Barchester Towers

A >> Anthony Trollope >> Barchester Towers


At a little after eight her brother came down, and they had a sort of
scrap breakfast in his study. The tea was made without the customary
urn, and they dispensed with the usual rolls and toast. Eggs also
were missing, for every egg in the parish had been whipped into
custards, baked into pies, or boiled into lobster salad. The allowance
of fresh butter was short, and Mr. Thorne was obliged to eat the leg
of a fowl without having it devilled in the manner he loved.

"I have been looking at the quintain, Wilfred," said she, "and it
appears to be quite right."

"Oh--ah, yes," said he. "It seemed to be so yesterday when I saw
it." Mr. Thorne was beginning to be rather bored by his sister's
love of sports, and had especially no affection for this quintain
post.

"I wish you'd just try it after breakfast," said she. "You could
have the saddle put on Mark Antony, and the pole is there all handy.
You can take the flour bag off, you know, if you think Mark Antony
won't be quick enough," added Miss Thorne, seeing that her brother's
countenance was not indicative of complete accordance with her little
proposition.

Now Mark Antony was a valuable old hunter, excellently suited to
Mr. Thorne's usual requirements, steady indeed at his fences, but
extremely sure, very good in deep ground, and safe on the roads. But
he had never yet been ridden at a quintain, and Mr. Thorne was not
inclined to put him to the trial, either with or without the bag of
flour. He hummed and hawed and finally declared that he was afraid
Mark Antony would shy.

"Then try the cob," said the indefatigable Miss Thorne.

"He's in physic," said Wilfred.

"There's the Beelzebub colt," said his sister. "I know he's in the
stable because I saw Peter exercising him just now."

"My dear Monica, he's so wild that it's as much as I can do to manage
him at all. He'd destroy himself and me, too, if I attempted to ride
him at such a rattletrap as that."

A rattletrap! The quintain that she had put up with so much anxious
care; the game that she had prepared for the amusement of the
stalwart yeomen of the country; the sport that had been honoured by
the affection of so many of their ancestors! It cut her to the heart
to hear it so denominated by her own brother. There were but the two
of them left together in the world, and it had ever been one of the
rules by which Miss Thorne had regulated her conduct through life to
say nothing that could provoke her brother. She had often had to
suffer from his indifference to time-honoured British customs, but
she had always suffered in silence. It was part of her creed that
the head of the family should never be upbraided in his own house,
and Miss Thorne had lived up to her creed. Now, however, she was
greatly tried. The colour mounted to her ancient cheek, and the
fire blazed in her still bright eyes; but yet she said nothing. She
resolved that, at any rate, to him nothing more should be said about
the quintain that day.

She sipped her tea in silent sorrow and thought with painful
regret of the glorious days when her great ancestor Ealfried had
successfully held Ullathorne against a Norman invader. There was no
such spirit now left in her family except that small useless spark
which burnt in her own bosom. And she herself, was not she at this
moment intent on entertaining a descendant of those very Normans,
a vain proud countess with a Frenchified name who would only think
that she graced Ullathorne too highly by entering its portals? Was it
likely that an Honourable John, the son of an Earl De Courcy, should
ride at a quintain in company with Saxon yeomen? And why should
she expect her brother to do that which her brother's guests would
decline to do?

Some dim faint idea of the impracticability of her own views flitted
across her brain. Perhaps it was necessary that races doomed to live
on the same soil should give way to each other and adopt each other's
pursuits. Perhaps it was impossible that after more than five
centuries of close intercourse, Normans should remain Normans, and
Saxons, Saxons. Perhaps, after all, her neighbours were wiser than
herself. Such ideas did occasionally present themselves to Miss
Thorne's mind and make her sad enough. But it never occurred to
her that her favourite quintain was but a modern copy of a Norman
knight's amusement, an adaptation of the noble tourney to the tastes
and habits of the Saxon yeomen. Of this she was ignorant, and it
would have been cruelty to instruct her.

When Mr. Thorne saw the tear in her eye, he repented himself of his
contemptuous expression. By him also it was recognized as a binding
law that every whim of his sister was to be respected. He was not
perhaps so firm in his observances to her as she was in hers to him.
But his intentions were equally good, and whenever he found that he
had forgotten them, it was matter of grief to him.

"My dear Monica," said he, "I beg your pardon. I don't in the least
mean to speak ill of the game. When I called it a rattletrap, I
merely meant that it was so for a man of my age. You know you always
forget that I an't a young man."

"I am quite sure you are not an old man, Wilfred," said she,
accepting the apology in her heart and smiling at him with the tear
still on her cheek.

"If I was five-and-twenty, or thirty," continued he, "I should like
nothing better than riding at the quintain all day."

"But you are not too old to hunt or to shoot," said she. "If you can
jump over a ditch and hedge, I am sure you could turn the quintain
round."

"But when I ride over the hedges, my dear--and it isn't very often I
do that--but when I do ride over the hedges, there isn't any bag of
flour coming after me. Think how I'd look taking the countess out to
breakfast with the back of my head all covered with meal."

Miss, Thorne said nothing further. She didn't like the allusion to
the countess. She couldn't be satisfied with the reflection that
the sports at Ullathorne should be interfered with by the personal
attentions necessary for a Lady De Courcy. But she saw that it was
useless for her to push the matter further. It was conceded that Mr.
Thorne was to be spared the quintain, and Miss Thorne determined to
trust wholly to a youthful knight of hers, an immense favourite, who,
as she often declared, was a pattern to the young men of the age and
an excellent sample of an English yeoman.

This was Farmer Greenacre's eldest son, who, to tell the truth, had
from his earliest years taken the exact measure of Miss Thorne's
foot. In his boyhood he had never failed to obtain from her apples,
pocket-money, and forgiveness for his numerous trespasses; and now in
his early manhood he got privileges and immunities which were equally
valuable. He was allowed a day or two's shooting in September; he
schooled the squire's horses; got slips of trees out of the orchard
and roots of flowers out of the garden; and had the fishing of the
little river altogether in his own hands. He had undertaken to come
mounted on a nag of his father's and show the way at the quintain
post. Whatever young Greenacre did the others would do after him.
The juvenile Lookalofts might stand aloof, but the rest of the youth
of Ullathorne would be sure to venture if Harry Greenacre showed the
way. And so Miss Thorne made up her mind to dispense with the noble
Johns and Georges and trust, as her ancestors had done before her, to
the thews and sinews of native Ullathorne growth.

At about nine the lower orders began to congregate in the paddock and
park, under the surveillance of Mr. Plomacy and the head gardener and
head groom, who were sworn in as his deputies and were to assist him
in keeping the peace and promoting the sports. Many of the younger
inhabitants of the neighbourhood, thinking that they could not have
too much of a good thing, had come at a very early hour, and the road
between the house and the church had been thronged for some time
before the gates were thrown open.

And then another difficulty of huge dimensions arose, a difficulty
which Mr. Plomacy had indeed foreseen and for which he was in some
sort provided. Some of those who wished to share Miss Thorne's
hospitality were not so particular as they should have been as to the
preliminary ceremony of an invitation. They doubtless conceived that
they had been overlooked by accident, and instead of taking this in
dudgeon, as their betters would have done, they good-naturedly put up
with the slight, and showed that they did so by presenting themselves
at the gate in their Sunday best.

Mr. Plomacy, however, well-knew who were welcome and who were not.
To some, even though uninvited, he allowed ingress. "Don't be too
particular, Plomacy," his mistress had said, "especially with the
children. If they live anywhere near, let them in."

Acting on this hint, Mr. Plomacy did let in many an eager urchin and
a few tidily dressed girls with their swains who in no way belonged
to the property. But to the denizens of the city he was inexorable.
Many a Barchester apprentice made his appearance there that day and
urged with piteous supplication that he had been working all the week
in making saddles and boots for the use of Ullathorne, in compounding
doses for the horses, or cutting up carcasses for the kitchen. No
such claim was allowed. Mr. Plomacy knew nothing about the city
apprentices; he was to admit the tenants and labourers on the estate;
Miss Thorne wasn't going to take in the whole city of Barchester; and
so on.

Nevertheless, before the day was half over, all this was found to be
useless. Almost anybody who chose to come made his way into the park,
and the care of the guardians was transferred to the tables on which
the banquet was spread. Even here there was many an unauthorised
claimant for a place, of whom it was impossible to get quit without
more commotion than the place and food were worth.




CHAPTER XXXVI

Ullathorne Sports--Act I


The trouble in civilized life of entertaining company, as it is called
too generally without much regard to strict veracity, is so great
that it cannot but be matter of wonder that people are so fond of
attempting it. It is difficult to ascertain what is the _quid pro
quo_. If they who give such laborious parties, and who endure such
toil and turmoil in the vain hope of giving them successfully, really
enjoyed the parties given by others, the matter could be understood. A
sense of justice would induce men and women to undergo, in behalf of
others, those miseries which others had undergone in their behalf. But
they all profess that going out is as great a bore as receiving, and
to look at them when they are out, one cannot but believe them.

Entertain! Who shall have sufficient self-assurance, who shall feel
sufficient confidence in his own powers to dare to boast that he can
entertain his company? A clown can sometimes do so, and sometimes
a dancer in short petticoats and stuffed pink legs; occasionally,
perhaps, a singer. But beyond these, success in this art of
entertaining is not often achieved. Young men and girls linking
themselves kind with kind, pairing like birds in spring because
nature wills it, they, after a simple fashion, do entertain each
other. Few others even try.

Ladies, when they open their houses, modestly confessing, it may
be presumed, their own incapacity, mainly trust to wax candles and
upholstery. Gentlemen seem to rely on their white waistcoats. To
these are added, for the delight of the more sensual, champagne and
such good things of the table as fashion allows to be still considered
as comestible. Even in this respect the world is deteriorating. All
the good soups are now tabooed, and at the houses of one's accustomed
friends--small barristers, doctors, government clerks, and such-like
(for we cannot all of us always live as grandees, surrounded by an
elysium of livery servants)--one gets a cold potato handed to one as
a sort of finale to one's slice of mutton. Alas for those happy days
when one could say to one's neighbour, "Jones, shall I give you some
mashed turnip? May I trouble you for a little cabbage?" And then the
pleasure of drinking wine with Mrs. Jones and Miss Smith--with all the
Joneses and all the Smiths! These latter-day habits are certainly more
economical.

Miss Thorne, however, boldly attempted to leave the modern, beaten
track, and made a positive effort to entertain her guests. Alas! She
did so with but moderate success. They had all their own way of going,
and would not go her way. She piped to them, but they would not dance.
She offered to them good, honest household cake made of currants and
flour and eggs and sweetmeat, but they would feed themselves on trashy
wafers from the shop of the Barchester pastry-cook, on chalk and gum
and adulterated sugar. Poor Miss Thorne! Yours is not the first honest
soul that has vainly striven to recall the glories of happy days
gone by! If fashion suggests to a Lady De Courcy that, when invited
to a _dejeuner_ at twelve she ought to come at three, no eloquence
of thine will teach her the advantage of a nearer approach to
punctuality.

She had fondly thought that when she called on her friends to come at
twelve, and specially begged them to believe that she meant it, she
would be able to see them comfortably seated in their tents at two.
Vain woman--or rather ignorant woman--ignorant of the advances of
that civilization which the world had witnessed while she was growing
old. At twelve she found herself alone, dressed in all the glory of
the newest of her many suits of raiment--with strong shoes however,
and a serviceable bonnet on her head, and a warm, rich shawl on her
shoulders. Thus clad, she peered out into the tent, went to the
ha-ha, and satisfied herself that at any rate the youngsters were
amusing themselves, spoke a word to Mrs. Greenacre over the ditch,
and took one look at the quintain. Three or four young farmers were
turning the machine round and round and poking at the bag of flour
in a manner not at all intended by the inventor of the game; but no
mounted sportsmen were there. Miss Thorne looked at her watch. It was
only fifteen minutes past twelve, and it was understood that Harry
Greenacre was not to begin till the half-hour.

Miss Thorne returned to her drawing-room rather quicker than was her
wont, fearing that the countess might come and find none to welcome
her. She need not have hurried, for no one was there. At half-past
twelve she peeped into the kitchen; at a quarter to one she was
joined by her brother; and just then the first fashionable arrival
took place. Mrs. Clantantram was announced.

No announcement was necessary, indeed, for the good lady's voice
was heard as she walked across the courtyard to the house, scolding
the unfortunate postilion who had driven her from Barchester. At
the moment Miss Thorne could not but be thankful that the other
guests were more fashionable and were thus spared the fury of Mrs.
Clantantram's indignation.

"Oh, Miss Thorne, look here!" said she as soon as she found herself
in the drawing-room; "do look at my roque-laure. It's clean spoilt,
and forever. I wouldn't but wear it because I knew you wished us all
to be grand to-day, and yet I had my misgivings. Oh dear, oh dear!
It was five-and-twenty shillings a yard."

The Barchester post-horses had misbehaved in some unfortunate manner
just as Mrs. Clantantram was getting out of the chaise and had nearly
thrown her under the wheel.

Mrs. Clantantram belonged to other days, and therefore, though she
had but little else to recommend her, Miss Thorne was to a certain
extent fond of her. She sent the roque-laure away to be cleaned, and
lent her one of her best shawls out of her own wardrobe.

The next comer was Mr. Arabin, who was immediately informed of Mrs.
Clantantram's misfortune and of her determination to pay neither
master nor post-boy, although, as she remarked, she intended to get
her lift home before she made known her mind upon that matter. Then
a good deal of rustling was heard in the sort of lobby that was used
for the ladies' outside cloaks, and the door having been thrown wide
open, the servant announced, not in the most confident of voices,
Mrs. Lookaloft, and the Miss Lookalofts, and Mr. Augustus Lookaloft.

Poor man!--we mean the footman. He knew, none better, that Mrs.
Lookaloft had no business there, that she was not wanted there, and
would not be welcome. But he had not the courage to tell a stout lady
with a low dress, short sleeves, and satin at eight shillings a yard
that she had come to the wrong tent; he had not dared to hint to young
ladies with white dancing shoes and long gloves that there was a place
ready for them in the paddock. And thus Mrs. Lookaloft carried her
point, broke through the guards, and made her way into the citadel.
That she would have to pass an uncomfortable time there she had
surmised before. But nothing now could rob her of the power of
boasting that she had consorted on the lawn with the squire and Miss
Thorne, with a countess, a bishop, and the county grandees, while Mrs.
Greenacre and such-like were walking about with the ploughboys in
the park. It was a great point gained by Mrs. Lookaloft, and it might
be fairly expected that from this time forward the tradesmen of
Barchester would, with undoubting pens, address her husband as T.
Lookaloft, Esquire.

Mrs. Lookaloft's pluck carried her through everything, and she walked
triumphant into the Ullathorne drawing-room; but her children did
feel a little abashed at the sort of reception they met with. It was
not in Miss Thorne's heart to insult her own guests, but neither was
it in her disposition to overlook such effrontery.

"Oh, Mrs. Lookaloft, is this you?" said she. "And your daughters and
son? Well, we're very glad to see you, but I'm sorry you've come in
such low dresses, as we are all going out of doors. Could we lend
you anything?"

"Oh dear, no thank ye, Miss Thorne," said the mother; "the girls and
myself are quite used to low dresses, when we're out."

"Are you, indeed?" said Miss Thorne shuddering--but the shudder was
lost on Mrs. Lookaloft.

"And where's Lookaloft?" said the master of the house, coming up to
welcome his tenant's wife. Let the faults of the family be what they
would, he could not but remember that their rent was well paid; he
was therefore not willing to give them a cold shoulder.

"Such a headache, Mr. Thorne!" said Mrs. Lookaloft. "In fact he
couldn't stir, or you may be certain on such a day he would not have
absented hisself."

"Dear me," said Miss Thorne. "If he is so ill, I'm sure you'd wish
to be with him."

"Not at all!" said Mrs. Lookaloft. "Not at all, Miss Thorne. It is
only bilious you know, and when he's that way, he can bear nobody
nigh him."

The fact, however, was that Mr. Lookaloft, having either more sense
or less courage than his wife, had not chosen to intrude on Miss
Thorne's drawing-room, and as he could not very well have gone among
the plebeians while his wife was with the patricians, he thought it
most expedient to remain at Rosebank.

Mrs. Lookaloft soon found herself on a sofa, and the Miss Lookalofts
on two chairs, while Mr. Augustus stood near the door; and here they
remained till in due time they were seated, all four together, at the
bottom of the dining-room table.

Then the Grantlys came--the archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly and the two
girls, and Dr. Gwynne and Mr. Harding. As ill-luck would have it,
they were closely followed by Dr. Stanhope's carriage. As Eleanor
looked out of the carriage window, she saw her brother-in-law helping
the ladies out and threw herself back into her seat, dreading to be
discovered. She had had an odious journey. Mr. Slope's civility had
been more than ordinarily greasy; and now, though he had not in fact
said anything which she could notice, she had for the first time
entertained a suspicion that he was intending to make love to her.
Was it after all true that she had been conducting herself in a way
that justified the world in thinking that she liked the man? After
all, could it be possible that the archdeacon and Mr. Arabin were
right, and that she was wrong? Charlotte Stanhope had also been
watching Mr. Slope and had come to the conclusion that it behoved her
brother to lose no further time, if he meant to gain the widow. She
almost regretted that it had not been contrived that Bertie should be
at Ullathorne before them.

Dr. Grantly did not see his sister-in-law in company with Mr. Slope,
but Mr. Arabin did. Mr. Arabin came out with Mr. Thorne to the front
door to welcome Mrs. Grantly, and he remained in the courtyard till
all their party had passed on. Eleanor hung back in the carriage as
long as she well could, but she was nearest to the door, and when Mr.
Slope, having alighted, offered her his hand, she had no alternative
but to take it. Mr. Arabin, standing at the open door while Mrs.
Grantly was shaking hands with someone within, saw a clergyman alight
from the carriage whom he at once knew to be Mr. Slope, and then
he saw this clergyman hand out Mrs. Bold. Having seen so much, Mr.
Arabin, rather sick at heart, followed Mrs. Grantly into the house.

Eleanor was, however, spared any further immediate degradation, for
Dr. Stanhope gave her his arm across the courtyard, and Mr. Slope was
fain to throw away his attention upon Charlotte.

They had hardly passed into the house, and from the house to the lawn,
when, with a loud rattle and such noise as great men and great women
are entitled to make in their passage through the world, the Proudies
drove up. It was soon apparent that no everyday comer was at the
door. One servant whispered to another that it was the bishop, and
the word soon ran through all the hangers-on and strange grooms and
coachmen about the place. There was quite a little cortege to see
the bishop and his "lady" walk across the courtyard, and the good man
was pleased to see that the church was held in such respect in the
parish of St. Ewold's.

And now the guests came fast and thick, and the lawn began to be
crowded, and the room to be full. Voices buzzed, silk rustled against
silk, and muslin crumpled against muslin. Miss Thorne became more
happy than she had been, and again bethought her of her sports. There
were targets and bows and arrows prepared at the further end of the
lawn. Here the gardens of the place encroached with a somewhat wide
sweep upon the paddock and gave ample room for the doings of the
toxophilites. Miss Thorne got together such daughters of Diana as
could bend a bow and marshalled them to the targets. There were the
Grantly girls and the Proudie girls and the Chadwick girls, and the
two daughters of the burly chancellor, and Miss Knowle; and with them
went Frederick and Augustus Chadwick, and young Knowle of Knowle
Park, and Frank Foster of the Elms, and Mr. Vellem Deeds, the dashing
attorney of the High Street, and the Rev. Mr. Green, and the Rev. Mr.
Brown, and the Rev. Mr. White, all of whom, as in duty bound, attended
the steps of the three Miss Proudies.

"Did you ever ride at the quintain, Mr. Foster?" said Miss Thorne as
she walked with her party across the lawn.

"The quintain?" said young Foster, who considered himself a dab at
horsemanship. "Is it a sort of gate, Miss Thorne?"

Miss Thorne had to explain the noble game she spoke of, and Frank
Foster had to own that he never had ridden at the quintain.

"Would you like to come and see?" said Miss Thorne. "There'll be
plenty here you know without you, if you like it."

"Well, I don't mind," said Frank. "I suppose the ladies can come
too."

"Oh, yes," said Miss Thorne; "those who like it. I have no doubt
they'll go to see your prowess, if you'll ride, Mr. Foster."

Mr. Foster looked down at a most unexceptionable pair of pantaloons,
which had arrived from London only the day before. They were the
very things, at least he thought so, for a picnic or fete champetre,
but he was not prepared to ride in them. Nor was he more encouraged
than had been Mr. Thorne by the idea of being attacked from behind by
the bag of flour, which Miss Thorne had graphically described to him.

"Well, I don't know about riding, Miss Thorne," said he; "I fear I'm
not quite prepared."

Miss Thorne sighed but said nothing further. She left the toxophilites
to their bows and arrows and returned towards the house. But as she
passed by the entrance to the small park, she thought that she might
at any rate encourage the yeomen by her presence, as she could not
induce her more fashionable guests to mix with them in their manly
amusements. Accordingly she once more betook herself to the quintain
post.

Here to her great delight she found Harry Greenacre ready mounted,
with his pole in his hand, and a lot of comrades standing round him,
encouraging him to the assault. She stood at a little distance and
nodded to him in token of her good pleasure.

"Shall I begin, ma'am?" said Harry, fingering his long staff in a
rather awkward way, while his horse moved uneasily beneath him, not
accustomed to a rider armed with such a weapon.