Barchester Towers

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Thus it came to pass that in spite of the sorrow at his heart, Mr.
Arabin was apparently the gayest of the party. Both Mr. Harding and
Mrs. Grantly were in a slight degree angry with him on account of his
want of gloom. To the one it appeared as though he were triumphing
at Eleanor's banishment, and to the other that he was not affected as
he should have been by all the sad circumstances of the day--Eleanor's
obstinacy, Mr. Slope's success, and the poor dean's apoplexy. And so
they were all at cross-purposes.

Mr. Harding left the room almost together with the ladies, and then
the archdeacon opened his heart to Mr. Arabin. He still harped upon
the hospital. "What did that fellow mean," said he, "by saying in
his letter to Mrs. Bold that if Mr. Harding would call on the bishop,
it would be all right? Of course I would not be guided by anything
he might say, but still it may be well that Mr. Harding should see
the bishop. It would be foolish to let the thing slip through our
fingers because Mrs. Bold is determined to make a fool of herself."

Mr. Arabin hinted that he was not quite so sure that Mrs. Bold would
make a fool of herself. He said that he was not convinced that
she did regard Mr. Slope so warmly as she was supposed to do. The
archdeacon questioned and cross-questioned him about this, but
elicited nothing, and at last remained firm in his own conviction
that he was destined, _malgre lui_, to be the brother-in-law of Mr.
Slope. Mr. Arabin strongly advised that Mr. Harding should take no
step regarding the hospital in connexion with, or in consequence
of, Mr. Slope's letter. "If the bishop really means to confer the
appointment on Mr. Harding," argued Mr. Arabin, "he will take care to
let him have some other intimation than a message conveyed through a
letter to a lady. Were Mr. Harding to present himself at the palace,
he might merely be playing Mr. Slope's game;" and thus it was settled
that nothing should be done till the great Dr. Gwynne's arrival, or
at any rate without that potentate's sanction.

It was droll to observe how these men talked of Mr. Harding as though
he were a puppet, and planned their intrigues and small ecclesiastical
manoeuvres in reference to Mr. Harding's future position without
dreaming of taking him into their confidence. There was a comfortable
house and income in question, and it was very desirable, and certainly
very just, that Mr. Harding should have them; but that at present
was not the main point; it was expedient to beat the bishop and, if
possible, to smash Mr. Slope. Mr. Slope had set up, or was supposed to
have set up, a rival candidate. Of all things the most desirable would
have been to have had Mr. Quiverful's appointment published to the
public and then annulled by the clamour of an indignant world, loud in
the defence of Mr. Harding's rights. But of such an event the chance
was small; a slight fraction only of the world would be indignant, and
that fraction would be one not accustomed to loud speaking. And then
the preferment had, in a sort of way, been offered to Mr. Harding and
had, in a sort of way, been refused by him.

Mr. Slope's wicked, cunning hand had been peculiarly conspicuous
in the way in which this had been brought to pass, and it was the
success of Mr. Slope's cunning which was so painfully grating to the
feelings of the archdeacon. That which of all things he most dreaded
was that he should be outgeneralled by Mr. Slope; and just at present
it appeared probable that Mr. Slope would turn his flank, steal a
march on him, cut off his provisions, carry his strong town by a _coup
de main_, and at last beat him thoroughly in a regular pitched battle.
The archdeacon felt that his flank had been turned when desired to
wait on Mr. Slope instead of the bishop, that a march had been stolen
when Mr. Harding was induced to refuse the bishop's offer, that his
provisions would be cut off when Mr. Quiverful got the hospital,
that Eleanor was the strong town doomed to be taken, and that Mr.
Slope, as Dean of Barchester, would be regarded by all the world as
conqueror in the final conflict.

Dr. Gwynne was the _Deus ex machina_ who was to come down upon the
Barchester stage and bring about deliverance from these terrible
evils. But how can melodramatic _denouements_ be properly brought
about, how can vice and Mr. Slope be punished, and virtue and the
archdeacon be rewarded, while the avenging god is laid up with the
gout? In the mean time evil may be triumphant, and poor innocence,
transfixed to the earth by an arrow from Dr. Proudie's quiver, may
lie dead upon the ground, not to be resuscitated even by Dr. Gwynne.

Two or three days after Eleanor's departure, Mr. Arabin went to
Oxford and soon found himself closeted with the august head of his
college. It was quite clear that Dr. Gwynne was not very sanguine as
to the effects of his journey to Barchester, and not over-anxious to
interfere with the bishop. He had had the gout, but was very nearly
convalescent, and Mr. Arabin at once saw that had the mission been
one of which the master thoroughly approved, he would before this
have been at Plumstead.

As it was, Dr. Gwynne was resolved on visiting his friend, and
willingly promised to return to Barchester with Mr. Arabin. He could
not bring himself to believe that there was any probability that Mr.
Slope would be made Dean of Barchester. Rumour, he said, had reached
even his ears, not at all favourable to that gentleman's character,
and he expressed himself strongly of opinion that any such
appointment was quite out of the question. At this stage of the
proceedings, the master's right-hand man, Tom Staple, was called in
to assist at the conference. Tom Staple was the Tutor of Lazarus
and, moreover, a great man at Oxford. Though universally known by a
species of nomenclature so very undignified, Tom Staple was one who
maintained a high dignity in the university. He was, as it were, the
leader of the Oxford tutors, a body of men who consider themselves
collectively as being by very little, if at all, second in importance
to the heads themselves. It is not always the case that the master,
or warden, or provost, or principal can hit it off exactly with his
tutor. A tutor is by no means indisposed to have a will of his own.
But at Lazarus they were great friends and firm allies at the time of
which we are writing.

Tom Staple was a hale, strong man of about forty-five, short in
stature, swarthy in face, with strong, sturdy black hair and crisp
black beard of which very little was allowed to show itself in shape
of whiskers. He always wore a white neckcloth, clean indeed, but
not tied with that scrupulous care which now distinguishes some of
our younger clergy. He was, of course, always clothed in a seemly
suit of solemn black. Mr. Staple was a decent cleanly liver, not
over-addicted to any sensuality; but nevertheless a somewhat warmish
hue was beginning to adorn his nose, the peculiar effect, as his
friends averred, of a certain pipe of port introduced into the cellars
of Lazarus the very same year in which the tutor entered it as a
freshman. There was also, perhaps, a little redolence of port wine, as
it were the slightest possible twang, in Mr. Staple's voice.

In these latter days Tom Staple was not a happy man; university
reform had long been his bugbear, and now was his bane. It was not
with him, as with most others, an affair of politics, respecting
which, when the need existed, he could, for parties' sake or on
behalf of principle, maintain a certain amount of necessary zeal;
it was not with him a subject for dilettante warfare and courteous,
commonplace opposition. To him it was life and death. The _status
quo_ of the university was his only idea of life, and any reformation
was as bad to him as death. He would willingly have been a martyr in
the cause, had the cause admitted of martyrdom.

At the present day, unfortunately, public affairs will allow of no
martyrs, and therefore it is that there is such a deficiency of zeal.
Could gentlemen of L10,000 a year have died on their own door-steps
in defence of protection, no doubt some half-dozen glorious old
baronets would have so fallen, and the school of protection would at
this day have been crowded with scholars. Who can fight strenuously
in any combat in which there is no danger? Tom Staple would have
willingly been impaled before a Committee of the House, could he by
such self-sacrifice have infused his own spirit into the component
members of the hebdomadal board.

Tom Staple was one of those who in his heart approved of the credit
system which had of old been in vogue between the students and
tradesmen of the university. He knew and acknowledged to himself
that it was useless in these degenerate days publicly to contend with
"The Jupiter" on such a subject. "The Jupiter" had undertaken to rule
the university, and Tom Staple was well aware that "The Jupiter" was
too powerful for him. But in secret, and among his safe companions,
he would argue that the system of credit was an ordeal good for young
men to undergo.

The bad men, said he, the weak and worthless, blunder into danger and
burn their feet; but the good men, they who have any character, they
who have that within them which can reflect credit on their alma
mater, they come through scatheless. What merit will there be to a
young man to get through safely, if he be guarded and protected and
restrained like a schoolboy? By so doing, the period of the ordeal
is only postponed, and the manhood of the man will be deferred from
the age of twenty to that of twenty-four. If you bind him with
leading-strings at college, he will break loose while eating for the
bar in London; bind him there, and he will break loose afterwards,
when he is a married man. The wild oats must be sown somewhere.
'Twas thus that Tom Staple would argue of young men, not, indeed,
with much consistency, but still with some practical knowledge of the
subject gathered from long experience.

And now Tom Staple proffered such wisdom as he had for the assistance
of Dr. Gwynne and Mr. Arabin.

"Quite out of the question," said he, arguing that Mr. Slope could
not possibly be made the new Dean of Barchester.

"So I think," said the master. "He has no standing, and, if all I
hear be true, very little character."

"As to character," said Tom Staple, "I don't think much of that.
They rather like loose parsons for deans; a little fast living, or a
dash of infidelity, is no bad recommendation to a cathedral close.
But they couldn't make Mr. Slope; the last two deans have been
Cambridge men; you'll not show me an instance of their making three
men running from the same university. We don't get our share and
never shall, I suppose, but we must at least have one out of three."

"Those sort of rules are all gone by now," said Mr. Arabin.

"Everything has gone by, I believe," said Tom Staple. "The cigar has
been smoked out, and we are the ashes."

"Speak for yourself, Staple," said the master.

"I speak for all," said the tutor stoutly. "It is coming to that,
that there will be no life left anywhere in the country. No one
is any longer fit to rule himself, or those belonging to him. The
Government is to find us all in everything, and the press is to find
the Government. Nevertheless, Mr. Slope won't be Dean of
Barchester."

"And who will be warden of the hospital?" said Mr. Arabin.

"I hear that Mr. Quiverful is already appointed," said Tom Staple.

"I think not," said the master. "And I think, moreover, that Dr.
Proudie will not be so short-sighted as to run against such a rock:
Mr. Slope should himself have sense enough to prevent it."

"But perhaps Mr. Slope may have no objection to see his patron on a
rock," said the suspicious tutor.

"What could he get by that?" asked Mr. Arabin.

"It is impossible to see the doubles of such a man," said Mr. Staple.
"It seems quite clear that Bishop Proudie is altogether in his hands,
and it is equally clear that he has been moving heaven and earth to
get this Mr. Quiverful into the hospital, although he must know that
such an appointment would be most damaging to the bishop. It is
impossible to understand such a man, and dreadful to think," added Tom
Staple, sighing deeply, "that the welfare and fortunes of good men
may depend on his intrigues."

Dr. Gwynne or Mr. Staple were not in the least aware, nor even was
Mr. Arabin, that this Mr. Slope, of whom they were talking, had been
using his utmost efforts to put their own candidate into the hospital,
and that in lieu of being permanent in the palace, his own expulsion
therefrom had been already decided on by the high powers of the
diocese.

"I'll tell you what," said the tutor, "if this Quiverful is thrust
into the hospital and Dr. Trefoil does die, I should not wonder if
the Government were to make Mr. Harding Dean of Barchester. They
would feel bound to do something for him after all that was said when
he resigned."

Dr. Gwynne at the moment made no reply to this suggestion, but it did
not the less impress itself on his mind. If Mr. Harding could not be
warden of the hospital, why should he not be Dean of Barchester?

And so the conference ended without any very fixed resolution, and
Dr. Gwynne and Mr. Arabin prepared for their journey to Plumstead on
the morrow.




CHAPTER XXXV

Miss Thorne's Fete Champetre


The day of the Ullathorne party arrived, and all the world were
there--or at least so much of the world as had been included in Miss
Thorne's invitation. As we have said, the bishop returned home on
the previous evening, and on the same evening and by the same train
came Dr. Gwynne and Mr. Arabin from Oxford. The archdeacon with his
brougham was in waiting for the Master of Lazarus, so that there was
a goodly show of church dignitaries on the platform of the railway.

The Stanhope party was finally arranged in the odious manner already
described, and Eleanor got into the doctor's carriage full of
apprehension and presentiment of further misfortune, whereas Mr.
Slope entered the vehicle elate with triumph.

He had received that morning a very civil note from Sir Nicholas
Fitzwhiggin, not promising much, indeed, but then Mr. Slope knew,
or fancied that he knew, that it was not etiquette for government
officers to make promises. Though Sir Nicholas promised nothing he
implied a good deal, declared his conviction that Mr. Slope would
make an excellent dean, and wished him every kind of success. To be
sure he added that, not being in the cabinet, he was never consulted
on such matters, and that even if he spoke on the subject, his voice
would go for nothing. But all this Mr. Slope took for the prudent
reserve of official life. To complete his anticipated triumphs,
another letter was brought to him just as he was about to start to
Ullathorne.

Mr. Slope also enjoyed the idea of handing Mrs. Bold out of Dr.
Stanhope's carriage before the multitude at Ullathorne gate as much
as Eleanor dreaded the same ceremony. He had fully made up his mind
to throw himself and his fortune at the widow's feet, and had almost
determined to select the present propitious morning for doing so.
The signora had of late been less than civil to him. She had indeed
admitted his visits and listened, at any rate without anger, to his
love, but she had tortured him and reviled him, jeered at him and
ridiculed him, while she allowed him to call her the most beautiful
of living women, to kiss her hand, and to proclaim himself with
reiterated oaths her adorer, her slave and worshipper.

Miss Thorne was in great perturbation, yet in great glory, on the
morning of the gala day. Mr. Thorne also, though the party was none
of his giving, had much heavy work on his hands. But perhaps the
most overtasked, the most anxious, and the most effective of all the
Ullathorne household was Mr. Plomacy, the steward. This last personage
had, in the time of Mr. Thorne's father, when the Directory held
dominion in France, gone over to Paris with letters in his boot-heel
for some of the royal party, and such had been his good luck that
he had returned safe. He had then been very young and was now very
old, but the exploit gave him a character for political enterprise
and secret discretion which still availed him as thoroughly as it
had done in its freshest gloss. Mr. Plomacy had been steward of
Ullathorne for more than fifty years, and a very easy life he had had
of it. Who could require much absolute work from a man who had carried
safely at his heel that which, if discovered, would have cost him
his head? Consequently Mr. Plomacy had never worked hard, and of
latter years had never worked at all. He had a taste for timber, and
therefore he marked the trees that were to be cut down; he had a taste
for gardening, and would therefore allow no shrub to be planted or
bed to be made without his express sanction. In these matters he was
sometimes driven to run counter to his mistress, but he rarely allowed
his mistress to carry the point against him.

But on occasions such as the present Mr. Plomacy came out strong. He
had the honour of the family at heart; he thoroughly appreciated the
duties of hospitality; and therefore, when gala doings were going on,
he always took the management into his own hands and reigned supreme
over master and mistress.

To give Mr. Plomacy his due, old as he was, he thoroughly understood
such work as he had in hand, and did it well.

The order of the day was to be as follows. The quality, as the upper
classes in rural districts are designated by the lower with so much
true discrimination, were to eat a breakfast, and the non-quality
were to eat a dinner. Two marquees had been erected for these two
banquets: that for the quality on the esoteric or garden side of a
certain deep ha-ha; and that for the non-quality on the exoteric or
paddock side of the same. Both were of huge dimensions--that on the
outer side was, one may say, on an egregious scale--but Mr. Plomacy
declared that neither would be sufficient. To remedy this, an
auxiliary banquet was prepared in the dining-room, and a subsidiary
board was to be spread _sub dio_ for the accommodation of the lower
class of yokels on the Ullathorne property.

No one who has not had a hand in the preparation of such an affair
can understand the manifold difficulties which Miss Thorne encountered
in her project. Had she not been made throughout of the very finest
whalebone, riveted with the best Yorkshire steel, she must have sunk
under them. Had not Mr. Plomacy felt how much was justly expected from
a man who at one time carried the destinies of Europe in his boot,
he would have given way, and his mistress, so deserted, must have
perished among her poles and canvas.

In the first place there was a dreadful line to be drawn. Who were
to dispose themselves within the ha-ha, and who without? To this
the unthinking will give an off-hand answer, as they will to every
ponderous question. Oh, the bishop and such-like within the ha-ha,
and Farmer Greenacre and such-like without. True, my unthinking
friend, but who shall define these such-likes? It is in such
definitions that the whole difficulty of society consists. To seat
the bishop on an arm-chair on the lawn and place Farmer Greenacre at
the end of a long table in the paddock is easy enough, but where will
you put Mrs. Lookaloft, whose husband, though a tenant on the estate,
hunts in a red coat, whose daughters go to a fashionable seminary
in Barchester, who calls her farm-house Rosebank, and who has a
pianoforte in her drawing-room? The Misses Lookaloft, as they call
themselves, won't sit contented among the bumpkins. Mrs. Lookaloft
won't squeeze her fine clothes on a bench and talk familiarly about
cream and ducklings to good Mrs. Greenacre. And yet Mrs. Lookaloft
is no fit companion and never has been the associate of the Thornes
and the Grantlys. And if Mrs. Lookaloft be admitted within the
sanctum of fashionable life, if she be allowed with her three
daughters to leap the ha-ha, why not the wives and daughters of other
families also? Mrs. Greenacre is at present well contented with the
paddock, but she might cease to be so if she saw Mrs. Lookaloft on
the lawn. And thus poor Miss Thorne had a hard time of it.

And how was she to divide her guests between the marquee and the
parlour? She had a countess coming, an Honourable John and an
Honourable George, and a whole bevy of Ladies Amelia, Rosina,
Margaretta, &c; she had a leash of baronets with their baronettes;
and, as we all know, she had a bishop. If she put them on the lawn,
no one would go into the parlour; if she put them into the parlour,
no one would go into the tent. She thought of keeping the old people
in the house and leaving the lawn to the lovers. She might as well
have seated herself at once in a hornet's nest. Mr. Plomacy knew
better than this. "Bless your soul, ma'am," said he, "there won't be
no old ladies--not one, barring yourself and old Mrs. Clantantram."

Personally Miss Thorne accepted this distinction in her favour as a
compliment to her good sense, but nevertheless she had no desire to
be closeted on the coming occasion with Mrs. Clantantram. She gave
up all idea of any arbitrary division of her guests and determined if
possible to put the bishop on the lawn and the countess in the house,
to sprinkle the baronets, and thus divide the attractions. What to
do with the Lookalofts even Mr. Plomacy could not decide. They must
take their chance. They had been specially told in the invitation
that all the tenants had been invited, and they might probably have
the good sense to stay away if they objected to mix with the rest of
the tenantry.

Then Mr. Plomacy declared his apprehension that the Honourable Johns
and Honourable Georges would come in a sort of amphibious costume,
half-morning, half-evening, satin neck-handkerchiefs, frock-coats,
primrose gloves, and polished boots; and that, being so dressed, they
would decline riding at the quintain, or taking part in any of the
athletic games which Miss Thorne had prepared with so much fond care.
If the Lord Johns and Lord Georges didn't ride at the quintain, Miss
Thorne might be sure that nobody else would.

"But," said she in dolorous voice, all but overcome by her cares, "it
was specially signified that there were to be sports."

"And so there will be, of course," said Mr. Plomacy. "They'll all be
sporting with the young ladies in the laurel walks. Them's the sports
they care most about now-a-days. If you gets the young men at the
quintain, you'll have all the young women in the pouts."

"Can't they look on as their great grandmothers did before them?" said
Miss Thorne.

"It seems to me that the ladies ain't contented with looking
now-a-days. Whatever the men do they'll do. If you'll have
side-saddles on the nags; and let them go at the quintain too, it'll
answer capital, no doubt."

Miss Thorne made no reply. She felt that she had no good ground on
which to defend her sex of the present generation from the sarcasm
of Mr. Plomacy. She had once declared, in one of her warmer moments,
"that now-a-days the gentlemen were all women, and the ladies all
men." She could not alter the debased character of the age. But,
such being the case, why should she take on herself to cater for the
amusement of people of such degraded tastes? This question she asked
herself more than once, and she could only answer herself with a
sigh. There was her own brother Wilfred, on whose shoulders rested
all the ancient honours of Ullathorne house; it was very doubtful
whether even he would consent to "go at the quintain," as Mr. Plomacy
not injudiciously expressed it.

And now the morning arrived. The Ullathorne household was early on
the move. Cooks were cooking in the kitchen long before daylight,
and men were dragging out tables and hammering red baize on to
benches at the earliest dawn. With what dread eagerness did Miss
Thorne look out at the weather as soon as the parting veil of night
permitted her to look at all! In this respect, at any rate, there
was nothing to grieve her. The glass had been rising for the last
three days, and the morning broke with that dull, chill, steady,
grey haze which in autumn generally presages a clear and dry day.
By seven she was dressed and down. Miss Thorne knew nothing of the
modern luxury of _deshabilles_. She would as soon have thought of
appearing before her brother without her stockings as without her
stays--and Miss Thorne's stays were no trifle.

And yet there was nothing for her to do when down. She fidgeted out
to the lawn and then back into the kitchen. She put on her high-heeled
clogs and fidgeted out into the paddock. Then she went into the small
home park where the quintain was erected. The pole and cross-bar and
the swivel and the target and the bag of flour were all complete. She
got up on a carpenter's bench and touched the target with her hand;
it went round with beautiful ease; the swivel had been oiled to
perfection. She almost wished to take old Plomacy at his word, to get
on a side-saddle and have a tilt at it herself. What must a young man
be, thought she, who could prefer maundering among laurel trees with a
wishy-washy school-girl to such fun as this? "Well," said she aloud to
herself, "one man can take a horse to water, but a thousand can't make
him drink. There it is. If they haven't the spirit to enjoy it, the
fault shan't be mine;" and so she returned to the house.