary.

"I'm sure I read it in the report," said the minor canon.

"Nonsense," said the chancellor. "They couldn't do it. There were
to be no exceptions but London and Durham."

"And Canterbury and York," said the vicar choral modestly.

"What do you say, Grantly?" said the meagre little doctor.

"Say about what?" said the archdeacon, who had been looking as though
he were thinking about his friend the dean, but who had in reality
been thinking about Mr. Slope.

"What is the next dean to have, twelve or fifteen?"

"Twelve," said the archdeacon authoritatively, thereby putting an end
at once to all doubt and dispute among his subordinates as far as
that subject was concerned.

"Well, I certainly thought it was fifteen," said the minor canon.

"Pooh!" said the burly chancellor. At this moment the door opened
and in came Dr. Fillgrave.

"How is he?" "Is he conscious?" "Can he speak?" "I hope not dead?"
"No worse news, Doctor, I trust?" "I hope, I trust, something
better, Doctor?" said half a dozen voices all at once, each in a tone
of extremest anxiety. It was pleasant to see how popular the good
old dean was among his clergy.

"No change, gentlemen; not the slightest change. But a telegraphic
message has arrived--Sir Omicron Pie will be here by the 9.15 P.M.
train. If any man can do anything, Sir Omicron Pie will do it. But
all that skill can do has been done."

"We are sure of that, Dr. Fillgrave," said the archdeacon; "we are
quite sure of that. But yet you know--"

"Oh, quite right," said the doctor, "quite right--I should have
done just the same--I advised it at once. I said to Rerechild at
once that with such a life and such a man, Sir Omicron should be
summoned--of course I knew expense was nothing--so distinguished, you
know, and so popular. Nevertheless, all that human skill can do has
been done."

Just at this period Mrs. Grantly's carriage drove into the close, and
the archdeacon went down to confirm the news which she had heard
before.

By the 9.15 P.M. train Sir Omicron Pie did arrive. And in the course
of the night a sort of consciousness returned to the poor old dean.
Whether this was due to Sir Omicron Pie is a question on which it may
be well not to offer an opinion. Dr. Fillgrave was very clear in his
own mind, but Sir Omicron himself is thought to have differed from
that learned doctor. At any rate Sir Omicron expressed an opinion
that the dean had yet some days to live.

For the eight or ten next days, accordingly, the poor dean remained
in the same state, half-conscious and half-comatose; and the
attendant clergy began to think that no new appointment would be
necessary for some few months to come.




CHAPTER XXXII

A New Candidate for Ecclesiastical Honours


The dean's illness occasioned much mental turmoil in other places
besides the deanery and adjoining library, and the idea which occurred
to the meagre little prebendary about Mr. Slope did not occur to him
alone.

The bishop was sitting listlessly in his study when the news reached
him of the dean's illness. It was brought to him by Mr. Slope, who
of course was not the last person in Barchester to hear it. It was
also not slow in finding its way to Mrs. Proudie's ears. It may be
presumed that there was not just then much friendly intercourse
between these two rival claimants for his lordship's obedience.
Indeed, though living in the same house, they had not met since the
stormy interview between them in the bishop's study on the preceding
day.

On that occasion Mrs. Proudie had been defeated. That the prestige
of continual victory should have been torn from her standards was a
subject of great sorrow to that militant lady; but, though defeated,
she was not overcome. She felt that she might yet recover her lost
ground, that she might yet hurl Mr. Slope down to the dust from which
she had picked him, and force her sinning lord to sue for pardon in
sackcloth and ashes.

On that memorable day, memorable for his mutiny and rebellion against
her high behests, he had carried his way with a high hand, and had
really begun to think it possible that the days of his slavery were
counted. He had begun to hope that he was now about to enter into a
free land, a land delicious with milk which he himself might quaff
and honey which would not tantalize him by being only honey to the
eye. When Mrs. Proudie banged the door as she left his room, he felt
himself every inch a bishop. To be sure, his spirit had been a little
cowed by his chaplain's subsequent lecture, but on the whole he was
highly pleased with himself, and he flattered himself that the worst
was over. "_Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute_," he reflected, and
now that the first step had been so magnanimously taken, all the rest
would follow easily.

He met his wife as a matter of course at dinner, where little or
nothing was said that could ruffle the bishop's happiness. His
daughters and the servants were present and protected him.

He made one or two trifling remarks on the subject of his projected
visit to the archbishop, in order to show to all concerned that he
intended to have his own way; the very servants, perceiving the
change, transferred a little of their reverence from their mistress
to their master. All which the master perceived, and so also did the
mistress. But Mrs. Proudie bided her time.

After dinner he returned to his study, where Mr. Slope soon found
him, and there they had tea together and planned many things. For
some few minutes the bishop was really happy; but as the clock on the
chimney-piece warned him that the stilly hours of night were drawing
on, as he looked at his chamber candlestick and knew that he must
use it, his heart sank within him again. He was as a ghost, all
whose power of wandering free through these upper regions ceases at
cock-crow; or, rather, he was the opposite of the ghost, for till
cock-crow he must again be a serf. And would that be all? Could he
trust himself to come down to breakfast a free man in the morning?

He was nearly an hour later than usual when he betook himself to his
rest. Rest! What rest? However, he took a couple of glasses of sherry
and mounted the stairs. Far be it from us to follow him thither. There
are some things which no novelist, no historian, should attempt; some
few scenes in life's drama which even no poet should dare to paint.
Let that which passed between Dr. Proudie and his wife on this night
be understood to be among them.

He came down the following morning a sad and thoughtful man. He was
attenuated in appearance--one might almost say emaciated. I doubt
whether his now grizzled locks had not palpably become more grey than
on the preceding evening. At any rate he had aged materially. Years
do not make a man old gradually and at an even pace. Look through
the world and see if this is not so always, except in those
rare cases in which the human being lives and dies without joys
and without sorrows, like a vegetable. A man shall be possessed
of florid, youthful blooming health till, it matters not what
age--thirty; forty; fifty--then comes some nipping frost, some period
of agony, that robs the fibres of the body of their succulence, and
the hale and hearty man is counted among the old.

He came down and breakfasted alone; Mrs. Proudie, being indisposed,
took her coffee in her bedroom, and her daughters waited upon her
there. He ate his breakfast alone, and then, hardly knowing what he
did, he betook himself to his usual seat in his study. He tried to
solace himself with his coming visit to the archbishop. That effort
of his own free will at any rate remained to him as an enduring
triumph. But somehow, now that he had achieved it, he did not seem
to care so much about it. It was his ambition that had prompted him
to take his place at the archiepiscopal table, and his ambition was
now quite dead within him.

He was thus seated when Mr. Slope made his appearance, with
breathless impatience.

"My lord, the dean is dead."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed the bishop, startled out of his apathy by
an announcement so sad and so sudden.

"He is either dead or now dying. He has had an apoplectic fit, and I
am told that there is not the slightest hope; indeed, I do not doubt
that by this time he is no more."

Bells were rung, and servants were immediately sent to inquire.
In the course of the morning the bishop, leaning on his chaplains
arm, himself called at the deanery door. Mrs. Proudie sent to Miss
Trefoil all manner of offers of assistance. The Misses Proudie sent
also, and there was immense sympathy between the palace and the
deanery. The answer to all inquiries was unvaried. The dean was
just the same, and Sir Omicron Pie was expected down by the 9.15 P.M.
train.

And then Mr. Slope began to meditate, as others also had done, as to
who might possibly be the new dean, and it occurred to him, as it had
also occurred to others, that it might be possible that he should be
the new dean himself. And then the question as to the twelve hundred,
or fifteen hundred, or two thousand ran in his mind, as it had run
through those of the other clergymen in the cathedral library.

Whether it might be two thousand, or fifteen, or twelve hundred, it
would in any case undoubtedly be a great thing for him, if he could
get it. The gratification to his ambition would be greater even than
that of his covetousness. How glorious to out-top the archdeacon in
his own cathedral city; to sit above prebendaries and canons and have
the cathedral pulpit and all the cathedral services altogether at his
own disposal!

But it might be easier to wish for this than to obtain it. Mr.
Slope, however, was not without some means of forwarding his views,
and he at any rate did not let the grass grow under his feet. In the
first place, he thought--and not vainly--that he could count upon
what assistance the bishop could give him. He immediately changed
his views with regard to his patron; he made up his mind that if he
became dean, he would hand his lordship back again to his wife's
vassalage; and he thought it possible that his lordship might not be
sorry to rid himself of one of his mentors. Mr. Slope had also taken
some steps towards making his name known to other men in power.
There was a certain chief-commissioner of national schools, who at
the present moment was presumed to stand especially high in the
good graces of the government bigwigs, and with him Mr. Slope had
contrived to establish a sort of epistolary intimacy. He thought
that he might safely apply to Sir Nicholas Fitzwhiggin, and he felt
sure that if Sir Nicholas chose to exert himself, the promise of such
a piece of preferment would be had for the asking.

Then he also had the press at his bidding, or flattered himself that
he had so. "The Daily Jupiter" had taken his part in a very thorough
manner in those polemical contests of his with Mr. Arabin; he had on
more than one occasion absolutely had an interview with a gentleman
on the staff of that paper who, if not the editor, was as good as the
editor; and he had long been in the habit of writing telling letters
on all manner of ecclesiastical abuses, which he signed with his
initials, and sent to his editorial friend with private notes signed
in his own name. Indeed, he and Mr. Towers--such was the name of the
powerful gentleman of the press with whom he was connected--were
generally very amiable with each other. Mr. Slope's little productions
were always printed and occasionally commented upon; and thus, in a
small sort of way, he had become a literary celebrity. This public
life had great charms for him, though it certainly also had its
drawbacks. On one occasion, when speaking in the presence of
reporters, he had failed to uphold and praise and swear by that
special line of conduct which had been upheld and praised and sworn
by in "The Jupiter," and then he had been much surprised and at
the moment not a little irritated to find himself lacerated most
unmercifully by his old ally. He was quizzed and bespattered and made
a fool of, just as though, or rather worse than if, he had been a
constant enemy instead of a constant friend. He had hitherto not
learnt that a man who aspires to be on the staff of "The Jupiter" must
surrender all individuality. But ultimately this little castigation
had broken no bones between him and his friend Mr. Towers. Mr. Slope
was one of those who understood the world too well to show himself
angry with such a potentate as "The Jupiter." He had kissed the rod
that scourged him, and now thought that he might fairly look for his
reward. He determined that he would at once let Mr. Towers know that
he was a candidate for the place which was about to become vacant.
More than one piece of preferment had lately been given away much in
accordance with advice tendered to the government in the columns of
"The Jupiter."