Barchester Towers

A >> Anthony Trollope >> Barchester Towers


"I did not say so," said Mr. Arabin; "you are more beautiful--"

"Ah, come now, that is something like. I thought you could not be so
unfeeling."

"You are more beautiful, perhaps more clever."

"Thank you, thank you, Mr. Arabin. I knew that you and I should be
friends."

"But--"

"Not a word further. I will not hear a word further. If you talk till
midnight you cannot improve what you have said."

"But Madame Neroni, Mrs. Bold--"

"I will not hear a word about Mrs. Bold. Dread thoughts of strychnine
did pass across my brain, but she is welcome to the second place."

"Her place--"

"I won't hear anything about her or her place. I am satisfied, and
that is enough. But Mr. Arabin, I am dying with hunger; beautiful and
clever as I am, you know I cannot go to my food, and yet you do not
bring it to me."

This at any rate was so true as to make it necessary that Mr. Arabin
should act upon it, and he accordingly went into the dining-room and
supplied the signora's wants.

"And yourself?" said she.

"Oh," said he, "I am not hungry. I never eat at this hour."

"Come, come, Mr. Arabin, don't let love interfere with your appetite.
It never does with mine. Give me half a glass more champagne and
then go to the table. Mrs. Bold will do me an injury if you stay
talking to me any longer."

Mr. Arabin did as he was bid. He took her plate and glass from her
and, going into the dining-room, helped himself to a sandwich from
the crowded table and began munching it in a corner.

As he was doing so Miss Thorne, who had hardly sat down for a moment,
came into the room and, seeing him standing, was greatly distressed.

"Oh, my dear Mr. Arabin," said she, "have you never sat down yet?
I am so distressed. You of all men, too."

Mr. Arabin assured her that he had only just come into the room.

"That is the very reason why you should lose no more time. Come, I'll
make room for you. Thank'ee, my dear," she said, seeing that Mrs.
Bold was making an attempt to move from her chair, "but I would not
for worlds see you stir, for all the ladies would think it necessary
to follow. But, perhaps, if Mr. Stanhope has done--just for a minute,
Mr. Stanhope, till I can get another chair."

And so Bertie had to rise to make way for his rival. This he did, as
he did everything, with an air of good-humoured pleasantry which made
it impossible for Mr. Arabin to refuse the proffered seat.

"His bishopric let another take," said Bertie, the quotation being
certainly not very appropriate either for the occasion or the person
spoken to. "I have eaten and am satisfied; Mr. Arabin, pray take my
chair. I wish for your sake that it really was a bishop's seat."

Mr. Arabin did sit down, and as he did so Mrs. Bold got up as though
to follow her neighbour.

"Pray, pray don't move," said Miss Thorne, almost forcing Eleanor
back into her chair. "Mr. Stanhope is not going to leave us. He will
stand behind you like a true knight as he is. And now I think of it,
Mr. Arabin, let me introduce you to Mr. Slope. Mr. Slope, Mr. Arabin."
And the two gentlemen bowed stiffly to each other across the lady
whom they both intended to marry, while the other gentleman who also
intended to marry her stood behind, watching them.

The two had never met each other before, and the present was certainly
not a good opportunity for much cordial conversation, even if cordial
conversation between them had been possible. As it was, the whole four
who formed the party seemed as though their tongues were tied. Mr.
Slope, who was wide awake to what he hoped was his coming opportunity,
was not much concerned in the interest of the moment. His wish was to
see Eleanor move, that he might pursue her. Bertie was not exactly
in the same frame of mind; the evil day was near enough; there was
no reason why he should precipitate it. He had made up his mind to
marry Eleanor Bold if he could, and was resolved to-day to take the
first preliminary step towards doing so. But there was time enough
before him. He was not going to make an offer of marriage over the
table-cloth. Having thus good-naturedly made way for Mr. Arabin, he
was willing also to let him talk to the future Mrs. Stanhope as long
as they remained in their present position.

Mr. Arabin, having bowed to Mr. Slope, began eating his food without
saying a word further. He was full of thought, and though he ate he
did so unconsciously.

But poor Eleanor was the most to be pitied. The only friend on whom
she thought she could rely was Bertie Stanhope, and he, it seemed,
was determined to desert her. Mr. Arabin did not attempt to address
her. She said a few words in reply to some remarks from Mr. Slope
and then, feeling the situation too much for her, started from her
chair in spite of Miss Thorne and hurried from the room. Mr. Slope
followed her, and young Stanhope lost the occasion.

Madeline Neroni, when she was left alone, could not help pondering
much on the singular interview she had had with this singular man.
Not a word that she had spoken to him had been intended by her to be
received as true, and yet he had answered her in the very spirit of
truth. He had done so, and she had been aware that he had so done.
She had wormed from him his secret, and he, debarred as it would seem
from man's usual privilege of lying, had innocently laid bare his
whole soul to her. He loved Eleanor Bold, but Eleanor was not in
his eye so beautiful as herself. He would fain have Eleanor for his
wife, but yet he had acknowledged that she was the less gifted of the
two. The man had literally been unable to falsify his thoughts when
questioned, and had been compelled to be true _malgre lui_, even when
truth must have been so disagreeable to him.

This teacher of men, this Oxford pundit, this double-distilled
quintessence of university perfection, this writer of religious
treatises, this speaker of ecclesiastical speeches, had been like a
little child in her hands; she had turned him inside out and read his
very heart as she might have done that of a young girl. She could not
but despise him for his facile openness, and yet she liked him for it,
too. It was a novelty to her, a new trait in a man's character. She
felt also that she could never so completely make a fool of him as she
did of the Slopes and Thornes. She felt that she never could induce
Mr. Arabin to make protestations to her that were not true, or to
listen to nonsense that was mere nonsense.

It was quite clear that Mr. Arabin was heartily in love with Mrs.
Bold; and the signora, with very unwonted good nature, began to turn
it over in her mind whether she could not do him a good turn. Of
course Bertie was to have the first chance. It was an understood
family arrangement that her brother was, if possible, to marry the
Widow Bold. Madeline knew too well his necessities and what was due
to her sister to interfere with so excellent a plan, as long as it
might be feasible. But she had strong suspicion that it was not
feasible. She did not think it likely that Mrs. Bold would accept
a man in her brother's position, and she had frequently said so
to Charlotte. She was inclined to believe that Mr. Slope had more
chance of success, and with her it would be a labour of love to rob
Mr. Slope of his wife.

And so the signora resolved, should Bertie fail, to do a good-natured
act for once in her life and give up Mr. Arabin to the woman whom he
loved.




CHAPTER XXXIX

The Lookalofts and the Greenacres


On the whole, Miss Thorne's provision for the amusement and feeding
of the outer classes in the exoteric paddock was not unsuccessful.

Two little drawbacks to the general happiness did take place, but they
were of a temporary nature, and apparent rather than real. The first
was the downfall of young Harry Greenacre, and the other the uprise of
Mrs. Lookaloft and her family.

As to the quintain, it became more popular among the boys on foot than
it would ever have been among the men on horseback, even had young
Greenacre been more successful. It was twirled round and round till it
was nearly twirled out of the ground, and the bag of flour was used
with great gusto in powdering the backs and heads of all who could be
coaxed within its vicinity.

Of course it was reported all through the assemblage that Harry was
dead, and there was a pathetic scene between him and his mother when
it was found that he had escaped scatheless from the fall. A good deal
of beer was drunk on the occasion, and the quintain was "dratted" and
"bothered," and very generally anathematized by all the mothers who
had young sons likely to be placed in similar jeopardy. But the affair
of Mrs. Lookaloft was of a more serious nature.

"I do tell 'ee plainly--face to face--she be there in madam's
drawing-room; herself and Gussy, and them two walloping gals, dressed
up to their very eyeses." This was said by a very positive, very
indignant, and very fat farmer's wife, who was sitting on the end of
a bench leaning on the handle of a huge, cotton umbrella.

"But: you didn't zee her, Dame Guffern?" said Mrs. Greenacre, whom
this information, joined to the recent peril undergone by her son,
almost overpowered. Mr. Greenacre held just as much land as Mr.
Lookaloft, paid his rent quite as punctually, and his opinion in the
vestry room was reckoned to be every whit as good. Mrs. Lookaloft's
rise in the world had been wormwood to Mrs. Greenacre. She had no
taste herself for the sort of finery which had converted Barleystubb
farm into Rosebank and which had occasionally graced Mr. Lookaloft's
letters with the dignity of esquirehood. She had no wish to convert
her own homestead into Violet Villa, or to see her goodman go about
with a new-fangled handle to his name. But it was a mortal injury to
her that Mrs. Lookaloft should be successful in her hunt after such
honours. She had abused and ridiculed Mrs. Lookaloft to the extent
of her little power. She had pushed against her going out of church,
and had excused herself with all the easiness of equality. "Ah, dame,
I axes pardon, but you be grown so mortal stout these times." She had
inquired with apparent cordiality of Mr. Lookaloft after "the woman
that owned him," and had, as she thought, been on the whole able to
hold her own pretty well against her aspiring neighbour. Now, however,
she found herself distinctly put into a separate and inferior class.
Mrs. Lookaloft was asked into the Ullathorne drawing-room merely
because she called her house Rosebank and had talked over her husband
into buying pianos and silk dresses instead of putting his money by to
stock farms for his sons.

Mrs. Greenacre, much as she reverenced Miss Thorne, and highly as she
respected her husband's landlord, could not but look on this as an act
of injustice done to her and hers. Hitherto the Lookalofts had never
been recognized as being of a different class from the Greenacres.
Their pretensions were all self-pretensions, their finery was all
paid for by themselves and not granted to them by others. The local
sovereigns of the vicinity, the district fountains of honour, had
hitherto conferred on them the stamp of no rank. Hitherto their
crinoline petticoats, late hours, and mincing gait had been a fair
subject of Mrs. Greenacre's raillery, and this raillery had been a
safety-valve for her envy. Now, however, and from henceforward, the
case would be very different. Now the Lookalofts would boast that their
aspirations had been sanctioned by the gentry of the country; now they
would declare with some show of truth that their claims to peculiar
consideration had been recognized. They had sat as equal guests in the
presence of bishops and baronets; they had been curtseyed to by Miss
Thorne on her own drawing-room carpet; they were about to sit down to
table in company with a live countess! Bab Lookaloft, as she had always
been called by the young Greenacres in the days of their juvenile
equality, might possibly sit next to the Honourable George, and that
wretched Gussy might be permitted to hand a custard to the Lady
Margaretta De Courcy.

The fruition of those honours, or such of them as fell to the lot of
the envied family, was not such as should have caused much envy. The
attention paid to the Lookalofts by the De Courcys was very limited,
and the amount of entertainment which they received from the bishop's
society was hardly in itself a recompense for the dull monotony of
their day. But of what they endured Mrs. Greenacre took no account;
she thought only of what she considered they must enjoy, and of the
dreadfully exalted tone of living which would be manifested by the
Rosebank family, as the consequence of their present distinction.

"But did 'ee zee 'em there, dame, did 'ee zee 'em there with your own
eyes?" asked poor Mrs. Greenacre, still hoping that there might be
some ground for doubt.

"And how could I do that, unless so be I was there myself?" asked
Mrs. Guffern. "I didn't zet eyes on none of them this blessed morning,
but I zee'd them as did. You know our John; well, he will be for
keeping company with Betsey Rusk, madam's own maid, you know. And
Betsey isn't none of your common kitchen wenches. So Betsey, she come
out to our John, you know, and she's always vastly polite to me, is
Betsey Rusk, I must say. So before she took so much as one turn with
John she told me every ha'porth that was going on up in the house."

"Did she now?" said Mrs. Greenacre.

"Indeed she did," said Mrs. Guffern.

"And she told you them people was up there in the drawing-room?"

"She told me she zee'd 'em come in--that they was dressed finer by
half nor any of the family, with all their neckses and buzoms stark
naked as a born babby."

"The minxes!" exclaimed Mrs. Greenacre, who felt herself more put
about by this than any other mark of aristocratic distinction which
her enemies had assumed.

"Yes, indeed," continued Mrs. Guffern, "as naked as you please, while
all the quality was dressed just as you and I be, Mrs. Greenacre."

"Drat their impudence," said Mrs. Greenacre, from whose well-covered
bosom all milk of human kindness was receding, as far as the family
of the Lookalofts were concerned.

"So says I," said Mrs. Guffern; "and so says my goodman, Thomas
Guffern, when he hear'd it. 'Molly,' says he to me, 'if ever you
takes to going about o' mornings with yourself all naked in them
ways, I begs you won't come back no more to the old house.' So says I,
'Thomas, no more I wull.' 'But,' says he, 'drat it, how the deuce does
she manage with her rheumatiz, and she not a rag on her;'" and Mrs.
Guffern laughed loudly as she thought of Mrs. Lookaloft's probable
sufferings from rheumatic attacks.

"But to liken herself that way to folk that ha' blood in their
veins," said Mrs. Greenacre.

"Well, but that warn't all neither that Betsey told. There they all
swelled into madam's drawing-room, like so many turkey cocks, as much
as to say, 'and who dare say no to us?' and Gregory was thinking of
telling of 'em to come down here, only his heart failed him 'cause of
the grand way they was dressed. So in they went, but madam looked at
them as glum as death."

"Well, now," said Mrs. Greenacre, greatly relieved, "so they wasn't
axed different from us at all then?"

"Betsey says that Gregory says that madam wasn't a bit too well
pleased to see them where they was, and that to his believing they
was expected to come here just like the rest of us."

There was great consolation in this. Not that Mrs. Greenacre was
altogether satisfied. She felt that justice to herself demanded that
Mrs. Lookaloft should not only not be encouraged, but that she should
also be absolutely punished. What had been done at that scriptural
banquet, of which Mrs. Greenacre so often read the account to her
family? Why had not Miss Thorne boldly gone to the intruder and said,
"Friend, thou hast come up hither to high places not fitted to thee.
Go down lower, and thou wilt find thy mates." Let the Lookalofts be
treated at the present moment with ever so cold a shoulder, they
would still be enabled to boast hereafter of their position, their
aspirations, and their honour.

"Well, with all her grandeur, I do wonder that she be so mean,"
continued Mrs. Greenacre, unable to dismiss the subject. "Did you
hear, goodman?" she went on, about to repeat the whole story to her
husband who then came up. "There's Dame Lookaloft and Bab and Gussy
and the lot of 'em all sitting as grand as fivepence in madam's
drawing-room, and they not axed no more nor you nor me. Did you ever
hear tell the like o' that?"

"Well, and what for shouldn't they?" said Farmer Greenacre.

"Likening theyselves to the quality, as though they was estated folk,
or the like o' that!" said Mrs. Guffern.

"Well, if they likes it, and madam likes it, they's welcome for me,"
said the farmer. "Now I likes this place better, 'cause I be more at
home-like, and don't have to pay for them fine clothes for the missus.
Everyone to his taste, Mrs. Guffern, and if neighbour Lookaloft thinks
that he has the best of it, he's welcome."

Mrs. Greenacre sat down by her husband's side to begin the heavy
work of the banquet, and she did so in some measure with restored
tranquillity, but nevertheless she shook her head at her gossip to
show that in this instance she did not quite approve of her husband's
doctrine.

"And I'll tell 'ee what, dames," continued he; "if so be that we
cannot enjoy the dinner that madam gives us because Mother Lookaloft
is sitting up there on a grand sofa, I think we ought all to go home.
If we greet at that, what'll we do when true sorrow comes across us?
How would you be now, Dame, if the boy there had broke his neck when
he got the tumble?"

Mrs. Greenacre was humbled and said nothing further on the matter.
But let prudent men such as Mr. Greenacre preach as they will, the
family of the Lookalofts certainly does occasion a good deal of
heart-burning in the world at large.

It was pleasant to see Mr. Plomacy as, leaning on his stout stick, he
went about among the rural guests, acting as a sort of head constable
as well as master of the revels. "Now, young'un, if you can't manage
to get along without that screeching, you'd better go to the other
side of the twelve-acre field and take your dinner with you. Come,
girls, what do you stand there for, twirling of your thumbs? Come out,
and let the lads see you; you've no need to be so ashamed of your
faces. Hollo there, who are you? How did you make your way in here?"

This last disagreeable question was put to a young man of about
twenty-four who did not, in Mr. Plomacy's eye, bear sufficient
vestiges of a rural education and residence.

"If you please, your Worship, Master Barrell the coachman let me in
at the church wicket, 'cause I do be working mostly al'ays for the
family."

"Then Master Barrell the coachman may let you out again," said Mr.
Plomacy, not even conciliated by the magisterial dignity which had
been conceded to him. "What's your name? And what trade are you?
And who do you work for?"

"I'm Stubbs, your worship, Bob Stubbs; and--and--and--"

"And what's your trade, Stubbs?"

"Plasterer, please your worship."

"I'll plaster you, and Barrell too; you'll just walk out of this 'ere
field as quick as you walked in. We don't want no plasterers; when we
do, we'll send for 'em. Come my buck, walk."

Stubbs the plasterer was much downcast at this dreadful edict. He
was a sprightly fellow, and had contrived since his ingress into the
Ullathorne elysium to attract to himself a forest nymph, to whom
he was whispering a plasterer's usual soft nothings, when he was
encountered by the great Mr. Plomacy. It was dreadful to be thus
dissevered from his dryad and sent howling back to a Barchester
pandemonium just as the nectar and ambrosia were about to descend on
the fields of asphodel. He began to try what prayers would do, but
city prayers were vain against the great rural potentate. Not only
did Mr. Plomacy order his exit but, raising his stick to show the way
which led to the gate that had been left in the custody of that false
Cerberus Barrell, proceeded himself to see the edict of banishment
carried out.

The goddess Mercy, however, the sweetest goddess that ever sat upon
a cloud, and the dearest to poor, frail, erring man, appeared on the
field in the person of Mr. Greenacre. Never was interceding goddess
more welcome.

"Come, man," said Mr. Greenacre, "never stick at trifles such a day as
this. I know the lad well. Let him bide at my axing. Madam won't miss
what he can eat and drink, I know."

Now Mr. Plomacy and Mr. Greenacre were sworn friends. Mr. Plomacy had
at his own disposal as comfortable a room as there was in Ullathorne
House, but he was a bachelor, and alone there, and, moreover, smoking
in the house was not allowed even to Mr. Plomacy. His moments of
truest happiness were spent in a huge armchair in the warmest corner
of Mrs. Greenacre's beautifully clean front kitchen. 'Twas there that
the inner man dissolved itself and poured itself out in streams of
pleasant chat; 'twas there that he was respected and yet at his ease;
'twas there, and perhaps there only, that he could unburden himself
from the ceremonies of life without offending the dignity of those
above him, or incurring the familiarity of those below. 'Twas
there that his long pipe was always to be found on the accustomed
chimney-board, not only permitted but encouraged.

Such being the state of the case, it was not to be supposed that Mr.
Plomacy could refuse such a favour to Mr. Greenacre; but nevertheless
he did not grant it without some further show of austere authority.

"Eat and drink, Mr. Greenacre! No. It's not what he eats and
drinks, but the example such a chap shows, coming in where he's not
invited--a chap of his age, too. He too that never did a day's work
about Ullathorne since he was born. Plasterer! I'll plaster him!"

"He worked long enough for me, then, Mr. Plomacy. And a good hand
he is at setting tiles as any in Barchester," said the other, not
sticking quite to veracity, as indeed mercy never should. "Come, come,
let him alone to-day and quarrel with him to-morrow. You wouldn't
shame him before his lass there?"

"It goes against the grain with me, then," said Mr. Plomacy. "And take
care, you Stubbs, and behave yourself. If I hear a row, I shall know
where it comes from. I'm up to you Barchester journeymen; I know what
stuff you're made of."

And so Stubbs went off happy, pulling at the forelock of his shock
head of hair in honour of the steward's clemency and giving another
double pull at it in honour of the farmer's kindness. And as he went
he swore within his grateful heart that if ever Farmer Greenacre
wanted a day's work done for nothing, he was the lad to do it for
him. Which promise it was not probable that he would ever be called
on to perform.

But Mr. Plomacy was not quite happy in his mind, for he thought of
the unjust steward and began to reflect whether he had not made for
himself friends of the mammon of unrighteousness. This, however, did
not interfere with the manner in which he performed his duties at the
bottom of the long board; nor did Mr. Greenacre perform his the worse
at the top on account of the good wishes of Stubbs the plasterer.
Moreover the guests did not think it anything amiss when Mr. Plomacy,
rising to say grace, prayed that God would make them all truly
thankful for the good things which Madame Thorne in her great
liberality had set before them!

All this time the quality in the tent on the lawn were getting on
swimmingly--that is, if champagne without restriction can enable
quality folk to swim. Sir Harkaway Gorse proposed the health of Miss
Thorne, and likened her to a blood race-horse, always in condition
and not to be tired down by any amount of work. Mr. Thorne returned
thanks, saying he hoped his sister would always be found able to run
when called upon, and then gave the health and prosperity of the De
Courcy family. His sister was very much honoured by seeing so many of
them at her poor board. They were all aware that important avocations
made the absence of the earl necessary. As his duty to his prince had
called him from his family hearth, he, Mr. Thorne, could not venture
to regret that he did not see him at Ullathorne; but nevertheless he
would venture to say--that was, to express a wish--an opinion, he
meant to say--And so Mr. Thorne became somewhat gravelled, as country
gentlemen in similar circumstances usually do; but he ultimately sat
down, declaring that he had much satisfaction in drinking the noble
earl's health, together with that of the countess, and all the family
of De Courcy Castle.

And then the Honourable George returned thanks. We will not follow
him through the different periods of his somewhat irregular eloquence.
Those immediately in his neighbourhood found it at first rather
difficult to get him on his legs, but much greater difficulty was
soon experienced in inducing him to resume his seat. One of two
arrangements should certainly be made in these days: either let all
speech-making on festive occasions be utterly tabooed and made as it
were impossible; or else let those who are to exercise the privilege
be first subjected to a competing examination before the civil-service
examining commissioners. As it is now, the Honourable Georges do but
little honour to our exertions in favour of British education.