Barchester Towers

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In the dining-room the bishop went through the honours of the day
with much more neatness and propriety. He also drank Miss Thorne's
health, and did it in a manner becoming the bench which he adorned.
The party there was perhaps a little more dull, a shade less lively
than that in the tent. But what was lost in mirth was fully made up
in decorum.

And so the banquets passed off at the various tables with great eclat
and universal delight.




CHAPTER XL

Ullathorne Sports--Act II


"That which has made them drunk has made me bold." 'Twas thus that
Mr. Slope encouraged himself, as he left the dining-room in pursuit
of Eleanor. He had not indeed seen in that room any person really
intoxicated, but there had been a good deal of wine drunk, and Mr.
Slope had not hesitated to take his share, in order to screw himself
up to the undertaking which he had in hand. He is not the first man
who has thought it expedient to call in the assistance of Bacchus on
such an occasion.

Eleanor was out through the window and on the grass before she
perceived that she was followed. Just at that moment the guests were
nearly all occupied at the tables. Here and there were to be seen a
constant couple or two, who preferred their own sweet discourse to
the jingle of glasses or the charms of rhetoric which fell from the
mouths of the Honourable George and the Bishop of Barchester; but the
grounds were as nearly vacant as Mr. Slope could wish them to be.

Eleanor saw that she was pursued, and as a deer, when escape is no
longer possible, will turn to bay and attack the hounds, so did she
turn upon Mr. Slope.

"Pray don't let me take you from the room," said she, speaking with
all the stiffness which she knew how to use. "I have come out to look
for a friend. I must beg of you, Mr. Slope, to go back."

But Mr. Slope would not be thus entreated. He had observed all day
that Mrs. Bold was not cordial to him, and this had to a certain
extent oppressed him. But he did not deduce from this any assurance
that his aspirations were in vain. He saw that she was angry with
him. Might she not be so because he had so long tampered with her
feelings--might it not arise from his having, as he knew was the
case, caused her name to be bruited about in conjunction with his own
without having given her the opportunity of confessing to the world
that henceforth their names were to be one and the same? Poor lady.
He had within him a certain Christian conscience-stricken feeling
of remorse on this head. It might be that he had wronged her by his
tardiness. He had, however, at the present moment imbibed too much
of Mr. Thorne's champagne to have any inward misgivings. He was right
in repeating the boast of Lady Macbeth: he was not drunk, but he was
bold enough for anything. It was a pity that in such a state he could
not have encountered Mrs. Proudie.

"You must permit me to attend you," said he; "I could not think of
allowing you to go alone."

"Indeed you must, Mr. Slope," said Eleanor still very stiffly, "for
it is my special wish to be alone."

The time for letting the great secret escape him had already come.
Mr. Slope saw that it must be now or never, and he was determined
that it should be now. This was not his first attempt at winning a
fair lady. He had been on his knees, looked unutterable things with
his eyes, and whispered honeyed words before this. Indeed, he was
somewhat an adept at these things, and had only to adapt to the
perhaps different taste of Mrs. Bold the well-remembered rhapsodies
which had once so much gratified Olivia Proudie.

"Do not ask me to leave you, Mrs. Bold," said he with an impassioned
look, impassioned and sanctified as well, with that sort of look
which is not uncommon with gentlemen of Mr. Slope's school and which
may perhaps be called the tender-pious. "Do not ask me to leave you
till I have spoken a few words with which my heart is full--which I
have come hither purposely to say."

Eleanor saw how it was now. She knew directly what it was she was
about to go through, and very miserable the knowledge made her. Of
course she could refuse Mr. Slope, and there would be an end of
that, one might say. But there would not be an end of it, as far as
Eleanor was concerned. The very fact of Mr. Slope's making an offer
to her would be a triumph to the archdeacon and, in a great measure,
a vindication of Mr. Arabin's conduct. The widow could not bring
herself to endure with patience the idea that she had been in the
wrong. She had defended Mr. Slope, she had declared herself quite
justified in admitting him among her acquaintance, had ridiculed the
idea of his considering himself as more than an acquaintance, and had
resented the archdeacon's caution in her behalf: now it was about
to be proved to her in a manner sufficiently disagreeable that the
archdeacon had been right, and she herself had been entirely wrong.

"I don't know what you can have to say to me, Mr. Slope, that you
could not have said when we were sitting at table just now;" and she
closed her lips, and steadied her eyeballs, and looked at him in a
manner that ought to have frozen him.

But gentlemen are not easily frozen when they are full of champagne,
and it would not at any time have been easy to freeze Mr. Slope.

"There are things, Mrs. Bold, which a man cannot well say before a
crowd; which perhaps he cannot well say at any time; which indeed he
may most fervently desire to get spoken, and which he may yet find
it almost impossible to utter. It is such things as these that I now
wish to say to you;" and then the tender-pious look was repeated,
with a little more emphasis even than before.

Eleanor had not found it practicable to stand stock still before the
dining-room window, there receive his offer in full view of Miss
Thorne's guests. She had therefore in self-defence walked on, and
thus Mr. Slope had gained his object of walking with her. He now
offered her his arm.

"Thank you, Mr. Slope, I am much obliged to you; but for the very
short time that I shall remain with you I shall prefer walking
alone."

"And must it be so short?" said he. "Must it be--"

"Yes," said Eleanor, interrupting him, "as short as possible, if you
please, sir."

"I had hoped, Mrs. Bold--I had hoped--"

"Pray hope nothing, Mr. Slope, as far as I am concerned; pray do not;
I do not know and need not know what hope you mean. Our acquaintance
is very slight, and will probably remain so. Pray, pray let that be
enough; there is at any rate no necessity for us to quarrel."

Mrs. Bold was certainly treating Mr. Slope rather cavalierly, and he
felt it so. She was rejecting him before he had offered himself, and
informing him at the same time that he was taking a great deal too
much on himself to be so familiar. She did not even make an attempt


From such a sharp and waspish word as "no"
To pluck the sting.


He was still determined to be very tender and very pious, seeing that,
in spite of all Mrs. Bold had said to him, he had not yet abandoned
hope; but he was inclined also to be somewhat angry. The widow was
bearing herself, as he thought, with too high a hand, was speaking of
herself in much too imperious a tone. She had clearly no idea that an
honour was being conferred on her. Mr. Slope would be tender as long
as he could, but he began to think if that failed it would not be
amiss if he also mounted himself for awhile on his high horse. Mr.
Slope could undoubtedly be very tender, but he could be very savage
also, and he knew his own abilities.

"That is cruel," said he, "and unchristian, too. The worst of us are
still bidden to hope. What have I done that you should pass on me so
severe a sentence?" And then he paused a moment, during which the
widow walked steadily on with measured steps, saying nothing further.

"Beautiful woman," at last he burst forth, "beautiful woman, you
cannot pretend to be ignorant that I adore you. Yes, Eleanor, yes, I
love you. I love you with the truest affection which man can bear to
woman. Next to my hopes of heaven are my hopes of possessing you."
(Mr. Slope's memory here played him false, or he would not have
omitted the deanery.) "How sweet to walk to heaven with you by my
side, with you for my guide, mutual guides. Say, Eleanor, dearest
Eleanor, shall we walk that sweet path together?"

Eleanor had no intention of ever walking together with Mr. Slope on
any other path than that special one of Miss Thorne's which they now
occupied, but as she had been unable to prevent the expression of Mr.
Slope's wishes and aspirations, she resolved to hear him out to the
end before she answered him.

"Ah, Eleanor," he continued, and it seemed to be his idea that as he
had once found courage to pronounce her Christian name, he could not
utter it often enough. "Ah, Eleanor, will it not be sweet, with the
Lord's assistance, to travel hand in hand through this mortal valley
which His mercies will make pleasant to us, till hereafter we shall
dwell together at the foot of His throne?" And then a more tenderly
pious glance than ever beamed from the lover's eyes. "Ah, Eleanor--"

"My name, Mr. Slope, is Mrs. Bold," said Eleanor, who, though
determined to hear out the tale of his love, was too much disgusted
by his blasphemy to be able to bear much more of it.

"Sweetest angel, be not so cold," said he, and as he said it the
champagne broke forth, and he contrived to pass his arm round her
waist. He did this with considerable cleverness, for up to this point
Eleanor had contrived with tolerable success to keep her distance from
him. They had got into a walk nearly enveloped by shrubs, and Mr.
Slope therefore no doubt considered that as they were now alone it was
fitting that he should give her some outward demonstration of that
affection of which he talked so much. It may perhaps be presumed that
the same stamp of measures had been found to succeed with Olivia
Proudie. Be this as it may, it was not successful with Eleanor Bold.

She sprang from him as she would have jumped from an adder, but she
did not spring far--not, indeed, beyond arm's length--and then, quick
as thought, she raised her little hand and dealt him a box on the
ear with such right goodwill that it sounded among the trees like a
miniature thunderclap.

And now it is to be feared that every well-bred reader of these pages
will lay down the book with disgust, feeling that, after all, the
heroine is unworthy of sympathy. She is a hoyden, one will say. At any
rate she is not a lady, another will exclaim. I have suspected her all
through, a third will declare; she has no idea of the dignity of a
matron, or of the peculiar propriety which her position demands. At
one moment she is romping with young Stanhope; then she is making eyes
at Mr. Arabin; anon she comes to fisticuffs with a third lover--and
all before she is yet a widow of two years' standing.

She cannot altogether be defended, and yet it may be averred that she
is not a hoyden, not given to romping nor prone to boxing. It were to
be wished devoutly that she had not struck Mr. Slope in the face. In
doing so she derogated from her dignity and committed herself. Had she
been educated in Belgravia, had she been brought up by any sterner
mentor than that fond father, had she lived longer under the rule of a
husband, she might, perhaps, have saved herself from this great fault.
As it was, the provocation was too much for her, the temptation to
instant resentment of the insult too strong. She was too keen in the
feeling of independence, a feeling dangerous for a young woman, but
one in which her position peculiarly tempted her to indulge. And then
Mr. Slope's face, tinted with a deeper dye than usual by the wine he
had drunk, simpering and puckering itself with pseudo-pity and tender
grimaces, seemed specially to call for such punishment. She had, too,
a true instinct as to the man; he was capable of rebuke in this way
and in no other. To him the blow from her little hand was as much
an insult as a blow from a man would have been to another. It went
directly to his pride. He conceived himself lowered in his dignity and
personally outraged. He could almost have struck at her again in his
rage. Even the pain was a great annoyance to him, and the feeling that
his clerical character had been wholly disregarded sorely vexed him.

There are such men: men who can endure no taint on their personal
self-respect, even from a woman; men whose bodies are to themselves
such sacred temples that a joke against them is desecration, and
a rough touch downright sacrilege. Mr. Slope was such a man, and
therefore the slap on the face that he got from Eleanor was, as
far as he was concerned, the fittest rebuke which could have been
administered to him.

But nevertheless, she should not have raised her hand against the
man. Ladies' hands, so soft, so sweet, so delicious to the touch, so
graceful to the eye, so gracious in their gentle doings, were not made
to belabour men's faces. The moment the deed was done Eleanor felt
that she had sinned against all propriety, and would have given little
worlds to recall the blow. In her first agony of sorrow she all but
begged the man's pardon. Her next impulse, however, and the one which
she obeyed, was to run away.

"I never, never will speak another word to you," she said, gasping
with emotion and the loss of breath which her exertion and violent
feelings occasioned her, and so saying she put foot to the ground and
ran quickly back along the path to the house.

But how shall I sing the divine wrath of Mr. Slope, or how invoke the
tragic muse to describe the rage which swelled the celestial bosom
of the bishop's chaplain? Such an undertaking by no means befits the
low-heeled buskin of modern fiction. The painter put a veil over
Agamemnon's face when called on to depict the father's grief at the
early doom of his devoted daughter. The god, when he resolved to
punish the rebellious winds, abstained from mouthing empty threats.
We will not attempt to tell with what mighty surgings of the inner
heart Mr. Slope swore to revenge himself on the woman who had
disgraced him, nor will we vainly strive to depict his deep agony of
soul.

There he is, however, alone in the garden walk, and we must contrive
to bring him out of it. He was not willing to come forth quite at
once. His cheek was stinging with the weight of Eleanor's fingers,
and he fancied that everyone who looked at him would be able to
see on his face the traces of what he had endured. He stood awhile,
becoming redder and redder with rage. He stood motionless, undecided,
glaring with his eyes, thinking of the pains and penalties of Hades,
and meditating how he might best devote his enemy to the infernal
gods with all the passion of his accustomed eloquence. He longed in
his heart to be preaching at her. 'Twas thus that he was ordinarily
avenged of sinning mortal men and women. Could he at once have
ascended his Sunday rostrum and fulminated at her such denunciations
as his spirit delighted in, his bosom would have been greatly eased.

But how preach to Mr. Thorne's laurels, or how preach indeed at all
in such a vanity fair as this now going on at Ullathorne? And then
he began to feel a righteous disgust at the wickedness of the doings
around him. He had been justly chastised for lending, by his presence,
a sanction to such worldly lures. The gaiety of society, the mirth of
banquets, the laughter of the young, and the eating and drinking of
the elders were, for awhile, without excuse in his sight. What had he
now brought down upon himself by sojourning thus in the tents of the
heathen? He had consorted with idolaters round the altars of Baal, and
therefore a sore punishment had come upon him. He then thought of the
Signora Neroni, and his soul within him was full of sorrow. He had an
inkling--a true inkling--that he was a wicked, sinful man, but it led
him in no right direction; he could admit no charity in his heart.
He felt debasement coming on him, and he longed to shake it off, to
rise up in his stirrup, to mount to high places and great power, that
he might get up into a mighty pulpit and preach to the world a loud
sermon against Mrs. Bold.

There he stood fixed to the gravel for about ten minutes. Fortune
favoured him so far that no prying eyes came to look upon him in his
misery. Then a shudder passed over his whole frame; he collected
himself and slowly wound his way round to the lawn, advancing along
the path and not returning in the direction which Eleanor had taken.
When he reached the tent, he found the bishop standing there in
conversation with the Master of Lazarus. His lordship had come out
to air himself after the exertion of his speech.

"This is very pleasant--very pleasant, my lord, is it not?" said
Mr. Slope with his most gracious smile, pointing to the tent; "very
pleasant. It is delightful to see so many persons enjoying themselves
so thoroughly."

Mr. Slope thought he might force the bishop to introduce him to Dr.
Gwynne. A very great example had declared and practised the wisdom of
being everything to everybody, and Mr. Slope was desirous of following
it. His maxim was never to lose a chance. The bishop, however, at the
present moment was not very anxious to increase Mr. Slope's circle
of acquaintance among his clerical brethren. He had his own reasons
for dropping any marked allusion to his domestic chaplain, and he
therefore made his shoulder rather cold for the occasion.

"Very, very," said he without turning round, or even deigning to look
at Mr. Slope. "And therefore, Dr. Gwynne, I really think that you will
find that the hebdomadal board will exercise as wide and as general an
authority as at the present moment. I, for one, Dr. Gwynne--"

"Dr. Gwynne," said Mr. Slope, raising his hat and resolving not to
be outwitted by such an insignificant little goose as the Bishop of
Barchester.

The Master of Lazarus also raised his hat and bowed very politely to
Mr. Slope. There is not a more courteous gentleman in the queen's
dominions than the Master of Lazarus.

"My lord," said Mr. Slope, "pray do me the honour of introducing me
to Dr. Gwynne. The opportunity is too much in my favour to be lost."

The bishop had no help for it. "My chaplain, Dr. Gwynne," said he,
"my present chaplain, Mr. Slope." He certainly made the introduction
as unsatisfactory to the chaplain as possible, and by the use of the
word "present" seemed to indicate that Mr. Slope might probably not
long enjoy the honour which he now held. But Mr. Slope cared nothing
for this. He understood the innuendo, and disregarded it. It might
probably come to pass that he would be in a situation to resign his
chaplaincy before the bishop was in a situation to dismiss him from
it. What need the future Dean of Barchester care for the bishop, or
for the bishop's wife? Had not Mr. Slope, just as he was entering Dr.
Stanhope's carriage, received an all-important note from Tom Towers
of "The Jupiter"? Had he not that note this moment in his pocket?

So disregarding the bishop, he began to open out a conversation with
the Master of Lazarus.

But suddenly an interruption came, not altogether unwelcome to Mr.
Slope. One of the bishop's servants came up to his master's shoulder
with a long, grave face and whispered into the bishop's ear.

"What is it, John?" said the bishop.

"The dean, my lord; he is dead."

Mr. Slope had no further desire to converse with the Master of
Lazarus, and was very soon on his road back to Barchester.

Eleanor, as we have said, having declared her intention of never
holding further communication with Mr. Slope, ran hurriedly back
towards the house. The thought, however, of what she had done grieved
her greatly, and she could not abstain from bursting into tears.
'Twas thus she played the second act in that day's melodrama.




CHAPTER XLI

Mrs. Bold Confides Her Sorrow to Her Friend Miss Stanhope


When Mrs. Bold came to the end of the walk and faced the lawn, she
began to bethink herself what she should do. Was she to wait there
till Mr. Slope caught her, or was she to go in among the crowd with
tears in her eyes and passion in her face? She might in truth have
stood there long enough without any reasonable fear of further
immediate persecution from Mr. Slope, but we are all inclined to
magnify the bugbears which frighten us. In her present state of dread
she did not know of what atrocity he might venture to be guilty. Had
anyone told her a week ago that he would have put his arm round her
waist at this party of Miss Thorne's, she would have been utterly
incredulous. Had she been informed that he would be seen on the
following Sunday walking down the High Street in a scarlet coat
and top boots, she would not have thought such a phenomenon more
improbable.

But this improbable iniquity he had committed, and now there was
nothing she could not believe of him. In the first place it was quite
manifest that he was tipsy; in the next place it was to be taken as
proved that all his religion was sheer hypocrisy; and finally the man
was utterly shameless. She therefore stood watching for the sound of
his footfall, not without some fear that he might creep out at her
suddenly from among the bushes.

As she thus stood she saw Charlotte Stanhope at a little distance
from her, walking quickly across the grass. Eleanor's handkerchief
was in her hand, and putting it to her face so as to conceal her
tears, she ran across the lawn and joined her friend.

"Oh, Charlotte," she said, almost too much out of breath to speak
very plainly; "I am so glad I have found you."

"Glad you have found me!" said Charlotte, laughing; "that's a good
joke. Why Bertie and I have been looking for you everywhere. He swears
that you have gone off with Mr. Slope, and is now on the point of
hanging himself."

"Oh, Charlotte, don't," said Mrs. Bold.

"Why, my child, what on earth is the matter with you?" said Miss
Stanhope, perceiving that Eleanor's hand trembled on her own arm,
and finding also that her companion was still half-choked by tears.
"Goodness heaven! Something has distressed you. What is it? What
can I do for you?"

Eleanor answered her only by a sort of spasmodic gurgle in her throat.
She was a good deal upset, as people say, and could not at the moment
collect herself.

"Come here, this way, Mrs. Bold; come this way, and we shall not be
seen. What has happened to vex you so? What can I do for you? Can
Bertie do anything?"

"Oh, no, no, no, no," said Eleanor. "There is nothing to be done. Only
that horrid man--"

"What horrid man?" asked Charlotte.

There are some moments in life in which both men and women feel
themselves imperatively called on to make a confidence, in which not
to do so requires a disagreeable resolution and also a disagreeable
suspicion. There are people of both sexes who never make confidences,
who are never tempted by momentary circumstances to disclose their
secrets, but such are generally dull, close, unimpassioned spirits,
"gloomy gnomes, who live in cold dark mines." There was nothing of
the gnome about Eleanor, and she therefore resolved to tell Charlotte
Stanhope the whole story about Mr. Slope.

"That horrid man; that Mr. Slope," said she. "Did you not see that he
followed me out of the dining-room?"

"Of course I did, and was sorry enough, but I could not help it.
I knew you would be annoyed. But you and Bertie managed it badly
between you."

"It was not his fault nor mine either. You know how I disliked the
idea of coming in the carriage with that man."

"I am sure I am very sorry if that has led to it."

"I don't know what has led to it," said Eleanor, almost crying again.
"But it has not been my fault."

"But what has he done, my dear?"

"He's an abominable, horrid, hypocritical man, and it would serve him
right to tell the bishop all about it."

"Believe me, if you want to do him an injury, you had far better tell
Mrs. Proudie. But what did he do, Mrs. Bold?"

"Ugh!" exclaimed Eleanor.

"Well, I must confess he's not very nice," said Charlotte Stanhope.

"Nice!" said Eleanor. "He is the most fulsome, fawning, abominable
man I ever saw. What business had he to come to me?--I that never
gave him the slightest tittle of encouragement--I that always hated
him, though I did take his part when others ran him down."

"That's just where it is, my dear. He has heard that and therefore
fancied that of course you were in love with him."

This was wormwood to Eleanor. It was in fact the very thing which
all her friends had been saying for the last month past--and which
experience now proved to be true. Eleanor resolved within herself
that she would never again take any man's part. The world, with all
its villainy and all its ill-nature, might wag as it liked: she would
not again attempt to set crooked things straight.

"But what did he do, my dear?" said Charlotte, who was really rather
interested in the subject.

"He--he--he--"

"Well--come, it can't have been anything so very horrid, for the man
was not tipsy."