Barchester Towers

A >> Anthony Trollope >> Barchester Towers


Miss Stanhope, however, had tact enough to make herself and her
father's house very agreeable to Mrs. Bold. There was with them all
an absence of stiffness and formality which was peculiarly agreeable
to Eleanor after the great dose of clerical arrogance which she had
lately been constrained to take. She played chess with them, walked
with them, and drank tea with them; studied or pretended to study
astronomy; assisted them in writing stories in rhyme, in turning
prose tragedy into comic verse, or comic stories into would-be tragic
poetry. She had no idea before that she had any such talents. She
had not conceived the possibility of her doing such things as she
now did. She found with the Stanhopes new amusements and employments,
new pursuits, which in themselves could not be wrong, and which were
exceedingly alluring.

Is it not a pity that people who are bright and clever should so
often be exceedingly improper, and that those who are never improper
should so often be dull and heavy? Now Charlotte Stanhope was always
bright and never heavy, but then her propriety was doubtful.

But during all this time Eleanor by no means forgot Mr. Arabin, nor
did she forget Mr. Slope. She had parted from Mr. Arabin in her
anger. She was still angry at what she regarded as his impertinent
interference, but nevertheless she looked forward to meeting him
again, and also looked forward to forgiving him. The words that Mr.
Arabin had uttered still sounded in her ears. She knew that if not
intended for a declaration of love, they did signify that he loved
her, and she felt also that if he ever did make such a declaration,
it might be that she should not receive it unkindly. She was still
angry with him, very angry with him; so angry that she would bite her
lip and stamp her foot as she thought of what he had said and done.
Nevertheless, she yearned to let him know that he was forgiven; all
that she required was that he should own that he had sinned.

She was to meet him at Ullathorne on the last day of the present
month. Miss Thorne had invited all the country round to a breakfast
on the lawn. There were to be tents, and archery, and dancing for
the ladies on the lawn and for the swains and girls in the paddock.
There were to be fiddlers and fifers, races for the boys, poles to
be climbed, ditches full of water to be jumped over, horse-collars
to be grinned through (this latter amusement was an addition of the
stewards, and not arranged by Miss Thorne in the original programme),
and every game to be played which, in a long course of reading, Miss
Thorne could ascertain to have been played in the good days of Queen
Elizabeth. Everything of more modern growth was to be tabooed, if
possible. On one subject Miss Thorne was very unhappy. She had been
turning in her mind the matter of a bull-ring, but could not succeed
in making anything of it. She would not for the world have done, or
allowed to be done, anything that was cruel; as to the promoting the
torture of a bull for the amusement of her young neighbours, it need
hardly be said that Miss Thorne would be the last to think of it.
And yet there was something so charming in the name. A bull-ring,
however, without a bull would only be a memento of the decadence of
the times, and she felt herself constrained to abandon the idea.
Quintains, however, she was determined to have, and had poles and
swivels and bags of flour prepared accordingly. She would no doubt
have been anxious for something small in the way of a tournament,
but, as she said to her brother, that had been tried, and the age had
proved itself too decidedly inferior to its forerunners to admit of
such a pastime. Mr. Thorne did not seem to participate much in her
regret, feeling perhaps that a full suit of chain-armour would have
added but little to his own personal comfort.

This party at Ullathorne had been planned in the first place as a
sort of welcoming to Mr. Arabin on his entrance into St. Ewold's
parsonage; an intended harvest-home gala for the labourers and their
wives and children had subsequently been amalgamated with it, and
thus it had grown to its present dimensions. All the Plumstead party
had of course been asked, and at the time of the invitation Eleanor
had intended to have gone with her sister. Now her plans were
altered, and she was going with the Stanhopes. The Proudies were
also to be there, and, as Mr. Slope had not been included in the
invitation to the palace, the signora, whose impudence never deserted
her, asked permission of Miss Thorne to bring him.

This permission Miss Thorne gave, having no other alternative; but
she did so with a trembling heart, fearing Mr. Arabin would be
offended. Immediately on his return she apologized, almost with
tears, so dire an enmity was presumed to rage between the two
gentlemen. But Mr. Arabin comforted her by an assurance that he
should meet Mr. Slope with the greatest pleasure imaginable and made
her promise that she would introduce them to each other.

But this triumph of Mr. Slope's was not so agreeable to Eleanor, who
since her return to Barchester had done her best to avoid him. She
would not give way to the Plumstead folk when they so ungenerously
accused her of being in love with this odious man; but, nevertheless,
knowing that she was so accused, she was fully alive to the
expediency of keeping out of his way and dropping him by degrees.
She had seen very little of him since her return. Her servant had
been instructed to say to all visitors that she was out. She could
not bring herself to specify Mr. Slope particularly, and in order to
avoid him she had thus debarred herself from all her friends. She
had excepted Charlotte Stanhope and, by degrees, a few others also.
Once she had met him at the Stanhopes', but as a rule, Mr. Slope's
visits there were made in the morning and hers in the evening. On
that one occasion Charlotte had managed to preserve her from any
annoyance. This was very good-natured on the part of Charlotte, as
Eleanor thought, and also very sharp-witted, as Eleanor had told her
friend nothing of her reasons for wishing to avoid that gentleman.
The fact, however, was that Charlotte had learnt from her sister that
Mr. Slope would probably put himself forward as a suitor for the
widow's hand, and she was consequently sufficiently alive to the
expediency of guarding Bertie's future wife from any danger in that
quarter.

Nevertheless the Stanhopes were pledged to take Mr. Slope with
them to Ullathorne. An arrangement was therefore necessarily made,
which was very disagreeable to Eleanor. Dr. Stanhope, with herself,
Charlotte, and Mr. Slope, were to go together, and Bertie was to
follow with his sister Madeline. It was clearly visible by Eleanor's
face that this assortment was very disagreeable to her, and
Charlotte, who was much encouraged thereby in her own little plan,
made a thousand apologies.

"I see you don't like it, my dear," said she, "but we could not
manage otherwise. Bertie would give his eyes to go with you, but
Madeline cannot possibly go without him. Nor could we possibly put
Mr. Slope and Madeline in the same carriage without anyone else.
They'd both be ruined forever, you know, and not admitted inside
Ullathorne gates, I should imagine, after such an impropriety."

"Of course that wouldn't do," said Eleanor, "but couldn't I go in the
carriage with the signora and your brother?"

"Impossible!" said Charlotte. "When she is there, there is only room
for two." The Signora, in truth, did not care to do her travelling in
the presence of strangers.

"Well, then," said Eleanor, "you are all so kind, Charlotte, and so
good to me that I am sure you won't be offended, but I think I'll not
go at all."

"Not go at all!--what nonsense!--indeed you shall." It had been
absolutely determined in family counsel that Bertie should propose on
that very occasion.

"Or I can take a fly," said Eleanor. "You know I am not embarrassed
by so many difficulties as you young ladies; I can go alone."

"Nonsense, my dear! Don't think of such a thing; after all, it is
only for an hour or so; and, to tell the truth, I don't know what it
is you dislike so. I thought you and Mr. Slope were great friends.
What is it you dislike?"

"Oh, nothing particular," said Eleanor; "only I thought it would be a
family party."

"Of course it would be much nicer, much more snug, if Bertie could go
with us. It is he that is badly treated. I can assure you he is much
more afraid of Mr. Slope than you are. But you see Madeline cannot go
out without him--and she, poor creature, goes out so seldom! I am sure
you don't begrudge her this, though her vagary does knock about our
own party a little."

Of course Eleanor made a thousand protestations and uttered a thousand
hopes that Madeline would enjoy herself. And of course she had to give
way and undertake to go in the carriage with Mr. Slope. In fact, she
was driven either to do this or to explain why she would not do so.
Now she could not bring herself to explain to Charlotte Stanhope all
that had passed at Plumstead.

But it was to her a sore necessity. She thought of a thousand little
schemes for avoiding it; she would plead illness and not go at all;
she would persuade Mary Bold to go, although not asked, and then make
a necessity of having a carriage of her own to take her sister-in-law;
anything, in fact, she could do, rather than be seen by Mr. Arabin
getting out of the same carriage with Mr. Slope. However, when the
momentous morning came, she had no scheme matured, and then Mr. Slope
handed her into Dr. Stanhope's carriage and, following her steps, sat
opposite to her.

The bishop returned on the eve of the Ullathorne party, and was
received at home with radiant smiles by the partner of all his cares.
On his arrival he crept up to his dressing-room with somewhat of a
palpitating heart; he had overstayed his alloted time by three days,
and was not without much fear of penalties. Nothing, however, could
be more affectionately cordial than the greeting he received; the
girls came out and kissed him in a manner that was quite soothing to
his spirit; and Mrs. Proudie, "albeit, unused to the melting mood,"
squeezed him in her arms and almost in words called him her dear,
darling, good, pet, little bishop. All this was a very pleasant
surprise.

Mrs. Proudie had somewhat changed her tactics; not that she had seen
any cause to disapprove of her former line of conduct, but she had
now brought matters to such a point that she calculated that she
might safely do so. She had got the better of Mr. Slope, and she now
thought well to show her husband that when allowed to get the better
of everybody, when obeyed by him and permitted to rule over others,
she would take care that he should have his reward. Mr. Slope had
not a chance against her; not only could she stun the poor bishop by
her midnight anger, but she could assuage and soothe him, if she so
willed, by daily indulgences. She could furnish his room for him,
turn him out as smart a bishop as any on the bench, give him good
dinners, warm fires, and an easy life--all this she would do if
he would but be quietly obedient. But, if not,--! To speak sooth,
however, his sufferings on that dreadful night had been so poignant
as to leave him little spirit for further rebellion.

As soon as he had dressed himself, she returned to his room. "I hope
you enjoyed yourself at ----," said she, seating herself on one side
of the fire while he remained in his armchair on the other, stroking
the calves of his legs. It was the first time he had had a fire in
his room since the summer, and it pleased him, for the good bishop
loved to be warm and cosy. Yes, he said, he had enjoyed himself very
much. Nothing could be more polite than the archbishop, and Mrs.
Archbishop had been equally charming.

Mrs. Proudie was delighted to hear it; nothing, she declared, pleased
her so much as to think


Her bairn respectit like the lave.


She did not put it precisely in these words, but what she said came
to the same thing; and then, having petted and fondled her little man
sufficiently, she proceeded to business.

"The poor dean is still alive," said she.

"So I hear, so I hear," said the bishop. "I'll go to the deanery
directly after breakfast to-morrow."

"We are going to this party at Ullathorne to-morrow morning, my dear;
we must be there early, you know--by twelve o'clock I suppose."

"Oh--ah!" said the bishop; "then I'll certainly call the next day."

"Was much said about it at ----?" asked Mrs. Proudie.

"About what?" said the bishop.

"Filling up the dean's place," said Mrs. Proudie. As she spoke, a
spark of the wonted fire returned to her eye, and the bishop felt
himself to be a little less comfortable than before.

"Filling up the dean's place; that is, if the dean dies? Very
little, my dear. It was mentioned, just mentioned."

"And what did you say about it, Bishop?"

"Why, I said that I thought that if, that is, should--should the
dean die, that is, I said I thought--" As he went on stammering and
floundering, he saw that his wife's eye was fixed sternly on him.
Why should he encounter such evil for a man whom he loved so slightly
as Mr. Slope? Why should he give up his enjoyments and his ease and
such dignity as might be allowed to him to fight a losing battle for
a chaplain? The chaplain, after all, if successful, would be as great
a tyrant as his wife. Why fight at all? Why contend? Why be uneasy?
From that moment he determined to fling Mr. Slope to the winds and
take the goods the gods provided.

"I am told," said Mrs. Proudie, speaking very slowly, "that Mr. Slope
is looking to be the new dean."

"Yes--certainly, I believe he is," said the bishop.

"And what does the archbishop say about that?" asked Mrs. Proudie.

"Well, my dear, to tell the truth, I promised Mr. Slope to speak to
the archbishop. Mr. Slope spoke to me about it. It is very arrogant
of him, I must say--but that is nothing to me."

"Arrogant!" said Mrs. Proudie; "it is the most impudent piece of
pretension I ever heard of in my life. Mr. Slope Dean of Barchester,
indeed! And what did you do in the matter, Bishop?"

"Why, my dear, I did speak to the archbishop."

"You don't mean to tell me," said Mrs. Proudie, "that you are
going to make yourself ridiculous by lending your name to such a
preposterous attempt as this? Mr. Slope Dean of Barchester, indeed!"
And she tossed her head and put her arms akimbo with an air of
confident defiance that made her husband quite sure that Mr. Slope
never would be Dean of Barchester. In truth, Mrs. Proudie was all
but invincible; had she married Petruchio, it may be doubted whether
that arch wife-tamer would have been able to keep her legs out of
those garments which are presumed by men to be peculiarly unfitted
for feminine use.

"It is preposterous, my dear."

"Then why have you endeavoured to assist him?"

"Why--my dear, I haven't assisted him--much."

"But why have you done it at all? Why have you mixed your name up in
anything so ridiculous? What was it you did say to the archbishop?"

"Why, I just did mention it; I just did say that--that in the event
of the poor dean's death, Mr. Slope would--would--"

"Would what?"

"I forget how I put it--would take it if he could get it; something
of that sort. I didn't say much more than that."

"You shouldn't have said anything at all. And what did the
archbishop say?"

"He didn't say anything; he just bowed and rubbed his hands. Somebody
else came up at the moment, and as we were discussing the new
parochial universal school committee, the matter of the new dean
dropped; after that I didn't think it wise to renew it."

"Renew it! I am very sorry you ever mentioned it. What will the
archbishop think of you?"

"You may be sure, my dear, the archbishop thought very little about
it."

"But why did you think about it, Bishop? How could you think of
making such a creature as that Dean of Barchester? Dean of Barchester!
I suppose he'll be looking for a bishopric some of these days--a man
that hardly knows who his own father was; a man that I found without
bread to his mouth or a coat to his back. Dean of Barchester, indeed!
I'll dean him."

Mrs. Proudie considered herself to be in politics a pure Whig; all
her family belonged to the Whig party. Now, among all ranks of
Englishmen and Englishwomen (Mrs. Proudie should, I think, be ranked
among the former on the score of her great strength of mind), no one
is so hostile to lowly born pretenders to high station as the pure
Whig.

The bishop thought it necessary to exculpate himself. "Why, my dear,"
said he, "it appeared to me that you and Mr. Slope did not get on
quite so well as you used to do!"

"Get on!" said Mrs. Proudie, moving her foot uneasily on the
hearth-rug and compressing her lips in a manner that betokened much
danger to the subject of their discourse.

"I began to find that he was objectionable to you"--Mrs. Proudie's
foot worked on the hearth-rug with great rapidity--"and that you
would be more comfortable if he was out of the palace"--Mrs.
Proudie smiled, as a hyena may probably smile before he begins his
laugh--"and therefore I thought that if he got this place, and so
ceased to be my chaplain, you might be pleased at such an arrangement."

And then the hyena laughed out. Pleased at such an arrangement!
Pleased at having her enemy converted into a dean with twelve hundred
a year! Medea, when she describes the customs of her native country
(I am quoting from Robson's edition), assures her astonished auditor
that in her land captives, when taken, are eaten.

"You pardon them?" says Medea.

"We do indeed," says the mild Grecian.

"We eat them!" says she of Colchis, with terrific energy.

Mrs. Proudie was the Medea of Barchester; she had no idea of not
eating Mr. Slope. Pardon him! Merely get rid of him! Make a dean
of him! It was not so they did with their captives in her country,
among people of her sort! Mr. Slope had no such mercy to expect; she
would pick him to the very last bone.

"Oh, yes, my dear, of course he'll cease to be your chaplain," said
she. "After what has passed, that must be a matter of course. I
couldn't for a moment think of living in the same house with such a
man. Besides, he has shown himself quite unfit for such a situation;
making broils and quarrels among the clergy; getting you, my dear,
into scrapes; and taking upon himself as though he were as good as
bishop himself. Of course he'll go. But because he leaves the palace,
that is no reason why he should get into the deanery."

"Oh, of course not!" said the bishop; "but to save appearances, you
know, my dear--"

"I don't want to save appearances; I want Mr. Slope to appear just
what he is--a false, designing, mean, intriguing man. I have my eye
on him; he little knows what I see. He is misconducting himself
in the most disgraceful way with that lame Italian woman. That
family is a disgrace to Barchester, and Mr. Slope is a disgrace
to Barchester. If he doesn't look well to it, he'll have his gown
stripped off his back instead of having a dean's hat on his head.
Dean, indeed! The man has gone mad with arrogance."

The bishop said nothing further to excuse either himself or his
chaplain, and having shown himself passive and docile, was again
taken into favour. They soon went to dinner, and he spent the
pleasantest evening he had had in his own house for a long time. His
daughter played and sang to him as he sipped his coffee and read
his newspaper, and Mrs. Proudie asked good-natured little questions
about the archbishop; and then he went happily to bed and slept as
quietly as though Mrs. Proudie had been Griselda herself. While
shaving himself in the morning and preparing for the festivities of
Ullathorne, he fully resolved to run no more tilts against a warrior
so fully armed at all points as was Mrs. Proudie.




CHAPTER XXXIV

Oxford--The Master and Tutor of Lazarus


Mr. Arabin, as we have said, had but a sad walk of it under the trees
of Plumstead churchyard. He did not appear to any of the family till
dinner-time, and then he seemed, as far as their judgement went, to
be quite himself. He had, as was his wont, asked himself a great many
questions and given himself a great many answers; and the upshot of
this was that he had sent himself down for an ass. He had determined
that he was much too old and much too rusty to commence the manoeuvres
of love-making; that he had let the time slip through his hands which
should have been used for such purposes; and that now he must lie on
his bed as he had made it. Then he asked himself whether in truth
he did love this woman; and he answered himself, not without a long
struggle, but at last honestly, that he certainly did love her. He
then asked himself whether he did not also love her money, and he
again answered himself that he did so. But here he did not answer
honestly. It was and ever had been his weakness to look for impure
motives for his own conduct. No doubt, circumstanced as he was, with a
small living and a fellowship, accustomed as he had been to collegiate
luxuries and expensive comforts, he might have hesitated to marry a
penniless woman had he felt ever so strong a predilection for the
woman herself; no doubt Eleanor's fortune put all such difficulties
out of the question; but it was equally without doubt that his love
for her had crept upon him without the slightest idea on his part that
he could ever benefit his own condition by sharing her wealth.

When he had stood on the hearth-rug, counting the pattern and counting
also the future chances of his own life, the remembrances of Mrs.
Bold's comfortable income had certainly not damped his first assured
feeling of love for her. And why should it have done so? Need it have
done so with the purest of men? Be that as it may, Mr. Arabin decided
against himself; he decided that it had done so in his case, and that
he was not the purest of men.

He also decided, which was more to his purpose, that Eleanor did not
care a straw for him, and that very probably she did care a straw
for his rival. Then he made up his mind not to think of her any
more, and went on thinking of her till he was almost in a state to
drown himself in the little brook which ran at the bottom of the
archdeacon's grounds.

And ever and again his mind would revert to the Signora Neroni, and
he would make comparisons between her and Eleanor Bold, not always in
favour of the latter. The signora had listened to him, and flattered
him, and believed in him; at least she had told him so. Mrs. Bold
had also listened to him, but had never flattered him; had not always
believed in him; and now had broken from him in violent rage. The
signora, too, was the more lovely woman of the two, and had also
the additional attraction of her affliction--for to him it was an
attraction.

But he never could have loved the Signora Neroni as he felt that he
now loved Eleanor; and so he flung stones into the brook, instead of
flinging in himself, and sat down on its margin as sad a gentleman as
you shall meet in a summer's day.

He heard the dinner-bell ring from the churchyard, and he knew that
it was time to recover his self-possession. He felt that he was
disgracing himself in his own eyes, that he had been idling his
time and neglecting the high duties which he had taken upon himself
to perform. He should have spent this afternoon among the poor at
St. Ewold's, instead of wandering about at Plumstead, an ancient,
love-lorn swain, dejected and sighing, full of imaginary sorrows and
Wertherian grief. He was thoroughly ashamed of himself, and determined
to lose no time in retrieving his character, so damaged in his own
eyes.

Thus when he appeared at dinner he was as animated as ever and was
the author of most of the conversation which graced the archdeacon's
board on that evening. Mr. Harding was ill at ease and sick at heart,
and did not care to appear more comfortable than he really was; what
little he did say was said to his daughter. He thought that the
archdeacon and Mr. Arabin had leagued together against Eleanor's
comfort, and his wish now was to break away from the pair and undergo
in his Barchester lodgings whatever Fate had in store for him. He
hated the name of the hospital; his attempt to regain his lost
inheritance there had brought upon him so much suffering. As far as
he was concerned, Mr. Quiverful was now welcome to the place.

And the archdeacon was not very lively. The poor dean's illness was
of course discussed in the first place. Dr. Grantly did not mention
Mr. Slope's name in connexion with the expected event of Dr. Trefoil's
death; he did not wish to say anything about Mr. Slope just at
present, nor did he wish to make known his sad surmises; but the idea
that his enemy might possibly become Dean of Barchester made him very
gloomy. Should such an event take place, such a dire catastrophe
come about, there would be an end to his life as far as his life was
connected with the city of Barchester. He must give up all his old
haunts, all his old habits, and live quietly as a retired rector at
Plumstead. It had been a severe trial for him to have Dr. Proudie in
the palace, but with Mr. Slope also in the deanery he felt that he
should be unable to draw his breath in Barchester close.