Barchester Towers

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Any further conversation between these congenial souls was prevented
by the advent of Mr. Thorne, who came to lead the countess to the
tent. Indeed, he had been desired to do so some ten minutes since,
but he had been delayed in the drawing-room by the signora. She had
contrived to detain him, to get him near to her sofa, and at last
to make him seat himself on a chair close to her beautiful arm. The
fish took the bait, was hooked, and caught, and landed. Within that
ten minutes he had heard the whole of the signora's history in such
strains as she chose to use in telling it. He learnt from the lady's
own lips the whole of that mysterious tale to which the Honourable
George had merely alluded. He discovered that the beautiful creature
lying before him had been more sinned against than sinning. She had
owned to him that she had been weak, confiding, and indifferent to the
world's opinion, and that she had therefore been ill-used, deceived,
and evil spoken of. She had spoken to him of her mutilated limb, her
youth destroyed in fullest bloom, her beauty robbed of its every
charm, her life blighted, her hopes withered, and as she did so a tear
dropped from her eye to her cheek. She had told him of these things
and asked for his sympathy.

What could a good-natured, genial, Anglo-Saxon Squire Thorne do but
promise to sympathize with her? Mr. Thorne did promise to sympathize;
promised also to come and see the last of the Neros, to hear more of
those fearful Roman days, of those light and innocent but dangerous
hours which flitted by so fast on the shores of Como, and to make
himself the confidant of the signora's sorrows.

We need hardly say that he dropped all idea of warning his sister
against the dangerous lady. He had been mistaken--never so much
mistaken in his life. He had always regarded that Honourable George
as a coarse, brutal-minded young man; now he was more convinced than
ever that he was so. It was by such men as the Honourable George that
the reputations of such women as Madeline Neroni were imperilled and
damaged. He would go and see the lady in her own house; he was fully
sure in his own mind of the soundness of his own judgement; if he
found her, as he believed he should do, an injured, well-disposed,
warm-hearted woman, he would get his sister Monica to invite her out
to Ullathorne.

"No," said she, as at her instance he got up to leave her and declared
that he himself would attend upon her wants; "no, no, my friend; I
positively put a veto upon your doing so. What, in your own house,
with an assemblage round you such as there is here! Do you wish to
make every woman hate me and every man stare at me? I lay a positive
order on you not to come near me again to-day. Come and see me at
home. It is only at home that I can talk, it is only at home that I
really can live and enjoy myself. My days of going out, days such as
these, are rare indeed. Come and see me at home, Mr. Thorne, and then
I will not bid you to leave me."

It is, we believe, common with young men of five-and-twenty to look
on their seniors--on men of, say, double their own age--as so many
stocks and stones--stocks and stones, that is, in regard to feminine
beauty. There never was a greater mistake. Women, indeed, generally
know better, but on this subject men of one age are thoroughly
ignorant of what is the very nature of mankind of other ages. No
experience of what goes on in the world, no reading of history, no
observation of life, has any effect in teaching the truth. Men of
fifty don't dance mazurkas, being generally too fat and wheezy; nor
do they sit for the hour together on river-banks at their mistresses'
feet, being somewhat afraid of rheumatism. But for real true
love--love at first sight, love to devotion, love that robs a man of
his sleep, love that "will gaze an eagle blind," love that "will hear
the lowest sound when the suspicious tread of theft is stopped," love
that is "like a Hercules, still climbing trees in the Hesperides"--we
believe the best age is from forty-five to seventy; up to that, men
are generally given to mere flirting.

At the present moment Mr. Thorne, _aetat_. fifty, was over head and
ears in love at first sight with the Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni,
nata Stanhope.

Nevertheless, he was sufficiently master of himself to offer his arm
with all propriety to Lady De Courcy, and the countess graciously
permitted herself to be led to the tent. Such had been Miss Thorne's
orders, as she had succeeded in inducing the bishop to lead old Lady
Knowle to the top of the dining-room. One of the baronets was sent
off in quest of Mrs. Proudie and found that lady on the lawn not in
the best of humours. Mr. Thorne and the countess had left her too
abruptly; she had in vain looked about for an attendant chaplain, or
even a stray curate; they were all drawing long bows with the young
ladies at the bottom of the lawn, or finding places for their graceful
co-toxophilites in some snug corner of the tent. In such position Mrs.
Proudie had been wont in earlier days to fall back upon Mr. Slope, but
now she could never fall back upon him again. She gave her head one
shake as she thought of her lone position, and that shake was as good
as a week deducted from Mr. Slope's longer sojourn in Barchester. Sir
Harkaway Gorse, however, relieved her present misery, though his doing
so by no means mitigated the sinning chaplain's doom.

And now the eating and drinking began in earnest. Dr. Grantly, to
his great horror, found himself leagued to Mrs. Clantantram. Mrs.
Clantantram had a great regard for the archdeacon, which was not
cordially returned, and when she, coming up to him, whispered in his
ear, "Come, Archdeacon, I'm sure you won't begrudge an old friend the
favour of your arm," and then proceeded to tell him the whole history
of her roquelaure, he resolved that he would shake her off before he
was fifteen minutes older. But latterly the archdeacon had not been
successful in his resolutions, and on the present occasion Mrs.
Clantantram stuck to him till the banquet was over.

Dr. Gwynne got a baronet's wife, and Mrs. Grantly fell to the lot
of a baronet. Charlotte Stanhope attached herself to Mr. Harding in
order to make room for Bertie, who succeeded in sitting down in the
dining-room next to Mrs. Bold. To speak sooth, now that he had love
in earnest to make, his heart almost failed him.

Eleanor had been right glad to avail herself of his arm, seeing that
Mr. Slope was hovering nigh her. In striving to avoid that terrible
Charybdis of a Slope she was in great danger of falling into an
unseen Scylla on the other hand, that Scylla being Bertie Stanhope.
Nothing could be more gracious than she was to Bertie. She almost
jumped at his proffered arm. Charlotte perceived this from a distance
and triumphed in her heart; Bertie felt it and was encouraged; Mr.
Slope saw it and glowered with jealousy. Eleanor and Bertie sat down
to table in the dining-room, and as she took her seat at his right
hand she found that Mr. Slope was already in possession of the chair
at her own.

As these things were going on in the dining-room, Mr. Arabin was
hanging enraptured and alone over the signora's sofa, and Eleanor
from her seat could look through the open door and see that he was
doing so.




CHAPTER XXXVIII

The Bishop Sits Down to Breakfast, and the Dean Dies


The Bishop of Barchester said grace over the well-spread board in the
Ullathorne dining-room; while he did so, the last breath was flying
from the Dean of Barchester as he lay in his sick room in the deanery.
When the Bishop of Barchester raised his first glass of champagne to
his lips, the deanship of Barchester was a good thing in the gift
of the prime minister. Before the Bishop of Barchester had left the
table, the minister of the day was made aware of the fact at his
country-seat in Hampshire, and had already turned over in his mind the
names of five very respectable aspirants for the preferment. It is at
present only necessary to say that Mr. Slope's name was not among the
five.

"'Twas merry in the hall when the beards wagged all," and the clerical
beards wagged merrily in the hall of Ullathorne that day. It was
not till after the last cork had been drawn, the last speech made,
the last nut cracked, that tidings reached and were whispered about
that the poor dean was no more. It was well for the happiness of
the clerical beards that this little delay took place, as otherwise
decency would have forbidden them to wag at all.

But there was one sad man among them that day. Mr. Arabin's beard
did not wag as it should have done. He had come there hoping the
best, striving to think the best, about Eleanor; turning over in his
mind all the words he remembered to have fallen from her about Mr.
Slope, and trying to gather from them a conviction unfavourable to
his rival. He had not exactly resolved to come that day to some
decisive proof as to the widow's intention, but he had meant, if
possible, to recultivate his friendship with Eleanor, and in his
present frame of mind any such recultivation must have ended in a
declaration of love.

He had passed the previous night alone at his new parsonage, and it
was the first night that he had so passed. It had been dull and sombre
enough. Mrs. Grantly had been right in saying that a priestess would
be wanting at St. Ewold's. He had sat there alone with his glass
before him, and then with his tea-pot, thinking about Eleanor Bold.
As is usual in such meditations, he did little but blame her; blame
her for liking Mr. Slope, and blame her for not liking him; blame
her for her cordiality to himself, and blame her for her want of
cordiality; blame her for being stubborn, headstrong, and passionate;
and yet the more he thought of her the higher she rose in his
affection. If only it should turn out, if only it could be made to
turn out, that she had defended Mr. Slope, not from love, but on
principle, all would be right. Such principle in itself would be
admirable, lovable, womanly; he felt that he could be pleased to
allow Mr. Slope just so much favour as that. But if--And then Mr.
Arabin poked his fire most unnecessarily, spoke crossly to his new
parlour-maid who came in for the tea-things, and threw himself back in
his chair determined to go to sleep. Why had she been so stiff-necked
when asked a plain question? She could not but have known in what
light he regarded her. Why had she not answered a plain question and
so put an end to his misery? Then, instead of going to sleep in his
armchair, Mr. Arabin walked about the room as though he had been
possessed.

On the following morning, when he attended Miss Thorne's behests, he
was still in a somewhat confused state. His first duty had been to
converse with Mrs. Clantantram, and that lady had found it impossible
to elicit the slightest sympathy from him on the subject of her
roquelaure. Miss Thorne had asked him whether Mrs. Bold was coming
with the Grantlys, and the two names of Bold and Grantly together had
nearly made him jump from his seat.

He was in this state of confused uncertainty, hope, and doubt, when he
saw Mr. Slope, with his most polished smile, handing Eleanor out of
her carriage. He thought of nothing more. He never considered whether
the carriage belonged to her or to Mr. Slope, or to anyone else to
whom they might both be mutually obliged without any concert between
themselves. This sight in his present state of mind was quite enough
to upset him and his resolves. It was clear as noon-day. Had he seen
her handed into a carriage by Mr. Slope at a church door with a white
veil over her head, the truth could not be more manifest. He went into
the house and, as we have seen, soon found himself walking with Mr.
Harding. Shortly afterwards Eleanor came up, and then he had to leave
his companion and either go about alone or find another. While in this
state he was encountered by the archdeacon.

"I wonder," said Dr. Grantly, "if it be true that Mr. Slope and Mrs.
Bold came here together. Susan says she is almost sure she saw their
faces in the same carriage as she got out of her own."

Mr. Arabin had nothing for it but to bear his testimony to the
correctness of Mrs. Grantly's eyesight.

"It is perfectly shameful," said the archdeacon; "or, I should
rather say, shameless. She was asked here as my guest, and if she be
determined to disgrace herself, she should have feeling enough not to
do so before my immediate friends. I wonder how that man got himself
invited. I wonder whether she had the face to bring him."

To this Mr. Arabin could answer nothing, nor did he wish to answer
anything. Though he abused Eleanor to himself, he did not choose to
abuse her to anyone else, nor was he well-pleased to hear anyone else
speak ill of her. Dr. Grantly, however, was very angry and did not
spare his sister-in-law. Mr. Arabin therefore left him as soon as he
could and wandered back into the house.

He had not been there long when the signora was brought in. For some
time he kept himself out of temptation, and merely hovered round her
at a distance; but as soon as Mr. Thorne had left her, he yielded
himself up to the basilisk and allowed himself to be made prey of.

It is impossible to say how the knowledge had been acquired, but the
signora had a sort of instinctive knowledge that Mr. Arabin was an
admirer of Mrs. Bold. Men hunt foxes by the aid of dogs, and are
aware that they do so by the strong organ of smell with which the
dog is endowed. They do not, however, in the least comprehend how
such a sense can work with such acuteness. The organ by which women
instinctively, as it were, know and feel how other women are regarded
by men, and how also men are regarded by other women, is equally
strong, and equally incomprehensible. A glance, a word, a motion,
suffices: by some such acute exercise of her feminine senses the
signora was aware that Mr. Arabin loved Eleanor Bold; therefore, by a
further exercise of her peculiar feminine propensities, it was quite
natural for her to entrap Mr. Arabin into her net.

The work was half-done before she came to Ullathorne, and when could
she have a better opportunity of completing it? She had had almost
enough of Mr. Slope, though she could not quite resist the fun of
driving a very sanctimonious clergyman to madness by a desperate
and ruinous passion. Mr. Thorne had fallen too easily to give much
pleasure in the chase. His position as a man of wealth might make
his alliance of value, but as a lover he was very second-rate. We
may say that she regarded him somewhat as a sportsman does a pheasant.
The bird is so easily shot that he would not be worth the shooting
were it not for the very respectable appearance that he makes in a
larder. The signora would not waste much time in shooting Mr. Thorne,
but still he was worth bagging for family uses.

But Mr. Arabin was game of another sort. The signora was herself
possessed of quite sufficient intelligence to know that Mr. Arabin
was a man more than usually intellectual. She knew also that, as a
clergyman, he was of a much higher stamp than Mr. Slope and that, as
a gentleman, he was better educated than Mr. Thorne. She would never
have attempted to drive Mr. Arabin into ridiculous misery as she did
Mr. Slope, nor would she think it possible to dispose of him in ten
minutes as she had done with Mr. Thorne.

Such were her reflexions about Mr. Arabin. As to Mr. Arabin, it
cannot be said that he reflected at all about the signora. He knew
that she was beautiful, and he felt that she was able to charm him.
He required charming in his present misery, and therefore he went
and stood at the head of her couch. She knew all about it. Such
were her peculiar gifts. It was her nature to see that he required
charming, and it was her province to charm him. As the Eastern idler
swallows his dose of opium, as the London reprobate swallows his
dose of gin, so with similar desires and for similar reasons did Mr.
Arabin prepare to swallow the charms of the Signora Neroni.

"Why an't you shooting with bows and arrows, Mr. Arabin?" said she,
when they were nearly alone together in the drawing-room, "or talking
with young ladies in shady bowers, or turning your talents to account
in some way? What was a bachelor like you asked here for? Don't you
mean to earn your cold chicken and champagne? Were I you, I should
be ashamed to be so idle."

Mr. Arabin murmured some sort of answer. Though he wished to be
charmed, he was hardly yet in a mood to be playful in return.

"Why what ails you, Mr. Arabin?" said she. "Here you are in your own
parish--Miss Thorne tells me that her party is given expressly in
your honour--and yet you are the only dull man at it. Your friend
Mr. Slope was with me a few minutes since, full of life and spirits;
why don't you rival him?"

It was not difficult for so acute an observer as Madeline Neroni to
see that she had hit the nail on the head and driven the bolt home.
Mr. Arabin winced visibly before her attack, and she knew at once
that he was jealous of Mr. Slope.

"But I look on you and Mr. Slope as the very antipodes of men," said
she. "There is nothing in which you are not each the reverse of the
other, except in belonging to the same profession--and even in that
you are so unlike as perfectly to maintain the rule. He is gregarious;
you are given to solitude. He is active; you are passive. He works;
you think. He likes women; you despise them. He is fond of position
and power; and so are you, but for directly different reasons. He
loves to be praised; you very foolishly abhor it. He will gain his
rewards, which will be an insipid, useful wife, a comfortable income,
and a reputation for sanctimony; you will also gain yours."

"Well, and what will they be?" said Mr. Arabin, who knew that he was
being flattered and yet suffered himself to put up with it. "What will
be my rewards?"

"The heart of some woman whom you will be too austere to own that you
love, and the respect of some few friends which you will be too proud
to own that you value."

"Rich rewards," said he; "but of little worth, if they are to be so
treated."

"Oh, you are not to look for such success as awaits Mr. Slope. He is
born to be a successful man. He suggests to himself an object and
then starts for it with eager intention. Nothing will deter him from
his pursuit. He will have no scruples, no fears, no hesitation. His
desire is to be a bishop with a rising family--the wife will come
first, and in due time the apron. You will see all this, and then--"

"Well, and what then?"

"Then you will begin to wish that you had done the same."

Mr. Arabin looked placidly out at the lawn and, resting his shoulder
on the head of the sofa, rubbed his chin with his hand. It was a trick
he had when he was thinking deeply, and what the signora said made him
think. Was it not all true? Would he not hereafter look back, if not
at Mr. Slope, at some others, perhaps not equally gifted with himself,
who had risen in the world while he had lagged behind, and then wish
that he had done the same?

"Is not such the doom of all speculative men of talent?" said she.
"Do they not all sit wrapt as you now are, cutting imaginary silken
cords with their fine edges, while those not so highly tempered sever
the everyday Gordian knots of the world's struggle and win wealth and
renown? Steel too highly polished, edges too sharp, do not do for
this world's work, Mr. Arabin."

Who was this woman that thus read the secrets of his heart and
re-uttered to him the unwelcome bodings of his own soul? He looked
full into her face when she had done speaking and said, "Am I one of
those foolish blades, too sharp and too fine to do a useful day's
work?"

"Why do you let the Slopes of the world outdistance you?" said she.
"Is not the blood in your veins as warm as his? Does not your pulse
beat as fast? Has not God made you a man and intended you to do a
man's work here, ay, and to take a man's wages also?"

Mr. Arabin sat ruminating, rubbing his face, and wondering why these
things were said to him, but he replied nothing. The signora went
on:

"The greatest mistake any man ever made is to suppose that the good
things of the world are not worth the winning. And it is a mistake
so opposed to the religion which you preach! Why does God permit
his bishops one after another to have their five thousands and ten
thousands a year if such wealth be bad and not worth having? Why are
beautiful things given to us, and luxuries and pleasant enjoyments,
if they be not intended to be used? They must be meant for someone,
and what is good for a layman surely cannot be bad for a clerk. You
try to despise these good things, but you only try--you don't
succeed."

"Don't I?" said Mr. Arabin, still musing, not knowing what he said.

"I ask you the question: do you succeed?"

Mr. Arabin looked at her piteously. It seemed to him as though he
were being interrogated by some inner spirit of his own, to whom he
could not refuse an answer, and to whom he did not dare to give a
false reply.

"Come, Mr. Arabin, confess; do you succeed? Is money so contemptible?
Is worldly power so worthless? Is feminine beauty a trifle to be so
slightly regarded by a wise man?"

"Feminine beauty!" said he, gazing into her face, as though all the
feminine beauty in the world were concentrated there. "Why do you say
I do not regard it?"

"If you look at me like that, Mr. Arabin, I shall alter my
opinion--or should do so, were I not of course aware that I have no
beauty of my own worth regarding."

The gentleman blushed crimson, but the lady did not blush at all. A
slightly increased colour animated her face, just so much so as to
give her an air of special interest. She expected a compliment from
her admirer, but she was rather gratified than otherwise by finding
that he did not pay it to her. Messrs. Slope and Thorne, Messrs.
Brown, Jones, and Robinson, they all paid her compliments. She was
rather in hopes that she would ultimately succeed in inducing Mr.
Arabin to abuse her.

"But your gaze," said she, "is one of wonder, not of admiration. You
wonder at my audacity in asking you such questions about yourself."

"Well, I do rather," said he.

"Nevertheless, I expect an answer, Mr. Arabin. Why were women made
beautiful if men are not to regard them?"

"But men do regard them," he replied.

"And why not you?"

"You are begging the question, Madame Neroni."

"I am sure I shall beg nothing, Mr. Arabin, which you will not grant,
and I do beg for an answer. Do you not as a rule think women below
your notice as companions? Let us see. There is the Widow Bold looking
round at you from her chair this minute. What would you say to her as
a companion for life?"

Mr. Arabin, rising from his position, leaned over the sofa and looked
through the drawing-room door to the place where Eleanor was seated
between Bertie Stanhope and Mr. Slope. She at once caught his glance
and averted her own. She was not pleasantly placed in her present
position. Mr. Slope was doing his best to attract her attention, and
she was striving to prevent his doing so by talking to Mr. Stanhope,
while her mind was intently fixed on Mr. Arabin and Madame Neroni.
Bertie Stanhope endeavoured to take advantage of her favours, but he
was thinking more of the manner in which he would by and by throw
himself at her feet than of amusing her at the present moment.

"There," said the signora. "She was stretching her beautiful neck
to look at you, and now you have disturbed her. Well, I declare I
believe I am wrong about you; I believe that you do think Mrs. Bold a
charming woman. Your looks seem to say so, and by her looks I should
say that she is jealous of me. Come, Mr. Arabin, confide in me, and
if it is so, I'll do all in my power to make up the match."

It is needless to say that the signora was not very sincere in her
offer. She was never sincere on such subjects. She never expected
others to be so, nor did she expect others to think her so. Such
matters were her playthings, her billiard table, her hounds and
hunters, her waltzes and polkas, her picnics and summer-day
excursions. She had little else to amuse her, and therefore played
at love-making in all its forms. She was now playing at it with Mr.
Arabin, and did not at all expect the earnestness and truth of his
answer.

"All in your power would be nothing," said he, "for Mrs. Bold is, I
imagine, already engaged to another."

"Then you own the impeachment yourself."

"You cross-question me rather unfairly," he replied, "and I do not
know why I answer you at all. Mrs. Bold is a very beautiful woman,
and as intelligent as beautiful. It is impossible to know her without
admiring her."

"So you think the widow a very beautiful woman?"

"Indeed I do."

"And one that would grace the parsonage of St. Ewold's."

"One that would well grace any man's house."

"And you really have the effrontery to tell me this," said she; "to
tell me, who, as you very well know, set up to be a beauty myself, and
who am at this very moment taking such an interest in your affairs,
you really have the effrontery to tell me that Mrs. Bold is the most
beautiful woman you know."