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Barchester Towers

A >> Anthony Trollope >> Barchester Towers




There were others also there--young men about the city who had not
much to do, and who were induced by the lady's charms to neglect
that little; but all gave way to Mr Thorne, who was somewhat of a
grand signor, as a country gentleman always is in a provincial
city.

'Oh, Mr Thorne, this is so kind of you!' said the signora. 'You
promised to come; but I really did not expect it. I thought you
country gentlemen never kept your pledges.'

'Oh, yea, sometimes,' said Mr Thorne, looking rather sheepish, and
making salutations a little too much in the style of the last
century.

'You deceive none but your consti-stit-stit; what do you call the
people that carry you about in chairs and pelt you with eggs and
apples when they make you a member of parliament?'

'One another also, sometimes, signora,' said Mr Slope, with a
deanish sort of smirk on his face. 'Country gentlemen do deceive
one another sometimes, don't they, Mr Thorne?'

Mr Thorne gave him a look which undressed him completely for the
moment; but he soon remembered his high hopes, and recovering
himself quickly, sustained his probable coming dignity by a laugh
at Mr Thorne's expense.

'I never deceive a lady, at any rate,' said Mr Thorne; 'especially
when the gratification of my own wishes is so strong an inducement
to keep me true, as it now is.'

Mr Thorne went on thus awhile, with antediluvian grimaces and
compliments which he had picked up from Sir Charles Grandison, and
the signora at every grimace and at every bow smiled a little smile
and bowed a little bow. Mr Thorne, however, was kept standing at
the foot of the couch, for the new dean sat in the seat of honour
near the table. Mr Arabin the while was standing with his back to
the fire, his coat tails under his arms, gazing at her with all his
eyes--not quite in vain, for every now and again a glance came up
at him, bright as a meteor out of heaven.

'Oh, Mr Thorne, you promised to let me introduce my little girl to
you. Can you spare a moment?--will you see her now?'

Mr Thorne assured her that he could, and would see the young lady
with the greatest pleasure in life. 'Mr Slope, might I trouble you
to ring the bell?' said she; and when Mr Slope got up she looked at
Mr Thorne and pointed to the chair. Mr Thorne, however, was much
too slow to understand her, and Mr Slope would have recovered his
seat had not the signora, who never chose to be unsuccessful,
somewhat summarily ordered him out of it.

'Oh, Mr Slope, I must ask you to let Mr Thorne sit here just for a
moment or two. I am sure you will pardon me. We can take a liberty
with you this week. Next week, you know, when you move into the
dean's house, we shall all be afraid of you.'

Mr Slope, with an air of much indifference, rose from his seat,
and, walking into the next room, became greatly interested in Mrs
Stanhope's worsted work.

And then the child was brought in. She was a little girl, about
eight years of age, like her mother, only that her enormous eyes
were black, and her hair quite jet. Her complexion too was very
dark, and bespoke her foreign blood. She was dressed in the most
outlandish and extravagant way in which clothes could be put on a
child's back. She had great bracelets on her naked little arms, a
crimson fillet braided with gold round her head, and scarlet shoes
with high heels. Her dress was all flounces, and stuck out from
her as though the object were to make it lie off horizontally from
her little hips. It did not nearly cover her knees; but this was
atoned for by a loose pair of drawers which seemed made throughout
of lace; then she had on pink silk stockings. It was thus that the
last of the Neros was habitually dressed at the hour when visitors
were wont to call.

'Julia, my love,' said the mother,--Julia was ever a favourite name
with the ladies of the family, 'Julia, my love, come here. I was
telling you about the beautiful party poor mamma went to. This is
Mr Thorne; will you give him a kiss, dearest?'

Julia put up her face to be kissed, as she did to all her mother's
visitors; and then Mr Thorne found that he had got her, and, which
was much more terrible to him, all her finery, into his arms. The
lace and starch crumpled against his waistcoat and trousers, the
greasy black curls hung upon his cheek, and one of the bracelet
clasps scratched his ear. He did not at all know how to hold her.
However, he had on other occasions been compelled to fondle little
nieces and nephews, and now set about the task in the mode he always
used.

'Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle,' said he, putting the child on one
knee, and working away with it as though he were turning a
knife-grinder's wheel with his foot.

'Mamma, mamma,' said Julia, crossly. 'I don't want to be diddle
diddled. Let me go, you naughty old man, you.'

Poor Mr Thorne put the child down quietly on the ground, and drew
back his chair; Mr Slope, who had returned to the pole star that
attracted him, laughed aloud; Mr Arabin winced and shut his eyes;
and the signora pretended not to hear her daughter.

'Go to Aunt Charlotte, lovey,' said the mamma, 'and ask her it if
is not time for you to go out.'

But little Julia, though she had not exactly liked the nature of Mr
Thorne's attention, was accustomed to be played with by gentlemen,
and did not relish the idea of being sent so soon to her aunt.

'Julia, go when I tell you, my dear.' But Julia still went pouting
about the room. 'Charlotte, do come and take her,' said the
signora. 'She must go out; and the days get so short now.' And thus
ended the much-talked of interview between Mr Thorne and the last
of the Neros.

Mr Thorne recovered from the child's crossness sooner than from Mr
Slope's laughter. He could put up with being called an old man by
an infant, but he did not like to be laughed at by the bishop's
chaplain, even though that chaplain was about to become a dean. He
said nothing, but he showed plainly enough that he was angry.

The signora was ready enough to avenge him. 'Mr Slope,' said she,
'I hear that you are triumphing on all sides.'

'How so,' said he smiling. He did not dislike being talked to about
the deanery, though, of course, he strongly denied the imputation.

'You carry the day both in love and war.' Mr Slope hereupon did not
look quite so satisfied as he had done.

'Mr Arabin,' continued the signora, 'don't you think Mr Slope is a
very lucky man?'

'Not more than he deserves, I am sure,' said Mr Arabin.

'Only think, Mr Thorne, he is to be our new dean; of course we all
know that.'

'Indeed, signora,' said Mr Slope, 'we all know nothing about it. I
can assure you I myself--'

'He is to be the new dean--there is no manner of doubt of it, Mr
Thorne.'

'Hum,' said Mr Thorne.

'Passing over the heads of old men like my father and Archdeacon
Grantly--'

'Oh--oh!' said Mr Slope.

'The archdeacon would not accept it,' said Mr Arabin; whereupon Mr
Slope smiled abominably, and said, as plainly as a look could
speak, that the grapes were sour.

'Going over all our heads,' continued the signora; 'for, of course,
I consider myself one of the chapter.'

'If I am ever dean,' said Mr Slope--'that is, were I ever to become
so, I should glory in such a canoness.'

'Oh, Mr Slope, stop; I haven't half done. There is another canoness
for you to glory in. Mr Slope is not only to have the deanery, but
a wife to put in it.'

Mr Slope again looked disconcerted.

'A wife with a large fortune, too. It never rains but it pours,
does it Mr Thorne?'

'No, never,' said Mr Thorne, who did not quite relish talking about
Mr Slope and his affairs.

'When will it be, Mr Slope?'

'When will what be?' said he.

'Oh! we know when the affair of the dean will be: a week will
settle that. The new hat, I have no doubt, has already been
ordered. But when will the marriage come off?'

'Do you mean mine or Mr Arabin's,' said he, striving to be
facetious.

'Well, just then I meant yours, though perhaps, after all, Mr
Arabin's may be first. But we know nothing of him. He is too close
for any of us. Now all is open and above board with you; which, by
the bye, Mr Arabin, I beg to tell you I like much the best. He who
runs can read that Mr Slope is a favoured lover. Come, Mr Slope,
when is the widow to be made Mrs Dean?'

To Mr Arabin this badinage was peculiarly painful; and yet he could
not tear himself away and leave it. He believed, still believed
with that sort of belief which the fear of a thing engenders, that
Mrs Bold would probably become the wife of Mr Slope. Of Mr Slope's
little adventure in the garden he knew nothing. For aught he knew,
Mr Slope might have had an adventure of quite a different
character. He might have thrown himself at the widow's feet, been
accepted, and then returned to town a jolly, thriving wooer. The
signora's jokes were bitter enough to Mr Slope, but they were quite
as bitter to Mr Arabin. He still stood leaning against the
fire-place, fumbling with his hands in his trouser's pockets.

'Come, come, Mr Slope, don't be so bashful,' continued the signora.
'We all know that you proposed to the lady the other day at
Ullathorne. Tell us with what words she accepted you. Was it with a
simple "yes", or with two "no, no's", which makes an affirmative?
or did silence give consent: or did she speak out with that spirit
which so well becomes a widow, and say openly, "By my troth, sir,
you shall make me Mrs Slope as soon as it is your pleasure to do
so"?'

Mr Slope had seldom in his life felt himself less at his case.
There sat Mr Thorne, laughing silently. There stood his old
antagonist, Mr Arabin, gazing at him with all his eyes. There round
the door between the two rooms were clustered a little group of
people, including Miss Stanhope and the Rev. Messrs. Gray and
Green, all listening to his discomfiture. He knew that it depended
solely on his own wit whether or no he could throw the joke back
upon the lady. He knew that it stood him to do so if he possibly
could; but he said not a word. ''Tis conscience that makes cowards
of us all.' He felt on his cheek the sharp points of Eleanor's
fingers, and did not know who might have seen the blow, who might
have told the tale to this pestilent woman who took such delight in
jeering him. He stood there, therefore, red as a carbuncle and mute
as a fish; grinning just sufficiently to show his teeth; an object
of pity.

But the signora had no pity; she knew nothing of mercy. Her present
object was to put Mr Slope down, and she was determined to do it
thoroughly, now that she had him in her power.

'What, Mr Slope, no answer? Why it can't possibly be that this
woman has been fool enough to refuse you? She surely can't be
looking out after a bishop. But I see how it is, Mr Slope. Widows
are proverbially cautious. You should have let her alone till the
new hat was on your head; till you could show her the key of the
deanery.'

'Signora,' said he at last, trying to speak in a tone of dignified
reproach, 'you really permit yourself to talk on such solemn
subjects in a very improper way.'

'Solemn subjects--what solemn subjects? Surely a dean's hat is not
such a solemn subject.'

'I have no aspirations such as those you impute to me. Perhaps you
will drop the subject.'

'Oh, certainly, Mr Slope; but one word first. Go to her again with
the prime minister's letter in your pocket. I'll wager my shawl to
your shovel she does not refuse you then.'

'I must say, signora, that I think you are speaking of the lady in
a very unjustifiable manner.'

'And one other piece of advice, Mr Slope; I'll only offer you one
other;' and then she commenced singing--

'It's gude to be merry and wise, Mr Slope, It's gude to be honest
and true; It's gude to be off with the old love, Mr Slope, Before
you are on with the new--

'Ha, ha, ha!'

And the signora, throwing herself back on her sofa, laughed
merrily. She little recked how those who heard her would, in their
own imagination, fill up the little history of Mr Slope's first
love. She little cared that some among them might attribute to her
the honour of his earlier admiration. She was tired of Mr Slope and
wanted to get rid of him; she had ground for anger with him, and
she chose to be revenged.

How Mr Slope got out of that room he never himself knew. He did
succeed ultimately, and probably with some assistance, in getting
him his had and escaping into the air. At last his love for the
signora was cured. Whenever he again thought of her in his dreams,
it was not as of an angel with azure wings. He connected her rather
with fire and brimstone, and though he could still believe her to
be a spirit, he banished her entirely out of heaven, and found a
place for her among the infernal gods. When he weighed in the
balance, as he not seldom did, the two women to whom he had
attached himself in Barchester, the pre-eminent place in his soul's
hatred was usually allotted to the signora.



CHAPTER XLVII

THE DEAN ELECT

During the entire next week Barchester was ignorant who was to be
its new dean on Sunday morning. Mr Slope was decidedly the
favourite; but he did not show himself in the cathedral, and then
he sank a point or two in the betting. On Monday, he got a scolding
from the bishop in the hearing of the servants, and down he went
till nobody would have him at any price; but on Tuesday he received
a letter, in an official cover, marked private, by which he fully
recovered his place in the public favour. On Wednesday, he was said
to be ill, and that did not look well; but on Thursday morning he
went down to the railway station, with a very jaunty air; and when
it was ascertained that he had taken a first-class ticket for
London, there was no longer any room for doubt on the matter.

While matters were in this state of ferment at Barchester, there
was not much mental comfort at Plumstead. Our friend the archdeacon
had many grounds for inward grief. He was much displeased at the
result of Dr Gwynne's diplomatic mission to the palace, and did not
even scruple to say to his wife that had he gone himself he would
have managed the affair much better. His wife did not agree with
him, but that did not mend the matter.

Mr Quiverful's appointment to the hospital was, however, a fait
accompli, and Mr Harding's acquiescence in that appointment was not
less so. Nothing would induce Mr Harding to make a public appeal
against the bishop; and the Master of Lazarus quite approved of his
not doing so.

'I don't know what has come to the Master,' said the archdeacon
over and over again. 'He used to be ready enough to stand up for
his order.'

'My dear archdeacon,' Mrs Grantly would say in reply, 'what is the
use of always fighting? I really think the Master is right.' The
Master, however, had taken steps of his own, of which neither the
archdeacon nor his wife knew anything.

'Then Mr Slope's successes were henbane to Dr Grantly; and Mrs
Bold's improprieties were as bad. What would be all the world to
Archdeacon Grantly if Mr Slope should become the Dean of Barchester
and marry his wife's sister! He talked of it, and talked of it till
he was nearly ill. Mrs Grantly almost wished that the marriage was
done and over, so that she might hear no more about it.

And there was yet another ground of misery which cut him to the
quick, nearly as closely as either of the two others. That paragon
of a clergyman, whom he had bestowed upon St Ewold's, that college
friend of whom he had boasted so loudly, that ecclesiastical knight
before whose lance Mr Slope was to fall and bite the dust, that
worthy bulwark of the church as it should be, that honoured
representative of Oxford's best spirit, was--so at least his wife
had told him half a dozen times--misconducting himself!

Nothing had been seen of Mr Arabin at Plumstead for the last week,
but a good deal had, unfortunately, been heard of him.
As soon as Mrs Grantly had found herself alone with the
archdeacon, on the evening of the Ullathorne party, she had
expressed herself very forcibly as to Mr Arabin's conduct on that
occasion. He had, she declared, looked and acted and talked very
unlike a decent parish clergyman. At first the archdeacon had
laughed at this, and assured her that she need not trouble herself;
that Mr Arabin would be found to be quite safe. But by degrees he
began to find out that his wife's eyes had been sharper than his
own. Other people coupled the signora's name with that of Mr
Arabin. The meagre little prebendary who lived in the close, told
him to a nicety how often Mr Arabin had visited at Dr Stanhope's,
and how long he had remained on the occasion of each visit. He had
asked after Mr Arabin at the cathedral library, and an officious
little vicar choral had offered to go and see whether he could be
found at Dr Stanhope's. Rumour, when she has contrived to sound the
first note on her trumpet, soon makes a loud peal audible enough.
It was too clear that Mr Arabin had succumbed to the Italian woman,
and that the archdeacon's credit would suffer fearfully if
something were not done to rescue the brand from the burning.
Besides, to give the archdeacon his due, he was really attached to
Mr Arabin, and grieved greatly at his backsliding.

They were sitting talking over their sorrows, in the drawing-room
before dinner on that day after Mr Slope's departure for London;
and on this occasion Mrs Grantly spoke her mind freely. She had
opinions of her own about parish clergymen, and now thought it
right to give vent to them.

'It you would have been led by me, archdeacon, you would never have
put a bachelor into St Ewold's.'

'But, my dear, you don't mean to say that all bachelor clergymen
misbehave themselves.'

'I don't know that clergymen are so much better than other men,'
said Mrs Grantly. 'It's all very well with a curate whom you have
under your own eye, and whom you can get rid of if he persists in
improprieties.'

'But Mr Arabin was a fellow, and couldn't have had a wife.'

'Then I would have found some one who could.'

'But, my dear, are fellows never to get livings?'

'Yes, to be sure they are, when they got engaged. I never would put
a young man into a living unless he were married, or engaged to be
married. Now here is Mr Arabin. The whole responsibility lies upon
you.'

'There is not at this moment a clergyman in all Oxford more
respected for morals and conduct than Arabin.'

'Oh, Oxford!' said the lady, with a sneer. 'What men choose to do
at Oxford, nobody ever hears of. A man may do very well at Oxford
who would bring disgrace on a parish; and, to tell you the truth,
it seems to me that Mr Arabin is just such a man.'

The archdeacon groaned deeply, but he had no further answer to
make.

'You really must speak to him, archdeacon. Only think what the
Thornes will say if they hear that their parish clergyman spends
his whole time philandering with this woman.'

The archdeacon groaned again. He was a courageous man, and knew
well enough how to rebuke the younger clergymen of the diocese when
necessary. But there was that about Mr Arabin which made the doctor
feel that it would be very difficult to rebuke him with good
effect.

'You can advise him to find a wife for himself, and he will
understand well enough what that means,' said Mrs Grantly.

The archdeacon had nothing for it but groaning. There was Mr Slope;
he was going to be made dean; he was going to take a wife; he was
bout to achieve respectability and wealth; and excellent family
mansion, and a family carriage; he would soon be among the
comfortable elite of the ecclesiastical world of Barchester;
whereas his own protege, the true scion of the true church, by whom
he had sworn, would still be a poor vicar, and that with a very
indifferent character for moral conduct! It might be all very well
recommending Mr Arabin to marry, but how would Mr Arabin when
married support a wife?

Things were ordering themselves thus at Plumstead drawing-room when
Dr and Mrs Grantly were disturbed in their sweet discourse by the
quick rattle of a carriage and a pair of horses on the gravel
sweep. The sound was not that of visitors, whose private carriages
are generally brought up to country-house doors with demure
propriety, but belonged rather to some person or persons who were
in a hurry to reach the house, and had not intention of immediately
leaving it. Guests invited to stay a week, and who were conscious
of arriving after the first dinner bell, would probably approach in
such a manner. So might arrive an attorney with the news of a
granduncle's death, or a son from college with all the fresh
honours of a double first. No one would have had himself driven to
the door of a country house in such a manner who had the slightest
doubt of his own right to force an entry.

'Who is it?' said Mrs Grantly, looking at her husband.

'Who on earth can it be?' said the archdeacon to his wife. He then
quietly got up and stood with the drawing-room door open in his
hand. 'Why, it is your father!'

It was indeed Mr Harding, and Mr Harding alone. He had come by
himself in a post-chaise with a couple of horses from Barchester,
arriving almost after dark, and evidently full of news. His visits
had usually been made in the quietest manner; he had rarely
presumed to come without notice, and had always been driven up in a
modest old green fly, with one horse, that hardly made itself heard
as it crawled up to the hall door.

'Good gracious, Warden, is it you?' said the archdeacon, forgetting
in his surprise the events of the last few years. 'But come in;
nothing is the matter, I hope?'

'We are very glad you are come, papa,' said his daughter. 'I'll go
and get your room ready at once.'

'I an't warden, archdeacon,' said Mr Harding. 'Mr Quiverful is
warden.'

Oh, I know, I know,' said the archdeacon, petulantly. 'I forgot all
about it at the moment. Is anything the matter?'

'Don't go at the moment, Susan,' said Mr Harding; 'I have something
to tell you.'

'The dinner bell will ring in five minutes,' said she.

'Will it?' said Mr Harding. 'Then, perhaps I had better wait.' he
was big with news which he had come to tell, but which he knew
could not be told without much discussion. He had hurried away to
Plumstead as fast as two horses could bring him, and now, finding
himself there, he was willing to accept the reprieve which dinner
would give him.

'If you have anything of moment to tell us, said the archdeacon,
'pray let us hear it at once. Has Eleanor gone off?'

'No, she has not,' said Mr Harding, with a look of great
disclosure.

'Has Slope been made dean?'

'No, he has not; but--'

'But what?' said the archdeacon, who was becoming very impatient.

'They have--'

'They have what?' said the archdeacon.

'They have offered it to me,' said Mr Harding, with a modesty which
almost prevented his speaking.

'Good heavens!' said the archdeacon, and sank back exhausted in an
easy-chair.

'My dear, dear, father,' said Mrs Grantly, and threw her arms
around his neck.

'So I thought I had better come out and consult with you at once,'
said Mr Harding.

'Consult!' shouted the archdeacon. 'But, my dear Harding, I
congratulate you with my whole heart--with my whole heart. I do
indeed. I never heard anything in my life that gave me so much
pleasure;' and he got hold of both his father-in-law's hands, and
shook them as though he were going to shake them off, and walked
round and round the room, twirling a copy of the Jupiter over his
head, to show his extreme exultation.

'But--' began Mr Harding.

'But me no buts,' said the archdeacon. 'I never was so happy in my
life. It was just the proper thing to do. Upon my honour, I'll
never say another word against Lord--the longest day I have to
live.'

'That's Dr Gwynne's doing, you may be sure,' said Mrs Grantly, who
greatly liked the master of Lazarus, he being an orderly married
man with a large family.

'I suppose it is,' said the archdeacon.

'Oh, papa, I am so truly delighted,' said Mrs Grantly, getting up
and kissing her father.

'But, my dear,' said Mr Harding. It was all in vain that he strove
to speak; nobody would listen to him.

'Well, Mr Dean,' said the archdeacon, triumphing; 'the deanery
gardens will be some consolation for the hospital elms. Well, poor
Quiverful! I won't begrudge him his good fortune any longer.'

No, indeed,' said Mrs Grantly. 'Poor woman, she has fourteen
children. I am sure I am very glad they have got it.'

'So am I,' said Mr Harding.

'I would give twenty pounds,' said the archdeacon, 'to see how Mr
Slope will look when he hears it.' The idea of Mr Slope's
discomfiture formed no small part of the archdeacon's pleasure.

At last Mr Harding was allowed to go up-stairs and wash his hands,
having, in fact, said very little of all that he had come out to
Plumstead on purpose to say. Nor could anything more be said till
the servants were gone after dinner. The joy of Dr Grantly was so
uncontrollable that he could not refrain from calling his
father-in-law Mr Dean before the men; and therefore, it was soon
matter for discussion in the lower regions how Mr Harding, instead
of his daughter's future husband, was to be the new dean, and
various were the opinions on the matter. The cook and butler, who
were advanced in years, thought that it was just as it should be;
but the footman and lady's maid, who were younger, thought it was a
great shame that Mr Slope should lose his chance.

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