Barchester Towers

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"My lord," said Mr. Slope, appealing to the bishop, and so turning his
back completely on the lady, "will you permit me to ask that I may
have from your own lips any decision that you may have come to on this
matter?"

"Certainly, Mr. Slope, certainly," said the bishop; "that is but
reasonable. Well, my decision is that you had better look for some
other preferment. For the situation which you have lately held I do
not think that you are well suited."

"And what, my lord, has been my fault?"

"That Signora Neroni is one fault," said Mrs. Proudie; "and a very
abominable fault she is; very abominable and very disgraceful. Fie,
Mr. Slope, fie! You an evangelical clergyman indeed!"

"My lord, I desire to know for what fault I am turned out of your
lordship's house."

"You hear what Mrs. Proudie says," said the bishop.

"When I publish the history of this transaction, my lord, as I
decidedly shall do in my own vindication, I presume you will
not wish me to state that you have discarded me at your wife's
bidding--because she has objected to my being acquainted with another
lady, the daughter of one of the prebendaries of the chapter?"

"You may publish what you please, sir," said Mrs. Proudie. "But you
will not be insane enough to publish any of your doings in Barchester.
Do you think I have not heard of your kneelings at that creature's
feet--that is, if she has any feet--and of your constant slobbering
over her hand? I advise you to beware, Mr. Slope, of what you do and
say. Clergymen have been unfrocked for less than what you have been
guilty of."

"My lord, if this goes on I shall be obliged to indict this
woman--Mrs. Proudie I mean--for defamation of character."

"I think, Mr. Slope, you had better now retire," said the bishop. "I
will enclose to you a cheque for any balance that may be due to you;
under the present circumstances, it will of course be better for all
parties that you should leave the palace at the earliest possible
moment. I will allow you for your journey back to London and for
your maintenance in Barchester for a week from this date."

"If, however, you wish to remain in this neighbourhood;" said Mrs.
Proudie, "and will solemnly pledge yourself never again to see that
woman, and will promise also to be more circumspect in your conduct,
the bishop will mention your name to Mr. Quiverful, who now wants a
curate at Puddingdale. The house is, I imagine, quite sufficient for
your requirements, and there will moreover be a stipend of fifty
pounds a year."

"May God forgive you, madam, for the manner in which you have treated
me," said Mr. Slope, looking at her with a very heavenly look; "and
remember this, madam, that you yourself may still have a fall;" and
he looked at her with a very worldly look. "As to the bishop, I pity
him!" And so saying, Mr. Slope left the room. Thus ended the intimacy
of the Bishop of Barchester with his first confidential chaplain.

Mrs. Proudie was right in this; namely, that Mr. Slope was not insane
enough to publish to the world any of his doings in Barchester. He
did not trouble his friend Mr. Towers with any written statement of
the iniquity of Mrs. Proudie, or the imbecility of her husband. He was
aware that it would be wise in him to drop for the future all allusion
to his doings in the cathedral city. Soon after the interview just
recorded he left Barchester, shaking the dust off his feet as he
entered the railway carriage; and he gave no longing, lingering look
after the cathedral towers as the tram hurried him quickly out of
their sight.

It is well known that the family of the Slopes never starve: they
always fall on their feet, like cats; and let them fall where they
will, they live on the fat of the land. Our Mr. Slope did so. On his
return to town he found that the sugar-refiner had died and that his
widow was inconsolable--in other words, in want of consolation. Mr.
Slope consoled her, and soon found himself settled with much comfort
in the house in Baker Street. He possessed himself, also, before long,
of a church in the vicinity of the Red Road, and became known to fame
as one of the most eloquent preachers and pious clergymen in that part
of the metropolis. There let us leave him.

Of the bishop and his wife very little further need be said. From that
time forth nothing material occurred to interrupt the even course of
their domestic harmony. Very speedily, a further vacancy on the bench
of bishops gave to Dr. Proudie the seat in the House of Lords, which
he at first so anxiously longed for. But by this time he had become a
wiser man. He did certainly take his seat, and occasionally registered
a vote in favour of Government views on ecclesiastical matters. But he
had thoroughly learnt that his proper sphere of action lay in close
contiguity with Mrs. Proudie's wardrobe. He never again aspired to
disobey, or seemed even to wish for autocratic diocesan authority. If
ever he thought of freedom, he did so as men think of the millennium,
as of a good time which may be coming, but which nobody expects to
come in their day. Mrs. Proudie might be said still to bloom, and was,
at any rate, strong, and the bishop had no reason to apprehend that he
would be speedily visited with the sorrows of a widower's life.

He is still Bishop of Barchester. He has so graced that throne that
the Government has been averse to translate him, even to higher
dignities. There may he remain, under safe pupilage, till the
newfangled manners of the age have discovered him to be superannuated
and bestowed on him a pension. As for Mrs. Proudie, our prayers for
her are that she may live forever.




CHAPTER LII

The New Dean Takes Possession of the Deanery,
and the New Warden of the Hospital


Mr. Harding and the archdeacon together made their way to Oxford, and
there, by dint of cunning argument, they induced the Master of Lazarus
also to ask himself this momentous question: "Why should not Mr.
Arabin be Dean of Barchester?" He, of course, for awhile tried his
hand at persuading Mr. Harding that he was foolish, overscrupulous,
self-willed, and weak-minded; but he tried in vain. If Mr. Harding
would not give way to Dr. Grantly, it was not likely that he would
give way to Dr. Gwynne, more especially now that so admirable a scheme
as that of inducting Mr. Arabin into the deanery had been set on foot.
When the master found that his eloquence was vain, and heard also that
Mr. Arabin was about to become Mr. Harding's son-in-law, he confessed
that he also would, under such circumstances, be glad to see his
old friend and protege, the fellow of his college, placed in the
comfortable position that was going a-begging.

"It might be the means you know, Master, of keeping Mr. Slope out,"
said the archdeacon with grave caution.

"He has no more chance of it," said the master, "than our college
chaplain. I know more about it than that."

Mrs. Grantly had been right in her surmise. It was the Master of
Lazarus who had been instrumental in representing in high places the
claims which Mr. Harding had upon the Government, and he now consented
to use his best endeavours towards getting the offer transferred to
Mr. Arabin. The three of them went on to London together, and there
they remained a week, to the great disgust of Mrs. Grantly, and most
probably also of Mrs. Gwynne. The minister was out of town in one
direction, and his private secretary in another. The clerks who
remained could do nothing in such a matter as this, and all was
difficulty and confusion. The two doctors seemed to have plenty to do;
they bustled here and they bustled there, and complained at their club
in the evenings that they had been driven off their legs; but Mr.
Harding had no occupation. Once or twice he suggested that he might
perhaps return to Barchester. His request, however, was peremptorily
refused, and he had nothing for it but to while away his time in
Westminster Abbey.

At length an answer from the great man came. The Master of Lazarus had
made his proposition through the Bishop of Belgravia. Now this bishop,
though but newly gifted with his diocesan honours, was a man of much
weight in the clerico-political world. He was, if not as pious, at any
rate as wise as St. Paul, and had been with so much effect all things
to all men that, though he was great among the dons of Oxford, he
had been selected for the most favourite seat on the bench by a Whig
prime minister. To him Dr. Gwynne had made known his wishes and his
arguments, and the bishop had made them known to the Marquis of
Kensington-Gore. The marquis, who was Lord High Steward of the Pantry
Board, and who by most men was supposed to hold the highest office
out of the cabinet, trafficked much in affairs of this kind. He not
only suggested the arrangement to the minister over a cup of coffee,
standing on a drawing-room rug in Windsor Castle, but he also
favourably mentioned Mr. Arabin's name in the ear of a distinguished
person.

And so the matter was arranged. The answer of the great man came, and
Mr. Arabin was made Dean of Barchester. The three clergymen who had
come up to town on this important mission dined together with great
glee on the day on which the news reached them. In a silent, decent,
clerical manner they toasted Mr. Arabin with full bumpers of claret.
The satisfaction of all of them was supreme. The Master of Lazarus had
been successful in his attempt, and success is dear to us all. The
archdeacon had trampled upon Mr. Slope, and had lifted to high honours
the young clergyman whom he had induced to quit the retirement and
comfort of the university. So at least the archdeacon thought; though,
to speak sooth, not he, but circumstances, had trampled on Mr. Slope.
But the satisfaction of Mr. Harding was, of all, perhaps, the most
complete. He laid aside his usual melancholy manner and brought forth
little quiet jokes from the inmost mirth of his heart; he poked his
fun at the archdeacon about Mr. Slope's marriage and quizzed him for
his improper love for Mrs. Proudie. On the following day they all
returned to Barchester.

It was arranged that Mr. Arabin should know nothing of what had been
done till he received the minister's letter from the hands of his
embryo father-in-law. In order that no time might be lost, a message
had been sent to him by the preceding night's post, begging him to be
at the deanery at the hour that the train from London arrived. There
was nothing in this which surprised Mr. Arabin. It had somehow got
about through all Barchester that Mr. Harding was the new dean, and
all Barchester was prepared to welcome him with pealing bells and full
hearts. Mr. Slope had certainly had a party; there had certainly been
those in Barchester who were prepared to congratulate him on his
promotion with assumed sincerity, but even his own party was not
broken-hearted by his failure. The inhabitants of the city, even
the high-souled, ecstatic young ladies of thirty-five, had begun to
comprehend that their welfare, and the welfare of the place, was
connected in some mysterious manner with daily chants and bi-weekly
anthems. The expenditure of the palace had not added much to the
popularity of the bishop's side of the question; and, on the whole,
there was a strong reaction. When it became known to all the world that
Mr. Harding was to be the new dean, all the world rejoiced heartily.

Mr. Arabin, we have said, was not surprised at the summons which
called him to the deanery. He had not as yet seen Mr. Harding since
Eleanor had accepted him, nor had he seen him since he had learnt his
future father-in-law's preferment. There was nothing more natural,
more necessary, than that they should meet each other at the earliest
possible moment. Mr. Arabin was waiting in the deanery parlour when
Mr. Harding and Dr. Grantly were driven up from the station.

There was some excitement in the bosoms of them all, as they met and
shook hands; by far too much to enable either of them to begin his
story and tell it in a proper equable style of narrative. Mr. Harding
was some minutes quite dumbfounded, and Mr. Arabin could only talk in
short, spasmodic sentences about his love and good fortune. He slipped
in, as best he could, some sort of congratulation about the deanship,
and then went on with his hopes and fears--hopes that he might be
received as a son, and fears that he hardly deserved such good
fortune. Then he went back to the dean; it was the most thoroughly
satisfactory appointment, he said, of which he had ever heard.

"But! But! But--" said Mr. Harding, and then, failing to get any
further, he looked imploringly at the archdeacon.

"The truth is, Arabin," said the doctor, "that, after all you are not
destined to be son-in-law to a dean. Nor am I either: more's the
pity."

Mr. Arabin looked at him for explanation. "Is not Mr. Harding to be
the new dean?"

"It appears not," said the archdeacon. Mr. Arabin's face fell a
little, and he looked from one to the other. It was plainly to be
seen from them both that there was no cause of unhappiness in the
matter, at least not of unhappiness to them; but there was as yet no
elucidation of the mystery.

"Think how old I am," said Mr. Harding imploringly.

"Fiddlestick!" said the archdeacon.

"That's all very well, but it won't make a young man of me," said Mr.
Harding.

"And who is to be dean?" asked Mr. Arabin.

"Yes, that's the question," said the archdeacon. "Come, Mr. Precentor,
since you obstinately refuse to be anything else, let us know who is
to be the man. He has got the nomination in his pocket."

With eyes brim full of tears, Mr. Harding pulled out the letter and
handed it to his future son-in-law. He tried to make a little speech
but failed altogether. Having given up the document, he turned round
to the wall, feigning to blow his nose, and then sat himself down on
the old dean's dingy horsehair sofa. And here we find it necessary to
bring our account of the interview to an end.

Nor can we pretend to describe the rapture with which Mr. Harding was
received by his daughter. She wept with grief and wept with joy--with
grief that her father should, in his old age, still be without that
rank and worldly position which, according to her ideas, he had so
well earned; and with joy in that he, her darling father, should have
bestowed on that other dear one the good things of which he himself
would not open his hand to take possession. And here Mr. Harding again
showed his weakness. In the _melee_ of this exposal of their loves and
reciprocal affection, he found himself unable to resist the entreaties
of all parties that the lodgings in the High Street should be given
up. Eleanor would not live in the deanery, she said, unless her
father lived there also. Mr. Arabin would not be dean, unless Mr.
Harding would be co-dean with him. The archdeacon declared that his
father-in-law should not have his own way in everything, and Mrs.
Grantly carried him off to Plumstead, that he might remain there
till Mr. and Mrs. Arabin were in a state to receive him in their own
mansion.

Pressed by such arguments as these, what could a weak old man do but
yield?

But there was yet another task which it behoved Mr. Harding to do
before he could allow himself to be at rest. Little has been said in
these pages of the state of those remaining old men who had lived
under his sway at the hospital. But not on this account must it be
presumed that he had forgotten them, or that in their state of anarchy
and in their want of due government he had omitted to visit them. He
visited them constantly, and had latterly given them to understand
that they would soon be required to subscribe their adherence to a
new master. There were now but five of them, one of them having been
but quite lately carried to his rest--but five of the full number,
which had hitherto been twelve, and which was now to be raised to
twenty-four, including women. Of these, old Bunce, who for many years
had been the favourite of the late warden, was one; and Abel Handy,
who had been the humble means of driving that warden from his home,
was another.

Mr. Harding now resolved that he himself would introduce the new
warden to the hospital. He felt that many circumstances might conspire
to make the men receive Mr. Quiverful with aversion and disrespect;
he felt also that Mr. Quiverful might himself feel some qualms of
conscience if he entered the hospital with an idea that he did so in
hostility to his predecessor. Mr. Harding therefore determined to walk
in, arm in arm with Mr. Quiverful, and to ask from these men their
respectful obedience to their new master.

On returning to Barchester, he found that Mr. Quiverful had not
yet slept in the hospital house, or entered on his new duties.
He accordingly made known to that gentleman his wishes, and his
proposition was not rejected.

It was a bright, clear morning, though in November, that Mr. Harding
and Mr. Quiverful, arm in arm, walked through the hospital gate. It
was one trait in our old friend's character that he did nothing with
parade. He omitted, even in the more important doings of his life,
that sort of parade by which most of us deem it necessary to grace
our important doings. We have house-warmings, christenings, and gala
days; we keep, if not our own birthdays, those of our children; we
are apt to fuss ourselves if called upon to change our residences and
have, almost all of us, our little state occasions. Mr. Harding had
no state occasions. When he left his old house, he went forth from
it with the same quiet composure as though he were merely taking his
daily walk; now that he re-entered it with another warden under his
wing, he did so with the same quiet step and calm demeanour. He was
a little less upright than he had been five years, nay, it was now
nearly six years ago; he walked perhaps a little slower; his footfall
was perhaps a thought less firm; otherwise one might have said that he
was merely returning with a friend under his arm.

This friendliness was everything to Mr. Quiverful. To him, even in
his poverty, the thought that he was supplanting a brother clergyman
so kind and courteous as Mr. Harding had been very bitter. Under his
circumstances it had been impossible for him to refuse the proffered
boon; he could not reject the bread that was offered to his children,
or refuse to ease the heavy burden that had so long oppressed that
poor wife of his; nevertheless, it had been very grievous to him to
think that in going to the hospital he might encounter the ill-will
of his brethren in the diocese. All this Mr. Harding had fully
comprehended. It was for such feelings as these, for the nice
comprehension of such motives, that his heart and intellect were
peculiarly fitted. In most matters of worldly import the archdeacon
set down his father-in-law as little better than a fool. And perhaps
he was right. But in some other matters, equally important if they be
rightly judged, Mr. Harding, had he been so minded, might with as much
propriety have set down his son-in-law for a fool. Few men, however,
are constituted as was Mr. Harding. He had that nice appreciation of
the feelings of others which belongs of right exclusively to women.

Arm in arm they walked into the inner quadrangle of the building, and
there the five old men met them. Mr. Harding shook hands with them
all, and then Mr. Quiverful did the same. With Bunce Mr. Harding shook
hands twice, and Mr. Quiverful was about to repeat the same ceremony,
but the old man gave him no encouragement.

"I am very glad to know that at last you have a new warden," said Mr.
Harding in a very cheery voice.

"We be very old for any change," said one of them, "but we do suppose
it be all for the best."

"Certainly--certainly it is for the best," said Mr. Harding. "You
will again have a clergyman of your own church under the same roof
with you, and a very excellent clergyman you will have. It is a great
satisfaction to me to know that so good a man is coming to take care
of you, and that it is no stranger, but a friend of my own who will
allow me from time to time to come in and see you."

"We be very thankful to your Reverence," said another of them.

"I need not tell you, my good friends," said Mr. Quiverful, "how
extremely grateful I am to Mr. Harding for his kindness to me--I must
say his uncalled-for, unexpected kindness."

"He be always very kind," said a third.

"What I can do to fill the void which he left here I will do. For your
sake and my own I will do so, and especially for his sake. But to you
who have known him, I can never be the same well-loved friend and
father that he has been."

"No, sir, no," said old Bunce, who hitherto had held his peace; "no
one can be that. Not if the new bishop sent a hangel to us out of
heaven. We doesn't doubt you'll do your best, sir, but you'll not be
like the old master--not to us old ones."

"Fie, Bunce, fie; how dare you talk in that way?" said Mr. Harding;
but as he scolded the old man he still held him by his arm and pressed
it with warm affection.

There was no getting up any enthusiasm in the matter. How could five
old men tottering away to their final resting place be enthusiastic
on the reception of a stranger? What could Mr. Quiverful be to them,
or they to Mr. Quiverful? Had Mr. Harding indeed come back to them,
some last flicker of joyous light might have shone forth on their aged
cheeks; but it was in vain to bid them rejoice because Mr. Quiverful
was about to move his fourteen children from Puddingdale into the
hospital house. In reality they did no doubt receive advantage,
spiritual as well as corporal, but this they could neither anticipate
nor acknowledge.

It was a dull affair enough, this introduction of Mr. Quiverful, but
still it had its effect. The good which Mr. Harding intended did not
fall to the ground. All the Barchester world, including the five
old bedesmen, treated Mr. Quiverful with the more respect because
Mr. Harding had thus walked in, arm in arm with him, on his first
entrance to his duties.

And here in their new abode we will leave Mr. and Mrs. Quiverful
and their fourteen children. May they enjoy the good things which
Providence has at length given to them!




CHAPTER LIII

Conclusion


The end of a novel, like the end of a children's dinner party, must
be made up of sweetmeats and sugar-plums. There is now nothing else
to be told but the gala doings of Mr. Arabin's marriage, nothing more
to be described than the wedding-dresses, no further dialogue to
be recorded than that which took place between the archdeacon, who
married them, and Mr. Arabin and Eleanor, who were married.

"Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife," and "wilt thou have
this man to thy wedded husband, to live together according to God's
ordinance?"

Mr. Arabin and Eleanor each answered, "I will."

We have no doubt that they will keep their promises, the more
especially as the Signora Neroni had left Barchester before the
ceremony was performed.

Mrs. Bold had been somewhat more than two years a widow before she
was married to her second husband, and little Johnny was then able
with due assistance to walk on his own legs into the drawing-room to
receive the salutations of the assembled guests. Mr. Harding gave
away the bride, the archdeacon performed the service, and the two
Miss Grantlys, who were joined in their labours by other young ladies
of the neighbourhood, performed the duties of bridesmaids with
equal diligence and grace. Mrs. Grantly superintended the breakfast
and bouquets, and Mary Bold distributed the cards and cake. The
archdeacon's three sons had also come home for the occasion. The
elder was great with learning, being regarded by all who knew him as
a certain future double first. The second, however, bore the palm
on this occasion, being resplendent in a new uniform. The third was
just entering the university, and was probably the proudest of the
three.

But the most remarkable feature in the whole occasion was the
excessive liberality of the archdeacon. He literally made presents
to everybody. As Mr. Arabin had already moved out of the parsonage
of St. Ewold's, that scheme of elongating the dining-room was of
course abandoned; but he would have refurnished the whole deanery
had he been allowed. He sent down a magnificent piano by Erard, gave
Mr. Arabin a cob which any dean in the land might have been proud to
bestride, and made a special present to Eleanor of a new pony chair
that had gained a prize in the Exhibition. Nor did he even stay his
hand here; he bought a set of cameos for his wife and a sapphire
bracelet for Miss Bold; showered pearls and work-boxes on his
daughters; and to each of his sons he presented a check for L20.
On Mr. Harding he bestowed a magnificent violoncello with all the
new-fashioned arrangements and expensive additions, which on account
of these novelties that gentleman could never use with satisfaction
to his audience or pleasure to himself.

Those who knew the archdeacon well perfectly understood the causes of
his extravagance. 'Twas thus that he sang his song of triumph over
Mr. Slope. This was his paean, his hymn of thanksgiving, his loud
oration. He had girded himself with his sword and gone forth to the
war; now he was returning from the field laden with the spoils of
the foe. The cob and the cameos, the violoncello and the pianoforte,
were all as it were trophies reft from the tent of his now-conquered
enemy.