Barchester Towers

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"We must go to work at once, girls, and that in earnest. Mrs.
Proudie expects us to be in the hospital house on the 15th of
October."

Had Mrs. Proudie expressed a wish that they should all be there on
the next morning, the girls would have had nothing to say against it.

"And when will the pay begin?" asked the eldest boy.

"To-day, my dear," said the gratified mother.

"Oh, that is jolly," said the boy.

"Mrs. Proudie insisted on our going down to the house," continued
the mother, "and when there, I thought I might save a journey by
measuring some of the rooms and windows; so I got a knot of tape from
Bobbins. Bobbins is as civil as you please, now."

"I wouldn't thank him," said Letty the younger.

"Oh, it's the way of the world, my dear. They all do just the same.
You might just as well be angry with the turkey cock for gobbling at
you. It's the bird's nature." And as she enunciated to her bairns
the upshot of her practical experience, she pulled from her pocket
the portions of tape which showed the length and breadth of the
various rooms at the hospital house.

And so we will leave her happy in her toils.

The Quiverfuls had hardly left the palace, and Mrs. Proudie was still
holding forth on the matter to her husband, when another visitor was
announced in the person of Dr. Gwynne. The Master of Lazarus had
asked for the bishop and not for Mrs. Proudie, and therefore when he
was shown into the study, he was surprised rather than rejoiced to
find the lady there.

But we must go back a little, and it shall be but a little, for
a difficulty begins to make itself manifest in the necessity of
disposing of all our friends in the small remainder of this one
volume. Oh, that Mr. Longman would allow me a fourth! It should
transcend the other three as the seventh heaven transcends all the
lower stages of celestial bliss.

Going home in the carriage that evening from Ullathorne, Dr. Gwynne
had not without difficulty brought round his friend the archdeacon to
a line of tactics much less bellicose than that which his own taste
would have preferred. "It will be unseemly in us to show ourselves
in a bad humour; moreover, we have no power in this matter, and it
will therefore be bad policy to act as though we had." 'Twas thus
the Master of Lazarus argued. "If," he continued, "the bishop be
determined to appoint another to the hospital, threats will not
prevent him, and threats should not be lightly used by an archdeacon
to his bishop. If he will place a stranger in the hospital, we can
only leave him to the indignation of others. It is probable that
such a step may not eventually injure your father-in-law. I will see
the bishop, if you will allow me--alone." At this the archdeacon
winced visibly. "Yes, alone; for so I shall be calmer; and then I
shall at any rate learn what he does mean to do in the matter."

The archdeacon puffed and blew, put up the carriage window and then
put it down again, argued the matter up to his own gate, and at last
gave way. Everybody was against him, his own wife, Mr. Harding, and
Dr. Gwynne.

"Pray keep him out of hot water, Dr. Gwynne," Mrs. Grantly had said
to her guest.

"My dearest madam, I'll do my best," the courteous master had
replied. 'Twas thus he did it and earned for himself the gratitude
of Mrs. Grantly.

And now we may return to the bishop's study.

Dr. Gwynne had certainly not foreseen the difficulty which here
presented itself. He--together with all the clerical world of
England--had heard it rumoured about that Mrs. Proudie did not
confine herself to her wardrobes, still-rooms, and laundries; but yet
it had never occurred to him that if he called on a bishop at one
o'clock in the day, he could by any possibility find him closeted
with his wife; or that if he did so, the wife would remain longer
than necessary to make her curtsey. It appeared, however, as though
in the present case Mrs. Proudie had no idea of retreating.

The bishop had been very much pleased with Dr. Gwynne on the
preceding day, and of course thought that Dr. Gwynne had been as much
pleased with him. He attributed the visit solely to compliment, and
thought it an extremely gracious and proper thing for the Master of
Lazarus to drive over from Plumstead specially to call at the palace
so soon after his arrival in the country. The fact that they were
not on the same side either in politics or doctrines made the
compliment the greater. The bishop, therefore, was all smiles. And
Mrs. Proudie, who liked people with good handles to their names, was
also very well disposed to welcome the Master of Lazarus.

"We had a charming party at Ullathorne, Master, had we not?" said
she. "I hope Mrs. Grantly got home without fatigue."

Dr. Gwynne said that they had all been a little tired, but were none
the worse this morning.

"An excellent person, Miss Thorne," suggested the bishop.

"And an exemplary Christian, I am told," said Mrs. Proudie.

Dr. Gwynne declared that he was very glad to hear it.

"I have not seen her Sabbath-day schools yet," continued the lady,
"but I shall make a point of doing so before long."

Dr. Gwynne merely bowed at this intimation. He had heard something
of Mrs. Proudie and her Sunday-schools, both from Dr. Grantly and
Mr. Harding.

"By the by, Master," continued the lady, "I wonder whether Mrs.
Grantly would like me to drive over and inspect her Sabbath-day
school. I hear that it is most excellently kept."

Dr. Gwynne really could not say. He had no doubt Mrs. Grantly would
be most happy to see Mrs. Proudie any day Mrs. Proudie would do her
the honour of calling: that was, of course, if Mrs. Grantly should
happen to be at home.

A slight cloud darkened the lady's brow. She saw that her offer was
not taken in good part. This generation of unregenerated vipers
was still perverse, stiff-necked, and hardened in their iniquity.
"The archdeacon, I know," said she, "sets his face against these
institutions."

At this Dr. Gwynne laughed slightly. It was but a smile. Had he
given his cap for it he could not have helped it.

Mrs. Proudie frowned again. "'Suffer little children, and forbid
them not,'" she said. "Are we not to remember that, Dr. Gwynne?
'Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones.' Are we not
to remember that, Dr. Gwynne?" And at each of these questions she
raised at him her menacing forefinger.

"Certainly, madam, certainly," said the master, "and so does the
archdeacon, I am sure, on weekdays as well as on Sundays."

"On weekdays you can't take heed not to despise them," said Mrs.
Proudie, "because then they are out in the fields. On weekdays they
belong to their parents, but on Sundays they ought to belong to the
clergyman." And the finger was again raised.

The master began to understand and to share the intense disgust
which the archdeacon always expressed when Mrs. Proudie's name was
mentioned. What was he to do with such a woman as this? To take his
hat and go would have been his natural resource, but then he did not
wish to be foiled in his object.

"My lord," said he, "I wanted to ask you a question on business, if
you could spare me one moment's leisure. I know I must apologize for
so disturbing you, but in truth I will not detain you five minutes."

"Certainly, Master, certainly," said the bishop; "my time is quite
yours--pray make no apology, pray make no apology."

"You have a great deal to do just at the present moment, Bishop. Do
not forget how extremely busy you are at present," said Mrs. Proudie,
whose spirit was now up, for she was angry with her visitor.

"I will not delay his lordship much above a minute," said the Master
of Lazarus, rising from his chair and expecting that Mrs. Proudie
would now go, or else that the bishop would lead the way into another
room.

But neither event seemed likely to occur, and Dr. Gwynne stood for a
moment silent in the middle of the room.

"Perhaps it's about Hiram's Hospital?" suggested Mrs. Proudie.

Dr. Gwynne, lost in astonishment, and not knowing what else on earth
to do, confessed that his business with the bishop was connected with
Hiram's Hospital.

"His lordship has finally conferred the appointment on Mr. Quiverful
this morning," said the lady.

Dr. Gwynne made a simple reference to the bishop, and finding that
the lady's statement was formally confirmed, he took his leave.
"That comes of the reform bill," he said to himself as he walked down
the bishop's avenue. "Well, at any rate the Greek play bishops were
not so bad as that."

It has been said that Mr. Slope, as he started for Ullathorne,
received a dispatch from his friend Mr. Towers, which had the effect
of putting him in that high good humour which subsequent events
somewhat untowardly damped. It ran as follows. Its shortness will
be its sufficient apology.


MY DEAR SIR,

I wish you every success. I don't know that I can help you,
but if I can, I will.

Yours ever,
T. T.

30/9/185--


There was more in this than in all Sir Nicholas Fitzwhiggin's
flummery; more than in all the bishop's promises, even had they been
ever so sincere; more than in any archbishop's good word, even had
it been possible to obtain it. Tom Towers would do for him what he
could.

Mr. Slope had from his youth upwards been a firm believer in the
public press. He had dabbled in it himself ever since he had taken
his degree, and he regarded it as the great arranger and distributor
of all future British terrestrial affairs whatever. He had not yet
arrived at the age, an age which sooner or later comes to most of
us, which dissipates the golden dreams of youth. He delighted in the
idea of wresting power from the hands of his country's magnates and
placing it in a custody which was at any rate nearer to his own
reach. Sixty thousand broadsheets dispersing themselves daily among
his reading fellow citizens formed in his eyes a better depot for
supremacy than a throne at Windsor, a cabinet in Downing Street, or
even an assembly at Westminster. And on this subject we must not
quarrel with Mr. Slope, for the feeling is too general to be met with
disrespect.

Tom Towers was as good, if not better, than his promise. On the
following morning "The Jupiter," spouting forth public opinion with
sixty thousand loud clarions, did proclaim to the world that Mr.
Slope was the fitting man for the vacant post. It was pleasant for
Mr. Slope to read the following lines in the Barchester news-room,
which he did within thirty minutes after the morning train from
London had reached the city.


It is just now five years since we called the attention
of our readers to the quiet city of Barchester. From that
day to this, we have in no way meddled with the affairs
of that happy ecclesiastical community. Since then, an
old bishop has died there, and a young bishop has been
installed; but we believe we did not do more than give
some customary record of the interesting event. Nor are
we now about to meddle very deeply in the affairs of the
diocese. If any of the chapter feel a qualm of conscience
on reading thus far, let it be quieted. Above all, let the
mind of the new bishop be at rest. We are now not armed
for war, but approach the reverend towers of the old
cathedral with an olive branch in our hands.

It will be remembered that at the time alluded to, now
five years past, we had occasion to remark on the state
of a charity in Barchester called Hiram's Hospital. We
thought that it was maladministered, and that the very
estimable and reverend gentleman who held the office of
warden was somewhat too highly paid for duties which were
somewhat too easily performed. This gentleman--and we say
it in all sincerity and with no touch of sarcasm--had
never looked on the matter in this light before. We do not
wish to take praise to ourselves whether praise be due to
us or not. But the consequence of our remark was that the
warden did look into the matter, and finding on so doing
that he himself could come to no other opinion than
that expressed by us, he very creditably threw up the
appointment. The then bishop as creditably declined to
fill the vacancy till the affair was put on a better
footing. Parliament then took it up, and we have now
the satisfaction of informing our readers that Hiram's
Hospital will be immediately reopened under new auspices.
Heretofore, provision was made for the maintenance of
twelve old men. This will now be extended to the fair sex,
and twelve elderly women, if any such can be found in
Barchester, will be added to the establishment. There will
be a matron; there will, it is hoped, be schools attached
for the poorest of the children of the poor, and there
will be a steward. The warden, for there will still be a
warden, will receive an income more in keeping with the
extent of the charity than that heretofore paid. The
stipend we believe will be L450. We may add that the
excellent house which the former warden inhabited will
still be attached to the situation.

Barchester Hospital cannot perhaps boast a world-wide
reputation, but as we adverted to its state of decadence,
we think it right also to advert to its renaissance. May
it go on and prosper. Whether the salutary reform which
has been introduced within its walls has been carried
as far as could have been desired may be doubtful. The
important question of the school appears to be somewhat
left to the discretion of the new warden. This might have
been made the most important part of the establishment,
and the new warden, whom we trust we shall not offend by
the freedom of our remarks, might have been selected with
some view to his fitness as schoolmaster. But we will not
now look a gift-horse in the mouth. May the hospital go on
and prosper! The situation of warden has of course been
offered to the gentleman who so honourably vacated it five
years since, but we are given to understand that he has
declined it. Whether the ladies who have been introduced
be in his estimation too much for his powers of control,
whether it be that the diminished income does not offer to
him sufficient temptation to resume his old place, or that
he has in the meantime assumed other clerical duties, we
do not know. We are, however, informed that he has refused
the offer and that the situation has been accepted by Mr.
Quiverful, the vicar of Puddingdale.

So much we think is due to Hiram redivivus. But while we
are on the subject of Barchester, we will venture with
all respectful humility to express our opinion on another
matter connected with the ecclesiastical polity of that
ancient city. Dr. Trefoil, the dean, died yesterday. A
short record of his death, giving his age and the various
pieces of preferment which he has at different times held,
will be found in another column of this paper. The only
fault we knew in him was his age, and as that is a crime
of which we all hope to be guilty, we will not bear
heavily on it. May he rest in peace! But though the great
age of an expiring dean cannot be made matter of reproach,
we are not inclined to look on such a fault as at all
pardonable in a dean just brought to the birth. We do hope
that the days of sexagenarian appointments are past. If
we want deans, we must want them for some purpose. That
purpose will necessarily be better fulfilled by a man of
forty than by a man of sixty. If we are to pay deans at
all, we are to pay them for some sort of work. That work,
be it what it may, will be best performed by a workman in
the prime of life. Dr. Trefoil, we see, was eighty when he
died. As we have as yet completed no plan for pensioning
superannuated clergymen, we do not wish to get rid of any
existing deans of that age. But we prefer having as few
such as possible. If a man of seventy be now appointed, we
beg to point out to Lord ---- that he will be past all use
in a year or two, if indeed he be not so at the present
moment. His lordship will allow us to remind him that all
men are not evergreens like himself.

We hear that Mr. Slope's name has been mentioned for
this preferment. Mr. Slope is at present chaplain to the
bishop. A better man could hardly be selected. He is a man
of talent, young, active, and conversant with the affairs
of the cathedral; he is moreover, we conscientiously
believe, a truly pious clergyman. We know that his
services in the city of Barchester have been highly
appreciated. He is an eloquent preacher and a ripe
scholar. Such a selection as this would go far to raise
the confidence of the public in the present administration
of church patronage and would teach men to believe that
from henceforth the establishment of our church will not
afford easy couches to worn-out clerical voluptuaries.


Standing at a reading-desk in the Barchester news-room, Mr. Slope
digested this article with considerable satisfaction. What was
therein said as to the hospital was now comparatively a matter of
indifference to him. He was certainly glad that he had not succeeded
in restoring to the place the father of that virago who had so
audaciously outraged all decency in his person, and was so far
satisfied. But Mrs. Proudie's nominee was appointed, and he was so
far dissatisfied. His mind, however, was now soaring above Mrs. Bold
or Mrs. Proudie. He was sufficiently conversant with the tactics
of "The Jupiter" to know that the pith of the article would lie in
the last paragraph. The place of honour was given to him, and it
was indeed as honourable as even he could have wished. He was very
grateful to his friend Mr. Towers, and with full heart looked forward
to the day when he might entertain him in princely style at his own
full-spread board in the deanery dining-room.

It had been well for Mr. Slope that Dr. Trefoil had died in the
autumn. Those caterers for our morning repast, the staff of "The
Jupiter," had been sorely put to it for the last month to find a
sufficiency of proper pabulum. Just then there was no talk of a new
American president. No wonderful tragedies had occurred on railway
trains in Georgia, or elsewhere. There was a dearth of broken banks,
and a dead dean with the necessity for a live one was a godsend. Had
Dr. Trefoil died in June, Mr. Towers would probably not have known so
much about the piety of Mr. Slope.

And here we will leave Mr. Slope for awhile in his triumph,
explaining, however, that his feelings were not altogether of
a triumphant nature. His rejection by the widow, or rather the
method of his rejection, galled him terribly. For days to come he
positively felt the sting upon his cheek whenever he thought of what
had been done to him. He could not refrain from calling her by harsh
names, speaking to himself as he walked through the streets of
Barchester. When he said his prayers, he could not bring himself to
forgive her. When he strove to do so, his mind recoiled from the
attempt, and in lieu of forgiving ran off in a double spirit of
vindictiveness, dwelling on the extent of the injury he had received.
And so his prayers dropped senseless from his lips.

And then the signora--what would he not have given to be able to hate
her also? As it was, he worshipped the very sofa on which she was
ever lying.

And thus it was not all rose colour with Mr. Slope, although his
hopes ran high.




CHAPTER XLIV

Mrs. Bold at Home


Poor Mrs. Bold, when she got home from Ullathorne on the evening of
Miss Thorne's party, was very unhappy and, moreover, very tired.
Nothing fatigues the body so much as weariness of spirit, and
Eleanor's spirit was indeed weary.

Dr. Stanhope had civilly but not very cordially asked her in to tea,
and her manner of refusal convinced the worthy doctor that he need
not repeat the invitation. He had not exactly made himself a party
to the intrigue which was to convert the late Mr. Bold's patrimony
into an income for his hopeful son, but he had been well aware what
was going on. And he was well aware also, when he perceived that
Bertie declined accompanying them home in the carriage, that the
affair had gone off.

Eleanor was very much afraid that Charlotte would have darted out
upon her, as the prebendary got out at his own door, but Bertie had
thoughtfully saved her from this by causing the carriage to go round
by her own house. This also Dr. Stanhope understood and allowed to
pass by without remark.

When she got home, she found Mary Bold in the drawing-room with the
child in her lap. She rushed forward and, throwing herself on her
knees, kissed the little fellow till she almost frightened him.

"Oh, Mary, I am so glad you did not go. It was an odious party."

Now the question of Mary's going had been one greatly mooted between
them. Mrs. Bold, when invited, had been the guest of the Grantlys,
and Miss Thorne, who had chiefly known Eleanor at the hospital
or at Plumstead Rectory, had forgotten all about Mary Bold. Her
sister-in-law had implored her to go under her wing and had offered to
write to Miss Thorne, or to call on her. But Miss Bold had declined.
In fact, Mr. Bold had not been very popular with such people as the
Thornes, and his sister would not go among them unless she were
specially asked to do so.

"Well, then," said Mary cheerfully, "I have the less to regret."

"You have nothing to regret; but oh! Mary, I have--so much--so much;"
and then she began kissing her boy, whom her caresses had roused from
his slumbers. When she raised her head, Mary saw that the tears were
running down her cheeks.

"Good heavens, Eleanor, what is the matter? What has happened to
you--Eleanor--dearest Eleanor--what is the matter?" and Mary got up
with the boy still in her arms.

"Give him to me--give him to me," said the young mother. "Give him
to me, Mary," and she almost tore the child out of her sister's arms.
The poor little fellow murmured somewhat at the disturbance but
nevertheless nestled himself close into his mother's bosom.

"Here, Mary, take the cloak from me. My own own darling, darling,
darling jewel. You are not false to me. Everybody else is false;
everybody else is cruel. Mamma will care for nobody, nobody, nobody,
but her own, own, own little man;" and she again kissed and pressed
the baby and cried till the tears ran down over the child's face.

"Who has been cruel to you, Eleanor?" said Mary. "I hope I have
not."

Now in this matter Eleanor had great cause for mental uneasiness.
She could not certainly accuse her loving sister-in-law of cruelty;
but she had to do that which was more galling: she had to accuse
herself of imprudence against which her sister-in-law had warned
her. Miss Bold had never encouraged Eleanor's acquaintance with Mr.
Slope, and she had positively discouraged the friendship of the
Stanhopes, as far as her usual gentle mode of speaking had permitted.
Eleanor had only laughed at her, however, when she said that she
disapproved of married women who lived apart from their husbands
and suggested that Charlotte Stanhope never went to church. Now,
however, Eleanor must either hold her tongue, which was quite
impossible, or confess herself to have been utterly wrong, which
was nearly equally so. So she staved off the evil day by more tears,
and consoled herself by inducing little Johnny to rouse himself
sufficiently to return her caresses.

"He is a darling--as true as gold. What would mamma do without him?
Mamma would lie down and die if she had not her own Johnny Bold to
give her comfort." This and much more she said of the same kind, and
for a time made no other answer to Mary's inquiries.

This kind of consolation from the world's deceit is very common.
Mothers obtain it from their children, and men from their dogs. Some
men even do so from their walking-sticks, which is just as rational.
How is it that we can take joy to ourselves in that we are not
deceived by those who have not attained the art to deceive us? In a
true man, if such can be found, or a true woman, much consolation may
indeed be taken.

In the caresses of her child, however, Eleanor did receive
consolation, and may ill befall the man who would begrudge it to
her. The evil day, however, was only postponed. She had to tell her
disagreeable tale to Mary, and she had also to tell it to her father.
Must it not, indeed, be told to the whole circle of her acquaintance
before she could be made to stand all right with them? At the
present moment there was no one to whom she could turn for comfort.
She hated Mr. Slope; that was a matter of course; in that feeling she
revelled. She hated and despised the Stanhopes; but that feeling
distressed her greatly. She had, as it were, separated herself from
her old friends to throw herself into the arms of this family; and
then how had they intended to use her? She could hardly reconcile
herself to her own father, who had believed ill of her. Mary Bold
had turned Mentor. That she could have forgiven had the Mentor
turned out to be in the wrong, but Mentors in the right are not to
be pardoned. She could not but hate the archdeacon, and now she
hated him worse than ever, for she must in some sort humble herself
before him. She hated her sister, for she was part and parcel of the
archdeacon. And she would have hated Mr. Arabin if she could. He
had pretended to regard her, and yet before her face he had hung over
that Italian woman as though there had been no beauty in the world
but hers--no other woman worth a moment's attention. And Mr. Arabin
would have to learn all this about Mr. Slope! She told herself that
she hated him, and she knew that she was lying to herself as she did
so. She had no consolation but her baby, and of that she made the
most. Mary, though she could not surmise what it was that had so
violently affected her sister-in-law, saw at once that her grief was
too great to be kept under control and waited patiently till the
child should be in his cradle.