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 LONDON: WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED.
 
 College 
 Library 
 
 PR 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. Who will be the New Bishop ? . . I 
 II. Hiram's Hospital, according to Act of 
 
 Parliament . . . . .13 
 
 III. Dr. and Mrs. Proudie . . '<T . .}7j, 23 
 
 IV. The Bishop's Chaplain "i'/ . . 32 
 V. A Morning Visit . ' . '?' .' ' '' .."!. 42 
 
 VI. War - r '\ : : -vr-' 1 v-'-'-". 1 '' . . 54 
 
 VII. The Dean and Chapter take Counsel . 71 
 
 VIII. The Ex- Warden rejoices in his probable 
 
 Return to the Hospital . T . .!> . 80 
 
 IX. The Stanhope Family .... 90 
 
 X. Mrs. Proudie's Reception commenced . 108 
 
 XI. Mrs. Proudie's Reception concluded . 122 
 
 XII. Slope versus Harding . .<':.:. /, i. 141 
 
 XIII. The Rubbish Cart . . . .152 
 
 XIV. The New Champion . . : ;/ . . 164 
 XV. The Widow's Suitors . . . .174 
 
 XVI. Baby Worship . ,.,., * ' . .] . 189 
 
 XVII. Who shall be Cock of the Walk ? . .206 
 
 XVIII. The Widow's Persecution . . .217
 
 VI 
 
 Contents 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 XIX. 
 
 XX. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Barchester by Moonlight . 
 
 Mr. Arabin 
 
 St. Ewold's Parsonage . . + 
 
 The Thornes of Ullathorne 
 
 Mr. Arabin reads himself in at St 
 
 Ewold's 
 
 XXIV. Mr. Slope manages Matters very 
 
 cleverly at Puddingdale ("' .T. 
 
 XXV. Fourteen Arguments in favour of Mr. 
 
 228 
 
 243 
 261 
 277 
 
 296 
 309 
 
 Quiverful's Claims . -325 
 
 XXVI. Mrs. Proudie wrestles and gets a Fall 337 
 
 XXVII. A Love Scene ;:;.--' ; r., :.;:' ivi . 35 2 
 XXVIII. Mrs. Bold is entertained by Dr. and 
 
 Mrs. Grantly at Plumstead . . 373 
 
 XXIX. A Serious Interview nf .r -^sr > 394 
 
 XXX. Another Love Scene /-... >. t' 46 
 
 XXXI. The Bishop's Library . 42$ 
 
 XXXII. A New Candidate for Ecclesiastical 
 
 Honours . '>* ' '*' 433 
 
 XXXIII. Mrs. Proudie Victrix r v-* '' . -' . 454 
 
 XXXIV. Oxford The Master and Tutor of 
 
 Lazarus . -i ; " : ]'-' " 47 
 
 XXXV. Miss Thome's Fete Champetre . 482 
 
 XXXVI. Ullathorne Sports. Act I . 497 
 XXXVII. The Signora Neroni, the Countess De 
 Courcy, and Mrs. Proudie meet 
 
 each other at Ullathorne yi I .. 5 J 4
 
 Contents 
 
 vn 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXXVIII. The Bishop sits down to Breakfast, 
 
 and the Dean dies . . . 530 
 XXXIX. The Lookalofts and the Greenacres . 547 
 XL. Ullathorne Sports. Act II .560 
 
 XLI. Mrs. Bold confides her Sorrow to her 
 
 Friend Miss Stanhope . . -573 
 XLII. Ullathorne Sports. Act III . . 584 
 XLIII. Mr. and Mrs. Quiverful are made 
 Happy. Mr. Slope is encouraged 
 by the Press .... 605 
 XLIV. Mrs. Bold at Home . . .624 
 
 XLV. The Stanhopes at Home . . . 637 
 XLVI. Mr. Slope's Parting Interview with 
 
 the Signora . . . .651 
 XLVII. The Dean Elect . . . .663 
 XLVIII. Miss Thome shows her Talent at 
 
 Match-making .... 676 
 XLIX. The Belzebub Colt . . . .691 
 L. The Archdeacon is satisfied with the 
 
 State of Affairs .... 700 
 LI. Mr. Slope bids Farewell to the 
 
 Palace and its Inhabitants . . 710 
 LII. The New Dean takes Possession of the 
 Deanery, and the New Warden of 
 the Hospital .... 720 
 LIII. Conclusion ..... 731
 
 
 
 BARCHESTER TOWERS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 WHO WILL BE THE NEW BISHOP? 
 
 IN the latter days of July in the year 185 , a 
 most important question was for ten days hourly 
 asked in the cathedral city of Barchester, and 
 answered every hour in various ways Who was 
 to be the new Bishop ? 
 
 The death of old Dr. Grantly, who had for 
 many years filled that chair with meek authority, 
 
 took place exactly as the ministry of Lord 
 
 was going to give place to that of Lord . 
 
 The illness of the good old man was long and 
 lingering, and it became at last a matter of 
 intense interest to those concerned whether the 
 new appointment should be made by a con- 
 servative or liberal government. 
 
 It was pretty well understood that the out- 
 going premier had made his selection, and that 
 if the question rested with him, the mitre would 
 descend on the head of Archdeacon Grantly, 
 tt\e old bishop's son. The archdeacon had 
 long managed the affairs of the diocese ; and 
 
 B
 
 2 Barchester Towers 
 
 for some months previous to the demise of his 
 father, rumour had confidently assigned to him 
 the reversion of his father's honours. 
 
 Bishop Grantly died as he had lived, peace- 
 ably, slowly, without pain and without excite- 
 ment. The breath ebbed from him almost 
 imperceptibly, and for a month before his 
 death, it was a question whether he were alive 
 or dead. 
 
 A trying time was this for the archdeacon, 
 for whom was designed the reversion of his 
 father's see by those who then had the giving 
 away of episcopal thrones. I would not be 
 understood to say that the prime minister had 
 in so many words promised the bishopric to 
 Dr. Grantly. He was too discreet a man for 
 that. There is a proverb with reference to the 
 killing of cats, and those who know anything 
 either of high or low government places, will 
 be well aware that a promise may be made 
 without positive words, and that an expectant 
 may be put into the highest state of encourage- 
 ment, though the great man on whose breath he 
 hangs may have done no more than whisper 
 that " Mr. So-and-so is certainly a rising man." 
 
 Such a whisper had been made, and was 
 known by those who heard it to signify that 
 the cures of the diocese of Barchester should 
 not be taken out of the hands of the archdeacon. 
 The then prime minister was all in all at Oxford, 
 and had lately passed a night at the house of 
 the master of Lazarus. Now the master of 
 Lazarus. which is, by the bye, in many respects 
 the most comfortable, as well as the richest 
 college at Oxford, was the archdeacon's most
 
 Who will be the New Bishop ? 3 
 
 intimate friend and most trusted counsellor. 
 On the occasion of the prime minister's visit, 
 Dr. Grantly was of course present, and the 
 meeting was very gracious. On the following 
 morning Dr. Gwynne, the master, told the 
 archdeacon that in his opinion the thing was 
 settled. 
 
 At this time the bishop was quite on his last 
 legs ; but the ministry also were tottering. Dr. 
 Grantly returned from Oxford happy and elated, 
 to resume his place in the palace, and to con-A* 
 tinue to perform for the father the last duties of 
 a son ; which, to give him his due, he performed 
 with more tender care than was to be expected 
 from his usual somewhat worldly manners. 
 
 A month since the physicians had named four 
 weeks as the outside period during which breath 
 could be supported within the body of the dying; 
 man. At the end of the month the physicians 
 wondered, and named another fortnight. The 
 old man lived on wine alone, but at the end of 
 the fortnight he still lived; and the tidings of 
 the fall of the ministry became more frequent. 
 Sir Lamda Mewnew and Sir Omicron Pie, the< 
 two great London doctors, now came down for 
 the fifth time, and declared, shaking their 
 learned heads, that another week of life was 
 impossible; and as they sat down to lunch in 
 the episcopal dining-room, whispered to the 
 archdeacon their own private knowledge that 
 the ministry must fall within five days. The 
 son returned to his father's room, and after 
 administering with his own hands the sustaining, 
 modicum of madeira, sat down by the bedside 
 to calculate his chances.
 
 4 
 
 The ministry were to be out within five days : 
 his father was to be dead within No, he 
 rejected that view of the subject. The ministry 
 were to be out, and the diocese might probably 
 be vacant at the same period. There was much 
 doubt as to the names of the men who were to 
 succeed to power, and a week must elapse 
 before a Cabinet was formed. Would, not 
 vacancies be filled by the outgoing men during 
 this week? Dr. Grantly had a kind of idea 
 that such would be the case, but did not know ; 
 and then he wondered at his own ignorance on 
 such a question. 
 
 He tried to keep his mind away from the 
 subject, but he could not. The race was so 
 very close, and the stakes were so very high. 
 He then looked at the dying man's impassive, 
 placid face. There was no sign there of death 
 or disease; it was something thinner than of 
 yore, somewhat grayer, and the deep lines of 
 agemojsjmarksd ; but, as far as he could judge, 
 ijfp might yet hang there for weeks tQ_cjame. 
 Sir Lamda Mewnew and Sir Omicron Tie had 
 thrice been wrong, and might yet be wrong 
 thrice again. The old bishop slept during 
 twenty of the twenty-four hours, but during the 
 short periods of his waking moments, he knew 
 both his .son and his, dear old frjendy-Mr. 
 Hording, the archdeacon's father-in-law, and 
 would thank them tenderly for their care and 
 love. Now he lay sleeping like a baby, resting 
 easily on his back, his mouth just open, and his 
 few gray hairs straggling from beneath his cap ; 
 his breath was perfectly noiseless, and his thin, 
 wan hand, which lay above the coverlid, never
 
 Who will be the New Bishop ? 5 
 
 moved. Nothing could be easier than the 
 old man's passage from this world to the 
 next. 
 
 But by no means easy were the emotions of 
 him who sat there watching. He knew it must 
 be now or never. He was already over fifty, 
 and there was little chance that his friends who 
 were now leaving office would soon return to it. 
 No probable British prime minister but he who 
 was now in, he who was so soon to be out, 
 would think of making a bishop of Dr. Grantly. 
 Thus he thought long and sadly, in deep silence, 
 and then gazed at that still living face, and then 
 at last dared to ask himself whether he really 
 longed for his father's death. 
 
 The effort was a salutary one, and the 
 question was answered in a moment. The 
 proud, wishful, worldly man, sank on his knees 
 by the bedside, and taking the bishop's hand 
 within his own, prayed eagerly that his sins 
 might be forgiven him. 
 
 His face was still buried in the clothes when 
 the door of the bed-room opened noiselessly, 
 and Mr. Harding entered with a velvet step. 
 Mr. Harding's attendance at that bedside had 
 been nearly as constant as that of the arch- 
 deacon, and his ingress and egress was as much 
 a matter of course as that of his son-in-law. 
 He was standing close beside the archdeacon 
 before he was perceived, and would also have 
 knelt in prayer had he not feared that his doing 
 so might have caused some sudden start, and 
 have disturbed the dying man. Dr. Grantly, 
 however, instantly perceived him, and rose from 
 his knees. As he did so Mr. Harding took
 
 6 Barchester Towers 
 
 both his hands, and pressed them warmly. 
 There was more fellowship between them at 
 that moment than there had ever been before, 
 and it so happened that after circumstances 
 greatly preserved the feeling. As they stood 
 there pressing each other's hands, the tears 
 rolled freely down their cheeks. 
 
 " God bless you, my dears," said the bishop 
 with feeble voice as he woke" God bless you 
 may God bless you both, my dear children : " 
 and so he died. 
 
 There was no loud rattle in the throat, no 
 dreadful struggle, no palpable sign of death; 
 but the lower jaw fell a little from its place, 
 and the eyes, which had been so constantly 
 closed in sleep, now remained fixed and open. 
 Neither Mr. Harding nor Dr. Grantly knew 
 that life was gone, though both suspected it. 
 
 " I believe it's all over," said Mr. Harding, 
 still pressing the other's hands. " I think nay, 
 I hope it is." 
 
 " I will ring the bell," said the other, speaking 
 all but in a whisper. " Mrs. Phillips should be 
 here." 
 
 Mrs. Phillips, the nurse, was soon in the 
 room, and immediately, with practised hand, 
 closed those staring eyes. 
 
 "It's all over, Mrs. Phillips?" asked Mr. 
 Harding. 
 
 "My lord's no more," said Mrs. Phillips, 
 turning round and curtseying low with solemn 
 face ; " his lordship's gone more like a sleeping 
 babby than any that I ever saw." 
 
 " It's a great relief, archdeacon," said Mr. 
 Harding, " a great relief dear, good, excellent
 
 Who will be the New Bishop ? 7 
 
 old man. Oh that our last moments may be as 
 innocent and as peaceful as his ! " 
 
 "Surely," said Mrs. Phillips. "The Lord 
 be praised for all his mercies ; but, for a meek, 
 mild, gentle-spoken Christian, his lordship 
 was - " and Mrs. Phillips, with unaffected 
 but easy grief, put up her white apron to her 
 flowing eyes. 
 
 "You cannot but rejoice that it is over," 
 said Mr. Harding, still consoling his friend. 
 The archdeacon's mind, however, had already 
 travelled from the death chamber to the 'closet 
 of the prime minister. He had brought himself 
 to pray for his father's life, but now that that 
 life was done, minutes were too precious to be 
 lost. It was now useless to dally with the fact 
 of the bishop's death useless to lose perhaps 
 everything for the pretence of a foolish senti- 
 ment. 
 
 But how was he to act while his father-in-law 
 stood there holding his hand? how, without 
 appearing unfeeling, was he to forget his father 
 in the bishop to overlook what he had lost, 
 and think only of what he might possibly gain ? 
 
 " No ; I suppose not," said he, at last, in 
 answer to Mr. Harding. " We have all expected 
 it so long." 
 
 Mr. Harding took him by the arm and led 
 him from the room. "We will see him again 
 to-morrow morning," said he ; " we had better 
 leave the room now to the women." And so 
 they went down stairs. 
 
 It was already evening and nearly dark. It. 
 was most important that rhf; 
 
 should know that night that tfi^h flidoase was
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 vacant. Everything might depend on it; and 
 so, in answer to Mr. Harding's further consola- 
 tion, the archdeacon suggested that a telegraph 
 message should be immediately sent off to 
 ./London. Mr. Harding who had really been 
 somewhat surprised to find Dr. Grantly, as he 
 thought so much affected, was rather taken 
 aback ; but he made no objection. He knew 
 that the archdeacon had some hope of succeed- 
 ing to hisfather's place, though he by no means 
 JEnew'TTow highly raised that hope had been. 
 
 "Yes," said Dr. Grantly, collecting himself 
 and shaking off his weakness, " we must send a 
 message at once ; we don't know what might be 
 the consequence of delay. Will you do it ? " 
 
 " I ! oh yes ; certainly : I'll do anything, only 
 I don't know exactly what it is you want." 
 
 Dr. Grantly sat down before a writing table, 
 and taking pen and ink, wrote on a slip of paper 
 as follows : 
 
 " By Electric Telegraph. 
 
 "For the Earl of , Downing Street, or elsewhere. 
 
 " ' Th.fi, pkhop of Barchester is dead.' 
 "Message sent by the Rev. Septimus Harding." 
 
 "There," said he, "just take that to the 
 telegraph office at the railway station, and give 
 it in as it is ; they'll probably make you copy it 
 on to one of their own slips; that's all you'll 
 have to do; then you'll have to pay them 
 half-a-crown ; " and the archdeacon put his hand 
 in his pocket and pulled out the necessary sum. 
 
 Mr. Harding felt very much like an errand- 
 boy, and also felt that he was called on to 
 perform his duties as such at rather an unseemly
 
 Who will be the New Bishop ? 9 
 
 time ; but he said nothing, and took the slip of 
 paper and the proffered coin. 
 
 " But you've put my name into it, archdeacon." 
 
 " Yes," said the other, " there should be the 
 name of some clergyman you know, and what 
 name so proper as that of so old a friend as 
 yourself? The Earl won't look at the name, 
 you may be sure of that; but my dear Mr. 
 Harding, pray don't lose any time." 
 
 Mr. Harding got as far as the library door on 
 his way to the station, when he suddenly re- 
 membered the news with which he was fraught 
 when he entered the poor bishop's bed-room. 
 He had found the moment so inopportune for 
 any mundane tidings, that he had repressed the 
 words which were on his tongue, and immediately 
 afterwards all recollection of the circumstance 
 was for the time banished by the scene which 
 had occurred. 
 
 " But, archdeacon, " said he, turning back, " I 
 forgot to tell you The ministry are out." 
 
 " Out ! " ejaculated the archdeacon, in a tone 
 which too plainly showed his anxiety and dismay, 
 although under the circumstances of the moment 
 he endeavoured to control himself : " Out ! who 
 told you so ? " 
 
 Mr. Harding explained that news to this effect 
 had come down by electric telegraph, and that 
 the tidings had been left at the palace door by 
 Mr. Chadwick. 
 
 The archdeacon sat silent for awhile meditat- 
 ing, and Mr. Harding stood looking at him. 
 " Never mind," said the archdeacon at last ; 
 " send the message all the same. The news 
 must be sent to some one, and there is at present
 
 io Barchester Towers 
 
 no one else in a position to receive it. Do it at 
 once, my dear friend ; you know I would not 
 trouble you, were I in a state to do it myself. 
 A few minutes' time is of the greatest im- 
 portance." 
 
 Mr. Harding went out and sent the message, 
 and it may be as well that we should follow it to 
 its destination. Within thirty minutes of its 
 
 leaving Barchester it reached the Earl of 
 
 in his inner library. What elaborate letters, 
 what eloquent appeals, what indignant remon- 
 strances, he might there have to frame, at such 
 a moment, may be conceived, but not described ! 
 How he was preparing his thunder for successful 
 rivals, standing like a British peer with his back 
 to the sea-coal fire, and his hands in his breeches 
 pockets, how his fine eye was lit up with anger, 
 and his forehead gleamed with patriotism, how 
 he stamped his foot as he thought of his heavy 
 associates, how he all but swore as he remem- 
 bered how much too clever one of them had 
 been, my creative readers may imagine. But 
 was he so engaged? No: history and truth 
 compel me to deny it. He was sitting easily in 
 a lounging chair, conning over a Newmarket list, 
 and by his elbow on the table was lying open an 
 uncut French novel on which he was engaged. 
 
 He (opened the cover in which the message 
 was enclosed, and having read it, he took his 
 pen and wrote on the back of it 
 
 "For the Earl of , 
 
 " With the Earl of 's compliments, 
 
 and sent it off again on its journey. 
 
 Thus terminated our unfortunate friends 
 chance of possessing the glories of a bishopric.
 
 Who will be the New Bishop ? i r 
 
 The names of many divines were given in the 
 papers as that of the bishop elect. "The 
 British Grandmother" declared that Dr. Gwynne 
 was to be the man, in compliment to the late 
 ministry. This was a heavy blow to Dr. Grantly, 
 but he was not doomed to see himself super- 
 seded by his friend. " The Anglican Devotee " 
 put forward confidently the claims of a great 
 London preacher of austere doctrines; and 
 " The Eastern Hemisphere," an evening paper 
 supposed to possess much official knowledge, 
 declared in favour of an eminent naturalist, a 
 gentleman most completely versed in the know- 
 ledge of rocks and minerals, but supposed by 
 many to hold on religious subjects no special 
 doctrines whatever. " The Jupiter," that daily 
 paper, which, as we all know, is the only true 
 source of infallibly correct information on all 
 subjects, for a while was silent, but at last spoke 
 out. The merits of all these candidates were 
 discussed and somewhat irreverently disposed 
 of, and then " The Jupiter " declared that Dr. 
 Proudie was to be the man. 
 
 Dr. Proudie was the man. Just a month after 
 the demise of the late bishop, Dr. Proudie kissed 
 the Queen's hand as his successor elect. 
 
 We must beg to be allowed to draw a curtain 
 over the sorrows of the archdeacon as he sat, 
 sombre and sad at heart, in the study of his 
 parsonage at Plumstead Episcopi. On the day 
 subsequent to the despatch of the message he 
 
 heard that the Earl of had consented to 
 
 undertake the formation of a ministry, and from 
 that moment he knew that his chance was over. 
 Many will think that he was wicked to grieve
 
 12 Barchester Towers 
 
 for the loss of episcopal power, wicked to have 
 coveted it, nay, wicked even to have thought 
 about it, in the way and at the moments he had 
 done so. 
 
 With such censures I cannot profess that I 
 completely agree. The nolo episcopari, though 
 still in use, is so directly at variance with the 
 tendency of all human wishes, that it cannot be 
 thought to express the true aspirations of rising 
 priests in the Church of England. A lawyer 
 does not sin in seeking to be a judge, or in 
 compassing his wishes by all honest means. A 
 young diplomat entertains a fair ambition when 
 he looks forward to be the lord of a first-rate 
 embassy ; and a poor novelist when he attempts 
 to rival Dickens or rise above Fitzjeames, com- 
 mits no fault, though he may be foolish. Sydney 
 Smith truly said that in these recreant days we 
 cannot expect to find the majesty of St. Paul 
 beneath the cassock of a curate. If we look to 
 our clergymen to _be more than men, _we shall 
 probably teach ourselves to think that they are 
 less, and can hardly hope to raise the character 
 of the pastor by denying to him the right to 
 entertain the aspirations of a man. 
 
 Our archdeacon was worldly who among us 
 is not so ? He was ambitious who among us 
 is ashamed to own that " last infirmity of noble 
 minds ! " He was avaricious, my readers will 
 say. No it was for no love of lucre that he 
 wished to be bishop of Barchester. He was his 
 father's only child, and his father had left him 
 great wealth. His preferment brought him in 
 nearly three thousand a year. The bishopric, as 
 cut down by the Ecclesiastical Commission was
 
 Hiram's Hospital 13 
 
 only five. He would be a richer man as arch- 
 deacon than he could be as bishop. But he 
 certainly did desire to play first fiddle ; he did 
 desire to sit in full lawn sleeves among the peers 
 of the realm; and he did desire, if the truth 
 must out, to be called " My Lord " by his 
 reverend brethren. 
 
 His hopes, however, were they innocent or 
 sinful, were not fated to be realised ; and Dr. 
 Proudie was consecrated Bishop of Barchester. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 HIRAM'S HOSPITAL ACCORDING TO ACT OF 
 PARLIAMENT 
 
 IT is hardly necessary that I should here give 
 to the public any lengthened biography of Mr. 
 Harding, up to the period of the commencement 
 of this tale. The public cannot have forgotten 
 how ill that sensitive gentleman bore the attack 
 that was made on him in the columns of " The 
 Jupiter," with reference to the income which he 
 received as warden of Hiram's Hospital, in the 
 city of Barchester.* Nor can it yet be forgotten 
 that a law-suit was instituted against him on the 
 matter of that charity by Mr. John Bold, who 
 afterwards married his, Mr. Harding's, younger 
 and then only unmarried daughter. Under 
 pressure of these attacks, Mr. Harding had 
 resigned his wardenship, though strongly recom- 
 mended to abstain from doing so, both by his 
 * Vide The Warden.
 
 14 Barchester Towers 
 
 friends and by his lawyers. He did, however, 
 resign it, and betook himself manfully to the 
 duties of the small parish of St. Cuthbert's in 
 the city, of which he was vicar, continuing also 
 to perform those of precentor of the cathedral, 
 a situation of small emolument which had hitherto 
 been supposed to be joined, as a matter of 
 course, to the wardenship of the Hospital above 
 spoken of. 
 
 When he left the hospital from which he 1 ad 
 been so ruthlessly driven, and settled himself 
 down in his own modest manner in the High 
 Street of Barchester, he had not expected that 
 others would make more fuss about it than he 
 was inclined to do himself; and the extent of 
 his hope was, that the movement might have 
 been made in time to prevent any further para- 
 crraphs in " The Jupiter." His affairs, however, 
 were not allowed to subside thus quietly, and 
 people were quite as much inclined to talk about 
 the disinterested sacrifice he had made, as they 
 had before been to upbraid him for his cupidity. 
 The most remarkable thing that occurred, was 
 the receipt of an autograph letter from the Arch- 
 bishop of Canterbury, in which the primate very 
 warmly praised his conduct, and begged to 
 know what his intentions were for the future. 
 Mr Harding replied that he intended to b 
 rector of St. Cuthbert's, in Barchester : and i 
 that matter dropped. Then the newspapers 
 took up his case, "The Jupiter" among the rest, 
 and wafted his name in eulogistic strains 
 through every reading-room in the nation. I 
 was discovered also, that he was the author 
 of that great musical work, Harding s Church
 
 Hiram's Hospital 15 
 
 Music, and a new edition was spoken of, 
 though, I believe, never printed. It is, how- 
 ever, certain that the work was introduced into 
 the Royal Chapel at St. James's, and that a long 
 criticism appeared in the "Musical Scrutator," 
 declaring that in no previous work of the kind' 
 had so much research been joined with such 
 exalted musical ability, and asserting that the 
 name of Harding would henceforward be known 
 wherever the Arts were cultivated, or Religion 
 valued. 
 
 This was high praise, and I will not deny 
 that Mr. Harding was gratified by such flattery ; 
 for if Mr. Harding was vain on any subject, it 
 was on that of music. But here the matter 
 rested. The second edition, if printed, was 
 never purchased ; the copies which had been 
 introduced into the Royal Chapel disappeared 
 again, and were laid by in peace, with a load of 
 similar literature. Mr. Towers, of " The Jupiter," 
 and his brethren, occupied themselves with other 
 names, and the undying fame promised to our 
 friend was clearly intended to be posthumous. 
 
 Mr. Harding had spent much of his time 
 with his friend the bishop, much with his 
 daughter Mrs. Bold, now, alas, a widow; and 
 had almost daily visited the wretched remnant 
 of his former subjects, the few surviving bedes- 
 men now left at Hiram's Hospital. Six of them 
 were still living. The number, according to old 
 Hiram's will, should always have been twelve. 
 But after the abdication of their warden, the 
 bishop had appointed no successor to him, 
 no new occupants of the charity had been' 
 nominated, and it appeared as though the
 
 1 6 Barchester Towers 
 
 hospital at Barchester would fall into abeyance, 
 unless the powers that be should take some 
 steps towards putting it once more into working 
 order. 
 
 During the past five years, the powers that be 
 had not overlooked Barchester Hospital, and 
 sundry political doctors had taken the matter 
 in hand. Shortly after Mr. Harding's resigna- 
 tion, " The Jupiter " had very clearly shown what 
 ought to be done. In about half a column it had 
 distributed the income, rebuilt the building, put 
 an end to all bickerings, regenerated kindly 
 feeling, provided for Mr. Harding, and placed 
 the whole thing on a footing which could not 
 but be satisfactory to the city and Bishop of 
 Barchester, and to the nation at large. The 
 wisdom of this scheme was testified by the 
 number of letters which "Common Sense, 
 " Veritas," and " One that loves fair play " sent 
 to " The Jupiter," all expressing admiration, and 
 amplifying on the details given. It is singular 
 enough that no adverse letter appeared at all, 
 and, therefore, none of course was written. 
 
 But Cassandra was not believed, and even 
 the wisdom of " The Jupiter" sometimes falls on 
 deaf ears. Though other plans did not put them- 
 selves forward in the columns of " The Jupiter, 
 reformers of church charities were not slack 
 to make known in various places their different 
 nostrums for setting Hiram's Hospital on its 
 feet again. A learned bishop took occasion, 
 in the Upper House, to allude to the matter, 
 intimating that he had communicated on the 
 subject with his right reverend brother of Bar- 
 chester. The radical member for Staleybndge
 
 Hiram's Hospital 17 
 
 had suggested that the funds should be alienated 
 for the education of the agricultural poor of the 
 country, and he amused the house by some 
 anecdotes touching the superstition and habits 
 of the agriculturists in question. A political 
 pamphleteer had produced a few dozen pages, 
 which he called " Who are John Hiram's heirs ? " 
 intending to give an infallible rule for the 
 governance of all such establishments ; and, at 
 last, a member of the government promised 
 that in the next session a short bill should be 
 introduced for regulating the affairs of Bar- 
 chester, and other kindred concerns. 
 
 The next session came, and, contrary to 
 custom, the bill came also. Men's minds were 
 then intent on other things. The first threaten- 
 ings of a huge war hung heavily over the nation, 
 and the question as to Hiram's heirs did not 
 appear to interest very many people either in or 
 out of the house. The bill, however, was read 
 and re-read, and in some undistinguished manner 
 passed through its eleven stages without appeal 
 or dissent. What would John Hirnm have 
 said in the matter, could he have predicted that 
 some forty-five gentlemen would take on them- 
 selves to make a law altering the whole purport 
 of his will, without in the least knowing at the 
 moment of their making it, what it was that they 
 were doing ? It is however to be hoped that 
 the under-secretary for the Home Office knew, 
 for to him had the matter been confided. 
 
 The bill, however, did pass, and at the time 
 at which this history is supposed to commence, 
 it had been ordained that there should be, 
 as heretofore, twelve old men in Barchester
 
 1 8 Barchester Towers 
 
 Hospital, each with is. 4^. a day; that there 
 should also be twelve old women to be located 
 in. a house to be built, each with is. -id. a day; 
 that there should be a matron, with a house 
 and 7o/. a year; a steward with i5o/. a year; 
 and latterly, a warden with 45o/. a year, who 
 should have the spiritual guidance of both 
 establishments, and the temporal guidance of 
 that appertaining to the male sex. The bishop, 
 dean, and warden were, as formerly, to appoint 
 in turn the recipients of the charity, and the 
 bishop was to appoint the officers. There was 
 nothing said as to the wardenship being held 
 by the precentor of the cathedral, nor a word 
 as to Mr. Harding's right to the situation. 
 
 It was not, however, till some months after 
 the death of the old bishop, and almost imme- 
 diately consequent on the installation of his 
 successor, that notice was given that the reform 
 was about to be carried out. The new law and 
 the new bishop were among the earliest works 
 of a new ministry, or rather of a ministry who, 
 having for a while given place to their oppo- 
 nents, had then returned to power; and the 
 death of Dr. Grantly occurred, as we have seen, 
 exactly at the period of the change. 
 
 Poor Eleanor Bold ! How well does that 
 widow's cap become her, and the solemn gravity 
 with which she devotes herself to her new 
 duties. Poor Eleanor ! 
 
 Poor Eleanor ! I cannot say that with me 
 John Bold was ever a favourite. I never 
 thought him worthy of the wife he had won. 
 But in her estimation he was most worthy. 
 Hers was one of those feminine hearts which
 
 Hiram's Hospital 19 
 
 cling to a husband, not with idolatry, for wor- 
 ship can admit of no defect in its idol, but with 
 the perfect tenacity of ivy. As the parasite 
 plant will follow even the defects of the trunk 
 which it embraces, so did Eleanor cling to and 
 love the very faults of her husband. She had 
 once declared that whatever her father did 
 should in her eyes be right. She then trans- 
 ferred her allegiance, and became ever ready 
 to defend the worst failings of her lord and 
 master. 
 
 And John Bold was a man to be loved by a 
 woman ; he was himself affectionate, he was 
 confiding and manly ; and that arrogance of 
 thought, unsustained by first-rate abilities, that 
 attempt at being better than his neighbours 
 which jarred so painfully on the feelings of his 
 acquaintance, did not injure him in the estima- 
 tion of his wife. 
 
 Could she even have admitted that he had a 
 fault, his early death would have blotted out 
 the memory of it. She wept as for the loss of 
 the most perfect treasure with which mortal 
 woman had ever been endowed ; for weeks 
 after he was gone the idea of future happiness 
 in this world was hateful to her; consolation, 
 as it is called, was insupportable, and tears and 
 sleep were her only relief. 
 
 But God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. 
 She knew that she had within her the living 
 source of other cares. She knew that there was 
 to be created for her another subject of weal 
 or woe, of unutterable joy or despairing sorrow, 
 as God in his mercy might vouchsafe to her. 
 At first this did but augment her grief ! To be
 
 2O Barchester Towers 
 
 the mother of a poor infant, orphaned before it 
 was born, brought forth to the sorrows of an 
 ever desolate hearth, nurtured amidst tears and 
 wailing, and then turned adrift into the world 
 without the aid of a father's care ! There was 
 at first no joy in this. 
 
 By degrees, however, her heart became 
 anxious for another object, and, before its 
 birth, the stranger was expected with all the 
 eagerness of a longing mother. Just eight 
 months after the father's death a second John 
 Bold was born, and if the worship of one 
 creature can be innocent in another, let us 
 hope that the adoration offered over the cradle 
 of the fatherless infant may not be imputed as 
 a sin. 
 
 It will not be worth our while to define the 
 character of the child, or to point out in how 
 far the faults of the father were redeemed 
 within that little breast by the virtues of the 
 mother. The baby, as a baby, was all that 
 was delightful, and I cannot foresee that it will 
 be necessary for us to inquire into the facts of 
 his after life. Our present business at Bar- 
 Chester will not occupy us above a year or two 
 at the furthest, and I will leave it to some other 
 pen to produce, if necessary, the biography of 
 John Bold the Younger. 
 
 But, as a baby, this baby was all that could 
 be desired. This fact no one attempted to 
 deny. " Is he not delightful ? " she would say 
 to her father, looking up into his face from her 
 knees, her lustrous eyes overflowing with soft 
 tears, her young face encircled by her close 
 widow's cap and her hands on each side of the
 
 Hiram's Hospital 21 
 
 cradle in which her treasure was sleeping. The 
 grandfather would gladly admit that the treasure 
 was delightful, and the uncle archdeacon himself 
 would agree, and Mrs. Grantly, Eleanor's sister, 
 would re-echo the word with true sisterly energy ; 
 
 and Mary Bold but Mary Bold was a second 
 
 worshipper at the same shrine. 
 
 The baby was really delightful ; he took his 
 food with a will, struck out his toes merrily 
 whenever his legs were uncovered, and did not 
 have fits. These are supposed to be the 
 strongest points of baby perfection, and in all 
 these our baby excelled. 
 
 And thus the widow's deep grief was softened, 
 and a sweet balm was poured into the wound 
 which she had thought nothing but death could 
 heal. How much kinder is God to us than we 
 are willing to be to ourselves ! At the loss of 
 every dear face, at the last going of every well 
 beloved one, we all doom ourselves to an eternity 
 of sorrow, and look to waste ourselves away in 
 an ever-running fountain of tears. How seldom 
 does such grief endure ! how blessed is the 
 goodness which forbids it to do so ! " Let me 
 ever remember my living friends, but forget 
 them as soon as dead," was the prayer of a wise 
 man who understood the mercy of God. Few 
 perhaps would have the courage to express such 
 a wish, and yet to do so would only be to ask 
 for that release from sorrow, which a kind 
 Creator almost always extends to us. 
 
 I would not, however, have it imagined that 
 Mrs. Bold forgot her husband. She daily 
 thought of him with all conjugal love, and 
 enshrined his memory in the innermost centre
 
 22 Barchester Towers 
 
 of her heart. But yet she was happy in her 
 baby. It was so sweet to press the living toy to 
 her breast, and feel that a human being existed 
 who did owe, and was to owe everything to her ; 
 whose daily food was drawn from herself ; whose 
 little wants could all be satisfied by her ; whose 
 little heart would first love her and her only ; 
 whose infant tongue would make its first effort 
 in calling her by the sweetest name a woman 
 can hear. And so Eleanor's bosom became 
 tranquil, and she set about her new duties 
 eagerly and gratefully. 
 
 As regards the concerns of the world, John 
 Bold had left his widow in prosperous circum- 
 stances. He had bequeathed to her all that he 
 possessed, and that comprised an income much 
 exceeding what she or her friends thought 
 necessary for her. It amounted to nearly a 
 thousand a year; and when she reflected on its 
 extent, her dearest hope was to hand it over, 
 not only unimpaired but increased, to her 
 husband's son, to her own darling, to the little 
 man who now lay sleeping on her knee, happily 
 ignorant of the cares which were to be accumu- 
 lated in his behalf. 
 
 When John Bold died she earnestly implored 
 her father to come and live with her, but this 
 Mr. Harding declined, though for some weeks 
 he remained with her as a visitor. He could 
 not be prevailed upon to forego the possession 
 of some small home of his own, and so remained 
 in the lodgings he had first selected over a 
 chemist's shop in the High Street of Barchester.
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 DR. AND MRS. PROUDIE 
 
 THIS narrative is supposed to commence imme- 
 diately after the installation of Dr. Proudie. I 
 will not describe the ceremony, as I do not 
 precisely understand its nature. I am ignorant 
 whether a bishop be chaired like a member of 
 parliament, or carried in a gilt coach like a lord 
 mayor, or sworn in like a justice of peace, or 
 introduced like a peer to the upper house, or 
 led between two brethren like a knight of the 
 garter; but I do know that every thing was 
 properly done, and that nothing fit or becoming 
 to a young bishop was omitted on the occasion. 
 Dr. Proudie was not the man to allow any- 
 thing to be omitted that might be becoming to 
 his new dignity. He understood well the value 
 of forms, and knew that the due observance of 
 rank could not be maintained unless the exterior 
 trappings belonging to it were held in proper 
 esteem. He was a man born to move in high 
 circles ; at least so he thought himself, and cir- 
 cumstances had certainly sustained him in this 
 view. He was the nephew of an Irish baron by 
 his mother's side, and his wife was the niece of 
 a Scotch earl. He had for years held some 
 clerical office appertaining to courtly matters, 
 which had enabled him to live in London, and 
 to entrust his parish to his curate. He had been 
 preacher to the royal beefeaters, curator of 
 theological manuscripts in the Ecclesiastical
 
 24 Barchester Towers 
 
 Courts, chaplain to the Queen's yeomanry guard, 
 and almoner to his Royal Highness the Prince 
 of Rappe-Blankenberg. 
 
 His residence in the metropolis, rendered 
 necessary by the duties thus entrusted to him, 
 his high connections, and the peculiar talents 
 and nature of the man, recommended him to 
 persons in power; and Dr. Proudie became 
 known as a useful and rising clergyman. 
 
 Some few years since, even within the memory 
 of many who are not yet willing to call them- 
 selves old, a liberal clergyman was a person not 
 frequently to be met. Sydney Smith was such, 
 and was looked on as little better than an 
 infidel ; a few others also might be named, but 
 they were " rarae aves," and were regarded with 
 doubt and distrust by their brethren. No man 
 was so surely a tory as a country rector nowhere 
 were the powers that be so cherished as at Oxford. 
 
 When, however, Dr. Whately was made an 
 archbishop, and Dr. Hampden some years after- 
 wards regius professor, many wise divines saw 
 that a change was taking place in men's minds, 
 and that more liberal ideas would henceforward 
 be suitable to the priests as well as to the laity. 
 Clergymen began to be heard of who had 
 ceased to anathematise papists on the one hand, 
 or vilify dissenters on the other. It appeared 
 clear that high church principles, as they are 
 called, were no longer to be surest claims to 
 promotion with at any rate one section of 
 statesmen, and Dr. Proudie was one among 
 those who early in life adapted himself to the 
 views held by the whigs on most theological 
 and religious subjects. He bore with the
 
 Dr. and Mrs. Proudie 25 
 
 idolatry of Rome, tolerated even the infidelity 
 of Socinianism, and was hand and glove with 
 the Presbyterian Synods of Scotland and Ulster. 
 
 Such a man at such a time was found to be 
 useful, and Dr. Proudie's name began to appear 
 in the newspapers. He was made one of a 
 commission who went over to Ireland to arrange 
 matters preparative to the working of the national 
 board ; he became honorary secretary to another 
 commission nominated to inquire into the reve- 
 nues of cathedral chapters ; and had had some- 
 thing to do with both the regium donum and 
 the Maynooth grant. 
 
 It must not on this account be taken as 
 proved that Dr. Proudie was a man of great 
 mental powers, or even of much capacity for 
 business, for such qualities had not been re- 
 quired in him. In the arrangement of those 
 church reforms with which he was connected, 
 the ideas and original conception of the work to 
 be done were generally furnished by the liberal 
 statesman of the day, and the labour of the 
 details was borne by officials of a lower rank. 
 It was, however, thought expedient that the 
 name of some clergyman should appear in such 
 matters, and as Dr. Proudie had become known 
 as a tolerating divine, great use of this sort was 
 made of his name. If he did not do much 
 active good, he never did any harm ; he was 
 amenable to those who were really in authority, 
 and at the sittings of the various boards to 
 which he belonged maintained a kind of dignity 
 which had its value. 
 
 He was certainly possessed of sufficient tact 
 to answer the purpose for which he was required
 
 26 Barchester Towers 
 
 without making himself troublesome; but it 
 must not therefore be surmised that he doubted 
 his own power, or failed to believe that he 
 could himself take a high part in high affairs 
 when his own turn came. He was biding his 
 time, and patiently looking forward to the days 
 when he himself would sit authoritative at some 
 board, and talk and direct, and rule the roast, 
 while lesser stars sat round and obeyed, as he 
 had so well accustomed himself to do. 
 
 His reward and his time had now come. He 
 was selected for the vacant bishopric, and on the 
 next vacancy which might occur in any diocese 
 would take his place in the House of Lords, 
 prepared to give not a silent vote in all matters 
 concerning the weal of the church establishment. 
 .^Toleration was to be the basis on which he was 
 to fight his battles, and in the honest courage of 
 his heart he thought no evil would come to him 
 in encountering even such foes as his brethren 
 of Exeter and Oxford. 
 
 Dr. Proudie was an ambitious man, and 
 before he was well consecrated Bishop of Bar- 
 chester, he had begun to look up to archie- 
 piscopal splendour, and the glories of Lambeth, 
 or at any rate of Bishopsthorpe. He was com- 
 paratively young, and had, as he fondly flattered 
 himself, been selected as possessing such gifts, 
 natural and acquired, as must be sure to recom- 
 mend him to a yet higher notice, now that a 
 higher sphere was opened to him. Dr. Proudie 
 was, therefore, quite prepared to take a con- 
 spicuous part in all theological affairs appertain- 
 ing to these realms ; and having such views, by 
 no means intended to bury himself at Barchester
 
 Dr. and Mrs. Proudie 27 
 
 as his predecessor had done. No : London 
 should still be his ground : a comfortable 
 mansion in a provincial city might be well 
 enough for the dead months of the year. 
 Indeed Dr. Proudie had always felt it necessary 
 to his position to retire from London when 
 other great and fashionable people did so ; but 
 London should still be his fixed residence, and 
 it was in London that he resolved to exercise 
 that hospitality so peculiarly recommended to 
 all bishops by St. Paul. How otherwise could 
 he keep himself before the world? how else 
 give to the government, in matters theological, 
 the full benefit of his weight and talents ? 
 
 This resolution was no doubt a salutary one 
 as regarded the world at large, but was not likely 
 to make him popular either with the clergy or 
 people of Barchester. Dr. Grantly had always 
 lived there; and in truth it was hard for a 
 bishop to be popular after Dr. Grantly. His 
 income had averaged QOOO/. a year; his suc- 
 cessor was to be rigidly limited to 5ooo/. He 
 had but one child on whom to spend his money ; 
 Dr. Proudie had seven or eight. He had been 
 a man of few personal expenses, and they had 
 been confined to the tastes of a moderate gentle- 
 man ; but Dr. Proudie had to maintain a position 
 in fashionable society, and had that to do with 
 comparatively small means. Dr. Grantly had 
 certainly kept his carriage, as became a bishop ; 
 but his carriage, horses, and coachman, though 
 they did very well for Barchester, would have 
 been almost ridiculous at Westminster. Mrs. 
 Proudie determined that her husband's equipage 
 should not shame her, and things on which
 
 28 Barchester Towers 
 
 Mrs. Proudie resolved, were generally accom- 
 plished. 
 
 From all this it was likely to result that Dr. 
 Proudie would not spend much money at Bar- 
 Chester ; whereas his predecessor had dealt with 
 the tradesmen of the city in a manner very much 
 to their satisfaction. The Grantlys, father and 
 son, had spent their money like gentlemen ; but 
 it soon became whispered in Barchester that Dr. 
 Proudie was not unacquainted with those prudent 
 devices by which the utmost show of wealth is 
 produced from limited means. 
 
 In person Dr. Proudie is a good looking man ; 
 spruce and dapper, and very tidy. He is some- 
 what below middle height, being about five feet 
 four ; but he makes up for the inches which he 
 wants by the dignity with which he carries those 
 which he has. It is no fault of his own if he 
 has not a commanding eye, for he studies hard 
 to assume it. His features are well formed, 
 though perhaps the sharpness of his nose may 
 give to his face in the eyes of some people an 
 air of insignificance. If so, it is greatly redeemed 
 by his mouth and chin, of which he is justly 
 proud. 
 
 Dr. Proudie may well be said to have been a 
 fortunate man, for he was not born to wealth, 
 and he is now bishop of Barchester ; but never- 
 theless he has his cares. He has a large family, 
 of whom the three eldest are daughters, now all 
 grown up and fit for fashionable life; and he 
 has a wife. It is not my intention to breathe a 
 word against the character of Mrs. Proudie, but 
 still I cannot think that with all her virtues she 
 adds much to her husband's happiness. The
 
 Dr. and Mrs. Proudie 29 
 
 truth is that in matters domestic she rules 
 supreme over her titular lord, and rules with a 
 rod of iron. Nor is this all. Things domestic 
 Dr. Proudie might have abandoned to her, if 
 not voluntarily, yet willingly. But Mrs. Proudie 
 is not satisfied with such home dominion, and 
 stretches her power over all his movements, and 
 will not even abstain from things spiritual. In 
 fact, the bishop is henpecked. 
 
 The archdeacon's wife, in her happy home at 
 Plumstead, knows how to assume the full privi- 
 leges of her rank, and express her own mind in 
 becoming tone and place. But Mrs. Grantly's 
 sway, if sway she has, is easy and beneficent. 
 She never shames her husband ; before the world 
 she is a pattern of obedience ; her voice is never 
 loud, nor her looks sharp : doubtless she values 
 power, and has not unsuccessfully striven to 
 acquire it; but she knows what should be the 
 limits of a woman's rule. 
 
 Not so Mrs. Proudie. This lady is habitually 
 authoritative to all, but to her poor husband she 
 is despotic. Successful as has been his career 
 in the eyes of the world, it would seem that in 
 the eyes of his wife he is never right. All hope 
 of defending himself has long passed from him ; 
 indeed he rarely even attempts self-justification ; 
 and is aware that submission produces the 
 nearest approach to peace which his own house 
 can ever attain. 
 
 Mrs. Proudie has not been able to sit at the 
 boards and committees to which her husband 
 has been called by the state ; nor, as he often 
 reflects, can she make her voice heard in the 
 House of Lords. It may be that she will refuse
 
 30 Barchester Towers 
 
 to him permission to attend to this branch of a 
 bishop's duties ; it may be that she will insist on 
 his close attendance to his own closet. He has 
 never whispered a word on the subject to living 
 ears, but he has already made his fixed resolve. 
 Should such an attempt be made he will rebel. 
 Dogs have turned against their masters, and 
 even Neapolitans against their rulers, when 
 oppression has been too severe. And Dr. 
 Proudie feels within himself that if the cord be 
 drawn too tight, he also can muster courage and 
 resist. 
 
 The state of vassalage in which our bishop 
 has been kept by his wife has not tended to 
 exalt his character in the eyes of his daughters, 
 who assume in addressing their father too much 
 of that authority which is not properly belonging, 
 at any rate, to them. They are, on the whole, 
 fine engaging young ladies. They are tall and 
 robust like their mother, whose high cheek bones, 
 and , we may say auburn hair, they all in- 
 herit. They think somewhat too much of their 
 grand uncles, who have not hitherto returned 
 the compliment by thinking much of them. But 
 now that their father is a bishop, it is probable 
 that family ties will be drawn closer. Consider- 
 ing their connection with the church, they enter- 
 tain but few prejudices against the pleasures of 
 the world; and have certainly not distressed 
 their parents, as too many English girls have 
 lately done, by any enthusiastic wish to devote 
 themselves to the seclusion of a protestant 
 nunnery. Dr. Proudie's sons are still at school. 
 
 One other marked peculiarity in the character 
 of the bishop's wife must be mentioned. Though
 
 Dr. and Mrs. Proudie 31 
 
 not averse to the society and manners of the 
 world, she is in her own way a religious woman ; 
 and the form in which this tendency shows itself 
 in her is by a strict observance of Sabbatarian 
 rule. Dissipation and low dresses during the 
 week are, under her control, atoned for by three 
 services, an evening sermon read by herself, and 
 a perfect abstinence from any cheering employ- 
 ment on the Sunday. Unfortunately for those 
 under her roof to whom the dissipation and low 
 dresses are not extended, her servants namely 
 and her husband, the compensating strictness 
 of the Sabbath includes all. Woe betide the 
 recreant housemaid who is found to have been 
 listening to the honey of a sweetheart in the 
 Regent's park, instead of the soul-stirring even- 
 ing discourse of Mr. Slope. Not only is she 
 sent adrift, but she is so sent with a character 
 which leaves her little hope of a decent place. 
 Woe betide the six-foot hero who escorts Mrs. 
 Proudie to her pew in red plush breeches, if he 
 slips away to the neighbouring beer-shop, instead 
 of falling into the back seat appropriated to his 
 use. Mrs. Proudie has the eyes of Argus for 
 such offenders. Occasional drunkenness in the 
 week may be overlooked, for six feet on low 
 wages are hardly to be procured if the morals 
 are always kept at a high pitch ; but not even 
 for grandeur or economy will Mrs. Proudie 
 forgive a desecration of the Sabbath. 
 
 In such matters Mrs. Proudie allows herself 
 to be often guided by that eloquent preacher, 
 the Rev. Mr. Slope, and as Dr. Proudie is 
 guided by his wife, it necessarily follows that 
 the eminent man we have named has obtained
 
 32 Barchester Towers 
 
 a good deal of control over Dr. Proudie in 
 matters concerning religion. Mr. Slope's only 
 preferment has hitherto been that of reader and 
 preacher in a London district church : and on 
 the consecration of his friend the new bishop, 
 he readily gave this up to undertake the onerous 
 but congenial duties of domestic chaplain to 
 his lordship. 
 
 Mr. Slope, however, on his first introduction, 
 must not be brought before the public at the 
 tail of a chapter. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE BISHOP'S CHAPLAIN 
 
 OF the Rev. Mr. Slope's parentage I am not 
 able to say much. I have heard it asserted that 
 he is lineally descended from that eminent 
 physician who assisted at the birth of Mr. T. 
 Shandy, and that in early years he added an 
 " e " to his name, for the sake of euphony, as 
 other great men have done before him. If 
 this be so, I presume he was christened Oba- 
 diah, for that is his name, in commemora- 
 tion of the conflict in which his ancestor so 
 distinguished himself. All my researches on 
 the subject have, however, failed in enabling 
 me to fix the date on which the family changed 
 its religion. 
 
 He had been a sizar at Cambridge, and had 
 there conducted himself at any rate successfully, 
 for in due process of time he was an M.A..
 
 The Bishop's Chaplain 33 
 
 having university pupils under his care. From 
 thence he was transferred to London, and 
 became preacher at a new district church built 
 on the confines of Baker Street. He was in 
 this position when congenial ideas on religious 
 subjects recommended him to Mrs. Proudie, 
 and the intercourse had become close and 
 confidential. 
 
 Having been thus familiarly thrown among 
 the Misses Proudie, it was no more than natural 
 that some softer feeling than friendship should 
 be engendered. There have been some passages 
 of love between him and the eldest hope, Olivia ; 
 but they have hitherto resulted in no favourable 
 arrangement. In truth, Mr. Slope having made 
 a declaration of affection, afterwards withdrew 
 it on finding that the doctor had no immediate 
 worldly funds with which to endow his child ; 
 and it may easily be conceived that Miss 
 Proudie, after such an announcement on his 
 part, was not readily disposed to receive any 
 further show of affection. On the appointment 
 of Dr. Proudie to the bishopric of Barchester, 
 Mr. Slope's views were in truth somewhat 
 altered. Bishops, even though they be poor, 
 can provide for clerical children, and Mr. Slope 
 began to regret that he had not been more 
 disinterested. He no sooner heard the tidings 
 of the doctor's elevation, than he recommenced 
 his siege, not violently, indeed, but respectfully, 
 and at a distance. Olivia Proudie, however, 
 was a girl of spirit : she had the blood of two 
 peers in her veins, and, better still, she had 
 another lover on her books ; so Mr. Slope 
 sighed in vain; and the pair soon found it 
 
 c
 
 34 Barchester Towers 
 
 convenient to establish a mutual bond of 
 inveterate hatred. 
 
 It may be thought singular that Mrs. Proudie's 
 friendship for the young clergyman should re- 
 main firm after such an affair ; but, to tell the 
 truth, she had known nothing of it. Though 
 very fond of Mr. Slope herself, she had never 
 conceived the idea that either of her daughters 
 would become so, and remembering their high 
 birth and social advantages, expected for them 
 matches of a different sort. Neither the 
 gentleman nor the lady found it necessary to 
 enlighten her. Olivia's two sisters had each 
 known of the affair, so had all the servants, 
 so had all the people living in the adjoining 
 houses on either side ; but Mrs. Proudie had 
 been kept in the dark. 
 
 Mr. Slope soon comforted himself with the 
 reflection, that as he had been selected as 
 chaplain to the bishop, it would probably be in 
 his power to get the good things in the bishop's 
 gift, without troubling himself with the bishop's 
 daughter ; and he found himself able to endure 
 the pangs of rejected love. As he sat himself 
 down in the railway carriage, confronting the 
 bishop and Mrs. Proudie, as they started on 
 their first journey to Barchester, he began to 
 form in his own mind a plan of his future life. 
 He knew well his patron's strong points, but he 
 knew the weak ones as well. He understood 
 correctly enough to what attempts the new 
 bishop's high spirit would soar, and he rightly 
 guessed that public life would better suit the 
 great man's taste, than the small details of 
 diocesan duty.
 
 The Bishop's Chaplain 35 
 
 He, therefore, he, Mr. Slope, would in effect 
 be bishop of Barchester. Such was his resolve ; 
 and to give Mr. Slope his due, he had both 
 courage and spirit to bear him out in his resolu- 
 tion. He knew that he should have a hard 
 battle to fight, for the power and patronage of 
 the see would be equally coveted by another 
 great mind Mrs. Proudie would also choose to 
 be bishop of Barchester. Mr. Slope, however, 
 flattered himself that he could out-manoeuvre 
 the lady. She must live much in London, while 
 he would always be on the spot. She would 
 necessarily remain ignorant of much, while he 
 would know everything belonging to the diocese. 
 At first, doubtless, he must flatter and cajole, 
 perhaps yield, in some things ; but he did not 
 doubt of ultimate triumph. If all other means 
 failed, he could join the bishop against his wife, 
 inspire courage into the unhappy man, lay an 
 axe to the root of the woman's power, and 
 emancipate the husband. 
 
 Such were his thoughts as he sat looking at 
 the sleeping pair in the railway carriage, and 
 Mr. Slope is not the man to trouble himself with 
 such thoughts for nothing. He is possessed of 
 more than average abilities, and is of good 
 courage. Though he can stoop to fawn, and 
 stoop low indeed, if need be, he has still within 
 him the power to assume the tyrant ; and with 
 the power he has certainly the wish. His 
 acquirements are not of the highest order, but 
 such as they are they are completely under 
 control, and he knows the use of them. He is 
 gifted with a certain kind of pulpit eloquence, 
 not likely indeed to be persuasive with men, but
 
 36 Barchester Towers 
 
 powerful with the softer sex. In his sermons he 
 deals greatly in denunciations, excites the minds 
 of his weaker hearers with a not unpleasant 
 terror, and leaves an impression on their minds 
 that all mankind are in a perilous state, and all 
 womankind too, except those who attend regu- 
 larly to the evening lectures in Baker Street. 
 His looks and tones are extremely severe, so 
 much so that one cannot but fancy that he 
 regards the greater part of the world as being in- 
 finitely too bad for his care. As he walks through 
 the streets, his very face denotes his horror of 
 the world's wickedness ; and there is always an 
 anathema lurking in the corner of his eye. 
 
 In doctrine, he, like his patron, is tolerant of 
 dissent, if so strict a mind can be called tolerant 
 of anything. With Wesleyan-Methodists he 
 has something in common, but his soul trembles 
 in agony at the iniquities of the Puseyites. His 
 aversion is carried to things outward as well as 
 inward. His gall rises at a new church with a 
 high pitched roof; a full-breasted black silk 
 waistcoat is with him a symbol of Satan ; and a 
 profane jest-book would not, in his view, more 
 foully desecrate the church seat of a Christian, 
 than a book of prayer printed with red letters, 
 and ornamented with a cross on the back. Most 
 active clergymen have their hobby, and Sunday 
 observances are his. Sunday, however, is a word 
 which never pollutes his mouth it is always 
 "the Sabbath." The "desecration of the 
 Sabbath," as he delights to call it, is to him 
 meat and drink : he thrives upon that as police- 
 men do on the general evil habits of the com- 
 munity. It is the loved subject of all his evening
 
 The Bishop's Chaplain 37 
 
 discourses, the source of all his eloquence, the 
 secret of all his power over the female heart. To 
 him the revelation of God appears only in that 
 one law given for Jewish observance. To him 
 the mercies of our Saviour speak in vain, to him 
 in vain has been preached that sermon which 
 fell from divine lips on the mountain " Blessed 
 are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth " 
 " Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain 
 mercy." To him the New Testament is com- 
 paratively of little moment, for from it can he 
 draw no fresh authority for that dominion which 
 he loves to exercise over at least a seventh part 
 of man's allotted time here below. 
 
 Mr. Slope is tall, and not ill made. His feet 
 and hands are large, as has ever been the case 
 with all his family, but he has a broad chest and 
 wide shoulders to carry off these excrescences, 
 and on the whole his figure is good. His coun- 
 tenance, however, is not specially prepossessing. 
 His hair is lank, and of a dull pale reddish hue. 
 It is always formed into three straight lumpy 
 masses, each brushed with admirable precision, 
 and cemented with much grease ; two of them 
 adhere closely to the sides of his face, and the 
 other lies at right angles above them. He wears 
 no whiskers, and is always punctiliously shaven. 
 His face is nearly of the same colour as his hair, 
 though perhaps a little redder : it is not unlike 
 beef, beef, however, one would say, of a bad 
 quality. His forehead is capacious and high, 
 but square and heavy, and unpleasantly shining. 
 His mouth is large, though his lips are thin and 
 bloodless; and his big, prominent, pale brown 
 eyes inspire anything but confidence. His nose,
 
 38 Barchester Towers 
 
 however, is his redeeming feature : it is pro- 
 nounced straight and well-formed ; though I 
 myself should have liked it better did it not 
 possess a somewhat spongy, porous appearance, 
 as though it had been cleverly formed out of a 
 red coloured cork. 
 
 I never could endure to shake hands with 
 Mr. Slope. A cold, clammy perspiration always 
 exudes from him, the small drops are ever to be 
 seen standing on his brow, and his friendly 
 grasp is unpleasant. 
 
 Such is Mr. Slope such is the man who has 
 suddenly fallen into the midst of Barchester 
 Close, and is destined there to assume the 
 station which has heretofore been filled by the 
 son of the late bishop. Think, oh, my medi- 
 tative reader, what an associate we have here 
 for those comfortable prebendaries, those gentle- 
 manlike clerical doctors, those happy well-used 
 well-fed minor canons, who have grown into 
 existence at Barghester under the kindly wings 
 of Bishop Grantly ! 
 
 But not as a mere associate for these does 
 Mr. Slope travel down to Barchester with the 
 bishop and his wife. He intends to be, if not 
 their master, at least the chief among them. 
 He intends to lead, and to have followers; he 
 intends to hold the purse strings of the diocese, 
 and draw round him an obedient herd of his 
 poor and hungry brethren. 
 
 And here we can hardly fail to draw a com- 
 parison between the archdeacon and our new 
 private chaplain ; and despite the manifold faults 
 of the former, [one can hardly fail to make it 
 much to his advantage.
 
 The Bishop's Chaplain 39 
 
 Both men are eager, much too eager, to 
 support and increase the power of their order. 
 Both are anxious that the world should be priest- 
 governed, though they have probably never con- 
 fessed so much, even to themselves. Both 
 begrudge any other kind of dominion held by 
 man over man. Dr. Grantly, if he admits the 
 Queen's supremacy in things spiritual, only 
 admits it as being due to the qriasi priesthood 
 conveyed in the consecrating qualities of her 
 coronation ; and he regards things temporal as 
 being by their nature subject to those which are 
 spiritual. Mr. Slope's ideas of sacerdotal rule 
 are of quite a different class. He cares nothing, 
 one way or the other, for the Queen's supremacy ; 
 these to his ears are empty words, meaning 
 nothing. Forms he regards but little, and such 
 titular expressions as supremacy, consecration, 
 ordination, and the like, convey of themselves 
 no significance to him. Let him be supreme 
 who can. The temporal king, judge, or gaoler, 
 can work but on the body. The spiritual 
 master, if he have the necessary gifts, and can 
 duly use them, has a wider field of empire. 
 He works upon the soul. If he can make him- 
 self be believed, he can be all powerful over 
 those who listen. If he be careful to meddle 
 with none who are too strong in intellect, or too 
 weak in flesh, he may indeed be supreme. And 
 such was the ambition of Mr. Slope. 
 
 Dr. Grantly interfered very little with the 
 worldly doings of those who were in any way 
 subject to him. I do not mean to say that he 
 omitted to notice misconduct among his clergy, 
 immorality in his parish, or omissions in his
 
 40 Barchester Towers 
 
 family ; but he was not anxious to do so where 
 the necessity could be avoided. He was not 
 troubled with a propensity to be curious, and as 
 long as those around him were tainted with no 
 heretical leaning towards dissent, as long as 
 they fully and freely admitted the efficacy of 
 Mother Church, he was willing that that mother 
 should be merciful and affectionate, prone to 
 indulgence, and unwilling to chastise. He him- 
 self enjoyed the good things of this world, and 
 liked to let it be known that he did so. He 
 cordially despised any brother rector who 
 thought harm of dinner-parties, or dreaded the 
 dangers of a moderate claret-jug ; consequently 
 dinner-parties and claret-jugs were common in 
 the diocese. He liked to give laws and to be 
 obeyed in them implicitly, but he endeavoured 
 that his ordinances should be within the compass 
 of the man, and not unpalatable to the gentle- 
 man. He had ruled among his clerical neigh- 
 bours now for sundry years, and as he had 
 maintained his power without becoming un- 
 popular, it may be presumed that he had exer- 
 cised some wisdom. 
 
 Of Mr. Slope's conduct much cannot be said, 
 as his grand career is yet to commence ; but it 
 may be premised that his tastes will be very 
 different from those of the archdeacon. He 
 conceives it to be his duty to know all the 
 private doings and desires of the flock entrusted 
 to his care. From the poorer classes he exacts 
 an unconditional obedience to set rules of con- 
 duct, and if disobeyed he has recourse, like 
 his great ancestor, to the fulminations of an 
 "Ernulfus : " Thou shalt be damned in thy
 
 The Bishop's Chaplain 41 
 
 going in and in thy coming out in thy eating 
 and thy drinking," &c. &c. &c. With the rich, 
 experience has already taught him that a different 
 line of action is necessary. Men in the upper 
 walks of life do not mind being cursed, and the 
 women, presuming that it be done in delicate 
 phrase, rather like it. But he has not, therefore, 
 given up so important a portion of believing 
 Christians. With the men, indeed, he is 
 generally at variance ; they are hardened sinners, 
 on whom the voice of the priestly charmer too 
 often falls in vain ; but with the ladies, old and 
 young, firm and frail, devout and dissipated, he 
 is, as he conceives, all powerful. He can re- 
 prove faults with so much flattery, and utter 
 censure in so caressing a manner, that the 
 female heart, if it glow with a spark of low 
 church susceptibility, cannot withstand him. In 
 many houses he is thus an admired guest : the 
 husbands, for their wives' sake, are fain to 
 admit him; and when once admitted it is not 
 easy to shake him off. He has, however, a 
 pawing, greasy way with him, which does not 
 endear him to those who do not value him for 
 their souls' sake, and he is not a man to make 
 himself at once popular in a large circle such as 
 is now likely to surround him at Barc'nester.
 
 4.2 Barchester Towers 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 A MORNING VISIT 
 
 IT was known that Dr. Proudie would immedi- 
 ately have to reappoint to the wardenship of 
 the hospital under the act of Parliament to 
 which allusion has been made; but no one 
 imagined that any choice was left to him no 
 one for a moment thought that he could appoint 
 any other than Mr. Harding. Mr. Harding 
 himself, when he heard how the matter had 
 been settled, without troubling himself much 
 on the subject, considered it as certain that he 
 would go back to his pleasant house and 
 garden. And though there would be much 
 that was melancholy, nay, almost heartrending, 
 in such a return, he still was glad that it was to 
 be so. His daughter might probably be per- 
 suaded to return there with him. She had, 
 indeed, all but promised to do so, though she 
 still entertained an idea that that greatest of 
 mortals, that important atom of humanity, that 
 little god upon earth, Johnny Bold her baby, 
 ought to have a house of his own over his 
 head. 
 
 Such being the state of Mr. Harding's mind 
 in the matter, he did not feel any peculiar 
 personal interest in the appointment of Dr. 
 Proudie to the bishopric. He, as well as 
 others at Barchester, regretted that a man 
 should be sent among them who, they were 
 aware, was not of their way of thinking; but
 
 A Morning Visit 43 
 
 Mr. Harding himself was not a bigoted man 
 on points of church doctrine, and he was quite 
 prepared to welcome Dr. Proudie to Barchester 
 in a graceful and becoming manner. He had 
 nothing to seek and nothing to fear; he felt 
 that it behoved him to be on good terms with 
 his bishop, and he did not anticipate any obstacle 
 that would prevent it. 
 
 In such a frame of mind he proceeded to 
 pay his respects at the palace the second day 
 after the arrival of the bishop and his chaplain. 
 But he did not go alone. Dr. Grantly proposed 
 to accompany him, and Mr. Harding was not 
 sorry to have a companion, who would remove 
 from his shoulders the burden of the conversa- 
 tion in such an interview. In the affair of the 
 consecration Dr. Grantly had been introduced 
 to the bishop, and Mr. Harding had also been 
 there. He had, however, kept himself in the 
 background, and he was now to be presented 
 to the great man for the first time. 
 
 The archdeacon's feelings were of a much 
 stronger nature. He was not exactly the man 
 to overlook his own slighted claims, or to 
 forgive the preference shown to another. Dr. 
 Proudie was playing Venus to his Juno, and he 
 was prepared to wage an internecine war against 
 the owner of the wished-for apple, and all his 
 satellites, private chaplains, and others. 
 
 Nevertheless, it behoved him also to conduct 
 himself towards the intruder as an old arch- 
 deacon should conduct himself to an incoming 
 bishop ; and though he was well aware of all 
 Dr. Proudie's abominable opinions as regarded 
 dissenters, church reform, the hebdomadal
 
 44 Barchester Towers 
 
 council, and such like ; though he disliked the 
 man, and hated the doctrines, still he was 
 prepared to show respect to the station of the 
 bishop. So he and Mr. Harding called together 
 at the palace. 
 
 His lordship was at home, and the two 
 visitors were shown through the accustomed 
 hall into the well-known room, where the good 
 old bishop used to sit. The furniture had been 
 bought at a valuation, and every chair and 
 table, every bookshelf against the wall, and 
 every square in the carpet, was as well known 
 to each of them as their own bedrooms. 
 Nevertheless they at once felt that they were 
 strangers there. The furniture was for the 
 most part the same, yet the place had been 
 metamorphosed. A new sofa had been intro- 
 duced, a horrid chintz affair, most unprelatical 
 and almost irreligious : such a sofa as never yet 
 stood in the study of any decent high church 
 clergyman of the Church of England. The 
 old curtains had also given way. They had, 
 to be sure, become dingy, and that which had 
 been originally a rich and goodly ruby had 
 degenerated into a reddish brown. Mr. Harding, 
 however, thought the old reddish brown much 
 preferable to the gaudy buff-coloured trumpery 
 moreen which Mrs. Proudie had deemed good 
 enough for her husband's own room in the 
 provincial city of Barchester. 
 
 Our friends found Dr. Proudie sitting on the 
 old bishop's chair, looking very nice in his new 
 apron ; they found, too, Mr. Slope standing 
 on the hearthrug, persuasive and eager, just as 
 the archdeacon used to stand ; but on the sofa
 
 A Morning Visit 45 
 
 they also found Mrs. Proudie, an innovation for 
 which a precedent might in vain be sought in all 
 the annals of the Barchester bishopric ! 
 
 There she was, however, and they could only 
 make the best of her. The introductions were 
 gone through in much form. The archdeacon 
 shook hands with the bishop, and named Mr. 
 Harding, who received such an amount of 
 greeting as was due from a bishop to a pre- 
 centor. His lordship then presented them to 
 his lady wife ; the archdeacon first, with archi- 
 diaconal honours, and then the precentor with 
 diminished parade. After this Mr. Slope 
 presented himself. The bishop, it is true, did 
 mention his name, and so did Mrs. Proudie 
 too, in a louder tone ; but Mr. Slope took upon 
 himself the chief burden of his own introduction. 
 He had great pleasure in making himself 
 acquainted with Dr. Grantly; he had heard 
 much of the archdeacon's good works in that 
 part of the diocese in which his duties as 
 archdeacon had been exercised (thus purposely 
 ignoring the archdeacon's hitherto unlimited 
 dominion over the diocese at large). He was 
 aware that his lordship depended greatly on the 
 assistance which Dr. Grantly would be able to 
 give him in that portion of his diocese. He 
 then thrust out his hand, and grasping that of 
 his new foe, bedewed it unmercifully. Dr. 
 Grantly in return bowed, looked stiff, contracted 
 his eyebrows, and wiped his hand with his 
 pocket-handkerchief. Nothing abashed, Mr. 
 Slope then noticed the precentor, and descended 
 to the grade of the lower clergy. He gave him 
 a squeeze of the hand, damp indeed, but
 
 4 6 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 affectionate, and was very glad to make the 
 acquaintance of Mr. ; oh yes, Mr. Hard- 
 ing ; he had not exactly caught the name 
 " Precentor in the cathedral," surmised Mr. 
 Slope. Mr. Harding confessed that such was 
 the humble sphere of his work. " Some parish 
 duty as well," suggested Mr. Slope. Mr. Harding 
 acknowledged the diminutive incumbency of 
 St. Cuthbert's. Mr. Slope then left him alone, 
 having condescended sufficiently, and joined 
 the conversation among the higher powers. 
 
 There were four persons there, each of whom 
 considered himself the most important personage 
 in the diocese; himself, indeed, or herself, as 
 Mrs. Proudie was one of them ; and with such 
 a difference of opinion it was not probable that 
 they would get on pleasantly together. The 
 bishop himself actually wore the visible apron, 
 and trusted mainly to that to that and his 
 title, both being facts which could not be over- 
 looked. The archdeacon knew his subject, and 
 really understood the business of bishoping, 
 which the others did not; and this was his 
 strong ground. Mrs. Proudie had her sex to 
 back her, and her habit of command, and was 
 nothing daunted by the high tone of Dr. 
 Grantly's face and figure. Mr. Slope had only 
 himself and his own courage and tact to depend 
 on, but he nevertheless was perfectly self- 
 assured, and did not doubt but that he should 
 soon get the better of weak men who trusted so 
 much to externals, as both bishop and arch- 
 deacon appeared to do. 
 
 " Do you reside in Barchester, Dr. Grantly ? " 
 asked the lady with her sweetest smile.
 
 A Morning Visit 47 
 
 Dr. Grantly explained that he lived in his 
 own parish of Plumstead Episcopi, a few miles 
 out of the city. Whereupon the lady hoped 
 that the distance was not too great for country 
 visiting, as she would be so glad to make the 
 acquaintance of Mrs. Grantly. She would take 
 the earliest opportunity, after the arrival of her 
 horses at Barchester; their horses were at 
 present in London; their horses were not 
 immediately coming down, as the bishop would 
 be obliged, in a few days, to return to town. 
 Dr. Grantly was no doubt aware that the bishop 
 was at present much called upon by the " Uni- 
 versity Improvement Committee : " indeed, the 
 Committee could not well proceed without him, 
 as their final report had now to be drawn up. 
 The bishop had also to prepare a scheme for 
 the " Manufacturing Towns Morning and Even- 
 ing Sunday School Society," of which he was a 
 patron, or president, or director, and therefore 
 the horses would not come down to Barchester 
 at present ; but whenever the horses did come 
 down, she would take the earliest opportunity 
 of calling at Plumstead Episcopi, providing the 
 distance was not too great for country visiting. 
 
 The archdeacon made his fifth bow : he had 
 made one at each mention of the horses ; and 
 promised that Mrs. Grantly would do herself 
 the honour of calling at the palace on an early 
 day. Mrs. Proudie declared that she would be 
 delighted : she hadn't liked to ask, not being 
 quite sure whether Mrs. Grantly had horses; 
 besides, the distance might have been, &c. &c. 
 
 Dr. Grantly again bowed, but said nothing. 
 He could have bought every individual possession
 
 48 Barchester Towers 
 
 of the whole family of the Proudies, and 
 have restored them as a gift, without much 
 feeling the loss ; and had kept a separate pair 
 of horses for the exclusive use of his wife since 
 the day of his marriage ; whereas Mrs. Proudie 
 had been hitherto jobbed about the streets of 
 London at so much a month during the season ; 
 and at other times had managed to walk, or 
 hire a smart fly from the livery stables. 
 
 " Are the arrangements with reference to the 
 Sabbath-day schools generally pretty good in 
 your archdeaconry?" asked Mr. Slope. 
 
 " Sabbath-day schools ! " repeated the arch- 
 deacon with an affectation of surprise. " Upon 
 my word, I can't tell ; it depends mainly on the 
 parson's wife and daughters. There is none at 
 Plumstead." 
 
 This was almost a fib on the part of the arch- 
 deacon, for Mrs. Grantly has a very nice school. 
 To be sure it is not a Sunday school exclu- 
 sively, and is not so designated; but that 
 exemplary lady always attends there an hour 
 before church, and hears the children say their 
 catechism, and sees that they are clean and 
 tidy for church, with their hands washed, and 
 their shoes tied; and Grisel and Florinda, her 
 daughters, carry thither a basket of large buns, 
 baked on the Saturday afternoon, and distribute 
 them to all the children not especially under 
 disgrace, which buns are carried home after 
 church with considerable content, and eaten hot 
 at tea, being then split and toasted. The 
 children of Plumstead would indeed open their 
 eyes if they heard their venerated pastor declare 
 that there was no Sunday school in his parish.
 
 A Morning Visit 49 
 
 Mr. Slope merely opened his eyes wider, and 
 slightly shrugged his shoulders. He was not, 
 however, prepared to give up his darling project. 
 
 " I fear there is a great deal of Sabbath 
 travelling here," said he. " On looking at the 
 ' Bradshaw,' I see that there are three trains in 
 and three out every Sabbath. Could nothing 
 be done to induce the company to withdraw 
 them? Don't you think, Dr. Grantly, that a 
 little energy might diminish the evil ? " 
 
 " Not being a director, I really can't say. But 
 if you can withdraw the passengers, the company, 
 I dare say, will withdraw the trains," said the 
 doctor. " It's merely a question of dividends." 
 
 " But surely, Dr. Grantly," said the lady, 
 " surely we should look at it differently. You 
 and I, for instance, in our position : surely we 
 should do all that we can to control so grievous 
 a sin. Don't you think so, Mr. Harding ? " and 
 she turned to the precentor, who was sitting mute 
 and unhappy. 
 
 Mr. Harding thought that all porters and 
 stokers, guards, breaksmen, and pointsmen 
 ought to have an opportunity of going to church, 
 and he hoped that they all had. 
 
 " But surely, surely," continued Mrs. Proudie, 
 " surely that is not enough. Surely that will not 
 secure such an observance of the Sabbath as we 
 are taught to conceive is not only expedient but 
 indispensable ; surely " 
 
 Come what come might, Dr. Grantly was not 
 to be forced into a dissertation on a point of 
 doctrine with Mrs. Proudie, nor yet with Mr. 
 Slope ; so without much ceremony he turned his 
 back upon the sofa, and began to hope that Dr.
 
 50 Barchester Towers 
 
 Proudie had found that the palace repairs had 
 been such as to meet his wishes. 
 
 " Yes, yes," said his lordship ; upon the whole 
 he thought so upon the whole, he didn't know 
 that there was much ground for complaint; 
 
 the architect, perhaps, might have but his 
 
 double, Mr. Slope, who had sidled over to the 
 bishop's chair, would not allow his lordship to 
 finish his ambiguous speech. 
 
 " There is one point I would like to mention, 
 Mr. Archdeacon. His lordship asked me to 
 step through the premises, and I see that the 
 stalls in the second stable are not perfect." 
 
 "Why there's standing there for a dozen 
 horses," said the archdeacon. 
 
 " Perhaps so," said the other ; " indeed, I've 
 no doubt of it; but visitors, you know, often 
 require so much accommodation. There are so 
 many of the bishop's relatives who always bring 
 their own horses." 
 
 Dr. Grantly promised that due provision for 
 the relatives' horses should be made, as far at 
 least as the extent of the original stable building 
 would allow. He would himself communicate 
 with the architect. 
 
 " And the coach-house, Dr. Grantly," con- 
 tinued Mr. Slope ; " there is really hardly room 
 for a second carriage in the large coach-house, 
 and the smaller one, of course, holds only one." 
 
 " And the gas," chimed in the lady ; " there 
 is no gas through the house, none whatever, but 
 in the kitchen and passages. Surely the palace 
 should have been fitted through with pipes for 
 gas, and hot water too. There is no hot water 
 laid on anywhere above the ground-floor ; surely
 
 A Morning Visit 51 
 
 there should be the means of getting hot water 
 in the bed-rooms without having it brought in 
 jugs from the kitchen." 
 
 The bishop had a decided opinion that there 
 should be pipes for hot water. Hot water was. 
 very essential for the comfort of the palace. It 
 was, indeed, a requisite in any decent gentle- 
 man's house. 
 
 Mr. Slope had remarked that the coping on 
 the garden wall was in many places imperfect. 
 
 Mrs. Proudie had discovered a large hole, 
 evidently the work of rats, in the servants' hall. 
 
 The bishop expressed an utter detestation of 
 rats. There was nothing, he believed, in this 
 world, that he so much hated as a rat. 
 
 Mr. Slope had, moreover, observed that the 
 locks of the outhouses were very imperfect : he 
 might specify the coal-cellar, and the wood-house. 
 
 Mrs. Proudie had also seen that those on the 
 doors of the servants' bedrooms, were, in an 
 equally bad condition ; indeed the locks all 
 through the house were old-fashioned and un- 
 serviceable. 
 
 The bishop thought that a great deal depended 
 on a good lock, and quite as much on the key. 
 He had observed that the fault very often lay 
 with the key, especially if the wards were in any 
 way twisted. 
 
 Mr. Slope was going on with his catalogue 
 of grievances, when he was somewhat loudly 
 interrupted by the archdeacon, who succeeded 
 in explaining that the diocesan architect, or 
 rather his foreman, was the person to be 
 addressed on such subjects ; and that he, Dr. 
 Grantly, had inquired as to the comfort of the
 
 52 Barchester Towers 
 
 palace, merely as a point of compliment. He 
 was sorry, however, that so many things had 
 been found amiss : and then he rose from his 
 chair to escape. 
 
 Mrs. Proudie, though she had contrived to 
 lend her assistance in recapitulating the palatial 
 dilapidations, had not on that account given up 
 her hold of Mr. Harding, nor ceased from her 
 cross-examinations as to the iniquity of Sabbati- 
 cal amusements. Over and over again had she 
 thrown out her " Surely, surely," at Mr. Harding's 
 devoted head, and ill had that gentleman been 
 able to parry the attack. 
 
 He had never before found himself subjected 
 to such a nuisance. Ladies hitherto, when they 
 had consulted him on religious subjects, had 
 listened to what he might choose to say with 
 some deference, and had differed, if they differed, 
 in silence. But Mrs. Proudie interrogated him, 
 and then lectured. " Neither thou, nor thy son, 
 nor thy daughter, nor thy man servant, nor thy 
 maid servant," said she, impressively, and more 
 than once, as though Mr. Harding had forgotten 
 the words. She shook her finger at him as she 
 quoted the favourite law, as though menacing 
 him with punishment ; and then called upon 
 him categorically to state whether he did not 
 think that travelling on the Sabbath was an 
 abomination and a desecration. 
 
 Mr. Harding had never been so hard pressed 
 in his life. He felt that he ought to rebuke the 
 lady for presuming so to talk to a gentleman and 
 a clergyman many years her senior ; but he re- 
 coiled from the idea of scolding the bishop's 
 wife, in the bishop's presence, on his first visit
 
 A Morning Visit 53 
 
 to the palace; moreover, to tell the truth, he 
 was somewhat afraid of her. She, seeing him 
 sit silent and absorbed, by no means refrained 
 from the attack. 
 
 " I hope, Mr. Harding," said she, shaking her 
 head slowly and solemnly, " I hope you will not 
 leave me to think that you approve of Sabbath 
 travelling," and she looked a look of unutterable 
 meaning into his eyes. 
 
 There was no standing this, for Mr. Slope was 
 now looking at him, and so was the bishop, and 
 so was the archdeacon, who had completed his 
 adieux on that side of the room. Mr. Harding 
 therefore got up also, and putting out his hand 
 to Mrs. Proudie said : " If you will come to St. 
 Cuthbert's some Sunday, I will preach you a 
 sermon on that subject." 
 
 And so the archdeacon and the precentor 
 took their departure, bowing low to the lady, 
 shaking hands with the lord, and escaping from 
 Mr. Slope in the best manner each could. Mr. 
 Harding was again maltreated ; but Dr. Grantly 
 swore deeply in the bottom of his heart, that no 
 earthly consideration should ever again induce 
 him to touch the paw of that impure and filthy *"* 
 animal. 
 
 And now had I the pen of a mighty poet, 
 would I sing in epic verse the noble wrath of 
 the archdeacon. The palace steps descend to a 
 broad gravel sweep, from whence a small gate 
 opens out into the street, very near the covered 
 gateway leading into the close. The road from 
 the palace door turns to the left, through the 
 spacious gardens, and terminates on the London- 
 road, half a mile from the cathedral.
 
 54 Barchester Towers 
 
 Till they had both passed this small gate and 
 entered the close, neither of them spoke a word ; 
 but the precentor clearly saw from his com- 
 panion's face that a tornado was to be expected, 
 nor was he himself inclined to stop it. Though 
 by nature far less irritable than the archdeacon, 
 even he was angry : he even that mild and 
 courteous man was inclined to express himself 
 in anything but courteous terms. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 11/0 snittijq bfiK ,ozlz qu 303 o* 
 WAR 
 
 " GOOD heavens ! " exclaimed the archdeacon, 
 as he placed his foot on the gravel walk of the 
 close, and raising his hat with one hand, passed 
 the other somewhat violently over his now 
 grizzled locks ; smoke issued forth from the 
 uplifted beaver as it were a cloud of wrath, and 
 the safety-valve of his anger opened, and emitted 
 a visible steam, preventing positive explosion 
 and probable apoplexy. " Good heavens ! " 
 and the archdeacon looked up to the gray 
 pinnacles of the cathedral tower, making a mute 
 appeal to that still living witness which had 
 looked down on the doings of so many bishops 
 of Barchester. 
 
 " I don't think I shall ever like that Mr. 
 Slope," said Mr. Harding. 
 
 " Like him ! " roared the archdeacon, standing 
 still for a moment to give more force to his 
 voice : " like him ! " All the ravens of the close
 
 War 55 
 
 cawed their assent. The old bells of the tower, 
 in chiming the hour, echoed the words ; and the 
 swallows flying out from their nests mutely 
 expressed a similar opinion. Like Mr. Slope ! 
 Why no, it was not very probable that any 
 Barchester-bred living thing should like Mr. 
 Slope ! 
 
 " Nor Mrs. Proudie either," said Mr. Harding. 
 
 The archdeacon hereupon forgot himself. I 
 will not follow his example, nor shock my 
 readers by transcribing the term in which he 
 expressed his feeling as to the lady who had 
 been named. The ravens and the last lingering 
 notes of the clock bells were less scrupulous, 
 and repeated in corresponding echoes the very 
 improper exclamation. The archdeacon again 
 raised his hat, and another salutary escape of 
 steam was effected. 
 
 There was a pause, during which the precentor 
 tried to realise the fact that the wife of a bishop 
 of Barchester had been thus designated, in the 
 close of the cathedral, by the lips of its own 
 archdeacon : but he could not do it. 
 
 " The bishop seems to be a quiet man enough," 
 suggested Mr. Harding, having acknowledged to 
 himself his own failure. 
 
 " Idiot ! " exclaimed the doctor, who for the 
 nonce was not capable of more than such 
 spasmodic attempts at utterance. 
 
 " Well, he did not seem very bright," said Mr. 
 Harding, " and yet he has always had the repu- 
 tation of a clever man. I suppose he's cautious 
 and not inclined to express himself very freely." 
 
 The new bishop of Barchester was already so 
 contemptible a creature in Dr. Grantly's eyes,
 
 56 Barchester Towers 
 
 that he could not condescend to discuss his 
 character. He was a puppet to be played by 
 others ; a mere wax doll, done up in an apron 
 and a shovel hat, to be stuck on a throne or 
 elsewhere, and pulled about by wires as others 
 chose. Dr. Grantly did not choose to let him- 
 self down low enough to talk about Dr. Proudie ; 
 but he saw that he would have to talk about the 
 other members of his household, the coadjutor 
 bishops, who had brought his lordship down, as 
 it were, in a box, and were about to handle the 
 wires as they willed. This in itself was a terrible 
 vexation to the archdeacon. Could he have 
 ignored the chaplain, and have fought the bishop, 
 there would have been, at any rate, nothing 
 degrading in such a contest. Let the Queen 
 make whom she would bishop of Barchester; a 
 man, or even an ape, when once a bishop, would 
 be a respectable adversary, if he would but fight, 
 himself. But what was such a person as Dr. 
 Grantly to do, when such another person as Mr. 
 Slope was put forward as his antagonist ? ;>/. 
 
 If he, our archdeacon, refused the combat, 
 Mr. Slope would walk triumphant over the field, 
 and have the diocese of Barchester under his heel. 
 
 If, on the other hand, the archdeacon accepted 
 as his enemy the man whom the new puppet 
 bishop put before him as such, he would have to 
 talk about Mr. Slope, and write about Mr. 
 Slope, and in all matters treat with Mr. Slope, 
 as a being standing, in some degree, on ground 
 similar to his own. He would have to meet Mr. 
 
 Slope ; to Bah ! the idea was sickening. 
 
 He could not bring himself to have to do with 
 Mr. Slope.
 
 War 57 
 
 " He is the most thoroughly bestial creature 
 that ever I set my eyes upon," said the arch- 
 deacon. 
 
 "Who the bishop?" asked the other, 
 innocently. 
 
 " Bishop ! no I'm not talking about the 
 bishop. How on earth such a creature got 
 ordained ! they'll ordain anybody now, I know ; 
 but he's been in the church these ten years ; and 
 they used to be a little careful ten years ago." 
 
 " Oh ! you mean Mr. Slope." 
 
 " Did you ever see any animal less like a 
 gentleman ? " asked Dr. Grantly. 
 
 " I can't say I felt myself much disposed to 
 like him." 
 
 " Like him ! " again shouted the doctor, and 
 the assenting ravens again cawed an echo ; " of 
 course, you don't like him : it's not a question 
 of liking. But what are we to do with him ? " 
 
 " Do with him ? " asked Mr. Harding. 
 
 " Yes what are we to do with him ? How 
 are we to treat him ? There he is, and there 
 he'll stay. He has put his foot in that palace, 
 and he will never take it out again till he's 
 driven. How are we to get rid of him ? " 
 
 " I don't suppose he can do us much harm." 
 
 " Not do harm ! Well, I think you'll find 
 yourself of a different opinion before a month is 
 gone. What would you say now, if he got him- 
 self put into the hospital? Would that be 
 harm ? " 
 
 Mr. Harding mused awhile, and then said he 
 didn't think the new bishop would put Mr. Slope 
 into the hospital. 
 
 " If he doesn't put him there, he'll put him
 
 58 Barchester Towers 
 
 somewhere else where he'll be as bad. I tell 
 you that that man, to all intents and purposes, 
 will be Bishop of Barchester;" and again Dr. 
 Grantly raised his hat, and rubbed his hand 
 thoughtfully and sadly over his head. 
 
 " Impudent scoundrel ! " he continued after a 
 while. " To dare to cross-examine me about 
 the Sunday schools in the diocese, and Sunday 
 travelling too : I never in my life met his equal 
 for sheer impudence. Why, he must have 
 thought we were two candidates for ordination ! " 
 
 " I declare I thought Mrs. Proudie was the 
 worst of the two," said Mr. Harding. 
 
 " When a woman is impertinent, one must 
 only put up with it, and keep out of her way 
 in future ; but I am not inclined to put up with 
 Mr. Slope. ' Sabbath travelling ! ' " and the 
 doctor attempted to imitate the peculiar drawl 
 of the man he so much disliked : " ' Sabbath 
 travelling ! ' Those are the sort of men who 
 will ruin the Church of England, and make the 
 profession of a clergyman disreputable. It is 
 not the dissenters or the papists that we should 
 fear, but the set of canting, low-bred hypocrites 
 who are wriggling their way in among us ; men 
 /who have no fixed principle, no standard ideas 
 )of religion or doctrine, but who take up some 
 popular cry, as this fellow has done about 
 '-' Sabbath travelling.'" 
 
 Dr. Grantly did not again repeat the question 
 aloud, but he did so constantly to himself, 
 "What were they to do with Mr. Slope?" 
 How was he openly, before the world, to show 
 that he utterly disapproved of and abhorred 
 such a man ?
 
 War 59 
 
 Hitherto Barchester had escaped the taint of 
 any extreme rigour of church doctrine. The 
 clergymen of the city and neighbourhood, 
 though very well inclined to promote high- 
 church principles, privileges, and prerogatives, 
 had never committed themselves to tendencies, 
 which are somewhat too loosely called Puseyite 
 practices. They all preached in their black 
 gowns, as their fathers had done before them ; 
 they wore ordinary black cloth waistcoats ; they 
 had no candles on their altars, either lighted or 
 unlighted ; they made no private genuflexions, 
 and were contented to confine themselves to 
 such ceremonial observances as had been in 
 vogue for the last hundred years. The services 
 were decently and demurely read in their parish 
 churches, chanting was confined to the cathedral, 
 and the science of intoning was unknown. One 
 young man who had come direct from .Oxford 
 as a curate to Plumstead had, after the lapse of 
 two or three Sundays, made a faint attempt, 
 much to the bewilderment of the poorer part 
 of the congregation. Dr. Grantly had not been 
 present on the occasion ; but Mrs. Grantly, who 
 had her own opinion on the subject, immediately 
 after the service expressed a hope that the 
 young gentleman had not been taken ill, and 
 offered to send him all kinds of condiments 
 supposed to be good for a sore throat. After 
 that there had been no more intoning at 
 Plumstead Episcopi. 
 
 But now the archdeacon began to meditate 
 on some strong measures of absolute opposition. 
 Dr. Proudie and his crew were of the lowest 
 possible order of Church of England clergymen,
 
 60 Barchester Towers 
 
 and therefore it behoved him, Dr. Grantly, to 
 be of the very highest. Dr. Proudie would 
 abolish all forms and ceremonies, and therefore 
 Dr. Grantly felt the sudden necessity of multi- 
 plying them. Dr. Proudie would consent to 
 deprive the church of all collective authority 
 and rule, and therefore Dr. Grantly would stand 
 up for the full power of convocation, and the 
 renewal of all its ancient privileges. 
 
 It was true that he could not himself intone 
 the service, but he could procure the co-opera- 
 tion of any number of gentleman-like curates 
 well trained in the mystery of doing so. He 
 would not willingly alter his own fashion of 
 dress, but he could people Barchester with 
 young clergymen dressed in the longest frocks, 
 and in the highest-breasted silk waistcoats. He 
 certainly was not prepared to cross himself, or 
 to advocate the real presence ; but, without 
 going this length, there were various observ- 
 ances, by adopting which he could plainly show 
 his antipathy to such men as Dr. Proudie and 
 Mr. Slope. 
 
 All these things passed through his mind as 
 he paced up and down the close with Mr. 
 Harding. War, war, internecine war was in 
 his heart He felt that, as regarded himself 
 and Mr. Slope, one of the two must be anni- 
 hilated as far as the city of Barchester was 
 concerned ; and he did not intend to give 
 way until there was not left to him an inch of 
 ground on which he could stand. He still 
 flattered himself that he could make Barchester 
 too hot to hold Mr. Slope, and he had no 
 weakness of spirit to prevent his bringing
 
 War 6l 
 
 about such a consummation if it were in his 
 power. 
 
 " I suppose Susan must call at the palace," 1 
 said Mr. Harding. 
 
 "Yes, she shall call there; but it shall be 
 once and once only. I dare say ' the horses ' 
 won't find it convenient to come out to Plum- 
 stead very soon, and when that once is done 
 the matter may drop." 
 
 " I don't suppose Eleanor need call. I don't 
 think Eleanor would get on at all well with 
 Mrs. Proudie." 
 
 " Not the least necessity in life," replied the 
 archdeacon, not without the reflection that a 
 ceremony which was necessary for his wife, 
 might not be at all binding on the widow of 
 John Bold. " Not the slightest reason on earth 
 why she should do so, if she doesn't like it. 
 For myself, I don't think that any decent young 
 woman should be subjected to the nuisance of 
 being in the same room with that man." 
 
 And so the two clergymen part&d, Mr. Harding 
 going to his daughter's house, and the arch- 
 deacon seeking the seclusion of his brougham. 
 
 The new inhabitants of the palace 'did not 
 express any higher opinion of their visitors than 
 their visitors had expressed of them. Though 
 they did not use quite such strong language as 
 Dr. Grantly had done, they felt as much personal 
 aversion, and were quite as well aware as he 
 was that there would be a battle to be fought, 
 and that there was hardly room for Proudieism 
 in Barchester as long as Grantlyism was pre- 
 dominant. 
 
 Indeed, it may be doubted whether Mr. Slope
 
 62 Barchester Towers 
 
 had not already within his breast a better pre- 
 pared system of strategy, a more accurately- 
 defined line of hostile conduct than the arch- 
 deacon. Dr. Grantly was going to fight because 
 he found that he hated the man. Mr. Slope had 
 predetermined to hate the man, because he fore- 
 saw the necessity of fighting him. When he had 
 first reviewed the carte du pays, previous to his 
 entry into Barchester, the idea had occurred to 
 him of conciliating the archdeacon, of cajoling 
 and flattering him into submission, and of obtain- 
 ing the upper hand by cunning instead of courage. 
 A little inquiry, however, sufficed to convince 
 him that all his cunning would fail to win over 
 such a man as Dr. Grantly to such a mode of 
 action as that to be adopted by Mr. Slope ; and 
 then he determined to fall back upon his courage. 
 He at once saw that open battle against Dr. 
 Grantly and all Dr. Grantly's adherents was a 
 necessity of his position, and he deliberately 
 planned the most expedient methods of giving 
 offence. 
 
 Soon after his arrival the bishop had intimated 
 to the dean, that with the permission of the 
 canon then in residence, his chaplain would 
 preach in the cathedral on the next Sunday. 
 The canon in residence happened to be the 
 Hon. and Rev. Dr. Vesey Stanhope, who at this 
 time was very busy on the shores of the Lake of 
 Como, adding to that unique collection of 
 butterflies for which he is so famous. Or, 
 rather, he would have been in residence but for 
 the butterflies and other such summer-day con- 
 siderations ; and the vicar-choral, who was to 
 .take his place in the pulpit, by no means
 
 63 
 
 objected to having his work done for him by 
 Mr. Slope. 
 
 Mr. Slope accordingly preached, and if a 
 preacher can have satisfaction in being listened 
 to, Mr. Slope ought to have been gratified. I 
 have reason to think that he was gratified, and 
 that he left the pulpit with the conviction that he 
 had done what he intended to do when he 
 entered it. 
 
 On this occasion the new bishop took his seat 
 for the first time in the throne allotted to 
 him. New scarlet cushions and drapery had 
 been prepared, with new gilt binding and new 
 fringe. The old carved oak-wood of the throne, 
 ascending with its numerous grotesque pinnacles 
 half-way up to the roof of the choir, had been 
 washed, and dusted, and rubbed, and it all 
 looked very smart. Ah ! how often sitting 
 there, in happy early days, on those lowly 
 benches in front of the altar, have I whiled away 
 the tedium of a sermon in considering how best 
 I might thread my way up amidst those wooden 
 towers, and climb safely to the topmost pinnacle ! 
 
 All Barchester went to hear Mr. Slope ; either 
 for that or to gaze at the new bishop. All the 
 best bonnets of the city were there, and moreover 
 all the best glossy clerical hats. Not a stall but 
 had its fitting occupant ; for though some of the 
 prebendaries might be away in Italy or else- 
 where, their places were filled by brethren, who 
 flocked into Barchester on the occasion. The 
 dean was there, a heavy old man, now too old, 
 indeed, to attend frequently in his place ; and 
 so was the archdeacon. So also were the chan- 
 cellor, the treasurer, the precentor, sundry canons
 
 64 Barchester Towers 
 
 and minor canons, and every lay member of the 
 choir, prepared to sing the new bishop in with 
 due melody and harmonious expression of sacred 
 welcome. 
 
 The service was certainly very well performed. 
 Such was always the case at Barchester, as the 
 musical education of the choir had been good, 
 and the voices had been carefully selected. 
 The psalms were beautifully chanted ; the Te 
 Deum was magnificently sung; and the litany 
 was given in a manner, which is still to be found 
 at Barchester, but, if my taste be correct, is to 
 be found nowhere else. The litany in Bar- 
 Chester cathedral has long been the special task 
 to which Mr. Harding's skill and voice have 
 been devoted. Crowded audiences generally 
 make good performers, and though Mr. Harding 
 was not aware of any extraordinary exertion on 
 his part, yet probably he rather exceeded his 
 usual mark. Others were doing their best, and 
 it was natural that he should emulate his 
 brethren. So the service went on, and at last 
 Mr. Slope got into the pulpit. 
 
 He chose for his text a verse from the pre- 
 cepts addressed by St. Paul to Timothy, as to 
 the conduct necessary in a spiritual pastor and 
 guide, and it was immediately evident that the 
 good clergy of Barchester were to have a 
 lesson. 
 
 " Study to show thyself approved unto God, a 
 workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly 
 dividing the word of truth." These were the 
 words of his text, and with such a subject in 
 such a place, it may be supposed that such a 
 preacher would be listened to by such an
 
 War 65 
 
 audience. He was listened to with breathless 
 attention, and not without considerable surprise. 
 Whatever opinion of Mr. Slope might have been 
 held in Barchester before he commenced his 
 discourse, none of his hearers, when it was over, 
 could mistake him either for a fool or a coward. 
 
 It would not be becoming were I to travestie 
 a sermon, or even to repeat the language of it in 
 the pages of a novel. In endeavouring to depict 
 the characters of the persons of whom I write, 
 I am to a certain extent forced to speak of 
 sacred things. I trust, however, that I shall not 
 be thought to scoff at the pulpit, though some 
 may imagine that I do not feel all the reverence 
 that is due to the cloth. I may question the 
 infallibility of the teachers, but I hope that I 
 shall not therefore be accused of doubt as to the 
 thing to be taught. 
 
 Mr. Slope, in commencing his sermon, showed 
 no slight tact in his ambiguous manner of hinting 
 that, humble as he was himself, he stood there as 
 the mouthpiece of the illustrious divine who sat 
 opposite to him ; and having premised so much, 
 he gave forth a very accurate definition of the 
 conduct which that prelate would rejoice to see 
 in the clergymen now brought under his juris- 
 diction. It is only necessary to say, that the 
 peculiar points insisted upon were exactly those 
 which were most distasteful to the clergy of the 
 diocese, and most averse to their practice and 
 opinions ; and that all those peculiar habits and 
 privileges which have always been dear to high- 
 church priests, to that party which is now 
 scandalously called the high-and-dry church, 
 were ridiculed, abused, and anathematised. 
 
 D
 
 66 Barchester Towers 
 
 Now, the clergymen of the diocese of Barchester 
 are all of the high-and-dry church. 
 
 Having thus, according to his own opinion, 
 explained how a clergyman should show himself 
 approved unto God, as a workman that needeth 
 not to be ashamed, he went on to explain how 
 the word of truth should be divided ; and here 
 he took a rather narrow view of the question, 
 and fetched his arguments from afar. His 
 object was to express his abomination of all 
 ceremonious modes of utterance, to cry down 
 any religious feeling which might be excited, not 
 by the sense, but by the sound of words, and in 
 fact to insult cathedral practices. Had St. Paul 
 spoken of rightly pronouncing instead of rightly 
 dividing the word of truth, this part of his sermon 
 would have been more to the purpose ; but the 
 preacher's immediate object was to preach Mr. 
 Slope's doctrine, and not St. Paul's, and he 
 contrived to give the necessary twist to the text 
 with some skill. 
 
 He could not exactly say, preaching from a 
 cathedral pulpit, that chanting should be aban- 
 doned in cathedral services. By such an assertion, 
 he would have overshot his mark and rendered 
 himself absurd, to the delight of his hearers. 
 He could, however, and did, allude with heavy 
 denunciations to the practice of intoning in 
 parish churches, although the practice was all 
 but unknown in the diocese; and from thence 
 he came round to the undue preponderance, 
 which he asserted, music had over meaning in 
 the beautiful service which they had just heard. 
 He was aware, he said, that the practices of our 
 ancestors could not be abandoned at a moment's
 
 War 67 
 
 notice ; the feelings of the aged would be out- 
 raged, and the minds of respectable men would 
 be shocked. There were many, he was aware, 
 of not sufficient calibre of thought to perceive, of 
 not sufficient education to know, that a mode 
 of service, which was effective when outward 
 ceremonies were of more moment than inward 
 feelings, had become all but barbarous at a time 
 when inward conviction was everything, when 
 each word of the minister's lips should fall 
 intelligibly into the listener's heart. Formerly 
 the religion of the multitude had been an affair 
 of the imagination : now, in these latter days, it 
 had become necessary that a Christian should 
 have a reason for his faith should not only 
 believe, but digest not only hear, but under- 
 stand. The words of our morning service, how 
 beautiful, how apposite, how intelligible they 
 were, when read with simple and distinct 
 decorum ! but how much of the meaning of the 
 words was lost when they were produced with all 
 the meretricious charms of melody ! &c. &c. 
 
 Here was a sermon to be preached before Mr. 
 Archdeacon Grantly, Mr. Precentor Harding, 
 and the rest of them ! before a whole dean and 
 chapter assembled in their own cathedral ! before 
 men who had grown old in the exercise of their 
 peculiar services, with a full conviction of their 
 excellence for all intended purposes ! This too 
 from such a man, a clerical parvenu, a man with- 
 out a cure, a mere chaplain, an intruder among 
 them ; a fellow raked up, so said Dr. Grantly, 
 from the gutters of Marylebone ! They had to 
 sit through it ! None of them, not even Dr. 
 Grantly, could close his ears, nor leave the house
 
 68 Barchester Towers 
 
 of God during the hours of service. They were 
 under an obligation of listening, and that, too, 
 without any immediate power of reply. 
 
 There is, perhaps, no greater hardship at 
 present inflicted on mankind in civilised and 
 tree countries, than the necessity of listening to 
 sermons. No one but a preaching clergyman 
 has, in these realms, the power of compelling 
 an audience to sit silent, and be tormented. 
 No one but a preaching clergyman can revel 
 in platitudes, truisms, and untruisms, and yet 
 receive, as his undisputed privilege, the same 
 respectful demeanour as though words of im- 
 passioned eloquence, or persuasive logic, fell 
 from his lips. Let a professor of law or physic 
 find his place in a lecture-room, and there pour 
 forth jejune words and useless empty phrases, 
 and he will pour them forth to empty benches. 
 Let a barrister attempt to talk without talking 
 well, and he will talk but seldom. A judge's 
 charge need be listened to per force by none 
 but the jury, prisoner, and gaoler. A member 
 of Parliament can be coughed down or counted 
 out. Town-councillors can be tabooed. But 
 no one can rid himself of the preaching clergy- 
 man. He is the bore of the age, the old man 
 whom we Sindbads cannot shake off, the night- 
 mare that disturbs our Sunday's rest, the incubus 
 that overloads our religion and makes God's 
 service distasteful. We are not forced into 
 church ! No : but we desire more than that. 
 We desire not to be forced to stay away. We 
 desire, nay, we are resolute, to enjoy the comfort 
 of public worship; but we desire also that we 
 may do so without an amount of tedium which
 
 War 69 
 
 ordinary human nature cannot endure with 
 patience; that we may be able to leave the 
 house of God, without that anxious longing for 
 escape, which is the common consequence of 
 common sermons. 
 
 With what complacency will a young parson 
 deduce false conclusions from misunderstood 
 texts, and then threaten us with all the penalties 
 of Hades if we neglect to comply with the 
 injunctions he has given us ! Yes, my too self- 
 confident juvenile friend, I do believe in those 
 mysteries, which are so common in your mouth ; 
 I do believe in the unadulterated word which 
 you hold there in your hand; but you must 
 pardon me if, in some things, I doubt your 
 interpretation. The bible is good, the prayer- 
 book is good, nay, you yourself would be accept- 
 able, if you would read to me some portion of 
 those time-honoured discourses which our great 
 divines have elaborated in the full maturity of 
 their powers. But you must excuse me, my 
 insufficient young lecturer, if I yawn over your 
 imperfect sentences, your repeated phrases, your 
 false pathos, your drawlings and denouncings, 
 your humming and hawing, your oh-ing and ah- 
 ing, your black gloves and your white handker- 
 chief. To me, it all means nothing ; and hours 
 
 are too precious to be so wasted if one 
 
 could only avoid it. 
 
 And here I must make a protest against the 
 pretence, so often put forward by the working 
 clergy, that they are overburdened by the multi- 
 tude of sermons to be preached. We are all 
 too fond of our own voices, and a preacher is 
 encouraged in the vanity of making his heard
 
 70 Barchester Towers 
 
 by the privilege of a compelled audience. His 
 sermon is the pleasant morsel of his life, his 
 delicious moment of self-exaltation. " I have 
 preached nine sermons this week," said a young 
 friend to me the other day, with hand languidly 
 raised to his brow, the picture of an over- 
 burdened martyr. " Nine this week, seven last 
 week, four the week before. I have preached 
 twenty-three sermons this month. It is really 
 too much." "Too much, indeed," said I, 
 shuddering ; " too much for the strength of any 
 one." " Yes," he answered meekly, " indeed it 
 is ; I am beginning to feel it painfully." 
 "Would," said I, "you could feel it would 
 that you could be made to feel it." But he 
 never guessed that my heart was wrung for the 
 poor listeners. 
 
 There was, at any rate, no tedium felt in 
 listening to Mr. Slope on the occasion in 
 question. His subject came too home to his 
 audience to be dull ; and, to tell the truth, Mr. 
 Slope had the gift of using words forcibly. He 
 was heard through his thirty minutes of elo- 
 quence with mute attention and open ears ; but 
 with angry eyes, which glared round from one 
 enraged parson to another, with wide-spread 
 nostrils from which already burst forth fumes of 
 indignation, and with many shufflings of the 
 feet and uneasy motions of the body, which 
 betokened minds disturbed, and hearts not at 
 peace with all the world. 
 
 At last the bishop, who, of all the congrega- 
 tion, had been most surprised, and whose hair 
 almost stood on end with terror, gave the bless- 
 ing in a manner not at all equal to that in
 
 Dean and Chapter take Counsel 7 1 
 
 which he had long been practising it in his own 
 study, and the congregation was free to go their 
 way. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE DEAN AND CHAPTER TAKE COUNSEL 
 
 ALL Barchester was in a tumult. Dr. Grantly 
 could hardly get himself out of the cathedral 
 porch before he exploded in his wrath. The 
 old dean betook himself silently to his deanery, 
 afraid to speak; and there sat, half stupefied, 
 pondering many things in vain. Mr. Harding 
 crept forth solitary and unhappy; and, slowly 
 passing beneath the elms of the close, could 
 scarcely bring himself to believe that the words 
 which he had heard had proceeded from the pulpit 
 of Barchester cathedral. Was he again to be 
 disturbed? was his whole life to be shown up 
 as a useless sham a second time? would he 
 have to abdicate his precentorship, as he had 
 his wardenship, and to give up chanting, as he 
 had given up his twelve old bedesmen? And 
 what if he did ! Some other Jupiter, some 
 other Mr. Slope, would come and turn him out 
 of St. Cuthbert's. Surely he could not have 
 been wrong all his life in chanting the litany as 
 he had done ! He began, however, to have 
 his doubts. Doubting himself was Mr. Hard- 
 ing's weakness. It is not, however, the usual 
 fault of his order. 
 Yes ! all Barchester was in a tumult. It was
 
 72 Barchester Towers 
 
 not only the clergy who were affected. The 
 laity also had listened to Mr. Slope's new 
 doctrine, all with surprise, some with indigna- 
 tion, and some with a mixed feeling, in which 
 dislike of the preacher was not so strongly 
 blended. The old bishop and his chaplains, 
 the dean and his canons and minor canons, the 
 old choir, and especially Mr. Harding who was 
 at the head of it, had all been popular in Bar- 
 Chester. They had spent their money and done 
 good ; the poor had not been ground down ; 
 the clergy in society had neither been overbear- 
 ing nor austere ; and the whole repute of the 
 city was due to its ecclesiastical importance. 
 Yet there were those who had heard Mr. Slope 
 with satisfaction. 
 
 It is so pleasant to receive a fillip of excite- 
 ment when suffering from the dull routine of 
 every-day life ! The anthems and Te Deums 
 were in themselves delightful, but they had been 
 heard so often ! Mr. Slope was certainly not 
 delightful, but he was new, and, moreover, 
 clever. They had long thought it slow, so said 
 now many of the Barchesterians, to go on as 
 they had done in their old humdrum way, 
 giving ear to none of the religious changes 
 which were moving the world without. 
 People in advance of the age now had new 
 ideas, and it was quite time that Barchester 
 should go in advance. Mr. Slope might be 
 right. Sunday certainly had not been strictly 
 kept in Barchester, except as regarded the 
 cathedral services. Indeed the two hours 
 between services had long been appropriated 
 to morning calls and hot luncheons. Then
 
 Dean and Chapter take Counsel 73 
 
 Sunday schools ! really more ought to have 
 been done as to Sunday schools; Sabbath-day 
 schools Mr. Slope had called them. The late 
 bishop had really not thought of Sunday schools 
 as he should have done. (These people proba- 
 bly did not reflect that catechisms and collects 
 are quite as hard work to the young mind as 
 book-keeping is to the elderly ; and that quite 
 as little feeling of worship enters into the one 
 task as the other.) And then, as regarded that 
 great question of musical services, there might 
 be much to be said on Mr. Slope's side of the 
 question. It certainly was the fact, that people 
 went to the cathedral to hear the music, &c. &c. 
 
 And so a party absolutely formed itself in 
 Barchester on Mr. Slope's side of the question ! 
 This consisted, among the upper classes, chiefly 
 of ladies. No man that is, no gentleman 
 could possibly be attracted by Mr. Slope, or 
 consent to sit at the feet of so abhorrent a 
 Gamaliel. Ladies are sometimes less nice in 
 their appreciation of physical disqualification ; 
 and, provided that a man speak to them well, 
 they will listen, though he speak from a mouth 
 never so deformed and hideous. Wilkes was 
 most fortunate as a lover ; and the damp, sandy- 
 haired, saucer-eyed, red-fisted, Mr. Slope was 
 powerful only over the female breast. 
 
 There were, however, one or two of the 
 neighbouring clergy who thought it not quite 
 safe to neglect the baskets in which for the 
 nonce were stored the loaves and fishes of the 
 diocese of Barchester. They, and they only, 
 came to call on Mr. Slope after his performance 
 in the cathedral pulpit. Among these Mr.
 
 74 Barchester Towers 
 
 Quiverful, the rector of Puddingdale, whose 
 wife still continued to present him from year to 
 year with fresh pledges of her love, and so to 
 increase his cares and, it is to be hoped, his 
 happiness equally. Who can wonder that a 
 gentleman, with fourteen living children and a 
 bare income of 4oo/. a year, should look after 
 the loaves and fishes, even when they are under 
 the thumb of a Mr. Slope ? 
 
 Very soon after the Sunday on which the 
 sermon was preached, the leading clergy of the 
 neighbourhood held high debate together as to 
 how Mr. Slope should be put down. In the 
 first place he should never again preach from 
 the pulpit of Barchester cathedral. This was 
 Dr. Grantly's earliest dictum; and they all 
 agreed, providing only that they had the power 
 to exclude him. Dr. Grantly declared that the 
 power rested with the dean and chapter, observ- 
 ing that no clergyman out of the chapter had a 
 claim to preach there, saving only the bishop 
 himself. To this the dean assented, but alleged 
 that contests on such a subject would be un- 
 seemly ; to which rejoined a meagre little doctor, 
 one of the cathedral prebendaries, that the 
 contest must be all on the side of Mr. Slope if 
 every prebendary were always there ready to 
 take his own place in the pulpit. Cunning 
 little meagre doctor, whom it suits well to live 
 in his own cosy house within Barchester close, 
 and who is well content to have his little fling at 
 Dr. Vesey Stanhope and other absentees, whose 
 Italian villas, or enticing London homes, are more 
 tempting than cathedral stalls and residences ! 
 
 To this answered the burly chancellor, a man
 
 Dean and Chapter take Counsel 75 
 
 rather silent indeed, but very sensible, that 
 absent prebendaries had their vicars, and that 
 in such case the vicar's right to the pulpit was 
 the same as that of the higher order. To which 
 the dean assented, groaning deeply at these 
 truths. Thereupon, however, the meagre doctor 
 remarked that they would be in the hands of 
 their minor canons, one of whom might at any 
 hour betray his trust. Whereon was heard from 
 the burly chancellor an ejaculation sounding 
 somewhat like " Pooh, pooh, pooh ! " but it 
 might be that the worthy man was but blowing 
 out the heavy breath from his windpipe. Why 
 silence him at all ? suggested Mr. Harding. Let 
 them not be ashamed to hear what any man 
 might have to preach to them, unless he preached 
 false doctrine ; in which case, let the bishop 
 silence him. So spoke our friend; vainly; for 
 human ends must be attained by human means. 
 But the dean saw a ray of hope out of those 
 purblind old eyes of his. Yes, let them tell the 
 bishop how distasteful to them was this Mr. 
 Slope : a new bishop just come to his seat could 
 not wish to insult his clergy while the gloss was 
 yet fresh on his first apron. 
 
 Then up rose Dr. Grantly ; and, having thus 
 collected the scattered wisdom of his associates, 
 spoke forth with words of deep authority. When 
 I say up rose the archdeacon, I speak of the 
 inner man, which then sprang up to more imme- 
 diate action, for the doctor had, bodily, been 
 standing all along with his back to the dean's 
 empty fire-grate, and the tails of his frock coat 
 supported over his two arms. His hands were 
 in his breeches pockets.
 
 76 Barchester Towers 
 
 " It is quite clear that this man must not be 
 allowed to preach again in this cathedral. We 
 all see that, except our dear friend here, the milk 
 of whose nature runs so softly, that he would not 
 have the heart to refuse the Pope the loan of 
 his pulpit, if the Pope would come and ask it. 
 We must not, however, allow the man to preach 
 again here. It is not because his opinion on 
 church matters may be different from ours with 
 that one would not quarrel. It is because he 
 has purposely insulted us. When he went up 
 into the pulpit last Sunday, his studied object 
 was to give offence to men who had grown old 
 in reverence of those things of which he dared 
 to speak so slightingly. What ! to come here a 
 stranger, a young, unknown, and unfriended 
 stranger, and tell us, in the name of the bishop 
 his master, that we are ignorant of our duties, 
 old-fashioned, and useless ! I don't know 
 whether most to admire his courage or his 
 impudence ! And one thing I will tell you : that 
 sermon originated solely with the man himself. 
 The bishop was no more a party to it than was 
 the dean here. You all know how grieved I am 
 to see a bishop in this diocese holding the 
 latitudinarian ideas by which Dr. Proudie has 
 made himself conspicuous. You all know how 
 greatly I should distrust the opinion of such a 
 man. But in this matter I hold him to be 
 blameless. I believe Dr. Proudie has lived too 
 long among gentlemen to be guilty, or to 
 instigate another to be guilty, of so gross an 
 outrage. No ! that man uttered what was untrue 
 when he hinted that he was speaking as the 
 mouthpiece of the bishop. It suited his ambitious
 
 Dean and Chapter take Counsel 77 
 
 views at once to throw down the gauntlet to us 
 at once to defy us here in the quiet of our 
 own religious duties here within the walls of 
 our own loved cathedral here where we have 
 for so many years exercised our ministry witb- 
 out schism and with good repute. Such an 
 attack upon us, coming from such a quarter, is 
 abominable." 
 
 " Abominable," groaned the dean. " Abomin- 
 able," muttered the meagre doctor. " Abomin- 
 able," re-echoed the chancellor, uttering the 
 sound from the bottom of his deep chest. " I 
 really think it was," said Mr. Harding. 
 
 " Most abominable and most unjustifiable," 
 continued the archdeacon. " But, Mr. Dean, 
 thank God, that pulpit is still our own : your 
 own, I should say. That pulpit belongs solely 
 to the dean and chapter of Barchester Cathedral, 
 and, as yet, Mr. Slope is no part of that chapter. 
 You, Mr. Dean, have suggested that we should 
 appeal to the bishop to abstain from forcing this 
 man on us ; but what if the bishop allow himself 
 to be ruled by his chaplain ? In my opinion, 
 the matter is in our own hands. Mr. Slope 
 cannot preach there without permission asked 
 and obtained, and let that permission be invari- 
 ably refused. Let all participation in the 
 ministry of the cathedral service be refused to 
 him. Then, if the bishop choose to interfere, 
 we shall know what answer to make to the 
 bishop. My friend here has suggested that this 
 man may again find his way into the pulpit by 
 undertaking the duty of some of your minor 
 canons ; but I am sure that we may fully trust 
 to these gentlemen to support us, when it is
 
 78 Barchester Towers 
 
 known that the dean objects to any such 
 transfer." 
 
 " Of course you may," said the chancellor. 
 
 There was much more discussion among the 
 learned conclave, all of which, of course, ended 
 in obedience to the archdeacon's commands. 
 They had too long been accustomed to his rule 
 to shake it off so soon ; and in this particular 
 case they had none of them a wish to abet the 
 man whom he was so anxious to put down. 
 
 Such a meeting as that we have just recorded 
 is not held in such a city as Barchester unknown 
 and untold of. Not only was the fact of the 
 meeting talked of in every respectable house, 
 including the palace, but the very speeches of 
 the dean, the archdeacon, and chancellor were 
 repeated; not without many additions and 
 imaginary circumstances, according to the tastes 
 and opinions of the relaters. 
 
 All, however, agreed in saying that Mr. Slope 
 was to be debarred from opening his mouth in 
 the cathedral of Barchester ; many believed that 
 the vergers were to be ordered to refuse him 
 even the accommodation of a seat ; and some 
 of the most far-going advocates for strong 
 measures, declared that his sermon was looked 
 upon as an indictable offence, and that pro- 
 ceedings were to be taken against him for 
 brawling. 
 
 The party who were inclined to defend him 
 the enthusiastically religious young ladies, and 
 the middle-aged spinsters desirous of a move 
 of course took up his defence the more warmly 
 on account of this attack. If they could not 
 hear Mr. Slope in the cathedral, they would
 
 Dean and Chapter take Counsel 79 
 
 hear him elsewhere ; they would leave the dull 
 dean, the dull old prebendaries, and the scarcely 
 less dull young minor canons, to preach to each 
 other ; they would work slippers and cushions, 
 and hem bands for Mr. Slope, make him a 
 happy martyr, and stick him up in some new 
 Sion or Bethesda, and put the cathedral quite 
 out of fashion. 
 
 Dr. and Mrs. Proudie at once returned to 
 London. They thought it expedient not to 
 have to encounter any personal application 
 from the dean and chapter respecting the 
 sermon, till the violence of the storm had 
 expended itself; but they left Mr. Slope behind 
 them nothing daunted, and he went about his 
 work zealously, flattering such as would listen 
 to his flattery, whispering religious twaddle into 
 the ears of foolish women, ingratiating himself 
 with the few clergy who would receive him, 
 visiting the houses of the poor, inquiring into 
 all people, prying into everything, and searching 
 with his minutest eye into all palatial dilapida- 
 tions. He did not, however, make any imme- 
 diate attempt to preach again in the cathedral. 
 
 And so all Barchester was by the ears.
 
 8o Barchester Towers 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE EX-WARDEN REJOICES IN HIS PROBABLE 
 RETURN TO THE HOSPITAL 
 
 AMONG the ladies in Barchester who have 
 hitherto acknowledged Mr. Slope as their 
 spiritual director, must not be reckoned either 
 the widow Bold, or her sister-in-law. On the 
 first outbreak of the wrath of the denizens of 
 the close, none had been more animated against 
 the intruder than these two ladies. And this 
 was natural. Who could be so proud of the 
 musical distinction of their own cathedral as 
 the favourite daughter of the precentor ? Who 
 would be so likely to resent an insult offered 
 to the old choir? And in such matters Miss 
 Bold and her sister-in-law had but one opinion. 
 This wrath, however, has in some degree 
 been mitigated, and I regret to say that these 
 ladies allowed Mr. Slope to be his own apolo- 
 gist. About a fortnight after the sermon had 
 been preached, they were both of them not a 
 little surprised by hearing Mr. Slope announced, 
 as the page in buttons opened Mrs. Bold's 
 drawing-room door. Indeed, what living man 
 could, by a mere morning visit, have surprised 
 them more ? Here was the great enemy of all 
 that was good in Barchester coming into their 
 own drawing-room, and they had no strong 
 arm, no ready tongue, near at hand for their 
 protection. The widow snatched her baby out 
 of its cradle into her lap, and Mary Bold stood
 
 The Ex-warden rejoices 81 
 
 up ready to die manfully in that baby's behalf, 
 should, under any circumstances, such a sacrifice 
 become necessary. 
 
 In this manner was Mr. Slope received. But 
 vhen he left, he was allowed by each lady to 
 take her hand, and to make his adieux as 
 gentlemen do who have been graciously enter- 
 tained ! Yes ; he shook hands with them, and 
 was curtseyed out courteously, the buttoned 
 page opening the door, as he would have done 
 for the best canon of them all. He had touched 
 the baby's little hand and blessed him with a 
 fervid blessing ; he had spoken to the widow of 
 her early sorrows, and Eleanor's silent tears had 
 not rebuked him ; he had told Mary Bold that 
 her devotion would be rewarded, and Mary 
 Bold had heard the praise without disgust. 
 And how had he done all this? how had he 
 so quickly turned aversion into, at any rate, 
 acquaintance ? how had he overcome the 
 enmity with which these ladies had been ready 
 to receive him, and made his peace with them 
 so easily ? 
 
 My readers will guess from what I have 
 written that I myself do not like Mr. Slope; 
 but I am constrained to admit that he is a man 
 of parts. He knows how to say a soft word 
 in the proper place; he knows how to adapt 
 his flattery to the ears of his hearers ; he knows 
 the wiles of the serpent, and he uses them. 
 Could Mr. Slope have adapted his manners to 
 men as well as to women, could he ever have 
 learnt the ways of a gentleman, he might have 
 risen to great things. 
 
 He commenced his acquaintance with Eleanor
 
 82 Barchester Towers 
 
 by praising her father. He had, he said, be- 
 come aware that he had unfortunately offended 
 the feelings of a man of whom he could not 
 speak too highly ; he would not now allude to a 
 subject which was probably too serious for 
 drawing-room conversation, but he would say, 
 that it had been very far from him to utter a 
 word in disparagement of a man, of whom all 
 the world, at least the clerical world, spoke so 
 highly as it did of Mr. Harding. And so he 
 went on, unsaying a great deal of his sermon, 
 expressing his highest admiration for the pre- 
 centor's musical talents, eulogising the father 
 and the daughter and the sister-in-law, speaking 
 in that low silky whisper which he always had 
 specially prepared for feminine ears, and, ulti- 
 mately, gaining his object. When he left, he 
 expressed a hope that he might again be allowed 
 to call; and though Eleanor gave no verbal 
 assent to this, she did not express dissent : and 
 so Mr. Slope's right to visit at the widow's house 
 was established. 
 
 The day after this visit Eleanor told her 
 father of it, and expressed an opinion that Mr. 
 Slope was not quite so black as he had been 
 painted. Mr. Harding opened his eyes rather 
 wider than usual when he heard what had 
 occurred, but he said little ; he could not agree 
 in any praise of Mr. Slope, and it was not his 
 practice to say much evil of any one. He did 
 not, however, like the visit, and simple-minded 
 as he was, he felt sure that Mr. Slope had some 
 deeper motive than the mere pleasure of making 
 soft speeches to two ladies. 
 
 Mr. Harding, however, had come to see his
 
 The Ex-warden rejoices 83 
 
 daughter with other purpose than that of speak- 
 ing either good or evil of Mr. Slope. He had 
 come to tell her that the place of warden in 
 Hiram's hospital was again to be filled up, and 
 that in all probability he would once more return 
 to his old home and his twelve bedesmen. 
 
 " But," said he, laughing, " I shall be greatly 
 shorn of my ancient glory." 
 
 " Why so, papa ? " 
 
 " This new act of parliament, that is to put us 
 all on our feet again," continued he, " settles my 
 income at four hundred and fifty pounds per 
 annum." 
 
 " Four hundred and fifty," said she, " instead 
 of eight hundred ! Well ; that is rather shabby. 
 But still, papa, you'll have the dear old house 
 and the garden ? " 
 
 " My dear," said he, " it's worth twice the 
 money ; " and as he spoke he showed a jaunty 
 kind of satisfaction in his tone and manner, and 
 in the quick, pleasant way in which he paced 
 Eleanor's drawing-room. " It's worth twice the 
 money. I shall have the house and the garden, 
 and a larger income than I can possibly want." 
 
 " At any rate, you'll have no extravagant 
 daughter to provide for ; " and as she spoke, the 
 young widow put her arm within his, and made 
 him sit on the sofa beside her ; " at any rate you'll 
 not have that expense." 
 
 " No, my dear ; and I shall be rather lonely 
 without her; but we won't think of that now. 
 As regards income I shall have plenty for all I 
 want. I shall have my old house ; and I don't 
 mind owning now that I have felt sometimes the 
 inconveniences of living in a lodging. Lodgings
 
 84 Barchester Towers 
 
 are very nice for young men, but at my time of 
 
 life there is a want of I hardly know what 
 
 to call it, perhaps not respectability " 
 
 " Oh, papa ! I'm sure there's been nothing like 
 that. Nobody has thought it; nobody in all 
 Barchester has been more respected than you 
 have been since you took those rooms in High 
 Street. Nobody ! Not the dean in his deanery, 
 or the archdeacon out at Plumstead." 
 
 " The archdeacon would not be much obliged 
 to you if he heard you," said he, smiling some- 
 what at the exclusive manner in which his 
 daughter confined her illustration to the church 
 dignitaries of the chapter of Barchester; "but 
 at any rate I shall be glad to get back to the old 
 house. Since I heard that it was all settled, I 
 have begun to fancy that I can't be comfortable 
 without my two sitting-rooms." 
 
 " Come and stay with me, papa, till it is 
 settled there's a dear papa." 
 
 " Thank ye, Nelly. But no ; I won't do that. 
 It would make two movings. I shall be very 
 glad to get back to my old men again. Alas ! 
 alas ! There have six of them gone in these few 
 last years. Six out of twelve ! And the others 
 I fear have had but a sorry life of it there. Poor 
 Bunce, poor old Bunce ! " 
 
 Bunce was one of the surviving recipients of 
 Hiram's charity ; an old man, now over ninety, 
 who had long been a favourite of Mr. Harding's. 
 
 " How happy old Bunce will be," said Mrs. 
 Bold, clapping her soft hands softly. " How 
 happy they all will be to have you back again. 
 You may be sure there will soon be friendship 
 among them again when you are there.' r
 
 The Ex-warden rejoices 85 
 
 " But," said he, half laughing, " I am to have 
 new troubles, which will be terrible to me. 
 There are to be twelve old women, and a 
 matron. How shall I manage twelve women 
 and a matron ! " 
 
 " The matron will manage the women of 
 course." 
 
 " And who'll manage the matron ? " said he. 
 
 " She won't want to be managed. She'll be a 
 great lady herself, I suppose. But, papa, where 
 will the matron live ? She is not to live in the 
 warden's house with you, is she ? " 
 
 " Well, I hope not, my dear." 
 
 " Oh, papa, I tell you fairly, I won't have a 
 matron for a new step-mother." 
 
 " You shan't, my dear ; that is, if I can help 
 it. But they are going to build another house 
 for the matron and the women ; and I believe 
 they haven't even fixed yet on the site of the 
 building." 
 
 " And have they appointed the matron ? " said 
 Eleanor. 
 
 " They haven't appointed the warden yet," 
 replied he. 
 
 " But there's no doubt about that, I suppose," 
 said his daughter. 
 
 Mr. Harding explained that he thought there 
 was no doubt ; that the archdeacon had declared 
 as much, saying that the bishop and his chaplain 
 between them had not the power to appoint any 
 one else, even if they had the will to do so, and 
 sufficient impudence to carry out such a will. 
 The archdeacon was of opinion, that though Mr. 
 Harding had resigned his wardenship, and had 
 done so unconditionally, he had done so under
 
 86 Barchester Towers 
 
 circumstances which left the bishop no choice 
 as to his re-appointment, now that the affair of 
 the hospital had been settled on a new basis by 
 act of parliament. Such was the archdeacon's 
 opinion, and his father-in-law received it without 
 a shadow of doubt. 
 
 Dr. Grantly had always been strongly opposed 
 to Mr. Harding's resignation of the place. He 
 had done all in his power to dissuade him from 
 it. He had considered that Mr. Harding was 
 bound to withstand the popular clamour with 
 which he was attacked for receiving so large an 
 income as eight hundred a year from such a 
 charity, and was not even yet satisfied that his 
 father-in-law's conduct had not been pusillani- 
 mous and undignified. He looked also on this 
 reduction of the warden's income as a shabby, 
 paltry scheme on the part of government for 
 escaping from a difficulty into which it had been 
 brought by the public press. Dr. Grantly 
 observed that the government had no more 
 right to dispose of a sum of four hundred and 
 fifty pounds a year out of the income of Hiram's 
 legacy, than of nine hundred ; whereas, as he 
 said, the bishop, dean, and chapter clearly had a 
 right to settle what sum should be paid. He 
 also declared that the government had no more 
 right to saddle the charity with twelve old women 
 than with twelve hundred ; and he was, there- 
 fore, very indignant on the matter. He pro- 
 bably forgot when so talking that government 
 had done nothing of the kind, and had never 
 assumed any such might or any such right. He 
 made the common mistake of attributing to the 
 government, which in such matters is powerless,
 
 The Ex-warden rejoices 87 
 
 the doings of parliament, which in such matters 
 is omnipotent. 
 
 But though he felt that the glory and honour 
 of the situation of warden of Barchester hospital 
 were indeed curtailed by the new arrangement ; 
 that the whole establishment had to a certain 
 degree been made vile by the touch of Whig 
 commissioners ; that the place with its lessened 
 income, its old women, and other innovations, 
 was very different from the hospital of former 
 days ; still the archdeacon was too practical a 
 man of the world to wish that his father-in-law, 
 who had at present little more than zoo/, per 
 annum for all his wants, should refuse the situa- 
 tion, denied, undignified, and commission-ridden 
 as it was. 
 
 Mr. Harding had, accordingly, made up his 
 mind that he would return to his old home at 
 the hospital, and to tell the truth, had experienced 
 almost a childish pleasure in the idea of doing 
 so. ,The diminished income was to him not 
 even the source of momentary regret. The 
 matron and the old women did rather go against 
 the grain ; but he was able to console himself 
 with the reflection, that, after all, such an arrange- 
 ment might be of real service to the poor of the 
 city. The thought that he must receive his re- 
 appointment as the gift of the new bishop, and 
 probably through the hands of Mr. Slope, 
 annoyed him a little ; but his mind was set at 
 rest by the assurance of the archdeacon that 
 there would be no favour in such a presentation. 
 The re-appointment of the old warden would be 
 regarded by all the world as a matter of course. 
 Mr. Harding, therefore, felt no hesitation in
 
 88 Barchester Towers 
 
 telling his daughter that they might look upon 
 his return to his old quarters as a settled matter. 
 
 " And you won't have to ask for it, papa." 
 
 " Certainly not, my dear. There is no ground 
 on which I could ask for any favour from the 
 bishop, whom, indeed, I hardly know. Nor 
 would I ask a favour, the granting of which 
 might possibly be made a question to be settled 
 by Mr. Slope. No," said he, moved for a 
 moment by a spirit very unlike his own, " I 
 certainly shall be very glad to go back to the 
 hospital ; but I should never go there, if it were 
 necessary that my doing so should be the subject 
 of a request to Mr. Slope." 
 
 This little outbreak of her father's anger jarred 
 on the present tone of Eleanor's mind. She had 
 not learnt to like Mr. Slope, but she had learnt to 
 think that he had much respect for her father : and 
 she would, therefore, willingly use her efforts to 
 induce something like good feeling between them. 
 
 " Papa," said she, " I think you somewhat 
 mistake Mr. Slope's character." 
 
 " Do I ? " said he, placidly. 
 
 " I think you do, papa. I think he intended 
 no personal disrespect to you when he preached 
 the sermon which made the archdeacon and the 
 dean so angry ! " 
 
 " I never supposed he did, my dear. I hope 
 I never inquired within myself whether he did 
 or no. Such a matter would be unworthy of 
 any inquiry, and very unworthy of the considera- 
 tion of the chapter. But I fear he intended 
 disrespect to the ministration of God's services, 
 as conducted in conformity with the rules of the 
 Church of England."
 
 The Ex-warden rejoices 89 
 
 " But might it not be that lie thought it his 
 duty to express his dissent from that which you, 
 and the dean, and all of us here so much 
 approve ? " 
 
 " It can hardly be the duty of a young man 
 rudely to assail the religious convictions of his 
 elders in the church. Courtesy should have 
 kept him silent/ even if neither charity nor 
 modesty could do so." 
 
 " But Mr. Slope would say that on such a 
 subject the commands of his heavenly Master 
 do not admit of his being silent." 
 
 " Nor of his being courteous, Eleanor ? " 
 
 " He did not say that, papa." 
 
 " Believe me, my child, that Christian ministers 
 are never called on by God's word to insult the 
 convictions, or even the prejudices of their 
 brethren ; and that religion is at any rate not 
 less susceptible of urbane and courteous conduct 
 among men, than any other study which men 
 may take up. I am sorry to say that I cannot 
 defend Mr. Slope's sermon in the cathedral. 
 But come, my dear, put on your bonnet, and let 
 us walk round the dear old gardens at the 
 hospital. I have never yet had the heart to go 
 beyond the court-yard since we left the place. 
 Now I think I can venture to enter," 
 
 Eleanor rang the bell, and gave a variety of 
 imperative charges as to the welfare of the 
 precious baby, whom, all but unwillingly, she 
 was about to leave for an hour or so, and then 
 sauntered forth with her father to revisit the old 
 hospital. It had been forbidden ground to her 
 as well as to him since the day on which they 
 had walked forth together from its walls.
 
 90 Barchester Towers 
 
 
 .CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE STANHOPE FAMILY 
 
 IT is now three months since Dr. Proudie began 
 his reign, and changes have already been effected 
 in the diocese which show at least the energy of 
 an active mind. Among other things absentee 
 clergymen have been favoured with hints much 
 too strong to be overlooked. Poor dear old 
 Bishop Grantly had on this matter been too 
 lenient, and the archdeacon had never been 
 inclined to be severe with those who were absent 
 on reputable pretences, and who provided for 
 their duties in a liberal way. 
 
 Among the greatest of the diocesan sinners in 
 this respect was Dr. Vesey Stanhope. Years 
 had now passed since he had done a day's duty ; 
 and yet there was no reason against his doing 
 duty except a want of inclination on his own 
 part. He held a prebendal stall in the diocese ; 
 one of the best residences in the close ; and the 
 two large rectories of Crabtree Canonicorum, 
 and Stogpingum. Indeed, he had the cure of 
 three parishes, for that of Eiderdown was joined 
 to Stogpingum. He had resided in Italy for 
 twelve years. His first going there had been 
 attributed to a sore throat ; and that sore throat, 
 though never repeated in any violent manner, 
 had stood him in such stead, that it had enabled 
 him to live in easy idleness ever since. 
 
 He had now been summoned home not, in- 
 deed, with rough violence, or by any peremptory
 
 The Stanhope Family 91 
 
 command, but by a mandate which he found 
 himself unable to disregard. Mr. Slope had 
 written to him by the bishop's desire. In the 
 first place, the bishop much wanted the valuable 
 co-operation of Dr. Vesey Stanhope in the 
 diocese ; in the next, the bishop thought it his 
 imperative duty to become personally acquainted 
 with the most conspicuous of his diocesan 
 clergy; then the bishop thought it essentially 
 necessary for Dr. Stanhope's own interests, that 
 Dr. Stanhope should, at any rate for a time, 
 return to Barchester ; and lastly, it was said that 
 so strong a feeling was at the present moment 
 evinced by the hierarchs of the church with 
 reference to the absence of its clerical members, 
 that it behoved Dr. Vesey Stanhope not to allow 
 his name to stand among those which would 
 probably in a few months be submitted to the 
 councils of the nation. 
 
 There was something so ambiguously frightful 
 in this last threat that Dr. Stanhope determined 
 to spend two or three summer months at his 
 residence in Barchester. His rectories were 
 inhabited by his curates, and he felt himself 
 from disuse to be unfit for parochial duty ; but 
 his prebendal home was kept empty for him, 
 and he thought it probable that he might be able 
 now and again to preach a prebendal sermon. 
 He arrived, therefore, with all his family at 
 Barchester, and he and they must be introduced 
 to my readers. 
 
 The great-family characteristic of the Stan- 
 hopes might probably, .be said to be hearttess- 
 ness; but this want of feeling was, in most of 
 them, accompanied by so great an amount of
 
 92 Barchester Towers 
 
 good nature as to make itself but little 
 noticeable to the world. They were so prone 
 to oblige their neighbours that their neighbours 
 failed to perceive how indifferent to them was 
 the happiness and well-being of those around 
 them. The Stanhopes would visit you in your 
 sickness (provided it were not contagious), 
 would bring you oranges, French novels, and 
 the last new bit of scandal, and then hear of 
 your death or your recovery with an equally 
 indifferent composure. Their conduct to each 
 other was the same as to the world ; they bore 
 and forbore : and there was sometimes, as will 
 be seen, much necessity for forbearing : but 
 their love among themselves rarely reached 
 above this. It is astonishing how much each of 
 the family was able to do, and how much each 
 did, to prevent the well-being of the other four. 
 For there were five in all ; the doctor, namely, 
 and Mrs. Stanhope, two daughters, and one 
 son. The doctor, perhaps, was the least 
 singular and most estimable of them all, and 
 yet such good qualities as he possessed were 
 all negative. He was a good looking rather 
 plethoric gentleman of about sixty years of age. 
 His hair was snow white, very plentiful, and 
 somewhat like wool of the finest description. 
 His whiskers were very large and very white, 
 and gave to his face the appearance of a 
 benevolent sleepy old lion. His dress was 
 always unexceptionable. Although he had 
 lived so many years in Italy it was invariably 
 of a decent clerical hue, but it never was 
 hyperclerical. He was a man not given to 
 much talking, but what little he did say was
 
 The Stanhope. Family 93 
 
 generally well said. His reading seldom went 
 beyond romances and poetry of the lightest 
 and not always most moral description. He 
 was thoroughly a bon vivant ; an accomplished 
 judge of wine, though he never drank to excess ; 
 and a most inexorable critic in all affairs touch- 
 ing the kitchen. He had had much to forgive 
 in his own family, since a family had grown up 
 around him, and had forgiven everything 
 except inattention to his dinner. His weakness 
 in that respect was now fully understood, and 
 his temper but seldom tried. As Dr. Stanhope 
 was a clergyman, it may be supposed that his 
 religious convictions made up a considerable 
 part of his character; but this was not so. 
 That he had religious convictions must be 
 believed; but he rarely obtruded them, even 
 on his children. This abstinence on his part 
 was not systematic, but very characteristic of 
 the man. It was not that he had predetermined 
 never to influence their thoughts ; but he was 
 so habitually idle that his time for doing so 
 had never come till the opportunity for doing 
 so was gone for ever. Whatever conviction 
 the father may have had, the children were at 
 any rate but indifferent members of the church 
 from which he drew his income. 
 
 Such was Dr. Stanhope. The features of 
 Mrs. Stanhope's character were even less plainly 
 marked than those of her lord. The far niente 
 of her Italian life had entered into her very 
 soul, and brought her to regard a state of 
 inactivity as the only earthly good. In manner 
 and appearance she was exceedingly prepossess- 
 ing. She had been a beauty, and even now,
 
 94 Barchester Towers 
 
 at fifty-five, she was a handsome woman. Her 
 dress was always perfect : she never dressed but 
 once in the day, and never appeared till between 
 three and four; but when she did appear, she 
 appeared at her best. Whether the toil rested 
 partly with her, or wholly with her handmaid, 
 it is not for such a one as the author even to 
 imagine. The structure of her attire was always 
 elaborate, and yet never over laboured. She 
 was rich in apparel, but not bedizened with 
 finery ; her ornaments were costly, rare, and 
 such as could not fail to attract notice, but 
 they did not look as though worn with that 
 purpose. She well knew the great architectural 
 secret of decorating her constructions, and 
 never descended to construct a decoration. 
 But when we have said that Mrs. Stanhope 
 knew how to dress, and used her knowledge 
 daily, we have said all. Other purpose in life 
 she had none. It was something, indeed, that 
 she did not interfere with the purposes of others. 
 In early life she had undergone great trials with 
 reference to the doctor's dinners ; but for the 
 last ten or twelve years her eldest daughter 
 Charlotte had taken that labour off her hands, 
 and she had had little to trouble her; little, 
 that is, till the edict for this terrible English 
 journey had gone forth: since then, indeed, 
 her life had been laborious enough. For such 
 a one, the toil of being carried from the shores 
 of Como to the city of Barchester is more than 
 labour enough, let the care of the carriers be 
 ever so vigilant. Mrs. Stanhope had been 
 obliged to have every one of her dresses taken 
 in from the effects of the journey.
 
 The Stanhope Family 95 
 
 Charlotte Stanhope was at this time about 
 thirty-five years old ; and, whatever may have 
 been her faults, she had none of those which 
 belong particularly to old young ladies. She 
 neither dressed young, nor talked young, nor 
 indeed looked young. She appeared to be 
 perfectly content with her time of life, and in no 
 way affected the graces of youth. She was a 
 fine young woman ; and had she been a man, 
 would have been a very fine young man. All 
 that was done in the house, and that was not 
 done by servants, was done by her. She gave 
 the orders, paid the bills, hired and dismissed 
 the domestics, made the tea, carved the meat, 
 and managed everything in the Stanhope house- 
 hold. She, and she alone, could ever induce 
 her father to look into the state of his worldly 
 concerns. She, and she alone, could in any 
 degree control the absurdities of her sister. 
 She, and she alone, prevented the whole family 
 from falling into utter disrepute and beggary. 
 It was by her advice that they now found them- 
 selves very unpleasantly situated in Barchester. 
 
 So far, the character of Charlotte Stanhope is 
 not unprepossessing. But it remains to be said, 
 that the influence which she had in her family, 
 though it had been used to a certain extent for 
 their worldly well-being, had not been used to 
 their real benefit, as it might have been. She 
 had aided her father in his indifference to his 
 professional duties, counselling him that his 
 livings were as much his individual property as 
 the estates of his elder brother were the property 
 of that worthy peer. She had for years past 
 stifled every little rising wish for a return to
 
 9 6 
 
 England which the doctor had from time to 
 time expressed. She had encouraged her 
 mother in her idleness in order that she herself 
 might be mistress and manager of the Stanhope 
 household. She had encouraged and fostered 
 the follies of her sister, though she was always 
 willing, and often able, to protect her from their 
 probable result. She had done her best, and 
 had thoroughly succeeded in spoiling her brother, 
 and turning him loose upon the world an idle 
 man without a profession, and without a shilling 
 that he could call his own. 
 
 Miss Stanhope was a clever woman, able to 
 talk on most subjects, and quite indifferent as to 
 what the subject was. She prided herself on 
 her freedom from English prejudice, and she 
 might have added, from feminine delicacy. On 
 religion she was a pure freethinker, and with 
 much want of true affection, delighted to throw 
 out her own views before the troubled mind of 
 her father. To have shaken what remained of 
 his Church of England faith would have gratified 
 her much ; but the idea of his abandoning his 
 preferment in the church had never once pre- 
 sented itself to her mind. How could he in- 
 deed, when he had no income from any other 
 source ? 
 
 But the two most prominent members of the 
 family still remain to be described. The second 
 child had been christened Madeline, and had 
 been a great beauty. We need not say had 
 been, for she was never more beautiful than at 
 the time of which we write, though her person 
 for many years had been disfigured by an 
 accident. It is unnecessary that we should give
 
 The Stanhope Family 97 
 
 in detail the early history of Madeline Stanhope. 
 She had gone to Italy when about seventeen 
 years of age, and had been allowed to make the 
 most of her surpassing beauty in the saloons of 
 Milan, and among the crowded villas along the 
 shores of the Lake of Como. She had become 
 famous for adventures in which her character 
 was just not lost, and had destroyed the hearts 
 of a dozen cavaliers without once being touched 
 in her own. Blood had flowed in quarrels about 
 her charms, and she heard of these encounters 
 with pleasurable excitement. It had been told 
 of her that on one occasion she had stood by in 
 the disguise of a page, and had seen her lover fall. 
 
 As is so often the case, she had married the 
 very worst of those who sought her hand. Why 
 she had chosen Paulo Neroni, a man of no birth 
 and no property, a mere captain in the pope's 
 guard, one who had come up to Milan either 
 simply as an adventurer or else as a spy, a man 
 of harsh temper and oily manners, mean in 
 figure, swarthy in face, and so false in words as 
 to be hourly detected, need not now be told. 
 When the moment for doing so came, she had 
 probably no alternative. He, at any rate, had 
 become her husband; and after a prolonged 
 honeymoon among the lakes, they had gone 
 together to Rome, the papal captain having 
 vainly endeavoured to induce his wife to remain 
 behind him. 
 
 Six months afterwards she arrived at her 
 father's house a cripple, and a mother. She had 
 arrived without even notice, with hardly clothes 
 to cover her, and without one of those many 
 ornaments which had graced her bridal trousseau, 
 

 
 98 Barchester Towers 
 
 Her baby was in the arms of a poor girl from 
 Milan, whom she had taken in exchange for the 
 Roman maid who had accompanied her thus 
 far, and who had then, as her mistress said, 
 become homesick and had returned. It was 
 clear that the lady had determined that there 
 should be no witness to tell stories of her life in 
 Rome. 
 
 She had fallen, she said, in ascending a ruin, 
 and had fatally injured the sinews of her knee ; 
 so fatally, that when she stood she lost eight 
 inches of her accustomed height ; so fatally, that 
 when she essayed to move, she could only drag 
 herself painfully along, with protruded hip and 
 extended foot in a manner less graceful than 
 that of a hunchback. She had consequently 
 made up her mind, once and for ever, that 
 she would never stand, and never attempt to 
 move herself. 
 
 Stories were not slow to follow her, averring 
 that she had been cruelly ill used by Neroni, and 
 that to his violence had she owed her accident. 
 Be that as it may, little had been said about her 
 husband, but that little had made it clearly 
 intelligible to the family that Signer Neroni was 
 to be seen and heard of no more. There was 
 no question as to re-admitting the poor ill-used 
 beauty to her old family rights, no question as 
 to adopting her infant daughter beneath the 
 Stanhope roof tree. Though heartless, the 
 Stanhopes were not selfish. The two were 
 taken in, petted, made much of, for a time all 
 but adored, and then felt by the two parents 
 to be great nuisances in the house. But in the 
 house the lady was, and there she remained,
 
 The Stanhope Family 99 
 
 having her own way, though that way was not 
 very conformable with the customary usages of 
 an English clergyman. 
 
 Madame Neroni, though forced to give up all 
 motion in the world, had no intention whatever 
 of giving up the world itself. The beauty of her 
 face was uninjured, and that beauty was of a 
 peculiar kind. Her copious rich brown hair 
 was worn in Grecian bandearix round her head, 
 displaying as much as possible of her forehead 
 and cheeks. Her forehead, though rather low, 
 was very beautiful from its perfect contour and 
 pearly whiteness. Her eyes were long and large, 
 and marvellously bright ; might I venture to say, 
 bright as Lucifer's, I should perhaps best express 
 the depth of their brilliancy. They were dread- 
 ful eyes to look at, such as would absolutely 
 deter any man of quiet mind and easy spirit 
 from attempting a passage of arms with such 
 foes. There was talent in them, and the fire of 
 passion and the play of wit, but there was no 
 love. Cruelty was there instead, and courage, 
 a desire of masterhood, cunning, and a wish for 
 mischief. And yet, as eyes, they were very 
 beautiful. The eyelashes were long and perfect, 
 and the long steady unabashed gaze, with which 
 she would look into the face of her admirer, 
 fascinated while it frightened him. She was a 
 basilisk from whom an ardent lover of beauty 
 could make no escape. Her nose and mouth 
 and teeth and chin and neck and bust were 
 perfect, much more so at twenty-eight than they 
 had been at eighteen. What wonder that with 
 such charms still glowing in her face, and with 
 such deformity destroying her figure, she should
 
 ioo Barchester Towers 
 
 resolve to be seen, but only to be seen reclining 
 on a sofa. 
 
 Her resolve had not been carried out with- 
 out difficulty. She had still frequented the 
 opera at Milan ; she had still been seen occa- 
 sionally in the saloons of the noblesse ; she had 
 caused herself to be carried in and out from her 
 carriage, and that in such a manner as in no wise 
 to disturb her charms, disarrange her dress, or 
 expose her deformities. Her sister always 
 accompanied her and a maid, a man-servant 
 also, and on state occasions, two. It was im- 
 possible that her purpose could have been 
 achieved with less : and yet, poor as she was, 
 she had achieved her purpose. And then again 
 the more dissolute Italian youths of Milan 
 frequented the Stanhope villa and surrounded 
 her couch, not greatly to her father's satisfaction. 
 Sometimes his spirit would rise, a dark spot 
 would show itself on his cheek, and he would 
 rebel ; but Charlotte would assuage him with 
 some peculiar triumph of her culinary art, and 
 all again would be smooth for a while. 
 
 Madeline affected all manner of rich and 
 quaint devices in the garniture of her room, her 
 person, and her feminine belongings. In nothing 
 was this more apparent than in the visiting card 
 which she had prepared for her use. For such 
 an article one would say that she, in her present 
 state, could have but small need, seeing how im- 
 probable it was that she should make a morn- 
 ing call : but not such was her own opinion. 
 Her card was surrounded by a deep border of 
 gilding ; on this she had imprinted, in three 
 lines,
 
 The Stanhope Family 101 
 
 " La Signora Madeline 
 
 " Vesey Neroni. 
 Nata Stanhope." 
 
 And over the name she had a bright gilt coronet, 
 which certainly looked very magnificent. How 
 she had come to concoct such a name for herself 
 it would be difficult to explain. Her father 
 had been christened Vesey, as another man is 
 christened Thomas ; and she had no more right 
 to assume it than would have the daughter of a 
 Mr. Josiah Jones to call herself Mrs. Josiah 
 Smith, on marrying a man of the latter name. 
 The gold coronet was equally out of place, and 
 perhaps inserted with even less excuse. Paulo 
 Neroni had had not the faintest title to call 
 himself a scion of even Italian nobility. Had 
 the pair met in England Neroni would probably 
 have been a count ; but they had met in Italy, 
 and any such pretence on his part would have 
 been simply ridiculous. A coronet, however, 
 was a pretty ornament, and if it could solace 
 poor cripple to have such on her card, who would 
 begrudge it to her ? 
 
 Of her husband, or of his individual family, she 
 never spoke ; but with her admirers she would 
 often allude in a mysterious way to her married 
 life and isolated state, and, pointing to her 
 daughter, would call her the last of the blood of 
 the emperors, thus referring Neroni's extraction 
 to the old Roman family from which the worst 
 of the Caesars sprang. 
 
 The " Signora " was not without talent, and 
 not without a certain sort of industry ; she was 
 an indomitable letter writer, and her letters 
 were worth the postage : they were full of wit,
 
 mischief, satire, love, latitudinarian philosophy, 
 free religion, and, sometimes, alas ! loose ribaldry. 
 The subject, however, depended entirely on the 
 recipient, and she was prepared to correspond 
 with any one but moral young ladies or stiff 
 old women. She wrote also a kind of poetry, 
 generally in Italian, and short romances, gene- 
 rally in French. She read much of a desultory 
 sort of literature, and as a modern linguist had 
 really made great proficiency. Such was the lady 
 who had now come to wound the hearts of the 
 men of Barchester. 
 
 Ethelbert Stanhope was in some respects like 
 his younger sister, but he was less inestimable 
 as a man than she as a woman. His great 
 fault was an entire absence of that principle 
 which should have induced him, as the son of a 
 man without fortune, to earn his own bread. 
 Many attempts had been made to get him to do 
 so, but these had all been frustrated, not so 
 much by idleness on his part, as by a disinclina- 
 tion to exert himself in any way not to his taste. 
 He had been educated at Eton, and had been 
 intended for the Church, but had left Cambridge 
 in disgust after a single term, and notified to his 
 father his intention to study for the bar. Pre- 
 paratory to that, he thought it well that he 
 should attend a German university, and conse- 
 quently went to Leipsic. There he remained 
 two years, and brought away a knowledge of 
 German and a taste for the fine arts. He still, 
 however, intended himself for the bar, took 
 chambers, engaged himself to sit at the feet of a 
 learned pundit, and spent a season in London. 
 He there found that all his aptitudes inclined
 
 The Stanhope Family 103 
 
 him to the life of an artist, and he determined 
 to live by painting. With this object he returned 
 to Milan, and had himself rigged out for Rome. 
 As a painter he might have earned his bread, 
 for he wanted only diligence to excel; but 
 when at Rome his mind was carried away by 
 other things : he soon wrote home for money, 
 saying that he had been converted to the 
 Mother Church, that he was already an acolyte 
 of the Jesuits, and that he was about to start 
 with others to Palestine on a mission for con- 
 verting Jews. He did go to Judea, but being 
 unable to convert the Jews, was converted by 
 them. He again wrote home, to say that Moses 
 was the only giver of perfect laws to the world, 
 that the coming of the true Messiah was at hand, 
 that great things were doing in Palestine, and 
 that he had met one of the family of Sidonia, a 
 most remarkable man, who was now on his way 
 to Western Europe, and whom he had induced 
 to deviate from his route with the object of 
 calling at the Stanhope villa. Ethelbert then 
 expressed his hope that his mother and sisters 
 would listen to this wonderful prophet. His 
 father he knew could not do so from pecuniary 
 considerations. This Sidonia, however, did not 
 take so strong a fancy to him as another of that 
 family once did to a young English nobleman. 
 At least he provided him with no heaps of gold 
 as large as lions ; so that the Judaised Ethelbert 
 was again obliged to draw on the revenues of 
 the Christian Church. 
 
 It is needless to tell how the father swore that 
 he would send no more money and receive no 
 Jew ; nor how Charlotte declared that Ethelbert
 
 104 Barchester Towers 
 
 could not be left penniless in Jerusalem, and 
 how " La Signora Neroni " resolved to have 
 Sidonia at her feet. The money was sent, and 
 the Jew did come. The Jew did come, but he 
 was not at all to the taste of " La Signora." He 
 was a dirty little old man, and though he had 
 provided no golden lions, he had, it seems, 
 relieved young Stanhope's necessities. He posi- 
 tively refused to leave the villa till he had got a 
 bill from the doctor on his London bankers. 
 
 Ethelbert did not long remain a Jew. He 
 soon reappeared at the villa without prejudices 
 on the subject of his religion, and with a firm 
 resolve to achieve fame and fortune as a sculptor. 
 He brought with him some models which he had 
 originated at Rome, and which really gave such 
 fair promise that his father was induced to go to 
 further expense in furthering these views. Ethel- 
 bert opened an establishment, or rather took 
 lodgings and a workshop, at Carrara, and there 
 spoilt much marble, and made some few pretty 
 images. Since that period, now four years ago, 
 he had alternated between Carrara and the villa, 
 but his sojourns at the workshop became shorter 
 and shorter, and those at the villa longer and 
 longer. 'Twas no wonder ; for Carrara is not a 
 spot in which an Englishman would like to 
 dwell. 
 
 When the family started for England he had 
 resolved not to be left behind, and with the 
 assistance of his elder sister had carried his 
 point against his father's wishes. It was neces- 
 sary, he said, that he should come to England 
 for orders. How otherwise was he to bring his 
 profession to account ?
 
 The Stanhope Family 105 
 
 In personal appearance Ethelbert Stanhope 
 was the most singular of beings. He was 
 certainly very handsome. He had his sister 
 Madeline's eyes without their stare, and without 
 their hard cunning cruel firmness. They were 
 also very much lighter, and of so light and clear 
 a blue as to make his face remarkable, if nothing 
 else did so. On entering a room with him, 
 Ethelbert's blue eyes would be the first thing you 
 would see, and on leaving it almost the last you 
 would forget. His light hair was very long and 
 silky, coming down over his coat. His beard 
 had been prepared in holy land, and was patri- 
 archal. He never shaved, and rarely trimmed 
 it. It was glossy, soft, clean, and altogether not 
 unprepossessing. It was such, that ladies might 
 desire to reel it off and work it into their patterns 
 in lieu of floss silk. His complexion was fair 
 and almost pink, he was small in height, and 
 slender in limb, but well-made, and his voice 
 was of peculiar sweetness. 
 
 In manner and dress he was equally remark- 
 able. He had none of the maiivaise honte of an 
 Englishman. He required no introduction to 
 make himself agreeable to any person. He 
 habitually addressed strangers, ladies as well as 
 men, without any such formality, and in doing 
 so never seemed to meet with rebuke. His 
 costume cannot be described, because it was so 
 various ; but it was always totally opposed in 
 every principle of colour and construction to 
 the dress of those with whom he for the time 
 consorted. 
 
 He was habitually addicted to making love to 
 ladies, and did so without any scruple of
 
 106 Barch ester Towers 
 
 conscience, or any idea that such a practice was 
 amiss. He had no heart to touch himself, and 
 was literally unaware that humanity was subject 
 to such an infliction. He had not thought much 
 about it ; but, had he been asked, would have 
 said, that ill-treating a lady's heart meant injuring 
 her promotion in the world. His principles 
 therefore forbade him to pay attention to a girl, 
 if he thought any man was present whom it 
 might suit her to marry. In this manner, his 
 good nature frequently interfered with his 
 amusement; but 'he had no other motive in 
 abstaining from the fullest declarations of love 
 to every girl that pleased his eye. 
 
 Bertie Stanhope, as he was generally called, 
 was, however, popular with both sexes; and 
 with Italians as well as English. His circle of 
 acquaintance was very large, and embraced 
 people of all sorts. He had no respect for 
 rank, and no aversion to those below him. He 
 had lived on familiar terms with English peers, 
 German shopkeepers, and Roman priests. All 
 people were nearly alike to him. He was above, 
 or rather below, all prejudices. No virtue could 
 charm him, no vice shock him. He had about 
 him a natural good manner, which seemed to 
 qualify him for the highest circles, and yet he 
 was never out of place in the lowest. He had 
 no principle, no regard for others, no self- 
 respect, no desire to be other than a drone in 
 the hive, if only he could, as a drone, get what 
 honey was sufficient for him. Of honey, in his 
 latter days, it may probably be presaged, that 
 he will have but short allowance. 
 
 Such was the family of the Stanhopes, who, at
 
 The Stanhope Family 107 
 
 this period, suddenly joined themselves to the 
 ecclesiastical circle of Barchester close. Any 
 stranger union, it would be impossible perhaps 
 to conceive. And it was not as though they all 
 fell down into the cathedral precincts hitherto 
 unknown and untalked of. In such case no 
 amalgamation would have been at all probable 
 between the new-comers and either the Proudie 
 set or the Grantly set. But such was far from 
 being the case. The Stanhopes were all known 
 by name in Barchester, and Barchester was pre- 
 pared to receive them with open arms. The 
 doctor was one of her prebendaries, one of her 
 rectors, one of her pillars of strength ; and was, 
 moreover, counted on, as a sure ally, both by 
 Proudies and Grantlys. 
 
 He himself was the brother of one peer, and 
 his wife was the sister of another and both 
 these peers were lords of whiggish tendency, 
 with whom the new bishop had some sort of 
 alliance. This was sufficient to give to Mr. 
 Slope high hope that he might enlist Dr. Stan- 
 hope on his side, before his enemies could out- 
 manoeuvre him. On the other hand, the old 
 dean had many many years ago, in the days of 
 the doctor's clerical energies, been instrumental 
 in assisting him in his views as to preferment; 
 and many many years ago also, the two doctors, 
 Stanhope and Grantly, had as young parsons 
 been joyous together in the common rooms of 
 Oxford. Dr. Grantly, consequently, did not 
 doubt but that the new-comer would range him- 
 self under his banners. 
 
 Little did any of them dream of what ingre- 
 dients the Stanhope family was now composed.
 
 io8 Barchester Towers 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 MRS. PROUDIE'S RECEPTION COMMENCED 
 
 THE bishop and his wife had only spent three 
 or four days in Barchester on the occasion of 
 their first visit. His lordship had, as we have 
 seen, taken his seat on his throne ; but his 
 demeanour there, into which it had been his 
 intention to infuse much heirarchal dignity, had 
 been a good deal disarranged by the audacity 
 of his chaplain's sermon. He had hardly dared 
 to look his clergy in the face, and to declare by 
 the severity of his countenance that in truth he 
 meant all that his factotum was saying on his 
 behalf; nor yet did he dare to throw Mr. 
 Slope over, and show to those around him that 
 he was no party to the sermon, and would 
 resent it. 
 
 He had accordingly blessed his people in a 
 shambling manner, not at all to his own satis- 
 faction, and had walked back to his palace with 
 his mind very doubtful as to what he would say 
 to his chaplain on the subject. He did not 
 remain long in doubt. He had hardly doffed 
 his lawn when the partner of all his toils entered 
 his study, and exclaimed even before she had 
 seated herself 
 
 " Bishop, did you ever hear a more sublime, 
 more spirit-moving, more appropriate discourse 
 than that ? " 
 
 "Well, my love; ha hum he!" The 
 bishop did not know what to say.
 
 Mrs. Proudie's Reception 109 
 
 " I hope, my lord, you don't mean to say you 
 disapprove ? " 
 
 There was a look about the lady's eye which 
 did not admit of my lord's disapproving at that 
 moment. He felt that if he intended to dis- 
 approve, it must be now or never ; but he also 
 felt that it could not be now. It was not in him 
 to say to the wife of his bosom that Mr. Slope's 
 sermon was ill-timed, impertinent and vexatious. 
 
 " No, no," replied the bishop. " No, I can't 
 say I disapprove a very clever sermon and 
 very well intended, and I dare say will do a 
 great deal of good." This last praise was added, 
 seeing that what he had already said by no 
 means satisfied Mrs. Proudie. 
 
 " I hope it will," said she. " I am sure it was 
 well deserved. Did you ever in your life, 
 bishop, hear anything so like play-acting as the 
 way in which Mr. Harding sings the litany ? I 
 shall beg Mr. Slope to continue a course of 
 sermons on the subject till all that is altered. 
 We will have at any rate, in our cathedral, a 
 decent, godly, modest morning service. There 
 must be no more play-acting here now ; " and so 
 the lady rang for lunch. 
 
 The bishop knew more about cathedrals and 
 deans, and precentors and church services than 
 his wife did, and also more of a bishop's powers. 
 But he thought it better at present to let the 
 subject drop. 
 
 " My dear," said he, " I think we must go 
 back to London on Tuesday. I find my staying 
 here will be very inconvenient to the Govern- 
 ment." 
 
 The bishop knew that to this proposal his
 
 no Barchester Towers 
 
 wife would not object ; and he also felt that by 
 thus retreating from the ground of battle, the heat 
 of the fight might be got over in his absence. 
 
 " Mr. Slope will remain here, of course ? " said 
 the lady. 
 
 " Oh, of course," said the bishop. 
 
 Thus, after less than a week's sojourn in his 
 palace, did the bishop fly from Barchester ; nor 
 did he return to it for two months, the London 
 season being then over. During that time Mr. 
 Slope was not idle, but he did not again essay 
 to preach in the cathedral. In answer to Mrs. 
 Proudie's letters, advising a course of sermons, 
 he had pleaded that he would at any rate wish 
 to put off such an undertaking till she was there 
 to hear them. 
 
 He had employed his time in consolidating a 
 Proudie and Slope party or rather a Slope and 
 Proudie party, and he had not employed his 
 time in vain. He did not meddle with the dean 
 and chapter, except by giving them little teasing 
 intimations of the bishop's wishes about this and 
 the bishop's feelings about that, in a manner 
 which was to them sufficiently annoying, but 
 which they could not resent He preached 
 once or twice in a distant church in the suburbs 
 of the city, but made no allusion to the cathedral 
 service. He commenced the establishment of 
 two " Bishop's Barchester Sabbath-day Schools," 
 gave notice of a proposed " Bishop's Barchester 
 Young Men's Sabbath Evening Lecture Room," 
 and wrote three or four letters to the manager 
 of the Barchester branch railway, informing him 
 how anxious the bishop was that the Sunday 
 trains should be discontinued.
 
 Mrs. Proudie's Reception 1 1 1 
 
 At the end of two months, however, the 
 bishop and the lady reappeared ; and as a happy 
 harbinger of their return, heralded their advent 
 by the promise of an evening party on the 
 largest scale. The tickets of invitation were 
 sent out from London they were dated from 
 Bruton Street, and were despatched by the 
 odious Sabbath breaking railway, in a huge 
 brown paper parcel to Mr. Slope. Everybody 
 calling himself a gentleman, or herself a lady, 
 within the city of Barchester, and a circle of two 
 miles round it, was included. Tickets were sent 
 to all the diocesan clergy, and also to many 
 other persons of priestly note, of whose absence 
 the bishop, or at least the bishop's wife, felt 
 tolerably confident. It was intended, however, 
 to be a thronged and noticeable affair, and 
 preparations were made for receiving some 
 hundreds. 
 
 And now there arose considerable agitation 
 among the Grantlyites whether or no they would 
 attend the episcopal bidding. The first feeling 
 with them all was to send the briefest excuses 
 both for themselves and their wives and 
 daughters. But by degrees policy prevailed 
 over passion. The archdeacon perceived that 
 he would be making a false step if he allowed 
 the cathedral clergy to give the bishop just 
 ground of umbrage. They all met in conclave 
 and agreed to go. They would show that they 
 were willing to respect the office, much as they 
 might dislike the man. They agreed to go. 
 The old dean would crawl in, if it were but for 
 half an hour. The chancellor, treasurer, arch- 
 deacon, prebendaries, and minor canons would
 
 ii2 Barchester Towers 
 
 all go, and would all take their wives. Mr. 
 Harding was especially bidden to do so, resolv- 
 ing in his heart to keep himself far removed 
 from Mrs. Proudie. And Mrs. Bold was deter- 
 mined to go, though assured by her father that 
 there was no necessity for such a sacrifice on 
 her part. When all Barchester was to be there, 
 neither Eleanor nor Mary Bold understood why 
 they should stay away. Had they not been 
 invited separately ? and had not a separate little 
 note from the chaplain, couched in the most 
 respectful language, been enclosed with the huge 
 Episcopal card ? 
 
 And the Stanhopes would be there, one and 
 all. Even the lethargic mother would so far 
 bestir herself on such an occasion. They had 
 only just arrived. The card was at the residence 
 waiting for them. No one in Barchester had 
 seen them ; and what better opportunity could 
 they have of showing themselves to the Bar- 
 Chester world ? Some few old friends, such as 
 the archdeacon and his wife, had called, and 
 had found the doctor and his eldest daughter; 
 but the elite of the family were not yet known. 
 
 The doctor indeed wished in his heart to 
 prevent the signora from accepting the bishop's 
 invitation ; but she herself had fully determined 
 that she would accept it. If her father was 
 ashamed of having his daughter carried into 
 a bishop's palace, she had no such feeling. 
 
 " Indeed, I shall," she had said to her sister 
 who had gently endeavoured to dissuade her, 
 by saying that the company would consist 
 wholly of parsons and parsons' wives. " Par- 
 sons, I suppose, are much the same as other
 
 Mrs. Proudie's Reception 1 1 3 
 
 men, if you strip them of their black coats; 
 and as to their wives, I dare say they won't 
 trouble me. You may tell papa I don't at all 
 mean to be left at home." 
 
 Papa was told, and felt that he could do 
 nothing but yield. He also felt that it was 
 useless for him now to be ashamed of his 
 children. Such as they were, they had become 
 such under his auspices ; as he had made his bed, 
 so he must lie upon it; as he had sown his 
 seed, so must he reap his corn. He did not 
 indeed utter such reflections in such language, 
 but such was the gist of his thoughts. It was 
 not because Madeline was a cripple that he 
 shrank from seeing her make one of the bishop's 
 guests; but because he knew that she would 
 practise her accustomed lures, and behave 
 herself in a way that could not fail of being 
 distasteful to the propriety of Englishwomen. 
 These things had annoyed but not shocked him 
 in Italy. There they had shocked no one ; 
 but here in Barchester, here among his fellow 
 parsons, he was ashamed that they should be 
 seen. Such had been his feelings, but he 
 repressed them. What if his brother clergymen 
 were shocked ! They could not take from him 
 his preferment because the manners of his 
 married daughter were too free. 
 
 La Signora Neroni had, at any rate, no fear 
 that she would shock anybody. Her ambition 
 was to create a sensation, to have parsons at 
 her feet, seeing that the manhood of Barchester 
 consisted mainly of parsons, and to send, if 
 possible, every parson's wife home with a green 
 fit of jealousy. None could be too old for her,
 
 ii4 Barchester Towers 
 
 and hardly any too young. None too sanctified, 
 and none too worldly. She was quite prepared 
 to entrap the bishop himself, and then to turn 
 up her nose at the bishop's wife. She did not 
 doubt of success, for she had always succeeded ; 
 but one thing was absolutely necessary, she 
 must secure the entire use of a sofa. 
 
 The card sent to Dr. and Mrs. Stanhope and 
 family, had been so sent in an envelope, having 
 on the cover Mr. Slope's name. The signora 
 soon learnt that Mrs. Proudie was not yet at 
 the palace, and that the chaplain was managing 
 everything. It was much more in her line to 
 apply to him than to the lady, and she accord- 
 ingly wrote him the prettiest little billet in the 
 world. In five lines she explained everything, 
 declared how impossible it was for her not to be 
 desirous to make the acquaintance of such 
 persons as the Bishop of Barchester and his 
 wife, and she might add also of Mr. Slope, 
 depicted her own grievous state, and concluded 
 by being assured that Mrs. Proudie would for- 
 give her extreme hardihood in petitioning to be 
 allowed to be carried to a sofa. She then 
 enclosed one of her beautiful cards. In return 
 she received as polite an answer from Mr. 
 Slope a sofa should be kept in the large 
 drawing-room, immediately at the top of the 
 grand stairs, especially for her use. 
 
 And now the day of the party had arrived. 
 The bishop and his wife came down from town, 
 only on the morning of the eventful day, as 
 behoved such great people to do ; but Mr. 
 Slope had toiled day and night to see that 
 everything should be in right order. There
 
 Mrs. Proudie's Reception 115 
 
 had been much to do. No company had been 
 seen in the palace since heaven knows when. 
 New furniture had been required, new pots and 
 pans, new cups and saucers, new dishes and 
 plates. Mrs. Proudie had at first declared that 
 she would condescend to nothing so vulgar as 
 eating and drinking ; but Mr. Slope had talked, 
 or rather written her out of economy ! Bishops 
 should be given to hospitality, and hospitality 
 meant eating and drinking. So the supper was 
 conceded ; the guests, however, were to stand 
 as they consumed it. :J - - a 
 
 There were four rooms opening into each 
 other on the first floor of the house, which were 
 denominated the drawing-rooms, the reception- 
 room, and Mrs. Proudie's boudoir. In olden 
 days one of these had been Bishop Grantly's 
 bed-room, and another his common sitting-room 
 and study. The present bishop, however, had 
 been moved down into a back parlour, and had 
 been given to understand, that he could very 
 well receive his clergy in the dining-room, should 
 they arrive in too large a flock to be admitted 
 into his small sanctum. He had been unwilling 
 to yield, but after a short debate had yielded. 
 
 Mrs. Proudie's heart beat high as she in- 
 spected her suite of rooms. They were really 
 very magnificent, or at least would be so by 
 candlelight ; and they had nevertheless been 
 got up with commendable economy. Large 
 rooms when full of people and full of light look 
 well, because they are large, and are full, and 
 are light. Small rooms are those which require 
 costly fittings and rich furniture. Mrs. Proudie 
 knew this, and made the most of it ; she had
 
 1 1 6 Barchester Towers 
 
 therefore a huge gas lamp with a dozen burners 
 hanging from each of the ceilings. 
 
 People were to arrive at ten, supper was to 
 last from twelve till one, and at half-past one 
 everybody was to be gone. Carriages were to 
 come in at the gate in the town and depart at 
 the gate outside. They were desired to take up 
 at a quarter before one. It was managed 
 excellently, and Mr. Slope was invaluable. 
 
 At half-past nine the bishop and his wife and 
 their three daughters entered the great reception 
 room, and very grand and very solemn they 
 were. Mr. Slope was down stairs giving the 
 last orders about the wine. He well understood 
 that curates and country vicars with their be- 
 longings did not require so generous an article 
 as the dignitaries of the close. There is a 
 useful gradation in such things, and Marsala 
 at 20^. a dozen did very well for the exterior 
 supplementary tables in the corner. 
 
 " Bishop," said the lady, as his lordship sat 
 himself down, "don't sit on that sofa, if you 
 please ; it is to be kept separate for a lady." 
 
 The bishop jumped up and seated himself 
 on a cane-bottomed chair. "A lady?" he 
 inquired meekly ; " do you mean one particular 
 lady, my dear ? " 
 
 " Yes, Bishop, one particular lady," said his 
 wife, disdaining to explain. 
 
 " She has got no legs, papa," said the youngest 
 daughter, tittering. 
 
 " No legs ! " said the bishop, opening his 
 eyes. 
 
 " Nonsense, Netta, what stuff you talk," said 
 Olivia. " She has got legs, but she can't use
 
 Mrs. Proudie's Reception 117 
 
 them. She has always to be kept lying down, 
 and three or four men carry her about every- 
 where." 
 
 " Laws, how odd ! " said Augusta. " Always 
 carried about by four men ! I'm sure I 
 shouldn't like it. Am I right behind, mamma ? 
 I feel as if I was open ; " and she turned her 
 back to her anxious parent. 
 
 " Open ! to be sure you are," said she, " and 
 a yard of petticoat strings hanging out. I don't 
 know why I pay such high wages to Mrs. 
 Richards, if she can't take the trouble to see 
 whether or no you are fit to be looked at," and 
 Mrs. Proudie poked the strings here, and 
 twitched the dress there, and gave her daughter 
 a shove and a shake, and then pronounced it 
 all right. 
 
 " But," rejoined the bishop, who was dying 
 with curiosity about the mysterious lady and 
 her legs, " who is it that is to have the sofa ? 
 What's her name, Netta ? " 
 
 A thundering rap at the front door interrupted 
 the conversation. Mrs. Proudie stood up and 
 shook herself gently, and touched her cap on 
 each side as she looked in the mirror. Each 
 of the girls stood on tiptoe, and re-arranged the 
 bows on their bosoms ; and Mr. Slope rushed 
 up stairs three steps at a time. 
 
 " But who is it, Netta ? " whispered the bishop 
 to his youngest daughter. 
 
 " La Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni," whis- 
 pered back the daughter ; " and mind you don't 
 let any one sit upon the sofa." 
 
 " La Signora Madeline Vicinironi ! " muttered, 
 to himself, the bewildered prelate. Had he
 
 1 1 8 Barchester Towers 
 
 been told that the Begum of Oude was to be 
 there, or Queen Pomara of the Western Isles, 
 he could not have been more astonished. La 
 Signora Madeline Vicinironi, who, having no 
 legs to stand on, had bespoken a sofa in his 
 drawing-room ! who could she be ? He how- 
 ever could now make no further inquiry, as Dr. 
 and Mrs. Stanhope were announced. They 
 had been sent on out of the way a little before 
 the time, in order that the signora might have 
 plenty of time to get herself conveniently packed 
 into the carriage. 
 
 The bishop was all smiles for the prebendary's 
 wife, and the bishop's wife was all smiles for 
 the prebendary. Mr. Slope was presented, and 
 was delighted to make the acquaintance of one 
 of whom he had heard so much. The doctor 
 bowed very low, and then looked as though he 
 could not return the compliment as regarded 
 Mr. Slope, of whom, indeed, he had heard 
 nothing. The doctor, in spite of his long 
 absence, knew an English gentleman when he 
 saw him. 
 
 And then the guests came in shoals : Mr. 
 and Mrs. Quiverful and their three grown 
 daughters. Mr. and Mrs. Chadwick and their 
 three daughters. The burly chancellor and his 
 wife and clerical son from Oxford. The meagre 
 little doctor without incumbrance. Mr. Harding 
 with Eleanor and Miss Bold. The dean leaning 
 on a gaunt spinster, his only child now living 
 with him, a lady very learned in stones, ferns, 
 plants, and vermin, and who had written a book 
 about petals. A wonderful woman in her way 
 was Miss Trefoil. Mr. Finnic, the attorney,
 
 Mrs. Proudie's Reception 119 
 
 with his wife, was to be seen, much to the 
 dismay of many who had never met him in a 
 drawing-room before. The five Barchester 
 doctors were all there, and old Scalpen, the 
 retired apothecary and tooth-drawer, who was 
 first taught to consider himself as belonging to 
 the higher orders by the receipt of the bishop's 
 card. Then came the archdeacon and his wife, 
 with their elder daughter Griselda, a slim pale 
 retiring girl of seventeen, who kept close to her 
 mother, and looked out on the world with quiet 
 watchful eyes, one who gave promise of much 
 beauty when time should have ripened it: 
 
 And so the rooms became full, and knots 
 were formed, and every new comer paid his 
 respects to my lord and passed on, not pre- 
 suming to occupy too much of the great man's 
 attention. The archdeacon shook hands very 
 heartily with Doctor Stanhope, and Mrs. Grantly 
 seated herself by the doctor's wife. And Mrs. 
 Proudie moved about with well regulated grace, 
 measuring out the quantity of her favours to the 
 quality of her guests, just as Mr. Slope had been 
 doing with the wine. But the sofa was still 
 empty, and five-and-twenty ladies and five 
 gentlemen had been courteously warned off it 
 by the mindful chaplain. 
 
 " Why doesn't she come ? " said the bishop to 
 himself. His mind was so preoccupied with the 
 signora, that he hardly remembered how to 
 behave himself en bishop. 
 
 At last a carriage dashed up to the hall steps 
 with a very different manner of approach from 
 that of any other vehicle that had been there 
 that evening. A perfect commotion took place.
 
 I2O Barchester Towers 
 
 The doctor, who heard it as he was standing in 
 the drawing-room, knew that his daughter was 
 coming, and retired into the furthest corner, 
 where he might not see her entrance. Mrs. 
 Proudie perked herself up, feeling that some 
 important piece of business was in hand. The 
 bishop was instinctively aware that La Signora 
 Vicinironi was come at last, and Mr. Slope 
 hurried into the hall to give his assistance. 
 
 He was, however, nearly knocked down and 
 trampled on by the cortege that he encountered 
 on the hall steps. He got himself picked up as 
 well as he could, and followed the corte'ge up 
 stairs. The signora was carried head foremost, 
 her head being the care of her brother and an 
 Italian man-servant who was accustomed to the 
 work ; her feet were in the care of the lady's 
 maid and the lady's Italian page ; and Charlotte 
 Stanhope followed to see that all was done with 
 due grace and decorum. In this manner they 
 climbed easily into the drawing-room, and a 
 broad way through the crowd having been 
 opened, the signora rested safely on her couch. 
 She had sent a servant beforehand to learn 
 whether it was a right or a left hand sofa, for it 
 required that she should dress accordingly, 
 particularly as regarded her bracelets. 
 
 And very becoming her dress was. It was 
 white velvet, without any other garniture than 
 rich white lace worked with pearls across her 
 bosom, and the same round the armlets of her 
 dress. Across her brow she wore a band of red 
 velvet, on the centre of which shone a magnifi- 
 cent Cupid in mosaic, the tints of whose wings 
 were of the most lovely azure, and the colour of
 
 Mrs. Proudie's Reception 121 
 
 his chubby cheeks the clearest pink. On the 
 one arm which her position required her to 
 expose she wore three magnificent bracelets, 
 each of different stones. Beneath her on the 
 sofa, and over the cushion and head of it, was 
 spread a crimson silk mantle or shawl, which 
 went under her whole body and concealed her 
 feet. Dressed as she was and looking as she 
 did, so beautiful and yet so motionless, with the 
 pure brilliancy of her white dress brought out 
 and strengthened by the colour beneath it, with 
 that lovely head, and those large bold bright 
 staring eyes, it was impossible that either man 
 or woman should do other than look at her. 
 
 Neither man nor woman for some minutes did 
 do other. 
 
 Her bearers too were worthy of note. The 
 three servants were Italian, and though perhaps 
 not peculiar in their own country, were very 
 much so in the palace at Barchester. The man 
 especially attracted notice, and created a doubt 
 in the mind of some whether he were a friend 
 or a domestic. The same doubt was felt as to 
 Ethelbert. The man was attired in a loose 
 fitting common black cloth morning coat. He 
 had a jaunty fat well-pleased clean face, on 
 which no atom of beard appeared, and he wore 
 round his neck a loose black silk neckhandker- 
 chief. The bishop essayed to make him a bow, 
 but the man, who was well-trained, took no 
 notice of him, and walked out of the room quite 
 at his ease, followed by the woman and the 
 boy. 
 
 Ethelbert Stanhope was dressed in light blue 
 from head to foot. He had on the loosest
 
 122 Barchester Towers 
 
 possible blue coat, cut square like a shooting 
 coat, and very short. It was lined with silk of 
 azure blue. He had on a blue satin waistcoat, 
 a blue neckhandkerchief which was fastened 
 beneath his throat with a coral ring, and very 
 loose blue trowsers which almost concealed his 
 feet. His soft glossy beard was softer and more 
 glossy than ever. 
 
 The bishop who had made one mistake, 
 thought that he also was a servant, and therefore 
 tried to make way for him to pass. But Ethel- 
 bert soon corrected the error. 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 adT ijfon 1o vriiiow <yrt ooi ns-m 
 
 MRS. PROUDIE'S RECEPTION CONCLUDED 
 
 " BISHOP OF BARCHESTER, I presume ? " said 
 Bertie Stanhope, putting out his hand, frankly ; 
 " I am delighted to make your acquaintance. 
 We are in rather close quarters here, a'n't we ? " 
 
 In truth they were. They had been crowded 
 up behind the head of the sofa : the bishop in 
 waiting to receive his guest, and the other in 
 carrying her ; and they now had hardly room to 
 move themselves. 
 
 The bishop gave his hand quickly, and made 
 his little studied bow, and was delighted to 
 
 make . He couldn't go on, for he did not 
 
 know whether his friend was a signor, or a 
 count, or a prince. 
 
 " My sister really puts you all to great trouble," 
 said Bertie.
 
 Mrs. Proudie's Reception 123 
 
 " Not at all ! " The bishop was delighted to 
 have the opportunity of welcoming the Signora 
 Vicinironi so at least he said and attempted 
 to force his way round to the front of the sofa. 
 He had, at any rate, learnt that his strange 
 guests were brother and sister. The man, he 
 presumed, must be Signer Vicinironi, or count, 
 or prince, as it might be. It was wonderful what 
 good English he spoke. There was just a 
 twang of foreign accent, and no more. 
 
 " Do you like Barchester on the whole ? " 
 asked Bertie. 
 
 The bishop, looking dignified, said that he 
 did like Barchester. 
 
 " You've not been here very long, I believe," 
 said Bertie. 
 
 " No not long," said the bishop, and tried 
 again to make his way between the back of the 
 sofa and a heavy rector, who was staring over it 
 at the grimaces of the signora. 
 
 " You weren't a bishop before, were you ? " 
 
 Dr. Proudie explained that this was the first 
 diocese he had held. 
 
 "Ah I thought so," said Bertie; "but you 
 are changed about sometimes, a'n't you ? " 
 
 " Translations are occasionally made," said 
 Dr. Proudie ; " but not so frequently as in 
 former days." 
 
 "They've cut them all down to pretty 
 nearly the same figure, haven't they?" said 
 Bertie. 
 
 To this the bishop could not bring himself to 
 make any answer, but again attempted to move 
 the rector. 
 
 " But the work, I suppose, is different ? "
 
 124 Barchester Towers 
 
 continued Bertie. " Is there much to do here, 
 at Barchester ? " This was said exactly in the 
 tone that a young Admiralty clerk might use in 
 asking the same question of a brother acolyte at 
 the Treasury. 
 
 " The work of a bishop of the Church of 
 England," said Dr. Proudie, with considerable 
 dignity, " is not easy. The responsibility which 
 he has to bear is very great indeed." 
 
 " Is it ? " said Bertie, opening wide his wonder- 
 ful blue eyes. " Well ; I never was afraid of 
 responsibility. I once had thoughts of being a 
 bishop, myself." 
 
 " Had thoughts of being a bishop ! " said Dr. 
 Proudie, much amazed. 
 
 " That is, a parson a parson first, you know, 
 and a bishop afterwards. If I had once begun, 
 I'd have stuck to it. But, on the whole, I like 
 the Church of Rome the best." 
 
 The bishop could not discuss the point, so he 
 remained silent. 
 
 " Now, there's my father," continued Bertie ; 
 "he hasn't stuck to it. I fancy he didn't like 
 saying the same thing over so often. By the 
 bye, Bishop, have you seen my father?" 
 
 The bishop was more amazed than ever. 
 Had he seen his father? "No," he replied; 
 " he had not yet had the pleasure : he hoped he 
 might ; " and, as he said so, he resolved to bear 
 heavy on that fat, immovable rector, if ever he 
 had the power of doing so. 
 
 " He's in the room somewhere," said Bertie, 
 "and he'll turn up soon. By the bye, do you 
 know much about the Jews ? " 
 
 At last the bishop saw a way out. " I beg
 
 Mrs. Proudie's Reception 125 
 
 your pardon," said he ; " but I'm forced to go 
 round the room." 
 
 "Well I believe I'll follow in your wake," 
 said Bertie. "Terribly hot isn't it?" This 
 he addressed to the fat rector with whom he had 
 brought himself into the closest contact. 
 " They've got this sofa into the worst possible 
 part of the room ; suppose we move it. Take 
 care, Madeline." 
 
 The sofa had certainly been so placed that 
 those who were behind it found great difficulty 
 in getting out ; there was but a narrow gang- 
 way, which one person could stop. This was a 
 bad arrangement, and one which Bertie thought 
 it might be well to improve. 
 
 " Take care, Madeline," said he ; and turning 
 to the fat rector added, " Just help me with a 
 slight push." 
 
 The rector's weight was resting on the sofa, 
 and unwittingly lent all its impetus to accelerate 
 and increase the motion which Bertie intention- 
 ally originated. The sofa rushed from its 
 moorings, and ran half way into the middle of 
 the room. Mrs. Proudie was standing with Mr. 
 Slope in front of the signora, and had been 
 trying to be condescending and sociable ; but 
 she was not in the very best of tempers ; for she 
 found that, whenever she spoke to the lady, the 
 lady replied by speaking to Mr. Slope. Mr. 
 Slope was a favourite, no doubt; but Mrs. 
 Proudie had no idea of being less thought of 
 than the chaplain. She was beginning to be 
 stately, stiff, and offended when unfortunately 
 the castor of the sofa caught itself in her lace 
 train, and carried away there is no saying how
 
 126 Barchester Towers 
 
 much of her garniture, fathers were heard to 
 go, stitches to crack, plaits to fly open, flounces 
 were seen to fall, and breadths to expose them- 
 selves ; a long ruin of rent lace disfigured the 
 carpet, and still clung to the vile wheel on which 
 the sofa moved. 
 
 So, when a granite battery is raised, excellent 
 to the eyes of warfaring men, is its strength and 
 symmetry admired. It is the work of years. Its 
 neat embrasures, its finished parapets, its case- 
 mated stories, show all the skill of modern 
 science. But, anon, a small spark is applied to 
 the treacherous fusee a cloud of dust arises to 
 the heavens and then nothing is to be seen but 
 dirt and dust and ugly fragments. 
 
 We know what was the wrath of Juno when 
 her beauty was despised. We know too what 
 storms of passion even celestial minds can yield. 
 As Juno may have looked at Paris on Mount 
 Ida, so did Mrs. Proudie look on Ethelbert 
 Stanhope when he pushed the leg of the sofa 
 into her lace train. 
 
 " Oh, you idiot, Bertie ! " said the signora, 
 seeing what had been done, and what were to 
 be the consequences. 
 
 " Idiot ! " re-echoed Mrs. Proudie, as though 
 the word were not half strong enough to express 
 
 the required meaning ; " I'll let him know ; " 
 
 and then looking round to learn, at a glance, the 
 worst, she saw that at present it behoved her to 
 collect the scattered debris of her dress. 
 
 Bertie, when he saw what he had done, rushed 
 over the sofa, and threw himself on one knee 
 before the offended lady. His object, doubtless, 
 was to liberate the torn lace from the castor ;
 
 Mrs. Proudie's Reception 127 
 
 but he looked as though he were imploring 
 pardon from a goddess. 
 
 " Unhand it, sir ! " said Mrs. Proudie. From 
 what scrap of dramatic poetry she had extracted 
 the word cannot be said ; but it must have rested 
 on her memory, and now seemed opportunely 
 dignified for the occasion. 
 
 " I'll fly to the looms of the fairies to repair 
 the damage, if you'll only forgive me," said 
 Ethelbert, still on his knees. 
 
 " Unhand it, sir ! " said Mrs. Proudie, with 
 redoubled emphasis, and all but furious wrath. 
 This allusion to the fairies was a direct mockery, 
 and intended to turn her into ridicule. So at 
 least it seemed to her. " Unhand it, sir ! " she 
 almost screamed. 
 
 " It's not me ; it's the cursed sofa," said 
 Bertie, looking imploringly in her face, and 
 holding up both his hands so show that he was 
 not touching her belongings, but still remaining 
 on his knees. 
 
 Hereupon the signora laughed ; not loud, 
 indeed, but yet audibly. And as the tigress 
 bereft of her young will turn with equal anger 
 on any within reach, so did Mrs. Proudie turn 
 upon her female guest. 
 
 " Madam ! " she said and it is beyond the 
 power of prose to tell of the fire which flashed 
 from her eyes. 
 
 The signora stared her full in the face for a 
 moment, and then turning to her brother said, 
 playfully, " Bertie, you idiot, get up." 
 
 By this time the bishop, and Mr. Slope, and 
 her three daughters were around her, and had 
 collected together the wide ruins of her magni-
 
 128 Barchester Towers 
 
 ficence. The girls fell into circular rank behind 
 their mother, and thus following her and carrying 
 out the fragments, they left the reception-rooms 
 in a manner not altogether devoid of dignity. 
 Mrs. Proudie had to retire and re-array herself. 
 
 As soon as the constellation had swept by, 
 Ethelbert rose from his knees, and turning with 
 mock anger to the fat rector, said : " After all it 
 was your doing, sir not mine. But perhaps 
 you are waiting for preferment, and so I bore 
 it." 
 
 Whereupon there was a laugh against the fat 
 rector, in which both the bishop and the chaplain 
 joined ; and thus things got themselves again 
 into order. 
 
 " Oh ! my lord, I am so sorry for this 
 accident," said the signora, putting out her hand 
 so as to force the bishop to take it. " My 
 brother is so thoughtless. Pray sit down, and 
 let me have the pleasure of making your 
 acquaintance. Though I am so poor a creature 
 as to want a sofa, I am not so selfish as to 
 require it all." Madeline could always dispose 
 herself so as to make room for a gentleman, 
 though, as she declared, the crinoline of her 
 lady friends was much too bulky to be so 
 accommodated. 
 
 " It was solely for the pleasure of meeting you 
 that I have had myself dragged here," she con- 
 tinued. " Of course, with your occupation, one 
 cannot even hope that you should have time to 
 come to us, that is, in the way of calling. And 
 at your English dinner-parties all is so dull and 
 so stately. Do you know, my lord, that in 
 coming to England my only consolation has
 
 Mrs. Proudie's Reception 129 
 
 been the thought that I should know you ; " and 
 she looked at him with the look of a she-devil. 
 
 The bishop, however, thought that she looked 
 very like an angel, and accepting the proffered 
 seat, sat down beside her. He uttered some 
 platitude as to his deep obligation for the 
 trouble she had taken, and wondered more and 
 more who she was. 
 
 " Of course you know my sad story ? " she 
 continued. 
 
 The bishop didn't know a word of it. He 
 knew, however, or thought he knew, that she 
 couldn't walk into a room like other people, 
 and so made the most of that. He put on a 
 look of ineffable distress, and said that he was 
 aware how God had afflicted her. 
 
 The signora just touched the corner of her 
 eyes with the most lovely of pocket-handker- 
 chiefs. Yes, she said she had been sorely 
 tried tried, she thought, beyond the common 
 endurance of humanity ; but while her child was 
 left to her, everything was left. " Oh ! my 
 lord," she exclaimed, " you must see that infant 
 the last bud of a wondrous tree : you must 
 let a mother hope that you will lay your holy 
 hands on her innocent head, and consecrate her 
 for female virtues. May I hope it ? " said she, 
 looking into the bishop's eye, and touching 
 the bishop's arm with her hand. 
 
 The bishop was but a man, and said she might. 
 After all, what was it but a request that he would 
 confirm her daughter ? a request, indeed, very 
 unnecessary to make, as he should do so as a 
 matter of course, if the young lady came forward 
 in the usual way. 
 
 F
 
 130 Barchester Towers 
 
 " The blood of Tiberius," said the signora, in 
 all but a whisper ; " the blood of Tiberius flows 
 in her veins. She is the last of the Neros ! " 
 
 The bishop had heard of the last of the 
 Visigoths, and had floating in his brain some 
 indistinct idea of the last of the Mohicans, but 
 to have the last of the Neros thus brought before 
 him for a blessing was very staggering. Still he 
 liked the lady : she had a proper way of thinking, 
 and talked with more propriety than her brother. 
 But who were they? It was now quite clear 
 that that blue madman with the silky beard was 
 not a Prince Vicinironi. The lady was married, 
 and was of course one of the Vicinironis by the 
 right of her husband. So the bishop went on 
 learning. 
 
 " When will you see her ? " said the signora 
 with a start. 
 
 " See whom ? " said the bishop. 
 
 " My child," said the mother. 
 
 " What is the young lady's age ? " asked the 
 bishop. 
 
 " She is just seven," said the signora. 
 
 " Oh," said the bishop, shaking his head ; 
 " she is much too young very much too young." 
 
 " But in sunny Italy, you know, we do not 
 count by years," and the signora gave the 
 bishop one of her sweetest smiles. 
 
 " But indeed, she is a great deal too young," 
 persisted the bishop ; " we never confirm 
 before " 
 
 " But you might speak to her ; you might let 
 her hear from your consecrated lips, that she is 
 not a castaway because she is a Roman ; that 
 she may be a Nero and yet a Christian ; that she
 
 Mrs. Proudie's Reception 131 
 
 may owe her black locks and dark cheeks to the 
 blood of the pagan Caesars, and yet herself be a 
 child of grace ; you will tell her this, won't you, 
 my friend ? " 
 
 The friend said he would, and asked if the 
 child could say her catechism. 
 
 " No," said the signora, " I would not allow 
 her to learn lessons such as those in a land 
 ridden over by priests, and polluted by the 
 idolatry of Rome. It is here, in Barchester, 
 that she must first be taught to lisp those holy 
 words. Oh, that you could be her instructor ! " 
 
 Now, Dr. Proudie certainly liked the lady, but, 
 seeing that he was a bishop, it was not probable 
 that he was going to instruct a little girl in the 
 first rudiments of her catechism ; so he said he'd 
 send a teacher. 
 
 " But you'll see her, yourself, my lord ? " 
 
 The bishop said he would, but where should 
 he call ? 
 
 " At papa's house," said the signora, with an 
 air of some little surprise at the question. 
 
 The bishop actually wanted the courage to 
 ask her who was her papa ; so he was forced at 
 last to leave her without fathoming the mystery. 
 Mrs. Proudie, in her second best, had now 
 returned to the rooms, and her husband thought 
 it as well that he should not remain in too close 
 conversation with the lady whom his wife ap- 
 peared to hold in such slight esteem. Presently 
 he came across his youngest daughter. 
 
 " Netta," said he, " do you know who is the 
 father of that Signora Vicinironi ? " 
 
 " It isn't Vicinironi, papa," said Netta ; " but 
 Vesey Neroni, and she's Doctor Stanhope's
 
 132 Barchester Towers 
 
 daughter. But I must go and do the civil to 
 Griselda Grantly ; I declare nobody has spoken 
 a word to the poor girl this evening." 
 
 Dr. Stanhope ! Dr. Vesey Stanhope ! Dr. 
 Vesey Stanhope's daughter, of whose marriage 
 with a dissolute Italian scamp he now remem- 
 bered to have heard something ! And that 
 impertinent blue cub who had examined him as 
 to his episcopal bearings was old Stanhope's son, 
 and the lady who had entreated him to come 
 and teach her child the catechism was old 
 Stanhope's daughter ! the daughter of one of his 
 own prebendaries ! As these things flashed 
 across his mind, he was nearly as angry as his 
 wife had been. Nevertheless, he could not but 
 own that the mother of the last of the Neros 
 was an agreeable woman. 
 
 Dr. Proudie tripped out into the adjoining 
 room, in which were congregated a crowd of 
 Grantlyite clergymen, among whom the arch- 
 deacon was standing pre-eminent, while the old 
 dean was sitting nearly buried in a huge arm- 
 chair by the fire-place. The bishop was very 
 anxious to be gracious, and, if possible, to 
 diminish the bitterness which his chaplain had 
 occasioned. Let Mr. Slope do the fortiter in re, 
 he himself would pour in the suaviter in modo. 
 
 " Pray don't stir, Mr. Dean, pray don't stir," 
 he said, as the old man essayed to get up ; "I 
 take it as a great kindness, your coming to such 
 an omnium gatherum as this. But we have 
 hardly got settled yet, and Mrs. Proudie has not 
 been able to see her friends as she would wish 
 to do. Well, Mr. Archdeacon, after all, we 
 have not been so hard upon you at Oxford."
 
 Mrs. Proudie's Reception 133 
 
 " No," said the archdeacon ; " you've only 
 drawn our teeth and cut out our tongues ; you've 
 allowed us still to breathe and swallow." 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! " laughed the bishop ; " it's not 
 quite so easy to cut out the tongue of an Oxford 
 magnate, and as for teeth, ha, ha, ha ! 
 Why, in the way we've left the matter, it's very 
 odd if the heads of colleges don't have their own 
 way quite as fully as when the hebdomadal 
 board was in all its glory ; what do you say, Mr. 
 Dean?" 
 
 " An old man, my lord, never likes changes," 
 said the dean. 
 
 " You must have been sad bunglers if it is so," 
 said the archdeacon ; " and indeed, to tell the 
 truth, I think you have bungled it. At any rate, 
 you must own this ; you have not done the half 
 what you boasted you would do." 
 
 "Now, as regards your system of profes- 
 sors " began the chancellor slowly. He was 
 
 never destined to get beyond such beginning. 
 
 "Talking of professors," said a soft clear 
 voice, close behind the chancellor's elbow ; 
 " how much you Englishmen might learn from 
 Germany ; only you are all too proud." 
 
 The bishop looking round, perceived that that 
 abominable young Stanhope had pursued him. 
 The dean stared at him, as though he were 
 some unearthly apparition; so also did two or 
 three prebendaries and minor canons. The 
 archdeacon laughed. 
 
 " The German professors are men of learning," 
 said Mr. Harding, "but" 
 
 " German professors ! " groaned out the 
 chancellor, as though his nervous system had
 
 134 Barchester Towers 
 
 received a shock which nothing but a week of 
 Oxford air could cure. 
 
 " Yes," continued Ethelbert ; not at all under- 
 standing why a German professor should be 
 contemptible in the eyes of an Oxford don. 
 " Not but what the name is best earned at 
 Oxford. In Germany the professors do teach ; 
 at Oxford, I believe they only profess to do so, 
 and sometimes not even that. You'll have those 
 universities of yours about your ears soon, if you 
 don't consent to take a lesson from Germany." 
 
 There was no answering this. Dignified 
 clergymen of sixty years of age could not con- 
 descend to discuss such a matter with a young 
 man with such clothes and such a beard. 
 
 " Have you got good water out at Plumstead, 
 Mr. Archdeacon ? " said the bishop by way of 
 changing the conversation. 
 
 " Pretty good," said Dr. Grantly. 
 
 " But by no means so good as his wine, my 
 lord," said a witty minor canon. 
 
 " Nor so generally used," said another ; 
 " that is for inward application." 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! " laughed the bishop, " a good 
 cellar of wine is a very comfortable thing in a 
 house." 
 
 "Your German professors, sir, prefer beer, I be- 
 lieve," said the sarcastic little meagre prebendary. 
 
 "They don't think much of either," said 
 Ethelbert ; " and that perhaps accounts for their 
 superiority. Now the Jewish professor " 
 
 The insult was becoming too deep for the 
 spirit of Oxford to endure, so the archdeacon 
 walked off one way and the chancellor another, 
 followed by their disciples, and the bishop and
 
 Mrs. Proudie's Reception 135 
 
 the young reformer were left together on the 
 hearth-rug. 
 
 " I was a Jew once myself," began Bertie. 
 
 The bishop was determined not to stand 
 another examination, or be led on any terms 
 into Palestine ; so he again remembered that he 
 had to do something very particular, and left 
 young Stanhope with the dean. The dean did 
 not get the worst of it, for Ethelbert gave him a 
 true account of his remarkable doings in the 
 Holy Land. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Harding," said the bishop, over- 
 taking the d-devant warden ; " I wanted to say 
 one word about the hospital. You know, of 
 course, that it is to be filled up." 
 
 Mr. Harding's heart beat a little, and he said 
 that he had heard so. 
 
 " Of course," continued the bishop ; " there 
 can be only one man whom I could wish to see 
 in that situation. I don't know what your own 
 views may be, Mr. Harding " 
 
 "They are very simply told, my lord," said 
 the other; "to take the place if it be offered 
 me, and to put up with the want of it should 
 another man get it." 
 
 The bishop professed himself delighted to 
 hear it ; Mr. Harding might be quite sure that 
 no other man would get it. There were some 
 few circumstances which would in a slight 
 degree change the nature of the duties. Mr. 
 Harding was probably aware of this, and would, 
 perhaps, not object to discuss the matter with 
 Mr. Slope. It was a subject to which Mr. Slope 
 had given a good deal of attention. 
 
 Mr. Harding felt, he knew not why, oppressed
 
 136 Barchester Towers 
 
 and annoyed. What could Mr. Slope do to 
 him ? He knew that there were to be changes. 
 The nature of them must be communicated to 
 the warden through somebody, and through 
 whom so naturally as the bishop's chaplain ? 
 'Twas thus he tried to argue himself back to an 
 easy mind, but in vain. 
 
 Mr. Slope in the mean time had taken the 
 seat which the bishop had vacated on the 
 signora's sofa, and remained with that lady till 
 it was time to marshal the folk to supper. Not 
 with contented eyes had Mrs. Proudie seen this. 
 Had not this woman laughed at her distress, and 
 had not Mr. Slope heard it ? Was she not an 
 intriguing Italian woman, half wife and half not, 
 full of affectation, airs, and impudence ? Was 
 she not horribly bedizened with velvet and pearls, 
 with velvet and pearls, too, which had not been 
 torn off her back? Above all, did she not 
 pretend to be more beautiful than her neigh- 
 bours? To say that Mrs. Proudie was jealous 
 would give a wrong idea of her feelings. She 
 had not the slightest desire that Mr. Slope 
 should be in love with herself. But she desired 
 the incense of Mr. Slope's spiritual and temporal 
 services, and did not choose that they should be 
 turned out of their course to such an object as 
 Signora Neroni. She considered also that Mr. 
 Slope ought in duty to hate the signora ; and it 
 appeared from his manner that he was very far 
 from hating her. 
 
 " Come, Mr. Slope," she said, sweeping by, 
 and looking all that she felt; "can't you make 
 yourself useful? Do pray take Mrs. Grantly 
 down to supper."
 
 Mrs. Proudie's Reception 137 
 
 Mrs. Grantly heard and escaped. The words 
 were hardly out of Mrs. Proudie's mouth, before 
 the intended victim had struck her hand through 
 the arm of one of her husband's curates, and 
 saved herself. What would the archdeacon have 
 said had he seen her walking down stairs with 
 Mr. Slope ? 
 
 Mr. Slope heard also, but was by no means so 
 obedient as was expected. Indeed, the period 
 of Mr. Slope's obedience to Mrs. Proudie was 
 drawing to a close. He did not wish yet to 
 break with her, nor to break with her at all, if it 
 could be avoided. But he intended to be master 
 in that palace, and as she had made the same 
 resolution it was not improbable that they might 
 come to blows. 
 
 Before leaving the signora he arranged a little 
 table before her, and begged to know what he 
 should bring her. She was quite indifferent, she 
 said nothing anything. It was now she felt 
 the misery of her position, now that she must 
 be left alone. Well, a little chicken, some ham, 
 and a glass of champagne. 
 
 Mr. Slope had to explain, not without blushing 
 for his patron, that there was no champagne. 
 
 Sherry would do just as well. And then Mr. 
 Slope descended with the learned Miss Trefoil 
 on his arm. Could she tell him, he asked, 
 whether the ferns of Barsetshire were equal to 
 those of Cumberland? His strongest worldly 
 passion was for ferns and before she could 
 answer him he left her wedged between the 
 door and the sideboard. It was fifty minutes 
 before she escaped, and even then unfed. 
 
 " You are not leaving us, Mr. Slope," said the
 
 138 Barchester Towers 
 
 watchful lady of the house, seeing her slave 
 escaping towards the door, with stores of pro- 
 visions held high above the heads of the guests. 
 
 Mr. Slope explained that the Signora Neroni 
 was in want of her supper. 
 
 " Pray, Mr. Slope, let her brother take it to 
 her," said Mrs. Proudie, quite out loud. " It is 
 out of the question that you should be so 
 employed. Pray, Mr. Slope, oblige me ; I am 
 sure Mr. Stanhope will wait upon his sister." 
 
 Ethelbert was most agreeably occupied in the 
 furthest corner of the room, making himself both 
 useful and agreeable to Mrs. Proudie's youngest 
 daughter. 
 
 " I couldn't get out, madam, if Madeline 
 were starving for her supper," said he ; " I'm 
 physically fixed, unless I could fly." 
 
 The lady's anger was increased by seeing that 
 her daughter also had gone over to the enemy ; 
 and when she saw, that in spite of her remon- 
 strances, in the teeth of her positive orders, Mr. 
 Slope went off to the drawing-room, the cup of 
 her indignation ran over, and she could not 
 restrain herself. " Such manners I never saw," 
 she said, muttering. " I cannot, and will not 
 permit it ; " and then, after fussing and fuming 
 for a few minutes, she pushed her way through 
 the crowd, and followed Mr. Slope. 
 
 When she reached the room above, she found 
 it absolutely deserted, except by the guilty pair. 
 The signora was sitting very comfortably up to 
 her supper, and Mr. Slope was leaning over her 
 and administering to her wants. They had been 
 discussing the merits of Sabbath-day schools, 
 and the lady had suggested that as she could
 
 Mrs. Proudie's Reception 139 
 
 not possibly go to the children, she might be 
 indulged in the wish of her heart by having the 
 children brought to her. 
 
 " And when shall it be, Mr. Slope ? " said she. 
 
 Mr. Slope was saved the necessity of com- 
 mitting himself to a promise by the entry of Mrs. 
 Proudie. She swept close up to the sofa so as 
 to confront the guilty pair, stared full at them 
 for a moment, and then said as she passed on to 
 the next room, " Mr. Slope, his lordship is 
 especially desirous of your attendance below ; 
 you will greatly oblige me if you will join him." 
 And so she stalked on. 
 
 Mr. Slope muttered something in reply, and 
 prepared to go down stairs. As for the bishop's 
 wanting him, he knew his lady patroness well 
 enough to take that assertion at what it was 
 worth ; but he did not wish to make himself the 
 hero of a scene, or to become conspicuous for 
 more gallantry than the occasion required. 
 
 " Is she always like this ? " said the signora. 
 
 "Yes always madam," said Mrs. Proudie, 
 returning; "always the same always equally 
 adverse to impropriety of conduct of every 
 description ; " and she stalked back through the 
 room again, following Mr. Slope out of the 
 door. 
 
 The signora couldn't follow her, or she 
 certainly would have done so. But she laughed 
 loud, and sent the sound of it ringing through 
 the lobby and down the stairs after Mrs. Proudie's 
 feet. Had she been as active as Grimaldi, she 
 could probably have taken no better revenge. 
 
 " Mr. Slope," said Mrs. Proudie, catching the 
 delinquent at the door, " I am surprised that you
 
 140 Barchester Towers 
 
 should leave my company to attend on such a 
 painted Jezebel as that." 
 
 "But she's lame, Mrs. Proudie, and cannot 
 move. Somebody must have waited upon her." 
 
 " Lame," said Mrs. Proudie ; " I'd lame her if 
 she belonged to me. What business had she 
 here at all ? such impertinence such affecta- 
 tion." 
 
 In the hall and adjacent rooms all manner of 
 cloaking and shawling was going on, and the 
 Barchester folk were getting themselves gone. 
 Mrs. Proudie did her best to smirk at each and 
 every one, as they made their adieux, but she 
 was hardly successful. Her temper had been 
 tried fearfully. By slow degrees, the guests 
 went. 
 
 "Send back the carriage quick," said Ethel- 
 bert, as Dr. and Mrs. Stanhope took their 
 departure. 
 
 The younger Stanhopes were left to the very 
 last, and an uncomfortable party they made with 
 the bishop's family. They all went into the 
 dining-room, and then the bishop, observing that 
 " the lady " was alone in the drawing-room, they 
 followed him up. Mrs. Proudie kept Mr. Slope 
 and her daughters in close conversation, resolv- 
 ing that he should not be indulged, nor they 
 polluted. The bishop, in mortal dread of Bertie 
 and the Jews, tried to converse with Charlotte 
 Stanhope about the climate of Italy. Bertie 
 and the signora had no resource but in each 
 other. 
 
 " Did you get your supper, at last, Madeline ? " 
 said the impudent or else mischievous young 
 man.
 
 Slope versus Harding 141 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Madeline j " Mr. Slope was 
 so very kind as to bring it me. I fear, how- 
 ever, he put himself to more inconvenience than 
 I wished." 
 
 Mrs. Proudie looked at her, but said nothing. 
 The meaning of her look might have been thus 
 translated : " If ever you find yourself within 
 these walls again, I'll give you leave to be as 
 impudent, and affected, and as mischievous as 
 you please." 
 
 At last the carriage returned with the three 
 Italian servants, and La Signora Madeline 
 Vesey Neroni was carried out, as she had been 
 carried in. 
 
 The lady of the palace retired to her chamber 
 by no means contented with the result of her first 
 grand party at Barchester. 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 SLOPE VERSUS HARDING 
 
 Two or three days after the party, Mr. Harding 
 received a note, begging him to call on Mr. 
 Slope, at the palace, at an early hour the follow- 
 ing morning. There was nothing uncivil in the 
 communication, and yet the tone of it was 
 thoroughly displeasing. It was as follows : 
 
 " My dear Mr. Harding, Will you favour me 
 by calling on me at the palace to-morrow 
 morning at 9.30 A.M. The bishop wishes me 
 to speak to you touching the hospital. I hope
 
 142 Barchester Towers 
 
 you will excuse my naming so early an hour. 
 I do so as my time is greatly occupied. If, 
 however, it is positively inconvenient to you, I 
 will change it to 10. You will, perhaps, be 
 kind enough to let me have a note in reply. 
 " Believe me to be, 
 
 " My dear Mr. Harding, 
 " Your assured friend, 
 "OBH. SLOPE. 
 
 " The Palace, Monday morning, 
 " aoth August, 185 ." 
 
 Mr. Harding neither could nor would believe 
 anything of the sort ; and he thought, moreover, 
 that Mr. Slope was rather impertinent to call 
 himself by such a name. His assured friend, 
 indeed ! How many assured friends generally 
 fall to the lot of a man in this world ? And by 
 what process are they made ? and how much of 
 such process had taken place as yet between 
 Mr. Harding and Mr. Slope? Mr. Harding 
 could not help asking himself these questions 
 as he read and re-read the note before him. 
 He answered it, however, as follows : 
 
 " Dear Sir, I will call at the palace to-morrow 
 at 9.30 A.M. as you desire. 
 
 " Truly yours, 
 "S. HARDING. 
 
 " High Street, Barchester, Monday." 
 
 And on the following morning, punctually at 
 half-past nine, he knocked at the palace door, 
 and asked for Mr. Slope. 
 
 The bishop had one small room allotted to 
 him on the ground-floor, and Mn Slope had
 
 Slope versus Harding 143 
 
 another. Into this latter Mr. Harding was 
 shown, and asked to sit down. Mr. Slope was 
 not yet there. The ex-warden stood up at the 
 window looking into the garden, and could not 
 help thinking how very short a time had passed 
 since the whole of that house had been open to 
 him, as though he had been a child of the 
 family, born and bred in it. He remembered 
 how the old servants used to smile as they 
 opened the door to him ; how the familiar 
 butler would say, when he had been absent a 
 few hours longer than usual, " A sight of you, 
 Mr. Harding, is good for sore eyes ; " how the 
 fussy housekeeper would swear that he couldn't 
 have dined, or couldn't have breakfasted, or 
 couldn't have lunched. And then, above all, 
 he remembered the pleasant gleam of inward 
 satisfaction which always spread itself over the 
 old bishop's face, whenever his friend entered 
 his room. 
 
 A tear came into each eye as he reflected 
 that all this was gone. What use would the 
 hospital be to him now ? He was alone in the 
 world, and getting old; he would soon, very 
 soon have to go, and leave it all, as his dear 
 old friend had gone ; go, and leave the hospital, 
 and his accustomed place in the cathedral, and 
 his haunts and pleasures, to younger and perhaps 
 wiser men. That chanting of his ! perhaps, 
 in truth, the time for it had gone by. He felt 
 as though the world were sinking from his feet ; 
 as though this, this was the time for him to turn 
 with confidence to those hopes which he had 
 preached with confidence to others. " What," 
 said he to himself, "can a man's religion be
 
 144 Barchester Towers 
 
 worth, if it does not support him against the 
 natural melancholy of declining years ? " And, 
 as he looked out through his dimmed eyes into 
 the bright parterres of the bishop's garden, he 
 felt that he had the support which he wanted. 
 
 Nevertheless, he did not like to be thus kept 
 waiting. If Mr. Slope did not really wish to 
 see him at half-past nine o'clock, why force him 
 to come away from his lodgings with his break- 
 fast in his throat ? To tell the truth, it was 
 policy on the part of Mr. Slope. Mr. Slope 
 had made up his mind that Mr. Harding should 
 either accept the hospital with abject submission, 
 or else refuse it altogether ; and had calculated 
 that he would probably be more quick to do 
 the latter, if he could be got to enter upon the 
 subject in an ill-humour. Perhaps Mr. Slope 
 was not altogether wrong in his calculation. 
 
 It was nearly ten when Mr. Slope hurried 
 into the room, and, muttering something about 
 the bishop and diocesan duties, shook Mr. 
 Harding's hand ruthlessly, and begged him to 
 be seated. 
 
 Now the air of superiority which this man 
 assumed, did go against the grain of Mr. 
 Harding ; and yet he did not know how to 
 resent it. The whole tendency of his mind and 
 disposition was opposed to any contra-assump- 
 tion of grandeur on his own part, and he hadn't 
 the worldly spirit or quickness necessary to put 
 down insolent pretensions by downright and 
 open rebuke, as the archdeacon would have 
 done. There was nothing for Mr. Harding but 
 to submit, and he accordingly did so. 
 
 "About the hospital, Mr. Harding?" began
 
 Slope versus Harding 145 
 
 Mr. Slope, speaking of it as the head of a 
 college at Cambridge might speak of some 
 sizarship which had to be disposed of. 
 
 Mr. Harding crossed one leg over another, 
 and then one hand over the other on the top of 
 them, and looked Mr. Slope in the face ; but he 
 said nothing. 
 
 " It's to be filled up again," said Mr. Slope. 
 Mr. Harding said that he had understood so. 
 
 " Of course, you know, the income will be 
 very much reduced," continued Mr. Slope. 
 "The bishop wished to be liberal, and he 
 therefore told the government that he thought it 
 ought to be put at not less than 450/1 I think 
 on the whole the bishop was right ; for though 
 the services required will not be of a very onerous 
 nature, they will be more so than they were 
 before. And it is, perhaps, well that the clergy 
 immediately attached to the cathedral town 
 should be made as comfortable as the extent of 
 the ecclesiastical means at our disposal will 
 allow. Those are the bishop's ideas, and I 
 must say mine also." 
 
 Mr. Harding sat rubbing one hand on the 
 other, but said not a word. 
 
 "So much for the income, Mr. Harding. 
 The house will, of course, remain to the warden, 
 as before. It should, however, I think, be 
 stipulated that he should paint inside every 
 seven years, and outside every three years, and 
 be subject to dilapidations, in the event of 
 vacating, either by death or otherwise. But 
 this is a matter on which the bishop must yet 
 be consulted." 
 
 Mr. Harding still rubbed his hands, and still
 
 146 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 sat silent, gazing up into Mr. Slope's unpre- 
 possessing face. 
 
 "Then, as to the duties," continued he, "I 
 believe, if I am rightly informed, there can 
 hardly be said to have been any duties hitherto," 
 and he gave a sort of half laugh, as though to 
 pass off the accusation in the guise of a 
 pleasantry. 
 
 Mr. Harding thought of the happy, easy years 
 he had passed in his old home ; of the worn-out, 
 aged men whom he had succoured ; of his good 
 intentions ; and of his work, which had certainly 
 been of the lightest. He thought of these 
 things, doubting for a moment whether he did 
 or did not deserve the sarcasm. He gave his 
 enemy the benefit of the doubt, and did not rebuke 
 him. He merely observed, very tranquilly, and 
 perhaps with too much humility, that the duties 
 of the situation, such as they were, had, he 
 believed, been done to the satisfaction of the 
 late bishop. 
 
 Mr. Slope again smiled, and this time the 
 smile was intended to operate against the 
 memory of the late bishop, rather than against 
 the energy of the ex-warden; and so it was 
 understood by Mr. Harding. The colour rose 
 to his cheeks, and he began to feel very angry. 
 
 " You must be aware, Mr. Harding, that things 
 are a good deal changed in Barchester," said 
 Mr. Slope. 
 
 Mr. Harding said that he was aware of it. 
 " And not only in Barchester, Mr. Harding, but 
 in the world at large. It is not only in Bar- 
 Chester that a new man is carrying out new 
 measures and casting away the useless rubbish
 
 Slope versus Harding 147 
 
 of past centuries. The same thing is going on 
 throughout the country. Work is now required 
 from every man who receives wages ; and they 
 who have to superintend the doing of work, and 
 the paying of wages, are bound to see that this 
 rule is carried out. New men, Mr. Harding, 
 are now needed, and are now forthcoming in 
 the church, as well as in other professions." 
 
 All this was wormwood to our old friend. 
 He had never rated very high his own abilities 
 or activity ; but all the feelings of his heart were 
 with the old clergy, and any antipathies of which 
 his heart was susceptible, were directed against 
 those new, busy, uncharitable, self-lauding men, 
 of whom Mr. Slope was so good an example. 
 
 " Perhaps," said he, " the bishop will prefer a 
 new man at the hospital ? " 
 
 "By no means," said Mr. Slope. "The 
 bishop is very anxious that you should accept 
 the appointment; but he wishes you should 
 understand beforehand what will be the required 
 duties. In the first place, a Sabbath-day school 
 will be attached to the hospital." 
 
 " What ! for the old men ? " asked Mr. Harding. 
 
 " No, Mr. Harding, not for the old men, but 
 for the benefit of the children of such of the 
 poor of Barchester as it may suit. The bishop 
 will expect that you shall attend this school, and 
 the teachers shall be under your inspection and 
 care." 
 
 Mr. Harding slipped his topmost hand off 
 the other, and began to rub the calf of the leg 
 which was supported. 
 
 " As to the old men," continued Mr. Slope, 
 " and the old women who are to form a part of
 
 148 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 the hospital, the bishop is desirous that you 
 shall have morning and evening service on the 
 premises every Sabbath, and one week-day 
 service ; that you shall preach to them once at 
 least on Sundays ; and that the whole hospital 
 be always collected for morning and evening 
 prayer. The bishop thinks that this will render 
 it unnecessary that any separate seats in the 
 cathedral should ^ be reserved for the hospital 
 inmates." 
 
 Mr. Slope paused, but Mr. Harding still said 
 nothing. 
 
 " Indeed, it would be difficult to find seats for 
 the women ; and, on the whole, Mr. Harding, I 
 may as well say at once, that for people of that 
 class the cathedral service does not appear to 
 me the most useful, even if it be so for any 
 class of people." 
 
 " We will not discuss that, if you please," said 
 Mr. Harding. 
 
 " I am not desirous of doing so ; at least, not 
 at the present moment. I hope, however, you 
 fully understand the bishop's wishes about the 
 new establishment of the hospital ; and if, as I 
 do not doubt, I shall receive from you an 
 assurance that you accord with his lordship's 
 views, it will give me very great pleasure to be 
 the bearer from his lordship to you of the presen- 
 tation to the appointment." 
 
 " But if I disagree with his lordship's views ? " 
 asked Mr. Harding. 
 
 u But I hope you do not," said Mr. Slope. 
 
 " But if I do ? " again asked the other. 
 
 " If such unfortunately should be the case, 
 which I can hardly conceive, I presume your
 
 Slope versus Harding 149 
 
 own feelings will dictate to you the propriety of 
 declining the appointment." 
 
 " But if I accept the appointment, and yet 
 disagree with the bishop, what then ? " 
 
 This question rather bothered Mr. Slope. It 
 was true that he had talked the matter over 
 with the bishop, and had received a sort of 
 authority for suggesting to Mr. Harding the 
 propriety of a Sunday school, and certain hospital 
 services ; but he had no authority for saying that 
 these propositions were to be made peremptory 
 conditions attached to the appointment. The 
 bishop's idea had been that Mr. Harding would 
 of course consent, and that the school would 
 become, like the rest of those new establishments 
 in the city, under the control of his wife and his 
 chaplain. Mr. Slope's idea had been more 
 correct. He intended that Mr. Harding should 
 refuse the situation, and that an ally of his own 
 should get it ; but he had not conceived the 
 possibility of Mr. Harding openly accepting the 
 appointment, and as openly rejecting the con- 
 ditions. 
 
 " It is not, I presume, probable," said he, 
 " that you will accept from the hands of the 
 bishop a piece of preferment, with a fixed pre- 
 determination to disacknowledge the duties 
 attached to it." 
 
 " If I become warden," said Mr. Harding, 
 " and neglect my duty, the bishop has means by 
 which he can remedy the grievance." 
 
 " I hardly expected such an argument from 
 you, or I may say the suggestion of such a line 
 of conduct," said Mr. Slope, with a great look 
 of injured virtue.
 
 1 50 Barchester Towers 
 
 " Nor did I expect such a proposition." 
 
 "I shall be glad at any rate to know what 
 answer I am to make to his lordship," said Mr. 
 Slope. 
 
 " I will take an early opportunity of seeing his 
 lordship myself," said Mr. Harding. 
 
 " Such an arrangement," said Mr. Slope, 
 " will hardly give his lordship satisfaction. In- 
 deed, it is impossible that the bishop should him- 
 self see every clergyman in the diocese on every 
 subject of patronage that may arise. The 
 bishop, I believe, did see you on the matter, 
 and I really cannot see why he should be 
 troubled to do so again." 
 
 " Do you know, Mr. Slope, how long I have 
 been officiating as a clergyman in this city ? " 
 Mr. Slope's wish was now nearly fulfilled. Mr. 
 Harding had become angry, and it was probable 
 that he might commit himself. 
 
 " I really do not see what that has to do with 
 the question. You cannot think the bishop 
 would be justified in allowing you to regard as a 
 sinecure a situation that requires an active man, 
 merely because you have been employed for 
 many years in the cathedral." 
 
 " But it might induce the bishop to see me, if 
 I asked him to do so. I shall consult my friends 
 in this matter, Mr. Slope; but I mean to be 
 guilty of no subterfuge, you may tell the bishop 
 that as I altogether disagree with his views 
 about the hospital, I shall decline the situation 
 if I find that any such conditions are attached to 
 it as those you have suggested ; " and so saying, 
 Mr. Harding took his hat and went his way. 
 
 Mr. Slope was contented. He considered
 
 Slope versus Harding 151 
 
 himself at liberty to accept Mr. Harding's last 
 speech as an absolute refusal of the appointment. 
 At least, he so represented it to the bishop and 
 to Mrs. Proudie. 
 
 " That is very surprising," said the bishop. 
 
 " Not at all," said Mrs. Proudie ; " you little 
 know how determined the whole set of them are 
 to withstand your authority." 
 
 " But Mr. Harding was so anxious for it," said 
 the bishop. 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Slope, " if he can hold it 
 without the slightest acknowledgment of your 
 lordship's jurisdiction." 
 
 "That is out of the question," said the 
 bishop. 
 
 " I should imagine it to be quite so," said the 
 chaplain. 
 
 " Indeed, I should think so," said the lady. 
 
 " I really am sorry for it," said the bishop. 
 
 " I don't know that there is much cause for 
 sorrow," said the lady. " Mr. Quiverful is a 
 much more deserving man, more in need of it, 
 and one who will make himself much more 
 useful in the close neighbourhood of the palace." 
 
 " I suppose I had better see Quiverful ? " said 
 the chaplain. 
 
 " I suppose you had," said the bishop.
 
 152 Barchester Towers 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE RUBBISH CART 
 
 MR. HARDING was not a happy man as he 
 walked down the palace pathway, and stepped 
 out into the close. His preferment and pleasant 
 house were a second time gone from him ; but 
 that he could endure. He had been schooled 
 and insulted by a man young enough to be his 
 son ; but that he could put up with. He could 
 even draw from the very injuries, which had 
 been inflicted on him, some of that consolation 
 which we may believe martyrs always receive 
 from the injustice of their own sufferings, and 
 which is generally proportioned in its strength 
 to the extent of cruelty with which martyrs are 
 treated. He had admitted to his daughter that 
 he wanted the comfort of his old home, and yet 
 he could have returned to his lodgings in the 
 High Street, if not with exultation, at least with 
 satisfaction, had that been all. But the venom 
 of the chaplain's harangue had worked into his 
 blood, and sapped the life of his sweet con- 
 tentment. 
 
 " New men are carrying out new measures, 
 and are carting away the useless rubbish of past 
 centuries ! " What cruel words these had been ; 
 and how often are they now used with all the 
 heartless cruelty of a Slope ! A man is suffi- 
 ciently condemned if it can only be shown that 
 either in politics or religion he does not belong 
 to some new school established within the last
 
 The Rubbish Cart 153 
 
 score of years. He may then regard himself 
 as rubbish and expect to be carted away. A 
 man is nothing now unless he has within him a 
 full appreciation of the new era ; an era in 
 which it would seem that neither honesty nor 
 truth is very desirable, but in which success is 
 the only touchstone of merit. We must laugh 
 at every thing that is established. Let the joke 
 be ever so bad, ever so untrue to the real 
 principles of joking; nevertheless we must 
 laugh or else beware the cart. We must 
 talk, think, and live up to the spirit of the 
 times, and write up to it too, if that cacoethes 
 be upon us, or else we are nought. New men 
 and new measures, long credit and few scruples, 
 great success or wonderful ruin, such are now 
 the tastes of Englishmen who know how to live. 
 Alas, alas ! under such circumstances Mr. 
 Harding could not but feel that he was an 
 Englishman who did not know how to live. 
 This new doctrine of Mr. Slope and the rubbish 
 cart, new at least at Barchester, sadly disturbed 
 his equanimity. 
 
 " The same thing is going on throughout the 
 whole country ! " " Work is now required from 
 every man who receives wages ! " And had he 
 been living all his life receiving wages, and 
 doing no work ? Had he in truth so lived as 
 to be now in his old age justly reckoned as 
 rubbish fit only to be hidden away in some huge 
 dust hole ? The school of men to whom he 
 professes to belong, the Grantlys, the Gwynnes, 
 and the old high set of Oxford divines, are 
 afflicted with no such self-accusations as these 
 which troubled Mr. Harding. They, as a rule,
 
 154 Barchester Towers 
 
 are as satisfied with the wisdom and propriety 
 of their own conduct as can be any Mr. Slope, 
 or any Dr. Proudie, with his own. But un- 
 fortunately for himself Mr. Harding had little 
 of this self-reliance. When he heard himself 
 designated as rubbish by the Slopes of the 
 world, he had no other resource than to make 
 inquiry within his own bosom as to the truth 
 of the designation. Alas, alas ! the evidence 
 seemed generally to go against him. 
 
 He had professed to himself in the bishop's 
 parlour that in these coming sources of the 
 sorrow of age, in these fits of sad regret from 
 which the latter years of few reflecting men can 
 be free, religion would suffice to comfort him. 
 Yes, religion could console him for the loss of 
 any worldly good ; but was his religion of that 
 active sort which would enable him so to repent 
 of misspent years as to pass those that were 
 left to him in a spirit of hope for the future ? 
 And such repentance itself, is it not a work 
 of agony and of tears ? It is very easy to talk 
 of repentance ; but a man has to walk over hot 
 ploughshares before he can complete it ; to be 
 skinned alive as was St. Bartholomew ; to be 
 stuck full of arrows as was St. Sebastian ; to lie 
 broiling on a gridiron like St. Lorenzo ! How 
 if his past life required such repentance as this ? 
 had he the energy to go through with it ? 
 
 "Mr. Harding, after leaving the palace, walked 
 slowly for an hour or so beneath the shady elms 
 of the close, and then betook himself to his 
 daughter's house. He had at any rate made up 
 his mind that he would go out to Plumstead 
 to consult Dr. Grantly, and that he would in
 
 The Rubbish Cart 155 
 
 the first instance tell Eleanor what had oc- 
 curred. 
 
 And now he was doomed to undergo another 
 misery. Mr. Slope had forestalled him at the 
 widow's house. He had called there on the 
 preceding afternoon. He could not, he had 
 said, deny himself the pleasure of telling Mrs. 
 Bold that her father was about to return to the 
 pretty house at Hiram's hospital. He had been 
 instructed by the bishop to inform Mr. Harding 
 that the appointment would now be made at 
 once. The bishop was of course only too happy 
 to be able to be the means of restoring to Mr. 
 Harding the preferment which he had so long 
 adorned. And then by degrees Mr. Slope had 
 introduced the subject of the pretty school 
 which he hoped before long to see attached to 
 the hospital. He had quite fascinated Mrs. 
 Bold by his description of this picturesque, 
 useful, and charitable appendage, and she had 
 gone so far as to say that she had no doubt her 
 father would approve, and that she herself would 
 gladly undertake a class. 
 
 Any one who had heard the entirely different 
 tone, and seen the entirely different manner in 
 which Mr. Slope had spoken of this projected 
 institution to the daughter and to the father, 
 could not have failed to own that Mr. Slope was 
 a man of genius. He said nothing to Mrs. 
 Bold about the hospital sermons and services, 
 nothing about the exclusion of the old men from 
 the cathedral, nothing about dilapidation and 
 painting, nothing about carting away the rubbish. 
 Eleanor had said to herself that certainly she 
 did not like Mr. Slope personally, but that he
 
 S 6 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 was a very active, zealous clergyman, and would 
 no doubt be useful in Barchester. All this 
 paved the way for much additional misery to 
 Mr. Harding. 
 
 Eleanor put on her happiest face as she 
 heard her father on the stairs, for she thought 
 she had only to congratulate him ; but directly 
 she saw his face, she knew that there was but 
 little matter for congratulation. She had seen 
 him with the same weary look of sorrow on one 
 or two occasions before, and remembered it well. 
 She had seen him when he first read that attack 
 upon himself in " The Jupiter " which had ulti- 
 mately caused him to resign the hospital ; and 
 she had seen him also when the archdeacon had 
 persuaded him to remain there against his own 
 sense of propriety and honour. She knew at a 
 glance that his spirit was in deep trouble. 
 
 " Oh, papa, what is it ? " said she, putting down 
 her boy to crawl upon the floor. 
 
 " I came to tell you, my dear," said he, " that 
 I am going out to Plumstead : you won't come 
 with me, I suppose ? " 
 
 " To Plumstead, papa ? Shall you stay 
 there?" 
 
 " I suppose I shall, to-night : I must consult 
 the archdeacon about this weary hospital. Ah 
 me ! I wish I had never thought of it again." 
 
 " Why, papa, what is the matter ? " 
 
 " I've been with Mr. Slope, my dear, and he 
 isn't the pleasantest companion in the world, at 
 least not to me." Eleanor gave a sort of half 
 blush : but she was wrong if she imagined that 
 her father in any way alluded to her acquaint- 
 ance with Mr. Slope.
 
 The Rubbish Cart 157 
 
 " Well, papa." 
 
 " He wants to turn the hospital into a Sunday 
 school and a preaching house ; and I suppose he 
 will have his way. I do not feel myself adapted 
 for such an establishment, and therefore, I 
 suppose, I must refuse the appointment." 
 
 "What would be the harm of the school, 
 papa ? " 
 
 " The want of a proper schoolmaster, my 
 dear." 
 
 " But that would of course be supplied." 
 
 " Mr. Slope wishes to supply it by making me 
 his schoolmaster. But as I am hardly fit for 
 such work, I intend to decline." 
 
 " Oh, papa ! Mr. Slope doesn't intend that. 
 He was here yesterday, and what he in- 
 tends " 
 
 " He was here yesterday, was he ? " asked 
 Mr. Harding. 
 
 " Yes, papa." 
 
 " And talking about the hospital ? " 
 
 " He was saying how glad he would be, and the 
 bishop too, to see you back there again. And 
 then he spoke about the Sunday school ; and to 
 tell the truth I agreed with him ; and I thought 
 you would have done so too. Mr. Slope spoke 
 of a school, not inside the hospital, but just 
 connected with it, of which you would be the 
 patron and visitor; and I thought you would 
 have liked such a school as that ; and I promised 
 to look after it and to take a class and it all 
 
 seemed so very . But, oh, papa ! I shall 
 
 be so miserable if I find I have done wrong." 
 
 " Nothing wrong at all, my clear," said he, 
 gently, very gently rejecting his daughter's
 
 i 5 8 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 caress. " There can be nothing wrong in your 
 wishing to make yourself useful; indeed, you 
 ought to do so by all means. Every one must 
 now exert himself who would not choose to go 
 to the wall." Poor Mr. Harding thus attempted 
 in his misery to preach the new doctrine to his 
 child. " Himself or herself, it's all the same," 
 he continued ; " you will be quite right, my 
 dear, to do something of this sort, but " 
 
 "Well, papa?" 
 
 " I am not quite sure that if I were you I 
 would select Mr. Slope for my guide." 
 
 " But I have never done so, and never shall." 
 
 " It would be very wicked of me to speak evil 
 of him, for to tell the truth I know no evil of 
 him ; but I am not quite sure that he is honest. 
 That he is not gentleman-like in his manners, of 
 that I am quite sure." 
 
 " I never thought of taking him for my guide, 
 papa." 
 
 " As for myself, my dear," continued he, " we 
 know the old proverb ' It's bad teaching an 
 old dog tricks.' I must decline the Sunday 
 school, and shall therefore probably decline the 
 hospital also. But I will first see your brother- 
 in-law." So he took up his hat, kissed the baby, 
 and withdrew, leaving Eleanor in as low spirits 
 as himself. 
 
 All this was a great aggravation to his misery. 
 He had so few with whom to sympathise, that 
 he could not afford to be cut off from the one 
 whose sympathy was of the most value to him. 
 And yet it seemed probable that this would be 
 the case. He did not own to himself that he 
 wished his daughter to hate Mr. Slope ; yet had
 
 The Rubbish Cart 159 
 
 she expressed such a feeling there would have 
 been very little bitterness in the rebuke he 
 would have given her for so uncharitable a state 
 of mind. The fact, however, was that she was 
 on friendly terms with Mr. Slope, that she 
 coincided with his views, adhered at once to his 
 plans, and listened with delight to his teaching. 
 Mr. Harding hardly wished his daughter to hate 
 the man, but he would have preferred that to 
 her loving him. 
 
 He walked away to the inn to order a fly, 
 went home to put up his carpet bag, and then 
 started for Plumstead. There was, at any rate, 
 no danger that the archdeacon would fraternise 
 with Mr. Slope ; but then he would recommend 
 internecine war, public appeals, loud reproaches, 
 and all the paraphernalia of open battle. Now 
 that alternative was hardly more to Mr. Harding's 
 taste than the other. 
 
 When Mr. Harding reached the parsonage he 
 found that the archdeacon was out, and would 
 not be home till dinner-time, so he began his 
 complaint to his elder daughter. Mrs. Grantly 
 entertained quite as strong an antagonism to 
 Mr. Slope as did her husband ; she was also 
 quite as alive to the necessity of combating the 
 Proudie faction, of supporting the old church 
 interest of the close, of keeping in her own set 
 such of the loaves and fishes as duly belonged 
 to it; and was quite as well prepared as her 
 lord to carry on the battle without giving or 
 taking quarter. Not that she was a woman 
 prone to quarrelling, or ill inclined to live at 
 peace with her clerical neighbours ; but she felt, 
 as did the archdeacon, that the presence of Mr.
 
 160 Barchester Towers 
 
 Slope in Barchester was an insult to every one 
 connected with the late bishop, and that his 
 assumed dominion in the diocese was a spiritual 
 injury to her husband. Hitherto people had 
 little guessed how bitter Mrs. Grantly could be. 
 She lived on the best of terms with all the 
 rectors' wives around her. She had been 
 popular with all the ladies connected with the 
 close. Though much the wealthiest of the 
 ecclesiastical matrons of the county, she had so 
 managed her affairs that her carriage and horses 
 had given umbrage to none. She had never 
 thrown herself among the county grandees so as 
 to excite the envy of other clergymen's wives. 
 She had never talked too loudly of earls and 
 countesses, or boasted that she gave her gover- 
 ness sixty pounds a year, or her cook seventy. 
 Mrs. Grantly had lived the life of a wise, discreet, 
 peace-making woman ; and the people of Bar- 
 chester were surprised at the amount of military 
 vigour she displayed as general of the feminine 
 Grantlyite forces. 
 
 Mrs. Grantly soon learnt that her sister Eleanor 
 had promised to assist Mr. Slope in the affairs 
 of the hospital ; and it was on this point that 
 her attention soon fixed itself. 
 
 " How can Eleanor endure him ? " said she. 
 
 " He is a very crafty man," said her father, 
 "and his craft has been successful in making 
 Eleanor think that he is a meek, charitable, 
 good clergyman. God forgive me, if I wrong 
 him, but such is not his true character in my 
 opinion." 
 
 " His true character, indeed ! " said she, with 
 something approaching to scorn for her father's
 
 The Rubbish Cart 161 
 
 moderation. " I only hope he won't have craft 
 enough to make Eleanor forget herself and her 
 position." 
 
 " Do you mean marry him ? " said he, startled 
 out of his usual demeanour by the abruptness 
 and horror of so dreadful a proposition. 
 
 " What is there so improbable in it ? Of 
 course that would be his own object if he 
 thought he had any chance of success. Eleanor 
 has a thousand a year entirely at her own dis- 
 posal, and what better fortune could fall to Mr. 
 Slope's lot than the transferring of the disposal 
 of such a fortune to himself ? " 
 
 " But you can't think she likes him, Susan ? " 
 
 " Why not ? " said Susan. " Why shouldn't 
 she like him ? He's just the sort of man to get 
 on with a woman left as she is, with no one to 
 look after her." 
 
 " Look after her ! " said the unhappy father ; 
 " don't we look after her ? " 
 
 " Ah, papa, how innocent you are ! Of course 
 it was to be expected that Eleanor should marry 
 again. I should be the last to advise her against 
 it, if she would only wait the proper time, and 
 then marry at least a gentleman." 
 
 " But you don't really mean to say that you 
 suppose Eleanor has ever thought of marrying 
 Mr. Slope ? Why, Mr. Bold has only been dead 
 a year." 
 
 " Eighteen months," said his daughter. " But 
 I don't suppose Eleanor has ever thought about 
 it. It is very probable, though, that he has, 
 and that he will try and make her do so ; and 
 that he will succeed too, if we don't take care 
 what we are about."
 
 1 62 Barchester Towers 
 
 This was quite a new phase of the affair to 
 poor Mr. Harding. To have thrust upon him as 
 his son-in-law, as the husband of his favourite 
 child, the only man in the world whom he really 
 positively disliked, would be a misfortune which 
 he felt he would not know how to endure 
 patiently. But then, could there be any ground 
 for so dreadful a surmise ? In all worldly matters 
 he was apt to look upon the opinion of his eldest 
 daughter as one generally sound and trustworthy. 
 In her appreciation of character, of motives, and 
 the probable conduct both of men and women, 
 she was usually not far wrong. She had early 
 foreseen the marriage of Eleanor and John 
 Bold; she had at a glance deciphered the 
 character of the new bishop and his chaplain ; 
 could it possibly be that her present surmise 
 should ever come forth as true ? 
 
 " But you don't think that she likes him ? " 
 said Mr. Harding again. 
 
 "Well, papa, I can't say that I think she 
 dislikes him as she ought to do. Why is he 
 visiting there as a confidential friend, when he 
 never ought to have been admitted inside the 
 house ? Why is it that she speaks to him about 
 your welfare and your position, as she clearly 
 has done? At the bishop's party the other 
 night, I saw her talking to him for half an hour 
 at the stretch." 
 
 "I thought Mr. Slope seemed to talk to 
 nobody there but that daughter of Stanhope's," 
 said Mr. Harding, wishing to defend his child. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Slope is a cleverer man than you 
 think of, papa, and keeps more than one iron 
 in the fire."
 
 The Rubbish Cart 163 
 
 To give Eleanor her due, any suspicion as to 
 the slightest inclination on her part towards Mr. 
 Slope was a wrong to her. She had no more 
 idea of marrying Mr. Slope than she had of 
 marrying the bishop; and the idea that Mr. 
 Slope would present himself as a suitor had 
 never occurred to her. Indeed, to give her her 
 due again, she had never thought about suitors 
 since her husband's death. But nevertheless 
 it was true that she had overcome all that 
 repugnance to the man which was so strongly 
 felt for him by the rest of the Grantly faction. 
 She had forgiven him his sermon. She had 
 forgiven him his low church tendencies, his 
 Sabbath schools, and puritanical observances. 
 She had forgiven his pharisaical arrogance, and 
 even his greasy face and oily vulgar manners. 
 Having agreed to overlook such offences as 
 these, why should she not in time be taught to 
 regard Mr. Slope as a suitor ? 
 
 And as to him, it must also be affirmed that 
 he was hitherto equally innocent of the crime 
 imputed to him. How it had come to pass 
 that a man whose eyes were generally so widely 
 open to everything around him had not per- 
 ceived that this young widow was rich as well 
 as beautiful, cannot probably now be explained. 
 But such was the fact. Mr. Slope had ingratiated 
 himself with Mrs. Bold, merely as he had done 
 with other ladies, in order to strengthen his 
 party in the city. He subsequently amended 
 his error ; but it was not till after the interview 
 between him and Mr. Harding.
 
 164 Barchester Towers 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE NEW CHAMPION 
 
 THE archdeacon did not return to the parsonage 
 till close upon the hour of dinner, and there was 
 therefore no time to discuss matters before that 
 important ceremony. He seemed to be in an 
 especial good humour, and welcomed his father- 
 in-law with a sort of jovial earnestness that was 
 usual with him when things on which he was 
 intent were going on as he would have them. 
 
 " It's all settled, my dear," said he to his wife 
 as he washed his hands in his dressing-room, 
 while she, according to her wont, sat listening 
 in the bedroom ; " Arabin has agreed to accept 
 the living. He'll be here next week." And 
 the archdeacon scrubbed his hands and rubbed 
 his face with a violent alacrity, which showed 
 that Arabin's coming was a great point gained. 
 
 " Will he come here to Plumstead ? " said the 
 wife. 
 
 " He has promised to stay a month with us," 
 said the archdeacon, " so that he may see what 
 his parish is like. You'll like Arabin very much. 
 He's a gentleman in every respect, and full of 
 humour." 
 
 " He's very queer, isn't he ? " asked the lady. 
 
 "Well he is a little odd in some of his 
 fancies ; but there's nothing about him you 
 won't like. He is as staunch a churchman as 
 there is at Oxford. I really don't know what 
 we should do without Arabin. It's a great
 
 The New Champion 165 
 
 thing for me to have him so near me ; and if 
 anything can put Slope down, Arabin will 
 do it." 
 
 The Reverend Francis Arabin was a fellow 
 of Lazarus, the favoured disciple of the great 
 Dr. Gwynne, a high churchman at all points; 
 so high, indeed, that at one period of his career 
 he had all but toppled over into the cesspool of 
 Rome; a poet and also a polemical writer, a 
 great pet in the common rooms at Oxford, an 
 eloquent clergyman, a droll, odd, humorous, 
 energetic, conscientious man, and as the arch- 
 deacon had boasted of him, a thorough gentle- 
 man. As he will hereafter be brought more 
 closely to our notice, it is now only necessary 
 to add, that he had just been presented to the 
 vicarage of St. Ewold by Dr. Grantly, in whose 
 gift as archdeacon the living lay. St. Ewold is 
 a parish lying just without the city of Barchester. 
 The suburbs of the new town, indeed, are partly 
 within its precincts, and the pretty church and 
 parsonage are not much above a mile distant 
 from the city gate. 
 
 St. Ewold is not a rich piece of preferment 
 it is worth some three or four hundred a year at 
 most, and has generally been held by a clergy- 
 man attached to the cathedral choir. The arch- 
 deacon, however, felt, when the living on this 
 occasion became vacant, that it imperatively 
 behoved him to aid the force of his party with 
 some tower of strength, if any such tower could 
 be got to occupy St. Ewold's. He had dis- 
 cussed the matter with his brethren in Bar- 
 Chester ; not in any weak spirit as the holder of 
 patronage to be used for his own or his family's
 
 1 66 Barchester Towers 
 
 benefit, but as one to whom was committed a 
 trust, on the due administration of which much 
 of the church's welfare might depend. He had 
 submitted to them the name of Mr. Arabin, as 
 though the choice had rested with them all in 
 conclave, and they had unanimously admitted 
 that, if Mr. Arabin would accept St. Ewold's no 
 better choice could possibly be made. 
 
 If Mr. Arabin would accept St. Ewold's ! 
 There lay the difficulty. Mr. Arabin was a 
 man standing somewhat prominently before the 
 world, that is, before the Church of England 
 world. He was not a rich man, it is true, for 
 he held no preferment but his fellowship; but 
 he was a man not over anxious for riches, not 
 married of course, and one whose time was 
 greatly taken up in discussing, both in print and 
 on platforms, the privileges and practices of the 
 church to which he belonged. As the arch- 
 deacon had done battle for its temporalities, so 
 did Mr. Arabin do battle for its spiritualities; 
 and both had done so conscientiously ; that is, 
 not so much each for his own benefit as for that 
 of others. 
 
 Holding such a position as Mr. Arabin did, 
 there was much reason to doubt whether he 
 would consent to become the parson of St. 
 Ewold's, and Dr. Grantly had taken the trouble 
 to go himself to Oxford on the matter. Dr. 
 Gwynne and Dr. Grantly together had succeeded 
 in persuading this eminent divine that duty 
 required him to go to Barchester. There were 
 wheels within wheels in this affair. For some 
 time past Mr. Arabin had been engaged in a 
 tremendous controversy with no less a person
 
 The New Champion 167 
 
 than Mr. Slope, respecting the apostolic succes- 
 sion. These two gentlemen had never seen 
 each other, but they had been extremely bitter 
 in print. Mr. Slope had endeavoured to 
 strengthen his cause by calling Mr. Arabin an 
 owl, and Mr. Arabin had retaliated by hinting 
 that Mr. Slope was an infidel. This battle had 
 been commenced in the columns of the daily 
 " Jupiter," a powerful newspaper, the manager of 
 which was very friendly to Mr. Slope's view of 
 the case. The matter, however, had become 
 too tedious for the readers of " The Jupiter," and 
 a little note had therefore been appended to one 
 of Mr. Slope's most telling rejoinders, in which 
 it had been stated that no further letters from 
 the reverend gentleman could be inserted except 
 as advertisements. 
 
 Other methods of publication were, however, 
 found less expensive than advertisements in " The 
 Jupiter ; " and the war went on merrily. Mr. 
 Slope declared that the main part of the conse- 
 cration of a clergyman was the self-devotion of 
 the inner man to the duties of the ministry. 
 Mr. Arabin contended that a man was not con- 
 secrated at all, had, indeed, no single attribute 
 of a clergyman, unless he became so through 
 the imposition of some bishop's hands, who had 
 become a bishop through the imposition of 
 other hands, and so on in a direct line to one of 
 the apostles. Each had repeatedly hung the 
 other on the horns of a dilemma; but neither 
 seemed to be a whit the worse for the hanging ; 
 and so the war went on merrily. 
 
 Whether or no the near neighbourhood of the 
 foe may have acted in any way as an inducement
 
 1 68 Barchester Towers 
 
 to Mr. Arabin to accept the living of St. Ewold, 
 we will not pretend to say ; but it had at any 
 rate been settled in Dr. Gwynne's library, at 
 Lazarus, that he would accept it, and that he 
 would lend his assistance towards driving the 
 enemy out of Barchester, or, at any rate, silencing 
 him while he remained there. Mr. Arabin 
 intended to keep his rooms at Oxford, and to 
 have the assistance of a curate at St. Ewold ; 
 but he promised to give as much time as 
 possible to the neighbourhood of Barchester, 
 and from so great a man Dr. Grantly was quite 
 satisfied with such a promise. It was no small 
 part of the satisfaction derivable from such an 
 arrangement that Bishop Proudie would be 
 forced to institute into a living, immediately 
 under his own nose, the enemy of his favourite 
 chaplain. 
 
 All through dinner the archdeacon's good 
 humour shone brightly in his face. He ate of 
 the good things heartily, he drank wine with his 
 wife and daughter, he talked pleasantly of his 
 doings at Oxford, told his father-in-law that he 
 ought to visit Dr. Gwynne at Lazarus, and 
 launched out again in praise of Mr. Arabin. 
 
 " Is Mr. Arabin married, papa ? " asked 
 Griselda. 
 
 " No, my dear ; the fellow of a college is 
 never married." 
 
 " Is he a young man, papa ? " 
 
 " About forty, I believe," said the archdeacon. 
 
 " Oh ! " said Griselda. Had her father said 
 eighty, Mr. Arabin would not have appeared to 
 her to be very much older. 
 
 When the two gentlemen were left alone over
 
 The New Champion 169 
 
 their wine, Mr. Harding told his tale of woe. 
 But even this, sad as it was, did not much 
 diminish the archdeacon's good humour, though 
 it greatly added to his pugnacity. 
 
 " He can't do it," said Dr. Grantly, over and 
 over again, as his father-in-law explained to him 
 the terms on which the new warden of the 
 hospital was to be appointed ; " he can't do it. 
 What he says is not worth the trouble of listening 
 to. He can't alter the duties of the place." 
 
 " Who can't ? " asked the ex-warden. 
 
 " Neither the bishop nor the chaplain, nor yet 
 the bishop's wife, who, I take it, has really more 
 to say to such matters than either of the other 
 two. The whole body corporate of the palace 
 together have no power to turn the warden of 
 the hospital into a Sunday schoolmaster." 
 
 " But the bishop has the power to appoint 
 whom he pleases, and " 
 
 " I don't know that ; I rather think he'll find 
 he has no such power. Let him try it, and see 
 what the press will say. For once we shall have 
 the popular cry on our side. But Proudie, ass 
 as he is, knows the world too well to get such a 
 hornet's nest about his ears." 
 
 Mr. Harding winced at the idea of the press. 
 He had had enough of that sort of publicity, 
 and was unwilling to be shown up a second time 
 either as a monster or as a martyr. He gently 
 remarked that he hoped the newspapers would 
 not get hold of his name again, and then sug- 
 gested that perhaps it would be better that he 
 should abandon his object. " I am getting old," 
 said he ; " and after all I doubt whether I am 
 fit to undertake new duties."
 
 170 Barchester Towers 
 
 " New duties ! "said the archdeacon : " don't 
 I tell you there shall be no new duties ? " 
 
 " Or, perhaps, old duties either," said Mr. 
 Harding ; " I think I will remain content as I 
 am." The picture of Mr. Slope carting away 
 the rubbish was still present to his mind. 
 
 The archdeacon drank off his glass of claret, 
 and prepared himself to be energetic. " I do 
 hope," said he, " that you are not going to be so 
 weak as to allow such a man as Mr. Slope to 
 deter you from doing what you know it is your 
 duty to do. You know it is your duty to resume 
 your place at the hospital now that parliament 
 has so settled the stipend as to remove those 
 difficulties which induced you to resign it. You 
 cannot deny this ; and should your timidity now 
 prevent you from doing so, your conscience will 
 hereafter never forgive you ; " and as he finished 
 this clause of his speech, he pushed over the 
 bottle to his companion. 
 
 " Your conscience will never forgive you," he 
 continued. " You resigned the place from con- 
 scientious scruples, scruples which I greatly 
 respected, though I did not share them. All 
 your friends respected them, and you left your 
 old house as rich in reputation as you were 
 ruined in fortune. It is now expected that you 
 will return. Dr. Gwynne was saying only the 
 other day " 
 
 " Dr. Gwynne does not reflect how much older 
 a man I am now than when he last saw me." 
 
 " Old nonsense ! " said the archdeacon ; 
 " you never thought yourself old till you listened 
 to the impudent trash of that coxcomb at the 
 palace."
 
 The New Champion 171 
 
 11 1 shall be sixty-five if I live till November," 
 said Mr. Harding. 
 
 " And seventy-five, if you live till November 
 ten years," said the archdeacon. " And you bid 
 fair to be as efficient then as you were ten years 
 ago. But for heaven's sake let us have no 
 pretence in this matter. Your plea of old age 
 is only a pretence. But you're not drinking 
 your wine. It is only a pretence. The fact is, 
 you are half afraid of this Slope, and would 
 rather subject yourself to comparative poverty 
 and discomfort, than come to blows with a man 
 who will trample on you, if you let him." 
 
 " I certainly don't like coming to blows, if I 
 can help it." 
 
 " Nor I neither but sometimes we can't help 
 it. This man's object is to induce you to refuse 
 the hospital, that he may put some creature of 
 his own into it ; that he may show his power, 
 and insult us all by insulting you, whose cause 
 and character are so intimately bound up with 
 that of the chapter. You owe it to us all to 
 resist him in this, even if you have no solicitude 
 for yourself. But surely, for your own sake, you 
 will not be so lily-livered as to fall into this trap 
 which he has baited for you, and let him take 
 the very bread out of your mouth without a 
 struggle." 
 
 Mr. Harding did not like being called lily- 
 livered, and was rather inclined to resent it. 
 " I doubt there is any true courage," said he, 
 " in squabbling for money." 
 
 " If honest men did not squabble for money, 
 in this wicked world of ours, the dishonest men 
 would get it all ; and I do not see that the cause
 
 172 Barchester Towers 
 
 of virtue would be much improved. No, we 
 must use the means which we have. If we were 
 to carry your argument home, we might give 
 away every shilling of revenue which the church 
 has ; and I presume you are not prepared to say 
 that the church would be strengthened by such 
 a sacrifice." The archdeacon filled his glass 
 and then emptied it, drinking vith much rever- 
 ence a silent toast to the well-being and perma- 
 nent security of those temporalities which were 
 so dear to his soul. 
 
 " I think all quarrels between a clergyman 
 and his bishop should be avoided," said Mr. 
 Harding. 
 
 " I think so too ; but it is quite as much the 
 duty of the bishop to look to that as of his 
 inferior. I tell you what, my friend ; I'll see 
 the bishop in this matter, that is, if you will 
 allow me ; and you may be sure I will not 
 compromise you. My opinion is, that all this 
 trash about the Sunday-schools and the sermons 
 has originated wholly with Slope and Mrs. 
 Proudie, and that the bishop knows nothing 
 about it. The bishop can't very well refuse 
 to see me, and I'll come upon him when he 
 has neither his wife nor his chaplain by him. 
 I think you'll find that it will end in his sending 
 you the appointment without any condition 
 whatever. And as to the seats in the cathedral, 
 we may safely leave that to Mr. Dean. I 
 believe the fool positively thinks that the 
 bishop could walk away with the cathedral if he 
 pleased." 
 
 And so the matter was arranged between 
 them. Mr. Harding had come expressly for
 
 The New Champion 173 
 
 advice, and therefore felt himself bound to take 
 the advice given him. He had known, more- 
 over, beforehand, that the archdeacon would not 
 hear of his giving the matter up, and accord- 
 ingly though he had in perfect good faith put 
 forward his own views, he was prepared to yield. 
 
 They therefore went into the drawing-room in 
 good humour with each other, and the evening 
 passed pleasantly in prophetic discussions on 
 the future wars of Arabin and Slope. The 
 frogs and the mice would be nothing to them, 
 nor the angers of Agamemnon and Achilles. 
 How the archdeacon rubbed his hands, and 
 plumed himself on the success of his last move ! 
 He could not himself descend into the arena 
 with Slope, but Arabin would have no such 
 scruples. Arabin was exactly the man for such 
 work, and the only man whom he knew that was 
 fit for it. 
 
 The archdeacon's good humour and high 
 buoyancy continued till, when reclining on his 
 pillow, Mrs. Grantly commenced to give him 
 her view of the state of affairs at Barchester. 
 And then certainly he was startled. The last 
 words he said that night were as follows : 
 
 " If she does, by heaven I'll never speak to 
 her again. She dragged me into the mire once, 
 but I'll not pollute myself with such filth as 
 
 that " And the archdeacon gave a shudder 
 
 which shook the whole room, so violently was 
 he convulsed with the thought which then 
 agitated his mind. 
 
 Now in this matter the widow Bold was 
 scandalously ill-treated by her relatives. She 
 had spoken to the man three or four times, and
 
 174 Barchester Towers 
 
 had expressed her willingness to teach in a 
 Sunday-school. Such was the full extent of 
 her sins in the matter of Mr. Slope. Poor 
 Eleanor ! But time will show. 
 
 The next morning Mr. Harding returned to 
 Barchester, no further word having been spoken 
 in his hearing respecting Mr. Slope's acquaint- 
 ance with his younger daughter. But he 
 observed that the archdeacon at breakfast was 
 less cordial than he had been on the preceding 
 evening. 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE WIDOW'S SUITORS 
 
 MR. SLOPE lost no time in availing himself of 
 the bishop's permission to see Mr. Quiverful, and 
 it was in his interview with this worthy pastor 
 that he first learned that Mrs. Bold was worth 
 the wooing. He rode out to Puddingdale to 
 communicate to the embryo warden the good 
 will of the bishop in his favour, and during the 
 discussion on the matter it was not unnatural 
 that the pecuniary resources of Mr. Harding and 
 his family should become the subject of remark. 
 Mr. Quiverful, with his fourteen children and 
 his four hundred a year, was a very poor man, 
 and the prospect of this new preferment, which 
 was to be held together with his living, was 
 very grateful to him. To what clergyman so 
 circumstanced would not such a prospect be 
 very grateful ? But Mr. Quiverful had long
 
 The Widow's Suitors 175 
 
 been acquainted with Mr. Harding, and had 
 received kindness at his hands, so that his heart 
 misgave him as he thought of 'supplanting a 
 friend at the hospital. Nevertheless, he was 
 extremely civil, cringingly civil, to Mr. Slope; 
 treated him quite as the great man; entreated 
 this great man to do him the honour to drink a 
 glass of sherry, at which, as it was very poor 
 Marsala, the now pampered Slope turned up his 
 nose ; and ended by declaring his extreme 
 obligation to the bishop and Mr. Slope, and 
 his great desire to accept the hospital, if if it 
 were certainly the case that Mr. Harding had 
 refused it. 
 
 What man, as needy as Mr. Quiverful, would 
 have been more disinterested ? 
 
 " Mr. Harding did positively refuse it," said 
 Mr. Slope, with a certain air of offended dignity, 
 " when he heard of the conditions to which the 
 appointment is now subjected. Of course, you 
 understand, Mr. Quiverful, that the same con- 
 ditions will be imposed on yourself." 
 
 Mr. Quiverful cared nothing for the con- 
 ditions. He would have undertaken to preach 
 any number of sermons Mr. Slope might have 
 chosen to dictate, and to pass every remaining 
 hour of his Sundays within the walls of a 
 Sunday-school. What sacrifices, or, at any rate, 
 what promises, would have been too much to 
 make for such an addition to his income, and 
 for such a house ! But his mind still recurred 
 to Mr. Harding. 
 
 "To be sure," said he; "Mr. Harding's 
 daughter is very rich, and why should he trouble 
 himself with the hospital ? "
 
 176 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 " You mean Mrs. Grantly," said Slope. 
 
 ",I meant his widowed daughter," said the 
 other. " Mrs. Bold has twelve hundred a year 
 of her own, and I suppose Mr. Harding means 
 to live with her." 
 
 " Twelve hundred a year of her own ! " said 
 Slope, and very shortly afterwards took his 
 leave, avoiding, as far as it was possible for 
 him to do, any further allusion to the hospital. 
 Twelve hundred a year, said he to himself, as 
 he rode slowly home. If it were the fact that 
 Mrs. Bold had twelve hundred a year of her 
 own, what a fool would he be to oppose her 
 father's return to his old place. The train of 
 Mr. Slope's ideas will probably be plain to all 
 my readers. Why should he not make the 
 twelve hundred a year his own ? and if he did 
 so, would it not be well for him to have a 
 father-in-law comfortably provided with the 
 good things of this world ? would it not, more- 
 over, be much more easy for him to gain the 
 daughter, if he did all in his power to forward 
 the father's views ? 
 
 These questions presented themselves to him 
 in a very forcible way, and yet there were many 
 points of doubt. If he resolved to restore to 
 Mr. Harding his former place, he must take the 
 necessary steps for doing so at once ; he must 
 immediately talk over the bishop, quarrel on 
 the matter with Mrs. Proudie whom he knew 
 he could not talk over, and let Mr. Quiverful 
 know that he had been a little too precipitate 
 as to Mr. Harding's positive refusal. That he 
 could effect all this, he did not doubt ; but he 
 did not wish to effect it for nothing. He did
 
 The Widow's Suitors 177 
 
 not wish to give way to Mr. Harding, and then 
 be rejected by the daughter. He did not wish 
 to lose one influential friend before he had 
 gained another. 
 
 And thus he rode home, meditating many 
 things in his mind. It occurred to him that 
 Mrs. Bold was sister-in-law to the archdeacon ; 
 and that not even for twelve hundred a year 
 would he submit to that imperious man. A 
 rich wife was a great desideratum to him, but 
 success in his profession was still greater ; there 
 were, moreover, other rich women who might 
 be willing to become wives ; and after all, this 
 twelve hundred a year might, when inquired 
 into, melt away into some small sum utterly 
 beneath his notice. Then also he remembered 
 that Mrs. Bold had a son. 
 
 Another circumstance also much influenced 
 him, though it was one which may almost be 
 said to have influenced him against his will. 
 The vision of the Signora Neroni was perpetu- 
 ally before his eyes. It would be too much to 
 say that Mr. Slope was lost in love, but yet he 
 thought, and kept continually thinking, that he 
 had never seen so beautiful a woman. He was 
 a man whose nature was open to such impulses, 
 and the wiles of the Italianised charmer had 
 been thoroughly successful in imposing upon 
 his thoughts. We will not talk about his heart : 
 not that he had no heart, but because his heart 
 had little to do with his present feelings. His 
 taste had been pleased, his eyes charmed, and 
 his vanity gratified. He had been dazzled by a 
 sort of loveliness which he had never before 
 seen, and had been caught by an easy, free,
 
 178 Barchester Towers 
 
 voluptuous manner which was perfectly new to 
 him. He had never been so tempted before, 
 and the temptation was now irresistible. He 
 had not owned to himself that he cared for this 
 woman more than for others around him ; but 
 yet he thought often of the time when he might 
 see her next, and made, almost unconsciously, 
 little cunning plans for seeing her frequently. 
 
 He had called at Dr. Stanhope's house the 
 day after the bishop's party, and then the 
 warmth of his admiration had been fed with 
 fresh fuel. If the signora had been kind in 
 her manner and flattering in her speech when 
 lying upon the bishop's sofa, with the eyes of 
 so many on her, she had been much more so 
 in her mother's drawing-room, with no one 
 present but her sister to repress either her 
 nature or her art. Mr. Slope had thus left her 
 quite bewildered, and could not willingly admit 
 into his brain any scheme, a part of which 
 would be the necessity of his abandoning all 
 further special friendship with this lady. 
 
 And so he slowly rode along very meditative. 
 
 And here the author must beg it to be 
 remembered that Mr. Slope was not in all 
 things a bad man. His motives, like those of 
 most men, were mixed ; and though his conduct 
 was generally very different from that which 
 we would wish to praise, it was actuated perhaps 
 as often as that of the majority of the world by 
 a desire to do his duty. He believed in the 
 religion which he taught, harsh, unpalatable, 
 uncharitable as that religion was. He believed 
 those whom he wished to get under his hoof, 
 the Grantlys and Gwynnes of the church, to be
 
 The Widow's Suitors 179 
 
 the enemies of that religion. He believed him- 
 self to be a pillar of strength, destined to do 
 great things ; and with that subtle, selfish, 
 ambiguous sophistry to which the minds of all 
 men are so subject, he had taught himself to 
 think that in doing much for the promotion of 
 his own interests he was doing much also for the 
 promotion of religion. But Mr. Slope had never 
 been an immoral man. Indeed, he had resisted 
 temptations to immorality with a strength of 
 purpose that was creditable to him. He had 
 early in life devoted himself to works which 
 were not compatible with the ordinary pleasures 
 of youth, and he had abandoned such pleasures 
 not without a struggle. It must therefore be 
 conceived that he did not admit to himself that he 
 warmly admired the beauty of a married vroman 
 without heartfelt stings of conscience ; and to 
 pacify that conscience, he had to teach himself 
 that the nature of his admiration was innocent. 
 
 And thus he rode along meditative and ill at 
 ease. His conscience had not a word to say 
 against his choosing the widow and her fortune. 
 That he looked upon as a godly work rather 
 than otherwise; as a deed which, if carried 
 through, would redound to his credit as a 
 Christian. On that side lay no future remorse, 
 no conduct which he might probably have to 
 forget, no inward stings. If it should turn out 
 to be really the fact that Mrs. Bold had twelve 
 hundred a year at her own disposal, Mr. Slope 
 would rather look upon it as a duty which he 
 owed his religion to make himself the master of 
 the wife and the money ; as a duty, too, in which 
 some amount of self-sacrifice would be necessary.
 
 180 Barchester Towers 
 
 He would have to give up his friendship with 
 the signora, his resistance to Mr. Harding, his 
 antipathy no, he found on mature self-examina- 
 tion, that he could not bring himself to give up 
 his antipathy to Dr. Grantly. He would marry 
 the lady as the enemy of her brother-in-law if 
 such an arrangement suited her; if not, she 
 must look elsewhere for a husband. 
 
 It was with such resolve as this that he 
 reached Barchester. He would at once ascertain 
 what the truth might be as to the lady's wealth, 
 and having done this, he would be ruled by 
 circumstances in his conduct respecting the 
 hospital. If he found that he could turn round 
 and secure the place for Mr. Harding without 
 much self-sacrifice, he would do so ; but if not, 
 he would woo the daughter in opposition to the 
 father. But in no case would he succumb to 
 the archdeacon. 
 
 He saw his horse taken round to the stable, 
 and immediately went forth to commence his 
 inquiries. To give Mr. Slope his due, he was 
 not a man who ever let much grass grow under 
 his feet. 
 
 Poor Eleanor ! She was doomed to be the 
 intended victim of more schemes than one. 
 
 About the time that Mr. Slope was visiting 
 the vicar of Puddingdale, a discussion took place 
 respecting her charms and wealth at Dr. Stan- 
 hope's house in the close. There had been 
 morning callers there, and people had told some 
 truth and also some falsehood respecting the 
 property which John Bold had left behind him. 
 By degrees the visitors went, and as the doctor 
 went with them, and as the doctor's wife had
 
 The Widow's Suitors 181 
 
 not made her appearance, Charlotte Stanhope 
 and her brother were left together. He was 
 sitting idly at the table, scrawling caricatures of 
 Barchester notables, then yawning, then turning 
 over a book or two, and evidently at a loss how 
 to kill his time without much labour. 
 
 " You haven't done much, Bertie, about getting 
 any orders," said his sister. 
 
 " Orders ! " said he ; " who on earth is there 
 at Barchester to give one orders ? Who among 
 the people here could possibly think it worth his 
 while to have his head done into marble ? " 
 
 " Then you mean to give up your profession," 
 said she. 
 
 " No, I don't," said he, going on with some 
 absurd portrait of the bishop. " Look at that, 
 Lotte ; isn't it the little man all over, apron and 
 all ? I'd go on with my profession at once, as 
 you call it, if the governor would set me up with 
 a studio in London ; but as to sculpture at Bar- 
 chester I suppose half the people here don't 
 know what a torso means." 
 
 " The governor will not give you a shilling to 
 start you in London," said Lotte. " Indeed, he 
 can't give you what would be sufficient, for he 
 has not got it. But you might start yourself 
 very well, if you pleased." 
 
 " How the deuce am I to do it ? " said he. 
 
 " To tell you the truth, Bertie, you'll never 
 make a penny by any profession." 
 
 " That's what I often think myself," said he, 
 not in the least offended. " Some men have a 
 great gift of making money, but they can't spend 
 it. Others can't put two shillings together, but 
 they have a great talent for all sorts of outlay.
 
 1 82 Barchester Towers 
 
 I begin to think that my genius is wholly in the 
 latter line." 
 
 " How do you mean to live, then ? " asked the 
 sister. 
 
 " I suppose I must regard myself as a young 
 raven, and look for heavenly manna; besides, 
 we have all got something when the governor 
 goes." 
 
 " Yes you'll have enough to supply yourself 
 with gloves and boots ; that is, if the Jews have 
 not got the possession of it all. I believe they 
 have the most of it already. I wonder, Bertie, 
 at your indifference ; that you, with your talents 
 and personal advantages, should never try to 
 settle yourself in life. I look forward with dread 
 to the time when the governor must go. Mother, 
 and Madeline, and I, we shall be poor enough, 
 but you will have absolutely nothing." 
 
 "Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof," 
 said Bertie. 
 
 " Will you take my advice ? " said his sister. 
 
 " Cela depend? said the brother. 
 
 " Will you marry a wife with money ? " 
 
 " At any rate," said he, " I won't marry one 
 without : wives with money a'n't so easy to get 
 now-a-days ; the parsons pick them all up." 
 
 " And a parson will pick up the wife I mean 
 for you, if you do not look quickly about it ; the 
 wife I mean is Mrs. Bold." 
 
 " Whew-w-w-w ! " whistled Bertie, " a widow ! " 
 
 " She is very beautiful," said Charlotte. 
 
 " With a son and heir all ready to my hand," 
 said Bertie. 
 
 "A baby that will very likely die," said 
 Charlotte.
 
 The Widow's Suitors 183 
 
 " I don't see that," said Bertie. " But how- 
 ever, he may live for me I don't wish to kill 
 him ; only, it must be owned that a ready-made 
 family is a drawback." 
 
 "There is only one after all," pleaded 
 Charlotte. 
 
 "And that a very little one, as the maid- 
 servant said," rejoined Bertie. 
 
 " Beggars mustn't be choosers, Bertie ; you 
 can't have everything." 
 
 " God knows I am not unreasonable," said 
 he, " nor yet opinionated ; and if you'll arrange 
 it all for me, Lotte, I'll marry the lady. Only 
 mark this; the money must be sure, and the 
 income at my own disposal, at any rate for the 
 lady's life." 
 
 Charlotte was explaining to her brother that 
 he must make love for himself if he meant to 
 carry on the matter, and was encouraging him 
 to do so, by warm eulogiums on Eleanor's 
 beauty, when the signora was brought into the 
 drawing-room. When at home, and subject to 
 the gaze of none but her own family, she 
 allowed herself to be dragged about by two 
 persons, and her two bearers now deposited her 
 on her sofa. She was not quite so grand in her 
 apparel as she had been at the bishop's party, 
 but yet she was dressed with much care, and 
 though there was a look of care and pain about 
 her eyes, she was, even by daylight, extremely 
 beautiful. 
 
 " Well, Madeline ; so I'm going to be married," 
 Bertie began, as soon as the servants had with- 
 drawn. 
 
 " There's no other foolish thing left, that you
 
 184 Barchester Towers 
 
 haven't done," said Madeline, "and therefore 
 you are quite right to try that." 
 
 " Oh, you think it's a foolish thing, do you ? " 
 said he. " There's Lotte advising me to marry 
 by all means. But on such a subject your 
 opinion ought to be the best; you have ex- 
 perience to guide you." 
 
 " Yes, I have," said Madeline, with a sort of 
 harsh sadness in her tone, which seemed to say 
 What is it to you if I am sad ? I have never 
 asked your sympathy. 
 
 Bertie was sorry when he saw that she was 
 hurt by what he said, and he came and squatted 
 on the floor close before her face to make his 
 peace with her. 
 
 "Come, Mad, I was only joking; you know 
 that. But in sober earnest, Lotte is advising 
 me to marry. She wants me to marry this Mrs. 
 Bold. She's a widow with lots of tin, a fine 
 baby, a beautiful complexion, and the George 
 and Dragon hotel up in the High Street. By 
 Jove, Lotte, if I marry her, I'll keep the public 
 house myself it's just the life to suit me." 
 
 " What ? " said Madeline, " that vapid swarthy 
 creature in the widow's cap, who looked as 
 though her clothes had been stuck on her back 
 with a pitchfork ! " The signora never allowed 
 any woman to be beautiful. 
 
 " Instead of being vapid," said Lotte, " I call 
 her a very lovely woman. She was by far the 
 loveliest woman in the rooms the other night ; 
 that is, excepting you, Madeline." 
 
 Even the compliment did not soften the 
 asperity of the maimed beauty. " Every woman 
 is charming according to Lotte," she said ; " I
 
 The Widow's Suitors 185 
 
 never knew an eye with so little true appreciation. 
 In the first place, what woman on earth could 
 look well in such a thing as that she had on her 
 head ? " 
 
 " Of course she wears a widow's cap ; but 
 she'll put that off when Bertie marries her." 
 
 " I don't see any of course in it," said Made- 
 line. " The death of twenty husbands should 
 not make me undergo such a penance. It is as 
 much a relic of paganism as the sacrifice of a 
 Hindoo woman at the burning of her husband's 
 body. If not so bloody, it is quite as barbarous, 
 and quite as useless." 
 
 " But you don't blame her for that," said 
 Bertie. " She does it because it's the custom of 
 the country. People would think ill of her if 
 she didn't do it." 
 
 " Exactly," said Madeline. " She is just one 
 of those English nonentities who would tie her 
 head up in a bag for three months every summer, 
 if her mother and her grandmother had tied up 
 their heads before her. It would never occur 
 to her, to think whether there was any use in 
 submitting to such a nuisance." 
 
 " It's very hard, in a country like England, 
 for a young woman to set herself in opposition 
 to prejudices of that sort," said the prudent 
 Charlotte. 
 
 " What you mean is, that it's very hard for a 
 fool not to be a fool," said Madeline. 
 
 Bertie Stanhope had been so much knocked 
 about the world from his earliest years, that he 
 had not retained much respect for the gravity of 
 English customs ; but even to his mind an idea 
 presented itself, that, perhaps in a wife, true
 
 1 86 Barchester Towers 
 
 British prejudice would not in the long run be 
 less agreeable than Anglo-Italian freedom from 
 restraint. He did not exactly say so, but he 
 expressed the idea in another way. 
 
 " I fancy," said he, " that if I were to die, 
 and then walk, I should think that my widow 
 looked better in one of those caps than any 
 other kind of head-dress." 
 
 "Yes and you'd fancy also that she could 
 do nothing better than shut herself up and cry 
 for you, or else burn herself. But she would 
 think differently. She'd probably wear one of 
 those horrid she-helmets, because she'd want 
 the courage not to do so ; but she'd wear it 
 with a heart longing for the time when she 
 might be allowed to throw it off. I hate such 
 shallow false pretences. For my part, I would 
 let the world say what it pleased, and show no 
 grief if I felt none ; and perhaps not, if I did." 
 
 " But wearing a widow's cap won't lessen her 
 fortune," said Charlotte. 
 
 " Or increase it," said Madeline. "^Then 
 why on earth does she do it ? " 
 
 " But Lotte's object is to make her put it off," 
 said Bertie. 
 
 " If it be true that she has got twelve hundred 
 a year quite at her own disposal, and she be not 
 utterly vulgar in her manners, I would advise 
 you to marry her. I dare say she is to be had 
 for the asking : and as you are not going to 
 marry her for love, it doesn't much matter 
 whether she is good-looking or not. As to 
 your really marrying a woman for love, I don't 
 believe you are fool enough for that." 
 
 " Oh, Madeline ! " exclaimed her sister.
 
 The Widow's Suitors 187 
 
 " And oh, Charlotte ! " said the other. 
 
 " You don't mean to say that no man can love 
 a woman unless he be a fool ? " 
 
 "I mean very much the same thing, that 
 any man who is willing to sacrifice his interest 
 to get possession of a pretty face is a fool. 
 Pretty faces are to be had cheaper than that. I 
 hate your mawkish sentimentality, Lotte. You 
 know as well as I do in what way husbands and 
 wives generally live together ; you know how 
 far the warmth of conjugal affection can with- 
 stand the trial of a bad dinner, of a rainy day, 
 or of the least privation which poverty brings 
 with it ; you know what freedom a man claims 
 for himself, what slavery he would exact from 
 his wife if he could ! And you know also how 
 wives generally obey. Marriage means tyranny 
 on one side and deceit on the other. I say that 
 a man is a fool to sacrifice his interests for such 
 a bargain. A woman, too generally, has no 
 other way of living." 
 
 " But Bertie has no other way of living," said 
 Charlotte. 
 
 "Then, in God's name, let him marry Mrs. 
 Bold," said Madeline. And . so it was settled 
 between them. 
 
 But let the gentle-hearted reader be under no 
 apprehension whatsoever. It is not destined that 
 Eleanor shall marry Mr. Slope or Bertie Stan- 
 hope. And here, perhaps, it may be allowed 
 to the novelist to explain his views on a very 
 important point in the art of telling tales. He 
 ventures to reprobate that system which goes so 
 far to violate all proper confidence between the 
 author and his readers, by maintaining nearly to
 
 1 88 Barchester Towers 
 
 the end of the third volume a mystery as to the 
 fate of their favourite personage. Nay, more, 
 and worse than this, is too frequently done. 
 Have not often the profoundest efforts of genius 
 been used to baffle the aspirations of the reader, 
 to raise false hopes and false fears, and to give 
 rise to expectations which are never to be 
 realised ? Are not promises all but made of 
 delightful horrors, in lieu of which the writer 
 produces nothing but most commonplace 
 realities in his final chapter ? And is there not 
 a species of deceit in this to which the honesty 
 of the present age should lend no countenance ? 
 
 And what can be the worth of that solicitude 
 which a peep into the third volume can utterly 
 dissipate? What the value of those literary 
 charms which are absolutely destroyed by their 
 enjoyment? When we have once learnt what 
 was that picture before which was hung Mrs. 
 Ratcliffe's solemn curtain, we feel no further 
 interest about either the frame or the veil. 
 They are to us, merely a receptacle for old 
 bones, an inappropriate coffin, which we would 
 wish to have decently buried out of our sight. 
 
 And then, how grievous a thing it is to have 
 the pleasure of your novel destroyed by the ill- 
 considered triumph of a previous reader. " Oh, 
 you needn't be alarmed for Augusta, of course 
 she accepts Gustavus in the end." " How very 
 ill-natured you are, Susan," says Kitty, with 
 tears in her eyes ; " I don't care a bit about it 
 now." Dear Kitty, if you will read my book, 
 you may defy the ill-nature of your sister. 
 There shall be no secret that she can tell you. 
 Nay, take the last chapter if you please learn
 
 Baby Worship 
 
 from its pages all the results of our troubled 
 story, and the story shall have lost none of its 
 interest, if indeed there be any interest in it to 
 lose. 
 
 Our doctrine is, that the author and the 
 reader should move along together in full confi- 
 dence with each other. Let the personages of 
 the drama undergo ever so complete a comedy 
 of errors among themselves, but let the spectator 
 never mistake the Syracusan for the Ephesian ; 
 otherwise he is one of the dupes, and the part 
 of a dupe is never dignified.^ 
 
 I would not for the value of this chapter have 
 it believed by a single reader that my Eleanor 
 could bring herself to marry Mr. Slope, or that 
 she should be sacrificed to a Bertie Stanhope. 
 But among the good folk of Barchester many 
 believed both the one and the other. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 BABY WORSHIP 
 
 " DIDDLE, diddle, diddle, diddle, dum, dum, 
 dum," said or sung Eleanor Bold. 
 
 "Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle, dum, dum, 
 dum," continued Mary Bold, taking up the 
 second part in this concerted piece. 
 
 The only audience at the concert was the 
 baby, who however gave such vociferous ap- 
 plause, that the performers, presuming it to 
 amount to an encore, commenced again. 
 
 " Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle, dum, dum,
 
 190 Barchester Towers 
 
 dum : hasn't he got lovely legs ? " said the 
 rapturous mother. 
 
 " H'm 'm 'm 'm 'm," simmered Mary, burying 
 her lips in the little fellow's fat neck, by way of 
 kissing him. 
 
 " H'm 'm 'm 'm 'm," simmered the mamma, 
 burying her lips also in his fat round short legs. 
 " He's a dawty little bold darling, so he is ; and 
 he has the nicest little pink legs in all the world, 
 so he has ; " and the simmering and the kissing 
 went on over again, and as though the ladies 
 were very hungry, and determined to eat him. 
 
 " Well, then, he's his own mother's own 
 darling : well, he shall oh, oh Mary, Mary 
 did you ever see? What am I to do? My 
 naughty, naughty, naughty, naughty little 
 Johnny." All these energetic exclamations 
 were elicited by the delight of the mother in 
 finding that her son was strong enough, and 
 mischievous enough, to pull all her hair out 
 from under her cap. "He's been and pulled 
 down all mamma's hair, and he's the naughtiest, 
 naughtiest, naughtiest little man that ever, ever, 
 ever, ever, ever " 
 
 A regular service of baby worship was going 
 on. Mary Bold was sitting on a low easy 
 chair, with the boy in her lap, and Eleanor was 
 kneeling before the object of her idolatry. As 
 she tried to cover up the little fellow's face with 
 her long, glossy, dark brown locks, and per- 
 mitted him to pull them hither and thither, as 
 he would, she looked very beautiful in spite of 
 the widow's cap which she still wore. There 
 was a quiet, enduring, grateful sweetness about 
 her face, which grew so strongly upon those
 
 Baby Worship 191 
 
 who knew her, as to make the great praise of 
 her beauty which came from her old friends, 
 appear marvellously exaggerated to those who 
 were only slightly acquainted with her. Her 
 loveliness was like that of many landscapes, 
 which require to be often seen to be fully 
 enjoyed. There was a depth of dark clear 
 brightness in her eyes which was lost upon a 
 quick observer, a character about her mouth 
 which only showed itself to those with whom 
 she familiarly conversed, a glorious form of head 
 the perfect symmetry of which required the eye 
 of an artist for its appreciation. She had none 
 of that dazzling brilliancy, of that voluptuous 
 Rubens beauty, of that pearly whiteness, and 
 those vermilion tints, which immediately en- 
 tranced with the power of a basilisk men who 
 came within reach of Madeline Neroni. It was 
 all but impossible to resist the signora, but no 
 one was called upon for any resistance towards 
 Eleanor. You might begin to talk to her as 
 though she were your sister, and it would not 
 be till your head was on your pillow, that the 
 truth and intensity of her beauty would flash 
 upon you ; that the sweetness of her voice 
 would come upon your ear. A sudden half- 
 hour with the Neroni, was like falling into a pit ; 
 an evening spent with Eleanor like an unex- 
 pected ramble in some quiet fields of asphodel. 
 
 "We'll cover him up till there sha'n't be a 
 morsel of his little 'ittle 'ittle 'ittle nose to be 
 seen," said the mother, stretching her streaming 
 locks over the infant's face. The child screamed 
 with delight, and kicked till Mary Bold was 
 hardly able to hold him.
 
 192 Barchester Towers 
 
 At this moment the door opened, and Mr. 
 Slope was announced. Up jumped Eleanor, 
 and with a sudden quick motion of her hands 
 pushed back her hair over her shoulders. It 
 would have been perhaps better for her that she 
 had not, for she thus showed more of her con- 
 fusion than she would have done had she 
 remained as she was. Mr. Slope, however, 
 immediately recognised her loveliness, and 
 thought to himself, that irrespective of her 
 fortune, she would be an inmate that a man 
 might well desire for his house, a partner for 
 his bosom's care very well qualified to make care 
 lie easy. Eleanor hurried out of the room to 
 re-adjust her cap, muttering some unnecessary 
 apology about her baby. And while she is 
 gone, we will briefly go back and state what 
 had been hitherto the results of Mr. Slope's 
 meditations on his scheme of matrimony. 
 
 His inquiries as to the widow's income had 
 at any rate been so far successful as to induce 
 him to determine to go on with the speculation. 
 As regarded Mr. Harding, he had also resolved 
 to do what he could without injury to himself. 
 To Mrs. Proudie he determined not to speak 
 on the matter, at least not at present. His 
 object was to instigate a little rebellion on the 
 part of the bishop. He thought that such a 
 state of things would be advisable not only in 
 respect to Messrs. Harding and Quiverful, but 
 also in the affairs of the diocese generally. Mr. 
 Slope was by no means of opinion that Dr. 
 Proudie was fit to rule, but he conscientiously 
 thought it wrong that his brother clergy should 
 be subjected to petticoat government. He
 
 Baby Worship 193 
 
 therefore made up his mind to infuse a little of 
 his spirit into the bishop, sufficient to induce 
 him to oppose his wife, though not enough to 
 make him altogether insubordinate. 
 
 He t had therefore taken an opportunity of 
 again speaking to his lordship about the hospital, 
 and had endeavoured to make it appear that 
 after all it would be unwise to exclude Mr. 
 Harding from the appointment. Mr. Slope, 
 however, had a harder task than he had 
 imagined. Mrs. Proudie, anxious to assume 
 to herself as much as possible of the merit of 
 patronage, had written to Mrs. Quiverful, re- 
 questing her to call at the palace ; and had then 
 explained to that matron, with much mystery, 
 condescension, and dignity, the good that was 
 in store for her and her progeny. Indeed Mrs. 
 Proudie had been so engaged at the very time 
 that Mr. Slope had been doing the same with the 
 husband at Puddingdale Vicarage, and had thus 
 in a measure committed herself. The thanks, 
 the humility, the gratitude, the surprise of Mrs. 
 Quiverful had been very overpowering ; she had 
 all but embraced the knees of her patroness, 
 and had promised that the prayers of fourteen 
 unprovided babes (so Mrs. Quiverful had de- 
 scribed her own family, the eldest of which was a 
 stout young woman of three-and-twenty) should 
 be put up to heaven morning and evening for 
 the munificent friend whom God had sent to 
 them. Such incense as this was not unpleasing 
 to Mrs. Proudie, and she made the most of it. 
 She offered her general assistance to the fourteen 
 unprovided babes, if, as she had no doubt, she 
 should find them worthy ; expressed a hope
 
 194 Barchester Towers 
 
 that the eldest of them would be fit to under- 
 take tuition in her Sabbath schools, and alto- 
 gether made herself a very great lady in the 
 estimation of Mrs. Quiverful. 
 
 Having done this, she thought it prudent to 
 drop a few words before the bishop, letting him 
 know that she had acquainted the Puddingdale 
 family with their good fortune ; so that he might 
 perceive that he stood committed to the ap- 
 pointment. The husband well understood the 
 ruse of his wife, but he did not resent it. He 
 knew that she was taking the patronage out of 
 his hands; he was resolved to put an end to 
 her interference, and re-assume his powers. But 
 then he thought this was not the best time to do 
 it. He put off the evil hour, as many a man 
 in similar circumstances has done before him. 
 
 Such having been the case, Mr. Slope naturally 
 encountered a difficulty in talking over the bishop, 
 a difficulty indeed which he found could not be 
 overcome except at the cost of a general out- 
 break atjthe palace. A general outbreak at the 
 present moment might be good policy, but it 
 also might not. It was at any rate not a step 
 to be lightly taken. He began by whispering 
 to the bishop that he feared that public opinion 
 would be against him if Mr. Harding did not 
 reappear at the hospital. The bishop answered 
 with some warmth that Mr. Quiverful had been 
 promised the appointment on Mr. Slope's advice. 
 " Not promised ! " said Mr. Slope. " Yes, 
 promised," replied the bishop, "and Mrs. 
 Proudie has seen Mrs. Quiverful on the sub- 
 ject." This was quite unexpected on the part 
 of Mr. Slope, but his presence of mind did not
 
 Baby Worship 195 
 
 fail him, and he turned the statement to his 
 own account. 
 
 " Ah, my lord," said he, " we shall all be in 
 scrapes if the ladies interfere." 
 
 This was too much in unison with my lord's 
 feelings to be altogether unpalatable, and yet 
 such an allusion to interference demanded a 
 rebuke. My lord was somewhat astounded 
 also, though not altogether made miserable, by 
 finding that there was a point of difference 
 between his wife and his chaplain. 
 " I don't know what you mean by interfer- 
 ence," said the bishop mildly. " When Mrs. 
 Proudie heard that Mr. Quiverful was to be 
 appointed, it was not unnatural that she should 
 wish to see Mrs. Quiverful about the schools. 
 I really cannot say that I see any interference." 
 
 " I only speak, my lord, for your own comfort," 
 said Slope ; "for your own comfort and dignity 
 in the diocese. I can have no other motive. 
 As far as personal feelings go, Mrs. Proudie is 
 the best friend I have. I must always re- 
 member that. But still, in my present position, 
 my first duty is to your lordship." 
 
 " I'm sure of that, Mr. Slope, I am quite sure 
 of that ; " said the bishop mollified : " and you 
 really think that Mr. Harding should have the 
 hospital ? " 
 
 " Upon my word, I'm inclined to think so. 
 I am quite prepared to take upon myself the 
 blame of first suggesting Mr. Quiverful's name. 
 But since doing so, I have found that there is 
 so strong a feeling in the diocese in favour of 
 Mr. Harding, that I think your lordship should 
 give way. I hear also that Mr. Harding has
 
 196 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 modified the objections he first felt to your 
 lordship's propositions. And as to what has 
 passed between Mrs. Proudie and Mrs. Quiver- 
 ful, the circumstance may be a little inconvenient, 
 but I really do not think that that should weigh 
 in a matter of so much moment." 
 
 And thus the poor bishop was left in a 
 dreadfully undecided state as to what he should 
 do. His mind, however, slightly inclined itself 
 to the appointment of Mr. Harding, seeing that 
 by such a step he should have the assistance of 
 Mr. Slope in opposing Mrs. Proudie. 
 
 Such was the state of affairs at the palace, 
 when Mr. Slope called at Mrs. Bold's house, 
 and found her playing with her baby. When 
 she ran out of the room, Mr. Slope began 
 praising the weather to Mary Bold, then he 
 praised the baby and kissed him, and then he 
 praised the mother, and then he praised Miss 
 Bold herself. Mrs. Bold, however, was not 
 long before she came back. 
 
 " I have to apologise for calling at so very 
 early an hour," began Mr. Slope, " but I was 
 really so anxious to speak to you that I hope 
 you and Miss Bold will excuse me." 
 
 Eleanor muttered something in which the 
 words " certainly," and " of course," and " not 
 early at all," were just audible, and then 
 apologised for her own appearance, declaring 
 with a smile, that her baby was becoming such 
 a big boy that he was quite unmanageable. 
 
 " He's a great big naughty boy," said she to 
 the child ; " and we must send him away to a 
 great big rough romping school, where they 
 have great big rods, and do terrible things to
 
 Baby Worship 197 
 
 naughty boys who don't do what their own 
 mammas tell them ; " and she then commenced 
 another course of kissing, being actuated thereto 
 by the terrible idea of sending her child away 
 which her own imagination had depicted. 
 
 " And where the masters don't have such 
 beautiful long hair to be dishevelled," said Mr. 
 Slope, taking up the joke and paying a compli- 
 ment at the same time. 
 
 Eleanor thought he might as well have left 
 the compliment alone ; but she said nothing 
 and looked nothing, being occupied as she was 
 with the baby. 
 
 " Let me take him," said Mary. " His 
 clothes are nearly off his back with his romp- 
 ing," and so saying she left the room with the 
 child. Miss Bold had heard Mr. Slope say he 
 had something pressing to say to Eleanor, and 
 thinking that she might be de trap, took this 
 opportunity of getting herself out of the room. 
 
 " Don't be long, Mary," said Eleanor, as 
 Miss Bold shut the door. 
 
 " I am glad, Mrs. Bold, to have the oppor- 
 tunity of having ten minutes' conversation with 
 you alone," began Mr. Slope. " Will you let 
 me openly ask you a plain question ? " 
 
 " Certainly," said she. 
 
 " And I am sure you will give me a plain and 
 open answer." 
 
 " Either that or none at all," said she, laughing. 
 
 " My question is this, Mrs. Bold ; is your 
 father really anxious to go back to the 
 hospital ? " 
 
 "Why do you ask me?" said she. "Why 
 don't you ask himself?"
 
 198 Barchester Towers 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Bold, I'll tell you why. 
 There are wheels within wheels, all of which I 
 would explain to you, only I fear that there is 
 not time. It is essentially necessary that I 
 should have an answer to this question, other- 
 wise I cannot know how to advance your 
 father's wishes ; and it is quite impossible that 
 I should ask himself. No one can esteem your 
 father more than I do, but I doubt if this 
 feeling is reciprocal." It certainty was not. 
 " I must be candid with you as the only means 
 of avoiding ultimate consequences, which may 
 be most injurious to Mr. Harding. I fear there 
 is a feeling, I will not even call it a prejudice, 
 with regard to myself in Barchester, which 
 is not in my favour. You remember that 
 sermon " 
 
 " Oh ! Mr. Slope, we need not go back to 
 that," said Eleanor. 
 
 " For one moment, Mrs. Bold. It is not that 
 I may talk of myself, but because it is so 
 essential that you should understand how matters 
 stand. That sermon may have been ill-judged, 
 it was certainly misunderstood ; but I will 
 say nothing about that now ; only this, that it 
 did give rise to a feeling against myself which 
 your father shares with others. It may be that 
 he has proper cause, but the result is that he is 
 not inclined to meet me on friendly terms. I 
 put it to yourself whether you do not know this 
 to be the case." 
 
 Eleanor made no answer, and Mr. Slope, in 
 the eagerness of his address, edged his chair a 
 little nearer to the widow's seat, unperceived 
 by her.
 
 Baby Worship 199 
 
 " Such being so," continued Mr. Slope, " I 
 cannot ask him this question as I can ask it of 
 you. In spite of my delinquencies since I came 
 to Barchester you have allowed me to regard 
 you as a friend." Eleanor made a little motion 
 with her head which was hardly confirmatory ; 
 but Mr. Slope, if he noticed it, did not appear 
 to do so. "To you I can speak openly, and 
 explain the feelings of my heart. This your 
 father would not allow. Unfortunately the 
 bishop has thought it right that this matter of 
 the hospital should pass through my hands. 
 There have been some details to get up with 
 which he would not trouble himself, and thus it 
 has come to pass that I was forced to have an 
 interview with your father on the matter." 
 
 " I am aware of that," said Eleanor. 
 
 "Of course," said he. "In that interview 
 Mr. Harding left the impression on my mind 
 that he did not wish to return to the hospital." 
 
 " How could that be ? " said Eleanor, at last 
 stirred up to forget the cold propriety of demea- 
 nour which she had determined to maintain. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Bold, I give you my word 
 that such was the case," said he, again getting a 
 little nearer to her. " And what is more than 
 that, before my interview with Mr. Harding, 
 certain persons at the palace, I do not mean 
 the bishop, had told me that such was the fact. 
 I own, I hardly believed it; I own, I thought 
 that your father would wish on every account, 
 for conscience' sake, for the sake of those old. 
 men, for old association, and the memory of 
 dear days long gone by, on every account I 
 thought that he would wish to resume his duties.
 
 2OO Barchester Towers 
 
 But I was told that such was not his wish ; and 
 he certainly left me with the impression that I 
 had been told the truth." 
 
 " Well ! " said Eleanor, now sufficiently roused 
 on the matter. 
 
 " I hear Miss Bold's step," said Mr. Slope ; 
 " would it be asking too great a favour to beg 
 
 you to 1 know you can manage anything 
 
 with Miss Bold." 
 
 Eleanor did not like the word manage, but 
 still she went out, and asked Mary to leave them 
 alone for another quarter of an hour. 
 
 " Thank you, Mrs. Bold, I am so very 
 grateful for this confidence. Well, I left your 
 father with this impression. Indeed, I may say 
 that he made me understand that he declined 
 the appointment." 
 
 " Not the appointment," said Eleanor. " I 
 am sure he did not decline the appointment. 
 But he said that he would not agree, that is, 
 that he did not like the scheme about the 
 schools and the services, and all that. I am 
 quite sure he never said that he wished to refuse 
 the place." 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Bold ! " said Mr. Slope, in a manner 
 almost impassioned. " I would not, for the world, 
 say to so good a daughter a word against so good 
 a father. But you must, for his sake, let me show 
 you exactly how the matter stands at present. 
 Mr. Harding was a little flurried when I told 
 him of the bishop's wishes about the school. I 
 did so, perhaps, with the less caution because 
 you yourself had so perfectly agreed with me on 
 the same subject. He was a little put out and 
 spoke warmly; ' Tell the bishop,' said he,
 
 Baby Worship 201 
 
 ' that I quite disagree with him, and shall not 
 return to the hospital, as such conditions are 
 attached to it.' What he said was to that effect ; 
 indeed, his words were, if anything, stronger 
 than those. I had no alternative but to repeat 
 them to his lordship, who said that he could 
 look on them in no other light than a refusal. 
 He also had heard the report that your father 
 did not wish for the appointment, and putting 
 all these things together, he thought he had no 
 choice but to look for some one else. He has 
 consequently offered the place to Mr. Quiverful." 
 
 " Offered the place to Mr. Quiverful ! " re- 
 peated Eleanor, her eyes suffused with tears. 
 " Then, Mr. Slope, there is an end of it." 
 
 " No, my friend not so," said he. " It is 
 to prevent such being the end of it that I am 
 now here. I may at any rate presume that I 
 have got an answer to my question, and that 
 Mr. Harding is desirous of returning." 
 
 " Desirous of returning of course he is," 
 said Eleanor; "of course he wishes to have 
 back his house and his income, and his place 
 in the world; to have back what he gave 
 up with such self-denying honesty, if he can 
 have them without restraints on his conduct to 
 which at his age it would be impossible that he 
 should submit. How can the bishop ask a man 
 of his age to turn schoolmaster to a pack of 
 children?" 
 
 " Out of the question," said Mr. Slope, laugh- 
 ing slightly ; "of course no such demand shall 
 be made on your father. I can at any rate 
 promise you that I will not be the medium of 
 any so absurd a requisition. We wished your
 
 2O2 Barchester Towers 
 
 father to preach in the hospital, as the inmates 
 may naturally be too old to leave it ; but even 
 that shall not be insisted on. We wished also 
 to attach a Sabbath-day school to the hospital, 
 thinking that such an establishment could not 
 but be useful under the surveillance of so good 
 a clergyman as Mr. Harding, and also under 
 your own. But, dear Mrs. Bold ; we won't talk of 
 these things now. One thing is clear ; we must 
 do what we can to annul this rash offer the bishop 
 has made to Mr. Quiverful. Your father 
 wouldn't see Quiverful, would he? Quiverful 
 is an honourable man, and would not, for a 
 moment, stand in your father's way." 
 
 " What ? " said Eleanor ; " ask a man with 
 fourteen children to give up his preferment ! I 
 am quite sure he will do no such thing." 
 
 " I suppose not," said Slope ; and he again 
 drew near to Mrs. Bold, so that now they were 
 very close to each other. Eleanor did not 
 think much about it, but instinctively moved 
 away a little. How greatly would she have in- 
 creased the distance could she have guessed 
 what had been said about her at Plumstead ! 
 " I suppose not. But it is out of the question 
 that Quiverful should supersede your father, 
 quite out of the question. The bishop has been 
 too rash. An idea occurs to me, which may, 
 perhaps, with God's blessing, put us right. My 
 dear Mrs. Bold, would you object to seeing the 
 bishop yourself?" 
 
 " Why should not my father see him ? " said 
 Eleanor. She had once before in her life 
 interfered in her father's affairs, and then not 
 to much advantage. She was older now, and
 
 Baby Worship 203 
 
 felt that she should take no step in a matter so 
 vital to him without his consent. 
 
 "Why, to tell the truth," said Mr. Slope, 
 with a look of sorrow, as though he greatly be- 
 wailed the want of charity in his patron, " the 
 bishop fancies that he has cause of anger against 
 your father. I fear an interview would lead to 
 further ill will." 
 
 " Why," said Eleanor, " my father is the 
 mildest, the gentlest man living." 
 
 " I only know," said Slope, " that he has the 
 best of daughters. So you would not see the 
 bishop ? As to getting an interview, I could 
 manage that for you without the slightest annoy- 
 ance to yourself." 
 
 " I could do nothing, Mr. Slope, without con- 
 sulting my father." 
 
 " Ah ! " said he, " that would be useless ; you 
 would then only be your father's messenger. 
 Does anything occur to yourself? Something 
 must be done. Your father shall not be ruined 
 by so ridiculous a misunderstanding." ^ 
 
 Eleanor said that nothing occurred to her, 
 but that it was very hard ; and the tears came 
 to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Mr. 
 Slope would have given much to have had the 
 privilege of drying them; but he had tact 
 enough to know that he had still a great deal to 
 do before he could even hope for any privilege 
 with Mrs. Bold. 
 
 " It cuts me to the heart to see you so grieved," 
 said he. " But pray let me assure you that your 
 father's interests shall not be sacrificed if it be 
 possible for me to protect them. I will tell the 
 bishop openly what are the facts. I will explain
 
 204 Barchester Towers 
 
 to him that he has hardly the right to appoint 
 any other than your father, and will show him 
 that if he does so he will be guilty of great in- 
 justice, and you, Mrs. Bold, you will have the 
 charity at any rate to believe this of me, that I 
 am truly anxious for your father's welfare, for 
 his and for your own." 
 
 The widow hardly knew what answer to make. 
 She was quite aware that her father would not 
 be at all thankful to Mr. Slope ; she had a 
 strong wish to share her father's feelings ; and 
 yet she could not but acknowledge that Mr. 
 Slope was very kind. Her father, who was 
 generally so charitable to all men, who seldom 
 spoke ill of any one, had warned her against Mr. 
 Slope, and yet she did not know how to abstain 
 from thanking him. What interest could he 
 have in the matter but that which he professed ? 
 Nevertheless there was that in his manner which 
 even she distrusted. She felt, she did not know 
 why, that there was something about him which 
 ought to put her on her guard. 
 
 Mr. Slope read all this in her hesitating manner 
 just as plainly as though she had opened her 
 heart to him. It was the talent of the man that 
 he could so read the inward feelings of women 
 with whom he conversed. He knew that Eleanor 
 was doubting him, and that if she thanked him 
 she would only do so because she could not 
 help it ; but yet this did not make him angry or 
 even annoy him. Rome was not built in a day. 
 
 ' I did not come for thanks," continued he, 
 seeing her hesitation ; " and do not want them 
 at any rate before they are merited. But this 
 I do want, Mrs. Bold, that I may make to
 
 Baby Worship 205 
 
 myself friends in this fold to which it has pleased 
 God to call me as one of the humblest of his 
 shepherds. If I cannot do so, my task here 
 must indeed be a sad one. I will at any rate 
 endeavour to deserve them." 
 
 " I'm sure," said she, " you will soon make 
 plenty of friends." She felt herself obliged to 
 say something. 
 
 " That will be nothing unless they are such as 
 will sympathise with my feelings ; unless they 
 are such as I can reverence and admire and 
 love. If the best and purest turn away from 
 me, I cannot bring myself to be satisfied with 
 the friendship of the less estimable. In such 
 case I must live alone." 
 
 " Oh ! I'm sure you will not do that, Mr. 
 Slope." Eleanor meant nothing, but it suited 
 him to appear to think some special allusion 
 had been intended. 
 
 " Indeed, Mrs. Bold, I shall live alone, quite 
 alone as far as the heart is concerned, if those 
 with whom I yearn to ally myself turn away 
 from me. But enough of this; I have called 
 you my friend, and I hope you will not con- 
 tradict me. I trust the time may come when I 
 may also call your father so. May God bless 
 you, Mrs. Bold, you and your darling boy. And 
 tell your father from me that what can be done 
 for his interest shall be done." 
 
 And so he took his leave, pressing the widow's 
 hand rather more closely than usual. Cir- 
 cumstances, however, seemed just then to make 
 this intelligible, and the lady did not feel called 
 on to resent it. 
 
 " I cannot understand him," said Eleanor to
 
 206 Barchester Towers 
 
 Mary Bold, a few minutes afterwards. "I do 
 not know whether he is a good man or a bad 
 man whether he is true or false." 
 
 "Then give him the benefit of the doubt," 
 said Mary, " and believe the best." 
 
 " On the whole, I think I do," said Eleanor. 
 " I think I do believe that he means well and 
 if so, it is a shame that we should revile him, 
 and make him miserable while he is among us. 
 But, oh, Mary, I fear papa will be disappointed 
 in the hospital." 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 WHO SHALL BE COCK OF THE WALK? 
 
 ALL this time things were going on somewhat 
 uneasily at the palace. The hint or two which 
 Mr. Slope had given was by no means thrown 
 away upon the bishop. He had a feeling that 
 if he ever meant to oppose the now almost un- 
 endurable despotism of his wife, he must lose no 
 further time in doing so : that if he ever meant 
 to be himself master in his own diocese, let alone 
 his own house, he should begin at once. It 
 would have been easier to have done so from 
 the day of his consecration than now, but easier 
 now than when Mrs. Proudie should have 
 succeeded in thoroughly mastering the diocesan 
 details. Then the proffered assistance of Mr. 
 Slope was a great thing for him, a most un- 
 expected and invaluable aid. Hitherto he had 
 looked on the two as allied forces; and had
 
 Who shall be Cock of the Walk? 207 
 
 considered that as allies they were impregnable. 
 He had begun to believe that his only chance of 
 escape would be by the advancement of Mr. 
 Slope to some distant and rich preferment. 
 But now it seemed that one of his enemies, 
 certainly the least potent of them, but never- 
 theless one very important, was willing to desert 
 his own camp. Assisted by Mr. Slope what 
 might he not do ? He walked up and down 
 his little study, almost thinking that the time 
 might come when he would be able to ap- 
 propriate to his own use the big room up stairs, 
 in which his predecessor had always sat. 
 
 As he revolved these things in his mind a 
 note was brought to him from Archdeacon 
 Grantly, in which that divine begged his lord- 
 ship to do him the honour of seeing him on the 
 morrow would his lordship have the kindness 
 to name an hour? Dr. Grantly's proposed 
 visit would have reference to the reappointment 
 of Mr. Harding to the wardenship of Barchester 
 hospital. The bishop having read his note was 
 informed that the archdeacon's servant was 
 waiting for an answer. 
 
 Here at once a great opportunity offered itself 
 to the bishop of acting on his own responsibility. 
 He bethought himself however of his new ally, 
 and rang the bell for Mr. Slope. It turned out 
 that Mr. Slope was not in the house ; and then, 
 greatly daring, the bishop with his own un- 
 assisted spirit wrote a note to the archdeacon 
 saying that he would see him, and naming an 
 hour for doing so. Having watched from his 
 study-window that the messenger got safely 
 off from the premises with this despatch, he
 
 208 Barchester Towers 
 
 began to turn over in his mind what step he 
 should next take. 
 
 To-morrow he would have to declare to the 
 archdeacon either that Mr. Harding should have 
 the appointment, or that he should not have 
 it. The bishop felt that he could not honestly 
 throw over the Quiverfuls without informing 
 Mrs. Proudie, and he resolved at last to brave 
 the lioness in her den and tell her that circum- 
 stances were such that it behoved him to re- 
 appoint Mr. Harding. He did not feel that he 
 should at all derogate from his new courage by 
 promising Mrs. Proudie that the very first piece 
 of available preferment at his disposal should be 
 given to Quiverful to atone for the injury done 
 to him. If he could mollify the lioness with 
 such a sop, how happy would he think his first 
 efforts to have been ! 
 
 Not without many misgivings did he find him- 
 self in Mrs. Proudie's boudoir. He had at first 
 thought of sending for her. But it was not at 
 all impossible that she might choose to take 
 such a message amiss, and then also it might 
 be some protection to him to have his daughters 
 present at the interview. He found her sitting 
 with her account books before her nibbling 
 the end of her pencil, evidently mersed in pecu- 
 niary difficulties, and harassed in mind by the 
 multiplicity of palatial expenses, and the heavy 
 cost of episcopal grandeur. Her daughters were 
 around her. Olivia was reading a novel, Augusta 
 was crossing a note to her bosom friend in Baker 
 Street, and Netta was working diminutive coach 
 wheels for the bottom of a petticoat. If the 
 bishop could get the better of his wife in her
 
 Who shall be Cock of the Walk ? 209 
 
 present mood, he would be a man indeed. He 
 might then consider the victory his own for ever. 
 After all, in such cases the matter between 
 husband and wife stands much the same as it 
 does between two boys at the same school, two 
 cocks in the same yard, or two armies on the 
 same continent. The conqueror once is gene- 
 rally the conqueror for ever after. The prestige 
 of victory is every thing. 
 
 " Ahem my dear," began the bishop, " if 
 you are disengaged, I wished to speak to you." 
 Mrs. Proudie put her pencil down carefully at 
 the point to which she had dotted her figures, 
 marked down in her memory the sum she had 
 arrived at, and then looked up, sourly enough, 
 into her helpmate's face. " If you are busy, 
 another time will do as well," continued the 
 bishop, whose courage like Bob Acres' had 
 oozed out, now that he found himself on the 
 ground of battle. 
 
 " What is it about, Bishop ? " asked the lady. 
 
 " Well it was about those Quiverfuls but I 
 see you are engaged. Another time will do just 
 as well for me." 
 
 " What about the Quiverfuls ? It is quite 
 understood, I believe, that they are to come to 
 the hospital. There is to be no doubt about 
 that, is there ? " and as she spoke she kept her 
 pencil sternly and vigorously fixed on the column 
 of figures before her. 
 
 " Why, my dear, there is a difficulty," said the 
 bishop. 
 
 "A difficulty!" said Mrs. Proudie; "what 
 difficulty? The place has been promised to 
 Mr. Quiverful, and of course he must have it.
 
 2io Barchester Towers 
 
 He has made all his arrangements. He has 
 written for a curate for Puddingdale, he has 
 spoken to the auctioneer about selling his farm, 
 horses, and cows, and in all respects considers 
 the place as his own. Of course he must 
 have it." 
 
 Now, bishop, look well to thyself, and call up 
 all the manhood that is in thee. Think how 
 much is at stake. If now thou art not true to 
 thy guns, no Slope can hereafter aid thee. How 
 can he who deserts his own colours at the first 
 smell of gunpowder expect faith in any ally ? 
 Thou thyself hast sought the battle-field ; fight 
 out the battle manfully now thou art there. 
 Courage, bishop, courage ! Frowns cannot kill, 
 nor can sharp words break any bones. After all 
 the apron is thine own. She can appoint no 
 wardens, give away no benefices, nominate no 
 chaplains, an thou art but true to thyself. Up, 
 man, and at her with a constant heart. 
 
 Some little monitor within the bishop's breast 
 so addressed him. But then there was another 
 monitor there which advised him differently, 
 and as follows. Remember, bishop, she is a 
 woman, and such a woman too as thou well 
 knowest : a battle of words with such a woman 
 is the very mischief. Were it not better for thee 
 to carry on this war, if it must be waged, from 
 behind thine own table in thine own study? 
 Does not every cock fight best on his own dung- 
 hill ? Thy daughters also are here, the pledges 
 of thy love, the fruits of thy loins ; is it well that 
 they should see thee in the hour of thy victory 
 over their mother? nay, is it well that they 
 should see thee in the possible hour of thy
 
 Who shall be Cock of the Walk? 211 
 
 defeat? Besides, hast thou not chosen thy 
 opportunity with wonderful little skill, indeed 
 with no touch of that sagacity for which thou art 
 famous? Will it not turn out that thou art 
 wrong in this matter, and thine enemy right; 
 that thou hast actually pledged thyself in this 
 matter of the hospital, and that now thou wouldest 
 turn upon thy wife because she requires from 
 thee but the fulfilment of thy promise ? Art 
 thou not a Christian bishop, and is not thy word 
 to be held sacred whatever be the result ? 
 Return, bishop, to thy sanctum on the lower 
 floor, and postpone thy combative propensities 
 for some occasion in which at least thou mayest 
 fight the battle against odds less tremendously 
 against thee. 
 
 All this passed within the bishop's bosom 
 while Mrs. Proudie still sat with her fixed pencil, 
 and the figures of her sum still enduring on the 
 tablets of her memory. "^4 ijs. "frf." she 
 said to herself. " Of course Mr. Quiverful must 
 have the hospital," she said out loud to her lord. 
 
 " Well, my dear, I merely wanted to suggest 
 to you that Mr. Slope seems to think that if Mr. 
 Harding be not appointed, public feeling in the 
 matter would be against us, and that the press 
 might perhaps take it up." 
 
 " Mr. Slope seems to think ! " said Mrs. 
 Proudie, in a tone of voice which plainly showed 
 the bishop that he was right in looking for a 
 breach in that quarter. "And what has Mr. 
 Slope to do with it ? I hope, my lord, you are 
 not going to allow yourself to be governed by a 
 chaplain." And now in her eagerness the lady 
 lost her place in her account.
 
 " Certainly not, my dear. Nothing I can 
 assure you is less probable. But still Mr. Slope 
 may be useful in finding how the wind blows, 
 and I really thought that if we could give some- 
 thing else as good to the Quiverfuls " 
 
 " Nonsense," said Mrs. Proudie ; " it would 
 be years before you could give them anything 
 else that could suit them half as well, and as for 
 the press and the public, and all that, remember 
 there are two ways of telling a story. If Mr. 
 Harding is fool enough to tell his tale, we 
 can also tell ours. The place was offered to 
 him, and he refused it. It has now been given 
 to some one else, and there's an end of it. At 
 least, I should think so." 
 
 "Well, my dear, I rather believe you are 
 right," said the bishop ; and sneaking out of the 
 room, he went down stairs, troubled in his mind 
 as to how he should receive the archdeacon on 
 the morrow. He felt himself not very well just 
 at present; and began to consider that he 
 might, not improbably, be detained in his room 
 the next morning by an attack of bile. He was, 
 unfortunately, very subject to bilious annoy- 
 ances. 
 
 " Mr. Slope, indeed ! I'll Slope him," said 
 the indignant matron to her listening progeny. 
 " I don't know what has come to Mr. Slope. I 
 believe he thinks he is to be Bishop of Bar- 
 chester himself, because I've taken him by the 
 hand, and got your father to make him his 
 domestic chaplain." 
 
 "He was always full of impudence," said 
 Olivia ; " I told you so once before, mamma." 
 Olivia, however, had not thought him too
 
 Who shall beCock of the Walk ? 2 1 3 
 
 impudent when once before he had proposed 
 to make her Mrs. Slope. 
 
 " Well, Olivia, I always thought you liked 
 him," said Augusta, who at that moment had 
 some grudge against her sister. " I always dis- 
 liked the man, because I think him thoroughly 
 vulgar." 
 
 " There you're wrong," said Mrs. Proudie ; 
 " he's not vulgar at all ; and what is more, he 
 is a soul-stirring, eloquent preacher ; but he 
 must be taught to know his place if he is to 
 remain in this house." 
 
 " He has the horridest eyes I ever saw in a 
 man's head," said Netta ; " and I tell you what, 
 he's terribly greedy ; did you see all the currant 
 pie he ate yesterday ? " 
 
 When Mr. Slope got home he soon learnt 
 from the bishop, as much from his manner as 
 his words, that Mrs. Proudie's behests in the 
 matter of the hospital were to be obeyed. Dr. 
 Proudie let fall something as to " this occasion 
 only," and " keeping all affairs about patronage 
 exclusively in his own hands." But he was 
 quite decided about Mr. Harding ; and as Mr. 
 Slope did not wish to have both the prelate and 
 the prelatess against him, he did not at present 
 see that he could do anything but yield. 
 
 He merely remarked that he would of course 
 carry out the bishop's views, and that he was 
 quite sure that if the bishop trusted to his own 
 judgment things in the diocese would certainly 
 be well ordered. Mr. Slope knew that if you 
 hit a nail on the head often enough, it will 
 penetrate at last. 
 
 He was sitting alone in his room on the same
 
 214 Barchester Towers 
 
 evening when a light knock was made on his 
 door, and before he could answer it the door 
 was opened, and his patroness appeared. He 
 was all smiles in a moment, but so was not she 
 also. She took, however, the chair that was 
 offered to her, and thus began her expostula- 
 tions : 
 
 " Mr. Slope, I did not at all approve your 
 conduct the other night with that Italian woman. 
 Any one would have thought that you were her 
 lover." -,; 3Dfc . 
 
 " Good gracious, my dear madam," said Mr. 
 Slope, with a look of horror. " Why, she is a 
 married woman." 
 
 " That's more than I know," said Mrs. 
 Proudie ; " however, she chooses to pass for 
 such. But married or not married, such atten- 
 tion as you paid to her was improper. I cannot 
 believe that you would wish to give offence in 
 my drawing-room, Mr. Slope; but I owe it to 
 myself and my daughters to tell you that I dis- 
 approve your conduct." 
 
 Mr. Slope opened wide his huge protruding 
 eyes, and stared out of them with a look of 
 well-feigned surprise. " Why, Mrs. Proudie," 
 said he, " I did but fetch her something to eat 
 when she said she was hungry." 
 
 " And you have called on her since," con- 
 tinued she, looking at the culprit with the stern 
 look of a detective policeman in the act of. 
 declaring himself. 
 
 Mr. Slope turned over in his mind whether it 
 would be well for him to tell this termagant at 
 once that he should call on whom he liked, and 
 do what he liked ; but he remembered that his
 
 Who shall be Cock of the Walk ? 2 1 5 
 
 footing in Barchester was not yet sufficiently 
 firm, and that it would be better for him to 
 pacify her. 
 
 " I certainly called since at Dr. Stanhope's 
 house, and certainly saw Madame Neroni." 
 
 " Yes, and you saw her alone," said the epis- 
 copal Argus. 
 
 " Undoubtedly, I did," said Mr. Slope, " but 
 that was because nobody else happened to be 
 in the room. Surely it was no fault of mine if 
 the rest of the family were out." 
 
 " Perhaps not ; but I assure you, Mr. Slope, 
 you will fall greatly in my estimation if I find 
 that you allow yourself to be caught by the 
 lures of that woman. I know women better 
 than you do, Mr. Slope, and you may believe me 
 that that signora, as she calls herself, is not a 
 fitting companion for a strict evangelical, un- 
 married young clergyman." 
 
 How Mr. Slope would have liked to laugh at 
 her, had he dared ! But he did not dare. So 
 he merely said, " I can assure you, Mrs. Proudie, 
 the lady in question is nothing to me." 
 
 "Well, I hope not, Mr. Slope. But I have 
 considered it my duty to give you this caution ; 
 and now there is another thing I feel myself 
 called on to speak about ; it is your conduct to 
 the bishop, Mr. Slope." 
 
 " My conduct to the bishop," said he, now 
 truly surprised and ignorant what the lady 
 alluded to. 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Slope ; your conduct to the bishop. 
 It is by no means what I would wish to see 
 it." 
 
 "Has the bishop said anything, Mrs. Proudie?"
 
 216 Barchester Towers 
 
 " No, the bishop has said nothing. He pro- 
 bably thinks that any remarks on the matter 
 will come better from me, who first introduced 
 you to his lordship's notice. The fact is, Mr. 
 Slope, you are a little inclined to take too 
 much upon yourself." 
 
 An angry spot showed itself on Mr. Slope's 
 cheeks, and it was with difficulty that he con- 
 trolled himself. But he did do so, and sat quite 
 silent while the lady went on. 
 
 " It is the fault of many young men in your 
 position, and therefore the bishop is not inclined 
 at present to resent it. You will, no doubt, 
 soon learn what is required from you, and what 
 is not. If you will take my advice, however, 
 you will be careful not to obtrude advice upon 
 the bishop in any matter touching patronage. 
 If his lordship wants advice, he knows where 
 to look for it." And then having added to her 
 counsel a string of platitudes as to what Avas 
 desirable and what not desirable in the conduct 
 of a strictly evangelical, unmarried young clergy- 
 man, Mrs. Proudie retreated, leaving the chaplain 
 to his thoughts. 
 
 The upshot of his thoughts was this, that 
 there certainly was not room in the diocese for 
 the energies of both himself and Mrs. Proudie, 
 and that it behoved him quickly to ascertain 
 whether his energies or hers were to prevail.
 
 ( 2I 7 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE WIDOW'S PERSECUTION 
 
 EARLY on the following morning Mr. Slope was 
 summoned to the bishop's dressing-room, and 
 went there fully expecting that he should find 
 his lordship very indignant, and spirited up by 
 his wife to repeat the rebuke which she had 
 administered on the previous day. Mr. Slope 
 had resolved that at any rate from him he would 
 not stand it, and entered the dressing-room in 
 rather a combative disposition ; but he found 
 the bishop in the most placid and gentlest of 
 humours. His lordship complained of being 
 rather unwell, had a slight headache, and was 
 not quite the thing in his stomach ; but there 
 was nothing the matter with his temper. 
 
 " Oh, Slope," said he, taking the chaplain's 
 proffered hand, " Archdeacon Grantly is to call 
 on me this morning, and I really am not fit to 
 see him. I fear I must trouble you to see him 
 for me ; " and then Dr. Proudie proceeded to 
 explain what it was that must be said to Dr. 
 Grantly. He was to be told in fact in the 
 civilest words in which the tidings could be 
 conveyed, that Mr. Harding having refused 
 the wardenship, the appointment had been 
 offered to Mr. Quiverful and accepted by 
 him. 
 
 Mr. Slope again pointed out to his patron 
 that he thought he was perhaps not quite wise 
 in his decision, and this he did sotto vcce. But
 
 218 Barchester Towers 
 
 even with this precaution it was not safe to say 
 much, and during the little that he did say, the 
 bishop made a very slight, but still a very 
 ominous gesture with his thumb towards the 
 door which opened from his dressing-room to 
 some inner sanctuary. Mr. Slope at once took 
 the hint, and said no more ; but he perceived 
 that there was to be confidence between him 
 and his patron, that the league desired by him 
 was to be made, and that this appointment of 
 Mr. Quiverful was to be the last sacrifice offered 
 on the altar of conjugal obedience. All this 
 Mr. Slope read in the slight motion of the 
 bishop's thumb, and he read it correctly. There 
 was no need of parchments and seals, of attesta- 
 tions, explanations, and professions. The bargain 
 was understood between them, and Mr. Slope 
 gave the bishop his hand upon it. The bishop 
 understood the little extra squeeze, and an in- 
 telligible gleam of assent twinkled in his eye. 
 
 " Pray be civil to the archdeacon, Mr. Slope," 
 said he out loud ; " but make him quite under- 
 stand that in this matter Mr. Harding has put it 
 out of my power to oblige him." 
 
 It would be a calumny on Mrs. Proudie to 
 suggest that she was sitting in her bed-room with 
 her ear at the keyhole during this interview. 
 She had within her a spirit of decorum which 
 prevented her from descending to such baseness. 
 To put her ear to a key-hole or to listen at a 
 chink, was a trick for a housemaid. 
 
 Mrs. Proudie knew this, and therefore she did 
 not do it ; but she stationed herself as near to 
 the door as she well could, that she might, if 
 possible, get the advantage which the housemaid
 
 The Widow's Persecution 219 
 
 would have had, without descending to the 
 housemaid's artifice. 
 
 It was little, however, that she heard, and that 
 little was only sufficient to deceive her. She 
 saw nothing of that friendly pressure, perceived 
 nothing of that concluded bargain ; she did not 
 even dream of the treacherous resolves which 
 those two false men had made together to upset 
 her in the pride of her station, to dash the cup 
 from her lip before she had drank of it, to sweep 
 away all her power before she had tasted its 
 sweets ! Traitors that they were ; the husband 
 of her bosom, and the outcast whom she had 
 fostered and brought to the warmth of the 
 world's brightest fireside ! But neither of them 
 had the magnanimity of this woman. Though 
 two men have thus leagued themselves together 
 against her, even yet the battle is not lost. 
 
 Mr. Slope felt pretty sure that Dr. Grantly 
 would decline the honour of seeing him, and 
 such turned out to be the case. The archdeacon, 
 when the palace door was opened to him, was 
 greeted by a note. Mr. Slope presented his 
 compliments, &c. &c. The bishop was ill in 
 his room, and very greatly regretted, &c. &c. 
 Mr. Slope had been charged with the bishop's 
 views, and if agreeable to the archdeacon, would 
 do himself the honour, &c. &c. The archdeacon, 
 however, was not agreeable, and having read his 
 note in the hall, crumpled it up in his hand, and 
 muttering something about sorrow for his lord- 
 ship's illness, took his leave, without sending as 
 much as a verbal message in answer to Mr. 
 Slope's note. 
 
 " 111 ! " said the archdeacon to himself as he
 
 22O Barchester Towers 
 
 flung himself into his brougham. " The man is 
 absolutely a coward. He is afraid to see me. 
 Ill, indeed ! " The archdeacon was never ill 
 himself, and did not therefore understand that 
 any one else could in truth be prevented by 
 illness from keeping an appointment. He re- 
 garded all such excuses as subterfuges, and in 
 the present instance he was not far wrong. 
 
 Dr. Grantly desired to be driven to his father- 
 in-law's lodgings in the High Street, and hearing 
 from the servant that Mr. Harding was at his 
 daughter's followed him to Mrs. Bold's house, 
 and there found him. The archdeacon was 
 fuming with rage when he got into the drawing- 
 room, and had by this time nearly forgotten the 
 pusillanimity of the bishop in the villany of the 
 chaplain. 
 
 " Look at that," said he, throwing Mr. Slope's 
 crumpled note to Mr. Harding. " I am to be 
 told that if I choose I may have the honour of 
 seeing Mr. Slope, and that, too, after a positive 
 engagement with the bishop." 
 
 " But he says the bishop is ill," said Mr. 
 Harding. 
 
 " Pshaw ! You don't mean to say that you 
 are deceived by such an excuse as that. He 
 was well enough yesterday. Now I tell you 
 what, I will see the bishop ; and I will tell him 
 also very plainly what I think of his conduct. I 
 will see him, or else Barchester will soon be too 
 hot to hold him." 
 
 Eleanor was sitting in the room, but Dr. 
 Grantly had hardly noticed her in his anger. 
 Eleanor now said to him, with the greatest 
 innocence, " I wish you had seen Mr. Slope,
 
 The Widow's Persecution 221 
 
 Dr. Grantly, because I think perhaps it might 
 have done good." 
 
 The archdeacon turned on her with almost 
 brutal wrath. Had she at once owned that she 
 had accepted Mr. Slope for her second husband, 
 he could hardly have felt more convinced of her 
 belonging body and soul to the Slope and 
 Proudie party than he now did on hearing her 
 express such a wish as this. Poor Eleanor ! 
 
 " See him ! " said the archdeacon, glaring at 
 her ; " and why am I to be called on to lower 
 myself in the world's esteem and my own by 
 coming in contact with such a man as that ? I 
 have hitherto lived among gentlemen, and do 
 not mean to be dragged into other company by 
 anybody." 
 
 Poor Mr. Harding well knew what the arch- 
 deacon meant, but Eleanor was as innocent as 
 her own baby. She could not understand how 
 the archdeacon could consider himself to be 
 dragged into bad company by condescending to 
 speak to Mr. Slope for a few minutes when the 
 interests of her father might be served by his 
 doing so. 
 
 " I was talking for a full hour yesterday to Mr. 
 Slope," said she, with some little assumption of 
 dignity, " and I did not find myself lowered by it." 
 
 " Perhaps not," said he. " But if you'll be 
 good enough to allow me, I shall judge for my- 
 self in such matters. And I tell you what, 
 Eleanor ; it will be much better for you if you 
 will allow yourself to be guided also by the 
 advice of those who are your friends. If you do 
 not you will be apt to find that you have no 
 friends left who can advise you."
 
 222 Barchester Towers 
 
 Eleanor blushed up to the roots of her hair. 
 But even now she had not the slightest idea of 
 what was passing in the archdeacon's mind. No 
 thought of love-making or love-receiving had yet 
 found its way to her heart since the death of 
 poor John Bold; and if it were possible that 
 such a thought should spring there, the man 
 must be far different from Mr. Slope that could 
 give it birth. 
 
 Nevertheless Eleanor blushed deeply, for she 
 felt she was charged with improper conduct, and 
 she did so with the more inward pain because 
 her father did not instantly rally to her side ; 
 that father for whose sake and love she had 
 submitted to be the receptacle of Mr. Slope's 
 confidence. She had given a detailed account 
 of all that had passed to her father ; and though 
 he had not absolutely agreed with her about 
 Mr. Slope's views touching the hospital, yet he 
 had said nothing to make her think that she 
 had been wrong in talking to him. 
 
 She was far too angry to humble herself 
 before her brother-in-law. Indeed, she had 
 never accustomed herself to be very abject 
 before him, and they had never been confiden- 
 tial allies. " I do not the least understand 
 what you mean, Dr. Grantly," said she. "I 
 do not know that I can accuse myself of doing 
 anything that my friends should disapprove. 
 Mr. Slope called here expressly to ask what 
 papa's wishes were about the hospital ; and 
 as I believe he called with friendly intentions 
 I told him." 
 
 " Friendly intentions ! " sneered the arch- 
 deacon.
 
 The Widow's Persecution 223 
 
 " I believe you greatly wrong Mr. Slope," 
 continued Eleanor ; " but I have explained 
 this to papa already ; and as you do not seem 
 to approve of what I say, Dr. Grantly, I will 
 with your permission leave you and papa 
 together," and so saying she walked slowly out 
 of the room. 
 
 All this made Mr. Harding very unhappy. 
 It was quite clear that the archdeacon and his 
 wife had made up their minds that Eleanor was 
 going to marry Mr. Slope. Mr. Harding could 
 not really bring himself to think that she would 
 do so, but yet he could not deny that circum- 
 stances made it appear that the man's company 
 was not disagreeable to her. She was now 
 constantly seeing him, and yet she received 
 visits from no other unmarried gentleman. 
 She always took his part when his conduct was 
 canvassed, although she was aware how person- 
 ally objectionable he was to her friends. Then, 
 again, Mr. Harding felt that if she should 
 choose to become Mrs. Slope, he had nothing 
 that he could justly urge against her doing so. 
 She had full right to please herself, and he, as 
 a father, could not say that she would disgrace 
 herself by marrying a clergyman who stood so 
 well before the world as Mr. Slope did. As 
 for quarrelling with his daughter on account 
 of such a marriage, and separating himself from 
 her as the archdeacon had threatened to do,, 
 that, with Mr. Harding, would be out of the 
 question. If she should determine to marry 
 this man, he must get over his aversion as best 
 he could. His Eleanor, his own old companion 
 in their old happy home, must still be the friend
 
 224 Barchester Towers 
 
 of his bosom, the child of his heart. Let who 
 would cast her off, he would not. If it were 
 fated that he should have to sit in his old age 
 at the same table with that man whom of all 
 men he disliked the most, he would meet his 
 fate as best he might. Anything to him would 
 be preferable to the loss of his daughter. 
 
 Such being his feelings, he hardly knew how 
 to take part with Eleanor against the archdeacon, 
 or with the archdeacon against Eleanor. It 
 will be said that he should never have sus- 
 pected her. Alas ! he never should have done 
 so. But Mr. Harding was by no means a 
 perfect character. ( In^ his indecision, his weak- 
 ness, his proneness to be led~by others, his want 
 i of self-confidence, he was very far from being 
 perfect. And then it must be remembered that 
 such a marriage as that which the archdeacon 
 contemplated with disgust, which we who know 
 Mr. Slope so well would regard with equal 
 disgust, did not appear so monstrous to Mr. 
 Harding, because in his charity he did not hate 
 the chaplain as the archdeacon did, and as 
 we do. 
 
 He was, however, very unhappy when his 
 daughter left the room, and he had recourse 
 to an old trick of his that was customary to 
 him in his times of sadness. He began playing 
 some slow tune upon an imaginary violoncello, 
 drawing one hand slowly backwards and for- 
 wards as though he held a bow in it, and 
 modulating the unreal cords with the other. 
 
 " She'll marry that man as sure as two and 
 two make four," said the practical archdeacon. 
 
 " I hope not, I hope not," said the father.
 
 The Widow's Persecution 225 
 
 " But if she does, what can I say to her ? I 
 have no right to object to him." 
 
 " No right ! " exclaimed Dr. Grantly. 
 
 " No right as her father. He is in my own 
 profession, and for aught we know a good 
 man." 
 
 To this the archdeacon would by no means 
 assent. It was not well, however, to argue the 
 case against Eleanor in her own drawing-room, 
 and so they both walked forth and discussed 
 the matter in all its bearings under the elm 
 trees of the close. Mr. Harding also explained 
 to his son-in-law what had been the purport, at 
 any rate the alleged purport, of Mr. Slope's last 
 visit to the widow. He, however, stated that 
 he could not bring himself to believe that Mr. 
 Slope had any real anxiety such as that he had 
 pretended. " I cannot forget his demeanour 
 to myself," said Mr. Harding, " and it is not 
 possible that his ideas should have changed 
 so soon." 
 
 "I see it all," said the archdeacon. "The 
 sly tartufe 1 He thinks to buy the daughter by 
 providing for the father. He means to show 
 how powerful he is, how good he is, and how 
 much he is willing to do for her beaux yeux ; 
 yes, I see it all now. But we'll be too many 
 for him yet, Mr. Harding," he said, turning to 
 his companion with some gravity, and pressing 
 his hand upon the other's arm. " It would, 
 perhaps, be better for you to lose the hospital 
 than get it on such terms." 
 
 " Lose it ! " said Mr. Harding ; " why, I've 
 lost it already. I don't want it. I've made 
 up my mind to do without it. I'll withdraw 
 
 I
 
 226 Barchester Towers 
 
 altogether. I'll just go and write a line to the 
 bishop and tell him that I withdraw my claim 
 altogether." 
 
 Nothing would have pleased him better than 
 to be allowed to escape from the trouble and 
 difficulty in such a manner. But he was now 
 going too fast for the archdeacon. 
 
 " No no no ! we'll do no such thing," said 
 Dr. Grantly ; " we'll still have the hospital. 
 I hardly doubt but that we'll have it. But not 
 by Mr. Slope's assistance. If that be necessary 
 we'll lose it ; but we'll have it, spite of his teeth, 
 if we can. Arabin will be at Plumstead to- 
 morrow ; you must come over and talk to him." 
 
 The two now turned into the cathedral library, 
 which was used by the clergymen of the close 
 as a sort of ecclesiastical club-room, for writing 
 sermons and sometimes letters ; also for reading 
 theological works, and sometimes magazines and 
 newspapers. The theological works were not 
 disturbed, perhaps, quite as often as from the 
 appearance of the building the outside public 
 might have been led to expect. Here the two 
 allies settled on their course of action. The 
 archdeacon wrote a letter to the bishop, strongly 
 worded, but still respectful, in which he put 
 forward his father-in-law's claim to the appoint- 
 ment, and expressed his own regret that he had 
 not been able to see his lordship when he called. 
 Of Mr. Slope he made no mention whatsoever. 
 It was then settled that Mr. Harding should go 
 out to Plumstead on the following day; and 
 after considerable discussion on the matter, the 
 archdeacon proposed to ask Eleanor there also, 
 so as to withdraw her, if possible, from Mr.
 
 The Widow's Persecution 227 
 
 Slope's attentions. " A week or two," said he, 
 " may teach her what he is, and while she is 
 there she will be out of harm's way. Mr. Slope 
 won't come there after her." 
 
 Eleanor was not a little surprised when her 
 brother-in-law came back and very civilly pressed 
 her to go out to Plumstead with her father. 
 She instantly perceived that her father had been 
 fighting her battles for her behind her back. 
 She felt thankful to him, and for his sake she 
 would not show her resentment to the archdeacon 
 by refusing his invitation. But she could not, she 
 said, go on the morrow; she had an invitation 
 to drink tea at the Stanhopes' which she had 
 promised to accept. She would, she added, go 
 with her father on the next day, if he would 
 wait ; or she would follow him. 
 
 " The Stanhopes ! " said Dr. Grantly ; " I did 
 not know you were so intimate with them." 
 
 " I did not know it myself," said she, " till 
 Miss Stanhope called yesterday. However, I 
 like her very much, and I have promised to go 
 and play chess with some of them." 
 
 "Have they a party there?" said the arch- 
 deacon, still fearful of Mr. Slope. 
 
 " Oh, no," said Eleanor ; " Miss Stanhope 
 said there was to be nobody at all. But she 
 had heard that Mary had left me for a few 
 weeks, and she had learnt from some one that I 
 play chess, and so she came over on purpose to 
 ask me to go in." 
 
 "Well, that's very friendly," said the ex- 
 warden. "They certainly do look more like 
 foreigners than English people, but I dare say 
 they are none the worse for that."
 
 228 Barchester Towers 
 
 The archdeacon was inclined to look upon 
 the Stanhopes with favourable eyes, and had 
 nothing to object on the matter. It was there- 
 fore arranged that Mr. Harding should postpone 
 his visit to Plumstead for one day, and then 
 take with him Eleanor, the baby, and the nurse. 
 
 Mr. Slope is certainly becoming of some 
 importance in Barchester. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 BARCHESTER BY MOONLIGHT 
 
 THERE was much cause for grief and occasional 
 perturbation of spirits in the Stanhope family, 
 but yet they rarely seemed to be grieved or to 
 be disturbed. It was the peculiar gift of each 
 of them that each was able to bear his or her 
 own burden without complaint, and perhaps 
 without sympathy. They habitually looked on 
 the sunny side of the wall, if there was a gleam 
 on either side for them to look at ; and, if there 
 was none, they endured the shade with an in- 
 difference which, if not stoical, answered the end 
 at which the Stoics aimed. Old Stanhope could 
 not but feel that he had ill-performed his duties 
 as a father and a clergyman ; and could hardly 
 look forward to his own death without grief at 
 the position in which he would leave his family. 
 His income for many years had been as high as 
 3ooo/. a year, and yet they had among them 
 no other provision than their mother's fortune of 
 io,ooo/. He had not only spent his income,
 
 Barchester by Moonlight 229 
 
 but was in debt. Yet with all this, he seldom 
 showed much outward sign of trouble. 
 
 It was the same with the mother. If she 
 added little to the pleasures of her children 
 she detracted still less : she neither grumbled 
 at her lot, nor spoke much of her past or future 
 sufferings ; as long as she had a maid to adjust 
 her dress, and had those dresses well made, 
 nature with her was satisfied. It was the same 
 with the children. Charlotte never rebuked her 
 father with the prospect of their future poverty, 
 not did it seem to grieve her that she was be- 
 coming an old maid so quickly ; her temper 
 was rarely ruffled, and, if we might judge by her 
 appearance, she was always happy. The signora 
 was not so sweet-tempered, but she possessed 
 much enduring courage ; she seldom complained 
 never, indeed, to her family. Though she had 
 a cause for affliction which would have utterly 
 broken down the heart of most women as beau- 
 tiful as she and as devoid of all religious support, 
 yet, she bore her suffering in silence, or alluded 
 to it only to elicit the sympathy and stimulate 
 the admiration of the men with whom she flirted. 
 As to Bertie, one would have imagined from the 
 sound of his voice and the gleam of his eye that 
 he had not a sorrow nor a care in the world. 
 Nor had he. He was incapable of anticipating 
 to-morrow's griefs. The prospect of future want 
 no more disturbed his appetite than does that of 
 the butcher's knife disturb the appetite of the 
 sheep. 
 
 Such was the usual tenour of their way ; but 
 there were rare exceptions. Occasionally the 
 father would allow an angry glance to fall from
 
 230 Barchester Towers 
 
 his eye, and the lion would send forth a low 
 dangerous roar as though he meditated some 
 deed of blood. Occasionally also Madame 
 Neroni would become bitter against mankind, 
 more than usually antagonistic to the world's 
 decencies, and would seem as though she was 
 about to break from her moorings and allow 
 herself to be carried forth by the tide of her 
 feelings to utter ruin and shipwreck. She, how- 
 ever, like the rest of them, had no real feelings, 
 could feel no true passion. In that was her 
 security. Before she resolved on any contem- 
 plated escapade she would make a small calcula- 
 tion, and generally summed up that the Stanhope 
 villa or even Barchester close was better than 
 the world at large. 
 
 They were most irregular in their hours. The 
 father was generally the earliest in the breakfast- 
 parlour, and Charlotte would soon follow and 
 give him his coffee ; but the others breakfasted 
 anywhere, anyhow, and at any time. On the 
 morning after the archdeacon's futile visit to the 
 palace, Dr. Stanhope came down stairs with an 
 ominously dark look about his eyebrows; his 
 white locks were rougher than usual, and he 
 breathed thickly and loudly as he took his seat 
 in his arm-chair. He had open letters in his 
 hand, and when Charlotte came into the room 
 he was still reading them. She went up and 
 kissed him as was her wont, but he hardly noticed 
 her as she did so, and she knew at once that 
 something was the matter. 
 
 " What's the meaning of that ? " said he, throw- 
 ing over the table a letter with a Milan post-mark. 
 Charlotte was a little frightened as she took it
 
 Barchester by Moonlight 231 
 
 up, but her mind was relieved when she saw that 
 it was merely the bill of their Italian milliner. 
 The sum total was certainly large, but not so 
 large as to create an important row. 
 
 "It's for our clothes, papa, for six months 
 before we came here. The three of us can't 
 dress for nothing, you know." 
 
 " Nothing, indeed ! " said he, looking at the 
 figures, which in Milanese denominations were 
 certainly monstrous. 
 
 " The man should have sent it to me," said 
 Charlotte. 
 
 " I wish he had with all my heart if you 
 would have paid it. I see enough in it, to know 
 that three quarters of it are for Madeline." 
 
 "She has little else to amuse her, sir," said 
 Charlotte with true good nature. 
 
 " And I suppose he has nothing else to amuse 
 him," said the doctor, throwing over another 
 letter to his daughter. It was from some 
 member of the family of Sidonia, and politely 
 requested the father to pay a small trifle of yoo/., 
 being the amount of a bill discounted in favour 
 of Mr. Ethelbert Stanhope, and now overdue for 
 a period of nine months. 
 
 Charlotte read the letter, slowly folded it up, 
 and put it under the edge of the tea-tray. 
 
 " I suppose he has nothing to amuse him but 
 discounting bills with Jews. Does he think I'll 
 pay that?" 
 
 " I am sure he thinks no such thing," said she. 
 
 " And who does he think will pay it ? " 
 
 "As far as honesty goes I suppose it won't 
 much matter if it is never paid," said she. " I 
 dare say he got very little of it. "
 
 232 Barchester Towers 
 
 " I suppose it won't much matter either," said 
 the father, " if he goes to prison and rots there. 
 It seems to me that that's the other alternative." 
 
 Dr. Stanhope spoke of the custom of his 
 youth. But his daughter, though she had lived 
 so long abroad, was much more completely 
 versed in the ways of the English world. " If 
 the man arrests him," said she, "he must go 
 through the court." 
 
 It is thus, thou great family of Sidonia it is 
 thus that we Gentiles treat thee, when, in our 
 extremest need, thou and thine have aided us 
 with mountains of gold as big as lions, and 
 occasionally with wine-warrants and orders for 
 dozens of dressing-cases. 
 
 " What, and become an insolvent ? " said the 
 doctor. 
 
 " He's that already," said Charlotte, wishing 
 always to get over a difficulty. 
 
 " What a condition," said the doctor, " for 
 the son of a clergyman of the Church of 
 England ! " 
 
 " I don't see why clergymen's sons should 
 pay their debts more than other young men," 
 said Charlotte. 
 
 " He's had as much from me since he left 
 school as is held sufficient for the eldest son of 
 many a nobleman," said the angry father. 
 
 " Well, sir," said Charlotte, " give him another 
 chance." 
 
 " What ! " said the doctor, " do you mean 
 that I am to pay that Jew ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ! I wouldn't pay him, he must take 
 his chance ; and if the worst comes to the 
 worst, Bertie must go abroad. But I want you
 
 Barchester by Moonlight 233 
 
 to be civil to Bertie, and let him remain here as 
 long as we stop. He has a plan in his head, 
 that may put him on his feet after all." 
 
 " Has he any plan for following up his pro- 
 fession ? " 
 
 " Oh, he'll do that too ; but that must follow. 
 He's thinking of getting married." 
 
 Just at that moment the door opened, and 
 Bertie came in whistling. The doctor imme- 
 diately devoted himself to his egg, and allowed 
 Bertie to whistle himself round to his sister's 
 side without noticing him. 
 
 Charlotte gave a sign to him with her eye, 
 first glancing at her father, and then at the letter, 
 the corner of which peeped out from under the 
 tea-tray. Bertie saw and understood, and with 
 the quiet motion of a cat abstracted the letter, 
 and made himself acquainted with its contents. 
 The doctor, however, had seen him, deep as he 
 appeared to be mersed in his egg-shell, and said 
 in his harshest voice, " Well, sir, do you know 
 that gentleman ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Bertie. " I have a sort of 
 acquaintance with him, but none that can justify 
 him in troubling you. If you wil) allow me, sir, 
 I will answer this." 
 
 " At any rate I sha'n't," said the father, and 
 then he added, after a pause, "Is it true, sir, 
 that you owe the man "joo/. ? " 
 
 "Well," said Bertie, "I think I should be 
 inclined to dispute the amount, if I were in a 
 condition to pay him such of it as I really do 
 owe him." 
 
 " Has he your bill for yoo/. ? " said the father, 
 speaking very loudly and very angrily.
 
 234 Barchester Towers 
 
 " Well, I believe he has," said Bertie ; " but 
 all the money I ever got from him was i5o/." 
 
 " And what became of the 55o/. ? " 
 
 "Why, sir, the commission was ioo/. or so, 
 and I took the remainder in paving-stones and 
 rocking-horses." 
 
 " Paving-stones and rocking-horses ! " said 
 the doctor ; " where are they ? " 
 
 " Oh, sir, I suppose they are in London 
 somewhere but I'll inquire if you wish for 
 them." 
 
 " He's an idiot," said the doctor, " and it's 
 sheer folly to waste more money on him. 
 Nothing can save him from ruin;" and so 
 saying, the unhappy father walked out of the 
 room. 
 
 " Would the governor like to have the paving- 
 stones ? " said Bertie to his sister. 
 
 " I'll tell you what," said she, " if you don't 
 take care, you will find yourself loose upon 
 the world without even a house over your head : 
 you don't know him as well as I do. He's 
 very angry." 
 
 Bertie stroked his big beard, sipped his tea, 
 chatted over his misfortunes in a half comic, 
 half serious tone, and ended by promising his 
 sister that he would do his very best to make 
 himself agreeable to the widow Bold. Then 
 Charlotte followed her father to his own room 
 and softened down his wrath, and persuaded 
 him to say nothing more about the Jew bill 
 discounter, at any rate for a few weeks. He 
 even went so far as to say he would pay the 
 7oo/., or at any rate settle the bill, if he saw 
 a certainty of his son's securing for himself
 
 Barchester by Moonlight 235 
 
 anything like a decent provision in life. Nothing 
 was said openly between them about poor 
 Eleanor : but the father and the daughter under- 
 stood each other. 
 
 They all met together in the drawing-room 
 at nine o'clock, in perfect good humour with 
 each other ; and about that hour Mrs. Bold was 
 announced. She had never been in the house 
 before, though she had of course called ; and 
 now she felt it strange to find herself there in 
 her usual evening dress, entering the drawing- 
 room of these strangers in this friendly uncere- 
 monious way, as though she had known them 
 all her life. But in three minutes they made 
 her at home. Charlotte tripped down stairs and 
 took her bonnet from her, and Bertie came to 
 relieve her from her shawl, and the signora 
 smiled on her as she could smile when she chose 
 to be gracious, and the old doctor shook hands 
 with her in a kind benedictory manner that went 
 to her heart at once, and made her feel that he 
 must be a good man. 
 
 She had not been seated for above five 
 minutes when the door again opened, and Mr. 
 Slope was announced. She felt rather surprised, 
 because she was told that nobody was to be 
 there, and it was very evident from the manner 
 of some of them, that Mr. Slope was unexpected. 
 But still there was not much in it. In such 
 invitations a bachelor or two more or less are 
 always spoken of as nobodies, and there was no 
 reason why Mr. Slope should not drink tea at 
 Dr. Stanhope's as well as Eleanor herself. He, 
 however, was very much surprised and not very 
 much gratified at finding that his own embryo
 
 236 Barchester Towers 
 
 spouse made one of the party. He had come 
 there to gratify himself by gazing on Madame 
 Neroni's beauty, and listening to and returning 
 her flattery : and though he had not owned as 
 much to himself, he still felt that if he spent the 
 evening as he had intended to do, he might 
 probably not thereby advance his suit with Mrs. 
 Bold. 
 
 The signora, who had no idea of a rival, re- 
 ceived Mr. Slope with her usual marks of dis- 
 tinction. As he took her hand, she made some 
 confidential communication to ; him in a low 
 voice, declaring that she had a plan to com- 
 municate to him after tea, and was evidently 
 prepared to go on with her work of reducing 
 the chaplain to a state of captivity. Poor Mr. 
 Slope was rather beside himself. He thought 
 that Eleanor could not but have learnt from his 
 demeanour that he was an admirer of her own, 
 and he had also flattered himself that the idea 
 was not unacceptable to her. What would she 
 think of him if he now devoted himself to a 
 married woman ! 
 
 But Eleanor was not inclined to be severe in 
 her criticisms on him in this respect, and felt no 
 annoyance of any kind, when she found herself 
 seated between Bertie and Charlotte Stanhope. 
 She had no suspicion of Mr. Slope's intentions ; 
 she had no suspicion even of the suspicion of 
 other people ; but still she felt well pleased not 
 to have Mr. Slope too near to her. 
 
 And she was not ill-pleased to have Bertie 
 Stanhope near her. It was rarely indeed that 
 he failed to make an agreeable impression on 
 strangers. With a bishop indeed who thought
 
 Barchester by Moonlight 237 
 
 much of his own dignity it was possible that he 
 might fail, but hardly with a young and pretty 
 woman. He possessed the tact of becoming 
 instantly intimate with women without giving 
 rise to any fear of impertinence. He had about 
 him somewhat of the propensities of a tame cat. 
 It seemed quite natural that he should be petted, 
 caressed, and treated with familiar good nature, 
 and that in return he should purr, and be sleek 
 and graceful, and above all never show his 
 claws. Like other tame cats, however, he had 
 his claws, and sometimes made them dangerous. 
 
 When tea was over Charlotte went to the 
 open window and declared loudly that the full 
 harvest moon was much too beautiful to be dis- 
 regarded, and called them all to look at it. To 
 tell the truth, there was but one there who cared 
 much about the moon's beauty, and that one was 
 not Charlotte ; but she knew how valuable an aid 
 to her purpose the chaste goddess might become, 
 and could easily create a little enthusiasm for 
 the purpose of the moment. Eleanor and 
 Bertie were soon with her. The doctor was 
 now quiet in his arm-chair, and Mrs. Stanhope 
 in hers, both prepared for slumber. 
 
 " Are you a Whewellite or a Brewsterite, or a 
 t'othermanite, Mrs. Bold ? " said Charlotte, who 
 knew a little about everything, and had read 
 about a third of each of the books to which she 
 alluded. 
 
 " Oh ! " said Eleanor ; " I have not read 
 any of the books, but I feel sure that there is 
 one man in the moon at least, if not more." 
 
 "You don't believe in the pulpy gelatinous 
 matter ? " said Bertie.
 
 238 Barchester Towers 
 
 " I heard about that," said Eleanor ; " and I 
 really think it's almost wicked to talk in such a 
 manner. How can we argue about God's power 
 in the other stars from the laws which he has 
 given for our rule in this one ? " 
 
 " How indeed ! " said Bertie. " Why shouldn't 
 there be a race of salamanders in Venus ? and 
 even if there be nothing but fish in Jupiter, why 
 shouldn't the fish there be as wide awake as the 
 men and women here ? " 
 
 " That would be saying very little for them," 
 said Charlotte. " I am for Dr. Whewell myself ; 
 for I do not think that men and women are 
 worth being repeated in such countless worlds. 
 There may be souls in other stars, but I doubt 
 their having any bodies attached to them. But 
 come, Mrs. Bold, let us put our bonnets on and 
 walk round the close. If we are to discuss 
 sidereal questions, we shall do so much better 
 under the towers of the cathedral, than stuck in 
 this narrow window." 
 
 Mrs. Bold made no objection, and a party 
 was made to walk out. Charlotte Stanhope well 
 knew the rule as to three being no company, and 
 she had therefore to induce her sister to allow 
 Mr. Slope to accompany them. 
 
 " Come, Mr. Slope," she said ; " I'm sure you'll 
 join us. We shall be in again in a quarter of an 
 hour, Madeline." 
 
 Madeline read in her eye all that she had to 
 say, knew her object, and as she had to depend 
 on her sister for so many of her amusements, 
 she felt that she must yield. It was hard to be 
 left alone while others of her own age walked 
 out to feel the soft influence of the bright night,
 
 Barchester by Moonlight 239 
 
 but it would be harder still to be without the 
 sort of sanction which Charlotte gave to all her 
 flirtations and intrigues. Charlotte's eye told 
 her that she must give up just at present for the 
 good of the family, and so Madeline obeyed. 
 
 But Charlotte's eyes said nothing of the sort 
 to Mr. Slope. He had no objection at all to 
 the ttc-a-tete with the signora, which the 
 departure of the other three would allow him, 
 and gently whispered to her, " I shall not leave 
 you alone." 
 
 " Oh, yes," said she ; " go pray go, pray go, 
 for my sake. Do not think that I am so selfish. 
 It is understood that nobody is kept within for 
 me. You will understand this too when you 
 know me better. Pray join them, Mr. Slope, 
 but when you come in speak to me for five 
 minutes before you leave us." 
 
 Mr. Slope understood that he was to go, and 
 he therefore joined the party in the hall. He 
 would have had no objection at all to this arrange- 
 ment, if he could have secured Mrs. Bold's arm ; 
 but this of course was out of the question. In- 
 deed, his fate was very soon settled, for no 
 sooner had he reached the hall-door than Miss 
 Stanhope put her hand within his arm, and 
 Bertie walked off with Eleanor just as naturally 
 as though she were already his own property. 
 
 And so they sauntered forth : first they walked 
 round the close, according to their avowed in- 
 tent ; then they went under the old arched gate- 
 way below St. Cuthbert's little church, and then 
 they turned behind the grounds of the bishop's 
 palace, and so on till they came to the bridge 
 just at the edge of the town, from which passers-
 
 240 Barchester Towers 
 
 by can look down into the gardens of Hiram's 
 Hospital; and here Charlotte and Mr. Slope, 
 who were in advance, stopped till the other two 
 came up to them. Mr. Slope knew that the 
 gable-ends and old brick chimneys which stood 
 up so prettily in the moonlight, were those of 
 Mr. Harding's late abode, and would not have 
 stopped on such a spot, in such company, if he 
 could have avoided it ; but Miss Stanhope would 
 not take the hint which he tried to give. 
 
 " This is a very pretty place, Mrs. Bold," said 
 Charlotte; "by far the prettiest place near 
 Barchester. I wonder your father gave it up." 
 
 It was a very pretty place, and now by the 
 deceitful light of the moon looked twice larger, 
 twice prettier, twice more antiquely picturesque 
 than it would have done in truth-telling daylight. 
 Who does not know the air of complex multi- 
 plicity and the mysterious interesting grace 
 which the moon always lends to old gabled 
 buildings half surrounded, as was the hospital, 
 by fine trees ! As seen from the bridge on the 
 night of which we are speaking, Mr. Harding's 
 late abode did look very lovely ; and though 
 Eleanor did not grieve at her father's having 
 left it, she felt at the moment an intense wish 
 that he might be allowed to return. 
 
 " He is going to return to it almost immediately, 
 is he not ? " asked Bertie. 
 
 Eleanor made no immediate reply. Many 
 such a question passes unanswered, without the 
 notice of the questioner ; but such was not now 
 the case. They all remained silent as though 
 expecting her to reply, and after a moment or 
 two, Charlotte said, " I believe it is settled that
 
 Barchester by Moonlight 241 
 
 Mr. Harding returns to the hospital, is it 
 not?" 
 
 " I don't think anything about it is settled yet," 
 said Eleanor. 
 
 "But it must be a matter of course," said 
 Bertie ; " that is, if your father wishes it ; who 
 else on earth could hold it after what has 
 occurred ? " 
 
 Eleanor quietly made her companion under- 
 stand that the matter was one which she could 
 not discuss in the present company ; and then 
 they passed on ; Charlotte said she would go a 
 short way up the hill out of the town so as to look 
 back upon the towers of the cathedral, and as 
 Eleanor lent upon Bertie's arm for assistance in 
 the walk, she told him how the matter stood 
 between her father and the bishop. 
 
 "And he," said Bertie, pointing on to Mr. 
 Slope, " what part does he take in it ? " 
 
 Eleanor explained how Mr. Slope had at first 
 endeavoured to tyrannise over her father, but 
 how he had latterly come round, and done all 
 he could to talk the bishop over in Mr. Harding's 
 favour. " But my father," said she, " is hardly 
 inclined to trust him ; they all say he is so 
 arrogant to the old clergymen of the city." 
 
 "Take my word for it," said Bertie, "your 
 father is right. If I am not very much mistaken, 
 that man is both arrogant and false." 
 
 They strolled up to the top of the hill, and 
 then returned through the fields by a footpath 
 which leads by a small wooden bridge, or rather 
 a plank with a rustic rail to it, over the river to 
 the other side of the cathedral from that at 
 which they had started. They had thus walked
 
 242 Barchester Towers 
 
 round the bishop's grounds, through which the 
 river runs, and round the cathedral and adjacent 
 fields, and it was past eleven before they reached 
 the doctor's door. 
 
 " It is very late," said Eleanor, " it will be a 
 shame to disturb your mother again at such an 
 hour." 
 
 " Oh," said Charlotte, laughing, " you won't 
 disturb mamma; I dare say she is in bed by 
 this time, and Madeline would be furious if you 
 did not come in and see her. Come, Bertie, 
 take Mrs. Bold's bonnet from her." 
 
 They went up stairs, and found the signora 
 alone, reading. She looked somewhat sad and 
 melancholy, but not more so perhaps than was 
 sufficient to excite additional interest in the 
 bosom of Mr. Slope ; and she was soon deep in 
 whispered intercourse with that happy gentleman, 
 who was allowed to find a resting-place on her 
 sofa. The signora had a way of whispering that 
 was peculiarly her own, and was exactly the 
 reverse of that which prevails among great 
 tragedians. The great tragedian hisses out a 
 positive whisper, made with bated breath, and 
 produced by inarticulated tongue-formed sounds, 
 but yet he is audible through the whole house. 
 The signora however used no hisses, and pro- 
 duced all her words in a clear silver tone, but 
 they could only be heard by the ear into which 
 they were poured. 
 
 Charlotte hurried and skurried about the room 
 hither and thither, doing, or pretending to do, 
 many things ; and then saying something about 
 seeing her mother, ran up stairs. Eleanor was 
 thus left alone with Bertie, and she hardly felt
 
 Mr. Arabin 243 
 
 an hour fly by her. To give Bertie his due 
 credit, he could not have played his cards better. 
 He did not make love to her, nor sigh, nor look 
 languishing; but he was amusing and familiar, 
 yet respectful ; and when he left Eleanor at her 
 own door at one o'clock, which he did by the 
 bye with the assistance of the now jealous Slope, 
 she thought that he was one of the most agree- 
 able men, and the Stanhopes decidedly the most 
 agreeable family, that she had ever met. 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 MR. ARABIN 
 
 THE Rev. Francis Arabin, fellow of Lazarus, 
 late professor of poetry at Oxford, and present 
 vicar of St. Ewold, in the diocese of Barchester, 
 must now be introduced personally to the reader. 
 And as he will fill a conspicuous place in the 
 volume, it is desirable that he should be made 
 to stand before the reader's eye by the aid of 
 such portraiture as the author is able to produce. 
 It is to be regretted that no mental method of 
 daguerreotype or photography has yet been dis- 
 covered, by which the characters of men can be 
 reduced to writing and put into grammatical 
 language with an unerring precision of truthful 
 description. How often does the novelist feel, 
 ay, and the historian also and the biographer, 
 that he has conceived within his mind and accu- 
 rately depicted on the tablet of his brain the full 
 character and personage of a man, and that
 
 244 Barchester Towers 
 
 nevertheless, when he flies to pen and ink to 
 perpetuate the portrait, his words forsake, elude, 
 disappoint, and play the deuce with him, till at 
 the end of a dozen pages the man described has 
 no more resemblance to the man conceived than 
 the sign-board at the corner of the street has to 
 the Duke of Cambridge ? 
 
 And yet such mechanical descriptive skill 
 would hardly give more satisfaction to the reader 
 than the skill of the photographer does to the 
 anxious mother desirous to possess an absolute 
 duplicate of her beloved child. The likeness is 
 indeed true; but it is a dull, dead, unfeeling, 
 inauspicious likeness. The face is indeed there, 
 and those looking at it will know at once whose 
 image it is ; but the owner of the face will not 
 be proud of the resemblance. 
 
 There is no royal road to learning ; no short 
 cut to the acquirement of any valuable art. Let 
 photographers and daguerreotypers do what they 
 will, and improve as they may with further skill 
 on that which skill has already done, they will 
 never achieve a portrait of the human face 
 divine. Let biographers, novelists, and the rest 
 of us groan as we may under the burdens 
 which we so often feel too heavy for our shoulders, 
 we must either bear them up like men, or own 
 ourselves too weak for the work we have under- 
 taken. There is no way of writing well and also 
 of writing easily. 
 
 Labor omnia vincit improbits. Such should 
 be the chosen motto of every labourer, and 
 it may be that labour, if adequately enduring, 
 may suffice at last to produce even some not 
 untrue resemblance of the Rev. Francis Arabin.
 
 Mr. Arabin 245 
 
 Of his doings in the world, and of the sort of 
 fame which he has achieved, enough has been 
 already said. It has also been said that he is 
 forty years of age, and still unmarried. He was 
 the younger son of a country gentleman of small 
 fortune in the north of England. At an early 
 age he went to Winchester, and was intended by 
 his father for New College ; but though studious 
 as a boy, he was not studious within the pre- 
 scribed limits; and at the age of eighteen he 
 left school with a character for talent, but with- 
 out a scholarship. All that he had obtained, 
 over and above the advantage of his character, 
 was a gold medal for English verse, and hence 
 was derived a strong presumption on the part 
 of his friends that he was destined to add 
 another name to the imperishable list of English 
 poets. 
 
 From Winchester he went to Oxford, and 
 was entered as a commoner at Balliol. Here 
 his special career very soon commenced. He 
 utterly eschewed the society of fast men, gave 
 no wine parties, kept no horses, rowed no boats, 
 joined no rows, and was the pride of his college 
 tutor. Such at least was his career till he had 
 taken his little go ; and then he commenced a 
 course of action which, though not less credit- 
 able to himself as a man, was hardly so much 
 to the taste of the tutor. He became a member 
 of a vigorous debating society, and rendered 
 himself remarkable there for humorous energy. 
 Though always in earnest, yet his earnestness 
 was always droll. To be true in his ideas, un- 
 answerable in his syllogisms, and just in his 
 aspirations was not enough for him. He had
 
 246 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 failed, failed in his own opinion as well as that of 
 others when others came to know him, if he 
 could not reduce the arguments of his opponents 
 to an absurdity, and conquer both by wit and 
 reason. To say that his object was ever to 
 raise a laugh, would be most untrue. He hated 
 such common and unnecessary evidence of 
 satisfaction on the part of his hearers. A joke 
 that required to be laughed at was, with him, 
 not worth uttering. He could appreciate by a 
 keener sense than that of his ears the success of 
 his wit, and would see in the eyes of his auditory 
 whether or no he was understood and appre- 
 ciated. 
 
 He had been a religious lad before he left 
 school. That is, he had addicted himself to 
 a party in religion, and having done so had 
 received that benefit which most men do who 
 become partisans in such a cause. We are 
 much too apt to look at schism in our church 
 as an unmitigated evil. Moderate schism, if 
 there may be such a thing, at any rate calls 
 attention to the subject, draws in supporters 
 who would otherwise have been inattentive to 
 the matter, and teaches men to think upon 
 religion. How great an amount of good of this 
 description has followed that movement in the 
 Church of England which commenced with the 
 publication of Froude's Remains ! 
 
 As a boy young Arabin took up the cudgels 
 on the side of the Tractarians, and at Oxford 
 he sat for a while at the feet of the great New- 
 man. To this cause he lent all his faculties. 
 For it he concocted verses, for it he made 
 speeches, for it he scintillated the brightest
 
 Mr. Arabia 247 
 
 sparks of his quiet wit. For it he ate and drank 
 and dressed, and had his being. In due process 
 of time he took his degree, and wrote himself 
 B.A., but he did not do so with any remarkable 
 amount of academical eclat. He had occupied 
 himself too much with high church matters, and 
 the polemics, politics, and outward demonstra- 
 tions usually concurrent with high churchman- 
 ship, to devote himself with sufficient vigour to 
 the acquisition of a double first. He was not a 
 double first, nor even a first class man ; but he 
 revenged himself on the university by putting 
 firsts and double firsts out of fashion for the 
 year, and laughing down a species of pedantry 
 which at the age of twenty-three leaves no room 
 in a man's mind for graver subjects than conic 
 sections or Greek accents. 
 
 Greek accents, however, and conic sections 
 were esteemed necessaries at Balliol, and there 
 was no admittance there for Mr. Arab in within 
 the list of its fellows. Lazarus, however, the 
 richest and most comfortable abode of Oxford 
 dons, opened its bosom to the young champion 
 of a church militant. Mr. Arabin was ordained, 
 and became a fellow soon after taking his degree, 
 and shortly after that was chosen professor of 
 poetry. 
 
 And now came the moment of his great 
 danger. After many mental struggles, and an 
 agony of doubt which may be well surmised, 
 the great prophet of the Tractarians confessed 
 himself a Roman Catholic. Mr. Newman left 
 the Church of England, and with him carried 
 many a waverer. He did not carry off Mr. 
 Arabin, but the escape which that gentleman
 
 248 Barchester Towers 
 
 had was a very narrow one. He left Oxford 
 for a while that he might meditate in complete 
 peace on the step which appeared to him to be 
 all but unavoidable, and shut himself up in a 
 little village on the seashore of one of our 
 remotest counties, that he might learn by com- 
 muning with his own soul whether or no he 
 could with a safe conscience remain within the 
 pale of his mother church. 
 
 Things would have gone badly with him 
 there had he been left entirely to himself. 
 Everything was against him : all his worldly 
 interests required him to remain a Protestant ; 
 and he looked on his worldly interests as a 
 legion of foes, to get the better of whom was a 
 point of extremest honour. In his then state of 
 ecstatic agony such a conquest would have cost 
 him little; he could easily have thrown away 
 all his livelihood ; but it cost him much to get 
 over the idea that by choosing the Church of 
 England he should be open in his own mind to 
 the charge that he had been led to such a choice 
 by unworthy motives. Then his heart was 
 against him : he loved with a strong and eager 
 love the man who had hitherto been his guide, 
 and yearned to follow his footsteps. His tastes 
 were against him : the ceremonies and pomps 
 of the Church of Rome, their august feasts and 
 solemn fasts, invited his imagination and pleased 
 his eye. His flesh was against him : how great 
 an aid would it be to a poor, weak, wavering 
 man to be constrained to high moral duties, 
 self-denial, obedience, and chastity by laws 
 which were certain in their enactments, and 
 not to be broken without loud, palpable,
 
 Mr. Arabin 249 
 
 unmistakable sin ! Then his faith was against 
 him : he required to believe so much : panted 
 so eagerly to give signs of his belief; deemed 
 it so insufficient to wash himself simply in the 
 waters of Jordan ; that some great deed, such as 
 that of forsaking everything for a true church, had 
 for him allurements almost past withstanding. 
 
 Mr. Arabin was at this time a very young 
 man, and when he left Oxford for his far retreat 
 was much too confident in his powers of fence, 
 and too apt to look down on the ordinary sense 
 of ordinary people, to expect aid in the battle 
 that he had to fight from any chance inhabitants of 
 the spot which he had selected. But Providence 
 was good to him ; and there, in that all but 
 desolate place, on the storm-beat shore of that 
 distant sea, he met one who gradually calmed 
 his mind, quieted his imagination, and taught 
 him something of a Christian's duty. When 
 Mr. Arabin left Oxford, he was inclined to look 
 upon the rural clergymen of most English 
 parishes almost with contempt. It was his 
 ambition, should he remain within the fold of 
 their church, to do somewhat towards redeem- 
 ing and rectifying their inferiority, and to assist 
 in infusing energy and faith into the hearts of 
 Christian ministers, who were, as he thought, 
 too often satisfied to go through life without 
 much show of either. 
 
 And yet it was from such a one that Mr. 
 Arabin in his extremest need received that aid 
 which he so much required. It was from the 
 poor curate of a small Cornish parish that he 
 first learnt to know that the highest laws for the 
 governance of a Christian's duty must act from
 
 250 Barchester Towers 
 
 within and not from without ; that no man can 
 become a serviceable servant solely by obedience 
 to written edicts ; and that the safety which he 
 was about to seek within the gates of Rome 
 was no other than the selfish freedom from per- 
 sonal danger which the bad soldier attempts to 
 gain who counterfeits illness on the eve of battle. 
 Mr. Arabin returned to Oxford a humbler but 
 a better and a happier man ; and from that time 
 forth he put his shoulder to the wheel as a 
 clergyman of the Church for which he had 
 been educated. The intercourse of those 
 among whom he familiarly lived kept him 
 staunch to the principles of that system of the 
 Church to which he had always belonged. 
 Since his severance from Mr. Newman, no 
 one had had so strong an influence over him 
 as the head of his college. During the time 
 of his expected apostacy, Dr. Gwynne had not 
 felt much predisposition in favour of the young 
 fellow. Though a High Churchman himself 
 within moderate limits, Dr. Gwynne felt no 
 sympathy with men who could not satisfy their 
 faiths with the Thirty-nine Articles. He re- 
 garded the enthusiasm of such as Newman as 
 a state of mind more nearly allied to madness 
 than to religion ; and when he saw it evinced 
 by very young men, was inclined to attribute a 
 good deal of it to vanity. Dr. Gwynne himself, 
 though a religious man, was also a thoroughly 
 practical man of the world, and he regarded 
 with no favourable eye the tenets of any one 
 who looked on the two things as incompatible. 
 When he found that Mr. Arabin was a half 
 Roman, he began to regret all he had done
 
 Mr. Arabin 251 
 
 towards bestowing a fellowship on so unworthy 
 a recipient ; and when again he learnt that Mr. 
 Arabin would probably complete his journey to 
 Rome, he regarded with some satisfaction the 
 fact that in such case the fellowship would be 
 again vacant. 
 
 When, however, Mr. Arabin returned and 
 professed himself a confirmed Protestant, the 
 master of Lazarus again opened his arms to 
 him, and gradually he became the pet of the 
 college. For some little time he was saturnine, 
 silent, and unwilling to take any prominent part 
 in university broils; but gradually his mind 
 recovered, or rather made, its tone, and he be- 
 came known as a man always ready at a 
 moment's notice to take up the cudgels in 
 opposition to anything that savoured of an 
 evangelical bearing. He was great in sermons, 
 great on platforms, great at after dinner con- 
 versations, and always pleasant as well as great. 
 He took delight in elections, served on com- 
 mittees, opposed tooth and nail all projects of 
 university reform, and talked jovially over his 
 glass of port of the ruin to be anticipated by 
 the Church, and of the sacrilege daily committed 
 by the Whigs. The ordeal through which he 
 had gone, in resisting the blandishments of the 
 lady of Rome, had certainly done much towards 
 the strengthening of his character. Although in 
 small and outward matters he was self-confident 
 enough, nevertheless in things affecting the inner 
 man he aimed at a humility of spirit which would 
 never have been attractive to him but for that 
 visit to the coast of Cornwall. This visit he 
 now repeated every year.
 
 252 Barchester Towers 
 
 Such is an interior view of Mr. Arabin at the 
 time when he accepted the living of St. Ewold. 
 Exteriorly, he was not a remarkable person. 
 He was above the middle height, well made, 
 and very active. His hair, which had been jet 
 black, was now tinged with gray, but his face 
 bore no sign of years. It would perhaps be 
 wrong to say that he was handsome, but his 
 face was, nevertheless, pleasant to look upon. 
 The cheek bones were rather too high for 
 beauty, and the formation of the forehead too 
 massive and heavy : but the eyes, nose, and 
 mouth were perfect. There was a continual 
 play of lambent fire about his eyes, which gave 
 promise of either pathos or humour whenever 
 he essayed to speak, and that promise was 
 rarely broken. There was a gentle play about 
 his mouth which declared that his wit never 
 descended to sarcasm, and that there was no 
 ill-nature in his repartee. 
 
 Mr. Arabin was a popular man among women, 
 but more so as a general than a special favourite. 
 Living as a fellow at Oxford, marriage with him 
 had been out of the question, and it may be 
 doubted whether he had ever allowed his heart to 
 be touched. Though belonging to a church in 
 which celibacy is not the required lot of its 
 ministers, he had come to regard himself as one 
 of those clergymen to whom to be a bachelor is 
 almost a necessity. He had never looked for 
 parochial duty, and his career at Oxford was 
 utterly incompatible with such domestic joys 
 as a wife and a nursery. He looked on women, 
 therefore, in the same light that one sees them 
 regarded by many Romish priests. He liked
 
 Mr. Arabin 253 
 
 to have near him that which was pretty and 
 amusing, but women generally were little more 
 to him than children. He talked to them 
 without putting out all his powers, and listened 
 to them without any idea that what he should 
 hear from them could either actuate his conduct 
 or influence his opinion. 
 
 Such was Mr. Arabin, the new vicar of St. 
 Ewold, who is going to stay with the Grantlys, 
 at Plumstead Episcopi. 
 
 Mr. Arabin reached Plumstead the day before 
 Mr. Harding and Eleanor, and the Grantly 
 family were thus enabled to make his acquaint- 
 ance and discuss his qualifications before the 
 arrival of the other guests. Griselda was sur- 
 prised to find that he looked so young ; but she 
 told Florinda, her younger sister, when they had 
 retired for the night, that he did not talk at 
 all like a young man : and she decided, with the 
 authority that seventeen has over sixteen, that 
 he was not at all nice, although his eyes were 
 lovely. As usual, sixteen implicitly acceded to 
 the dictum of seventeen in such a matter, and 
 said that he certainly was not nice. They then 
 branched off on the relative merits of other 
 clerical bachelors in the vicinity, and both deter- 
 mined without any feeling of jealousy between 
 them that a certain Rev. Augustus Green was 
 by many degrees the most estimable of the lot. 
 The gentleman in question had certainly much 
 in his favour, as, having a comfortable allowance 
 from his father, he could devote the whole pro- 
 ceeds of his curacy to violet gloves and unex- 
 ceptionable neck ties. Having thus fixedly 
 resolved that the new-comer had nothing about
 
 254 Barchester Towers 
 
 him to shake the pre-eminence of the exalted 
 Green, the two girls went to sleep in each 
 other's arms, contented with themselves and 
 the world. 
 
 Mrs. Grantly at first sight came to much the 
 same conclusion about her husband's favourite 
 as her daughters had done, though, in seeking 
 to measure his relative value, she did not com- 
 pare him to Mr. Green ; indeed, she made no 
 comparison by name between him and any one 
 else ; but she remarked to her husband that one 
 person's swans were very often another person's 
 geese, thereby clearly showing that Mr. Arabin 
 had not yet proved his qualifications in swan- 
 hood to her satisfaction. 
 
 " Well, Susan," said he, rather offended at 
 hearing his friend spoken of so disrespectfully, 
 " if you take Mr. Arabin for a goose, I cannot 
 say that I think very highly of your discrimina- 
 tion." 
 
 ** A goose ! No, of course, he's not a goose. 
 I've no doubt he's a very clever man. But 
 you're so matter-of-fact, archdeacon, when it 
 suits your purpose, that one can't trust oneself 
 to any fafon de parkr. I've no doubt Mr. 
 Arabin is a very valuable man at Oxford, and 
 that he'll be a good vicar at St. Ewold. All I 
 mean is, that having passed one evening with 
 him, I don't find him to be absolutely a paragon. 
 In the first place, if I am not mistaken, he is a 
 little inclined to be conceited." 
 
 " Of all the men that I know intimately," said 
 the archdeacon, " Arabin is, in my opinion, the 
 most free from any taint of self-conceit His 
 fault is that he's too diffident."
 
 Mr. Arabin 255 
 
 " Perhaps so," said the lady ; " only I must 
 own I did not find it out this evening." 
 
 Nothing further was said about him. Dr. 
 Grantly thought that his wife was abusing Mr. 
 Arabin merely because he had praised him ; and 
 Mrs. Grantly knew that it was useless arguing 
 for or against any person in favour of or in 
 opposition to whom the archdeacon had already 
 pronounced a strong opinion. 
 
 In truth they were both right. Mr. Arabin 
 was a diffident man in social intercourse with 
 those whom he did not intimately know ; when 
 placed in situations which it was his business to 
 fill, and discussing matters with which it was 
 his duty to be conversant, Mr. Arabin was from 
 habit brazen-faced enough. When standing on 
 a platform in Exeter Hall, no man would be 
 less mazed than he by the eyes of the crowd 
 before him ; for such was the work which his 
 profession had called on him to perform; but 
 he shrank from a strong expression of opinion 
 in general society, and his doing so not uncom- 
 monly made it appear that he considered the 
 company not worth the trouble of his energy. 
 He was averse to dictate when the place did not 
 seem to him to justify dictation ; and as those 
 subjects on which people wished to hear him 
 speak were such as he was accustomed to treat 
 with decision, he generally shunned the traps 
 there were laid to allure him into discussion, 
 and, by doing so, not unfrequently subjected 
 himself to such charges as those brought against 
 him by Mrs. Grantly. 
 
 Mr. Arabin, as he sat at his open window, 
 enjoying the delicious moonlight and gazing at
 
 256 Barchester Towers 
 
 the gray towers of the church, which stood 
 almost within the rectory grounds, little dreamed 
 that he was the subject of so many friendly or 
 unfriendly criticisms. Considering how much 
 we are all given to discuss the characters of 
 others, and discuss them often not in the strictest 
 spirit of charity, it is singular how little we are 
 inclined to think that others can speak ill- 
 naturedly of us, and how angry and hurt we 
 are when proof reaches us that they have done 
 so. It is hardly too much to say that we all of 
 us occasionally speak of our dearest friends in a 
 manner in which those dearest friends would 
 very little like to hear themselves mentioned ; 
 and that we nevertheless expect that our dearest 
 friends shall invariably speak of us as though 
 they were blind to all our faults, but keenly 
 alive to every shade of our virtues. 
 
 It did not occur to Mr. Arabin that he was 
 spoken of at all. It seemed to him, when he 
 compared himself with his host, that he was a 
 person of so little consequence to any, that he 
 was worth no one's words or thoughts. He was 
 utterly alone in the world as regarded domestic 
 ties and those inner familiar relations which are 
 hardly possible between others than husbands 
 and wives, parents and children, or brothers and 
 sisters. He had often discussed with himself the 
 necessity of such bonds for a man's happiness 
 in this world, and had generally satisfied him- 
 self with the answer that happiness in this world 
 is not a necessity. Herein he deceived himself, 
 or rather tried to do so. He, like others, yearned 
 for the enjoyment of whatever he saw enjoyable ; 
 and though he attempted, with the modern
 
 Mr. Arabin 257 
 
 stoicism of so many Christians, to make himself 
 believe that joy and sorrow were matters which 
 here should be held as perfectly indifferent, 
 these things were not indifferent to him. He 
 was tired of his Oxford rooms and his college 
 life. He regarded the wife and children of his 
 friend with something like envy; he all but coveted 
 the pleasant drawing-room, with its pretty win- 
 dows opening on to lawns and flower-beds, the 
 apparel of the comfortable house, and above 
 all the air of home which encompassed 
 it all. 
 
 It will be said that no time can have been 
 so fitted for such desires on his part as this, 
 when he had just possessed himself of a country 
 parish, of a living among fields and gardens, of 
 a house which a wife would grace. It is true 
 there was a difference between the opulence of 
 Plumstead and the modest economy of St. 
 Ewold ; but surely Mr. Arabin was not a man 
 to sigh after wealth ! Of all men, his friends 
 would have unanimously declared he was the 
 last to do so. But how little our friends know 
 us ! In his period of stoical rejection of this 
 world's happiness, he had cast from him as utter 
 dross all anxiety as to fortune. He had, as it 
 were, proclaimed himself to be indifferent to 
 promotion, and those who chiefly admired his 
 talents, and would mainly have exerted them- 
 selves to secure to them their deserved reward, 
 had taken him at his word. And now, if the 
 truth must out, he felt himself disappointed * 
 disappointed not by them but by himself. The 
 day-dream of his youth was over, and at the age 
 of forty he felt that he was not fit to work in the 
 
 K
 
 258 
 
 Barchester .Towers 
 
 spirit of an apostle. He had mistaken himself, 
 and learned his mistake when it was past remedy. 
 He had professed himself indifferent to mitres 
 and diaconal residences, to rich livings and 
 pleasant glebes, and now he had to own to 
 himself that he was sighing for the good things 
 of other men, on whom in his pride he had 
 ventured to look down. 
 
 Not for wealth, in its vulgar sense, had he 
 ever sighed; not for the enjoyment of rich 
 things had he ever longed ; but for the allotted 
 share of worldly bliss, which a wife, and children, 
 and happy home could give him, for that usual 
 amount of comfort which he had ventured to 
 reject as unnecessary for him, he did now 
 feel that he would have been wiser to have 
 searched. 
 
 He knew that his talents, his position, and 
 his friends would have won for him promotion, 
 had he put himself in the way of winning it. 
 Instead of doing so, he had allowed himself to 
 be persuaded to accept a living which would give 
 him an income of some 3oo/. a year, should he, 
 by marrying, throw up his fellowship. Such, at 
 the age of forty, was the worldly result of labour, 
 which the world had chosen to regard as suc- 
 cessful. The world also thought that Mr. 
 Arabin was, in his own estimation, sufficiently 
 paid. Alas ! alas ! the world was mistaken ; 
 and Mr. Arabin was beginning to ascertain that 
 such was the case. 
 
 * And here, may I beg the reader not to be 
 hard in his judgment upon this man. Is not 
 the state at which he has arrived, the natural 
 result of efforts to reach that which is not the
 
 Mr. Arabin 259 
 
 condition of humanity ? Is not modern stoicism, 
 built though it be on Christianity, as great an 
 outrage on human nature as was the stoicism 
 of the ancients ? The philosophy of Zeno was 
 built on true laws, but on true laws misunderstood, 
 and therefore misapplied. It is the same with 
 our Stoics here, who would teach us that wealth 
 and worldly comfort and happiness on earth are 
 not worth the search. Alas, for a doctrine 
 which can find no believing pupils and no true 
 teachers ! 
 
 The case of Mr. Arabin was the more 
 singular, as he belonged to a branch of the 
 Church of England well inclined to regard its 
 temporalities with avowed favour, and had 
 habitually lived with men who were accustomed 
 to much worldly comfort. But such was his 
 idiosyncrasy, that these very facts had produced 
 within him, in early life, a state of mind that was 
 not natural to him. He was content to be a 
 High Churchman, if he could be so on principles 
 of his own, and could strike out a course show- 
 ing a marked difference from those with whom 
 he consorted. He was ready to be a partisan 
 as long as he was allowed to have a course of 
 action and of thought unlike that of his party. 
 His party had indulged him, and he began to 
 feel that his party was right and himself wrong, 
 just when such a conviction was too late to be 
 of service to him. He discovered, when such 
 discovery was no longer serviceable, that it 
 would have been worth his while to have worked 
 for the usual pay assigned to work in this world, 
 and have earned a wife and children, with a 
 carriage for them to sit in; to have earned a
 
 pleasant dining-room, in which his friends could 
 drink his wine, and the power of walking up the 
 high street of his country town, with the know- 
 ledge that all its tradesmen would have gladly 
 welcomed him within their doors. Other men 
 arrived at those convictions in their start in life, 
 and so worked up to them. To him they had 
 come when they were too late to be of use. 
 
 It has been said that Mr. Arabin was a man 
 of pleasantry ; and it may be thought that such 
 a state of mind as that described, would be 
 antagonistic to humour. But surely such is not 
 the case. Wit is the outward mental casing of 
 the man, and has no more to do with the inner 
 mind of thoughts and feelings than have the 
 rich brocaded garments of the priest at the altar 
 with the asceticism of the anchorite below 
 them, whose skin is tormented with sackcloth, 
 and whose body is half flayed with rods. Nay, 
 will not such a one often rejoice more than any 
 other in the rich show of his outer apparel ? 
 Will it not be food for his pride to feel that he 
 groans inwardly, while he shines outwardly ? 
 So it is with the mental efforts which men make. 
 Those which they show forth daily to the world 
 are often the opposites of the inner workings of 
 the spirit. 
 
 In the archdeacon's drawing-room, Mr. Arabin 
 had sparkled with his usual unaffected brilliancy, 
 but when he retired to his bed-room, he sat there 
 sad, at his open window, repining within himself 
 that he also had no wife, no bairns, no soft 
 sward of lawn duly mown for him to lie on, no 
 herd of attendant curates, no bowings from the 
 banker's clerks, no rich rectory. That apostleship
 
 St. Ewold's Parsonage 261 
 
 that he had thought of had evaded his grasp, 
 and he was now only vicar of St. Ewold's, with 
 a taste for a mitre. Truly he had fallen between 
 two stools. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 ST. EWOLD'S PARSONAGE 
 
 WHEN Mr. Harding and Mrs. Bold reached the 
 rectory on the following morning, the archdeacon 
 and his friend were at St. Ewold's. They had 
 gone over that the new vicar might inspect his 
 church, and be introduced to the squire, and 
 were not expected back before dinner. Mr. 
 Harding rambled out by himself, and strolled, 
 as was his wont at Plumstead, about the lawn 
 and round the church ; and as he did so, the 
 two sisters naturally fell into conversation 
 about Barchester. 
 
 There was not much sisterly confidence 
 between them. Mrs. Grantly was ten years 
 older than Eleanor, and had been married while 
 Eleanor was yet a child. They had never, 
 therefore, poured into each other's ears their 
 hopes and loves ; and now that one was a wife 
 and the other a widow, it was not probable that 
 they would begin to do so. They lived too 
 much asunder to be able to fall into that kind of 
 intercourse which makes confidence between 
 sisters almost a necessity; and, moreover, that 
 which is so easy at eighteen is often very difficult 
 at twenty-eight. Mrs. Grantly knew this, and
 
 262 Barchester Towers 
 
 did not, therefore, expect confidence from her 
 sister ; and yet she longed to ask her whether in 
 real truth Mr. Slope was agreeable to her. 
 
 It was by no means difficult to turn the con- 
 versation to Mr. Slope. That gentleman had 
 become so famous at Barchester, had so much 
 to do with all clergymen connected with the 
 city, and was so specially concerned in the affairs 
 of Mr. Harding, that it would have been odd if 
 Mr. Harding's daughters had not talked about 
 him. Mrs. Grantly was soon abusing him, 
 which she did with her whole heart ; and Mrs. 
 Bold was nearly as eager to defend him. She 
 positively disliked the man, would have been 
 delighted to learn that he had taken himself off 
 so that she should never see him again, had 
 indeed almost a fear of him, and yet she con- 
 stantly found herself taking his part. The 
 abuse of other people, and abuse of a nature 
 that she felt to be unjust, imposed this necessity 
 on her, and at last made Mr. Slope's defence an 
 habitual course of argument with her. 
 
 From Mr. Slope the conversation turned to 
 the Stanhopes, and Mrs. Grantly was listening 
 with some interest to Eleanor's account of the 
 family, when it dropped out that Mr. Slope 
 made one of the party. 
 
 " What ! " said the lady of the rectory, " was 
 Mr. Slope there too ? " 
 
 Eleanor merely replied that such had been 
 the case. 
 
 " Why, Eleanor, he must be very fond of you, 
 I think ; he seems to follow you everywhere." 
 
 Even this did not open Eleanor's eyes. She 
 merely laughed, and said that she imagined Mr.
 
 St. Ewold's Parsonage 263 
 
 Slope found other attraction at Dr. Stanhope's. 
 And so they parted. Mrs. Grantly felt quite 
 convinced that the odious match would take 
 place ; and Mrs. Bold as convinced that that 
 unfortunate chaplain, disagreeable as he must 
 be allowed to be, was more sinned against than 
 sinning. 
 
 The archdeacon of course heard before dinner 
 that Eleanor had remained the day before in 
 Barchester with the view of meeting Mr. Slope, 
 and that she had so met him. He remembered 
 how she had positively stated that there were to 
 be no guests at the Stanhopes, and he did not 
 hesitate to accuse her of deceit. Moreover, the 
 fact, or rather presumed fact, of her being 
 deceitful on such a matter, spoke but too plainly 
 in evidence against her as to her imputed crime 
 of receiving Mr. Slope as a lover. 
 
 " I am afraid that anything we can do will be 
 too late," said the archdeacon. " I own I am 
 fairly surprised. I never liked your sister's 
 taste with regard to men; but still I did not 
 give her credit for ugh ! " 
 
 " And so soon, too," said Mrs. Grantly, who 
 thought more, perhaps, of her sister's indecorum 
 in having a lover before she had put off her 
 weeds, than her bad taste in having such a lover 
 as Mr. Slope. 
 
 " Well, my dear, I shall be sorry to be harsh, 
 or to do anything that can hurt your father; 
 but, positively, neither that man nor his wife 
 shall come within my doors." 
 
 Mrs. Grantly sighed, and then attempted to 
 console herself and her lord by remarking that, 
 after all, the thing was not accomplished yet.
 
 264 Barchester Towers 
 
 Now that Eleanor was at Plumstead, much 
 might be done to wean her from her fatal 
 passion. Poor Eleanor ! 
 
 The evening passed off without anything to 
 make it remarkable. Mr. Arabin discussed the 
 parish of St. Ewold with the archdeacon, and 
 Mrs. Grantly and Mr. Harding, who knew the 
 personages of the parish, joined in. Eleanor 
 also knew them, but she said little. Mr. Arabin 
 did not apparently take much notice of her, and 
 she was not in a humour to receive at that time 
 with any special grace any special favourite of 
 her brother-in-law. Her first idea on reaching 
 her bed-room was that a much pleasanter family 
 party might be met at Dr. Stanhope's than at 
 the rectory. She began to think that she was 
 getting tired of clergymen and their respectable 
 humdrum wearisome mode of living, and that, 
 after all, people in the outer world, who had 
 lived in Italy, London, or elsewhere, need not 
 necessarily be regarded as atrocious and abomi- 
 nable. The Stanhopes, she had thought, were 
 a giddy, thoughtless, extravagant set of people ; 
 but she had seen nothing wrong about them, 
 and had, on the other hand, found that they 
 thoroughly knew how to make their house agree- 
 able. It was a thousand pities, she thought, 
 that the archdeacon should not have a little of 
 the same savoir vivre. Mr. Arabin, as we have 
 said, did not apparently take much notice of 
 her ; but yet he did not go to bed without feel- 
 ing that he had been in company with a very 
 pretty woman ; and as is the case with most 
 bachelors, and some married men, regarded the 
 prospect of his month's visit at Plumstead in a
 
 St. Ewold's Parsonage 265 
 
 pleasanter light, when he learnt that a very 
 pretty woman was to share it with him. 
 
 Before they all retired it was settled that the 
 whole party should drive over on the following 
 day to inspect the parsonage at St. Ewold. The 
 three clergymen were to discuss dilapidations, 
 and the two ladies were to lend their assistance 
 in suggesting such changes as might be neces- 
 sary for a bachelor's abode. Accordingly, soon 
 after breakfast, the carriage was at the door. 
 There was only room for four inside, and the 
 archdeacon got upon the box. Eleanor found 
 herself opposite to Mr. Arab in, and was, there- 
 fore, in a manner forced into conversation with 
 him. They were soon on comfortable terms 
 together ; and had she thought about it, she 
 would have thought that, in spite of his black 
 doth, Mr. Arabin would not have been a bad 
 addition to the Stanhope family party. 
 
 Now that the archdeacon was away, they 
 could all trifle. Mr. Harding began by telling 
 them in the most innocent manner imaginable 
 an old legend about Mr. Arabin's new parish. 
 There was, he said, in days of yore, an illustrious 
 priestess of St. Ewold, famed through the whole 
 country for curing all manner of diseases. She 
 had a well, as all priestesses have ever had, 
 which well was extant to this day, and shared in 
 the minds of many of the people the sanctity 
 which belonged to the consecrated ground of 
 the parish church. Mr. Arabin declared that he 
 should look on such tenets on the part of his 
 parishioners as anything but orthodox. And 
 Mrs. Grantly replied that she so entirely dis- 
 agreed with him as to think that no parish was
 
 266 Barchester Towers 
 
 in a proper state that had not its priestess as 
 well as its priest. "The duties are never well 
 done," said she, " unless they are so divided." 
 
 " I suppose, papa," said Eleanor, " that in the 
 olden times the priestess bore all the sway 
 herself. Mr. Arabin, perhaps, thinks that such 
 might be too much the case now if a sacred lady 
 were admitted within the parish." 
 
 " I think, at any rate," said he, " that it is safer 
 to run no such risk. No priestly pride has ever 
 exceeded that of sacerdotal females. A very lowly 
 curate I might, perhaps, essay to rule; but a 
 curatess would be sure to get the better of me." 
 
 " There are certainly examples of such acci- 
 dents happening," said Mrs. Grantly. "They 
 do say that there is a priestess at Barchester 
 who is very imperious in all things touching the 
 altar. Perhaps the fear of such a fate as that 
 is before your eyes." 
 
 When they were joined by the archdeacon on 
 the gravel before the vicarage, they descended 
 again to grave dulness. Not that Archdeacon 
 Grantly was a dull man ; but his frolic humours 
 were of a cumbrous kind ; and his wit, when he 
 was witty, did not generally extend itself to his 
 auditory. On the present occasion he was soon 
 making speeches about wounded roofs and walls, 
 which he declared to be in want of some surgeon's 
 art. There was not a partition that he did not 
 tap, nor a block of chimneys that he did not 
 narrowly examine ; all water-pipes, flues, cisterns, 
 and sewers underwent an investigation ; and he 
 even descended, in the care of his friend, so far 
 as to bore sundry boards in the floors with a 
 bradawl.
 
 St. Ewold's Parsonage 267 
 
 Mr. Arabia accompanied him through the 
 rooms, trying to look wise in such domestic 
 matters, and the other three also followed. Mrs. 
 Grantly showed that she had not herself been 
 priestess of a parish twenty years for nothing, 
 and examined the bells and window panes in a 
 very knowing way. 
 
 *' You will, at any rate, have a beautiful 
 prospect out of your own window, if this is to 
 be your private sanctum," said Eleanor. She 
 was standing at the lattice of a little room up 
 stairs, from which the view certainly was -very 
 lovely. It was from the back of the vicarage, 
 and there was nothing to interrupt the eye 
 between the house and the glorious gray pile of 
 the cathedral. The intermediate ground, how- 
 ever, was beautifully studded with timber. In 
 the immediate foreground ran the little river 
 which afterwards skirted the city; and, just to 
 the right of the cathedral, the pointed gables 
 and chimneys of Hiram's Hospital peeped out 
 of the elms which encompass it. 
 
 " Yes," said he, joining her. " I shall have a 
 beautifully complete view of my adversaries. 
 I shall sit down before the hostile town, and fire 
 away at them at a very pleasant distance. I 
 shall just be able to lodge a shot in the hospital, 
 should the enemy ever get possession of it ; 
 and as for the palace, I have it within full 
 range." 
 
 " I never saw anything like you clergymen," 
 said Eleanor; "you are always thinking of 
 fighting each other." 
 
 " Either that," said he, " or else supporting 
 each other. The pity is that we cannot do the
 
 268 Barchester Towers 
 
 one without the other. But are we not here to 
 fight ? Is not ours a church militant ? What 
 is all our work but fighting, and hard fighting, if 
 it be well done ? " 
 
 " But not with each other." 
 
 " That's as it may be. The same complaint 
 \vhich you make of me for battling with another 
 clergyman of our own church, the Mohammedan 
 would make against me for battling with the 
 error of a priest of Rome. Yet, surely, you 
 would not be inclined to say that I should be 
 wrong to do battle with such as him. A pagan, 
 too, with his multiplicity of gods, would think it 
 equally odd that the Christian and the Moham- 
 medan should disagree." 
 
 " Ah ! but you wage your wars about trifles so 
 bitterly." 
 
 " Wars about trifles," said he, " are always 
 bitter, especially among neighbours. When the 
 differences are great, and the parties comparative 
 strangers, men quarrel with courtesy. What com- 
 batants are ever so eager as two brothers ? " 
 
 " But do not such contentions bring scandal 
 on the church ? " 
 
 " More scandal would fall on the church if 
 there were no such contentions. We have but 
 one way to avoid them that of acknowledging 
 a common head of our church, whose word on 
 all points of doctrine shall be authoritative. 
 Such a termination of our difficulties is alluring 
 enough. It has charms which are irresistible to 
 many, and all but irresistible, I own, to me." 
 
 " You speak now of the Church of Rome ? " 
 said Eleanor. 
 
 *' No," said he, " not necessarily of the Church
 
 St. Ewold's Parsonage 269 
 
 of Rome ; but of a church with a head. Had 
 it pleased God to vouchsafe to us such a church 
 our path would have been easy. But easy paths 
 have not been thought good for us." He paused 
 and stood silent for a while, thinking of the time 
 when he had so nearly sacrificed all he had, his 
 powers of mind, his free agency, the fresh running 
 waters of his mind's fountain, his very inner self, 
 for an easy path in which no fighting would be 
 needed; and then he continued: "What you 
 say is partly true ; our contentions do bring on 
 us some scandal. The outer world, though it 
 constantly reviles us for our human infirmities, 
 and throws in our teeth the fact that being 
 clergymen we are still no more than men, 
 demands of us that we should do our work with 
 godlike perfection. There is nothing godlike 
 about us : we differ from each other with the 
 acerbity common to man we triumph over 
 each other with human frailty we allow differ- 
 ences on subjects of divine origin to produce 
 among us antipathies and enmities which are 
 anything but divine. This is all true. But 
 what would you have in place of it ? There is 
 no infallible head for a church on earth. This 
 dream of believing man has been tried, and we 
 see in Italy and in Spain what has come of it. 
 Grant that there are and have been no bicker- 
 ings within the pale of the Pope's Church. 
 Such an assumption would be utterly untrue ; 
 but let us grant it, and then let us say which 
 church has incurred the heavier scandals." 
 
 There was a quiet earnestness about Mr. 
 Arabin, as he half acknowledged and half 
 defended himself from the charge brought
 
 270 Barchester Towers 
 
 against him, which surprised Eleanor. She had 
 been used all her life to listen to clerical discus- 
 sion ; but the points at issue between the dispu- 
 tants had so seldom been of more than temporal 
 significance as to have left on her mind no 
 feeling of reverence for such subjects. There 
 had always been a hard worldly leaven of the 
 love either of income or of power in the strains 
 she had heard ; there had been no panting for 
 the truth ; no aspirations after religious purity. 
 It had always been taken for granted by those 
 around her that they were indubitably right, 
 that there was no ground for doubt, that the 
 hard uphill work of ascertaining what the duty 
 of a clergyman should be had been already ac- 
 complished in full ; and that what remained for 
 an active militant parson to do, was to hold his 
 own against all comers. His father, it is true, 
 was an exception to this ; but then he was so 
 essentially antimilitant in all things, that she 
 classed him in her own mind apart from all 
 others. She had never argued the matter within 
 herself, or considered whether this common tone 
 was or was not faulty; but she was sick of it 
 without knowing that she was so. And now she 
 found to her surprise and not without a certain 
 pleasurable excitement, that this new comer 
 among them spoke in a manner very different 
 from that to which she was accustomed. 
 
 " It is so easy to condemn," said he, continu- 
 ing the thread of his thoughts. " I know no 
 life that must be so delicious as that of a 
 writer for newspapers, or a leading member of 
 the opposition to thunder forth accusations 
 against men in power ; show up the worst side
 
 St. Ewold's Parsonage 271 
 
 of everything that is produced ; to pick holes in 
 every coat; to be indignant, sarcastic, jocose, 
 moral, or supercilious ; to damn with faint 
 pnise, or crush with open calumny ! What can 
 be so easy as this when the critic has to be 
 responsible for nothing ? You condemn what I 
 do; but put yourself in my position and do the 
 reverse, and then see if I cannot condemn you." 
 " Oh ! Mr. Arabin, I do not condemn you." 
 " Pardon me, you do, Mrs. Bold you as one 
 of the world ; you are now the opposition 
 member ; you are now composing your leading 
 article, and well and bitterly you do it. ' Let dogs 
 delight to bark and bite ; ' you fitly begin with 
 an elegant quotation ; ' but if we are to have a 
 church at all, in heaven's name let the pastors who 
 preside over it keep their hands from each other's 
 throats. Lawyers can live without befouling 
 each other's names ; doctors do not fight duels. 
 Why is it that clergymen alone should indulge 
 themselves in such unrestrained liberty of abuse 
 against each other ? ' and so you go on reviling 
 us for our ungodly quarrels, our sectarian 
 propensities, and scandalous differences. It 
 will, however, give you no trouble to write 
 another article next week in which we, or some 
 of us, shall be twitted with an unseemly apathy 
 in matters of our vocation. It will not fall on 
 you to reconcile the discrepancy ; your readers 
 will never ask you how the poor parson is to be 
 urgent in season and out of season, and yet 
 never come in contact with men who think 
 widely differently from him. You, when you 
 condemn this foreign treaty, or that official 
 arrangement, will have to incur no blame for
 
 272 Barchester Towers 
 
 the graver faults of any different measure. Il 
 is so easy to condemn ; and so pleasant too ; 
 for eulogy charms no listeners as detraction 
 does." 
 
 Eleanor only half followed him in his raillery, 
 but she caught his meaning. " I know I ought 
 to apologise for presuming to criticise you," she 
 said ; " but I was thinking with sorrow of the 
 ill-will that has lately come among us at Bar- 
 Chester, and I spoke more freely than I should 
 have done." 
 
 " Peace on earth and good-will among men, 
 are, like heaven-promises for the future," saii 
 he, following rather his own thoughts than hers. 
 " When that prophecy is accomplished, there 
 will no longer be any need for clergymen." 
 
 Here they were interrupted by the archdeacon, 
 whose voice was heard from the cellar shouting 
 to the vicar. 
 
 "Arabin, Arabin," and then turning to his 
 wife, who was apparently at his elbow " where 
 has he gone to ? This cellar is perfectly abomin- 
 able. It would be murder to put a bottle of 
 wine into it till it has been roofed, walled, and 
 floored. How on earth old Goodenough ever 
 got on with it, I cannot guess. But then Good- 
 enough never had a glass of wine that any man 
 could drink." 
 
 " What is it, archdeacon ? " said the vicar, 
 running down stairs, and leaving Eleanor above 
 to her meditations. 
 
 "This cellar must be roofed, walled, and 
 floored," repeated the archdeacon. " Now mind 
 what I say, and don't let the architect persuade 
 you that it will do ; half of these fellows know
 
 St. Ewold's Parsonage 273 
 
 nothing about wine. This place as it is now 
 would be damp and cold in winter, and hot and 
 muggy in summer. I wouldn't give a straw for 
 the best wine that ever was vinted, after it had 
 lain here a couple of years." 
 
 Mr. Arabin assented, and promised that the 
 cellar should be reconstructed according to the 
 archdeacon's receipt. 
 
 " And, Arabin, look here ; was such an attempt 
 at a kitchen grate ever seen ? " 
 
 " The grate is really very bad," said Mrs. 
 Grantly ; " I am sure the priestess won't approve 
 of it, when she is brought home to the scene of 
 her future duties. Really, Mr. Arabin, no 
 priestess accustomed to such an excellent well 
 as that above could put up with such a grate as 
 this." 
 
 "If there must be a priestess at St. Ewold's 
 at all, Mrs. Grantly, I think we will leave her to 
 her well, and not call down her divine wrath on 
 any of the imperfections rising from our human 
 poverty. However, I own I am amenable to 
 the attractions of a well-cooked dinner, and the 
 grate shall certainly be changed." 
 
 By this time the archdeacon had again 
 ascended, and was now in the dining-room. 
 " Arabin," said he, speaking in his usual loud clear 
 voice, and with that tone of dictation which was 
 so common to him ; " you must positively alter 
 this dining-room, that is, remodel it altogether ; 
 look here, it is just sixteen feet by fifteen; did 
 anybody ever hear of a dining-room of such 
 proportions ! " and the archdeacon stepped the 
 room long-ways and cross-ways with ponderous 
 steps, as though a certain amount of ecclesias-
 
 274 Barchester Towers 
 
 tical dignity could be imparted even to such an 
 occupation as that by the manner of doing it. 
 " Barely sixteen ; you may call it a square." 
 
 " It would do very well for a round table," 
 suggested the ex-warden. 
 
 Now, there was something peculiarly un- 
 orthodox in the archdeacon's estimation in the 
 idea of a round table. He had always been 
 accustomed to a goodly board of decent length, 
 comfortably elongating itself according to the 
 number of the guests, nearly black with per- 
 petual rubbing, and as bright as a mirror. Now 
 round dinner-tables are generally of oak, or else 
 of such new construction as not to have acquired 
 the peculiar hue which was so pleasing to him. 
 He connected them with what he called the. 
 nasty new fangled method of leaving a cloth on 
 the table, as though to warn people that they 
 were not to sit long. In his eyes there was 
 something democratic and parvenue in a round 
 table. He imagined that dissenters and calico- 
 printers chiefly used them, and perhaps a few 
 literary lions more conspicuous for their, wit 
 than their gentility. He was a little flurried at 
 the idea of such an article being introduced into 
 the diocese by a prote'ge of his own, and at the 
 instigation of his father-in-law. 
 
 "A round dinner-table," said he, with some 
 heat, " is the most abominable article of furniture 
 that ever was invented. I hope that Arab in has 
 more taste than to allow such a thing in his 
 house." 
 
 Poor Mr. Harding felt himself completely 
 snubbed, and of course said nothing further ; 
 but Mr. Arabin, who had yielded submissively
 
 St. Ewold's Parsonage 275 
 
 in the small matters of the cellar and kitchen 
 grate, found himself obliged to oppose reforms 
 which might be of a nature too expensive for 
 his pocket. 
 
 " But it seems to me, archdeacon, that I can't 
 very well lengthen the room without pulling 
 down the wall, and if I pull down the wall, I 
 must build it up again ; then if I throw out a 
 bow on this side, I must do the same on the 
 other, then if I do it for the ground floor, I 
 must carry it up to the floor above. That -will 
 be putting a new front to the house, and 
 will cost, I suppose, a couple of hundred 
 pounds. The ecclesiastical commissioners will 
 hardly assist me when they hear that my grievance 
 consists in having a dining-room only sixteen 
 feet long." 
 
 The archdeacon proceeded to explain that 
 nothing would be easier than adding six feet to 
 the front of the dining-room, without touching 
 any other room in the house. Such irregularities 
 of construction in small country houses were, he 
 said, rather graceful than otherwise, and he 
 offered to pay for the whole thing out of his 
 own pocket if it cost more than forty pounds. 
 Mr. Arabin, however, was firm, and, although 
 the archdeacon fussed and fumed about it, 
 would not give way. 
 
 Forty pounds, he said, was a matter of serious 
 moment to him, and his friends, if under such 
 circumstances they would be good-natured 
 enough to come to him at all, must put up with 
 the misery of a square room. He was willing 
 to compromise matters by disclaiming any 
 intention of having a round table.
 
 276 Barchester Towers 
 
 "But," said Mrs. Grantly, "what if the 
 priestess insists on having both the rooms en- 
 larged ? " 
 
 " The priestess in that case must do it fo-r 
 herself, Mrs. Grantly." 
 
 " I have no doubt she will be well able to do 
 so," replied the lady ; " to do that and many 
 more wonderful things. I am quite sure that 
 the priestess of St. Ewold, when she does come, 
 won't come empty-handed." 
 
 Mr. Arabin, however, did not appear well 
 inclined to enter into speculative expenses on 
 such a chance as this, and therefore, any 
 material alterations in the house, the cost of 
 which could not fairly be made to lie at the 
 door either of the ecclesiastical commissioners 
 or of the estate of the late incumbent, were 
 tabooed. With this essential exception, the 
 archdeacon ordered, suggested, and carried all 
 points before him in a manner very much to his 
 own satisfaction. A close observer, had there 
 been one there, might have seen that his wife 
 had been quite as useful in the matter as him- 
 self. No one knew better than Mrs. Grantly 
 the appurtenances necessary to a comfortable 
 house. She did not, however, think it necessary 
 to lay claim to any of the glory which her lord 
 and master was so ready to appropriate as his 
 own. 
 
 Having gone through their work effectually 
 and systematically, the party returned to Plum- 
 stead well satisfied with their expedition.
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE THORNES OF ULLATHORNE 
 
 ON the following Sunday Mr. Arabin was to 
 read himself in at his new church. It was 
 agreed at the rectory that the archdeacon 
 should go over with him and assist at the read- 
 ing-desk, and that Mr. Harding should take the 
 archdeacon's duty at Plumstead Church. Mrs. 
 Grantly had her school and her buns to attend 
 to, and professed that she could not be spared ; 
 but Mrs. Bold was to accompany them. It was 
 further agreed also, that they would lunch at 
 the squire's house, and return home after the 
 afternoon service. 
 
 Wilfred Thorne, Esq., of Ullathorne, was the 
 squire of St. Ewold's ; or rather the squire of 
 Ullathorne ; for the domain of the modern land- 
 lord was of wider notoriety than the fame of the 
 ancient saint. He was a fair specimen of what 
 that race has come to in our days, which a 
 century ago was, as we are told, fairly repre- 
 sented by Squire Western. If that representa- 
 tion be a true one, few classes of men can have 
 made faster strides in improvement. Mr. 
 Thorne, however, was a man possessed of quite 
 a sufficient number of foibles to lay him open to 
 much ridicule. He was still a bachelor, being 
 about fifty, and was not a little proud of his 
 person. When living at home at Ullathorne 
 there was not much room for such pride, and 
 there therefore he always looked like a gentleman,
 
 278 Barchester Towers 
 
 and like that which he certainly was, the first 
 man in his parish. But during the month or 
 six weeks which he annually spent in London, 
 he tried so hard to look like a great man there 
 also, which he certainly was not, that he was 
 put down as a fool by many at his club. He 
 was a man of considerable literary attainment 
 in a certain way and on certain subjects. His 
 favourite authors were Montaigne and Burton, 
 and he knew more perhaps than any other man 
 in his own county, and the next to it, of the 
 English essayists of the two last centuries. He 
 possessed complete sets of the " Idler," the 
 " Spectator," the " Tatler," the " Guardian," and 
 the " Rambler ; " and would discourse by hours 
 together on the superiority of such publications 
 to anything which has since been produced in 
 our Edinburghs and Quarterlies. He was a 
 great proficient in all questions of genealogy, 
 and knew enough of almost every gentleman's 
 family in England to say of what blood and 
 lineage were descended all those who had any 
 claim to be considered as possessors of any such 
 luxuries. For blood and lineage he himself had 
 a most profound respect. He counted back his 
 own ancestors to some period long antecedent 
 to the Conquest ; and could tell you, if you 
 would listen to him, how it had come to pass 
 that they, like Cedric the Saxon, had been 
 permitted to hold their own among the Norman 
 barons. It was not, according to his showing, 
 on account of any weak complaisance on the 
 part of his family towards their Norman neigh- 
 bours. Some Ealfried of Ullathorne once forti- 
 fied his own castle, and held out, not only that,
 
 The Thornes of Ullathorne 279 
 
 but the then existing cathedral of Barchester 
 also, against one Geoffrey De Burgh, in the time 
 of King John ; and Mr. Thorne possessed the 
 whole history of the siege written on vellum, 
 and illuminated in a most costly manner. It 
 little signified that no one could read the writing, 
 as, had that been possible, no one could have 
 understood the language. Mr. Thorne could, 
 however, give you all the particulars in good 
 English, and had no objection to do so. 
 
 It would be unjust to say that he looked 
 down on men whose families were of recent 
 date. He did not do so. He frequently con- 
 sorted with such, and had chosen many of his 
 friends from among them. But he looked on 
 them as great millionaires are apt to look on 
 those who have small incomes ; as men who 
 have Sophocles at their fingers' ends regard 
 those who know nothing of Greek. They might 
 doubtless be good sort of people, entitled to 
 much praise for virtue, very admirable for 
 talent, highly respectable in every way; but 
 they were without the one great good gift. 
 Such was Mr. Thome's way of thinking on 
 this matter; nothing could atone for the loss 
 of good blood ; nothing could neutralise its 
 good effects. Few indeed were now possessed 
 of it, but the possession was on that account the 
 more precious. It was very pleasant to hear 
 Mr. Th,orne descant oil this matter. Were you 
 in your ignorance to s.urmise that such a one 
 was of a good family because the head of his 
 family was a baronet of an old date, he would 
 open his eyes with a delightful look of affected 
 surprise, and modestly remind you that baro-
 
 280 Barchester Towers 
 
 netcies only dated from James I. He would 
 gently sigh if you spoke of the blood of the 
 Fitzgeralds and De Burghs ; would hardly allow 
 the claims of the Howards and Lowthers ; and 
 has before now alluded to the Talbots as a 
 family who had hardly yet achieved the full 
 honours of a pedigree. 
 
 In speaking once of a wide spread race whose 
 name had received the honours of three 
 coronets, scions from which sat for various 
 constituencies, some one of whose members 
 had been in almost every cabinet formed during 
 the present century, a brilliant race such as 
 there are few in England, Mr. Thorne had 
 called them all "dirt." He had not intended 
 any disrespect to these men. He admired 
 them in many senses, and allowed them their 
 privileges without envy. He had merely meant 
 to express his feeling that the streams which 
 ran through their veins were not yet purified by 
 time to that perfection, had not become so 
 genuine an ichor, as to be worthy of being 
 called blood in the genealogical sense. 
 
 When Mr. Arabin was first introduced to him, 
 Mr. Thorne had immediately suggested that he 
 was one of the Arabins of Uphill Stanton. Mr. 
 Arabin replied that he was a very distant relative 
 of the family alluded to. To this Mr. Thorne 
 surmised that the relationship could not be very 
 distant. Mr. Arabin assured him that it was so 
 distant that the families knew nothing of each 
 other. Mr. Thorne laughed his gentle laugh at 
 this, and told Mr. Arabin that there was now 
 existing no branch of his family separated from 
 the parent stock at an earlier date than the
 
 The Thornes of Ullathorne 281 
 
 reign of Elizabeth ; and that therefore Mr. 
 Arabin could not call himself distant. Mr. 
 Arab in himself was quite clearly an Arabin of 
 Uphill Stanton. 
 
 " But," said the vicar, " Uphill Stanton has 
 been sold to the De Greys, and has been in 
 their hands for the last fifty years." 
 
 "And when it has been there one hundred 
 and fifty, if it unluckily remain there so long," 
 said Mr. Thorne, " your descendants will not be 
 a whit the less entitled to describe themselves 
 as being of the family of Uphill Stanton. 
 Thank God, no De Grey can buy that and, 
 thank God no Arabin, and no Thorne, can 
 sell it." 
 
 In politics, Mr. Thorne was an unflinching 
 conservative. He looked on those fifty-three 
 Trojans, who, as Mr. Dod tells us, censured 
 free trade in November, 1852, as the only 
 patriots left among the public men of England. 
 When that terrible crisis of free trade had 
 arrived, when the repeal of the corn laws was 
 carried by those very men whom Mr. Thorne 
 had hitherto regarded as the only possible 
 saviours of his country, he was for a time 
 paralysed. His country was lost ; but that was 
 comparatively a small thing. Other countries 
 had flourished and fallen, and the human race 
 still went on improving under God's providence. 
 But now all trust in human faith must for ever 
 be at an end. Not only must ruin come, but it 
 must come through the apostasy of those who 
 had been regarded as the truest of true believers. 
 Politics in England, as a pursuit for gentlemen, 
 must be at an end. Had Mr. Thorne been
 
 trodden under foot by a Whig, he could have 
 borne it as a Tory and a martyr ; but to be so 
 utterly thrown over and deceived by those he 
 had so earnestly supported, so thoroughly 
 trusted, was more than he could endure and 
 live. He therefore ceased to live as a politician, 
 and refused to hold any converse with the world 
 at large on the state of the country. 
 
 Such were Mr. Thome's impressions for the 
 first two or three years after Sir Robert Peel's 
 apostasy; but by degrees his temper, as did 
 that of others, cooled down. He began once 
 more to move about, to frequent the bench and 
 the market, and to be seen at dinners, shoulder 
 to shoulder with some of those who had so 
 cruelly betrayed him. It was a necessity for 
 him to live, and that plan of his for avoiding the 
 world did not answer. He, however, and 
 others around him who still maintained the 
 same staunch principles of protection men like 
 himself, who were too true to flinch at the cry 
 of a mob had their own way of consoling 
 themselves. They were, and felt themselves to 
 be, the only true depositaries left of certain 
 Eleusinian mysteries, of certain deep and 
 wondrous services of worship by which alone 
 the gods could be rightly approached. To 
 them and them only was it now given to know 
 these things, and to perpetuate them, if that 
 might still be done, by the careful and secret 
 education of their children. 
 
 We have read how private and peculiar forms 
 of worship have been carried on from age to 
 age in families, which to the outer world have 
 apparently adhered to the services of some
 
 The Thornes of Ullathorne 283 
 
 ordinary church. And so by degrees it was 
 with Mr. Thorne. He learnt at length to listen 
 calmly while protection was talked of as a thing 
 dead, although he knew within himself that it 
 was still quick with a mystic life. Nor was he 
 without a certain pleasure that such knowledge 
 though given to him should be debarred from 
 the multitude. He became accustomed to hear, 
 even among country gentlemen, that free trade 
 was after all not so bad, and to hear this with- 
 out dispute, although conscious within himself 
 that everything good in England had gone with 
 his old palladium. He had within him some- 
 thing of the feeling of Cato, who gloried that he 
 could kill himself because Romans were no 
 longer worthy of their name. Mr. Thorne had 
 no thought of killing himself, being a Christian, 
 and still possessing his 4ooo/. a year ; but the feel- 
 ing was riot on that account the less comfortable. 
 ' Mr. Thorne was a sportsman, and had been 
 active though not outrageous in his sports. 
 Previous to the great downfall of politics in his 
 county, he had supported the hunt by every 
 means in his power. He had preserved game 
 till no goose or turkey could show a tail in the 
 parish of St. Ewold's. He had planted gorse 
 covers with more care than oaks and larches. 
 He had been more anxious for the comfort 
 of his foxes than of his ewes and lambs. No 
 meet had been more popular than Ullathorne ; 
 no man's stables had been more liberally open 
 to the horses of distant men than Mr. Thome's ; 
 no man had said more, written more, or done 
 more to keep the club up. The theory of 
 protection could expand itself so thoroughly in
 
 284 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 the practices of a county hunt ! But when the 
 great ruin came ; when the noble master of 
 the Barsetshire hounds supported the recreant 
 minister in the House of Lords, and basely 
 surrendered his truth, his manhood, his friends, 
 and his honour for the hope of a garter, then 
 Mr. Thome gave up the hunt. He did not 
 cut his covers, for that would not have been the 
 act of a gentleman. He did not kill his foxes, 
 for that according to his light would have been 
 murder. He did not say that his covers should 
 not be drawn, or his earths stopped, for that 
 would have been illegal according to the by- 
 laws prevailing among country gentlemen. But 
 he absented himself from home on the occasion 
 of every meet at Ullathorne, left the covers to 
 their fate, and could not be persuaded to take 
 his pink coat out of the press, or his hunters out 
 of his stable. This lasted for two years, and 
 then by degrees he came round. He first 
 appeared at a neighbouring meet on a pony, 
 dressed in his shooting coat, as though he had 
 trotted in by accident ; then he walked up one 
 morning on foot to see his favourite gorse 
 drawn, and when his groom brought his mare 
 out by chance, he did not refuse to mount her. 
 He was next persuaded, by one of the im- 
 mortal fifty-three, to bring his hunting materials 
 over to the other side of the county, and take 
 a fortnight with the hounds there ; and so 
 gradually he returned to his old life. But in 
 hunting as in other things he was only supported 
 by an inward feeling of mystic superiority to 
 those with whom he shared the common breath 
 of outer life.
 
 The Thornes of Ullathorne 285 
 
 Mr. Thorne did not live in solitude at Ulla- 
 thorne. He had a sister, who was ten years 
 older than himself, and who participated in his 
 prejudices and feelings so strongly, that she 
 was a living caricature of all his foibles. She 
 would not open a modern quarterly, did not 
 choose to see a magazine in her drawing-room, 
 and would not have polluted her fingers with a 
 shred of the " Times " for any consideration. 
 She spoke of Addison, Swift, and Steele, as 
 though they were still living, regarded De Foe 
 as the best known novelist of his country, and 
 thought of Fielding as a young but meritorious 
 novice in the fields of romance. In poetry, she 
 was familiar with names as late as Dryden, and 
 had once been seduced into reading the " Rape 
 of the Lock ; " but she regarded Spenser as the 
 purest type of her country's literature in this 
 line. Genealogy was her favourite insanity. 
 Those things which are the pride of most 
 genealogists were to her contemptible. Arms 
 and mottoes set her beside herself. Ealfried of 
 Ullathorne had wanted no motto to assist him 
 in cleaving to the brisket Geoffrey De Burgh ; 
 and Ealfried's great grandfather, the gigantic 
 Ullafrid, had required no other arms than those 
 which nature gave him to hurl from the top of 
 his own castle a cousin of the base invading 
 Norman. To her all modern English names 
 were equally insignificant : Hengist, Horsa, and 
 such like, had for her ears the only true savour 
 of nobility. She was not contented unless she 
 could go beyond the Saxons ; and would 
 certainly have christened her children, had she 
 had children, by the names of the ancient Britons.
 
 286 Barchester Towers 
 
 In some respects she was not unlike Scott's 
 Ulrica, and had she been given to cursing, she 
 would certainly have done so in the names of 
 Mista, Skogula, and Zernebock. Not having sub- 
 mitted to the embraces of any polluting Norman, 
 as poor Ulrica had done, and having assisted 
 no parricide, the milk of human kindness was 
 not curdled in her bosom. She never cursed, 
 therefore, but blessed rather. This, however, 
 she did in a strange uncouth Saxon manner 
 that would have been unintelligible to any 
 peasants but her own. 
 
 As a politician, Miss Thorne had been so 
 thoroughly disgusted with public life by base 
 deeds long antecedent to the Corn Law ques- 
 tion, that that had but little moved her. In her 
 estimation her brother had been a fast young 
 man, hurried away by a too ardent temperament 
 into democratic tendencies. Now happily he 
 was brought to sounder views by seeing the 
 iniquity of the world. She had not yet recon- 
 ciled herself to the Reform Bill, and still groaned 
 in spirit over the defalcations of the Duke as 
 touching the Catholic Emancipation. If asked 
 whom she thought the Queen should take as her 
 counsellor, she would probably have named Lord 
 Eldon ; and when reminded that that venerable 
 man was no longer present in the flesh to assist 
 us, she would probably have answered with a 
 sigh that none now could help us but the dead. 
 
 In religion, Miss Thorne was a pure Druidess. 
 We would not have it understood by that, that 
 she did actually in these latter days assist at 
 any human sacrifices, or that she was in fact 
 hostile to the Church of Christ. She had
 
 The Thornes of Ullathorne 287 
 
 adopted the Christian religion as a milder form 
 of the worship of her ancestors, and always 
 appealed to her doing so as evidence that she 
 had no prejudices against reform, when it could 
 be shown that reform was salutary. This reform 
 was the most modern of any to which she had 
 as yet acceded, it being presumed that British 
 ladies had given up their paint and taken to 
 some sort of petticoats before the days of St. 
 Augustine. That further feminine step in 
 advance which combines paint and petticoats 
 together, had not found a votary in Miss 
 Thome. 
 
 But she was a Druidess in this, that she 
 regretted she knew not what in the usages and 
 practices of her Church. She sometimes talked 
 and constantly thought of good things gone by, 
 though she had but the faintest idea of what 
 those good things had been. She imagined that 
 a purity had existed which was now gone ; that 
 a piety had adorned our pastors and a simple 
 docility our people, for which it may be feared 
 history gave her but little true warrant. She 
 was accustomed to speak of Cranmer as though 
 he had been the firmest and most simple-minded 
 of martyrs, and of Elizabeth as though the pure 
 Protestant faith of her people had been the one 
 anxiety of her life. It would have been cruel 
 to undeceive her, had it been possible ; but it 
 would have been impossible to make her believe 
 that the one was a time-serving priest, willing to 
 go any length to keep his place, and that the 
 other was in heart a papist, with this sole pro- 
 viso, that she should be her own pope. 
 
 And so Miss- Thome went on sighing and
 
 288 Barchester Towers 
 
 regretting, looking back to the divine right of 
 kings as the ruling axiom of a golden age, and 
 cherishing, low down in the bottom of her heart 
 of hearts, a dear unmentioned wish for the 
 restoration of some exiled Stuart. Who would 
 deny her the luxury of her sighs, or the sweet- 
 ness of her soft regrets ! 
 
 In her person and her dress she was perfect, 
 and well she knew her own perfection. She 
 was a small elegantly made old woman, with a 
 face from which the glow of her youth had not 
 departed without leaving some streaks of a roseate 
 hue. She was proud of her colour, proud of 
 her grey hair which she wore in short crisp 
 curls peering out all round her face from the 
 dainty white lace cap. To think of all the 
 money that she spent in lace used to break the 
 heart of poor Mrs. Quiverful with her seven 
 daughters. She was proud of her teeth, which 
 were still white and numerous, proud of her 
 bright cheery eye, proud of her short jaunty 
 step, and very proud of the neat, precise, small 
 feet with which those steps were taken. She 
 was proud also, ay, very proud, of the rich 
 brocaded silk in which it was her custom to 
 ruffle through her drawing-room. 
 
 We know what was the custom of the lady of 
 Branksome 
 
 " Nine-and-twenty knights of fame 
 
 Hung their shields in Branksome Hall." 
 
 The lady of Ullathorne was not so martial in 
 her habits, but hardly less costly. She might 
 have boasted that nine-and-twenty silken skirts 
 might have been produced in her chamber, each
 
 The Thornes of Ullathorne 289 
 
 fit to stand alone. The nine-and-twenty shields 
 of the Scottish heroes were less independent, 
 and hardly more potent to withstand any attack 
 that might be made on them. Miss Thome 
 when fully dressed might be said to have been 
 armed cap-a-pie, and she was always fully 
 dressed, r.s far as was ever known to mortal 
 man. 
 
 For all this rich attire Miss Thorne was not 
 indebted to the generosity of her brother. She 
 had a very comfortable independence of her 
 own, which she divided among juvenile relatives, 
 the milliners, and the poor, giving much the 
 largest share to the latter. It may be imagined, 
 therefore, that with all her little follies she was 
 not unpopular. All her follies have, we believe, 
 been told. Her virtues were too numerous to 
 describe, and not sufficiently interesting to 
 deserve description. 
 
 While we are on the subject of the Thornes, 
 one word must be said of the house they lived 
 in. It was not a large house, nor a fine house, 
 nor perhaps to modern ideas a very commodious 
 house ; but by those who love the peculiar colour 
 and peculiar ornaments of genuine Tudor archi- 
 tecture it was considered a perfect gem. We 
 beg to own ourselves among the number, and 
 therefore take this opportunity to express our 
 surprise that so little is known by English men 
 and women of the beauties of English archi- 
 tecture. The ruins of the Colosseum, the 
 Campanile at Florence, St. Mark's, Cologne, 
 the Bourse and Notre Dame, are with our 
 tourists as familiar as household words; but 
 they know nothing of the glories of Wiltshire, 
 
 L
 
 290 Barchester Towers 
 
 Dorsetshire, and Somersetshire. Nay, we much 
 question whether many noted travellers, men 
 who have pitched their tents perhaps under 
 Mount Sinai, are not still ignorant that there 
 are glories in Wiltshire, Dorsetshire, and Somer- 
 setshire. We beg that they will go and see. 
 
 Mr. Thome's house was called Ullathorne 
 Court, and was properly so called ; for the 
 house itself formed two sides of a quadrangle, 
 which was completed on the other two sides 
 by a wall about twenty feet high. This wall 
 was built of cut stone, rudely cut indeed, and 
 now much worn, but of a beautiful rich tawny 
 yellow colour, the effect of that stonecrop of 
 minute growth, which it had taken three cen- 
 turies to produce. The top of this wall was 
 ornamented by huge round stone balls of the 
 same colour as the wall itself. Entrance into 
 the court wa^ had through a pair of iron gates, 
 so massive that no one could comfortably open 
 or close them, consequently they were rarely 
 disturbed. From the gateway two paths led 
 obliquely across the court; that to the left 
 reaching the hall-door, which was in the corner 
 made by the angle of the house, and that to 
 the right leading to the back entrance, which 
 was at the further end of the longer portion of 
 the building. 
 
 With those who are now adepts in contriving 
 house accommodation, it will militate much 
 against Ullathorne Court, that no carriage could 
 be brought to the hall-door. If you enter Ulla- 
 thorne at all, you must do so, fair reader, on 
 foot, or at least in a bath-chair. No vehicle 
 drawn by horses ever comes within that iron
 
 The Thornes of Ullathorne 291 
 
 gate. But this is nothing to the next horror 
 that will encounter you. On entering the front 
 door, which you do by no very grand portal, 
 you find yourself immediately in the dining- 
 room. What, no hall ? exclaims my luxurious 
 friend, accustomed to all the comfortable appur- 
 tenances of modern life. Yes, kind sir; a 
 noble hall, if you will but observe it; a true 
 old English hall of excellent dimensions for a 
 country gentleman's family ; but, if you please, 
 no dining-parlour. 
 
 Both Mr. and Miss Thorne were proud of 
 this peculiarity of their dwelling, though the 
 brother was once all but tempted by his friends 
 to alter it. They delighted in the knowledge 
 that they, like Cedric, positively dined in their 
 true hall, even though they so dined fete-a-ttte. 
 But though they had never owned, they had 
 felt and endeavoured to remedy the discomfort 
 of such an arrangement. A huge screen par- 
 titioned off the front door and a portion of the 
 hall, and from the angle so screened off a 
 second door led into a passage, which ran along 
 the larger side of the house next to the court- 
 yard. Either my reader or I must be a bad 
 hand at topography, if it be not clear that the 
 great hall forms the ground-floor of the smaller 
 portion of the mansion, that which was to your 
 left as you entered the iron gate, and that it 
 occupies the whole of this wing of the building. 
 It must be equally clear that it looks out on a 
 trim mown lawn, through three quadrangular 
 windows with stone mullions, each window 
 divided into a larger portion at the bottom, 
 and a smaller portion at the top, and each
 
 292 Barchester Towers 
 
 portion again divided into five by perpendicular 
 stone supporters. There may be windows 
 which give a better light than such as these, 
 and it may be, as my utilitarian friend observes, 
 that the giving of light is the desired object of 
 a window. I will not argue the point with him. 
 Indeed I cannot. But I shall not the less die 
 in the assured conviction that no sort or descrip- 
 tion of window is capable of imparting half so 
 much happiness to mankind as that which had 
 been adopted at Ullathorne Court. What not 
 an oriel ? says Miss Diana de Midellage. No, 
 Miss Diana ; not even an oriel, beautiful as is 
 an oriel window. It has not about it so perfect 
 a feeling of quiet English homely comfort. Let 
 oriel windows grace a college, or the half public 
 mansion of a potent peer; but for the sitting- 
 room of quiet country ladies, of ordinary homely 
 folk, nothing can equal the square mullioned 
 windows of the Tudor architects. 
 
 The hall was hung round with family female 
 insipidities by Lely, and unprepossessing male 
 Thornes in red coats by Kneller ; each Thorne 
 having been let into a panel in the wainscoting, 
 in the proper manner. At the further end of the 
 room was a huge fire-place, which afforded much 
 ground of difference between the brother and 
 sister. An antiquated grate that would hold 
 about a hundred-weight of coal, had been stuck 
 on to the hearth, by Mr. Thome's father. This 
 hearth had of course been intended for the con- 
 sumption of wood fagots, and the iron dogs for 
 the purpose were still standing, though half 
 buried in the masonry of the grate. Miss 
 Thorne was very anxious to revert to the dogs.
 
 The Thornes of Ullathorne 293 
 
 The dear good old creature was always glad to 
 revert to anything, and had she been systema- 
 tically indulged, would doubtless in time have 
 reflected that fingers were made before forks, 
 and have reverted accordingly. But in the affairs 
 of the fire-place, Mr. Thorne would not revert. 
 Country gentlemen around him, all had comfort- 
 able grates in their dining-rooms. He was not 
 exactly the man to have suggested a modern 
 usage ; but he was not so far prejudiced as to 
 banish those which his father had prepared for 
 his use. Mr. Thorne had, indeed, once suggested 
 that with very little contrivance the front door 
 might have been so altered, as to open at least 
 into the passage ; but on hearing this, his sister 
 Monica, such was Miss Thome's name, had 
 been taken ill, and had remained so for a week. 
 Before she came down stairs she received a 
 pledge from her brother that the entrance should 
 never be changed in her lifetime. 
 
 At the end of the hall opposite to the fire- 
 place a door led into the drawing-room, which 
 was of equal size, and lighted with precisely 
 similar windows. But yet the aspect of the 
 room was very different. It was papered, and 
 the ceiling, which in the hall showed the old 
 rafters, was whitened and finished with a modern 
 cornice. Miss Thome's drawing-room, or, as 
 she always called it, withdrawing-room, was a 
 beautiful apartment. The windows opened on 
 to the full extent of the lovely trim garden; 
 immediately before the windows were plots of 
 flowers in stiff, stately, stubborn little beds, each 
 bed surrounded by a stone coping of its own ; 
 beyond, there was a low parapet wall, on which
 
 294 Barchester Towers 
 
 stood urns and images, fawns, nymphs, satyrs, 1 
 and a whole tribe of Pan's followers ; and then 
 again, beyond that, a beautiful lawn sloped 
 away to a sunk fence which divided the garden 
 from the park. Mr. Thome's study was at the 
 end of the drawing-room, and beyond that were 
 the kitchen and the offices. Doors opened into 
 both Miss Thome's withdrawing-room and Mr. 
 Thome's sanctum from the passage above 
 alluded to ; which, as it came to the latter room, 
 widened itself so as to make space for the huge 
 black oak stairs, which led to the upper regions. 
 
 Such was the interior of Ullathorne Court. 
 But having thus described it, perhaps somewhat 
 too tediously, we beg to say that it is not the 
 interior to which we wish to call the English 
 tourist's attention, though we advise him to lose 
 no legitimate opportunity of becoming acquainted 
 with it in a friendly manner. It is the outside 
 of Ullathorne that is so lovely. Let the tourist 
 get admission at least into the garden, and fling 
 himself on that soft sward just opposite to the 
 exterior angle of the house. He will there get 
 the double frontage, and enjoy that which is so 
 lovely the expanse of architectural beauty 
 without the formal dulness of one long line. 
 
 It is the colour of Ullathorne that is so re- 
 markable. It is all of that delicious tawny hue 
 which no stone can give, unless it has on it the 
 vegetable richness of centuries. Strike the wall 
 with your hand, and you will think that the 
 stone has on it no covering, but rub it carefully, 
 and you will find that the colour comes off upon 
 your finger. No colourist that ever yet worked 
 from a palette has been able to come up to this
 
 The Thornes of Ullathorne 295 
 
 rich colouring of years crowding themselves on 
 years. 
 
 Ullathorne is a high building for a country 
 house, for it possesses three stories ; and in 
 each story, the windows are of the same sort as 
 that described, though varying in size, and vary- 
 ing also in their lines athwart the house. Those 
 of the ground floor are all uniform in size and 
 position. But those above are irregular both in 
 size and place, and this irregularity gives a 
 bizarre and not unpicturesque appearance to the 
 building. Along the top, on every side, runs a 
 low parapet, which nearly hides the roof, and at 
 the corners are more figures of fawns and satyrs. 
 
 Such is Ullathorne House. But we must say 
 one word of the approach to it, which shall 
 include all the description which we mean to 
 give of the church also. The picturesque old 
 church of St. Ewold's stands immediately 
 opposite to the iron gates which open into the 
 court, and is all but surrounded by the branches 
 of the lime trees, which form the avenue leading 
 up to the house from both sides. This avenue 
 is magnificent, but it would lose much of its 
 value in the eyes of many proprietors, by the 
 fact that the road through it is not private 
 property. It is a public lane between hedge- 
 rows, with a broad grass margin on each side 
 of the road, from which the lime trees spring. 
 Ullathorne Court, therefore, does not stand 
 absolutely surrounded by its own grounds, 
 though Mr. Thorne is owner of all the ad- 
 jacent land. This, however, is the source of 
 very little annoyance to him. Men, when they 
 are acquiring property, think much of such things,
 
 296 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 but they who live where their ancestors have 
 lived for years, do not feel the misfortune. It 
 never occurred either to Mr. or Miss Thorne 
 that they were not sufficiently private, because 
 the world at large might, if it so wished, walk or 
 drive by their iron gates. That part of the 
 world which availed itself of the privilege was 
 however very small. 
 
 Such a year or two since were the Thornes 
 of Ullathorne. Such, we believe, are the in- 
 habitants of many an English country home. 
 May it be long before their number diminishes. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 MR. ARABIN READS HIMSELF IN AT ST. EWOLD's 
 
 ON the Sunday morning the archdeacon with 
 his sister-in-law and Mr. Arabin drove over to 
 Ullathorne, as had been arranged. On their 
 way thither the new vicar declared himself to be 
 considerably disturbed in his mind at the idea 
 of thus facing his parishioners for the first 
 time. He had, he said, been always subject 
 to mauvaise honte and an annoying degree of 
 bashfulness, which often unfitted him for any 
 work of a novel description ; and now he felt 
 this so strongly that he feared he should acquit 
 himself badly in St. Ewold's reading-desk. He 
 knew, he said, that those sharp little eyes of 
 Miss Thorne would be on him, and that they 
 would not approve. All this the archdeacon
 
 Mr. Arabin at St. Ewold's 297 
 
 greatly ridiculed. He himself knew not, and 
 had never known, what it was to be shy. He 
 could not conceive that Miss Thorne, surrounded 
 as she would be by the peasants of Ullathorne 
 and a few of the poorer inhabitants of the 
 suburbs of Barchester, could in any way affect the 
 composure of a man well accustomed to address 
 the learned congregation of St. Mary's at Oxford, 
 and he laughed accordingly at the idea of Mr. 
 Arabin's modesty. 
 
 Thereupon Mr. Arabin commenced to sub- 
 tilise. The change, he said, from St. Mary's to 
 St. Ewold's was quite as powerful on the spirits 
 as would be that from St. Ewold's to St. Mary's. 
 Would not a peer who, by chance of fortune, 
 might suddenly be driven to herd among navvies 
 be as afraid of the jeers of his companions, as 
 would any navvy suddenly exalted to a seat 
 among the peers ? Whereupon the archdeacon 
 declared with a loud laugh that he would tell 
 Miss Thorne that her new minister had likened 
 her to a navvy. Eleanor, however, pronounced 
 such a conclusion to be unfair; a comparison 
 might be very just in its proportions which did 
 not at all assimilate the things compared. But 
 Mr. Arabin went on subtilising, regarding 
 neither the archdeacon's raillery nor Eleanor's 
 defence. A young lady, he said, would execute 
 with most perfect self-possession a difficult piece 
 of music in a room crowded with strangers, who 
 would not be able to express herself in intel- 
 ligible language, even on any ordinary subject 
 and among her most intimate friends, if she 
 were required to do so standing on a box some- 
 what elevated among them. It was all an affair
 
 298 Barchester Towers 
 
 of education, and he at forty found it difficult to 
 educate himself anew. 
 
 Eleanor dissented on the matter of the box ; 
 and averred she could speak very well about 
 dresses, or babies, or legs of mutton from any 
 box, provided it were big enough for her to 
 stand upon without fear, even though all her 
 friends were listening to her. The archdeacon 
 was sure she would not be able to say a word ; 
 but this proved nothing in favour of Mr. Arabin. 
 Mr. Arabin said that he would try the question 
 out with Mrs. Bold, and get her on a box some 
 day when the rectory might be full of visitors. 
 To this Eleanor assented, making condition 
 that the visitors should be of their own set, and 
 the archdeacon cogitated in his mind, whether 
 by such a condition it was intended that Mr. 
 Slope should be included, resolving also that, if 
 so, the trial would certainly never take place in 
 the rectory drawing-room at Plumstead. 
 
 And so arguing, they drove up to the iron 
 gates of Ullathorne Court. 
 
 Mr. and Miss Thorne were standing ready 
 dressed for church in the hall, and greeted their 
 clerical visitors with cordiality. The archdeacon 
 was an old favourite. He was a clergyman of 
 the old school, and this recommended him to 
 the lady. He had always been an opponent of 
 free trade as long as free trade was an open 
 question ; and now that it was no longer so, he, 
 being a clergyman, had not been obliged, like 
 most of his lay Tory companions, to read his 
 recantation. He could therefore be regarded 
 as a supporter of the immaculate fifty-three, and 
 was on this account a favourite with Mr. Thorne.
 
 Mr. Arabin at St. Ewold's 299 
 
 The little bell was tinkling, and the rural popula- 
 tion of the parish were standing about the lane, 
 leaning on the church stile, and against the walls 
 of the old court, anxious to get a look at their 
 new minister as he passed from the house to the 
 rectory. The archdeacon's servant had already 
 preceded them thither with the vestments. 
 
 They all went forth together ; and when the 
 ladies passed into the church the three gentle- 
 men tarried a moment in the lane, that Mr. 
 Thome might name to the vicar with some kind 
 of one-sided introduction, the most leading 
 among his parishioners. 
 
 " Here are our churchwardens, Mr. Arabin ; 
 Farmer Greenacre and Mr. Stiles. Mr. Stiles 
 has the mill as you go into Barchester; and 
 very good churchwardens they are." 
 
 " Not very severe, I hope," said Mr. Arabin : 
 the two ecclesiastical officers touched their hats, 
 and each made a leg in the approved rural 
 fashion, assuring the vicar that they were very 
 glad to have the honour of seeing him, and 
 adding that the weather was very good for the 
 harvest. Mr. Stiles being a man somewhat 
 versed in town life, had an impression of his 
 own dignity, and did not quite like leaving his 
 pastor under the erroneous idea that he being a 
 churchwarden kept the children in order during 
 church time. 'Twas thus he understood Mr. 
 Arabin's allusion to his severity, and hastened 
 to put matters right by observing that " Sexton 
 Clodheve looked to the younguns, and perhaps 
 sometimes there may be a thought too much 
 stick going on during sermon." Mr. Arabin's 
 bright eye twinkled as he caught that of the
 
 300 Barchester Towers 
 
 archdeacon's ; and he smiled to himself as he 
 observed how ignorant his officers were of the 
 nature of their authority, and of the surveillance 
 which it was their duty to keep even over 
 himself. 
 
 Mr. Arabin read the lessons and preached. 
 It was enough to put a man a little out, let him 
 have been ever so used to pulpit reading, to see 
 the knowing way in which the farmers cocked 
 their ears, and set about a mental criticism as to 
 whether their new minister did or did not fall 
 short of the excellence of him who had lately 
 departed from them. A mental and silent 
 criticism it was for the existing moment, but 
 soon to be made public among the elders of St. 
 Ewold's over the green graves of their children 
 and forefathers. The excellence, however, of 
 poor old Mr. Goodenough had not been wonder- 
 ful, and there were few there who did not deem 
 that Mr. Arabin did his work sufficiently well, in 
 spite of the slightly nervous affection which at 
 first impeded him, and which nearly drove the 
 archdeacon beside himself. 
 
 But the sermon was the thing to try the man. 
 It often surprises us that very young men can 
 muster courage to preach for the first time to 
 a strange congregation. Men who are as 
 yet but little more than boys, who have but 
 just left, what indeed we may not call a 
 school, but a seminary intended for their 
 tuition as scholars, Avhose thoughts have been 
 mostly of boating, cricketing, and wine parties, 
 ascend a rostrum high above the heads of 
 the submissive crowd, not that they may read 
 God's word to those below, but that they may
 
 Mr. Arabin at St. Ewold's 301 
 
 preach their own word for the edification of 
 their hearers. It seems strange to us that they 
 are not stricken dumb by the new and awful 
 solemnity of their position. How am I, just 
 turned twenty-three, who have never yet passed 
 ten thoughtful days since the power of thought 
 first came to me, how am I to instruct these 
 greybeards, who with the weary thinking of so 
 many years have approached so near the grave ? 
 Can I teach them their duty ? Can I explain 
 to them that which I so imperfectly understand, 
 that which years of study may have made so 
 plain to them? Has my newly acquired 
 privilege, as one of God's ministers, imparted to 
 me as yet any fitness for the wonderful work of 
 a preacher ? 
 
 It must be supposed that such ideas do occur 
 to young clergymen, and yet they overcome, 
 apparently with ease, this difficulty which to us 
 appears to be all but insurmountable. We have 
 never been subjected in the way of ordination 
 to the power of a bishop's hands. It may be 
 that there is in them something that sustains the 
 spirit and banishes the natural modesty of youth. 
 But for ourselves we must own that the deep 
 affection which Dominie Sampson felt for his 
 young pupils has not more endeared him to us 
 than the bashful spirit which sent him mute 
 and inglorious from the pulpit when he rose 
 there with the futile attempt to preach God's 
 gospel. 
 
 There is a rule in our church which forbids 
 the younger order of our clergymen to perform 
 a certain portion of the service. The absolution 
 must be read by a minister in priest's orders.
 
 302 Barchester Towers 
 
 If there be no such minister present, the congre- 
 gation can have the benefit of no absolution but 
 that which each may succeed in administering 
 to himself. The rule may be a good one, 
 though the necessity for it hardly comes home 
 to the general understanding. But this forbear- 
 ance on the part of youth would be much more 
 appreciated if it were extended likewise to 
 sermons. The only danger would be that 
 congregations would be too anxious to prevent 
 their young clergymen from advancing them- 
 selves in the ranks of the ministry. Clergymen 
 who could not preach would be such blessings 
 that they would be bribed to adhere to their 
 incompetence. 
 
 Mr. Arabin, however, had not the modesty of 
 youth to impede him, and he succeeded with 
 his sermon even better than with the lessons. 
 He took for his text two verses out of the 
 second epistle of St. John, "Whosoever trans- 
 gresseth, and abideth not in the doctrine of 
 Christ, hath not God. He that abideth in the 
 doctrine of Christ he hath both the Father and 
 Son. If there come any unto you and bring 
 not this doctrine, receive him not into your 
 house, neither bid him God speed." He told 
 them that the house of theirs to which he 
 alluded was this their church in which he now 
 addressed them for the first time; that their 
 most welcome and proper manner of bidding 
 him God speed would be their patient obedience 
 to his teaching of the gospel ; but that he could 
 put forward no claim to such conduct on their 
 part unless he taught them the great Christian 
 doctrine of works and faith combined. On this
 
 Mr. Arabin at St. Ewold's 303 
 
 he enlarged, but not very amply, and after 
 twenty minutes succeeded in sending his new 
 friends home to their baked mutton and pudding 
 well pleased with their new minister. 
 
 Then came the lunch at Ullathorne. As 
 soon as they were in the hall Miss Thorne took 
 Mr. Arabin's hand, and assured him that she 
 received him into her house, into the temple, 
 she said, in which she worshipped, and bade 
 him God speed with all her heart. Mr. Arabin 
 was touched, and squeezed the spinster's hand 
 without uttering a word in reply. Then Mr. 
 Thorne expressed a hope that Mr. Arabin found 
 the church easy to fill, and Mr. Arabin having 
 replied that he had no doubt he should do so 
 as soon as he had learnt to pitch his voice to 
 the building, they all sat down to the good 
 things before them. 
 
 Miss Thorne took special care of Mrs. Bold. 
 Eleanor still wore her widow's weeds, and there- 
 fore had about her that air of grave and sad 
 maternity which is the lot of recent widows. 
 This opened the soft heart of Miss Thorne, and 
 made her look on her young guest as though 
 too much could not be done for her. She 
 heaped chicken and ham upon her plate, and 
 poured out for her a full bumper of port wine. 
 When Eleanor, who was not sorry to get it, had 
 drunk a little of it, Miss Thorne at once essayed 
 to fill it again. To this Eleanor objected, but 
 in vain. Miss Thorne winked and nodded and 
 whispered, saying that it was the proper thing 
 and must be done, and that she knew all about 
 it ; and so she desired Mrs. Bold to drink it up, 
 and not mind any body.
 
 304 Barchester Towers 
 
 " It is your duty, you know, to support your- 
 self," she said into the ear of the young mother ; 
 " there's more than yourself depending on it ; " 
 and thus she coshered up Eleanor with cold 
 fowl and port wine. How it is that poor men's 
 wives, who have no cold fowl and port wine on 
 which to be coshered up, nurse their children 
 without difficulty, whereas the wives of rich 
 men, who eat and drink everything that is good, 
 cannot do so, we will for the present leave to 
 the doctors and the mothers to settle between 
 them. 
 
 And then Miss Thorne was great about teeth. 
 Little Johnny Bold had been troubled for the 
 last few days with his first incipient masticator, 
 and, with that freemasonry which exists among 
 ladies, Miss Thorne became aware of the fact 
 before Eleanor had half finished her wing. The 
 old lady prescribed at once a receipt which had 
 been much in vogue in the young days of her 
 grandmother, and warned Eleanor with solemn 
 voice against the fallacies of modern medicine. 
 
 " Take his coral, my dear," said she, " and 
 rub it well with carrot-juice ; rub it till the juice 
 dries on it, and then give it him to play 
 with " 
 
 " But he hasn't got a coral," said Eleanor. 
 
 " Not got a coral ! " said Miss Thorne, with 
 almost angry vehemence. " Not got a coral 
 how can you expect that he should cut his 
 teeth ? Have you got Daffy's Elixir ? " 
 
 Eleanor explained that she had not. It had 
 not been ordered by Mr. Rerechild, the Bar- 
 Chester doctor whom she employed ; and then 
 the young mother mentioned some shockingly
 
 Mr. Arabia at St. Ewold's 305 
 
 modern succedaneum, which Mr. Rerechild's 
 new lights had taught him to recommend. 
 
 Miss Thorne looked awfully severe. " Take 
 care, my dear," said she, " that the man knows 
 what he's about; take care he doesn't destroy 
 your little boy. But " and she softened into 
 sorrow as she said it, and spoke more in pity 
 than in anger " but I don't know who there is 
 in Barchester now that you can trust. Poor 
 dear old Doctor Bumpwell, indeed " 
 
 " Why, Miss Thorne, he died when I was a 
 little girl." 
 
 "Yes, my dear, he did, and an unfortunate 
 day it was for Barchester. As to those young 
 men that have come up since " (Mr. Rerechild, 
 by-the-by, was quite as old as Miss Thorne 
 herself), " one doesn't know where they came 
 from or who they are, or whether they know 
 anything about their business or not." 
 
 " I think there are very clever men in Bar- 
 chester," said Eleanor. 
 
 " Perhaps there may be ; only I don't know 
 them ; and it's admitted on all sides that medical 
 men arn't now what they used to be. They 
 used to be talented, observing, educated men. 
 But now any whipper-snapper out of an apothe- 
 cary's shop can call himself a doctor. I believe 
 no kind of education is now thought necessary." 
 
 Eleanor was herself the widow of a medical 
 man, and felt a little inclined to resent all these 
 hard sayings. But Miss Thorne was so essen- 
 tially good-natured that it was impossible to 
 resent anything she said. She therefore sipped 
 her wine and finished her chicken. 
 
 u At any rate, my dear, don't forget the
 
 306 Barchester Towers 
 
 carrot-juice, and by all means get him a coral at 
 once. My grandmother Thorne had the best 
 teeth in the county, and carried them to the 
 grave with her at eighty. I have heard her say 
 it was all the carrot-juice. She couldn't bear 
 the Barchester doctors. Even poor old Dr. 
 Bumpwell didn't please her." It clearly never 
 occurred to Miss Thorne that some fifty years 
 ago Dr. Bumpwell was only a rising man, and 
 therefore as much in need of character in the 
 eyes of the then ladies of Ullathorne, as the 
 present doctors were in her own. 
 
 The archdeacon made a very good lunch, 
 and talked to his host about turnip-drillers and 
 new machines for reaping ; while the host, 
 thinking it only polite to attend to a stranger, 
 and fearing that perhaps he might not care 
 about turnip crops on a Sunday, mooted all 
 manner of ecclesiastical subjects. 
 
 " I never saw a heavier lot of wheat, Thorne, 
 than you've got there in that field beyond the 
 copse. I suppose that's guano," said the arch- 
 deacon. 
 
 "Yes, guano. I get it from Bristol myself. 
 You'll find you often have a tolerable congrega- 
 tion of Barchester people out here, Mr. Arabin. 
 They are very fond of St. Ewold's, particularly 
 of an afternoon, when the weather is not too hot 
 for the walk." 
 
 " I am under an obligation to them for staying 
 away to-day, at any rate," said the vicar. " The 
 congregation can never be too small for a maiden 
 sermon." 
 
 " I got a ton and a half at Bradley's in High 
 Street," said the archdeacon, "and it was a
 
 Mr. Arabin at St. Ewold's 307 
 
 complete take in. I don't believe there was 
 five hundred-weight of guano in it." 
 
 "That Bradley never has anything good," 
 said Miss Thome, who had just caught the 
 name during her whisperings with Eleanor. 
 " And such a nice shop as there used to be in 
 that very house before he came. Wilfrid, don't 
 you remember what good things old Ambleoff 
 used to have ? " 
 
 " There have been three men since AmbleofFs 
 time," said the archdeacon, " and each as bad 
 as the other. But who gets it for you at Bristol, 
 Thorne ? " 
 
 " I ran up myself this year and bought it out 
 of the ship. I am afraid as the evenings get 
 shorter, Mr. Arabin, you'll find the reading desk 
 too dark. I must send a fellow with an axe 
 and make him lop off some of those branches." 
 
 Mr. Arabin declared that the morning light 
 at any rate was perfect, and deprecated any 
 interference with the lime trees. And then they 
 took a stroll out among the trim parterres, and 
 Mr. Arabin explained to Mrs. Bold the difference 
 between a naiad and a dryad, and dilated on 
 vases and the shapes of urns. Miss Thorne 
 busied herself among her pansies; and her 
 brother, finding it quite impracticable to give 
 anything of a peculiarly Sunday tone to the con- 
 versation, abandoned the attempt, and had it 
 out with the archdeacon about the Bristol guano. 
 
 At three o'clock they again went into church ; 
 and now Mr. Arabin read the service and the 
 archdeacon preached. Nearly the same con- 
 gregation was present, with some adventurous 
 pedestrians from the city, who had not thought
 
 308 Barchester Towers 
 
 the heat of the mid-day August sun too great to 
 deter them. The archdeacon took his text from 
 the Epistle to Philemon. " I beseech thee for 
 my son Onesimus, whom I have begotten in my 
 bonds." From such a text it may be imagined 
 the kind of sermon which Dr. Grantly preached, 
 and on the whole it was neither dull, nor bad, 
 nor out of place. 
 
 He told them that it had become his duty to 
 look about for a pastor for them, to supply the 
 place of one who had been long among them ; 
 and that in this manner he regarded as a son 
 him whom he had selected, as St. Paul had 
 regarded the young disciple whom he sent 
 forth. Then he took a little merit to himself 
 for having studiously provided the best man he 
 could without reference to patronage or favour ; 
 but he did not say that the best man according 
 to his views was he who was best able to subdue 
 Mr. Slope, and make that gentleman's situation 
 in Barchester too hot to be comfortable. As to 
 the bonds, they had consisted in the exceeding 
 struggle which he had made to get a good 
 clergyman for them. He deprecated any 
 comparison between himself and St. Paul, but 
 said that he was entitled to beseech them for 
 their good will towards Mr. Arabin, in the same 
 manner that the apostle had besought Philemon 
 and his household with regard to Onesimus. 
 
 The archdeacon's sermon, text, blessing and 
 all, was concluded within the half hour. Then 
 they shook hands with their Ullathorne friends, 
 and returned to Plumstead. 'Twas thus that 
 Mr. Arabin read himself in at St. Ewold's. 
 
 Jon i.'^H, oriv/ .yjt > <jd1 mo-1 .; ... :>}! I-T
 
 ( 39 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 MR. SLOPE MANAGES MATTERS VERY CLEVERLY 
 AT PUDDINGDALE 
 
 THE next two weeks passed pleasantly enough 
 at Plumstead. The whole party there assembled 
 seemed to get on well together. Eleanor made 
 the house agreeable, and the archdeacon and 
 Mrs. Grantly seemed to have forgotten her 
 iniquity as regarded Mr. Slope. Mr. Harding 
 had his violoncello, and played to them while 
 his daughters accompanied him. Johnny Bold, 
 by the help either of Mr. Rerechild or else 
 by that of his coral and carrot-juice, got 
 through his teething troubles. There had been 
 gaieties too of all sorts. They had dined at 
 Ullathorne, and the Thornes had dined at the 
 Rectory. Eleanor had been duly put to stand 
 on her box, and in that position had found her- 
 self quite unable to express her opinion on the 
 merits of flounces, such having been the subject 
 given to try her elocution. Mr. Arabin had of 
 course been much in his own parish, looking 
 to the doings at his vicarage, calling on his 
 parishioners, and taking on himself the duties of 
 his new calling. But still he had been every 
 evening at Plumstead, and Mrs. Grantly was 
 partly willing to agree with her husband that he 
 was a pleasant inmate in a house. 
 
 They had also been at a dinner party at Dr. 
 Stanhope's, of which Mr. Arabin had made one. 
 He also, moth-like, burnt his wings in the
 
 310 Barchester Towers 
 
 flames of the signora's candle. Mrs. Bold, too, 
 had been there, and had felt somewhat dis- 
 pleased with the taste, want of taste she called 
 it, shown by Mr. Arabin in paying so much 
 attention to Madame Neroni. It was as in- 
 fallible that Madeline should displease and 
 irritate the women, as that she should charm 
 and captivate the men. The one result followed 
 naturally on the other. It was quite true that 
 Mr. Arabin had been charmed. He thought her 
 a very clever and a very handsome woman ; he 
 thought also that her peculiar affliction entitled 
 her to the sympathy of all. He had never, he 
 said, met so much suffering joined to such 
 perfect beauty and so clear a mind. 'Twas 
 thus he spoke of the signora coming home in 
 the archdeacon's carriage ; and Eleanor by no 
 means liked to hear the praise. It was, how- 
 ever, exceedingly unjust of her to be angry 
 with Mr. Arabin, as she had herself spent a 
 very pleasant evening with Bertie Stanhope, who 
 had taken her down to dinner, and had not left 
 her side for one moment after the gentlemen 
 came out of the dining-room. It was unfair 
 that she should amuse herself with Bertie and 
 yet begrudge her new friend his license of 
 amusing himself with Bertie's sister. And yet 
 she did so. She was half angry with him in 
 the carriage, and said something about mere- 
 tricious manners. Mr. Arabin did not under- 
 stand the ways of women very well, or else he 
 might have flattered himself that Eleanor was 
 in love with him. 
 
 But Eleanor was not in love with him. How 
 many shades there are between love and
 
 Mr. Slope at Puddingdale 3 1 1 
 
 indifference, and how little the graduated scale 
 is understood ! She had now been nearly three 
 weeks in the same house with Mr. Arabin, and 
 had received much of his attention, and listened 
 daily to his conversation. He had usually 
 devoted at least some portion of his evening 
 to her exclusively. At Dr. Stanhope's he had 
 devoted himself exclusively to another. It does 
 not require that a woman should be in love to 
 be irritated at this ; it does not require that she 
 should even acknowledge to herself that it is 
 unpleasant to her. Eleanor had no such self- 
 knowledge. She thought in her own heart that 
 it was only on Mr. Arabin's account that she 
 regretted that he could condescend to be amused 
 by the signora. " I thought he had more mind," 
 she said to herself, as she sat watching her 
 baby's cradle on her return from the party. 
 "After all, I believe Mr. Stanhope is the 
 pleasanter man of the two." Alas for the 
 memory of poor John Bold ! Eleanor was not 
 in love with Bertie Stanhope, nor was she in 
 love with Mr. Arabin. But her devotion to 
 her late husband was fast fading, when she could 
 revolve in her mind, over the cradle of his 
 infant, the faults and failings of other aspirants 
 to her favour. 
 
 Will any one blame my heroine for this ? 
 Let him or her rather thank God for all His 
 goodness, for His mercy endureth for ever. 
 
 Eleanor, in truth, was not in love ; neither 
 was Mr. Arabin. Neither indeed was Bertie 
 Stanhope, though he had already found occasion 
 to say nearly as much as that he was. The 
 widow's cap had prevented him from making a
 
 312 Barchester Towers 
 
 positive declaration, when otherwise he would 
 have considered himself entitled to do so on a 
 third or fourth interview. It was, after all, but 
 a small cap now, and had but little of the weep- 
 ing-willow left in its construction. It is singular 
 how these emblems of grief fade away by unseen 
 gradations. Each pretends to be the counter- 
 part of the forerunner, and yet the last little bit 
 of crimped white crape that sits so jauntily on 
 the back of the head, is as dissimilar to the first 
 huge mountain of woe which disfigured the face 
 of the weeper, as the state of the Hindoo is to 
 the jointure of the English dowager. 
 
 But let it be clearly understood that Eleanor 
 was in love with no one, and that no one was in 
 love with Eleanor. Under these circumstances 
 her anger against Mr. Arabin did not last long, 
 and before two days were over they were both 
 as good friends as ever. She could not but like 
 him, for every hour spent in his company was 
 spent pleasantly. And yet she could not quite 
 like him, for there was always apparent in his 
 conversation a certain feeling on his part that 
 he hardly thought it worth his while to be in 
 earnest. It was almost as though he were play- 
 ing with a child. She knew well enough that 
 he was in truth a sober thoughtful man, who in 
 some matters and on some occasions could 
 endure an agony of earnestness. And yet to 
 her he was always gently playful. Could she 
 have seen his brow once clouded she might have 
 learnt to love him. 
 
 So things went on at Plumstead, and on 
 the whole not unpleasantly, till a huge storm 
 darkened the horizon, and came down upon
 
 Mr. Slope at Puddingdale 313 
 
 the inhabitants of the rectory with all the fury 
 of a waterspout. It was astonishing how in a 
 few minutes the whole face of the heavens was 
 changed. The party broke up from breakfast 
 in perfect harmony; but fierce passions had 
 arisen before the evening, which did not admit 
 of their sitting at the same board for dinner. 
 To explain this, it will be necessary to go back 
 a little. 
 
 It will be remembered that the bishop ex- 
 pressed to Mr. Slope in his dressing-room, his 
 determination that Mr. Quiverful should be con- 
 firmed in his appointment to the hospital, and 
 that his lordship requested Mr. Slope to com- 
 municate this decision to the archdeacon. It 
 will also be remembered that the archdeacon 
 had indignantly declined seeing Mr. Slope, and 
 had instead, written a strong letter to the bishop, 
 in which he all but demanded the situation of 
 warden for Mr. Harding. To this letter the 
 archdeacon received an immediate formal reply 
 from Mr. Slope, in which it was stated, that the 
 bishop had received and would give his best 
 consideration to the archdeacon's letter. 
 
 The archdeacon felt himself somewhat check- 
 mated by this reply. What could he do with 
 a man who would neither see him, nor argue 
 with him by letter, and who had undoubtedly 
 the power of appointing any clergyman he 
 pleased ? He had consulted with Mr. Arabin, 
 who had suggested the propriety of calling in 
 the aid of the master of Lazarus. " If," said 
 he, " you and Dr. Gwynne formally declare 
 your intention of waiting upon the bishop, the 
 bishop will not dare to refuse to see you ; and
 
 314 Barchester Towers 
 
 if two such men as you are see him together, 
 you will probably not leave him without carrying 
 your point." 
 
 The archdeacon did not quite like admitting 
 the necessity of his being backed by the master 
 of Lazarus before he could obtain admission 
 into the episcopal palace of Barchester; but 
 still he felt that the advice was good, and he 
 resolved to take it. He wrote again to the 
 bishop, expressing a hope that nothing further 
 would be done in the matter of the hospital, 
 till the consideration promised by his lordship 
 had been given, and then sent off a warm 
 appeal to his friend the master, imploring him 
 to come to Plum stead and assist in driving the 
 bishop into compliance. The master had re- 
 joined, raising some difficulty, but not declining ; 
 and the archdeacon had again pressed his point, 
 insisting on the necessity for immediate action. 
 Dr. Gwynne unfortunately had the gout, and 
 could therefore name no immediate day, but 
 still agreed to come, if it should be finally 
 found necessary. So the matter stood, as re- 
 garded the party at Plumstead. 
 
 But Mr. Harding had another friend fighting 
 his battle for him, quite as powerful as the 
 master of Lazarus, arid this was Mr. Slope. 
 Though the bishop had so pertinaciously in- 
 sisted on giving way to his wife in the matter 
 of the hospital, Mr. Slope did not think it 
 necessary to abandon his object. He had, he 
 thought, daily more and more reason to imagine 
 that the widow would receive his overtures 
 favourably, and he could not but feel that Mr. 
 Harding at the hospital, and placed there by
 
 Mr. Slope at Puddingdale 315 
 
 his means, would be more likely to receive 
 him as a son-in-law, than Mr. Harding growl- 
 ing in opposition and disappointment under the 
 archdeacon's wing at Plumstead. Moreover, 
 to give Mr. Slope due credit, he was actuated 
 by greater motives even than these. He wanted 
 a wife, and he wanted money, but he wanted 
 power more than either. He had fully realised 
 the fact that he must come to blows with Mrs. 
 Proudie. He had no desire to remain in Bar- 
 chester as her chaplain. Sooner than do so, 
 he would risk the loss of his whole connection 
 with the diocese. What ! was he to feel within 
 him the possession of no ordinary talents ; was 
 he to know himself to be courageous, firm, and, 
 in matters where his conscience did not interfere, 
 unscrupulous ; and yet be contented to be the 
 working factotum of a woman-prelate ? Mr. 
 Slope had higher ideas of his own destiny. 
 Either he or Mrs. Proudie must go to the 
 wall; and now had come the time when he 
 would try which it should be. 
 
 The bishop had declared that Mr. Quiverful 
 should be the new warden. As Mr. Slope 
 went down stairs prepared to see the arch- 
 deacon if necessary, but fully satisfied that no 
 such necessity would arise, he declared to him- 
 self that Mr. Harding should be warden. With 
 the object of carrying this point, he rode over 
 to Puddingdale, and had a further interview 
 with the worthy expectant of clerical good 
 things. Mr. Quiverful was on the whole a 
 worthy man. The impossible task of bringing 
 up as ladies and gentlemen fourteen children 
 on an income which was insufficient to give
 
 316 Barchester Towers 
 
 them with decency the common necessaries of 
 life, had had an effect upon him not beneficial 
 either to his spirit, or his keen sense of honour. 
 Who can beast that he would have supported 
 such a burden with a different result? Mr. 
 Quiverful was an honest, painstaking, drudging 
 man ; anxious, indeed, for bread and meat, 
 anxious for means to quiet his butcher and 
 cover with returning smiles the now sour counte- 
 nance of the baker's wife, but anxious also to 
 be right with his own conscience. He was not 
 careful, as another might be who sat on an 
 easier worldly seat, to stand well with those 
 around him, to shun a breath which might sully 
 his name, or a rumour which might affect his 
 honour. He could not afford such niceties of 
 conduct, such moral luxuries. It must suffice 
 for him to be ordinarily honest according to the 
 ordinary honesty of the world's ways, and to let 
 men's tongues wag as they would. 
 
 He had felt that his brother clergymen, men 
 whom he had known for the last twenty years, 
 looked coldly on him from the first moment 
 that he had shown himself willing to sit at the 
 feet of Mr. Slope ; he had seen that their looks 
 grew colder still, when it became bruited about 
 that he was to be the bishop's new warden at 
 Hiram's hospital. This was painful enough; 
 but it was the cross which he was doomed to 
 bear. He thought of his wife, whose last new 
 silk dress was six years in wear. He thought 
 of all his young flock, whom he could hardly 
 take to church with him on Sundays, for there 
 were not decent shoes and stockings for them 
 all to wear. He thought of the well-worn sleeves
 
 Mr. Slope at Puddingdale 317 
 
 of his own black coat, and of the stern face of 
 the draper from whom he would fain ask for 
 cloth to make another, did he not know that 
 the credit would be refused him. Then he 
 thought of the comfortable house in Barchester, 
 of the comfortable income, of his boys sent to 
 school, of his girls with books in their hands 
 instead of darning needles, of his wife's face 
 again covered with smiles, and of his daily 
 board again covered with plenty. He thought 
 of these things ; and do thou also, reader, think 
 of them, and then wonder, if thou canst, that 
 Mr. Slope had appeared to him to possess all 
 those good gifts which could grace a bishop's 
 chaplain. " How beautiful upon the mountains 
 are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings." 
 
 Why, moreover, should the Barchester clergy 
 have looked coldly on Mr. Quiverful ? Had 
 they not all shown that they regarded with com- 
 placency the loaves and fishes of their mother 
 church? Had they not all, by some hook or 
 crook, done better for themselves than he had 
 done? They were not burdened as he was 
 burdened. Dr. Grantly had five children, and 
 nearly as many thousands a year on which to 
 feed them. It was very well for him to turn 
 up his nose at a new bishop who could do 
 nothing'for him, and a chaplain who was beneath 
 his notice ; but it was cruel in a man so cir- 
 cumstanced to set the world against the father 
 of fourteen children because he was anxious to 
 obtain for them an honourable support ! He, 
 Mr. Quiverful, had not asked for the warden- 
 ship ; he had not even accepted it till he had 
 been assured that Mr. Harding had refused it
 
 318 Barchester Towers 
 
 How hard then that he should be blamed for 
 doing that which not to have done would have 
 argued a most insane imprudence ? 
 
 Thus in this matter of the hospital poor Mr. 
 Quiverful had his trials; and he had also his 
 consolations. On the whole the consolations 
 were the more vivid of the two. The stern 
 draper heard of the coming promotion, and the 
 wealth of his warehouse was at Mr. Quiverful's 
 disposal. Coming events cast their shadows 
 before, and the coming event of Mr. Quiverful's 
 transference to Barchester produced a delicious 
 shadow in the shape of a new outfit for Mrs. 
 Quiverful and her three elder daughters. Such 
 consolations come home to the heart of a man, 
 and quite home to the heart of a woman. What- 
 ever the husband might feel, the wife cared 
 nothing for frowns of dean, archdeacon, or 
 prebendary. To her the outsides and insides 
 of her husband and fourteen children were 
 everything. In her bosom every other ambition 
 had been swallowed up in that maternal am- 
 bition of seeing them and him and herself 
 duly clad and properly fed. It had come to 
 that with her that life had now no other purpose. 
 She recked nothing of the imaginary rights of 
 others. She had no patience with her husband 
 when he declared to her that he could not 
 accept the hospital unless he knew that Mr. 
 Harding had refused it. Her husband had no 
 right to be Quixotic at the expense of fourteen 
 children. The narrow escape of throwing away 
 his good fortune which her lord had had, almost 
 paralysed her. Now, indeed, they had received 
 the full promise not only from Mr. Slope, but
 
 Mr. Slope at Puddingdale 319 
 
 also from Mrs. Proudie. Now, indeed, they 
 might reckon with safety on their good fortune. 
 But what if all had been lost? What if her 
 fourteen bairns had been resteeped to the hips 
 in poverty by the morbid sentimentality of their 
 father ? Mrs. Quiverful was just at present 
 a happy woman, but yet it nearly took her 
 breath away when she thought of the risk they 
 had run. 
 
 " I don't know what your father means when 
 he talks so much of what is due to Mr. Harding," 
 she said to her eldest daughter. " Does he 
 think that Mr. Harding would give him 45 o/. 
 a year out of fine feeling ? And what signifies 
 it whom he offends, as long as he gets the place ? 
 He does not expect anything better. It passes 
 me to think how your father can be so soft, 
 while everybody around him is so griping." 
 
 Thus, while the outer world was accusing 
 Mr. Quiverful of rapacity for promotion and of 
 disregard to his honour, the inner world of his 
 own household was falling foul of him, with 
 equal vehemence, for his willingness to sacrifice 
 their interest to a false feeling of sentimental 
 pride. It is astonishing how much difference 
 the point of view makes in the aspect of all that 
 we look at ! 
 
 Such were the feelings of the different members 
 of the family at Puddingdale on the occasion 
 of Mr. Slope's second visit. Mrs. Quiverful, as 
 soon as she saw his horse coming up the avenue 
 from the vicarage gate, hastily packed up her 
 huge basket of needlework, and hurried herself 
 and her daughter out of the room in which she 
 was sitting with her husband. " It's Mr. Slope,"
 
 320 Barchester Towers 
 
 she said. " He's come to settle with you about 
 the hospital. I do hope we shall now be able 
 to move at once." And she hastened to bid 
 the maid of all work go to the door, so that the 
 welcome great man might not be kept waiting. 
 
 Mr. Slope thus found Mr. Quiverful alone. 
 Mrs. Quiverful went off to her kitchen and, back 
 settlements with anxious beating heart, almost 
 dreading that there might be some slip between 
 the cup of her happiness and the lip of her 
 fruition, but yet comforting herself with the 
 reflection that after what had taken place, any 
 such slip could hardly be possible. 
 
 Mr. Slope was all smiles as he shook his 
 brother clergyman's hand, and said that he had 
 ridden over because he thought it right at once 
 to put Mr. Quiverful in possession of the facts 
 of the matter regarding the wardenship of the 
 hospital. As he spoke, the poor expectant 
 husband and father saw at a glance that his 
 brilliant hopes were to be dashed to the ground, 
 and that his visitor was now there for the pur- 
 pose of unsaying what on his former visit he 
 had said. There was something in the tone of 
 the voice, something in the glance of the eye, 
 which told the tale. Mr. Quiverful knew it all 
 at once. He maintained his self-possession, 
 however, smiled with a slight unmeaning smile, 
 and merely said that he was obliged to Mr. 
 Slope for the trouble he was taking. 
 
 " It has been a troublesome matter from first 
 to last," said Mr. Slope ; " and the bishop has 
 hardly known how to act. Between ourselves 
 but mind this of course must go no further, Mr. 
 Quiverful."
 
 Mr. Slope at Puddingdale 321 
 
 Mr. Quiverful said that of course it should 
 not. " The truth is, that poor Mr. Harding has 
 hardly known his own mind. You remember 
 our last conversation, no doubt." 
 
 Mr. Quiverful assured him that he remembered 
 it very well indeed. 
 
 " You will remember that I told you that Mr. 
 Harding had refused to return to the hospital." 
 
 Mr. Quiverful declared that nothing could be 
 more distinct on his memory. 
 
 " And acting on this refusal, I suggested that 
 you should take the hospital," continued Mr. 
 Slope. 
 
 " I understood you to say that the bishop had 
 authorised you to offer it to me." 
 
 "Did I? did I go so far. as that? Well, 
 perhaps it may be, that in my anxiety in your 
 behalf I did commit myself further than I should 
 have done. So far as my own memory serves 
 me, I don't think I did go quite so far as that. 
 But I own I was very anxious that you should 
 get it ; and I may have said more than was 
 quite prudent." 
 
 " But," said Mr. Quiverful, in his deep anxiety 
 to prove his case, " my wife received as distinct 
 a promise from Mrs. Proudie as one human 
 being could give to another." 
 
 Mr. Slope smiled, and gently shook his 
 head. He meant that smile for a pleasant 
 smile, but it was diabolical in the eyes of the 
 man he was speaking to. " Mrs. Proudie ! " he 
 said. " If we are to go to what passes between 
 the ladies in these matters, we shall really be 
 in a nest of troubles from which we shall never 
 extricate ourselves. Mrs. Proudie is a most 
 
 M
 
 322 Barchester Towers 
 
 excellent lady, kind-hearted, charitable, pious, 
 and in every way estimable. But, my dear Mr. 
 Quiverful, the patronage of the diocese is not in 
 her hands." 
 
 Mr. Quiverful for a moment sat panic-stricken 
 and silent. " Am I to understand, then, that I 
 have received no promise ? " he said, as soon as 
 he had sufficiently collected his thoughts. 
 
 " If you will allow me, I will tell you exactly 
 how the matter rests. You certainly did receive 
 a promise conditional on Mr. Harding's refusal. 
 I am sure you will do me the justice to remember 
 that you yourself declared that you could accept 
 the appointment on no other condition than the 
 knowledge that Mr. Harding had declined it." 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Quiverful ; " I did say that, 
 certainly." 
 
 " Well ; it now appears that he did not refuse 
 it." 
 
 " But surely you told me, and repeated it 
 more than once, that he had done so in your 
 own hearing." 
 
 " So I understood him. But it seems I was 
 in error. But don't for a moment, Mr. Quiverful, 
 suppose that I mean to throw you over. No. 
 Having held out my hand to a man in your 
 position, with your large family and pressing 
 claims, I am not now going to draw it back 
 again. I only want you to act with me fairly 
 and honestly." 
 
 " Whatever I do, I shall endeavour at any 
 rate to act fairly," said the poor man, feeling 
 that he had to fall back for support on the spirit 
 of martyrdom within him. 
 
 " I am sure you will," said the other. " I am
 
 Mr. Slope at Puddingdale 323 
 
 sure you have no wish to obtain possession of 
 an income which belongs by all right to another. 
 No man knows better than you do Mr. Harding's 
 history, or can better appreciate his character. 
 Mr. Harding is very desirous of returning to his 
 old position, and the bishop feels that he is at 
 the present moment somewhat hampered, though 
 of course he is not bound, by the conversation 
 which took place on the matter between you 
 and me." 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Quiverful, dreadfully doubt- 
 ful as to what his conduct under such circum- 
 stances should be, and fruitlessly striving to 
 harden his nerves with some of that instinct of 
 self-preservation which made his wife so bold. 
 
 " The wardenship of this little hospital is not 
 the only thing in the bishop's gift, Mr. Quiverful, 
 nor is it by many degrees the best. And his 
 lordship is not the man to forget any one whom 
 he has once marked with approval. If you 
 would allow me to advise you as a friend' " 
 
 " Indeed I shall be most grateful to you," 
 said the poor vicar of Puddingdale 
 
 " I should advise you to withdraw from any 
 opposition to Mr. Harding's claims. If you 
 persist in your demand, I do not think you will 
 ultimately succeed. Mr. Harding has all but a 
 positive right to the place. But if you will 
 allow me to inform the bishop that you decline 
 to stand in Mr. Harding's way, I think I may 
 promise you though, by-the-by, it must not 
 be taken as a formal promise that the^bishop 
 will not allow you to be a poorer man than you 
 would have been had you become warden." 
 
 Mr. Quiverful sat in his arm chair silent,
 
 324 Barchester Towers 
 
 gazing at vacancy. What was he to say ? All 
 this that came from Mr. Slope was so true. 
 Mr. Harding had a right to the hospital. The 
 bishop had a great many good things to give 
 away. Both the bishop and Mr. Slope would 
 be excellent friends and terrible enemies to a 
 man in his position. And then he had no proof 
 of any promise ; he could not force the bishop 
 to appoint him. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Quiverful, what do you say about 
 it?" 
 
 " Oh, of course, whatever you think fit, Mr. 
 Slope. It's a great disappointment, a very great 
 disappointment. I won't deny that I am a very 
 poor man, Mr. Slope." 
 
 " In the end, Mr. Quiverful, you will find that 
 it will have been better for you." 
 
 The interview ended in Mr. Slope receiving 
 a full renunciation from Mr. Quiverful of any 
 claim he might have to the appointment in 
 question. It was only given verbally and with- 
 out witnesses ; but then the original promise 
 was made in the same way. 
 
 Mr. Slope again assured him that he should 
 not be forgotten, and then rode back to Bar- 
 Chester, satisfied that he would now be able 
 to mould the bishop to his wishes.
 
 ( 3 2 5 ) 
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 FOURTEEN ARGUMENTS IN FAVOUR OF MR, 
 QUIVERFUL'S CLAIMS 
 
 WE have most of us heard of the terrible anger 
 of a lioness when, surrounded by her cubs, she 
 guards her prey. Few of us wish to disturb the 
 mother of a litter of puppies when mouthing a 
 bone in the midst of her young family. Medea 
 and her children are familiar to us, and so is the 
 grief of Constance. Mrs. Quiverful, when she 
 first heard from her husband the news which he 
 had to impart, felt within her bosom all the rage 
 of a lioness, the rapacity of the hound, the fury 
 of the tragic queen, and the deep despair of the 
 bereaved mother. 
 
 Doubting, but yet hardly fearing, what might 
 have been the tenor of Mr. Slope's discourse, 
 she rushed back to her husband as soon as the 
 front door was closed behind the visitor. It 
 was well for Mr. Slope that he so escaped, the 
 anger of such a woman, at such a moment, 
 would have cowed even him. As a general rule, 
 it is highly desirable that ladies should keep 
 their temper ; a woman when she storms always 
 makes herself ugly, and usually ridiculous also. 
 There is nothing so odius to man as a virago. 
 Though Theseus loved an Amazon, he showed 
 his love but roughly; and from the time of 
 Theseus downward, no man ever wished to have 
 his wife remarkable rather for forward prowess
 
 326 Barchester Towers 
 
 than retiring gentleness. A low voice "is an 
 excellent thing in woman." 
 
 Such may be laid down as a very general 
 rule ; and few women should allow themselves 
 to deviate from it, and then only on rare occa- 
 sions. But if there be a time when a woman 
 tnaaJet her hair to the winds, when she may loose 
 her arms, and scream out trumpet-tongued to the 
 ears of men, it is when nature calls out within 
 her not for her own wants, but for the wants of 
 those whom her womb has borne, whom her 
 breasts have suckled, for those who look to her 
 for their daily bread as naturally as man looks 
 to his Creator. 
 
 There was nothing poetic in the nature of 
 Mrs. Quiverful. She was neither a Medea nor 
 a Constance. When angry, she spoke out her 
 anger in plain words, and in a tone which might 
 have been modulated with advantage ; but she 
 did so, at any rate, without affectation. Now, 
 without knowing it, she rose to a tragic vein. 
 
 "Well, my dear; we are not to have it." 
 Such were the words with which her ears were 
 greeted when she entered the parlour, still hot 
 from the kitchen fire. And the face of her 
 husband spoke even more plainly than his 
 words : 
 
 " E'en such a man, so faint, so spiritless, 
 So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone, 
 Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night." 
 
 " What ! " said she, and Mrs. Siddons could 
 not have put more passion into a single syllable, 
 " What ! not have it ? who says so ? " And 
 she sat opposite to her husband, with her elbows
 
 Fourteen Arguments 327 
 
 on the table, her hands clasped together, and her 
 coarse, solid, but once handsome face stretched 
 over it towards him. 
 
 She sat as silent as death while he told his 
 story, and very dreadful to him her silence was. 
 He told it very lamely and badly, but still in 
 such a manner that she soon understood the 
 whole of it. 
 
 " And so you have resigned it ? " said she. 
 
 " I have had no opportunity of accepting it," 
 he replied. " I had no witnesses to Mr. Slope's 
 offer, even if that offer would bind the bishop. 
 It was better for me, on the whole, to keep on 
 good terms with such men than to fight for what 
 I should never get ! " 
 
 " Witnesses ! " she screamed, rising quickly to 
 her feet, and walking up and down the room. 
 " Do clergymen require witnesses to their words ? 
 He made the promise in the bishop's name, and 
 if it is to be broken, I'll know the reason why. 
 Did he not positively say that the bishop had 
 sent him to offer you the place ? " 
 
 " He did, my dear. But that is now nothing 
 to the purpose." 
 
 " It is everything to the purpose, Mr. Quiver- 
 ful. Witnesses indeed ! and then to talk of your 
 honour being questioned, because you wish to 
 provide for fourteen children. It is everything 
 to the purpose; and so they shall know, if I 
 scream it into their ears from the town cross of 
 Barchester." 
 
 "You forget, Letitia, that the bishop has so 
 many things in his gift. We must wait a little 
 longer. That is all." 
 
 "Wait! Shall we feed the children by
 
 328 Barchester Towers 
 
 waiting? Will waiting put George, and Tom, 
 and Sam, out into the world ? Will it enable my 
 poor girls to give up some of their drudgery ? 
 Will waiting make Bessy and Jane fit even to be 
 governesses ? Will waiting pay for the things 
 we got in Barchester last week ? " 
 
 "It is all we can do, my dear. The dis- 
 appointment is as much to me as to you ; and 
 yet, God knows, I feel it more for your sake 
 than my own." 
 
 Mrs. Quiverful was looking full into her hus- 
 band's face, and saw a small hot tear appear on 
 each of those furrowed cheeks. This was too 
 much for her woman's heart. He also had risen, 
 and was standing with his back to the empty 
 grate. She rushed towards him, and, seizing 
 him in her arms, sobbed aloud upon his bosom. 
 
 " You are too good, too soft, too yielding," 
 she said at last. " These men, when they want 
 you, they use you like a cat's-paw ; and when 
 they want you no longer, they throw you aside 
 like an old shoe. This is twice they have treated 
 you so." 
 
 " In one way this will be all for the better," 
 argued he. " It will make the bishop feel that 
 he is bound to do something for me." 
 
 " At any rate, he shall hear of it," said the 
 lady, again reverting to her more angry mood. 
 " At any rate he shall hear of it, and that loudly ; 
 and so shall she. She little knows Letitia 
 Quiverful, if she thinks I will sit quietly with the 
 loss after all that passed between us at the 
 palace. If there's any feeling within her, I'll 
 make her ashamed of herself," and she paced 
 the room again, stamping the floor as she went
 
 Fourteen Arguments 329 
 
 with her fat heavy foot. " Good heavens ! what 
 a heart she must have within her to treat in such 
 a way as this the father of fourteen unprovided 
 children!" 
 
 Mr. Quiverful proceeded to explain that he 
 didn't think that Mrs. Proudie had had anything 
 to do with it. 
 
 " Don't tell me," said Mrs. Quiverful ; " I 
 know more about it than that. Doesn't all the 
 world know that Mrs. Proudie is bishop of Bar- 
 chester, and that Mr. Slope is merely her crea- 
 ture ? Wasn't it she that made me the promise,, 
 just as though the thing was in her own par- 
 ticular gift ? I tell you, it was that woman who- 
 sent him over here to-day, because, for some 
 reason of her own, she wants to go back from 
 her word." 
 
 " My dear, you're wrong " 
 
 " Now, Q., don't be so soft," she continued. 
 " Take my word for it, the bishop knows no 
 more about it than Jemima does." Jemima was 
 the two-year-old. " And if you'll take my advice, 
 you'll lose no time in going over and seeing him 
 yourself." 
 
 Soft, however, as Mr. Quiverful might be, he 
 would not allow himself to be talked out of his 
 opinion on this occasion; and proceeded with 
 much minuteness to explain to his wife the tone 
 in which Mr. Slope had spoken of Mrs. Proudie' s 
 interference in diocesan matters. As he did so, 
 a new idea gradually instilled itself into the 
 matron's head, and a new course of conduct pre- 
 sented itself to her judgment. What if, after all, 
 Mrs. Proudie knew nothing of this visit of Mr. 
 Slope's ? In that case, might it not be possible
 
 3 30 Barchester Towers 
 
 that that lady would still be staunch to her in 
 this matter, still stand her friend, and, perhaps, 
 possibly carry her through in opposition to Mr. 
 Slope? Mrs. Quiverful said nothing as this 
 vague hope occurred to her, but listened with 
 more than ordinary patience to what her husband 
 had to say. While he was still explaining that 
 in all probability the world was wrong in its 
 estimation of Mrs. Proudie's power and authority, 
 she had fully made up her mind as to her course 
 of action. She did not, however, proclaim her 
 intention. She shook her head ominously as he 
 continued his narration ; and when he had com- 
 pleted she rose to go, merely observing that it 
 was cruel, cruel treatment. She then asked him 
 if he would mind waiting for a late dinner instead 
 of dining at their usual hour of three, and, having 
 received from him a concession on this point, 
 she proceeded to carry her purpose into execu- 
 tion. 
 
 She determined that she would at once go to 
 the palace ; that she would do so, if possible, 
 before Mrs. Proudie could have had an inter- 
 view with Mr. Slope; and that she would be 
 either submissive piteous and pathetic, or else 
 indignant violent and exacting, according to the 
 manner in which she was received. 
 
 She was quite confident in her own power. 
 Strengthened as she was by the pressing wants 
 of fourteen children, she felt that she could 
 make her way through legions of episcopal 
 servants, and force herself, if need be, into the 
 presence of the lady who had so wronged her. 
 She had no shame about it, no mauvaise honte, 
 no dread of archdeacons. She would, as she
 
 Fourteen Arguments 331 
 
 declared to her husband, make her wail heard 
 in the market-place if she did not get redress 
 and justice. It might be very well for an 
 unmarried young curate to be shamefaced in 
 such matters ; it might be all right that a snug 
 rector, really in want of nothing, but still looking 
 for better preferment, should carry on his affairs 
 decently under the rose. But Mrs. Quiverful, 
 with fourteen children, had given over being 
 shamefaced, and, in some things, had given over 
 being decent. If it were intended that she 
 should be ill used in the manner proposed by 
 Mr. Slope, it should not be done under the rose. 
 All the world should know of it. 
 
 In her present mood, Mrs. Quiverful was not 
 over careful about her attire. She tied her 
 bonnet under her chin, threw her shawl over her 
 shoulders, armed herself with the old family 
 cotton umbrella, and started for Barchester. A 
 journey to the palace was not quite so easy a 
 thing for Mrs. Quiverful as for our friend at 
 Plumstead. Plumstead is nine miles from Bar- 
 Chester, and Puddingdale is but four. But the 
 archdeacon could order round his brougham, 
 and his high-trotting fast bay gelding would take 
 him into the city within the hour. There was 
 no brougham in the coach-house of Puddingdale 
 Vicarage, no bay horse in the stables. There 
 was no method of locomotion for its inhabitants 
 but that which nature has assigned to man. 
 
 Mrs. Quiverful was a broad heavy woman, 
 not young, nor given to walking. In her kitchen, 
 and in the family dormitories, she was active 
 enough ; but her pace and gait were not adapted 
 for the road. A walk into Barchester and back
 
 332 Barchester Towers 
 
 in the middle of an August day would be to her 
 a terrible task, if not altogether impracticable. 
 There was living in the parish, about half a mile 
 from the vicarage on the road to the city, a 
 decent, kindly farmer, well to do as regards this 
 world, and so far mindful of the next that he 
 attended his parish church with decent regularity. 
 To him Mrs. Quiverful had before now appealed 
 in some of her more pressing family troubles, 
 and had not appealed in vain. At his door she 
 now presented herself, and, having explained to 
 his wife that most urgent business required her 
 to go at once to Barchester, begged that Farmer 
 Subsoil would take her thither in his tax-cart. 
 The fanner did not reject her plan ; and, as soon 
 as Prince could be got into his collar, they 
 started on their journey. 
 
 Mrs. Quiverful did not mention the purpose 
 of her business, nor did the farmer alloy his 
 kindness by any unseemly questions. She 
 merely begged to be put down at the bridge 
 going into the city, and to be taken up again at 
 the same place in the course of two hours. The 
 farmer promised to be punctual to his appoint- 
 ment, and the lady, supported by her umbrella, 
 took the short cut to the close, and in a few 
 minutes was at the bishop's door. 
 
 Hitherto she had felt no dread with regard to 
 the coming interview. She had felt nothing but 
 an indignant longing to pour forth her claims, 
 and declare her wrongs, if those claims were not 
 fully admitted. But now the difficulty of her 
 situation touched her a little. She had been at 
 the palace once before, but then she went to 
 give grateful thanks. Those who have thanks
 
 Fourteen Arguments 333 
 
 to return for favours received find easy admit- 
 tance to the halls of the great. Such is not 
 always the case with men, or even with women, 
 who have favours to beg. Still less easy is 
 access for those who demand the fulfilment of 
 promises already made. 
 
 Mrs. Quiverful had not been slow to learn the 
 ways of the world. She knew all this, and she 
 knew also that her cotton umbrella and all but 
 ragged shawl would not command respect in the 
 eyes of the palatial servants. If she were too 
 humble, she knew well that she would never 
 succeed. To overcome by imperious overbearing 
 with such a shawl as hers upon her shoulders, 
 and such a bonnet on her head, would have 
 required a personal bearing veiy superior to 
 that with which nature had endowed her. Of 
 this also Mrs. Quiverful was aware. She must 
 make it known that she was the wife of a 
 gentleman and a clergyman, and must yet con- 
 descend to conciliate. 
 
 The poor lady knew but one way to over- 
 come these difficulties at the very threshold of 
 her enterprise, and to this she resorted. Low 
 as were the domestic funds at Puddingdale, she 
 still retained possession of half-a-crown, and this 
 she sacrificed to the avarice of Mrs. Proudie's 
 metropolitan sesquipedalian serving-man. She 
 was, she said, Mrs. Quiverful of Puddingdale, 
 the wife of the Rev. Mr. Quiverful. She wished 
 to see Mrs. Proudie. It was indeed quite indis- 
 pensable that she should see Mrs. Proudie. 
 James Fitzplush looked worse than dubious, did 
 not know whether his lady were out, or engaged, 
 or in her bed-room ; thought it most probable
 
 334 Barchester Towers 
 
 she was subject to one of these or to some other 
 cause that would make her invisible ; but Mrs. 
 Quiverful could sit down in the waiting-room 
 while inquiry was being made of Mrs. Proudie's 
 maid. 
 
 " Look here, my man," said Mrs. Quiverful ; 
 " I must see her ; " and she put her card and 
 half-a-crown think of it, my reader, think of it ; 
 her last half-crown into the man's hand, and 
 sat herself down on a chair in the waiting- 
 room. 
 
 Whether the bribe carried the day, or whether 
 the bishop's wife really chose to see the vicar's 
 wife, it boots not now to inquire. The man 
 returned, and begging Mrs. Quiverful to follow 
 him, ushered her into the presence of the 
 mistress of the diocese. 
 
 Mrs. Quiverful at once saw that her patroness 
 was in a smiling humour. Triumph sat throned 
 upon her brow, and all the joys of dominion 
 hovered about her curls. Her lord had that 
 morning contested with her a great point. He 
 had received an invitation to spend a couple of 
 days with the archbishop. His soul longed for 
 the gratification. Not a word, however, in his 
 grace's note alluded to the fact of his being a 
 married man ; and, if he went at all, he must go 
 alone. This necessity would have presented no 
 insurmountable bar to the visit, or have militated 
 much against the pleasure, had he been able to 
 go without any reference to Mrs. Proudie. But 
 this he could not do. He could not order his 
 portmanteau to be packed, and start with his 
 own man, merely telling the lady of his heart 
 that he would probably be back on Saturday.
 
 Fourteen Arguments 335 
 
 There are men may we not rather say monsters ? 
 who do such things; and there are wives 
 may we not rather say slaves ? who put up 
 with such usage. But Doctor and Mrs. Proudie 
 were not among the number. 
 
 The bishop, with some beating about the 
 bush, made the lady understand that he very 
 much wished to go. The lady, without any 
 beating about the bush, made the bishop under- 
 stand that she wouldn't hear of it. It would be 
 useless here to repeat the arguments that were 
 used on each side, and needless to record the 
 result. Those who are married will understand 
 very well how the battle was lost and won ; and 
 those who are single will never understand it till 
 they learn the lesson which experience alone can 
 give. When Mrs. Quiverful was shown into 
 Mrs. Proudie's room, that lady had only returned 
 a few minutes from her lord. But before she 
 left him she had seen the answer to the arch- 
 bishop's note written and sealed. No wonder 
 that her face was wreathed with smiles as she 
 received Mrs. Quiverful. 
 
 She instantly spoke of the subject which was 
 so near the heart of her visitor. "Well, Mrs. 
 Quiverful," said she, " is it decided yet when 
 you are to move into Barchester ? " 
 
 " That woman," as she had an hour or two 
 since been called, became instantly re-endowed 
 with all the graces that can adorn a bishop's 
 wife. Mrs. Quiverful immediately saw that her 
 business was to be piteous, and that nothing was 
 to be gained by indignation; nothing, indeed, 
 unless she could be indignant in company with 
 her patroness.
 
 336 Barchester Towers 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Proudie," she began, " I fear we 
 are not to move to Barchester at all." 
 
 " Why not ? " said that lady sharply, dropping 
 at a moment's notice her smiles and condescen- 
 sion, and turning with her sharp quick way to 
 business which she saw at a glance was 
 important. 
 
 And then Mrs. Quiverful told her tale. As 
 she progressed in the history of her wrongs she 
 perceived that the heavier she leant upon Mr. 
 Slope the blacker became Mrs. Proudie's brow, 
 but that such blackness was not injurious to her 
 own cause. When Mr. Slope was at Pudding- 
 dale vicarage that morning she had regarded 
 him as the creature of the lady-bishop ; now she 
 perceived that they were enemies. She admitted 
 her mistake to herself without any pain or 
 humiliation. She had but one feeling, and that 
 was confined to her family. She cared little 
 how she twisted and turned among these new 
 comers at the bishop's palace so long as she 
 could twist her husband into the warden's house. 
 She cared not which was her friend or which was 
 her enemy, if only she could get this preferment 
 which she so sorely wanted. 
 
 She told her tale, and Mrs. Proudie listened 
 to it almost in silence. She told how Mr. Slope 
 had cozened her husband into resigning his 
 claim, and had declared that it was the bishop's 
 will that none but Mr. Harding should be 
 warden. Mrs. Proudie's brow became blacker 
 and blacker. At last she started from her chair, 
 and begging Mrs. Quiverful to sit and wait for 
 her return, marched out of the room. 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Proudie, it's for fourteen children
 
 Mrs. Proudie wrestles 337 
 
 for fourteen children." Such was the burden 
 that fell on her ear as she closed the door behind 
 her. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 MRS. PROUDIE WRESTLES AND GETS A FALL 
 
 IT was hardly an hour since Mrs. Proudie had 
 left her husband's apartment victorious, and yet 
 so indomitable was her courage that she now 
 returned thither panting for another combat. 
 She was greatly angry with what she thought 
 was his duplicity. He had so clearly given her 
 a promise on this matter of the hospital. He 
 had been already so absolutely vanquished on 
 that point. Mrs. Proudie began to feel that if 
 every affair was to be thus discussed and battled 
 about twice and even thrice, the work of the 
 diocese would be too much even for her. 
 
 Without knocking at the door she walked 
 quickly into her husband's room, and found him 
 seated at his office table, with Mr. Slope opposite 
 to him. Between his fingers was the very note 
 which he had written to the archbishop in her 
 
 presence and it was open ! Yes, he had 
 
 absolutely violated the seal which had been 
 made sacred by her approval. They were 
 sitting in deep conclave, and it was too clear 
 that the purport of the archbishop's invitation 
 had been absolutely canvassed again, after it. 
 had been already debated and decided on in 
 obedience to her behests ! Mr. Slope rose from
 
 338 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 his chair, and bowed slightly. The two opposing 
 spirits looked each other fully in the face, and 
 they knew that they were looking each at an 
 enemy. 
 
 "What is this, bishop, about Mr. Quiverful?" 
 said she, coming to the end of the table and 
 standing there. 
 
 Mr. Slope did not allow the bishop to answer, 
 but replied himself. " I have been out to 
 Puddingdale this morning, ma'am, and have seen 
 Mr. Quiverful. Mr. Quiverful has abandoned 
 his claim to the hospital, because he is now 
 aware that Mr. Harding is desirous to fill his 
 old place. Under these circumstances I have 
 strongly advised his lordship to nominate Mr. 
 Harding." 
 
 " Mr. Quiverful has not abandoned anything," 
 said the lady, with a very imperious voice. 
 " His lordship's word has been pledged to him, 
 and it must be respected." 
 
 The bishop still remained silent. He was 
 anxiously desirous of making his old enemy bite 
 the dust beneath his feet. His new ally had told 
 him that nothing was more easy for him than to 
 do so. The ally was there now at his elbow to 
 help him, and yet his courage failed him. It is 
 so hard to conquer when the prestige of former 
 victories is all against one. It is so hard for 
 the cock who has once been beaten out of his 
 yard to resume his courage and again take a 
 proud place upon a dunghill. 
 
 " Perhaps I ought not to interfere," said Mr. 
 Slope, "but yet " 
 
 " Certainly you ought not," said the infuriated 
 dame.
 
 Mrs. Proudie wrestles 339 
 
 " But yet," continued Mr. Slope, not regarding 
 the interruption, " I have thought it my impera- 
 tive duty to recommend the bishop not to 
 slight Mr. Harding's claims." 
 
 " Mr. Harding should have known his own 
 mind," said the lady. 
 
 " If Mr. Harding be not replaced at the 
 hospital, his lordship will have to encounter 
 much ill will, not only in the diocese, but in the 
 world at large. Besides, taking a higher ground, 
 his lordship, as I understand, feels it to be his 
 duty to gratify, in this matter, so very worthy a 
 man and so good a clergyman as Mr. Harding." 
 
 " And what is to become of the Sabbath-day 
 school, and of the Sunday services in the 
 hospital ? " said Mrs. Proudie, with something 
 very nearly approaching to a sneer on her face. 
 
 " I understand that Mr. Harding makes no 
 objection to the Sabbath-day school," said Mr. 
 Slope. " And as to the hospital services, that 
 matter will be best discussed after his appoint- 
 ment. If he has any permanent objection, then, 
 I fear, the matter must rest." 
 
 "You have a very easy conscience in such 
 matters, Mr. Slope," said she. 
 
 " I should not have an easy conscience," he 
 rejoined, " but a conscience very far from being 
 easy, if anything said or done by me should lead 
 the bishop to act unadvisedly in this matter. It 
 is clear that in the interview I had with Mr. 
 Harding, I misunderstood him " 
 
 " And it is equally clear that you have mis- 
 understood Mr. Quiverful," said she, now at the 
 top of her wrath. " What business have you at 
 all with these interviews ? Who desired you to
 
 34 Barchester Towers 
 
 go to Mr. Quiverful this morning? Who 
 commissioned you to manage this affair? 
 Will you answer me, sir ? who sent you to Mr. 
 Quiverful this morning ? " 
 
 There was a dead pause in the room. Mr. 
 Slope had risen from his chair, and was standing 
 with his hand on the back of it, looking at first 
 very solemn and now very black. Mrs. Proudie 
 was standing as she had at first placed herself, 
 at the end of the table, and as she interrogated 
 her foe she struck her hand upon it with almost 
 more than feminine vigour. The bishop was 
 sitting in his easy chair twiddling his thumbs, 
 turning his eyes now to his wife, and now to his 
 chaplain, as each took up the cudgels. How 
 comfortable it would be if they could fight it 
 out between them without the necessity of any 
 interference on his part ; fight it out so that one 
 should kill the other utterly, as far as diocesan 
 life was concerned, so that he, the bishop, might 
 know clearly by whom it behoved him to be 
 led. There would be the comfort of quiet in 
 either case ; but if the bishop had a wish as to 
 which might prove the victor, that wish was 
 certainly not antagonistic to Mr. Slope. 
 
 " Better the d you know than the d 
 
 you don't know," is an old saying, and perhaps 
 a true one ; but the bishop had not yet realised 
 the truth of it. 
 
 "Will you answer me, sir?" she repeated. 
 " Who instructed you to call on Mr. Quiverful 
 this morning?" There was another pause. 
 " Do you intend to answer me, sir ? " 
 
 " I think, Mrs. Proudie, that under all the 
 circumstances it will be better for me not to
 
 Mrs. Proudie wrestles 341 
 
 answer such a question," said Mr. Slope. Mr. 
 Slope had many tones in his voice, all duly 
 under his command ; among them was a sancti- 
 fied low tone, and a sanctified loud tone ; and 
 he now used the former. 
 
 " Did any one send you, sir ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Proudie," said Mr. Slope, " I am quite 
 aware how much I owe to your kindness. I am 
 aware also what is due by courtesy from a gentle- 
 man to a lady. But there are higher considera- 
 tions than either of those, and I hope I shall be 
 forgiven if I now allow myself to be actuated 
 solely by them. My duty in this matter is to 
 his lordship, and I can admit of no questioning 
 but from him. He has approved of what I have 
 done, and you must excuse me if I say, that having 
 that approval and my own, I want none other." 
 
 What horrid words were these which greeted 
 the ear of Mrs. Proudie? The matter was 
 indeed too clear. There was premeditated 
 mutiny in the camp. Not only had ill- 
 conditioned minds become insubordinate by 
 the fruition of a little power, but sedition had 
 been overtly taught and preached. The bishop 
 had not yet been twelve months in his chair, 
 and rebellion had already reared her hideous 
 head within the palace. Anarchy and misrule 
 would quickly follow, unless she took immediate 
 and strong measures to put down the conspiracy 
 which she had detected. 
 
 " Mr. Slope," she said, with slow and dignified 
 voice, differing much from that which she had 
 hitherto used, " Mr. Slope, I will trouble you, 
 if you please, to leave the apartment. I wish to 
 speak to my lord alone."
 
 342 Barchester Towers 
 
 Mr. Slope also felt that everything depended 
 on the present interview. Should the bishop 
 now be repetticoated, his thraldom would be 
 complete and for ever. The present moment 
 was peculiarly propitious for rebellion. The 
 bishop had clearly committed himself by break- 
 ing the seal of the answer to the archbishop ; he 
 had therefore fear to influence him. Mr. Slope 
 had told him that no consideration ought to induce 
 him to refuse the archbishop's invitation ; he had 
 therefore hope to influence him. He had ac- 
 cepted Mr. Quiverful's resignation, and therefore 
 dreaded having to renew that matter with his 
 wife. He had been screwed up to the pitch 
 of asserting a will of his own, and might possibly 
 be carried on till by an absolute success he 
 should have been taught how possible it was 
 to succeed. Now was the moment for victory 
 or rout. It was now that Mr. Slope must make 
 himself master of the diocese, or else resign his 
 place and begin his search for fortune again. 
 He saw all this plainly. After what had taken 
 place any compromise between him and the 
 lady was impossible. Let him once leave the 
 room at her bidding, and leave the bishop in 
 her hands, and he might at once pack up his 
 portmanteau and bid adieu to episcopal honours, 
 Mrs. Bold, and the Signora Neroni. 
 
 And yet it was not so easy to keep his ground 
 when he was bidden by a lady to go ; or to 
 continue to make a third in a party between a 
 husband and wife when the wife expressed a 
 wish for a tete-d-tete with her husband. 
 
 " Mr. Slope," she repeated, " I wish to be 
 . alone with my lord."
 
 Mrs. Proudie wrestles 343 
 
 "His lordship has summoned me on most 
 important diocesan business," said Mr. Slope, 
 glancing with uneasy eye at Dr. Proudie. He 
 felt that he must trust something to the bishop, 
 and yet that trust was so woefully ill-placed. 
 " My leaving him at the present moment is, I 
 fear, impossible." 
 
 " Do you bandy words with me, you ungrate- 
 ful man ? " said she. " My lord, will you do 
 me the favour to beg Mr. Slope to leave the 
 room ? " 
 
 My lord scratched his head, but for the moment 
 said nothing. This was as much as Mr. Slope 
 expected from him, and was on the whole, for 
 him, an active exercise of marital rights. 
 
 " My lord," said the lady, " is Mr. Slope to 
 leave this room, or am I ? " 
 
 Here Mrs. Proudie made a false step. She 
 should not have alluded to the possibility of 
 retreat on her part. She should not have ex- 
 pressed the idea that her order for Mr. Slope's 
 expulsion could be treated otherwise than by 
 immediate obedience. In answer to such a 
 question the bishop naturally said in his own 
 mind, that as it was necessary that one should 
 leave the room, perhaps it might be as well 
 that Mrs. Proudie did so. He did say so in his 
 own mind, but externally he again scratched his 
 head and again twiddled his thumbs. 
 
 Mrs. Proudie was boiling over with wrath. 
 Alas, alas ! could she but have kept her temper 
 as her enemy did, she would have conquered 
 as she had ever conquered. But divine anger 
 got the better of her, as it has done of other 
 heroines, and she fell.
 
 344 Barchester Towers 
 
 " My lord," said she, " am I to be vouchsafed 
 an answer or am I not ? " 
 
 At last he broke his deep silence and pro- 
 claimed himself a Slopeite. " Why, my dear," 
 said he, " Mr. Slope and I are very busy." 
 
 That was all. There was nothing more 
 necessary. He had gone to the battle-field, 
 stood the dust and heat of the day, encountered 
 the fury of the foe, and won the victory. How 
 easy is success to those who will only be true to 
 themselves ! 
 
 Mr. Slope saw at once the full amount of his 
 gain, and turned on the vanquished lady a look 
 of triumph which she never forgot and never 
 forgave. Here he was wrong. He should have 
 looked humbly at her, and with meek entreating 
 eye have deprecated her anger. He should 
 have said by his glance that he asked pardon 
 for his success, and that he hoped forgiveness 
 for the stand which he had been forced to make 
 in the cause of duty. So might he perchance 
 have somewhat mollified that imperious bosom, 
 and prepared the way for future terms. But 
 Mr. Slope meant to rule without terms. Ah, 
 forgetful, inexperienced man ! Can you cause 
 that little trembling victim to be divorced from 
 the woman that possesses him ? Can you pro- 
 vide that they shall be separated at bed and 
 board? Is he not flesh of her flesh and bone 
 of her bone, and must he not so continue ? It 
 is very well now for you to stand your ground, 
 and triumph as she is driven ignominiously from 
 the room ; but can you be present when those 
 curtains are drawn, when that awful helmet of 
 proof has been tied beneath the chin, when the
 
 Mrs. Proudie wrestles 345 
 
 small remnants of the bishop's prowess shall be 
 cowed by the tassel above his head ? Can you 
 then intrude yourself when the wife wishes " to 
 speak to my lord alone ? " 
 
 But for the moment Mr. Slope's triumph was 
 complete ; for Mrs. Proudie without further 
 parley left the room, and did not forget to shut 
 the door after her. Then followed a close con- 
 ference between the new allies, in which was 
 said much which it astonished Mr. Slope to say 
 and the bishop to hear. And yet the one said 
 it and the other heard it without ill will. There 
 was no mincing of matters now. The chaplain 
 plainly told the bishop that the world gave him 
 credit for being under the governance of his 
 wife ; that his credit and character in the diocese 
 were suffering ; that he would surely get himself 
 into hot water if he allowed Mrs. Proudie to 
 interfere in matters which were not suitable for 
 a woman's powers ; and in fact that he would 
 become contemptible if he did not throw off 
 the yoke under which he groaned. The bishop 
 at first hummed and hawed, and affected to 
 deny the truth of what was said. But his denial 
 was not stout and quickly broke down. He 
 soon admitted by silence his state of vassalage, 
 and pledged himself, with Mr. Slope's assistance, 
 to change his courses. Mr. Slope also did not 
 make out a bad case for himself. He explained 
 how it grieved him to run counter to a lady who 
 had always been his patroness, who had be- 
 friended him in so many ways, who had, in 
 fact, recommended him to the bishop's notice ; 
 but, as he stated, his duty was now imperative ; 
 he held a situation of peculiar confidence, and
 
 346 Barchester Towers 
 
 was immediately and especially attached to the 
 bishop's person. In such a situation his con- 
 science required that he should regard solely the 
 bishop's interests, and therefore he had ventured 
 to speak out. 
 
 The bishop took this for what it was worth, 
 and Mr. Slope only intended that he should do 
 so. It gilded the pill which Mr. Slope had to 
 administer, and which the bishop thought would 
 be less bitter than that other pill which he had 
 so long been taking. 
 
 " My lord " had his immediate reward, like a 
 good child. He was instructed to write and at 
 once did write another note to the archbishop 
 accepting his grace's invitation. This note Mr. 
 Slope, more prudent than the lady, himself took 
 away and posted with his own hands. Thus he 
 made sure that this act of self-jurisdiction should 
 be as nearly as possible a fait accompli. He 
 begged, and coaxed, and threatened the bishop 
 with a view of making him also write at once to 
 Mr. Harding ; but the bishop, though tempo- 
 rarily emancipated from his wife, was not yet 
 enthralled to Mr. Slope. He said, and probably 
 said truly, that such an offer must be made in 
 some official form; that he was not yet pre- 
 pared to sign the form ; and that he should prefer 
 seeing Mr. Harding before he did so. Mr. 
 Slope might, however, beg Mr. Harding to call 
 upon him. Not disappointed with his achieve- 
 ment Mr. Slope went his way. He first posted 
 the precious note which he had in his pocket, 
 and then pursued other enterprises in which we 
 must follow him in other chapters. 
 
 Mrs. Proudie, having received such satisfaction
 
 Mrs. Proudie wrestles 347 
 
 as was to be derived from slamming her 
 husband's door, did not at once betake herself 
 to Mrs. Quiverful. Indeed for the first few 
 moments after her repulse she felt that she 
 could not again see that lady. She would have 
 to own that she had been beaten, to confess 
 that the diadem had passed from her brow, and 
 the sceptre from her hand ! No, she would 
 send a message to her with the promise of a 
 letter on the next day or the day after. Thus 
 resolving, she betook herself to her bed-room; 
 but here she again changed her mind. The air 
 of that sacred enclosure somewhat restored her 
 courage, and gave her more heart As Achilles 
 warmed at the sight of his armour, as Don 
 Quixote's heart grew strong when he grasped 
 his lance, so did Mrs. Proudie look forward to 
 fresh laurels, as her eye fell on her husband's 
 pillow. She would not despair. Having so 
 resolved, she descended with dignified mien 
 and refreshed countenance to Mrs. Quiverful. 
 
 This scene in the bishop's study took longer 
 in the acting than in the telling. We have not, 
 perhaps, had the whole of the conversation. 
 At any rate Mrs. Quiverful was beginning to be 
 very impatient, and was thinking that farmer 
 Subsoil would be tired of waiting for her, when 
 Mrs. Proudie returned. Oh ! who can tell the 
 palpitations of that maternal heart, as the 
 suppliant looked into the face of the great lady 
 to see written there either a promise of house, 
 income, comfort and future competence, or else 
 the doom of continued and ever increasing 
 poverty. Poor mother ! poor wife ! there was 
 little there to comfort you !
 
 348 Barchester Towers 
 
 "Mrs. Quiverful," thus spoke the lady with 
 considerable austerity, and without sitting down 
 herself, " I find that your husband has behaved in 
 this matter in a very weak and foolish manner." 
 
 Mrs. Quiverful immediately rose upon her 
 feet, thinking it disrespectful to remain sitting 
 while the wife of the bishop stood. But she 
 was desired to sit down again, and made to do 
 so, so that Mrs. Proudie might stand and preach 
 over her. It is generally considered an offen- 
 sive thing for a gentleman to keep his seat 
 while another is kept standing before him, and 
 we presume the same law holds with regard to 
 ladies. It often is so felt ; but we are inclined 
 to say that it never produces half the discomfort 
 or half the feeling of implied inferiority that is 
 shown by a great man who desires his visitor to 
 be seated while he himself speaks from his legs. 
 Such a solecism in good breeding, when con- 
 strued into English, means this : " The accepted 
 rules of courtesy in the world require that I 
 should offer you a seat ; if I did not do so, you 
 would bring a charge against me in the world of 
 being arrogant and ill-mannered ; I will obey the 
 world ; but, nevertheless, I will not put myself 
 on an equality with you. You may sit down, 
 but I won't sit with you. Sit, therefore, at my 
 bidding, and I'll stand and talk at you ! " 
 
 This was just what Mrs. Proudie meant to 
 say; and Mrs. Quiverful, though she was too 
 anxious and too flurried thus to translate the 
 full meaning of the manoeuvre, did not fail to 
 feel its effect. She was cowed and uncomfort- 
 able, and a second time essayed to rise from 
 her chair.
 
 Mrs. Proudie wrestles 349 
 
 " Pray be seated, Mrs. Quiverful, pray keep 
 your seat. Your husband, I say, has been most 
 weak and most foolish. It is impossible, Mrs. 
 Quiverful, to help people who will not help 
 themselves. I much fear that I can now do 
 nothing for you in this matter." 
 
 " Oh ! Mrs. Proud ie, don't say so," said the- 
 poor woman, again jumping up. 
 
 " Pray be seated, Mrs. Quiverful. I much 
 fear that I can do nothing further for you in. 
 this matter. Your husband has, in a most 
 unaccountable manner, taken upon himself to 
 resign that which I was empowered to offer 
 him. As a matter of course, the bishop expects- 
 that his clergy shall know their own minds. 
 What he may ultimately do what we may 
 finally decide on doing I cannot now say. 
 Knowing the extent of your family " 
 
 " Fourteen children, Mrs. Proudie, fourteen 
 of them ! and barely bread, barely bread ! It's 
 hard for the children of a clergyman, it's hard 
 for one who has always done his duty respect- 
 ably !" Not a word fell from her about herself; 
 but the tears came streaming down her big 
 coarse cheeks, on which the dust of the August 
 road had left its traces. 
 
 Mrs. Proudie has not been portrayed in these 
 pages as an agreeable or an amiable lady. There 
 has been no intention to impress the reader 
 much in her favour. It is ordained that all 
 novels should have a male and a female angel, 
 and a male and a female devil. If it be con- 
 sidered that this rule is obeyed in these pages, 
 the latter character must be supposed to have 
 fallen to the lot of Mrs. Proudie. But she was
 
 350 Barchester Towers 
 
 not all devil. There was a heart inside that 
 stiff-ribbed bodice, though not, perhaps, of large 
 dimensions, and certainly not easily accessible. 
 Mrs. Quiverful, however, did gain access, and 
 Mrs. Proudie proved herself a woman. Whether 
 it was the fourteen children with their probable 
 bare bread and their possible bare backs, or the 
 respectability of the father's work, or the mingled 
 dust and tears on the mother's face, we will not 
 pretend to say. But Mrs. Proudie was touched. 
 
 She did not show it as other women might 
 have done. She did not give Mrs. Quiverful 
 eau-de-Cologne, or order her a glass of wine. 
 She did not take her to her toilet table, and 
 offer her the use of brushes and combs, towels 
 and water. She did not say soft little speeches 
 and coax her kindly back to equanimity. Mrs. 
 Quiverful, despite her rough appearance, would 
 have been as amenable to such little tender cares 
 as any lady in the land. But none such were 
 forthcoming. Instead of this, Mrs. Proudie 
 slapped one hand upon the other, and declared, 
 not with an oath ; for as a lady and a Sab- 
 batarian and a she-bishop, she could not swear, 
 but with an adjuration, that " she wouldn't 
 have it done." 
 
 The meaning of this was that she wouldn't 
 have Mr. Quiverful's promised appointment 
 cozened away by the treachery of Mr. Slope 
 and the weakness of her husband. This mean- 
 ing she very soon explained to Mrs. Quiverful. 
 
 "Why was your husband such a fool," said 
 she, now dismounted from her high horse and 
 sitting confidentially down close to her visitor, 
 " as to take the bait which that man threw to
 
 Mrs. Proudie wrestles 351 
 
 him? If he had not been so utterly foolish, 
 nothing could have prevented your going to the 
 hospital." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Quiverful was ready enough with 
 her own tongue in accusing her husband to his 
 face of being soft, and perhaps did not always 
 speak of him to her children quite so respectfully 
 as she might have done. But she did not at all 
 like to hear him abused by others, and began to 
 vindicate him, and to explain that of course he 
 had taken Mr. Stope to be an emissary from 
 Mrs. Proudie herself; that Mr. Slope was 
 thought to be peculiarly her friend; and that, 
 therefore, Mr. Quiverful would have been fail- 
 ing in respect to her had he assumed to doubt 
 what Mr. Slope had said. 
 
 Thus mollified Mrs. Proudie again declared 
 that " she would not have it done," and at last 
 sent Mrs. Quiverful home with an assurance that, 
 to the furthest stretch of her power and influence 
 in the palace, the appointment of Mr. Quiverful 
 should be insisted on. As she repeated the 
 word " insisted," she thought of the bishop in 
 his night-cap, and with compressed lips slightly 
 shook her head. Oh ! my aspiring pastors, 
 divines to whose ears nolo episcopari are the 
 sweetest of words, which of you would be a 
 bishop on such terms as these ? 
 
 Mrs. Quiverful got home in the farmer's cart, 
 not indeed with a light heart, but satisfied that 
 she had done right in making her visit.
 
 352 Barchester Towers 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 A LOVE SCENE 
 
 MR. SLOPE, as we have said, left the palace with 
 a feeling of considerable triumph. Not that he 
 thought that his difficulties were all over ; he did 
 not so deceive himself; but he felt that he had 
 played his first move well, as well as the pieces 
 on the board would allow ; and that he had 
 nothing with which to reproach himself. He 
 first of all posted the letter to the archbishop, 
 and having made that sure he proceeded to push 
 the advantage which he had gained. Had Mrs. 
 Bold been at home, he would have called on 
 her ; but he knew that she was at Plumstead, so 
 he wrote the following note. It was the begin- 
 ning of what, he trusted, might be a long and 
 tender series of epistles. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Bold, You will understand 
 perfectly that I cannot at present correspond 
 with your father. I heartily wish that I could, 
 and hope the day may be not long distant when 
 mists shall have cleared away, and we may 
 know each other. But I cannot preclude myself 
 from the pleasure of sending you these few lines 
 to say that Mr. Q. has to-day, in my presence, 
 resigned any title that he ever had to the warden- 
 ship of the hospital, and that the bishop has 
 assured me that it is his intention to offer it to 
 your esteemed father.
 
 A Love Scene 353 
 
 "Will you, with my respectful compliments, 
 ask him, who I believe is now a fellow-visitor 
 with you, to call on the bishop either on 
 Wednesday or Thursday, between ten and one. 
 This is by the bishop's desire. If you will so far 
 oblige me as to let me have a line naming either 
 day, and the hour which will suit Mr. Harding, 
 I will take care that the servants shall have 
 orders to show him in without delay. Perhaps 
 I should say no more, but still I wish you 
 could make your father understand that no 
 subject will be mooted between his lordship and 
 him, which will refer at all to the method in 
 which he may choose to perform his duty. I, 
 for one, am persuaded that no clergyman could 
 perform it more satisfactorily than he did, or 
 than he will do again. 
 
 " On a former occasion I was indiscreet and 
 much too impatient, considering your father's 
 age and my own. I hope he will not now 
 refuse my apology. I still hope also that, with 
 your aid and sweet pious labours, we may live 
 to attach such a Sabbath school to the old 
 endowment, as may, by God's grace and 
 furtherance, be a blessing to the poor of this 
 city. 
 
 " You will see at once that this letter is con- 
 fidential. The subject, of course, makes it so. 
 But, equally of course, it is for your parent's 
 eye as well as for your own, should you think 
 proper to show it to him. 
 
 " I hope my darling little friend Johnny is 
 as strong as ever, dear little fellow. Does he 
 still continue his rude assaults on those beautiful 
 long silken tresses ? 
 
 N
 
 354 Barchester Towers 
 
 " I can assure you your friends miss you from 
 Barchester sorely ; but it would be cruel to be- 
 grudge you your sojourn among flowers and 
 fields during this truly sultry weather. 
 
 " Pray believe me, my dear Mrs. Bold, 
 " Yours most sincerely, 
 
 " OBADIAH SLOPE. 
 " Earchester, Friday." 
 
 Now this letter, taken as a whole, and with 
 the consideration that Mr. Slope wished to 
 assume a great degree of intimacy with Eleanor, 
 would not have been bad, but for the allusion 
 to the tresses. Gentlemen do not write to ladies 
 about their tresses, unless they are on very 
 intimate terms indeed. But Mr. Slope could 
 not be expected to be aware of this. He 
 longed to put a little affection into his epistle, 
 and yet he thought it injudicious, as the letter 
 would, he knew, be shown to Mr. Harding. 
 He would have insisted that the letter should 
 be strictly private and seen by no eyes but 
 Eleanor's own, had he not felt that such an 
 injunction would have been disobeyed. He 
 therefore restrained his passion, did not sign 
 himself "yours affectionately," and contented 
 himself instead with the compliment to the 
 tresses. 
 
 Having finished his letter, he took it to Mrs. 
 Bold's house, and learning there, from the 
 servant, that things were to be sent out to 
 Plumstead that afternoon, left it, with many 
 injunctions, in her hands. 
 
 We will now follow Mr. Slope so as to com- 
 plete the day with him, and then return to his
 
 A Love Scene 355 
 
 letter and its momentous fate in the next 
 chapter. 
 
 There is an old song which gives us some very 
 good advice about courting : 
 
 " It's gude to be off with the auld luve 
 Before ye be on wi' the new." 
 
 Of the wisdom of this maxim Mr. Slope was 
 ignorant, and accordingly, having written his 
 letter to Mrs. Bold, he proceeded to call upon 
 the Signora Neroni. Indeed it was hard to say 
 which was the old love and which the new, Mr. 
 Slope having been smitten with both so nearly 
 at the same time. Perhaps he thought it not 
 amiss to have two strings to his bow. But two 
 strings to Cupid's bow are always dangerous to 
 him on whose behalf they are to be used. A 
 man should remember that between two stools 
 he may fall to the ground. 
 
 But in sooth Mr. Slope was pursuing Mrs. 
 Bold in obedience to his better instincts, and 
 the signora in obedience to his worser. Had 
 he won the widow and worn her, no one could 
 have blamed him. You, O reader, and I, and 
 Eleanor's other friends would have received the 
 story of such a winning with much disgust and 
 disappointment ; but we should have been angry 
 with Eleanor, not with Mr. Slope. Bishop, 
 male and female, dean and chapter and diocesan 
 clergy in full congress, could have found nothing 
 to disapprove of in such an alliance. Convoca- 
 tion itself, that mysterious and mighty synod, 
 could in no wise have fallen foul of it. The 
 possession of iooo/. a year and a beautiful wife 
 would not at all have hurt the voice of the
 
 356 Barchester Towers 
 
 pulpit charmer, or lessened the grace and piety 
 of the exemplary clergyman. 
 
 But not of such a nature were likely to be his 
 dealings with the Signora Neroni. In the first 
 place he knew that her husband was living, and 
 therefore he could not woo her honestly. Then 
 again she had nothing to recommend her to his 
 honest wooing had such been possible. She 
 was not only portionless, but also from misfor- 
 tune unfitted to be chosen as the wife of any 
 man who wanted a useful mate. Mr. Slope 
 was aware that she was a helpless, hopeless 
 cripple. 
 
 But Mr. Slope could not help himself. He 
 knew that he was wrong in devoting his time 
 to the back drawing-room in Dr. Stanhope's 
 house. He knew that what took place there 
 would if divulged utterly ruin him with Mrs. 
 Bold. He knew that scandal would soon come 
 upon his heels and spread abroad among the 
 black coats of Barchester some tidings, exag- 
 gerated tidings, of the sighs which he poured into 
 the lady's ears. He knew that he was acting 
 against the recognised principles of his life, 
 against those laws of conduct by which he 
 hoped to achieve much higher success. But 
 as we have said, he could not help himself. 
 Passion, for the first time in his life, passion was 
 too strong for him. 
 
 As for the signora, no such plea can be put 
 forward for her, for in truth she cared no more 
 for Mr. Slope than she did for twenty others 
 who had been at her feet before him. She 
 willingly, nay greedily, accepted his homage. 
 He was the finest fly that Barchester had
 
 A Love Scene 357 
 
 hitherto afforded to her web ; and the signora 
 was a powerful spider that made wondrous 
 webs, and could in no way live without catching 
 flies. Her taste in this respect was abominable, 
 for she had no use for the victims when caught. 
 She could not eat them matrimonially, as young 
 lady-spiders do whose webs are most frequently of 
 their mothers' weaving. Nor could she devour 
 them by any escapade of a less legitimate 
 description. Her unfortunate affliction pre- 
 cluded her from all hope of levanting with a 
 lover. It would be impossible to run away 
 with a lady who required three servants to 
 move her from a sofa. 
 
 The signora was subdued by no passion. 
 Her time for love was gone. She had lived 
 out her heart, such heart as she had ever had, 
 in her early years, at an age when Mr. Slope 
 was thinking of the second book of Euclid and 
 his unpaid bill at the buttery hatch. In age the 
 lady was younger than the gentleman ; but in 
 feelings, in knowledge of the affairs of love, in 
 intrigue, he was immeasurably her junior. It 
 was necessary to her to have some man at her 
 feet. It was the one customary excitement of 
 her life. She delighted in the exercise of 
 power which this gave her ; it was now nearly 
 the only food for her ambition ; she would boast 
 to her sister that she could make a fool of any 
 man, and the sister, as little imbued with 
 feminine delicacy as herself, good naturedly 
 thought it but fair that such amusement should 
 be afforded to a poor invalid who was debarred 
 from the ordinary pleasures of life. 
 
 Mr. Slope was madly in love, but hardly
 
 358 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 knew it. The signora spitted him, as a boy 
 does a cockchafer on a cork, that she might 
 enjoy the energetic agony of his gyrations. 
 And she knew very well what she was doing. 
 
 Mr. Slope having added to his person all 
 such adornments as are possible to a clergyman 
 making a morning visit, such as a clean neck tie, 
 clean handkerchief, new gloves, and a soupfoti 
 of not unnecessary scent, called about three 
 o'clock at the doctor's door. At about this 
 hour the signora was almost always alone in the 
 back drawing-room. The mother had not come 
 down. The doctor was out or in his own room. 
 Bertie was out, and Charlotte at any rate left 
 the room if any one called whose object was 
 specially with her sister. Such was her idea of 
 being charitable and sisterly. 
 
 Mr. Slope, as was his custom, asked for Mr. 
 Stanhope, and was told, as was the servant's 
 custom, that the signora was in the drawing- 
 room. Upstairs he accordingly went. He 
 found her, as he always did, lying on her sofa 
 with a French volume before her, and a beau- 
 tiful little inlaid writing case open on her table. 
 At the moment of his entrance she was in the 
 act of writing. 
 
 "Ah, my friend," said she, putting out her 
 left hand to him across her desk, " I did not 
 expect you to-day and was this very instant 
 writing to you 
 
 Mr. Slope, taking the soft fair delicate hand 
 in his, and very soft and fair and delicate it was, 
 bowed over it his huge red head and kissed it. 
 It was a sight to see, a deed to record if the 
 author could fitly do it, a picture to put on
 
 A Love Scene 359 
 
 canvas. Mr. Slope was big, awkward, cum- 
 brous, and having his heart in his pursuit was ill 
 at ease. The lady was fair, as we have said, 
 and delicate; every thing about her was fine 
 and refined ; her hand in his looked like a rose 
 lying among carrots, and when he kissed it he 
 looked as a cow might do on finding such a 
 flower among her food. She was graceful as a 
 couchant goddess, and, moreover, as self- 
 possessed as Venus must have been when 
 courting Adonis. 
 
 Oh, that such grace and such beauty should 
 have condescended to waste itself on such a 
 pursuit ! 
 
 " I was in the act of writing to you," said she, 
 " but now my scrawl may go into the basket ; " 
 and she raised the sheet of gilded note paper 
 from off her desk as though to tear it. 
 
 " Indeed it shall not," said he, laying the 
 embargo of half a stone weight of human flesh 
 and blood upon the devoted paper. " Nothing 
 that you write for my eyes, signora, shall be so 
 desecrated," and he took up the letter, put that 
 also among the carrots and fed on it, and then 
 proceeded to read it. 
 
 " Gracious me ! Mr. Slope," said she, " I 
 hope you don't mean to say that you keep all 
 the trash I write to you. Half my time I don't 
 know what I write, and when I do, I know it is 
 only fit for the back of the fire. I hope you 
 have not that ugly trick of keeping letters." 
 
 "At any rate, I don't throw them into a 
 waste-paper basket. If destruction is their 
 doomed lot, they perish worthily, and are burnt 
 on a pyre, as Dido was of old."
 
 360 Barchester Towers 
 
 "With a steel pen stuck through them, of 
 course," said she, "to make the simile more 
 complete. Of all the ladies of my acquaintance 
 I think Lady Dido was the most absurd. Why 
 did she not do as Cleopatra did? Why 
 did she not take out her ships and insist on 
 going with him? She could not bear to lose 
 the land she had got by a swindle; and then 
 she could not bear the loss of her lover. So 
 she fell between two stools. Mr. Slope, what- 
 ever you do, never mingle love and busi- 
 ness." 
 
 Mr. Slope blushed up to his eyes, and over 
 his mottled forehead to the very roots of his 
 hair. He felt sure that the signora knew all 
 about his intentions with reference to Mrs. 
 Bold. His conscience told him that he was 
 detected. His doom was to be spoken; he 
 was to be punished for his duplicity, and 
 rejected by the beautiful creature before him. 
 Poor man. He little dreamt that had all his 
 intentions with reference to Mrs. Bold been 
 known to the signora, it would only have added 
 zest to that lady's amusement. It was all very 
 well to have Mr. Slope at her feet, to show 
 her power by making an utter fool of a clergy- 
 man, to gratify her own infidelity by thus 
 proving the little strength which religion had 
 in controlling the passions even of a religious 
 man ; but it would be an increased gratification 
 if she could be made to understand that she 
 was at the same time alluring her victim away 
 from another, whose love if secured would be 
 in every way beneficent and salutary. 
 
 The signora had indeed discovered with the
 
 A Love Scene 361 
 
 keen instinct of such a woman, that Mr. Slope 
 was bent on matrimony with Mrs. Bold, but in 
 alluding to Dido she had not thought of it. 
 She instantly perceived, however, from her 
 lover's blushes, what was on his mind, and 
 was not slow in taking advantage of it. 
 
 She looked him full in the face, not angrily, 
 nor yet with a smile, but with an intense and 
 overpowering gaze ; and then holding up her 
 forefinger, and slightly shaking her head, she 
 said : 
 
 " Whatever you do, my friend, do not mingle 
 love and business. Either stick to your treasure 
 and your city of wealth, or else follow your 
 love like a true man. But never attempt both. 
 If you do, you'll have to die with a broken 
 heart as did poor Dido. Which is it to be 
 with you, Mr. Slope, love or money ? " 
 
 Mr. Slope was not so ready with a pathetic 
 answer as he usually was with touching episodes 
 in his extempore sermons. He felt that he 
 ought to say something pretty, something also 
 that should remove the impression on the mind 
 of his lady love. But he was rather put about 
 how to do it. 
 
 " Love," said he, " true overpowering love, 
 must be the strongest passion a man can feel ; 
 it must control every other wish, and put aside 
 every other pursuit. But with me love will 
 never act in that way unless it be returned ; " 
 and he threw upon the signora a look of 
 tenderness which was intended to make up 
 for all the deficiencies of his speech. 
 
 " Take my advice," said she. " Never mind 
 love. After all, what is it ? The dream of a
 
 362 Barchester Towers 
 
 few weeks. That is all its joy. The dis- 
 appointment of a life is its Nemesis. Who was 
 ever successful in true love ? Success in love 
 argues that the love is false. True love is always 
 despondent or tragical. Juliet loved, Haidee 
 loved, Dido loved, and what came of it ? Troilus 
 loved and ceased to be a man." 
 
 "Troilus loved and was fooled," said the 
 more manly chaplain. " A man may love and 
 yet not be a Troilus. All women are not 
 Cressids." 
 
 " No ; all women are not Cressids. The 
 falsehood is not always on the woman's side. 
 Imogen was true, but how was she rewarded? 
 Her lord believed her to be the paramour of 
 the first he who came near her in his absence. 
 Desdemona was true and was smothered. 
 Ophelia was true and went mad. There is no 
 happiness in love, except at the end of an 
 English novel. But in wealth, money, houses, 
 lands, goods and chattels, in the good things of 
 this world, yes, in them there is something 
 tangible something that can be retained and 
 enjoyed." 
 
 " Oh, no," said Mr. Slope, feeling himself 
 bound to enter some protest against so very 
 unorthodox a doctrine, " this world's wealth will 
 make no one happy." 
 
 "And what will make you happy you 
 you ? " said she, raising herself up, and speaking 
 to him with energy across the table. " From 
 what source do you look for happiness? Do 
 not say that you look for none? I shall not 
 believe you. It is a search in which every 
 human being spends an existence."
 
 A Love Scene 363 
 
 " And the search is always in vain," said Mr. 
 Slope. " We look for happiness on earth, while 
 we ought to be content to hope for it in heaven." 
 
 " Pshaw ! you preach a doctrine which you 
 know you don't believe. It is the way with 
 you all. If you know that there is no earthly 
 happiness, why do you long to be a bishop or 
 a dean ? Why do you want lands and income ? " 
 
 " I have the natural ambition of a man," 
 said he. 
 
 " Of course you have, and the natural passions ; 
 and therefore I say that you don't believe the 
 doctrine you preach. St. Paul was an enthusiast. 
 He believed so that his ambition and passions 
 did not war against his creed. So does the 
 Eastern fanatic who passes half his life erect 
 upon a pillar. As for me, I will believe in no 
 belief that does not make itself manifest by out- 
 ward signs. I will think no preaching sincere 
 that is not recommended by the practice of the 
 preacher." 
 
 Mr. Slope was startled and horrified, but 
 he felt that he could not answer. How could 
 he stand up and preach the lessons of his 
 Master, being there as he was, on the devil's 
 business? He was a true believer, otherwise 
 this would have been nothing to him. He had 
 audacity for most things, but he had not audacity 
 to make a plaything of the Lord's word. All 
 this the signora understood, and felt much 
 interest as she saw her cockchafer whirl round 
 upon her pin. 
 
 " Your wit delights in such arguments," said 
 he, " but your heart and your reason do not go 
 along with them."
 
 364 Barchester Towers 
 
 "My heart!" said she; "you quite mistake 
 the principles of my composition if you imagine 
 that there is such a thing about me." After all, 
 there was very little that was false in anything 
 that the signora said. If Mr. Slope allowed 
 himself to be deceived it was his own fault. 
 Nothing could have been more open than her 
 declarations about herself. 
 
 The little writing table with her desk was still 
 standing before her, a barrier, as it were, against 
 the enemy. She was sitting as nearly upright 
 as she ever did, and he had brought a chair 
 close to the sofa, so that there was only the 
 corner of the table between him and her. It 
 so happened that as she spoke her hand lay 
 upon the table, and as Mr. Slope answered her 
 he put his hand upon hers. 
 
 " No heart ! " said he. " That is a heavy 
 charge which you bring against yourself, and 
 one of which I cannot find you guilty " 
 
 She withdrew her hand, not quickly and 
 angrily, as though insulted by his touch, but 
 gently and slowly. 
 
 " You are in no condition to give a verdict 
 on the matter," said she, " as you have not tried 
 me. No ; don't say that you intend doing so, 
 for you know you have no intention of the kind ; 
 nor indeed have I either. As for you, you will 
 take your vows where they will result in some- 
 thing more substantial than the pursuit of such 
 a ghostlike, ghastly love as mine " 
 
 " Your love should be sufficient to satisfy the 
 dream of a monarch," said Mr. Slope, not quite 
 clear as to the meaning of his words. 
 
 " Say an archbishop, Mr. Slope," said she.
 
 A Love Scene 365 
 
 Poor fellow ! she was yery cruel to him. He 
 went round again upon his cork on this allusion 
 to his profession. He tried, however, to smile, 
 and gently accused her of joking on a matter 
 which was, he said, to him of such vital 
 moment. 
 
 " Why what gulls do you men make of us," 
 she replied. " How you fool us to the top of 
 our bent ; and of all men you clergymen are 
 the most fluent of your honeyed caressing 
 words. Now look me in the face, Mr. Slope, 
 boldly and openly." 
 
 Mr. Slope did look at her with a languishing 
 loving eye, and as he did so, he again put 
 forth his hand to get hold of hers. 
 
 " I told you to look at me boldly, Mr. Slope ; 
 but confine your boldness to your eyes." 
 
 " Oh, Madeline ! " he sighed. 
 
 " Well, my name is Madeline," said she ; 
 "but none except my own family usually call 
 me so. Now look me in the face, Mr. Slope. 
 Am I to understand that you say you love 
 me?" 
 
 Mr. Slope never had said so. If he had 
 come there with any formed plan at all, his 
 intention was to make love to the lady without 
 uttering any such declaration. It was, however, 
 quite impossible that he should now deny his 
 love. He had, therefore, nothing for it, but to 
 go down on his knees distractedly against the 
 sofa, and swear that he did love her with a love 
 passing the love of man. 
 
 The signora received the assurance with very 
 little palpitation or appearance of surprise. 
 " And now answer me another question," said
 
 366 Barchester Towers 
 
 she ; " when are you to be married to my dear 
 friend Eleanor Bold ? " 
 
 Poor Mr. Slope went round and round in 
 mortal agony. In such a condition as his it 
 was really very hard for him to know what 
 answer to give. And yet no answer would be 
 his surest condemnation. He might as well 
 at once plead guilty to the charge brought 
 against him. 
 
 "And why do you accuse me of such dis- 
 simulation ? " said she. 
 
 " Dissimulation ! I said nothing of dissimu- 
 lation. I made no charge against you, and 
 make none. Pray don't defend yourself to me. 
 You swear that you are devoted to my beauty, 
 and yet you are on the eve of matrimony with 
 another. I feel this to be rather a compliment. 
 It is to Mrs. Bold that you must defend your- 
 self. That you may find difficult; unless, 
 indeed, you can keep her in the dark. You 
 clergymen are cleverer than other men." 
 
 " Signora, I have told you that I loved you, 
 and now you rail at me ? " 
 
 " Rail at you. God bless the man ; what 
 would he have ? Come, answer me this at your 
 leisure, not without thinking now, but leisurely 
 and with consideration, Are you not going to 
 be married to Mrs. Bold ? " 
 
 " I am not," said he. And as he said it, he 
 almost hated, with an exquisite hatred, the 
 woman whom he could not help loving with an 
 exquisite love. 
 
 " But surely you are a worshipper of hers ? " 
 
 " I am not," said Mr. Slope, to whom the 
 word worshipper was peculiarly distasteful.
 
 A Love Scene 367 
 
 The signora had conceived that it would 
 be so. 
 
 " I wonder at that," said she. " Do you not 
 admire her ? To my eye she is the perfection 
 of English beauty. And then she is rich too. 
 I should have thought she was just the person 
 to attract you. Come, Mr. Slope, let me give 
 you advice on this matter. Marry the charming 
 widow; she will be a good mother to your 
 children, and an excellent mistress of a clergy- 
 man's household." 
 
 " Oh, signora, how can you be so cruel ? " 
 
 " Cruel," said she, changing the voice of 
 banter which she had been using for one which 
 was expressively earnest in its tone ; " is that 
 cruelty ? " 
 
 " How can I love another, while my heart is 
 entirely your own ? " 
 
 " If that were cruelty, Mr. Slope, what might 
 you say of me if I were to declare that I re- 
 turned your passion? What would you think 
 if I bound you even by a lover's oath to do 
 daily penance at this couch of mine? What 
 can I give in return for a man's love? Ah, 
 dear friend, you have not realised the conditions 
 of my fate." 
 
 Mr. Slope was not on his knees all this time. 
 After his declaration of love he had risen from 
 them as quickly as he thought consistent with 
 the new position which he now filled, and as 
 he stood was leaning on the back of his chair. 
 This outburst of tenderness on the signora's 
 part quite overcame him, and made him feel 
 for the moment that he could sacrifice every- 
 thing to be assured of the love of the beautiful
 
 368 Barchester Towers 
 
 creature before him, maimed, lame, and already 
 married as she was. 
 
 ; " And can I not sympathise with your lot ? " 
 said he, now seating himself on her sofa, and 
 pushing away the table with his foot. 
 
 " Sympathy is so near to pity ! " said she. 
 " If you pity me, cripple as I am, I shall spurn 
 you from me." 
 
 " Oh, Madeline, I will only love you," and 
 again he caught her hand and devoured it with 
 kisses. Now she did not draw it from him, 
 but sat there as he kissed it, looking at him 
 with her great eyes, just as a great spider 
 would look at a great fly that was quite securely 
 caught. 
 
 " Suppose Signer Neroni were to come to 
 Barchester," said she, " would you make his 
 acquaintance ? " 
 
 " Signer Neroni ! " said he. 
 
 " Would you introduce him to the bishop, 
 and Mrs. Proudie, and the young ladies?" 
 said she, again having recourse to that horrid 
 quizzing voice which Mr. Slope so particularly 
 hated. 
 
 " Why do you ask such a question ? " said he. 
 
 " Because it is necessary that you should 
 know that there is a Signor Neroni. I think 
 you had forgotten it." 
 
 "If I thought that you retained for that 
 wretch one particle of the love of which he 
 was never worthy, I would die before I would 
 distract you by telling you what I feel. No ! 
 were your husband the master of your heart, 
 I might perhaps love you ; but you should 
 never know it."
 
 A Love Scene 369 
 
 " My heart again ! how you talk. And you 
 consider then, that if a husband be not master 
 of his wife's heart, he has no right to her fealty ; 
 if a wife ceases to love, she may cease to be 
 true. Is that your doctrine on this matter, as a 
 minister of the Church of England ? " 
 
 Mr. Slope tried hard within himself to cast 
 off the pollution with which he felt that he was 
 defiling his soul. He strove to tear himself 
 away from the noxious siren that had bewitched 
 him. But he could not do it. He could not 
 be again heart free. He had looked for 
 rapturous joy in loving this lovely creature, 
 and he already found that he met with little 
 but disappointment and self-rebuke. He had 
 come across the fruit of the Dead Sea, so sweet 
 and delicious to the eye, so bitter and nauseous 
 to the taste. He had put the apple to his 
 mouth, and it had turned to ashes between his 
 teeth. Yet he could not tear himself away. 
 He knew, he could not but know, that she 
 jeered at him, ridiculed his love, and insulted 
 the weakness of his religion. But she half 
 permitted his adoration, and that half permis- 
 sion added such fuel to his fire that all the 
 fountain of his piety could not quench it. He 
 began to feel savage, irritated, and revengeful. 
 He meditated some severity of speech, some 
 taunt that should cut her, as her taunts cut 
 him. He reflected as he stood there for a 
 moment, silent before her, that if he desired 
 to quell her proud spirit, he should do so by 
 being prouder even than herself; that if he 
 wished to have her at his feet suppliant for 
 his love it behoved him to conquer her by
 
 370 Barchester Towers 
 
 indifference. All this passed through his mind. 
 As far as dead knowledge went, he knew, or 
 thought he knew, how a woman should be 
 tamed. But when he essayed to bring his 
 tactics to bear, he failed like a child. What 
 chance has dead knowledge with experience 
 in any of the transactions between man and 
 man? What possible chance between man 
 and woman? Mr. Slope loved furiously, in- 
 sanely, and truly; but he had never played 
 the game of love. The signora did not love 
 at all, but she was up to every move of the 
 board. It was Philidor pitted against a school- 
 boy. 
 
 And so she continued to insult him, and he 
 continued to bear it. 
 
 " Sacrifice the world for love ! " said she, 
 in answer to some renewed vapid declaration 
 of his passion ; " how often has the same thing 
 been said, and how invariably with the same 
 falsehood!" 
 
 " Falsehood," said he. " Do you say that I 
 am false to you? do you say that my love is 
 not real ? " 
 
 "False? of course it is false, false as the 
 father of falsehood if indeed falsehoods need 
 a sire and are not self-begotten since the world 
 began. You are ready to sacrifice the world 
 for love? Come, let us see what you will 
 sacrifice. I care nothing for nuptial vows. 
 The wretch, I think you were kind enough to 
 call him so, whom I swore to love and obey, is 
 so base that he can only be thought of with 
 repulsive disgust. In the council chamber of 
 my heart I have divorced him. To me that is
 
 A Love Scene 371 
 
 as good as though aged lords had gloated for 
 months over the details of his licentious life. I 
 care nothing for what the world can say. Will 
 you be as frank? Will you take me to your 
 home as your wife? Will you call me Mrs. 
 Slope before bishop, dean, and prebendaries ? " 
 The poor tortured wretch stood silent, not 
 knowing what to say. " What ! you won't do 
 that. Tell me, then, what part of the world is 
 it that you will sacrifice for my charms ? " 
 
 " Were you free to marry, I would take you 
 to my house to-morrow and wish no higher 
 privilege." 
 
 " I am free," said she, almost starting up in 
 her energy. For though there was no truth in 
 her pretended regard for her clerical admirer, 
 there was a mixture of real feeling in the scorn 
 and satire with which she spoke of love and 
 marriage generally. " I am free ; free as the 
 winds. Come ; will you take me as I am ? 
 Have your wish ; sacrifice the world, and prove 
 yourself a true man." 
 
 Mr. Slope should have taken her at her word. 
 She would have drawn back, and he would have 
 had the full advantage of the offer. But he did not. 
 Instead of doing so, he stood wrapt in astonish- 
 ment, passing his fingers through his lank red 
 hair, and thinking as he stared upon her ani- 
 mated countenance that her wondrous beauty 
 grew more and more wonderful as he gazed on 
 it. " Ha ! ha ! ha ! " she laughed out loud. 
 " Come, Mr. Slope ; don't talk of sacrificing the 
 world again. People beyond one-and-twenty 
 should never dream of such a thing. You and 
 I, if we have the dregs of any love left in us, if
 
 372 Barchester Towers 
 
 we have the remnants of a passion remaining in 
 our hearts, should husband our resources better. 
 We are not in our premiere jeunesse. The world 
 is a very nice place. Your world, at any rate, 
 is so. You have all manner of fat rectories to 
 get, and possible bishoprics to enjoy. Come, 
 confess; on second thoughts you would not 
 sacrifice such things for the smiles of a lame 
 lady?" 
 
 It was impossible for him to answer this. In 
 order to be in any way dignified, he felt that he 
 must be silent. 
 
 " Come," said she " don't boody with me : 
 don't be angry because I speak out some home 
 truths. Alas, the world, as I have found it, has 
 taught me bitter truths. Come, tell me that I 
 am forgiven. Are we not to be friends?" and 
 she again put out her hand to him. 
 
 He sat himself down in the chair beside her, 
 and took her proffered hand and leant over 
 her. 
 
 " There," said she, with her sweetest softest 
 smile a smile to withstand which a man 
 should be cased in triple steel, "there; seal 
 your forgiveness on it," and she raised it 
 towards his face. He kissed it again and again, 
 and stretched over her as though desirous of 
 extending the charity of his pardon beyond the 
 hand that was offered to him. She managed, 
 however, to check his ardour. For one so 
 easily allured as this poor chaplain, her hand 
 was surely enough. 
 
 " Oh, Madeline ! " said he, " tell me that you 
 love me do you do you love me ? " 
 
 " Hush," said she. " There is my mother's
 
 Mrs. Bold at Plumstead 373 
 
 step. Our tete-a-tete has been 'of monstrous 
 length. Now you had better go. But we shall 
 see you soon again, shall we not ? " 
 
 Mr. Slope promised that he would call again 
 on the following day. 
 
 "And, Mr. Slope," she continued, "pray 
 answer my note. You have it in your hand, 
 though I declare during these two hours you 
 have not been gracious enough to read it. It is 
 about the Sabbath school and the children. You 
 know how anxious I am to have them here. 
 I have been learning the catechism myself, on 
 purpose. You must manage it for me next 
 week. I will teach them, at any rate, to 
 submit themselves to their spiritual pastors 
 and masters." 
 
 Mr. Slope said but little on the subject of 
 Sabbath schools, but he made his adieu, and 
 betook himself home with a sad heart, troubled 
 mind, and uneasy conscience. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 MRS. BOLD IS ENTERTAINED BY DR. AND MRS. 
 GRANTLY AT PLUMSTEAD 
 
 IT will be remembered that Mr. Slope, 'when 
 leaving his billet dottx at the house of Mrs. 
 Bold, had been informed that it would be sent 
 out to her at Plumstead that afternoon. The 
 archdeacon and Mr. Harding had in fact come 
 into town together in the brougham, and it had
 
 374 Barchester Towers 
 
 been arranged that they should call for Eleanor's 
 parcels as they left on their way home. Accord- 
 ingly they did so call, and the maid, as she 
 handed to the coachman a small basket and 
 large bundle carefully and neatly packed, gave 
 in at the carriage window Mr. Slope's epistle. 
 The archdeacon, who was sitting next to the 
 window, took it, and immediately recognised 
 the hand-writing of his enemy. 
 
 "Who left this?" said he. 
 
 " Mr. Slope called with it himself, your 
 reverence," said the girl ; " and was very 
 anxious that missus should have it to-day." 
 
 So the brougham drove off, and the letter 
 was left in the archdeacon's hand. He looked 
 at it as though he held a basket of adders. He 
 could not have thought worse of the document 
 had he read it and discovered it to be licentious 
 and atheistical. He did, moreover, what so 
 many wise people are accustomed to do in 
 similar circumstances; he immediately con- 
 demned the person to whom the letter was 
 written, as though she were necessarily a parti- 
 ceps criminis. 
 
 Poor Mr. Harding, though by no means 
 inclined to forward Mr. Slope's intimacy with 
 his daughter, would have given anything to 
 have kept the letter from his son-in-law. But 
 that was now impossible. There it was in his 
 hand; and he looked as thoroughly disgusted 
 as though he were quite sure that it contained 
 all the rhapsodies of a favoured lover. 
 
 " It's very hard on me," said he, after awhile, 
 " that this should go on under my roof." 
 
 Now here the archdeacon was certainly most
 
 Mrs. Bold at Plumstead 375 
 
 unreasonable. Having invited his sister-in-law 
 to his house, it was a natural consequence that 
 she should receive her letters there. And if 
 Mr. Slope chose to write to her, his letter would, 
 as a matter of course, be sent after her. More- 
 over, the very fact of an invitation to one's 
 house implies confidence on the part of the 
 inviter. He had shown that he thought Mrs. 
 Bold to be a fit person to stay with him by his 
 asking her to do so, and it was most cruel to 
 her that he should complain of her violating the 
 sanctity of his roof-tree, when the laches com- 
 mitted were none of her committing. 
 
 Mr. Harding felt this; and felt also that 
 when the archdeacon talked thus about his roof, 
 what he said was most offensive to himself as 
 Eleanor's father. If Eleanor did receive a letter 
 from Mr. Slope, what was there in that to pollute 
 the purity of Dr. Grantly's household ? He was 
 indignant that his daughter should be so judged 
 and so spoken of; and he made up his mind 
 that even as Mrs. Slope she must be dearer to 
 him than any other creature on God's earth. 
 He almost broke out, and said as much ; but 
 for the moment he restrained himself. 
 
 " Here," said the archdeacon, handing the 
 offensive missile to his father-in-law ; " I am not 
 going to be the bearer of his love letters. You 
 are her father, and may do as you think fit 
 with it." 
 
 By doing as he thought fit with it, the arch- 
 deacon certainly meant that Mr. Harding would 
 be justified in opening and reading the letter, 
 and taking any steps which might in consequence 
 be necessary. To tell the truth, Dr. Grantly
 
 37 6 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 did feel rather a stronger curiosity than was 
 justified by his outraged virtue, to see the 
 contents of the letter. Of course he could not 
 open it himself, but he wished to make Mr. 
 Harding understand that he, as Eleanor's father, 
 would be fully justified in doing so. The idea 
 of such a proceeding never occurred to Mr. 
 Harding. His authority over Eleanor ceased 
 when she became the wife of John Bold. He 
 had not the slightest wish to pry into her corre- 
 spondence. He consequently put the letter into 
 his pocket, and only wished that he had been 
 able to do so without the archdeacon's know- 
 ledge. They both sat silent during half the 
 journey home, and then Dr. Grantly said, 
 " Perhaps Susan had better give it to her. She 
 can explain to her sister, better than either you 
 or I can do, how deep is the disgrace of such 
 an acquaintance." 
 
 " I think you are very hard upon Eleanor," 
 replied Mr. Harding. " I will not allow that she 
 has disgraced herself, nor do I think it likely 
 that she will do so. She has a right to corre- 
 spond with whom she pleases, and I shall not 
 take upon myself to blame her because she gets 
 a letter from Slope." 
 
 " I suppose," said Dr. Grantly, " you don't 
 wish her to marry the man. I suppose you'll 
 admit that she would disgrace herself if she 
 did do so." 
 
 " I do not wish her to marry him," said the 
 perplexed father ; " I do not like him, and 
 do not think he would make a good husband. 
 But if Eleanor chooses to do so, I shall certainly 
 not think that she disgraces herself."
 
 Mrs. Bold at Plumstead 377 
 
 " Good heavens ! " exclaimed Dr. Grantly, 
 and threw himself back into the corner of his 
 brougham. Mr. Harding said nothing more, 
 but commenced playing a dirge, with an 
 imaginary fiddle bow upon an imaginary violon- 
 cello, for which there did not appear to be quite 
 room enough in the carriage ; and he continued ] 
 the tune, with sundry variations, till he arrived 
 at the rectory door. 
 
 The archdeacon had been meditating sad 
 things in his mind. Hitherto he had always 
 looked on his father-in-law as a true partisan, 
 though he knew him to be a man devoid of all 
 the combative qualifications for that character. 
 He had felt no fear that Mr. Harding would go 
 over to the enemy, though he had never counted 
 much on the ex-warden's prowess in breaking 
 the hostile ranks. Now, however, it seemed 
 that Eleanor, with her wiles, had completely 
 trepanned and bewildered her father, cheated 
 him out of his judgment, robbed him of the 
 predilections and tastes of his life, and caused 
 him to be tolerant of a man whose arrogance 
 and vulgarity would, a few years since, have 
 been unendurable to him. That the whole 
 thing was as good as arranged between Eleanor 
 and Mr. Slope there was no longer any room to 
 doubt. That Mr. Harding knew that such was 
 the case, even this could hardly be doubted. 
 It was too manifest that he at any rate suspected 
 it, and was prepared to sanction it. 
 
 And to tell the truth, such was the case. 
 Mr. Harding disliked Mr. Slope as much as 
 it was in his nature to dislike any man. Had 
 his daughter wished to do her worst to displease
 
 378 Barchester Towers 
 
 him by a second marriage, she could hardly 
 have succeeded better than by marrying Mr. 
 Slope. But, as he said to himself now very 
 often, what right had he to condemn her if she 
 did nothing that was really wrong ? If she 
 liked Mr. Slope it was her affair. It was in- 
 deed miraculous to him that a woman with 
 such a mind, so educated, so refined, so nice 
 in her tastes, should like such a man. Then 
 he asked himself whether it was possible that 
 she did so ? 
 
 Ah, thou weak man ; most charitable, most 
 Christian, but weakest of men ! Why couldst 
 thou not have asked herself? Was she not 
 the daughter of thy loins, the child of thy 
 heart, the best beloved to thee of all humanity ? 
 Has she not proved to thee, by years of closest 
 affection, her truth and goodness and filial 
 obedience ? And yet, knowing and feeling all 
 this, thou couldst endure to go groping in 
 darkness, hearing her named in strains which 
 wounded thy loving heart, and being unable 
 to defend her as thou shouldst have done ! 
 
 Mr. Harding had not believed, did not believe, 
 that his daughter meant to marry this man ; 
 but he feared to commit himself to such an 
 opinion. If she did do it there would be then 
 no means of retreat. The wishes of his heart 
 were First, that there should be no truth in 
 the archdeacon's surmises ; and in this wish 
 he would have fain trusted entirely, had he 
 dared so to do ; Secondly, that the match might 
 be prevented, if unfortunately, it had been con- 
 templated by Eleanor ; Thirdly, that should she 
 be so infatuated as to marry this man, he might
 
 Mrs. Bold at Plumstead 379 
 
 justify his conduct, and declare that no cause 
 existed for his separating himself from her. 
 
 He wanted to believe her incapable of such 
 a marriage ; he wanted to show that he so 
 believed of her ; but he wanted also to be able 
 to say hereafter, that she had done nothing 
 amiss, if she should unfortunately prove herself 
 to be different from what he thought her to be.;; 
 
 Nothing but affection could justify such fickle- 
 ness; but affection did justify it. There was 
 but little of the Roman about Mr. Harding. 
 He could not sacrifice his Lucretia even though 
 she should be polluted by the accepted addresses 
 of the clerical Tarquin at the palace. If Tar- 
 quin could be prevented, well and good; but 
 if not, the father would still open his heart to 
 his daughter, and accept her as she presented 
 herself, Tarquin and all. 
 
 Dr. Grantly's mind was of a stronger calibre, 
 and he was by no means deficient in heart. 
 He loved with an honest genuine love his wife 
 and children and friends. He loved his father- 
 in-law ; and was quite prepared to love Eleanor 
 too, if she would be one of his party, if she 
 would be on his side, if she would regard the 
 Slopes and the Proudies as the enemies of 
 mankind, and acknowledge and feel the 
 comfortable merits of the Gwynnes and Arabins. 
 He wished to be what he called " safe " with 
 all those whom he had admitted to the pene- 
 tralia of his house and heart. He could luxu- 
 riate in no society that was deficient in a certain 
 feeling of faithful staunch high-churchism, which 
 to him was tantamount to freemasonry. He 
 was not strict in his lines of definition. He
 
 3 8o 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 endured without impatience many different shades 
 of Anglo-church conservatism ; but with the 
 Slopes and Proudies he could not go on all 
 fours. 
 
 He was wanting in, moreover, or perhaps it 
 would be more correct to say, he was not 
 troubled by that womanly tenderness which 
 was so peculiar to Mr. Harding. His feelings 
 towards his friends were, that while they stuck 
 to him he would stick to them ; that he would 
 work with them shoulder and shoulder ; that he 
 would be faithful to the faithful. He knew 
 nothing of that beautiful love which can be true 
 to a false friend. 
 
 And thus these two men, each miserable 
 enough in his own way, returned to Plumstead. 
 
 It was getting late when they arrived there, 
 and the ladies had already gone up to dress. 
 Nothing more was said as the two parted in the 
 hall. As Mr. Harding passed to his own room 
 he knocked at Eleanor's door and handed in 
 the letter. The archdeacon hurried to his own 
 territory, there to unburden his heart to his 
 faithful partner. 
 
 What colloquy took place between the marital 
 chamber and the adjoining dressing-room shall 
 not be detailed. The reader, now intimate 
 with the persons concerned, can well imagine it. 
 The whole tenor of it also might be read in 
 Mrs. Grantly's brow as she came down to 
 dinner. 
 
 Eleanor, when she received the letter from 
 her father's hand, had no idea from whom it 
 came. She had never seen Mr. Slope's hand- 
 writing, or if so had forgotten it ; and did not
 
 Mrs. Bold at Plumstead 381 
 
 think of him as she twisted the letter as people 
 do twist letters when they do not immediately 
 recognise their correspondents either by the 
 writing or the seal. She was sitting at her glass 
 brushing her hair, and rising every other minute 
 to play with her boy who was sprawling on the 
 bed, and who engaged pretty nearly the whole 
 attention of the maid as well as of his mother. 
 
 At last, sitting before her toilet table, she 
 broke the seal, and turning over the leaf saw 
 Mr. Slope's name. She first felt surprised, and 
 then annoyed, and then anxious. As she read 
 it she became interested. She was so delighted 
 to find that all obstacles to her father's return 
 to the hospital were apparently removed that 
 she did not observe the fulsome language in 
 which the tidings were conveyed. She merely 
 perceived that she was commissioned to tell her 
 father that such was the case, and she did not 
 realise the fact that such a communication 
 should not have been made, in the first instance, 
 to her by an unmarried young clergyman. She 
 felt, on the whole, grateful to Mr. Slope, and 
 anxious to get on her dress that she might run 
 with the news to her father. Then she came to 
 the allusion to her own pious labours, and she 
 said in her heart that Mr. Slope was an affected 
 ass. Then she went on again and was offended 
 by her boy being called Mr. Slope's darling 
 he was nobody's darling but her own; or at 
 any rate not the darling of a disagreeable 
 stranger like Mr. Slope. Lastly she arrived at 
 the tresses and felt a qualm of disgust. She 
 looked up in the glass, and there they were 
 before her, long and silken, certainly, and very
 
 3 8 2 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 beautiful. I will not say but that she knew 
 them to be so, but she felt angry with them and 
 brushed them roughly and carelessly. She 
 crumpled the letter up with angry violence, and 
 resolved, almost without thinking of it, that she 
 would not show it to her father. She would 
 merely tell him the contents of it. She then 
 comforted herself again with her boy, had her 
 dress fastened, and went down to dinner. 
 
 As she tripped down the stairs she began to 
 ascertain that there was some difficulty in her 
 situation. She could not keep from her father 
 the news about the hospital, nor could she 
 comfortably confess the letter from Mr. Slope 
 before the Grantlys. Her father had already 
 gone down. She had heard his step upon the 
 lobby. She resolved therefore to take him 
 aside, and tell him her little bit of news. Poor 
 girl ! she had no idea how severely the unfortu- 
 nate letter had already been discussed. 
 
 When she entered the drawing-room the whole 
 party were there, including Mr. Arabin, and the 
 whole party looked glum and sour. The two 
 girls sat silent and apart as though they were 
 aware that something was wrong. Even Mr. 
 Arabin was solemn and silent. Eleanor had 
 not seen him since breakfast. He had been 
 the whole day at St. Ewold's, and such having 
 been the case it was natural that he should tell 
 how matters were going on there. He did 
 nothing of the kind, however, but remained 
 solemen and silent. They were all solemn and 
 silent. Eleanor knew in her heart that they 
 had been talking about her, and her heart mis- 
 gave her as she thought of Mr. Slope and his
 
 Mrs. Bold at Plumstead 383 
 
 letter. At any rate she felt it to be quite im- 
 possible to speak to her father alone while 
 matters were in this state. 
 
 Dinner was soon announced, and Dr. Grantly, 
 as was his wont, gave Eleanor his arm. But he 
 did so as though the doing it were an outrage 
 on his feelings rendered necessary by sternest 
 necessity. With quick sympathy Eleanor felt 
 this, and hardly put her fingers on his coat 
 sleeve. It may be guessed in what way the 
 dinner-hour was passed. Dr. Grantly said a 
 few words to Mr. Arabin, Mr. Arabin said a 
 few words to Mrs. Grantly, she said a few words 
 to her father, and he tried to say a few words to 
 Eleanor. She felt that she had been tried and 
 found guilty of something, though she knew not 
 what. She longed to say out to them all, " Well, 
 what is it that I have done ? out with it, and let 
 me know my crime ; for heaven's sake let me hear 
 the worst of it ; " but she could not. She could 
 say nothing, but sat there silent, half feeling that 
 she was guilty, and trying in vain to pretend 
 even to eat her dinner. 
 
 At last the cloth was drawn, and the ladies 
 were not long following it. When they were 
 gone the gentlemen were somewhat more 
 sociable, but not much so. They could not 
 of course talk over Eleanor's sins. The arch- 
 deacon had indeed so far betrayed his sister- 
 in-law as to whisper into Mr. Arabin's ear in the 
 study, as they met there before dinner, a hint of 
 what he feared. He did so with the gravest 
 and saddest of fears, and Mr. Arabin became 
 grave and apparently sad enough as he heard it. 
 He opened his eyes and his mouth and said in
 
 384 Barchester Towers 
 
 a sort of whisper " Mr. Slope ! " in the same 
 way as he might have said " The Cholera ! " 
 had his friend told him that that horrid disease 
 was in his nursery. " I fear so, I fear so," said 
 the archdeacon, and then together they left the 
 room. 
 
 We will not accurately analyse Mr. Arabin's 
 feelings on receipt of such astounding tidings. 
 It will suffice to say that he was surprised, 
 vexed, sorrowful, and ill at ease. He had not 
 perhaps thought very much about Eleanor, but 
 he had appreciated her influence, and had felt 
 that close intimacy with her in a country house 
 was pleasant to him, and also beneficial. He 
 had spoken highly of her intelligence to the 
 archdeacon, and had walked about the shrub- 
 beries with her, carrying her boy on his back. 
 When Mr. Arabin had called Johnny his darling, 
 Eleanor was not angry. 
 
 Thus the three men sat over their wine, all 
 thinking of the same subject, but unable to 
 speak of it to each other. So we will leave 
 them, and follow the ladies into the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 Mrs. Grantly had received a commission from 
 her husband, and had undertaken it with some 
 unwillingness. He had desired her to speak 
 gravely to Eleanor, and to tell her that, if she 
 persisted in her adherence to Mr. Slope, she 
 could no longer look for the countenance of 
 her present friends. Mrs. Grantly probably 
 knew her sister better than the doctor did, and 
 assured him that it would be in vain to talk to 
 her. The only course likely to be of any 
 service in her opinion was to keep Eleanor
 
 Mrs. Bold at Plumstead 385 
 
 away from Barchester. Perhaps she might 
 have added, for she had a very keen eye in 
 such things, that there might also be ground 
 for hope in keeping Eleanor near Mr. Arabin. 
 Of this, however, she said nothing. But the 
 archdeacon would not be talked over ; he spoke 
 much of his conscience, and declared that if 
 Mrs. Grantly would not do it he would. So 
 instigated, the lady undertook the task, stating, 
 however, her full conviction that her interfer- 
 ence would be worse than useless. And so it 
 proved. 
 
 As soon as they were in the drawing-room 
 Mrs. Grantly found some excuse for sending 
 her girls away, and then began her task. She 
 knew well that she could exercise but very 
 slight authority over her sister. Their various 
 modes of life, and the distance between their 
 residences, had prevented any very close con- 
 fidence. They had hardly lived together since 
 Eleanor was a child. Eleanor had moreover,, 
 especially in latter years, resented in a quiet 
 sort of way the dictatorial authority which the 
 archdeacon seemed to exercise over her father, 
 and on this account had been unwilling to allow 
 the archdeacon's wife to exercise authority over 
 herself. 
 
 " You got a note just before dinner, I believe," 
 began the eldest sister. 
 
 Eleanor acknowledged that she had done so, 
 and felt that she turned red as she acknow- 
 ledged it. She would have given anything to 
 have kept her colour, but the more she tried 
 to do so the more signally she failed. 
 
 " Was it not from Mr. Slope ? " 
 

 
 3 86 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 Eleanor said that the letter was from Mr. 
 Slope. 
 
 " Is he a regular correspondent of yours, 
 Eleanor?" 
 
 " Not exactly," said she, already beginning 
 to feel angry at the cross-examination. She 
 determined, and why it would be difficult to 
 say, that nothing should induce her to tell her 
 sister Susan what was the subject of the letter. 
 Mrs. Grantly, she knew, was instigated by the 
 archdeacon, and she would not plead to any 
 arraignment made against her by him. 
 
 "But, Eleanor dear, why do you get letters 
 from Mr. Slope at all, knowing, as you do, he 
 is a person so distasteful to papa, and to the 
 archdeacon, and indeed to all your friends?" 
 
 " In the first place, Susan, I don't get letters 
 from him ; and in the next place, as Mr. Slope 
 wrote the one letter which I have got, and as 
 I only received it, which I could not very well 
 help doing, as papa handed it to me, I think 
 you had better ask Mr. Slope instead of me." 
 
 " What was his letter about, Eleanor ? " 
 
 " I cannot tell you," said she, " because it 
 was confidential. It was on business respecting 
 a third person." 
 
 " It was in no way personal to yourself, 
 then?" 
 
 " I won't exactly say that, Susan," said she, 
 getting more and more angry at her sister's 
 questions. 
 
 "Well, I must say it's rather singular," said 
 Mrs. Grantly, affecting to laugh, " that a young 
 lady in your position should receive a letter 
 from an unmarried gentleman of which she will
 
 Mrs. Bold at Plumstead 387 
 
 not tell the contents, and which she is ashamed 
 to show to her sister." 
 
 " I am not ashamed," said Eleanor, blazing. 
 up; "I am not ashamed of anything in the 
 matter; only I do not choose to be cross- 
 examined as to my letters by any one." 
 
 " Well, dear," said the other, " I cannot but 
 tell you that I do not think Mr. Slope a proper 
 correspondent for you." 
 
 " If he be ever so improper, how can I help 
 his having written to me? But you are all 
 prejudiced against him to such an extent, that 
 that which would be kind and generous in 
 another man is odious and impudent in him. 
 I hate a religion that teaches one to be so 
 onesided in one's charity." 
 
 " I am sorry, Eleanor, that you hate the 
 religion you find here; but surely you should 
 remember that in such matters the archdeacon 
 must know more of the world than you do. 
 I don't ask you to respect or comply with me,, 
 although I am, unfortunately, so many years 
 your senior ; but surely, in such a matter as this, 
 you might consent to be guided by the arch- 
 deacon. He is most anxious to be your friend 
 if you will let him." 
 
 " In such a matter as what ? " said Eleanor, 
 very testily. " Upon my word I don't know 
 what this is all about." 
 
 " We all want you to drop Mr. Slope." 
 
 "You all want me to be as illiberal as your- 
 selves. That I shall never be. I see no harm 
 in Mr. Slope's acquaintance, and I shall not 
 insult the man by telling him that I do. He 
 has thought it necessary to write to me, and I
 
 3 88 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 do not want the archdeacon's advice about the 
 letter. If I did I would ask it." 
 
 " Then, Eleanor, it is my duty to tell you," 
 and now she spoke with a tremendous gravity, 
 " that the archdeacon thinks that such a corre- 
 spondence is disgraceful, and that he cannot 
 allow it to go on in his house." 
 
 Eleanor's eyes flashed fire as she answered 
 her sister, jumping up from her seat as she 
 did so. " You may tell the archdeacon that 
 wherever I am I shall receive what letters I 
 please and from whom I please. And as for 
 the word disgraceful, if Dr. Grantly has used 
 it of me he has been unmanly and inhospitable," 
 and she walked off to the door. " When papa 
 comes from the dining-room I will thank you 
 to ask him to step up to my bed-room. I will 
 show him Mr. Slope's letter, but I will show 
 it to no one else." And so saying she retreated 
 to her baby. 
 
 She had no conception of the crime with 
 which she was charged. The idea that she 
 could be thought by her friends to regard Mr. 
 Slope as a lover, had never flashed upon her. 
 She conceived that they were all prejudiced and 
 illiberal in their persecution of him, and there- 
 fore she would not join in the persecution, even 
 though she greatly disliked the man. 
 
 Eleanor was very angry as she seated herself 
 in a low chair by her open window at the foot 
 of her child's bed. " To dare to say I have 
 disgraced myself," she repeated to herself more 
 than once. " How papa can put up with that 
 man's arrogance ! I will certainly not sit down 
 to dinner in his house again unless he begs my
 
 Mrs. Bold at Plumstead 389 
 
 pardon for that word." And then a thought 
 struck her that Mr. Arabin might perchance 
 hear of her " disgraceful " correspondence with 
 Mr. Slope, and she turned crimson with pure 
 vexation. Oh, if she had known the truth ! If 
 she could have conceived that Mr. Arabin had 
 been informed as a fact that she was going to 
 marry Mr. Slope ! 
 
 She had not been long in her room before 
 her father joined her. As he left the drawing- 
 room Mrs. Grantly took her husband into the 
 recess of the window, and told him how signally 
 she had failed. 
 
 " I will speak to her myself before I go to 
 bed," said the archdeacon. 
 
 " Pray do no such thing," said she ; " you 
 can do no good and will only make an unseemly 
 quarrel in the house. You have no idea how 
 headstrong she can be." 
 
 The archdeacon declared that as to that he 
 was quite indifferent. He knew his duty and 
 would do it. Mr. Harding was weak in the 
 extreme in such matters. He would not have 
 it hereafter on his conscience that he had not 
 done all that in him lay to prevent so disgrace- 
 ful an alliance. It was in vain that Mrs. Grantly 
 assured him that speaking to Eleanor angrily 
 would only hasten such a crisis, and render it 
 certain if at present there were any doubt. He 
 was angry, self-willed, and sore. The fact that 
 a lady of his household had received a letter 
 from Mr. Slope had wounded his pride in 
 the sorest place, and nothing could control 
 him. 
 
 Mr. Harding looked worn and woebegone as
 
 39 
 
 Barch ester Towers 
 
 he entered his daughter's room. These sorrows 
 worried him sadly. He felt that if they were 
 continued he must go to the wall in the manner 
 so kindly prophesied to him by the chaplain. 
 He knocked gently at his daughter's door, 
 waited till he was distinctly bade to enter, and 
 then appeared as though he and not she were the 
 suspected criminal. 
 
 Eleanor's arm was soon within his, and she 
 had soon kissed his forehead and caressed him, 
 not with joyous but with eager love. " Oh, 
 papa," she said, " I do so want to speak to you. 
 They have been talking about me down stairs 
 to-night ; don't you know they have, papa ? " 
 
 Mr. Harding confessed with a sort of mur- 
 mur that the archdeacon had been speaking 
 of her. 
 
 " I shall hate Dr. Grantly soon " 
 
 " Oh, my dear ! " 
 
 "Well; I shall. I cannot help it. He is 
 so uncharitable, so unkind, so suspicious of 
 every one that does not worship himself: and 
 then he is so monstrously arrogant to other 
 people who have a right to their opinions as 
 well as he has to his own." 
 
 " He is an earnest eager man, my dear : but 
 he never means to be unkind." 
 
 " He is unkind, papa, most unkind. There, 
 I got that letter from Mr. Slope before dinner. 
 It was you yourself who gave it to me. There ; 
 pray read it. It is all for you. It should have 
 been addressed to you. You know how they 
 have been talking about it down stairs. You 
 know how they behaved to me at dinner. And 
 since dinner Susan has been preaching to me,
 
 Mrs. Bold at Plumstead 391 
 
 till I could not remain in the room with her. 
 Read it, papa; and then say whether that is 
 a. letter that need make Dr. Grantly so out- 
 rageous." 
 
 Mr. Harding took his arm from his daughter's 
 waist, and slowly read the letter. She expected 
 to see his countenance lit with joy as he learnt 
 that his path back to the hospital was made so 
 smooth ; but she was doomed to disappointment, 
 as had once been the case before on a some- 
 what similar occasion. His first feeling was 
 one of unmitigated disgust that Mr. Slope 
 should have chosen to interfere in his behalf. 
 He had been anxious to get back to the 
 hospital, but he would have infinitely sooner 
 resigned all pretensions to the place, than have 
 owed it in any manner to Mr. Slope's influence 
 in his favour. Then he thoroughly disliked the 
 tone of Mr. Slope's letter; it was unctuous, 
 false, and unwholesome, like the man. He 
 saw, which Eleanor had failed to see, that much 
 more had been intended than was expressed. 
 The appeal to Eleanor's pious labours as 
 separate from his own grated sadly against his 
 feelings as a father. And then when he came 
 to the " darling boy " and the " silken tresses," 
 he slowly closed and folded the letter in despair. 
 It was impossible that Mr. Slope should so 
 write unless he had been encouraged. It was 
 impossible Eleanor should have received such a 
 letter, and have received it without annoyance, 
 unless she were willing to encourage him. So 
 at least Mr. Harding argued to himself. 
 
 How hard it is to judge accurately of the 
 feelings of others. Mr. Harding, as he came to
 
 392 Barchester Towers 
 
 the close of the letter, in his heart condemned 
 his daughter for indelicacy, and it made him 
 miserable to do so. She was not responsible 
 for what Mr. Slope might write. True. But 
 then she expressed no disgust at it. She had 
 rather expressed approval of the letter as a 
 whole. She had given it to him to read, as a 
 vindication for herself and also for him. The 
 father's spirits sank within him as he felt that he 
 could not acquit her. 
 
 And yet it was the true feminine delicacy of 
 Eleanor's mind which brought on her this 
 condemnation. Listen to me, ladies, and I 
 beseech you to acquit her. She thought of this 
 man, this lover of whom she was so unconscious, 
 exactly as her father did, exactly as the Grantlys 
 did. At least she esteemed him personally as 
 they did. But she believed him to be in the 
 main an honest man, and one truly inclined to 
 assist her father. She felt herself bound, after 
 what had passed, to show this letter to Mr. 
 Harding. She thought it necessary that he 
 should know what Mr. Slope had to say. But 
 she did not think it necessary to apologise for, 
 or condemn, or even allude to the vulgarity, of 
 the man's tone, which arose, as does all vul- 
 garity, from ignorance. It was nauseous to her 
 to have a man like Mr. Slope commenting on 
 her personal attractions ; and she did not think 
 it necessary to dilate with her father upon what 
 was nauseous. She never supposed they could 
 disagree on such a subject. It would have 
 been painful for her to point it out, painful for 
 her to speak strongly against a man of whom, 
 on the whole, she was anxious to think and
 
 Mrs. Bold at Plumstead 393 
 
 speak well. In encountering such a man she 
 had encountered what was disagreeable, as she 
 might do in walking the streets. But in such 
 encounters she never thought it necessary to 
 dwell on what disgusted her. 
 
 And he, foolish weak loving man, would not 
 say one word, though one word would have 
 cleared up everything. There would have been 
 a deluge of tears, and in ten minutes every one 
 in the house would have understood how 
 matters really were. The father would have 
 been delighted. The sister would have kissed 
 her sister and begged a thousand pardons. The 
 archdeacon would have apologised andwondered, 
 and raised his eyebrows, and gone to bed a 
 happy man. And Mr. Arabin Mr. Arabin 
 would have dreamt of Eleanor, have awoke in 
 the morning with ideas of love, and retired to 
 rest the next evening with schemes of marriage. 
 But, alas ! all this was not to be. 
 
 Mr. Harding slowly folded the letter, handed 
 it back to her, kissed her forehead and bade 
 God bless her. He then crept slowly away to 
 his own room. 
 
 As soon as he had left the passage another 
 knock was given at Eleanor's door, and Mrs. 
 Grantly's very demure own maid, entering on 
 tiptoe, wanted to know would Mrs. Bold be so 
 kind as to speak to the archdeacon for two 
 minutes, in the archdeacon's study, if not dis- 
 agreeable. The archdeacon's compliments, and 
 he wouldn't detain her two minutes. 
 
 Eleanor thought it was very disagreeable; 
 she was tired and fagged and sick at heart ; 
 her present feelings towards Dr. Grantly were
 
 394 Barchester Towers 
 
 anything but those of affection. She was, how- 
 ever, no coward, and therefore promised to be 
 in the study in five minutes. So she arranged 
 her hair, tied on her cap, and went down with 
 a palpitating heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 A SERIOUS INTERVIEW 
 
 THERE are people who delight in serious inter- 
 views, especially when to them appertains the 
 part of offering advice or administering rebuke, 
 and perhaps the archdeacon was one of these. 
 Yet on this occasion he did not prepare him- 
 self for the coming conversation with much 
 anticipation of pleasure. Whatever might be his 
 faults he was not an inhospitable man, and he 
 almost felt that he was sinning against hospitality 
 in upbraiding Eleanor in his own house. Then, 
 also he was not quite sure that he would get the 
 best of it. His wife had told him that he de- 
 cidedly would not, and he usually gave credit to 
 what his wife said. He was, however, so con- 
 vinced of what he considered to be the im- 
 propriety of Eleanor's conduct, and so assured 
 also of his own duty in trying to check it, that 
 his conscience would not allow him to take his 
 wife's advice and go to bed quietly. 
 
 Eleanor's face as she entered the room was
 
 A Serious Interview 395 
 
 not such as to reassure him. As a rule she \%a.s 
 always mild in manner and gentle in conduc^, 
 but there was that in her eye which made it not 
 an easy task to scold her. In truth she had 
 been little used to scolding. No one since her 
 childhood had tried it but the archdeacon, and 
 he had generally failed when he did try it. He 
 had never done so since her marriage ; and now, 
 when he saw her quiet easy step, as she entered 
 his room, he almost wished that he had taken 
 his wife's advice. 
 
 He began by apologising for the trouble he 
 was giving her. She begged him not to mention 
 it, assured him that walking down stairs was no 
 trouble to her at all, and then took a seat and 
 waited patiently for him to begin his attack. 
 
 " My dear Eleanor," he said, " I hope you 
 believe me when I assure you that you have no 
 sincerer friend than I am." To this Eleanor 
 answered nothing, and therefore he proceeded. 
 " If you had a brother of your own I should not 
 probably trouble you with what I am going to 
 say. But as it is I cannot but think that it must 
 be a comfort to you to know that you have near 
 you one who is as anxious for your welfare as 
 any brother of your own could be." 
 
 " I never had a brother," said she. 
 
 " I know you never had, and it is therefore 
 that I speak to you." 
 
 " I never had a brother," she repeated ; " but 
 I have hardly felt the want. Papa has been to 
 me both father and brother." 
 
 "Your father is the fondest and most affec- 
 tionate of men. But " 
 
 " He is the fondest and most affectionate of
 
 39 6 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 "S M, and the best of counsellors. While he 
 rvos I can never want advice." 
 
 This rather put the archdeacon out. He 
 could not exactly contradict what his sister-in- 
 law said about her father; and yet he did not 
 at all agree with her. He wanted her to under- 
 stand that he tendered his assistance because her 
 father was a soft good-natured gentleman, not 
 sufficiently knowing in the ways of the world; 
 but he could not say this to her. So he had to 
 rush into the subject matter of his proffered 
 counsel without any acknowledgment on her 
 part that she could need it, or would be grate- 
 ful for it. 
 
 "Susan tells me that you received a letter 
 this evening from Mr. Slope." 
 
 " Yes ; papa brought it in the brougham. 
 Did he not tell you ? " 
 
 " And Susan says that you objected to let her 
 know what it was about." 
 
 " I don't think she asked me. But had she 
 done so I should not have told her. I don't 
 think it nice to be asked about one's letters. 
 If one wishes to show them one does so without 
 being asked." 
 
 "True. Quite so. What you say is quite 
 true. But is not the fact of your receiving 
 letters from Mr. Slope, which you do not wish 
 to show to your friends, a circumstance which 
 must excite some some surprise some sus- 
 picion " 
 
 " Suspicion ! " said she, not speaking above 
 her usual voice, speaking still in a soft womanly 
 tone, but yet with indignation ; " suspicion I 
 and who suspects me, and of what?" And
 
 A Serious Interview 397 
 
 then there was a pause, for the archdeacon was 
 not quite ready to explain the ground of his 
 suspicion. " No, Dr. Grantly, I did not choose 
 to show Mr. Slope's letter to Susan. I could 
 not show it to any one till papa had seen it. 
 If you have any wish to read it now, you can do 
 so," and she handed the letter to him over the 
 table. 
 
 This was an amount of compliance which he 
 had not at all expected, and which rather upset 
 him in his tactics. However, he took the letter, 
 perused it carefully, and then refolding it, kept 
 it on the table under his hand. To him it ap- 
 peared to be in almost every respect the letter 
 of a declared lover ; it seemed to corroborate his 
 worst suspicions ; and the fact of Eleanor's show- 
 ing it to him was all but tantamount to a de- 
 claration on her part, that it was her pleasure to 
 receive love-letters from Mr. Slope. He almost 
 entirely overlooked the real subject-matter of 
 the epistle ; so intent was he on the forthcoming 
 courtship and marriage. 
 
 " I'll thank you to give it me back, if you 
 please, Dr. Grantly." 
 
 He took it in his hand and held it up, but 
 made no immediate overture to return it. 
 " And Mr. Harding has seen this ? " said he. 
 
 " Of course he has," said she ; " it was 
 written that he might see it. It refers solely 
 to his business of course I showed it to 
 him." 
 
 " And, Eleanor, do you think that that is a 
 proper letter for you for a person in your 
 condition to receive from Mr. Slope ? " 
 
 " Quite a proper letter," said she, speaking,
 
 398 Barchester Towers 
 
 perhaps, a little out of obstinacy ; probably 
 forgetting at the moment the objectionable 
 mention of her silken curls. 
 
 " Then, Eleanor, it is my duty to tell you 
 that I wholly differ from you." 
 
 " So I suppose," said she, instigated now by 
 sheer opposition and determination not to 
 succumb. " You think Mr. Slope is a mes- 
 senger direct from Satan. I think he is an 
 industrious, well meaning clergyman. It's a 
 pity that we differ as we do. But, as we do 
 differ, we had probably better not talk about it." 
 
 Here Eleanor undoubtedly put herself in the 
 wrong. She might probably have refused to 
 talk to Dr. Grantly on the matter in dispute 
 without any impropriety ; but having consented 
 to listen to him, she had no business to tell 
 him that he regarded Mr. Slope as an emissary 
 from the evil one; nor was she justified in 
 praising Mr. Slope, seeing that in her heart of 
 hearts she did not think well of him. She was, 
 however, wounded in spirit, and angry and 
 bitter. She had been subjected to contumely 
 and cross-questioning and ill-usage through the 
 whole evening. No one, not even Mr. Arabin, 
 not even her father, had been kind to her. 
 All this she attributed to the prejudice and 
 conceit of the archdeacon, and therefore she 
 resolved to set no bounds to her antagonism to 
 him. She would neither give nor take quarter. 
 He had greatly presumed in daring to question 
 her about her correspondence, and she was 
 determined to show that she thought so. 
 
 " Eleanor, you are forgetting yourself," said 
 he, looking very sternly at her. " Otherwise
 
 A Serious Interview 399 
 
 you would never tell me that I conceive any 
 man to be a messenger from Satan." 
 
 " But you do," said she. " Nothing is too 
 bad for him. Give me that letter, if you 
 please ; " and she stretched out her hand and 
 took it from him. "He has been doing his 
 best to serve papa, doing more than any of 
 papa's friends could do ; and yet, because he 
 is the chaplain of a bishop whom you don't 
 like, you speak of him as though he had no 
 right to the usage of a gentleman." 
 
 " He has done nothing for yoxir father." 
 
 " I believe that he has done a great deal ; 
 and, as far as I am concerned, I am grateful 
 to him. Nothing that you can say can prevent 
 my being so. I judge people by their acts, 
 and his, as far as I can see them, are good." 
 She then paused for a moment. " If you have 
 nothing further to say, I shall be obliged by being 
 permitted to say good night I am very tired." 
 
 Dr. Grantly had, as he thought, done his best 
 to be gracious to his sister-in-law. He had 
 endeavoured not to be harsh to her, and had 
 striven to pluck the sting from his rebuke. 
 But he did not intend that she should leave 
 him without hearing him. 
 
 " I have something to say, Eleanor ; and I 
 fear I must trouble you to hear it. You profess 
 that it is quite proper that you should receive 
 from Mr. Slope such letters as that you have in 
 your hand. Susan and I think very differently. 
 You are, of course, your own mistress, and 
 much as we both must grieve should anything 
 separate you from us, we have no power to 
 prevent you from taking steps which may lead
 
 400 Barchester Towers 
 
 to such a separation. If you are so wilful as 
 to reject the counsel of your friends, you must 
 be allowed to cater for yourself. But Eleanor, 
 I may at any rate ask you this. Is it worth 
 your while to break away from all those you 
 have loved from all who love you for the 
 sake of Mr. Slope?" 
 
 " I don't know what you mean, Dr. Grantly ; 
 I don't know what you're talking about. I 
 don't want to break away from anybody." 
 
 " But you will do so if you connect yourself 
 with Mr. Slope. Eleanor, I must speak out to 
 you. You must choose between your sister 
 and myself and our friends, and Mr. Slope and 
 his friends. I say nothing of your father, as 
 you may probably understand his feelings better 
 than I do." 
 
 "What do you mean, Dr. Grantly? What 
 am I to understand? I never heard such 
 wicked prejudice in my life." 
 
 " It is no prejudice, Eleanor. I have known 
 the world longer than you have done. Mr. 
 Slope is altogether beneath you. You ought 
 to know and feel that he is so. Pray pray 
 think of this before it is too late." 
 
 " Too late ! " 
 
 " Or if you will not believe me, ask Susan ; 
 you cannot think she is prejudiced against you. 
 Or even consult your father, he is not prejudiced 
 against you. Ask Mr. Arabin " 
 
 "You haven't spoken to Mr. Arabin about 
 this !" said she, jumping up and standing before 
 him. 
 
 " Eleanor, all the world in and about Bar- 
 Chester will be speaking of it soon."
 
 A Serious Interview 401 
 
 " But have you spoken to Mr. Arabin about 
 me and Mr. Slope ? " 
 
 " Certainly I have, and he quite agrees with 
 me." 
 
 " Agrees with what ? " said she. " I think 
 you are trying to drive me mad." 
 
 " He agrees with me and Susan that it is 
 quite impossible you should be received at 
 Plumstead as Mrs. Slope." 
 
 Not being favourites with the tragic muse we 
 do not dare to attempt any description of 
 Eleanor's face when she first heard the name of 
 Mrs. Slope pronounced as that which would or 
 should or might at some time appertain to 
 herself. The look, such as it was, Dr. Grantly 
 did not soon forget. For a moment or two she 
 could find no words to express her deep anger 
 and deep disgust ; and, indeed, at this con- 
 juncture, words did not come to her very 
 freely. 
 
 " How dare you be so impertinent ? " at last 
 she said ; and then hurried out of the room, 
 without giving the archdeacon the opportunity 
 of uttering another word. It was with difficulty 
 she contained herself till she reached her own 
 room ; and then locking the door, she threw 
 herself on her bed and sobbed as though her 
 heart would break. 
 
 But even yet she had no conception of the 
 truth. She had no idea that her father and her 
 sister had for days past conceived in sober 
 earnest the idea that she was going to marry 
 this man. She did not even then believe that 
 the archdeacon thought that she would do so. 
 By some manoeuvre of her brain, she attributed
 
 402 Barchester Towers 
 
 the origin of the accusation to Mr. Arabin, and 
 as she did so her anger against him was exces- 
 sive, and the vexation of her spirit almost un- 
 endurable. She could not bring herself to 
 think that the charge was made seriously. It 
 appeared to her most probable that the arch- 
 deacon and Mr. Arabin had talked over her 
 objectionable acquaintance with Mr. Slope; 
 that Mr. Arabin, in his jeering, sarcastic way, 
 had suggested the odious match as being the 
 severest way of treating with contumely her 
 acquaintance with his enemy; and that the 
 archdeacon, taking the idea from him, thought 
 proper to punish her by the allusion. The 
 whole night she lay awake thinking of what had 
 been said, and this appeared to" be the most 
 probable solution. 
 
 But the reflection that Mr. Arabin should 
 have in any way mentioned her name in con- 
 nection with that of Mr. Slope was overpower- 
 ing; and the spiteful ill-nature of the arch- 
 deacon, in repeating the charge to her, made 
 her wish to leave his house almost before the 
 day had broken. One thing was certain : 
 nothing should make her stay there beyond the 
 following morning, and nothing should make 
 her sit down to breakfast in company with Dr. 
 Grantly. When she thought of the man whose 
 name had been linked with her own, she cried 
 from sheer disgust. It was only because she 
 would be thus disgusted, thus pained and 
 shocked and cut to the quick, that the arch- 
 deacon had spoken the horrid word. He 
 wanted to make her quarrel with Mr. Slope, 
 and therefore he had outraged her by his
 
 A Serious Interview 403 
 
 abominable vulgarity. She determined that at 
 any rate he should know that she appreciated it. 
 
 Nor was the archdeacon a bit better satisfied 
 with the result of his serious interview than was 
 Eleanor. He gathered from it, as indeed he 
 could hardly fail to do, that she was very angry 
 with him; but he thought that she was thus 
 angry, not because she was suspected of an 
 intention to marry Mr. Slope, but because such 
 an intention was imputed to her as a crime. 
 Dr. Grantly regarded this supposed union with 
 disgust; but it never occurred to him that 
 Eleanor was outraged, because she looked at it 
 exactly in the same light. 
 
 He returned to his wife vexed and somewhat 
 disconsolate, but, nevertheless, confirmed in his 
 wrath against his sister-in-law. " Her whole 
 behaviour," said he, " has been most objection- 
 able. She handed me his love letter to read as 
 though she were proud of it. And she is proud 
 of it. She is proud of having this slavering, 
 greedy man at her feet. She will throw herself 
 and John Bold's money into his lap; she will 
 ruin her boy, disgrace her father and you, and 
 be a wretched miserable woman." 
 
 His spouse, who was sitting at her toilet table, 
 continued her avocations, making no answer to 
 all this. She had known that the archdeacon 
 would gain nothing by interfering ; but she was 
 too charitable to provoke him by saying so 
 while he was in such deep sorrow. 
 
 " This comes of a man making such a will as 
 that of Bold's," he continued. " Eleanor is no 
 more fitted to be trusted with such an amount 
 of money in her own hands than is a charity-
 
 404 Barchester Towers 
 
 school girl." Still Mrs. Grantly made no reply. 
 " But I have done my duty ; I can do nothing 
 further. I have told her plainly that she cannot 
 be allowed to form a link of connection between 
 me and that man. From henceforward it will 
 not be in my power to make her welcome at 
 Plumstead. I cannot have Mr. Slope's love 
 letters coming here. Susan, I think you had 
 better let her understand that as her mind on 
 this subject seems to be irrevocably fixed, it will 
 be better for all parties that she should return 
 to Barchester." 
 
 Now Mrs. Grantly was angry with Eleanor, 
 nearly as angry as her husband ; but she had no 
 idea of turning her sister out of the house. She, 
 therefore, at length spoke out, and explained 
 to the archdeacon, in her own mild seducing 
 way, that he was fuming and fussing and fretting 
 himself very unnecessarily. She declared that 
 things, if left alone, would arrange themselves 
 much better than he could arrange them ; and 
 at last succeeded in inducing him to go to bed 
 in a somewhat less inhospitable state of mind. 
 
 On the following morning Eleanor's maid was 
 commissioned to send word into the dining-room 
 that her mistress was not well enough to attend 
 prayers, and that she would breakfast in her own 
 room. Here she was visited by her father and 
 declared to him her intention of returning imme- 
 diately to Barchester. He was hardly surprised 
 by the announcement. All the household seemed 
 to be aware that something had gone wrong. 
 Every one walked about with subdued feet, and 
 people's shoes seemed to creak more than usual. 
 There was a look of conscious intelligence on
 
 A Serious Interview 405 
 
 the faces of the women : and the men attempted, 
 but in vain, to converse as though nothing were 
 the matter. All this had weighed heavily on the 
 heart of Mr. Harding ; and when Eleanor told 
 him that her immediate return to Barchester was 
 a necessity, he merely sighed piteously, and said 
 that he would be ready to accompany her. 
 
 But here she objected strenuously. She had 
 a great wish, she said, to go alone ; a great 
 desire that it might be seen that her father was 
 not implicated in her quarrel with Dr. Grantly. 
 To this at last he gave way ; but not a word 
 passed between them about Mr. Slope not a 
 word was said, not a question asked as to the 
 serious interview on the preceding evening. 
 There was, indeed, very little confidence be- 
 tween them, though neither of them knew why 
 it should be so. Eleanor once asked him 
 whether he would not call upon the bishop ; 
 but he answered rather tartly that he did not 
 know he did not think he should, but he 
 could not say just at present. And so they 
 parted. Each was miserably anxious for some 
 show of affection, for some return of confidence, 
 for some sign of the feeling that usually bound 
 them together. But none was given. The 
 father could not bring himself to question his 
 daughter about her supposed lover; and the 
 daughter would not sully her mouth by repeat- 
 ing the odious word with which Dr. Grantly 
 had roused her wrath. And so they parted. 
 
 There was some trouble in arranging the 
 method of Eleanor's return. She begged her 
 father to send for a postchaise ; but when Mrs. 
 Grantly heard of this, she objected strongly.
 
 406 Barchester Towers 
 
 If Eleanor would go away in dudgeon with the 
 archdeacon, why should she let all the servants 
 and all the neighbourhood know that she had 
 done so? So at last Eleanor consented to 
 make use of the Plumstead carriage; and as 
 the archdeacon had gone out immediately after 
 breakfast and was not to return till dinner-time, 
 she also consented to postpone her journey till 
 after lunch, and to join the family at that time. 
 As to the subject of the quarrel not a word was 
 said by any one. The affair of the carriage was 
 arranged by Mr. Harding, who acted as Mercury 
 between the two ladies; they, when they met, 
 kissed each other very lovingly, and then sat 
 down each to her crochet work as though 
 nothing was amiss in all the world. 
 
 ANOTHER LOVE SCENE 
 
 BUT there was another visitor at the rectory 
 whose feelings in this unfortunate matter must 
 be somewhat strictly analysed. Mr. Arabin 
 had heard from his friend of the probability of 
 Eleanor's marriage with Mr. Slope with amaze- 
 ment, but not with incredulity. It has been 
 said that he was not in love with Eleanor, 
 and up to this period this certainly had 
 been true. But as soon as he heard that she 
 loved some one else, he began to be very fond
 
 Another Love Scene 407 
 
 of her himself. He did not make up his mind 
 that he wished to have her for his wife ; he had 
 never thought of her, and did not now think of 
 her, in connection with himself; but he expe- 
 rienced an inward indefinable feeling of deep 
 regret, a gnawing sorrow, an unconquerable 
 depression of spirits, and also a species of self- 
 abasement that he he, Mr. Arabin had not 
 done something to prevent that other he, that 
 vile he, whom he so thoroughly despised, 
 from carrying off this sweet prize. 
 
 Whatever man may have reached the age of 
 forty unmarried without knowing something of 
 such feelings must have been very successful or 
 else very cold-hearted. 
 
 Mr. Arabin had never thought of trimming 
 the sails of his bark so that he might sail as 
 convoy to this rich argosy. He had seen that 
 Mrs. Bold was beautiful, but he had not dreamt of 
 making her beauty his own. He knew that Mrs. 
 Bold was rich, but he had had no more idea of 
 appropriating her wealth than that of Dr. Grantly. 
 He had discovered that Mrs. Bold was intelligent, 
 warm-hearted, agreeable, sensible, all, in fact, 
 that a man could wish his wife to be ; but the 
 higher were her attractions, the greater her claims 
 to consideration, the less had he imagined that 
 he might possibly become the possessor of them. 
 Such had been his instinct rather than his 
 thoughts, so humble and so diffident. Now his 
 diffidence was to be rewarded by his seeing this 
 woman, whose beauty was to his eyes perfect, 
 whose wealth was such as to have deterred him 
 from thinking of her, whose widowhood would 
 have silenced him had he not been so deterred,
 
 408 Barchester Towers 
 
 by his seeing her become the prey of 
 
 Obadiah Slope ! 
 
 On the morning of Mrs. Bold's departure he 
 got on his horse to ride over to St. Ewold's. As 
 he rode he kept muttering to himself a line from 
 Van Artevelde, 
 
 " How little flattering is woman's love." 
 
 And then he strove to recall his mind and to 
 think of other affairs, his parish, his college, his 
 creed but his thoughts would revert to Mr. 
 Slope and the Flemish chieftain. 
 
 " When we think upon it, 
 How little flattering is woman's love, 
 Given commonly to whosoe'er is nearest 
 And propped with most advantage." 
 
 It was not that Mrs. Bold should marry any one 
 but him ; he had not put himself forward as a 
 suitor ; but that she should marry Mr. Slope 
 and so he repeated over again 
 
 " Outward grace 
 
 Nor inward light is needful day by day 
 Men wanting both are mated with the best 
 And loftiest of God's feminine creation, 
 Whose love takes no distinction but of gender, 
 And ridicules the very name of choice." 
 
 And so he went on, troubled much in his 
 mind. 
 
 He had but an uneasy ride of it that morn- 
 ing, and little good did he do at St. Ewold's. 
 
 The necessary alterations in his house were 
 being fast completed, and he walked through 
 the rooms, and went up and down the stairs, 
 and rambled through the garden ; but he could
 
 Another Love Scene 409 
 
 not wake himself to much interest about them. 
 He stood still at every window to look out 
 and think upon Mr. Slope. At almost every 
 window he had before stood and chatted with 
 Eleanor. She and Mrs. Grantly had been 
 there continually, and while Mrs. Grantly had 
 been giving orders, and seeing that orders had 
 been complied with, he and Eleanor had con- 
 versed on all things appertaining to a clergy- 
 man's profession. He thought how often he 
 had laid down the law to her, and how sweetly 
 she had borne with his somewhat dictatorial 
 decrees. He remembered her listening intel- 
 ligence, her gentle but quick replies, her interest 
 in all that concerned the church, in all that 
 concerned him ; and then he struck his riding 
 whip against the window sill, and declared to 
 himself that it was impossible that Eleanor Bold 
 should marry Mr. Slope. 
 
 And yet he did not really believe, as he 
 should have done, that it was impossible. He 
 should have known her well enough to feel that 
 it was truly impossible. He should have been 
 aware that Eleanor had that within her which 
 would surely protect her from such degradation. 
 But he, like so many others, was deficient in 
 confidence in woman. He said to himself over 
 and over again that it was impossible that 
 Eleanor Bold should become Mrs. Slope, and 
 yet he believed that she would do so. And 
 so he rambled about, and could do and think 
 of nothing. He was thoroughly uncomfortable, 
 thoroughly ill at ease, cross with himself, and 
 every body else, and feeding in his heart on 
 animosity towards Mr. Slope. This was not
 
 4i o Barchester Towers 
 
 as it should be, as he knew and felt; but he 
 could not help himself. In truth Mr. Arabin 
 was now in love with Mrs. Bold, though ignorant 
 of the fact himself. He was in love, and, though 
 forty years old, was in love without being aware 
 of it. He fumed and fretted, and did not know 
 what was the matter, as a youth might do at 
 one-and-twenty. And so having done no good 
 at St Ewold's, he rode back much earlier than 
 was usual with him, instigated by some inward 
 unacknowledged hope that he might see Mrs. 
 Bold before she left. 
 
 Eleanor had not passed a pleasant morning. 
 She was irritated with every one, and not least 
 with herself. She felt that she had been hardly 
 used, but she felt also that she had not played 
 her own cards well. She should have held 
 herself so far above suspicion as to have re- 
 ceived her sister's innuendoes and the arch- 
 deacon's lecture with indifference. She had 
 not done this, but had shown herself angry and 
 sore, and was now ashamed of her own petulance, 
 and yet unable to discontinue it. 
 
 The greater part of the morning she had 
 spent alone ; but after a while her father joined 
 her. He had fully made up his mind that, 
 come what come might, nothing should separate 
 him from his younger daughter. It was a hard 
 task for him to reconcile himself to the idea 
 of seeing her at the head of Mr. Slope's table ; 
 but he got through it. Mr. Slope, as he argued 
 to himself, was a respectable man and a clergy- 
 man ; and he, as Eleanor's father, had no right 
 even to endeavour to prevent her from marrying 
 such a one. He longed to tell her how he had
 
 Another Love Scene 411 
 
 determined to prefer her to all the world, how 
 he was prepared to admit that she was not 
 wrong, how thoroughly he differed from Dr. 
 Grantly ; but he could not bring himself to 
 mention Mr. Slope's name. There was yet a 
 chance that they were all wrong in their sur- 
 mise ! and, being thus in doubt, he could not 
 bring himself to speak openly to her on the 
 subject. 
 
 He was sitting with her in the drawing-room, 
 with his arm round her waist, saying every now 
 and then some little soft words of affection, and 
 working hard with his imaginary fiddle-bow, 
 when Mr. Arabin entered the room. He 
 immediately got up, and the two made some 
 trite remarks to each other, neither thinking 
 of what he was saying, while Eleanor kept 
 her seat on the sofa mute and moody. Mr. 
 Arabin was included in the list of those against 
 whom her anger was excited. He, too, had 
 dared to talk about her acquaintance with Mr. 
 Slope; he, too, had dared to blame her for 
 not making an enemy of his enemy. She had 
 not intended to see him before her departure, 
 and was now but little inclined to be gracious. 
 
 There was a feeling through the whole house 
 that something was wrong. Mr. Arabin, when 
 he saw Eleanor, could not succeed in looking 
 or in speaking as though he knew nothing of 
 all this. He could not be cheerful and positive 
 and contradictory with her, as was his wont. 
 He had not been two minutes in the room 
 before he felt that he had done wrong to 
 return ; and the moment he heard her voice, 
 he thoroughly wished himself back at St.
 
 412 Barchester Towers 
 
 Ewold's. Why, indeed, should he have wished 
 to have aught further to say to the future wife 
 of Mr. Slope ? 
 
 " I am sorry to hear that you are to leave us 
 so soon," said he, striving in vain to- use his 
 ordinary voice. In answer to this she muttered 
 something about the necessity of her being in 
 Barchester, and betook herself most industri- 
 ously to her crochet work. 
 
 Then there was a little more trite conversa- 
 tion between Mr. Arabin and Mr. Harding ; 
 trite, and hard, and vapid, and senseless. 
 Neither of them had anything to say to the 
 other, and yet neither at such a moment liked 
 to remain silent. At last Mr. Harding, taking 
 advantage of a pause, escaped out of the room, 
 and Eleanor and Mr. Arabin were left together. 
 
 " Your going will be a great break-up to our 
 party," said he. 
 
 She again muttered something which was all 
 but inaudible; but kept her eyes fixed upon 
 her work. 
 
 " We have had a very pleasant month here," 
 said he ; " at least I have ; and I am sorry it 
 should be so soon over." 
 
 " I have already been from home longer than 
 I intended," said she; "and it is time that I 
 should return." 
 
 " Well, pleasant hours and pleasant days 
 must come to an end. It is a pity that so few 
 of them are pleasant ; or perhaps, rather " 
 
 " It is a pity, certainly, that men and women 
 do so much to destroy the pleasantness of their 
 days," said she, interrupting him. " It is a pity 
 that there should be so little charity abroad."
 
 Another Love Scene 413 
 
 " Charity should begin at home," said he ; 
 and he was proceeding to explain that he as 
 a clergyman could not be what she would call 
 charitable at the expense of those principles 
 which he considered it his duty to teach, when 
 he remembered that it would be worse than 
 vain to argue on such a matter with the future 
 wife of Mr. Slope. " But you are just leaving 
 us," he continued, " and I will not weary your 
 last hour with another lecture. As it is, I fear 
 I have given you too many." 
 
 " You should practise as well as preach, Mr. 
 Arabin ! " 
 
 " Undoubtedly I should. So should we all. 
 All of us who presume to teach are bound to 
 do our utmost towards fulfilling our own lessons. 
 I thoroughly allow my deficiency in doing so : 
 but I do not quite know now to what you 
 allude. Have you any special reason for 
 telling me now that I should practice as well 
 as preach ? " 
 
 Eleanor made no answer. She longed to let 
 him know the cause of her anger, to upbraid him 
 for speaking of her disrespectfully, and then at 
 last to forgive him, and so part friends. She 
 felt that she would be unhappy to leave him in 
 her present frame of mind ; but yet she could 
 hardly bring herself to speak to him of Mr. 
 Slope. And how could she allude to the 
 innuendo thrown out by the archdeacon, and 
 thrown out, as she believed, at the instigation 
 of Mr. Arabin ? She wanted to make him 
 know that he was wrong, to make him aware 
 that he had ill-treated her, in order that the 
 sweetness of her forgiveness might be enhanced.
 
 414 Barchester Towers 
 
 She felt that she liked him too well to be con- 
 tented to part with him in displeasure ; and 
 yet she could not get over her deep displeasure 
 without some explanation, some acknowledg- 
 ment on his part, some assurance that he 
 would never again so sin against her. 
 
 " Why do you tell me that I should practise 
 what I preach ? " continued he. 
 . " All men should do so." 
 
 " Certainly. That is as it were understood 
 and acknowledged. But you do not say so to 
 all men, or to all clergymen. The advice, good 
 as it is, is not given except in allusion to some 
 special deficiency. If you will tell me my 
 special deficiency, I will endeavour to profit 
 by the advice." 
 
 She paused for a while, and then, looking full 
 in his face, she said, " You are not bold enough, 
 Mr. Arabin, to speak out to me openly and 
 plainly, and yet you expect me, a woman, to 
 speak openly to you. Why did you speak 
 calumny of me to Dr. Grantly behind my 
 back ? " 
 
 " Calumny ! " said he, and his whole face 
 became suffused with blood ; " what calumny ? 
 If I have spoken calumny of you, I will beg 
 your pardon, and his to whom I spoke it, and 
 God's pardon also. But what calumny have I 
 spoken of you to Dr. Grantly ? " 
 
 She also blushed deeply. She could not 
 bring herself to ask him whether he had not 
 spoken of her as another man's wife. "You 
 know that best yourself," said she ; " but I ask 
 you as a man of honour, if you have not spoken 
 of me as you would not have spoken of your
 
 Another Love Scene 415 
 
 own sister; or rather I will not ask you," she 
 continued, finding that he did not immediately 
 answer her. " I will not put you to the 
 necessity of answering such a question. Dr. 
 Grantly has told me what you said." 
 
 " Dr. Grantly certainly asked me for my 
 advice, and I gave it. He asked me ." 
 
 " I know he did, Mr. Arabin. He asked 
 you whether he would be doing right to receive 
 me at Plumstead, if I continued my acquaint- 
 ance with a gentleman who happens to be 
 personally disagreeable to yourself and to him ? " 
 
 " You are mistaken, Mrs. Bold. I have no 
 personal knowledge of Mr. Slope; I never 
 met him in my life." 
 
 " You are not the less individually hostile to 
 him. It is not for me to question the propriety 
 of your enmity; but I had a right to expect 
 that my name should not have been mixed up 
 in your hostilities. This has been done, and 
 been done by you in a manner the most in- 
 jurious and the most distressing to me as a 
 woman. I must confess, Mr. Arabin, that 
 from you I expected a different sort of usage." 
 
 As she spoke she with difficulty restrained 
 her tears ; but she did restrain them. Had 
 she given way and sobbed aloud, as in such 
 cases a woman should do, he would have 
 melted at once, implored her pardon, perhaps 
 knelt at her feet and declared his love. Every- 
 thing would have been explained, and Eleanor 
 would have gone back to Barchester with a 
 contented mind. How easily would she have 
 forgiven and forgotten the archdeacon's sus- 
 picions had she but heard the whole truth from
 
 4i 6 Barchester Towers 
 
 Mr. Arabin. But then where would have been 
 my novel ? She did not cry, and Mr. Arabin 
 did not melt. 
 
 " You do me an injustice," said he. " My 
 advice was asked by Dr. Grantly, and I was 
 obliged to give it." 
 
 " Dr. Grantly has been most officious, most 
 impertinent. I have as complete a right to 
 form my acquaintance as he has to form his. 
 AVhat would you have said, had I consulted you 
 as to the propriety of my banishing Dr. Grantly 
 from my house because he knows Lord Tatten- 
 ham Corner? I am sure Lord Tattenham is 
 quite as objectionable an acquaintance for a 
 clergyman as Mr. Slope is for a clergyman's 
 daughter." 
 
 " I do not know Lord Tattenham Corner." 
 
 " No ; but Dr. Grantly does. It is nothing 
 to me if he knows all the young lords on every 
 racecourse in England. I shall not interfere 
 with him ; nor shall he with me." 
 
 " I am sorry to differ with you, Mrs. Bold ; 
 but as you have spoken to me on this matter, 
 and especially as you blame me for what little 
 I said on the subject, I must tell you that I do 
 differ from you. Dr. Grantly's position as a 
 man in the world gives him a right to choose 
 his own acquaintances, subject to certain in- 
 fluences. If he chooses them badly, those 
 influences will be used. If he consorts with 
 persons unsuitable to him, his bishop will 
 interfere. What the bishop is to Dr. Grantly, 
 Dr. Grantly is to you." 
 
 " I deny it. I utterly deny it," said Eleanor, 
 jumping from her seat, and literally flashing
 
 Another Love Scene 417 
 
 before Mr. Arabin, as she stood on the drawing- 
 room floor. He had never seen her so excited, 
 he had never seen her look half so beautiful. 
 
 " I utterly deny it," said she. " Dr. Grantly 
 has no sort of jurisdiction over me whatsoever. 
 Do you and he forget that I am not altogether 
 alone in the world ? Do you forget that I have 
 a father? Dr. Grantly, I believe, always has 
 forgotten it." 
 
 " From you, Mr. Arabin," she continued, " I 
 would have listened to advice, because I should 
 have expected it to have been given as one 
 friend may advise another ; not as a school- 
 master gives an order to a pupil. I might have 
 differed from you ; on this matter I should have 
 done so ; but had you spoken to me in your 
 usual manner and with your usual freedom I 
 
 should not have been angry. But now was 
 
 it manly of you, Mr. Arabin, to speak of me in 
 this way , so disrespectful so ? I can- 
 not bring myself to repeat what you said. You 
 must understand what I feel. Was it just of 
 you to speak of me in such a way, and to advise 
 my sister's husband to turn me out of my sister's 
 house, because I chose to know a man of 
 whose doctrine you disapprove ? " 
 
 " I have no alternative left to me, Mrs. 
 Bold," said he, standing with his back to the 
 fire-place, looking down intently at the carpet 
 pattern, and speaking with a slow measured 
 voice, "but to tell you plainly what did take 
 place between me and Dr. Grantly." 
 
 " Well," said she, finding that he paused for 
 a moment. 
 
 "I am afraid that what I may say may pain you."
 
 41 8 Barchester Towers 
 
 " It cannot well do so more than what you 
 have already done," said she. 
 
 " Dr. Grantly asked me whether I thought it 
 would be prudent for him to receive you in his 
 house as the wife of Mr. Slope, and I told 
 him that I thought it would be imprudent. 
 Believing it to be utterly impossible that Mr. 
 Slope and " 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Arabin, that is sufficient. 
 I do not want to know your reasons," said she, 
 speaking with a terribly calm voice. " I have 
 shown to this gentleman the common-place 
 civility of a neighbour; and because I have 
 done so, because I have not indulged against 
 him in all the rancour and hatred which you 
 and Dr. Grantly consider due to all clergymen 
 who do not agree with yourselves, you conclude 
 that I am to marry him ; or rather you do not 
 conclude so no rational man could really come 
 to such an outrageous conclusion without better 
 ground; you have not thought so but, as I 
 am in a position in which such an accusation must 
 be peculiarly painful, it is made in order that I 
 may be terrified into hostility against this enemy 
 of yours." 
 
 As she finished speaking, she walked to the 
 drawing-room window and stepped out into the 
 garden. Mr. Arabin was left in the room, still 
 occupied in counting the pattern on the carpet 
 He had, however, distinctly heard and accurately 
 marked every word that she had spoken. Was 
 it not clear from what she had said, that the 
 archdeacon had been wrong in imputing to her 
 any attachment to Mr. Slope ? Was it not clear 
 that Eleanor was still free to make another
 
 Another Love Scene 419 
 
 choice? It may seem strange that he should 
 for a moment have had a doubt; and yet he 
 did doubt. She had not absolutely denied the 
 charge ; she had not expressly said that it was 
 untrue. Mr. Arabin understood little of the 
 nature of a woman's feelings, or he would have 
 known how improbable it was that she should 
 make any clearer declaration than she had done. 
 Few men do understand the nature of a woman's 
 heart, till years have robbed such understanding 
 of its value. And it is well that it should be so, 
 or men would triumph too easily. 
 
 Mr. Arabin stood counting the carpet, un- 
 happy, wretchedly unhappy, at the hard words 
 that had been spoken to him; and yet happy, 
 exquisitely happy, as he thought that after all 
 the woman whom he so regarded was not to 
 become the wife of the man whom he so much 
 disliked. As he stood there he began to be 
 aware that he was himself in love. Forty years 
 had passed over his head, and as yet woman's 
 beauty had never given him an uneasy hour. 
 His present hour was very uneasy. 
 
 Not that he remained there for half or a 
 quarter of that time. In spite of what Eleanor 
 had said, Mr. Arabin was, in truth, a manly man. 
 Having ascertained that he loved this woman, 
 and having now reason to believe that she was 
 free to receive his love, at least if she pleased to 
 do so, he followed her into the garden to make 
 such wooing as he could. 
 
 He was not long in finding her. She was 
 walking to and fro beneath the avenue of elms 
 that stood in the archdeacon's grounds, skirting 
 the churchyard. What had passed between her
 
 420 Barchester Towers 
 
 and Mr. Arabin, had not, alas, tended to lessen 
 the acerbity of her spirit. She was very angry ; 
 more angry with him than with any one. How 
 could he have so misunderstood her ? She had 
 been so intimate with him, had allowed him 
 such latitude in what he had chosen to say to 
 her, had complied with his ideas, cherished his 
 views, fostered his precepts, cared for his 
 comforts, made much of him in every way in 
 which a pretty woman can make much of an 
 unmarried man without committing herself or 
 her feelings ! She had been doing this, and 
 while she had been doing it he had regarded 
 her as the affianced wife of another man. 
 
 As she passed along the avenue, every now 
 and then an unbidden tear would force itself 
 on her cheek, and as she raised her hand to 
 brush it away she stamped with her little foot 
 upon the sward with very spite to think that she 
 had been so treated. 
 
 Mr. Arabin was very near to her when she 
 first saw him, and she turned short round and 
 retraced her steps down the avenue, trying to 
 rid her cheeks of all trace of the tell-tale tears. 
 It was a needless endeavour, for Mr. Arabin 
 was in a state of mind that hardly allowed him 
 to observe such trifles. He followed her down 
 the walk, and overtook her just as she reached 
 the end of it. 
 
 He had not considered how he would address 
 her ; he had not thought what he would say. He 
 had only felt that it was wretchedness to him to 
 quarrel with her, and that it would be happiness 
 to be allowed to love her. And yet he could 
 not lower himself by asking her pardon. He
 
 Another Love Scene 421 
 
 had done her no wrong. He had not calumni- 
 ated her, not injured her, as she had accused him 
 of doing. He could not confess sins of which 
 he had not been guilty. He could only let the 
 past be past, and ask her as to her and his hopes 
 for the future. 
 
 " I hope we are not to part as enemies ? " 
 said he. 
 
 " There shall be no enmity on my part," said 
 Eleanor ; " I endeavour to avoid all enmities. 
 It would be a hollow pretence were I to say that 
 there can be true friendship between us after 
 what has just passed. People cannot make their 
 friends of those whom they despise." 
 
 " And am I despised ? " 
 
 " / must have been so before you could have 
 spoken of me as you did. And I was deceived, 
 cruelly deceived. I believed that you thought 
 well of me ; I believed that you esteemed me." 
 
 " Thought well of you and esteemed you ! " 
 said he. " In justifying myself before you, I 
 must use stronger words than those." He paused 
 for a moment, and Eleanor's heart beat with 
 painful violence within her bosom as she waited 
 for him to go on. " I have esteemed, do esteem 
 you, as I never yet esteemed any woman. Think 
 well of you ! I never thought to think so well, 
 so much of any human creature. Speak calumny 
 of you ! Insult you ! Wilfully injure you ! I 
 wish it were my privilege to shield you from 
 calumny, insult, and injury. Calumny ! ah, me. 
 'Twere almost better that it were so. Better 
 than to worship with a sinful worship ; sinful 
 and vain also." And then he walked along 
 beside her, with his hands clasped behind his
 
 422 Barchester Towers 
 
 back, looking down on the grass beneath his 
 feet, and utterly at a loss how to express 
 his meaning. And Eleanor walked beside him 
 determined at least to give him no assistance. 
 
 " Ah me ! " he uttered at last, speaking rather 
 to himself than to her. " Ah me ! these Plum- 
 stead walks were pleasant enough, if one could 
 have but heart's ease ; but without that the dull 
 dead stones of Oxford were far preferable ; and 
 St. Ewold's too ; Mrs. Bold, I am beginning to 
 think that I mistook myself when I came hither. 
 A Romish priest now would have escaped all 
 this. Oh, Father of heaven ! how good for us 
 would it be, if thou couldest vouchsafe to us a 
 certain rule." 
 
 " And have we not a certain rule, Mr. Arabin ? " 
 
 " Yes yes, surely ; ' Lead us not into temp- 
 tation but deliver us from evil.' But what is 
 temptation ? what is evil ? Is this evil, is this 
 temptation ? " 
 
 Poor Mr. Arabin ! It would not come out of 
 him, that deep true love of his. He could not 
 bring himself to utter it in plain language that 
 would require and demand an answer. He 
 knew not how to say to the woman by his side, 
 " Since the fact is that you do not love that 
 other man, that you are not to be his wife, can 
 you love me, will you be my wife ? " These 
 were the words which were in his heart, but with 
 all his sighs he could not draw them to his lips. 
 He would have given anything, everything for 
 power to ask this simple question ; but glib as 
 was his tongue in pulpits and on platforms, now 
 he could not find a word wherewith to express 
 the plain wish of his heart.
 
 Another Love Scene 423 
 
 And yet Eleanor understood him as thoroughly 
 as though he had declared his passion with all 
 the elegant fluency of a practised Lothario. 
 With a woman's instinct she followed every bend 
 of his mind, as he spoke of the pleasantness of 
 Plumstead and the stones of Oxford, as he 
 alluded to the safety of the Romish priest and 
 the hidden perils of temptation. She knew that 
 it all meant love. She knew that this man at 
 her side, this accomplished scholar, this practised 
 orator, this great polemical combatant, was 
 striving and striving in vain to tell her that his 
 heart was no longer his own. 
 
 She knew this, and felt a sort of joy in know- 
 ing it ; and yet she would not come to his aid. 
 He had offended her deeply, had treated her 
 unworthily, the more unworthily seeing that he 
 had learnt to love her, and Eleanor could not 
 bring herself to abandon her revenge. She did 
 not ask herself whether or no she would ulti- 
 mately accept his love. She did not even acknow- 
 ledge to herself that she now perceived it with 
 pleasure. At the present moment it did not 
 touch her heart; it merely appeased her pride 
 and flattered her vanity. Mr. Arabin had dared, 
 to associate her name with that of Mr. Slope, 
 and now her spirit was soothed by finding that 
 he would fain associate it with his own. And so 
 she walked on beside him inhaling incense, but 
 giving out no sweetness in return. 
 
 " Answer me this," said Mr. Arabin, stopping 
 suddenly in his walk, and stepping forward so 
 that he faced his companion. " Answer me this 
 one question. You do not love Mr. Slope? 
 you do not intend to be his wife ? "
 
 424 Barchester Towers 
 
 Mr. Arabia certainly did not go the right way 
 to win such a woman as Eleanor Bold. Just as 
 her wrath was evaporating, as it was disappearing 
 before the true warmth of his untold love, he re- 
 kindled it by a most useless repetition of his 
 original sin. Had he known what he was about 
 he should never have mentioned Mr. Slope's 
 name before Eleanor Bold, till he had made her 
 all his own. Then, and not till then, he might 
 have talked of Mr. Slope with as much triumph 
 as he chose. 
 
 " I shall answer no such question," said she ; 
 " and what is more, I must tell you that nothing 
 can justify your asking it. Good morning ! " 
 
 And so saying she stepped proudly across 
 the lawn, and passing through the drawing-room 
 window joined her father and sister at lunch 
 in the dining-room. Half an hour afterwards 
 she was in the carriage, and so she left Plumstead 
 without again seeing Mr. Arabin. 
 
 His walk was long and sad among the sombre 
 trees that overshadowed the churchyard. He 
 left the archdeacon's grounds that he might 
 escape attention, and sauntered among the green 
 hillocks under which lay at rest so many of the 
 once loving swains and forgotten beauties of 
 Plumstead. To his ears Eleanor's last words 
 sounded like a knell never to be reversed. 
 He could not comprehend that she might be 
 angry with him, indignant with him, remorseless 
 with him, and yet love him. He could not 
 make up his mind whether or no Mr. Slope 
 was in truth a favoured rival. If not, why 
 should she not have answered his question ? 
 
 Poor Mr. Arabin untaught, illiterate, boorish
 
 The Bishop's Library 425 
 
 ignorant man ! That at forty years of age you 
 should know so little of the workings of a 
 woman's heart ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 THE BISHOP'S LIBRARY 
 
 AND thus the pleasant party at Plumstead was 
 broken up. It had been a very pleasant party 
 as long as they had all remained in good humour 
 with one another. Mrs. Grantly had felt her 
 house to be gayer and brighter than it had 
 been for many a long day, and the archdeacon 
 had been aware that the month had passed 
 pleasantly without attributing the pleasure to 
 any other special merits than those of his own 
 hospitality. Within three or four days of 
 Eleanor's departure Mr. Harding had also re- 
 turned, and Mr. Arabin had gone to Oxford 
 to spend one week there previous to his 
 settling at the vicarage of St. Ewold's. He 
 had gone laden with many messages to Dr. 
 Gwynne touching the iniquity of the doings 
 in Barchester palace, and the peril in which 
 it was believed the hospital still stood in spite 
 of the assurances contained in Mr. Slope's in- 
 auspicious letter. 
 
 During Eleanor's drive into Barchester she 
 had not much opportunity of reflecting on Mr. 
 Arabin. She had been constrained to divert 
 her mind both from his sins and his love by
 
 426 Barchester Towers 
 
 the necessity of conversing with her sister and 
 maintaining the appearance of parting with her 
 on good terms. When the carriage reached 
 her own door, and while she was in the act of 
 giving her last kiss to her sister and nieces, 
 Mary Bold ran out and exclaimed, ' 
 
 " Oh ! Eleanor, have you heard ? oh ! Mrs. 
 Grantly, have you heard what has happened? 
 The poor dean ! " 
 
 " Good heavens ! " said Mrs. Grantly ; " what 
 what has happened ? " 
 
 " This morning at nine he had a fit of 
 apoplexy, and he has not spoken since. I 
 very much fear that by this time he is no 
 more." 
 
 Mrs. Grantly had been very intimate with 
 the dean, and was therefore much shocked. 
 Eleanor had not known him so well; never- 
 theless she was sufficiently acquainted with his 
 person and manners to feel startled and grieved 
 also at the tidings she now received. " I will 
 go at once to the deanery," said Mrs. Grantly ; 
 " the archdeacon, I am sure, will be there. If 
 there is any news to send you I will let Thomas 
 call before he leaves town." And so the carriage 
 drove off, leaving Eleanor and her baby with 
 Mary Bold. 
 
 Mrs. Grantly had been quite right. The 
 archdeacon was at the deanery. He had come 
 into Barchester that morning by himself, not 
 caring to intrude himself upon Eleanor, and 
 he also immediately on his arrival had heard 
 of the dean's fit There was, as we have 
 before said, a library or reading room con- 
 necting the cathedral with the dean's house.
 
 The Bishop's Library 427 
 
 This was generally called the bishop's library, 
 because a certain bishop of Barchester was 
 supposed to have added it to the cathedral. 
 It was built immediately over a portion of the 
 cloisters, and a flight of stairs descended from 
 it into the room in which the cathedral clergy- 
 men put their surplices on and off. As it 
 also opened directly into the dean's house, it 
 was the passage through which that dignitary 
 usually went to his public devotions. Who 
 had or had not the right of entry into it, it 
 might be difficult to say ; but the people of 
 Barchester believed that it belonged to the dean, 
 and the clergymen of Barchester believed that it 
 belonged to the chapter. 
 
 On the morning in question most of the 
 resident clergymen who constituted the chapter, 
 and some few others, were here assembled, 
 and among them as usual the archdeacon 
 towered with high authority. He had heard 
 of the dean's fit before he was over the bridge 
 which led into the town, and had at once 
 come to the well known clerical trysting place. 
 He had been there by eleven o'clock, and had 
 remained ever since. From time to time the 
 medical men who had been called in came 
 through from the deanery into the library, 
 uttered little bulletins, and then returned. There 
 was it appears very little hope of the old man's 
 rallying, indeed no hope of anything like a 
 final recovery. The only question was whether 
 he must die at once speechless, unconscious, 
 stricken to death by his first heavy fit; or 
 whether by due aid of medical skill he might 
 not be so far brought back to this world as
 
 428 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 to become conscious of his state, and enabled 
 to address one prayer to his Maker before he 
 was called to meet Him face to face at the 
 judgment seat 
 
 Sir Omicron Pie had been sent for from 
 London. That great man had shown himself a 
 wonderful adept at keeping life still moving 
 within an old man's heart in the case of good 
 old Bishop Grantly, and it might be reasonably 
 expected that he would be equally successful 
 with a dean. In the mean time Dr. Fillgrave 
 and Mr. Rerechild were doing their best ; and 
 poor Miss Trefoil sat at the head of her father's 
 bed, longing, as in such cases daughters do long, 
 to be allowed to do something to show her love; 
 if it were only to chafe his feet with her hands, 
 or wait in menial offices on those autocratic 
 doctors ; anything so that now in the time of 
 need she might be of use. 
 
 The archdeacon alone of the attendant clergy 
 had been admitted for a moment into the sick 
 man's chamber. He had crept in with creaking 
 shoes, had said with smothered voice a word of 
 consolation to the sorrowing daughter, had 
 looked on the distorted face of his old friend 
 with solemn but yet eager scrutinising eye, as 
 though he said in his heart " and so some day it 
 will probably be with me ; " and then having 
 whispered an unmeaning word or two to the 
 doctors, had creaked his way back again into 
 the library. 
 
 " He'll never speak again, I fear," said the 
 archdeacon as he noiselessly closed the door, as 
 though the unconscious dying man, from whom 
 all sense had fled, would have heard in his
 
 The Bishop's Library 429 
 
 distant chamber the spring of the lock which was 
 now so carefully handled. 
 
 " Indeed ! indeed ! is he so bad ? " said the 
 meagre little prebendary, turning over in his 
 own mind all the probable candidates for the 
 deanery, and wondering whether the archdeacon 
 would think it worth his while to accept it. 
 " The fit must have been very violent." 
 
 " When a man over seventy has a stroke of 
 apoplexy, it seldom comes very lightly," said the 
 burly chancellor. 
 
 " He was an excellent, sweet-tempered man," 
 said one of the vicars choral. " Heaven knows 
 how we shall repair his loss." 
 
 " He was indeed," said a minor canon ; " and 
 a great blessing to all those privileged to take a 
 share of the services of our cathedral. I suppose 
 the government will appoint, Mr. Archdeacon. 
 I trust we may have no stranger." 
 
 " We will not talk about his successor," said 
 the archdeacon, " while there is yet hope." 
 
 " Oh no, of course not," said the minor canon. 
 " It would be exceedingly indecorous ! but " 
 
 " I know of no man," said the meagre little 
 prebendary, " who has better interest with the 
 present government than Mr. Slope." 
 
 " Mr. Slope ! " said two or three at once almost 
 sotto voce. " Mr. Slope dean of Barchester ! " 
 
 " Pooh ! " exclaimed the burly chancellor. 
 
 " The bishop would do anything for him," 
 said the little prebendary. 
 
 " And so would Mrs. Proudie," said the vicar 
 choral. 
 
 " Pooh ! " said the chancellor. 
 
 The archdeacon had almost turned pale at
 
 430 Barchester Towers 
 
 the idea. What if Mr. Slope should become 
 dean of Barchester ? To be sure there was no 
 adequate ground, indeed no ground at all, for 
 presuming that such a desecration could even be 
 contemplated. But nevertheless it was on the 
 cards. Dr. Proudie had interest with the govern- 
 ment, and the man carried as it were Dr. Proudie 
 in his pocket How should they all conduct 
 themselves if Mr. Slope were to become dean of 
 Barchester ? The bare idea for a moment struck 
 even Dr. Grantly dumb. 
 
 " It would certainly not be very pleasant for 
 us to have Mr. Slope at the deanery," said the 
 little prebendary, chuckling inwardly at the 
 evident consternation which his surmise had 
 created. 
 
 " About as pleasant and as probable as having 
 you in the palace," said the chancellor. 
 
 " I should think such an appointment highly 
 improbable," said the minor canon, " and, more- 
 over, extremely injudicious. Should not you, 
 Mr. Archdeacon ? " 
 
 " I should presume such a thing to be quite out 
 of the question," said the archdeacon ; " but at 
 the present moment I am thinking rather of our 
 poor friend who is lying so near us than of Mr. 
 Slope." 
 
 " Of course, of course," said the vicar choral 
 with a very solemn air ; " of course you are. 
 So are we all. Poor Dr. Trefoil; the best of 
 men, but " 
 
 " It's the most comfortable dean's residence in 
 England," said a second prebendary. " Fifteen 
 acres in the grounds. It is better than many of 
 the bishops' palaces."
 
 The Bishop's Library 431 
 
 " And full two thousand a year," said the 
 meagre doctor. 
 
 " It is cut down to izoo/.," said the chancellor. 
 
 " No," said the second prebendary. " It is 
 to be fifteen. A special case was made." 
 
 " No such thing," said the chancellor. 
 
 " You'll find I'm right," said the prebendary. 
 
 " I'm sure I read it in the report," said the 
 minor canon. 
 
 " Nonsense," said the chancellor. " They 
 couldn't do it. There were to be no exceptions 
 but London and Durham." 
 
 " And Canterbury and York," said the vicar 
 choral, modestly. 
 
 " What do you say, Grantly ? " said the 
 meagre little doctor. 
 
 " Say about what ? " said the archdeacon, who 
 had been looking as though he were thinking 
 about his friend the dean, but who had in reality 
 been thinking about Mr. Slope. 
 
 "What is the next dean to have, twelve or 
 fifteen?" 
 
 " Twelve," said the archdeacon authorita- 
 tively, thereby putting an end at once to all 
 doubt and dispute among his subordinates as far 
 as that subject was concerned. 
 
 " Well, I certainly thought it was fifteen," said 
 the minor canon. 
 
 " Pooh ! " said the burly chancellor. At this 
 moment the door opened, and in came Dr. 
 Fillgrave. 
 
 " How is he ? " " Is he conscious ? " " Can 
 he speak ? " "I hope not dead ? " " No worse 
 news, doctor, I trust ? " "I hope, I trust, some- 
 thing better, doctor ? " said half a dozen voices
 
 432 Barchester Towers 
 
 all at once, each in a tone of extremes! anxiety. 
 It was pleasant to see how popular the good old 
 dean was among his clergy. 
 
 " No change, gentlemen ; not the slightest 
 change but a telegraphic message has arrived 
 Sir Omicron Pie will be here by the 9.15 P.M. 
 train. If any man can do anything Sir Omicron 
 Pie will do it. But all that skill can do has 
 been done." 
 
 " We are sure of that, Dr. Fillgrave," said the 
 archdeacon ; " we are quite sure of that. But 
 yet you know " 
 
 " Oh ! quite right," said the doctor, " quite 
 right I should have done just the same I 
 advised it at once. I said to Rerechild at 
 once that with such a life and such a man, Sir 
 Omicron should be summoned of course I 
 knew expense was nothing so distinguished, 
 you know, and so popular. Nevertheless, all 
 that human skill can do has been done." 
 
 Just at this period Mrs. Grantly's carriage 
 drove into the close, and the archdeacon went 
 down to confirm the news which she had heard 
 before. 
 
 " By the 9.15 P.M. train Sir Omicron Pie did 
 arrive. And in the course of the night a sort of 
 consciousness returned to the poor old dean. 
 Whether this was due to Sir Omicron Pie is a 
 question on which it may be well not to offer an 
 opinion. Dr. Fillgrave was very clear in his 
 own mind, but Sir Omicron himself is thought 
 to have differed from that learned doctor. At 
 any rate Sir Omicron expressed an opinion that 
 the dean had yet some days to live. 
 
 For the eight or ten next days, accordingly, the
 
 A New Candidate 433 
 
 poor dean remained in the same state, half con- 
 scious and half comatose, and the attendant 
 clergy began to think that no new appointment 
 would be necessary for some few months to 
 come. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 A NEW CANDIDATE FOR ECCLESIASTICAL 
 HONOURS. 
 
 THE dean's illness occasioned much mental tur- 
 moil in other places besides the deanery and 
 adjoining^! library ; and the idea which occurred 
 to the meagre little prebendary about Mr. Slope 
 did not occur to him alone. 
 
 The bishop was sitting listlessly in his study 
 when the news reached him of the dean's illness. 
 It was brought to him by Mr. Slope, who of 
 course was not the last person in Barchester to 
 hear it. It was also not slow in finding its way 
 to Mrs. Proudie's ears. It may be presumed 
 that there was not just then much friendly inter- 
 course between these two rival claimants for his 
 lordship's obedience. Indeed, though living in 
 the same house, they had not met since the 
 stormy interview between them in the bishop's 
 study on the preceding day. 
 
 On that occasion Mrs. Proudie had been 
 defeated. That the prestige of continual victory 
 should have been torn from her standards was 
 a subject of great sorrow to that militant lady ;
 
 434 Barchester Towers 
 
 but though defeated, she was not overcome. 
 She felt that she might yet recover her lost 
 ground, that she might yet hurl Mr. Slope down 
 to the dust from which she had picked him, and 
 force her sinning lord to sue for pardon in sack- 
 cloth and ashes. 
 
 On that memorable day, memorable for his 
 mutiny and rebellion against her high behests, 
 he had carried his way with a high hand, and 
 had really begun to think it possible that the 
 days of his slavery were counted. He had 
 begun to hope that he was now about to enter 
 into a free land, a land delicious with milk 
 which he himself might quaff, and honey which 
 would not tantalise him by being only honey to 
 the eye. When Mrs. Proudie banged the door, 
 as she left his room, he felt himself every inch 
 a bishop. To be sure his spirit had been a 
 little cowed by his chaplain's subsequent lecture ; 
 but on the whole he was highly pleased with 
 himself, and flattered himself that the worst was 
 over. " Ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute," 
 he reflected ; and now that the first step had 
 been so magnanimously taken, all the rest would 
 follow easily. 
 
 He met his wife as a matter of course at 
 dinner, where little or nothing was said that 
 could ruffle the bishop's happiness. His 
 daughters and the servants were present and 
 protected him. 
 
 He made one or two trifling remarks on the 
 subject of his projected visit to the archbishop, 
 in order to show to all concerned that he 
 intended to have his own way; and the very 
 servants perceiving the change transferred a
 
 A New Candidate 435 
 
 little of their reverence from their mistress to 
 their master. All which the master perceived ; 
 and so also did the mistress. But Mrs. Proudie 
 bided her time. 
 
 After dinner he returned to his study where 
 Mr. Slope soon found him, and there they 
 had tea together and planned many things. 
 For some few minutes the bishop was really 
 happy ; but as the clock on the chimney-piece 
 warned him that the stilly hours of night were 
 drawing on, as he looked at his chamber candle- 
 stick and knew that he must use it, his heart 
 sank within him again. He was as a ghost, all 
 whose power of wandering free through these 
 upper regions ceases at cock-crow ; or rather he 
 was the opposite of the ghost, for till cock-crow 
 he must again be a serf. And would that be 
 all? Could he trust himself to come down to 
 breakfast a free man in the morning ? 
 
 He was nearly an hour later than usual, when 
 he betook himself to his rest. Rest ! what 
 rest ? However, he took a couple of glasses of 
 sherry, and mounted the stairs. Far be it from 
 us to follow him thither. There are some 
 things which no novelist, no historian, should 
 attempt ; some few scenes in life's drama which 
 even no poet should dare to paint. Let that 
 which passed between Dr. Proudie and his wife 
 on this night be understood to be among 
 them. 
 
 He came down the following morning a sad 
 and thoughtful man. He was attenuated in 
 appearance; one might almost say emaciated. 
 I doubt whether his now grizzled locks had 
 not palpably become more grey than on the
 
 436 Barchester Towers 
 
 preceding evening. At any rate he had aged 
 materially. Years do not make a man old 
 gradually and at an even pace. Look through 
 the world and see if this is not so always, 
 except in those rare cases in which the human 
 being lives and dies without joys and without 
 sorrows, like a vegetable. A man shall be 
 possessed of florid youthful blooming health till, 
 it matters not what age. Thirty forty fifty, 
 then comes some nipping frost, some period of 
 agony, that robs the fibres of the body of their 
 succulence, and the hale and hearty man is 
 counted among the old. 
 
 He came down and breakfasted alone ; Mrs. 
 Proudie being indisposed took her coffee in her 
 bed-room, and her daughters waited upon her 
 there. He ate his breakfast alone, and then, 
 hardly knowing what he did, he betook himself 
 to his usual seat in his study. He tried to 
 solace himself with his coming visit to the arch- 
 bishop. That effort of his own free will at any 
 rate remained to him as an enduring triumph. 
 But somehow, now that he had achieved it, he 
 did not seem to care so much about it. It was 
 his ambition that had prompted him to take 
 his place at the archiepiscopal table, and his 
 ambition was now quite dead within him. 
 
 He was thus seated when Mr. Slope made his 
 appearance, with breathless impatience. 
 
 " My lord, the dean is dead." 
 
 " Good heavens ! " exclaimed the bishop, 
 startled out of his apathy by an announcement 
 so sad and so sudden. 
 
 " He is either dead or now dying. He has 
 had an apoplectic fit, and I am told that there
 
 A New Candidate 437 
 
 is not the slightest hope ; indeed, I do not 
 doubt that by this time he is no more." 
 
 Bells were rung, and servants were immedi- 
 ately sent to inquire. In the course of the 
 morning, the bishop, leaning on his chaplain's 
 arm, himself called at the deanery door. Mrs. 
 Proudie sent to Miss Trefoil all manner of 
 offers of assistance. The Miss Proudies sent 
 also, and there was immense sympathy between 
 the palace and the deanery. The answer to all 
 inquiries was unvaried. The dean was just the 
 same ; and Sir Omicron Pie was expected down 
 by the 9.15 P.M. train. 
 
 And then Mr. Slope began to meditate, as 
 others also had done, as to who might possibly 
 be the new dean ; and it occurred to him, as it 
 had also occurred to others, that it might be 
 possible that he should be the new dean himself. 
 And then the question as to the twelve hundred, 
 or fifteen hundred, or two thousand, ran in his 
 mind, as it had run through those of the other 
 clergymen in the cathedral library. 
 
 Whether it might be two thousand, or fifteen 
 or twelve hundred, it would in any case un- 
 doubtedly be a great thing for him, if he could 
 get it The gratification to his ambition would 
 be greater even than that of his covetousness. 
 How glorious to out-top the archdeacon in his 
 own cathedral city; to sit above prebendaries 
 and canons, and have the cathedral pulpit and 
 all the cathedral services altogether at his own 
 disposal ! 
 
 But it might be easier to wish for this than to 
 obtain it. Mr. Slope, however, was not without 
 some means of forwarding his views, and he at
 
 438 Barchester Towers 
 
 any rate did not let the grass grow under his 
 feet. In the first place he thought and not 
 vainly that he could count upon what assist- 
 ance the bishop could give him. He immedi- 
 ately changed his views with regard to his 
 patron ; he made up his mind that if he became 
 dean, he would hand his lordship back again to 
 his wife's vassalage ; and he thought it possible 
 that his lordship might not be sorry to rid 
 himself of one of his mentors. Mr. Slope had 
 also taken some steps towards making his name 
 known to other men in power. There was a 
 certain chief-commissioner of national schools 
 who at the present moment was presumed to 
 stand especially high in the good graces of the 
 government big wigs, and with him Mr. Slope 
 had contrived to establish a sort of epistolary 
 intimacy. He thought that he might safely 
 apply to Sir Nicholas Fitzwhiggin ; and he felt 
 sure that if Sir Nicholas chose to exert himself, 
 the promise of such a piece of preferment 
 would be had for the asking for. 
 
 Then he also had the press at his bidding, or 
 flattered himself that he had so. The daily 
 " Jupiter " had taken his part in a very thorough 
 manner in those polemical contests of his with 
 Mr. Arabin ; he had on more than one occasion 
 absolutely had an interview with a gentleman on 
 the staff of that paper, who, if not the editor, 
 was as good as the editor ; and had long been 
 in the habit of writing telling letters on all 
 manner of ecclesiastical abuses, which he signed 
 with his initials, and sent to his editorial friend 
 with private notes signed in his own name. 
 Indeed, he and Mr. Towers such was the name
 
 A New Candidate 439 
 
 of the powerful gentleman of the press with 
 whom he was connected were generally very 
 amiable with each other. Mr. Slope's little 
 productions were always printed and occasion- 
 ally commented upon ; and thus, in a small sort 
 of way, he had become a literary celebrity. 
 This public life had great charms for him, though 
 it certainly also had its drawbacks. On one 
 occasion, when speaking in the presence of 
 reporters, he had failed to uphold and praise 
 and swear by that special line of conduct which 
 had been upheld and praised and sworn by in 
 " The Jupiter," and then he had been much sur- 
 prised and at the moment not a little irritated to 
 find himself lacerated most unmercifully by his 
 old ally. He was quizzed and bespattered and 
 made a fool of, just as though, or rather worse 
 than if, he had been a constant enemy instead 
 of a constant friend. He had hitherto not learnt 
 that a man who aspires to be on the staff of " The 
 Jupiter" must surrender all individuality. But 
 ultimately this little castigation had broken no 
 bones between him and his friend Mr. Towers. 
 Mr. Slope was one of those who understood the 
 world too well to show himself angry with such 
 a potentate as " The Jupiter." He had kissed 
 the rod that scourged him, and now thought 
 that he might fairly look for his reward. He 
 determined that he would at once let Mr. Towers 
 know that he was a candidate for the place 
 which was about to become vacant. More than 
 one piece of preferment had lately been given 
 away much in accordance with advice tendered 
 to the government in the columns of " The 
 Jupiter."
 
 44 Barchester Towers 
 
 But it was incumbent on Mr. Slope first to 
 secure the bishop. He specially felt that it 
 behoved him to do this before the visit to the 
 archbishop was made. It was really quite provi- 
 dential that the dean should have fallen ill just 
 at the very nick of time. If Dr. Proudie could 
 be instigated to take the matter up warmly, he 
 might manage a good deal while staying at the 
 archbishop's palace. Feeling this very strongly 
 Mr. Slope determined to sound the bishop that 
 very afternoon. He was to start on the follow- 
 ing morning to London, and therefore not a 
 moment could be lost with safety. 
 
 He went into the bishop's study about five 
 o'clock, and found him still sitting alone. It 
 might have been supposed that he had hardly 
 moved since the little excitement occasioned by 
 his walk to the dean's door. He still wore on 
 his face that dull dead look of half unconscious 
 suffering. He was doing nothing, reading 
 nothing, thinking of nothing, but simply gazing 
 on vacancy when Mr. Slope for the second time 
 that day entered his room. 
 
 " Well, Slope," said he, somewhat impatiently ; 
 for, to tell the truth, he was not anxious just 
 at present to have much conversation with Mr. 
 Slope. 
 
 " Your lordship will be sorry to hear that as yet 
 the poor dean has shown no sign of amendment." 
 
 " Oh ah hasn't he ? Poor man ! I'm sure 
 I'm very sorry. I suppose Sir Omicron has not 
 arrived yet ? " 
 
 "No; not till the 9.15 P.M. train." 
 
 " I wonder they didn't have a special. They 
 say Dr. Trefoil is very rich."
 
 A New Candidate 441 
 
 " Very rich, I believe," said Mr. Slope. " But 
 the truth is, all the doctors in London can do 
 no good; no other good than to show that 
 every possible care has been taken. Poor 
 Dr. Trefoil is not long for this world, my lord." 
 
 " I suppose not I suppose not." 
 
 " Oh no ; indeed, his best friends could not 
 wish that he should outlive such a shock, for his 
 intellects cannot possibly survive it." 
 
 " Poor man ! poor man ! " said the bishop. 
 
 " It will naturally be a matter of much moment 
 to your lordship who is to succeed him," said 
 Mr. Slope. " It would be a great thing if you 
 could secure the appointment for some person 
 of your own way of thinking on important 
 points. The party hostile to us are very strong 
 here in Barchester much too strong." 
 
 " Yes, yes. If poor Dr. Trefoil is to go, it 
 will be a great thing to get a good man in his 
 place." 
 
 " It will be everything to your lordship to get 
 a man on whose co-operation you can reckon. 
 Only think what trouble we might have if Dr. 
 Grantly, or Dr. Hyandry, or any of that way of 
 thinking, were to get it." 
 
 " It is not very probable that Lord will 
 
 give it to any of that school ; why should he ? " 
 
 " No. Not probable ; certainly not ; but it's 
 possible. Great interest will probably be made. 
 If I might venture to advise your lordship, I 
 would suggest that you should discuss the 
 matter with his grace next week. I have no 
 doubt that your wishes, if made known and 
 backed by his grace, would be paramount with 
 Lord ."
 
 44 2 Barchester Towers 
 
 " Well, -I don't know that ; Lord has 
 
 always been very kind to me, very kind. But 
 I am unwilling to interfere in such matters 
 unless asked. And indeed, if asked, I don't 
 know whom, at this moment, I should recom- 
 mend." 
 
 Mr. Slope, even Mr. Slope, felt at the present 
 rather abashed. He hardly knew how to frame 
 his little request in language sufficiently modest. 
 He had recognised and acknowledged to him- 
 self the necessity of shocking the bishop in the 
 first instance by the temerity of his application, 
 and his difficulty was how best to remedy that 
 by his adroitness and eloquence. " I doubted 
 myself," said he, " whether your lordship would 
 have any one immediately in your eye, and it 
 is on this account that I venture to submit to 
 you an idea that I have been turning over in 
 my own mind. If poor Dr. Trefoil must go, I 
 really do not see why, with your lordship's 
 assistance, I should not hold the preferment 
 myself." 
 
 " You ! " exclaimed the bishop, in a manner 
 that Mr. Slope could hardly have considered 
 complimentary. 
 
 The ice was now broken, and Mr. Slope 
 became fluent enough. " I have been thinking 
 of looking for it. If your lordship will press 
 the matter on the archbishop, I do not doubt 
 but I shall succeed. You see I shall be the 
 first to move, which is a great matter. Then I 
 can count upon assistance from the public press : 
 my name is known, I may say, somewhat 
 favourably known to that portion of the press 
 which is now most influential with the govern-
 
 A New Candidate 443 
 
 merit, and I have friends also in the govern- 
 ment. But, nevertheless, it is to you, my lord, 
 that I look for assistance. It is from your 
 hands that I would most willingly receive the 
 benefit. And, which should ever be the chief 
 consideration in such matters, you must know 
 better than any other person whatsoever what 
 qualifications I possess." 
 
 The bishop sat for a while dumbfounded. 
 Mr. Slope dean of Barchester ! The idea of 
 such a transformation of character would never 
 have occurred to his own unaided intellect. At 
 first he went on thinking why, for what reasons, 
 on what account, Mr. Slope should be dean of 
 Barchester. But by degrees the direction of 
 his thoughts changed, and he began to think 
 why, for what reasons, on what account, Mr. 
 Slope should not be dean of Barchester. As 
 far as he himself, the bishop, was concerned, he 
 could well spare the services of his chaplain. 
 That little idea of using Mr. Slope as a counter- 
 poise to his wife had well nigh evaporated. 
 He had all but acknowledged the futility of the 
 scheme. If indeed he could have slept in his 
 chaplain's bed-room instead of his wife's, there 
 
 might have been something in it. But . 
 
 And thus as Mr. Slope was speaking, the 
 bishop began to recognise the idea that that 
 gentleman might become dean of Barchester 
 without impropriety; not moved, indeed, by 
 Mr. Slope's eloquence, for he did not follow the 
 tenor of his speech ; but led thereto by his own 
 cogitations. 
 
 " I need not say," continued Mr. Slope, " that 
 it would be my chief desire to act in all matters
 
 444 Barchester Towers 
 
 connected with the cathedral as far as possible 
 in accordance with your views. I know your 
 lordship so well (and I hope you know me well 
 enough to have the same feelings), that I am 
 satisfied that my being in that position would 
 add materially to your own comfort, and enable 
 you to extend the sphere of your useful influence. 
 As I said before, it is most desirable that there 
 should be but one opinion among the dignitaries 
 of the same diocese. I doubt much whether I 
 would accept such an appointment in any 
 diocese in which I should be constrained to 
 differ much from the bishop. In this case there 
 Avould be a delightful uniformity of opinion." 
 
 Mr. Slope perfectly well perceived that the 
 bishop did not follow a word that he said, but 
 nevertheless he went on talking. He knew it 
 was necessary that Dr. Proudie should recover 
 from his surprise, and he knew also that he 
 must give him the opportunity of appearing to 
 have been persuaded by argument. So he went 
 on, and produced a multitude of fitting reasons all 
 tending to show that no one on earth could make 
 so good a dean of Barchester as himself, that 
 the government and the public would assuredly 
 coincide in desiring that he, Mr. Slope, should 
 be dean of Barchester; but that for high con- 
 siderations of ecclesiastical polity it would be 
 especially desirable that this piece of preferment 
 should be so bestowed through the instrumen- 
 tality of the bishop of the diocese. 
 
 " But I really don't know what I could do in 
 the matter," said the bishop. 
 
 " If you would mention it to the archbishop ; 
 if you could tell his grace that you consider such
 
 A New Candidate 445 
 
 an appointment very desirable, that you have it 
 much at heart with a view to putting an end to 
 schism in the diocese ; if you did this with your 
 usual energy, you would probably find no diffi- 
 culty in inducing his grace to promise that he 
 
 would mention it to Lord . Of course you 
 
 would let the archbishop know that I am not 
 looking for the preferment solely through his 
 intervention; that you do not exactly require 
 him to ask it as a favour ; that you expect that 
 I shall get it through other sources, as is indeed 
 the case ; but that you are very anxious that his 
 grace should express his approval of such an 
 arrangement to Lord ." 
 
 It ended in the bishop promising to do as he 
 was bid. Not that he so promised without a 
 stipulation. " About that hospital," he said, in 
 the middle of the conference. " I was never so 
 troubled in my life ; " which was about the truth. 
 "You haven't spoken to Mr. Harding since I 
 saw you ? " 
 
 Mr. Slope assured his patron that he had not. 
 
 " Ah well, then I think upon the whole it 
 will be better to let Quiverful have it. It has 
 been half promised to him, and he has a large 
 family and is very poor. I think on the whole 
 it will be better to make out the nomination for 
 Mr. Quiverful." 
 
 " But, my lord," said Mr. Slope, still thinking 
 that he was bound to make a fight for his own 
 view on this matter, and remembering that it 
 still behoved him to maintain his lately acquired 
 supremacy over Mrs. Proudie, lest he should 
 fail in his views regarding the deanery, " but, 
 my lord, I am really much afraid "
 
 446 Barchester Towers 
 
 "Remember, Mr. Slope," said the bishop, 
 " I can hold out no sort of hope to you in this 
 matter of succeeding poor Dr. Trefoil. I will 
 certainly speak to the archbishop, as you wish it, 
 but I cannot think " 
 
 " Well, my lord," said Mr. Slope, fully under- 
 standing the bishop, and in his turn interrupting 
 him, " perhaps your lordship is right about Mr. 
 Quiverful. I have no doubt I can easily arrange 
 matters with Mr. Harding, and I will make out 
 the nomination for your signature as you direct." 
 
 " Yes, Slope, I think that will be best ; and 
 you may be sure that any little that I can do to 
 forward your views shall be done." 
 
 And so they parted. 
 
 Mr. Slope had now much business on his 
 hands. He had to make his daily visit to the 
 signora. This common prudence should have 
 now induced him to omit, but he was infatuated ; 
 and could not bring himself to be commonly 
 prudent. He determined therefore that he 
 would drink tea at the Stanhopes'; and he 
 determined also, or thought that he determined, 
 that having done so he would go thither no 
 more. He had also to arrange his matters with 
 Mrs. Bold. He was of opinion that Eleanor 
 would grace the deanery as perfectly as she 
 would the chaplain's cottage ; and he thought, 
 moreover, that Eleanor's fortune would excel- 
 lently repair any dilapidations and curtail- 
 ments in the dean's stipend which might have 
 been made by that ruthless ecclesiastical com- 
 mission. 
 
 Touching Mrs. Bold his hopes now soared 
 high. Mr. Slope was one of that numerous
 
 A New Candidate 447 
 
 multitude of swains who think that all is fair in 
 love, and he had accordingly not refrained from 
 using the services of Mrs. Bold's own maid. 
 From her he had learnt much of what had taken 
 place at Plumstead ; not exactly with truth, for 
 " the own maid " had not been able to divine the 
 exact truth, but with some sort of similitude to it. 
 He had been told that the archdeacon and Mrs. 
 Grantly and Mr. Harding and Mr. Arabin had 
 all quarrelled with " missus " for having received 
 a letter from Mr. Slope ; that " missus " had 
 positively refused to give the letter up ; that she 
 had received from the archdeacon the option of 
 giving up either Mr. Slope and his letter, or else 
 the society of Plumstead rectory; and that 
 " missus " had declared with much indignation, 
 that " she didn't care a straw for the society of 
 Plumstead rectory," and that she wouldn't give 
 up Mr. Slope for any of them. 
 
 Considering the source from whence this came, 
 it was not quite so untrue as might have been 
 expected. It showed pretty plainly what had 
 been the nature of the conversation in the 
 servants' hall ; and coupled as it was with the 
 certainty of Eleanor's sudden return, it appeared 
 to Mr. Slope to be so far worthy of credit as to 
 justify him in thinking that the fair widow would 
 in all human probability accept his offer. 
 
 All this work was therefore to be done. It 
 was desirable he thought that he should make 
 his offer before it was known that Mr. Quiverful 
 was finally appointed to the hospital. In his 
 letter to Eleanor he had plainly declared that 
 Mr. Harding was to have the appointment. It 
 would be very difficult to explain this away;
 
 448 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 and were he to write another letter to Eleanor, 
 telling the truth and throwing the blame on the 
 bishop, it would naturally injure him in her 
 estimation. He determined therefore to let 
 that matter disclose itself as it would, and to 
 lose no time in throwing himself at her feet. 
 
 Then he had to solicit the assistance of Sir 
 Nicholas Fitzwhiggin and Mr. Towers, and he 
 went directly from the bishop's presence to com- 
 pose his letters to those gentlemen. As Mr. 
 Slope was esteemed an adept at letter writing, 
 they shall be given in full. 
 
 " (Private.) ' Palace, Barchester, Sept. 185. 
 
 " My dear Sir Nicholas, I hope that the 
 intercourse which has been between us will pre- 
 clude you from regarding my present application 
 as an intrusion. You cannot I imagine have 
 yet heard that poor dear old Dr. Trefoil has 
 been seized with apoplexy. It is a subject of 
 profound grief to every one in Barchester, for he 
 has always been an excellent man excellent as 
 a man and as a clergyman. He is, however, full 
 of years, and his life could not under any cir- 
 cumstances have been much longer spared. You 
 may probably have known him. 
 
 " There is, it appears, no probable chance of 
 his recovery. Sir Omicron Pie is, I believe, at 
 present with him. At any rate the medical men 
 here have declared that one or two days more 
 must limit the tether of his mortal coil. I sin- 
 cerely trust that his soul may wing its flight to 
 that haven where it may for ever be at rest and 
 for ever be happy. 
 
 " The bishop has been speaking to me about
 
 A New Candidate 449 
 
 the preferment, and he is anxious that it should 
 be conferred on me. I confess that I can hardly 
 venture, at my age, to look for such advance- 
 ment ; but I am so far encouraged by his lord- 
 ship, that I believe I shall be induced to do so. 
 
 His lordship goes to to-morrow, and is 
 
 intent on mentioning the subject to the arch- 
 bishop. 
 
 " I know well how deservedly great is your 
 weight with the present government. In any 
 matter touching church preferment you would of 
 course be listened to. Now that the matter has 
 been put into my head, I am of course anxious 
 to be successful. If you can assist me by your 
 good word, you will confer on me one additional 
 favour. 
 
 " I had better add, that Lord cannot as 
 
 yet know of this piece of preferment having 
 fallen in, or rather of its certainty of falling (for 
 poor dear Dr. Trefoil is past hope). Should 
 Lord first hear it from you, that might pro- 
 bably be thought to give you a fair claim to 
 express your opinion. 
 
 " Of course our grand object is, that we should 
 all be of one opinion in church matters. This 
 is most desirable at Barchester; it is this that 
 makes our good bishop so anxious about it. 
 You may probably think it expedient to point 
 
 this out to Lord if it shall be in your power 
 
 to oblige me by mentioning the subject to his 
 lordship. 
 
 " Believe me, my dear Sir Nicholas, 
 
 " Your most faithful servant, 
 
 "OBADIAH SLOPE."
 
 450 Barchester Towers 
 
 His letter to Mr. Towers was written in quite 
 a different strain. Mr. Slope conceived that he 
 completely understood the difference in character 
 and position of the two men whom he addressed. 
 He knew that for such a man as Sir Nicholas 
 Fitzwhiggin a little flummery was necessary, and 
 that it might be of the easy every-day descrip- 
 tion. Accordingly his letter to Sir Nicholas was 
 written au-rente calamo, with very little trouble. 
 But to such a man as Mr. Towers it was not so 
 easy to write a letter that should be effective 
 and yet not offensive, that should carry its point 
 without undue interference. It was not difficult 
 to flatter Dr. Proudie or Sir Nicholas Fitzwhig- 
 gin, but very difficult to flatter Mr. Towers with- 
 out letting the flattery declare itself. This, 
 however, had to be done. Moreover, this letter 
 must, in appearance at least, be written without 
 effort, and be fluent, unconstrained, and demon- 
 strative of no doubt or fear on the part of the 
 writer. Therefore the epistle to Mr. Towers 
 was studied, and recopied, and elaborated at the 
 cost of so many minutes, that Mr. Slope had 
 hardly time to dress himself and reach Dr. 
 Stanhope's that evening. 
 
 When despatched it ran as follows : 
 
 " (Private.) " Barchester. Sept. 185." 
 
 (He purposely omitted any allusion to the 
 " palace," thinking that Mr. Towers might not 
 like it. A great man, he remembered, had been 
 once much condemned for dating a letter from 
 Windsor Castle.) 
 
 "My dear Sir, We were all a good deal 
 shocked here this morning by hearing that poor
 
 A New Candidate 451 
 
 old Dean Trefoil had been stricken with apo- 
 plexy. The fit took him about 9 A.M. I am 
 writing now to save the post, and he is still alive, 
 but past all hope, or possibility I believe, of 
 living. Sir Omicron Pie is here, or will be very 
 shortly ; but all that even Sir Omicron can do, 
 is to ratify the sentence of his less distinguished 
 brethren that nothing can be done. Poor Dr. 
 Trefoil's race on this side the grave is run. I do 
 not know whether you knew him. He was a 
 good, quiet, charitable man, of the old school of 
 course, as any clergyman over seventy years of 
 age must necessarily be. 
 
 " But I do not write merely with the object 
 of sending you such news as this : doubtless 
 some one of your Mercuries will have seen and 
 heard and reported so much ; I write, as you 
 usually do yourself, rather with a view to the 
 future than to the past. 
 
 " Rumour is already rife here as to Dr. 
 Trefoil's successor, and among those named as 
 possible future deans your humble servant is, I 
 believe, not the least frequently spoken of; in 
 short I am looking for the preferment. You 
 may probably know that since Bishop Proudie 
 came to this diocese I have exerted myself here 
 a good deal ; and I may certainly say not with- 
 out some success. He and I are nearly always 
 of the same opinion on points of doctrine as well 
 as church discipline, and therefore I have had, 
 as his confidential chaplain, very much in my 
 own hands ; but I confess to you that I have a 
 higher ambition than to remain the chaplain of 
 any bishop. 
 
 " There are no positions in which more energy
 
 452 Barchester Towers 
 
 is now needed than those of our deans. The 
 whole of our enormous cathedral establishments 
 have been allowed to go to sleep, nay, they are 
 all but dead, and ready for the sepulchre ! And 
 yet of what prodigious moment they might be 
 made, if, as was intended, they were so managed 
 as to lead the way and show an example for all 
 our parochial clergy ! 
 
 "The bishop here is most anxious for my 
 success ; indeed, he goes to-morrow to press 
 the matter on the archbishop. I believe also 
 I may count on the support of at least one 
 most effective member of the government. But 
 I confess that the support of ' The Jupiter,' if I 
 be thought worthy of it, would be more gratify- 
 ing to me than any other ; more gratifying if by 
 it I should be successful ; and more gratifying 
 also, if, although so supported, I should be un- 
 successful. 
 
 "The time has, in fact, come in which no 
 government can venture to fill up the high 
 places of the Church in defiance of the public 
 press. The age of honourable bishops and 
 noble deans has gone by ; and any clergyman, 
 however humbly born, can now hope for success, 
 if his industry, talent, and character be sufficient 
 to call forth the manifest opinion of the public 
 in his favour. 
 
 " At the present moment we all feel that any 
 counsel given in such matters by ' The Jupiter ' 
 has the greatest weight is, indeed, generally 
 followed ; and we feel also I am speaking of 
 clergymen of my own age and standing that it 
 should be so. There can be no patron less 
 interested than 'The Jupiter,' and none that
 
 A New Candidate 453 
 
 more thoroughly understands the wants of the 
 people. 
 
 " I am sure you will not suspect me of asking 
 from you any support which the paper with which 
 you are connected cannot conscientiously give 
 me. My object in writing is to let you know 
 that I am a candidate for the appointment. It 
 is for you to judge whether or no you can assist 
 my views. I should not, of course, have written 
 to you on such a matter had I not believed (and 
 I have had good reason so to believe) that ' The 
 Jupiter ' approves of my views on ecclesiastical 
 polity. 
 
 " The bishop expresses a fear that I may be 
 considered too young for such a station, my 
 age being thirty-six. I cannot think that at the 
 present day any hesitation need be felt on such 
 a point. The public has lost its love for anti- 
 quated servants. If a man will ever be fit to do 
 good work he will be fit at thirty-six years of age. 
 u Believe me very faithfully yours, 
 
 " OBADIAH SLOPE. 
 
 T. TOWERS, ESQ., 
 
 Court 
 
 " Middle Temple." 
 
 Having thus exerted himself, Mr. Slope posted 
 his letters, and passed the remainder of the even- 
 ing at the feet of his mistress. 
 
 Mr. Slope will be accused of deceit in his 
 mode of canvassing. It will be said that he lied 
 in the application he made to each of his three 
 patrons. I believe it must be owned that he 
 did so. He could not hesitate on account of 
 his youth, and yet be quite assured that he
 
 454 Barchester Towers 
 
 was not too young. He could not count chiefly 
 on the bishop's support, and chiefly also on that 
 of the newspaper. He did not think that the 
 
 bishop was going to to press the matter on 
 
 the archbishop. It must be owned that in his 
 canvassing Mr. Slope was as false as he well 
 could be. 
 
 Let it, however, be asked of those who are 
 conversant with such matters, whether he was 
 more false than men usually are on such 
 occasions. We English gentlemen hate the 
 name of a lie ; but how often do we find 
 public men who believe each other's words ? 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 MRS. PROUDIE VICTRIX 
 
 THE next week passed over at Barchester with 
 much apparent tranquillity. The hearts, how- 
 ever, of some of the inhabitants were not so 
 tranquil as the streets of the city. The poor 
 old dean still continued to live, just as Sir 
 Omicron Pie had prophesied that he would do, 
 much to the amazement, and some thought dis- 
 gust, of Dr. Fillgrave. The bishop still remained 
 away. He had stayed a day or two in town, 
 and had also remained longer at the arch- 
 bishop's than he had intended. Mr. Slope 
 had as yet received no line in answer to either 
 of his letters ; but he had learnt the cause of 
 this. Sir Nicholas was stalking a deer, or
 
 Mrs. Proudie Victrix 455 
 
 attending the Queen, in the Highlands ; and 
 even the indefatigable Mr. Towers had stolen 
 an autumn holiday, and had made one of the 
 yearly tribe who now ascend Mont Blanc. Mr. 
 Slope learnt that he was not expected back till 
 the last day of September. 
 
 Mrs. Bold was thrown much with the Stan- 
 hopes, of whom she became fonder and fonder. 
 If asked, she would have said that Charlotte 
 Stanhope was her especial friend, and so she 
 would have thought. But, to tell the truth, 
 she liked Bertie nearly as well; she had no 
 more idea of regarding him as a lover than she 
 would have had of looking at a big tame dog 
 in such a light. Bertie had become very in- 
 timate with her, and made little speeches to her, 
 and said little things of a sort very different 
 from the speeches and sayings of other men. 
 But then this was almost always done before 
 his sisters ; and he, with his long silken beard, 
 his light blue eyes and strange dress, was so 
 unlike other men. She admitted him to a kind 
 of familiarity which she had never known with 
 any one else, and of which she by no means 
 understood the danger. She blushed once at 
 finding that she had called him Bertie, and on 
 the same day only barely remembered her posi- 
 tion in time to check herself from playing upon 
 him some personal practical joke to which she 
 was instigated by Charlotte. 
 
 In all this Eleanor was perfectly innocent, 
 and Bertie Stanhope could hardly be called 
 guilty. But every familiarity into which Eleanor 
 was entrapped was deliberately planned by his 
 sister. She knew well how to play her game,
 
 456 Barchester Towers 
 
 and played it without mercy ; she knew, none 
 so well, what was her brother's character, and 
 she would have handed over to him the young 
 widow, and the young widow's money, and the 
 money of the widow's child, without remorse. 
 With her pretended friendship and warm cordi- 
 ality, she strove to connect Eleanor so closely 
 with her brother as to make it impossible that 
 she should go back even if she wished it. But 
 Charlotte Stanhope knew really nothing of 
 Eleanor's character; did not even understand 
 that there were such characters. She did not 
 comprehend that a young and pretty woman 
 could be playful and familiar with a man such 
 as Bertie Stanhope, and yet have no idea in her 
 head, no feeling in her heart, that she would 
 have been ashamed to own to all the world. 
 Charlotte Stanhope did not in the least conceive 
 that her new friend was a woman whom nothing 
 could entrap into an inconsiderate marriage, 
 whose mind would have revolted from the 
 slightest impropriety had she been aware that 
 any impropriety existed. 
 
 Miss Stanhope, however, had tact enough to 
 make herself and her father's house very agree- 
 able to Mrs. Bold. There was with them all 
 an absence of stiffness and formality which was 
 peculiarly agreeable to Eleanor after the great 
 dose of clerical arrogance which she had lately 
 been constrained to take. She played chess 
 with them, walked with them, and drank tea 
 with them; studied or pretended to study 
 astronomy ; assisted them in writing stories in 
 rhyme, in turning prose tragedy into comic 
 verse, or comic stories into would-be tragic
 
 Mrs. Proudie Victrix 457 
 
 poetry. She had no idea before that she had 
 any such talents. She had not conceived the 
 possibility of her doing such things as she now 
 did. She found with the Stanhopes new amuse- 
 ments and employments, new pursuits, which in 
 themselves could not be wrong, and which were 
 exceedingly alluring. 
 
 Is it not a pity that people who are bright 
 and clever should so often be exceedingly im- 
 proper ? and that those who are never improper 
 should so often be dull and heavy? Now 
 Charlotte Stanhope was always bright, and 
 never heavy : but then her propriety was 
 doubtful. 
 
 But during all this time Eleanor by no means 
 forgot Mr. Arabin, nor did she forget Mr. Slope. 
 She had parted from Mr. Arabin in her anger. 
 She was still angry at what she regarded as his 
 impertinent interference ; but nevertheless she 
 looked forward to meeting him again, and also 
 looked forward to forgiving him. The words 
 that Mr. Arabin had uttered still sounded in 
 her ears. She knew that if not intended for 
 a declaration of love, they did signify that he 
 loved her; and she felt also that if he ever 
 did make such a declaration, it might be that 
 she should not receive it unkindly. She was 
 still angry with him, very angry with him; so 
 angry that she would bite her lip and stamp her 
 foot as she thought of what he had said and 
 done. But nevertheless she yearned to let him 
 know that he was forgiven ; all that she re- 
 quired was that he should own that he had 
 sinned. 
 
 She was to meet him at Ullathorne on the
 
 458 Barchester Towers 
 
 last day of the present month. Miss Thorne 
 had invited all the country round to a breakfast 
 on the lawn. There were to be tents, and 
 archery, and dancing for the ladies on the lawn, 
 and for the swains and girls in the paddock. 
 There were to be fiddlers and fifers, races for the 
 boys, poles to be climbed, ditches full of water 
 to be jumped over, horse-collars to be grinned 
 through (this latter amusement was an addition 
 of the stewards, and not arranged by Miss 
 Thorne in the original programme), and every 
 game to be played which, in a long course of 
 reading, Miss Thorne could ascertain to have 
 been played in the good days of Queen Eliza- 
 beth. Everything of more modern growth was 
 to be tabooed, if possible. On one subject Miss 
 Thorne was very unhappy. She had been turn- 
 ing in her mind the matter of a bull-ring, but 
 could not succeed in making anything of it. 
 She would not for the world have done, or 
 allowed to be done, anything that was cruel ; as 
 to the promoting the torture of a bull for the 
 amusement of her young neighbours, it need 
 hardly be said that Miss Thorne would be the 
 last to think of it. And yet there was something 
 so charming in the name. A bull-ring, however, 
 without a bull would only be a memento of the 
 decadence of the times, and she felt herself con- 
 strained to abandon the idea. Quintains, how- 
 ever, she was ; determined to have, and had 
 poles and swivels and bags of flour prepared 
 accordingly. She would no doubt have been 
 anxious for something small in the way of a tour- 
 nament ; but, as she said to her brother, that had 
 been tried, and the age had proved itself too
 
 Mrs. Proudie Victrix 459 
 
 decidedly inferior to its fore-runners to admit of 
 such a pastime. Mr. Thorne did not seem to 
 participate much in her regret, feeling perhaps 
 that a '.full suit of chain-armour would have 
 added but little to his own personal comfort. 
 
 This party at Ullathorne had been planned 
 in the first place as a sort of welcoming to Mr. 
 Arabin on his entrance into St. Ewold's parson- 
 age; an intended harvest-home gala for the 
 labourers and their wives and children had sub- 
 sequently been amalgamated with it, and thus it 
 had grown to its present dimensions. All the 
 Plumstead party had of course been asked, and 
 at the time of the invitation Eleanor had 
 intended to have gone with her sister. Now 
 her plans were altered, and she was going with 
 the Stanhopes. The Proudies were also to be 
 there ; and as Mr. Slope had not been included 
 in the invitation to the palace, the signora, 
 whose impudence never deserted her, asked per- 
 mission of Miss Thorne to bring him. 
 
 This permission Miss Thorne gave, having no 
 other alternative ; but she did so with a trem- 
 bling heart, fearing Mr. Arabin would be offended. 
 Immediately on his return she apologised, 
 almost with tears, so dire an enmity was pre- 
 sumed to rage between the two gentlemen. 
 But Mr. Arabin comforted her by an assurance 
 that he should meet Mr. Slope with the greatest 
 pleasure imaginable, and made her promise that 
 she would introduce them to each other. 
 
 But this triumph of Mr. Slope's was not so 
 agreeable to Eleanor, who since her return to 
 Barchester had done her best to avoid him. She 
 would not give way to the Plumstead folk when
 
 460 Barchester Towers 
 
 they so ungenerously accused her of being in 
 love with this odious man ; but, nevertheless, 
 knowing that she was so accused, she was fully 
 alive to the expediency of keeping out of his 
 way and dropping him by degrees. She had 
 seen very little of him since her return. Her 
 servant had been instructed to say to all visitors 
 that she was out. She could not bring herself 
 to specify Mr. Slope particularly, and in order 
 to avoid him she had thus debarred herself from 
 all her friends. She had excepted Charlotte 
 Stanhope, and by degrees a few others also. 
 Once she had met him at the Stanhopes' ; but, 
 as a rule, Mr. Slope's visits there were made in 
 the morning, and hers in the evening. On that 
 one occasion Charlotte had managed to preserve 
 her from any annoyance. This was very good- 
 natured on the part of Charlotte, as Eleanor 
 thought, and also very sharp-witted, as Eleanor 
 had told her friend nothing of her reasons for 
 wishing to avoid that gentleman. The fact, 
 however, was, that Charlotte had learnt from her 
 sister that Mr. Slope would probably put himself 
 forward as a suitor for the widow's hand, and 
 she was consequently sufficiently alive to the 
 expediency of guarding Bertie's future wife from 
 any danger in that quarter. 
 
 Nevertheless the Stanhopes were pledged to 
 take Mr. Slope with them to Ullathorne. An 
 arrangement was therefore necessarily made, 
 which was very disagreeable to Eleanor Dr. 
 Stanhope, with herself, Charlotte, and Mr. 
 Slope, were to go together, and Bertie was to 
 follow with his sister Madeline. It was clearly 
 visible by Eleanor's face that this assortment
 
 Mrs. Proudie Victrix 461 
 
 was very disagreeable to her; and Charlotte, 
 who was much encouraged thereby in her own 
 little plan, made a thousand apologies. 
 
 " I see you don't like it, my dear," said she, 
 " but we could not manage otherwise. Bertie 
 would give his eyes to go with you, but Made- 
 line cannot possibly go without him. Nor could 
 we possibly put Mr. Slope and Madeline in the 
 same carriage without any one else. They'd 
 both be ruined for ever, you know, and not 
 admitted inside Ullathorne gates, I should 
 imagine, after such an impropriety." 
 
 " Of course that wouldn't do," said Eleanor ; 
 "but couldn't I go in the carriage with the 
 signora and your brother ? " 
 
 "Impossible!" said Charlotte. "When she 
 is there, there is only room for two." The 
 signora, in truth, did not care to do her travel- 
 ling in the presence of strangers. 
 
 " Well, then," said Eleanor, " you are all so 
 kind, Charlotte, and so good to me, that I am 
 sure you won't be offended ; but I think I'll not 
 go at all." 
 
 " Not go at all ! what nonsense ! indeed 
 you shall." It had been absolutely determined 
 in family council that Bertie should propose on 
 that very occasion. 
 
 " Or I can take a fly," said Eleanor. " You 
 know I am not embarrassed by so many diffi- 
 culties as you young ladies ; I can go alone." 
 
 " Nonsense ! my dear. Don't think of such 
 a thing ; after all it is only for an hour or so ; 
 and, to tell the truth, I don't know what it is 
 you dislike so. I thought you and Mr. Slope 
 were great friends. What is it you dislike ? "
 
 462 Barchester Towers 
 
 "Oh! nothing particular," said Eleanor; 
 " only I thought it would be a family party." 
 
 "Of course it would be much nicer, much 
 more snug, if Bertie could go with us. It is he 
 that is badly treated. I can assure you he is 
 much more afraid of Mr. Slope than you are. 
 But you see Madeline cannot go out without 
 him, and she, poor creature, goes out so 
 seldom ! I am sure you don't begrudge her 
 this, though her vagary does knock about our 
 own party a little." 
 
 Of course Eleanor made a thousand protes- 
 tations, and uttered a thousand hopes that 
 Madeline would enjoy herself. And of course 
 she had to give way, and undertake to go in the 
 carriage with Mr. Slope. In fact, she was 
 driven either to do this, or to explain why she 
 would not do so. Now she could not bring 
 herself to explain to Charlotte Stanhope all that 
 had passed at Plumstead. 
 
 But it was to her a sore necessity. She 
 thought of a thousand little schemes for avoiding 
 it ; she would plead illness, and not go at all ; 
 she would persuade Mary Bold to go although 
 not asked, and then make a necessity of having 
 a carriage of her own to take her sister-in-law ; 
 anything, in fact, she could do, rather than be 
 seen by Mr. Arabin getting out of the same 
 carriage with Mr. Slope. However, when the 
 momentous morning came she had no scheme 
 matured, and then Mr. Slope handed her into 
 Dr. Stanhope's carriage, and following her steps, 
 sat opposite to her. 
 
 The bishop returned on the eve of the Ulla- 
 thorne party, and was received at home with
 
 Mrs. Proudie Victrix 463 
 
 radiant smiles by the partner of all his cares. 
 On his arrival he crept up to his dressing-room 
 with somewhat of a palpitating heart; he had 
 overstayed his allotted time by three days, 
 and was not without much fear of penalties. 
 Nothing, however, could be more affectionately 
 cordial than the greeting he received : the girls 
 came out and kissed him in a manner that was 
 quite soothing to his spirit ; and Mrs. Proudie, 
 " albeit, unused to the melting mood," squeezed 
 him in her arms, and almost in words called 
 him her dear, darling, good, pet, little bishop. 
 All this was a very pleasant surprise. 
 
 Mrs. Proudie had somewhat changed her 
 tactics ; not that she had seen any cause to dis- 
 approve of her former line of conduct, but she 
 had now brought matters to such a point that 
 she calculated that she might safely do so. 
 She had got the better of Mr. Slope, and she 
 now thought well to show her husband that 
 when allowed to get the better of everybody, 
 when obeyed by him and permitted to rule over 
 others, she would take care that he should have 
 his reward. Mr. Slope had not a chance against 
 her ; not only could she stun the poor bishop 
 by her midnight anger, but she could assuage 
 and soothe him, if she so willed, by daily 
 indulgences. She could furnish his room for 
 him, turn him out as smart a bishop as any on 
 the bench, give him good dinners, warm fires, 
 and an easy life; all this she would do if he 
 
 would but be quietly obedient. But if not, ! 
 
 To speak sooth, however, his sufferings on that 
 dreadful night had been so poignant, as to leave 
 him little spirit for further rebellion.
 
 464 Barchester Towers 
 
 As soon as he had dressed himself she 
 returned to his room. " I hope you enjoyed 
 
 yourself at ," said she, seating herself on 
 
 one side of the fire while he remained in his 
 arm-chair on the other, stroking the calves of 
 his legs. It was the first time he had had a fire 
 in his room since the summer, and it pleased 
 him; for the good bishop loved to be warm 
 and cozy. Yes, he said, he had enjoyed him- 
 self very much. Nothing could be more polite 
 than the archbishop ; and Mrs. Archbishop had 
 been equally charming. 
 
 Mrs. Proudie was delighted to hear it; 
 nothing, she declared, pleased her so much as 
 to think 
 
 " Her bairn respectit like the lave." 
 
 She did not put it precisely in these words, but 
 what she said came to the same thing ; and 
 then, having petted and fondled her little man 
 sufficiently, she proceeded to business. 
 
 " The poor dean is still alive," said she. 
 
 K So I hear, so I hear," said the bishop. " I'll 
 go to the deanery directly after breakfast to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " We are going to this party at Ullathorne to- 
 morrow morning, my dear; we must be there 
 early, you know, by twelve o'clock, I suppose." 
 
 "Oh ah!" said the bishop; "then I'll 
 certainly call the next day." 
 
 " Was much said about it at ? " asked 
 
 Mrs. Proudie. 
 
 " About what ? " said the bishop. 
 
 "Filling up the dean's place," said Mrs. 
 Proudie. As she spoke a spark of the wonted
 
 Mrs. Proudie Victrix 465 
 
 fire returned to her eye, and the bishop felt 
 himself to be a little less comfortable than 
 before. 
 
 " Filling up the dean's place ; that is, if the 
 dean dies? very little, my dear. It was 
 mentioned, just mentioned." 
 
 " And what did you say about it, bishop ? " 
 
 " Why, I said that I thought that if, that is, 
 should should the dean die, that is, I said I 
 
 thought " As he went on stammering and 
 
 floundering, he saw that his wife's eye was fixed 
 sternly on him. Why should he encounter such 
 evil for a man whom he loved so slightly as Mr. 
 Slope ? Why should he give up his enjoyments 
 and his ease, and such dignity as might be 
 allowed to him, to fight a losing battle for a 
 chaplain ? The chaplain after all, if successful, 
 would be as great a tyrant as his wife. Why 
 fight at all ? why contend ? why be uneasy ? 
 From that moment he determined to fling Mr. 
 Slope to the winds, and take the goods the gods 
 provided. 
 
 " I am told," said Mrs. Proudie, speaking 
 very slowly, " that Mr. Slope is looking to be 
 the new dean." 
 
 " Yes, certainly, I believe he is," said the 
 bishop. 
 
 "And what does the archbishop say about 
 that ? " asked Mrs. Proudie. 
 
 " Well, my dear, to tell the truth, I promised 
 Mr. Slope to speak to the archbishop. Mr. 
 Slope spoke to me about it. It is very arrogant 
 of him, I must say, but that is nothing to me." 
 
 " Arrogant ! " said Mrs. Proudie ; " it is the 
 most impudent piece of pretension I ever heard
 
 466 Barchester Towers 
 
 of in my life. Mr. Slope Dean of Barchester, 
 indeed ! And what did you do in the matter, 
 bishop ? " 
 
 "Why, my dear, I did speak to the arch- 
 bishop." 
 
 "You don't mean to tell me," said Mrs. 
 Proudie, " that you are going to make yourself 
 ridiculous by lending your name to such a 
 preposterous attempt as this ? Mr. Slope Dean 
 of Barchester, indeed ! " And she tossed her 
 head, and put her arms a-kimbo, with an air of 
 confident defiance that made her husband quite 
 sure that Mr. Slope never would be Dean of 
 Barchester. In truth, Mrs. Proudie was all but 
 invincible ; had she married Petruchio, it may 
 be doubted whether that arch wife-tamer would 
 have been able to keep her legs out of those 
 garments which are presumed by men to be 
 peculiarly unfitted for feminine use. 
 
 " It is preposterous, my dear." 
 
 "Then why have you endeavoured to assist 
 him?" 
 
 "Why, my dear, I haven't assisted him 
 much." 
 
 "But why have you done it at all? why 
 have you mixed your name up in anything so 
 ridiculous? What was it you did say to the 
 archbishop ? " 
 
 " Why, I just did mention it ; I just did say 
 that that in the event of the poor dean's death, 
 Mr. Slope would would " 
 
 " Would what ? " 
 
 " I forget how I put it, would take it if he 
 could get it ; something of that sort. I didn't 
 say much more than that."
 
 Mrs. Proudie Victrix 467 
 
 " You shouldn't have said anything at alL 
 And what did the archbishop say ? " 
 
 " He didn't say anything ; he just bowed and 
 rubbed his hands. Somebody else came up at 
 the moment, and as we were discussing the new 
 parochial universal school committee, the matter 
 of the new dean dropped ; after that I didn't 
 think it wise to renew it." 
 
 " Renew ' it ! I am very sorry you ever 
 mentioned it. What will the archbishop think 
 of you?" 
 
 " You may be sure, my dear, the archbishop 
 thought very little about it." 
 
 " But why did you think about it, bishop ? 
 how could you think of making such a creature 
 as that Dean of Barchester? Dean of Bar- 
 chester ! I suppose he'll be looking for a 
 bishopric some of these days, a man that 
 hardly knows who his own father was ; a man 
 that I found without bread to his mouth, or a 
 coat to his back. Dean of Barchester, indeed ! 
 I'll dean him." 
 
 Mrs. Proudie considered herself to be in 
 politics a pure Whig; all her family belonged 
 to the Whig party. Now, among all ranks of 
 Englishmen and Englishwomen (Mrs. Proudie 
 should, I think, be ranked among the former, 
 on the score of her great strength of mind), no 
 one is so hostile to lowly bom pretenders to 
 high station as the pure Whig. 
 
 The bishop thought it necessary to exculpate 
 himself. " Why, my dear," said he, " it appeared 
 to me that you and Mr. Slope did not get on 
 quite so well as you used to do." 
 
 " Get on ! " said Mrs. Proudie, moving her
 
 468 Barchester Towers 
 
 foot uneasily on the hearth-rug, and compress- 
 ing her lips in a manner that betokened much 
 danger to the subject of their discourse. 
 
 " I began to find that he was objectionable to 
 you," Mrs. Proudie's foot worked on the hearth- 
 rug with great rapidity, " and that you would 
 be more comfortable if he was out of the palace," 
 Mrs. Proudie smiled, as a hyena may probably 
 smile before he begins his laugh, " and there- 
 fore I thought that if he got this place, and so 
 ceased to be my chaplain, you might be pleased 
 at such an arrangement." 
 
 And then the hyena laughed out. Pleased at 
 such an arrangement ! pleased at having her 
 enemy converted into a dean with twelve hundred 
 a year ! Medea, when she describes the customs 
 of her native country (I am quoting from Robson's 
 edition), assures her astonished auditor that in 
 her land captives, when taken, are eaten. " You 
 pardon them ? " says Medea. " We do indeed," 
 says the mild Grecian. " We eat them ! " says 
 she of Colchis, with terrific energy. Mrs. Proudie 
 was the Medea of Barchester ; she had no idea 
 of not eating Mr. Slope. Pardon him ! merely 
 get rid of him ! make a dean of him ! It was 
 not so they did with their captives in her country, 
 among people of her sort ! Mr. Slope had no 
 such mercy to expect ; she would pick him to 
 the very last bone. 
 
 " Oh, yes, my dear, of course he'll cease to be 
 your chaplain," said she. " After what has 
 passed, that must be a matter of course. I 
 couldn't for a moment think of living in the 
 same house with such a man. Besides, he has 
 shown himself quite unfit for such a situation j
 
 Mr. Proudie Vfctrix 469 
 
 making broils and quarrels among the clergy, 
 getting you, my dear, into scrapes, and taking 
 upon himself as though he were as good as 
 bishop himself. Of course he'll go. But because 
 he leaves the palace, that is no reason why he 
 should get into the deanery." 
 
 " Oh, of course not ! " said the bishop ; " but 
 to save appearances, you know, my dear " 
 
 " I don't want to save appearances ; I want 
 Mr. Slope to appear just what he is a false, 
 designing, mean, intriguing man. I have my 
 eye on him ; he little knows what I see. He is 
 misconducting himself in the most disgraceful 
 way with that lame Italian woman. That family 
 is a disgrace to Barchester, and Mr. Slope is a 
 disgrace to Barchester ! If he doesn't look well 
 to it, he'll have his gown stripped off his back 
 instead of having a dean's hat on his head. Dean, 
 indeed ! The man has gone mad with arrogance." 
 
 The bishop said nothing further to excuse 
 either himself or his chaplain, and having shown 
 himself passive and docile was again taken into 
 favour. They soon went to dinner, and he 
 spent the pleasantest evening he had had in his 
 own house for a long time. His daughter 
 played and sang to him as he sipped his coffee 
 and read his newspaper, and Mrs. Proudie asked 
 good-natured little questions about the arch- 
 bishop ; and then he went happily to bed, and 
 slept as quietly as though Mrs. Proudie had 
 been Griselda herself. While shaving himself in 
 the morning and preparing for the festivities of 
 Ullathorne, he fully resolved to run no more 
 tilts against a warrior so fully armed at all points 
 as was Mrs. Proudie.
 
 470 Barchester Towers 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 OXFORD THE MASTER AND TUTOR OF LAZARUS 
 
 MR. ARABIN, as we have said, had but a sad 
 walk of it under the trees of Plumstead church- 
 yard. He did not appear to any of the family 
 till dinner-time, and then he seemed, as far as their 
 judgment went, to be quite himself. He had, as 
 was his wont, asked himself a great many ques- 
 tions, and given himself a great many answers ; 
 and the upshot of this was that he had set him- 
 self down for an ass. He had determined that 
 he was much too old and much too rusty to 
 commence the manoeuvres of love-making ; that 
 he had let the time slip through his hands which 
 should have been used for such purposes ; and 
 that now he must lie on his bed as he had made 
 it. Then he asked himself whether in truth he 
 did love this woman ; and he answered himself, 
 not without a long struggle, but at last honestly, 
 that he certainly did love her. He then asked 
 himself whether he did not also love her 
 money ; and he again answered himself that he 
 did so. But here he did not answer honestly. 
 It was and ever had been his weakness to look 
 for impure motives for his own conduct. No 
 doubt, circumstanced as he was, with a small 
 living and a fellowship, accustomed as he had 
 been to collegiate luxuries and expensive 
 comforts, he might have hesitated to marry a 
 penniless woman had he felt ever so strong a 
 predilection for the woman herself; no doubt
 
 Master and Tutor of Lazarus 471 
 
 Eleanor's fortune put all such difficulties out of 
 the question ; but it was equally without doubt 
 that his love for her had crept upon him without 
 the slightest idea on his part that he could 
 ever benefit his own condition by sharing her 
 wealth. 
 
 When he had stood on the hearth-rug, count- 
 ing the pattern, and counting also the future 
 chances of his own life, the remembrances of 
 Mrs. Bold's comfortable income had not certainly 
 damped his first assured feeling of love for her. 
 And why should it have done so ? Need it have 
 done so with the purest of men? Be! that as it 
 may, Mr. Arabin decided against himself; he 
 decided that it had done so in his case, and that 
 he was not the purest of men. 
 
 He also decided, which was more to his pur- 
 pose, that Eleanor did not care a straw for him, 
 and that very probably she did care a straw 
 for his rival. Then he made up his mind not 
 to think of her any more, and went on thinking 
 of her till he was almost in a state to drown him- 
 self in the little brook which ran at the bottom 
 of the archdeacon's grounds. 
 
 And ever and again his mind would revert 
 to the Signora Neroni, and he would make com- 
 parisons between her and Eleanor Bold, not 
 always in favour of the latter. The signora 
 had listened to him, and flattered him, and 
 believed in him ; at least she had told him so. 
 Mrs. Bold had also listened to him, but had 
 never flattered him ; had not always believed 
 in him : and now had broken from him in 
 violent rage. The signora, too, was the more 
 lovely woman of the two, and had also the
 
 472 Barchester Towers 
 
 additional attraction of her affliction ; for to him 
 it was an attraction. 
 
 But he never could have loved the Signora 
 Neroni as he felt that he now loved Eleanor ! 
 and so he flung stones into the brook, instead 
 of flinging in himself, and sat down on its 
 margin as sad a gentleman as you shall meet 
 in a summer's day. 
 
 He heard the dinner-bell ring from the church- 
 yard, and he knew that it was time to recover 
 his self-possession. He felt that he was dis- 
 gracing himself in his own eyes, that he had 
 been idling his time and neglecting the high 
 duties which he had taken upon himself to 
 perform. He should have spent this afternoon 
 among the poor at St. Ewold's, instead of 
 wandering about at Plumstead, an ancient 
 love-lorn swain, dejected and sighing, full of 
 imaginary sorrows and Wertherian grief. He 
 was thoroughly ashamed of himself, and deter- 
 mined to lose no time in retrieving his character, 
 so damaged in his own eyes. Thus when he 
 appeared at dinner he was as animated as ever, 
 and was the author of most of the conversation 
 which graced the archdeacon's board on that 
 evening. Mr. Harding was ill at ease and sick 
 at heart, and did not care to appear more com- 
 fortable than he really was ; what little he did 
 say was said to his daughter. He thought that 
 the archdeacon and Mr. Arabin had leagued 
 together against Eleanor's comfort; and his 
 wish now was to break away from the pair, 
 and undergo in his Barchester lodgings what- 
 ever Fate had in store for him. He hated the 
 name of the hospital; his attempt to regain
 
 Master and Tutor of Lazarus 473 
 
 his lost inheritance there had brought upon him 
 so much suffering. As far as he was concerned, 
 Mr. Quiverful was now welcome to the place. 
 
 And the archdeacon was not very lively. The 
 poor dean's illness was of course discussed in 
 the first place. Dr. Grantly did not mention 
 Mr. Slope's name in connexion with the ex- 
 pected event of Dr. Trefoil's death; he did 
 not wish to say anything about Mr. Slope just 
 at present, nor did he wish to make known 
 his sad surmises ; but the idea that his enemy 
 might possibly become Dean of Barchester 
 made him very gloomy. Should such an event 
 take place, such a dire catastrophe come about, 
 there would be an end to his life as far as his 
 life was connected with the city of Barchester. 
 He must give up all his old haunts, all his old 
 habits, and live quietly as a retired rector at 
 Plumstead. It had been a severe trial for him 
 to have Dr. Proudie in the palace ; but with 
 Mr. Slope also in the deanery, he felt that he 
 should be unable to draw his breath in Bar- 
 chester close. 
 
 Thus it came to pass that in spite of the 
 sorrow at his heart, Mr. Arabin was apparently 
 the gayest of the party. Both Mr. Harding 
 and Mrs. Grantly were in a slight degree angry 
 with him on account of his want of gloom. 
 To the one it appeared as though he were 
 triumphing at Eleanor's banishment, and to the 
 other that he was not affected as he should 
 have been by all the sad circumstances of the 
 day, Eleanor's obstinacy, Mr. Slope's success, 
 and the poor dean's apoplexy. And so they 
 were all at cross purposes.
 
 474 Barchester Towers 
 
 Mr. Harding left the room almost together 
 with the ladies, and then the archdeacon opened 
 his heart to Mr. Arabin. He still harped upon 
 the hospital. " What did that fellow mean," 
 said he, " by saying in his letter to Mrs. Bold, 
 that if Mr. Harding would call on the bishop 
 it would be all right ? Of course I would not 
 be guided by anything he might say ; but still 
 it may be well that Mr. Harding should see 
 the bishop. It would be foolish to let the 
 thing slip through our ringers because Mrs. 
 Bold is determined to make a fool of her- 
 self." 
 
 Mr. Arabin hinted that he was not quite so 
 sure that Mrs. Bold would make a fool of her- 
 self. He said that he was not convinced that 
 she did regard Mr. Slope so warmly as she was 
 supposed to do. The archdeacon questioned 
 and cross-questioned him about this, but elicited 
 nothing ; and at last remained firm in his own 
 conviction that he was destined, malgre lui, to 
 be the brother-in-law of Mr. Slope. Mr. Arabin 
 strongly advised that Mr. Harding should take 
 no step regarding the hospital in connexion with, 
 or in consequence of, Mr. Slope's letter. " If 
 the bishop really means to confer the appoint- 
 ment on Mr. Harding," argued Mr. Arabin, 
 " he will take care to let him have some other 
 intimation than a message conveyed through 
 a letter to a lady. Were Mr. Harding to pre- 
 sent himself at the palace he might merely be 
 playing Mr. Slope's game;" and thus it was 
 settled that nothing should be done till the 
 great Dr. Gwynne's arrival, or at any rate with- 
 out that potentate's sanction.
 
 Master and Tutor of Lazarus 475 
 
 It was droll to observe how these men talked 
 of Mr. Harding as though he were a puppet, 
 and planned their intrigues and small ecclesi- 
 astical manoeuvres in reference to Mr. Harding's 
 future position, without dreaming of taking him 
 into their confidence. There was a comfortable 
 house and income in question, and it was very 
 desirable, and certainly very just, that Mr. 
 Harding should have them but that, at present, 
 was not the main point; it was expedient to 
 beat the bishop, and if possible to smash Mr. 
 Slope. Mr. Slope had set 'up, or was supposed 
 to have set up, a rival candidate. Of all things 
 the most desirable would have been to have had 
 Mr. Quiverful's appointment published to the 
 public, and then annulled by the clamour of an 
 indignant world, loud in the defence of Mr. 
 Harding's rights. But of such an event the 
 chance was small ; a slight fraction only of the 
 world would be indignant, and that fraction 
 would be one not accustomed to loud speaking. 
 And then the preferment had in a sort of way 
 been offered to Mr. Harding, and had in a sort 
 of way been refused by him. 
 
 Mr. Slope's wicked, cunning hand had been 
 peculiarly conspicuous in the way in which this 
 had been brought to pass, and it was the success 
 of Mr. Slope's cunning which was so painfully 
 grating to the feelings of the archdeacon. That 
 which of all things he most dreaded was that he 
 should be out-generalled by Mr. Slope : and 
 just at present it appeared probable that Mr. 
 Slope would turn his flank, steal a march on 
 him, cut off his provisions, carry his strong 
 town by a coiip de main, and at last beat him
 
 476 Barchester Towers 
 
 thoroughly in a regular pitched battle. The 
 archdeacon felt that his flank had been turned 
 when desired to wait on Mr. Slope instead of 
 the bishop, that a march had been stolen 
 when Mr. Harding was induced to refuse the 
 bishop's offer, that his provisions would be cut 
 off when Mr. Quiverful got the hospital, that 
 Eleanor was the strong town doomed to be 
 taken, and that Mr. Slope, as Dean of Bar- 
 chester, would be regarded by all the world as 
 the conqueror in the final conflict. 
 
 Dr. Gwynne was the Deus ex machinfr who 
 was to come down upon the Barchester 
 stage, and bring about deliverance from these 
 terrible evils. But how can melodramatic 
 denotements be properly brought about, how 
 can vice and Mr. Slope be punished, and virtue 
 and the archdeacon be rewarded, while the 
 avenging god is laid up with the gout ? In the 
 mean time evil may be triumphant, and poor 
 innocence, transfixed to the earth by an arrow 
 from Dr. Proudie's quiver, may lie dead upon 
 the ground, not to be resuscitated even by Dr. 
 Gwynne. 
 
 Two or three days after Eleanor's departure, 
 Mr. Arabin went to Oxford, and soon found 
 himself closeted with the august head of his 
 college. It was quite clear that Dr. Gwynne 
 was not very sanguine as to the effects of his 
 journey to Barchester, and not over anxious to 
 interfere with the bishop. He had had the 
 gout, but was very nearly convalescent, and Mr. 
 Arabin at once saw that had the mission been 
 one of which the master thoroughly approved, 
 he would before this have been at Plumstead.
 
 Master and Tutor of Lazarus 477 
 
 As it was, Dr. Gwynne was resolved on 
 visiting his friend, and willingly promised to 
 return to Barchester with Mr. Arabin. He 
 could not bring himself to believe that there 
 was any probability that Mr. Slope would be 
 made Dean of Barchester. Rumour, he said, 
 had reached, even his ears, not at all favourable 
 to that gentleman's character, and he expressed 
 himself strongly of opinion that any such ap- 
 pointment was quite out of the question. At 
 this stage of the proceedings, the master's right- 
 hand man, Tom Staple, was called in to 
 assist at the conference. Tom Staple was the 
 Tutor of Lazarus, and moreover a great man at 
 Oxford. Though universally known by a species 
 of nomenclature so very undignified, Tom Staple 
 was one who maintained a high dignity in the 
 University. He was, as it were, the leader of 
 the Oxford tutors, a body of men who consider 
 themselves collectively as being by very little, 
 if at all, second in importance to the heads 
 themselves. It is not always the case that 
 the master, or warden, or provost, or principal 
 can hit it off exactly with his tutor. A tutor is 
 by no means indisposed to have a will of his 
 own. But at Lazarus they were great friends 
 and firm allies at the time of which we are 
 writing. 
 
 Tom Staple was a hale strong man of about 
 forty-five ; short in stature, swarthy in face, with 
 strong sturdy black hair, and crisp black beard, 
 of which very little was allowed to show itself in 
 shape of whiskers. He always wore a white 
 neckcloth, clean indeed, but not tied with that 
 scrupulous care which now distinguishes some
 
 478 Barchester Towers 
 
 of our younger clergy. He was, of course, 
 always clothed in a seemly suit of solemn black. 
 Mr. Staple was a decent cleanly liver, not over 
 addicted to any sensuality ; but nevertheless 
 a somewhat warmish hue was beginning to adorn 
 his nose, the peculiar effect, as his friends averred, 
 of a certain pipe of port, introduced into the 
 cellars of Lazarus the very same year in which 
 the tutor entered it as a freshman. There was 
 also, perhaps, a little redolence of port wine, as 
 it were the slightest possible twang, in Mr. 
 Staple's voice. 
 
 In these latter days Tom Staple was not a 
 happy man; University reform had long been 
 his bugbear, and now was his bane. It was not 
 with him as with most others, an affair of 
 politics, respecting which, when the need 
 existed, he could, for parties' sake or on behalf 
 of principle, maintain a certain amount of 
 necessary zeal; it was not with him a subject 
 for dilettante warfare, and courteous common- 
 place opposition. To him it was life and death. 
 The statu quo of the University was his only 
 idea of life, and any reformation was as bad to 
 him as death. He would willingly have been a 
 martyr in the cause, had the cause admitted of 
 martyrdom. 
 
 At the present day, unfortunately, public 
 affairs will allow of no martyrs, and therefore it 
 is that there is such a deficiency of zeal. Could 
 gentlemen of io,ooo/. a year have died on their 
 own doorsteps in defence of protection, no 
 doubt some half-dozen glorious old baronets 
 would have so fallen, and the school of protec- 
 tion would at this day have been crowded with
 
 Master and Tutor of Lazarus 479 
 
 scholars. Who can fight strenuously in any 
 combat in which there is no danger? Tom 
 Staple would have willingly been impaled before 
 a Committee of the House, could he by such 
 self-sacrifice have infused his own spirit into the 
 component members of the hebdomadal board. 
 
 Tom Staple was one of those who in his 
 heart approved of the credit system which had 
 of old been in vogue between the students and 
 tradesmen of the University. He knew and 
 acknowledged to himself that it was useless in 
 these degenerate days publicly to contend with 
 " The Jupiter " on such a subject. " The Jupiter " 
 had undertaken to rule the University, and Tom 
 Staple was well aware that " The Jupiter " was too 
 powerful for him. But in secret, and among 
 his safe companions, he would argue that the 
 system of credit was an ordeal good for young 
 men to undergo. 
 
 The bad men, said he, the weak and worth- 
 less, blunder into danger and burn their feet; 
 but the good men, they who have any character, 
 they who have that within them which can 
 reflect credit on their Alma Mater, they come 
 through scatheless. What merit will there be to 
 a young man to get through safely, if he be 
 guarded and protected and restrained like a 
 school-boy? By so doing, the period of the 
 ordeal is only postponed, and the manhood of 
 the man will be deferred from the age of twenty 
 to that of twenty-four. If you bind him with 
 leading-strings at college, he will break loose 
 while eating for the bar in London ; bind him 
 there, and he will break loose afterwards, when 
 he is a married man. The wild oats must be
 
 480 Barchester Towers 
 
 sown somewhere. 'T\vas thus that Tom Staple 
 would argue of young men ; not, indeed, with 
 much consistency, but still with some practical 
 knowledge of the subject gathered from long 
 experience. 
 
 And now Tom Staple proffered such wisdom 
 as he had for the assistance of Dr. Gwynne and 
 Mr. Arabin. 
 
 " Quite out of the question," said he, arguing 
 that Mr. Slope could not possibly be made the 
 new Dean of Barchester. 
 
 " So I think," said the master. " He has no 
 standing, and, if all I hear be true, very little 
 character." 
 
 " As to character," said Tom Staple, " I don't 
 think much of that. They rather like loose 
 parsons for deans ; a little fast living, or a dash 
 of infidelity, is no bad recommendation to a 
 cathedral close. But they couldn't make Mr. 
 Slope ; the last two deans have been Cambridge 
 men ; you'll not show me an instance of their 
 making three men running from the same 
 University. We don't get our share, and never 
 shall, I suppose but we must at least have one 
 out of three." 
 
 " Those sort of rules are all gone by now," 
 said Mr. Arabin. 
 
 " Everything has gone by, I believe," said 
 Tom Staple. "The cigar has been smoked 
 out, and we are the ashes." 
 
 " Speak for yourself, Staple," said the master. 
 
 " I speak for all," said the tutor, stoutly. 
 " It is coming to that, that there will be no life 
 left anywhere in the country. No one is any 
 longer fit to rule himself, or those belonging to
 
 Master and Tutor of Lazarus 48 1 
 
 him. The Government is to find us all in 
 everything, and the press is to find the Govern- 
 ment. Nevertheless, Mr. Slope won't be Dean 
 of Barchester." 
 
 " And who will be warden of the hospital ? " 
 said Mr. Arabin. 
 
 " I hear that Mr. Quiverful is already ap- 
 pointed," said Tom Staple. 
 
 " I think not," said the master. " And I 
 think, moreover, that Dr. Proudie will not be so 
 short-sighted as to run against such a rock : 
 Mr. Slope should himself have sense enough to 
 prevent it." 
 
 " But perhaps Mr. Slope may have no objec- 
 tion to see his patron on a rock," said the 
 suspicious tutor. 
 
 "What could he get by that?" asked Mr. 
 Arabin. 
 
 " It is impossible to see the doubles of such 
 a man," said Mr. Staple. " It seems quite clear 
 that Bishop Proudie is altogether in his hands, 
 and it is equally clear that he has been moving 
 heaven and earth to get this Mr. Quiverful into 
 the hospital, although he must know that such 
 an appointment would be most damaging to the 
 bishop. It is impossible to understand such a 
 man, and dreadful to think," added Tom Staple, 
 sighing deeply, "that the welfare and fortunes 
 of good men may depend on his intrigues." 
 
 Dr. Gwynne or Mr. Staple were not in the 
 least aware, nor even was Mr. Arabin, that this 
 Mr. Slope, of whom they were talking, had been 
 using his utmost efforts to put their own candi- 
 date into the hospital ; and that in lieu of being 
 permanent in the palace, his own expulsion 
 
 R
 
 482 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 therefrom had been already decided on by the 
 high powers of the diocese. 
 
 " I'll tell you what," said the tutor, " if this 
 Quiverful is thrust into the hospital and Dr. 
 Trefoil does die, I should not wonder if the 
 Government were to make Mr. Harding Dean 
 of Barchester. They would feel bound to do 
 something for him after all that was said when 
 he resigned." 
 
 Mr. Gwynne at the moment made no reply to 
 this suggestion ; but it did not the less impress 
 itself on his mind. If Mr. Harding could not 
 be warden of the hospital, why should he not be 
 Dean of Barchester ? 
 
 And so the conference ended without any 
 very fixed resolution, and Dr. Gwynne and Mr. 
 Arabin prepared for their journey to Plumstead 
 on the morrow. 
 
 '. r ';-'; -*t 5'.:?. ft ^[ili'-V. ,'i'ifii E; 3t " 
 
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 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 MISS THORNE'S FETE CHAMPETRE 
 
 THE day of the Ullathorne party arrived, and all 
 the world were there ; or at least so much of the 
 world as had been included in Miss Thome's 
 invitation. As we have said, the bishop re- 
 turned home on the previous evening, and on 
 the same evening, and by the same train, came 
 Dr. Gwynne and Mr. Arabin from Oxford. 
 The archdeacon with his brougham was in 
 waiting for the Master of Lazarus, so that there
 
 Miss Thome's Fete Champetre 483 
 
 was a goodly show of church dignitaries on the 
 platform of the railway. 
 
 The Stanhope party was finally arranged in the 
 odious manner already described, and Eleanor 
 got into the doctor's carriage full of apprehension 
 and presentiment of further misfortune, whereas 
 Mr. Slope entered the vehicle elate with triumph. 
 
 He had received that morning a very civil 
 note from Sir Nicholas Fitzwhiggin; not 
 promising much indeed ; but then Mr. Slope 
 knew, or fancied that he knew, that it was not 
 etiquette for government officers to make 
 promises. Though Sir Nicholas promised 
 nothing he implied a good deal; declared his 
 conviction that Mr. Slope would make an 
 excellent dean, and wished him every kind of 
 success. To be sure he added that, not being 
 in the cabinet, he was never consulted on such 
 matters, and that even if he spoke on the 
 subject his voice would go for nothing. But 
 all this Mr. Slope took for the prudent reserve 
 of official life. To complete his anticipated 
 triumphs, another letter was brought to him 
 just as he was about to start to Ullathorne. 
 
 Mr. Slope also enjoyed the idea of handing 
 Mrs. Bold out of Dr. Stanhope's carriage before 
 the multitude at Ullathorne gate, as much as 
 Eleanor dreaded the same ceremony. He had 
 fully made up his mind to throw himself and 
 his fortune at the widow's feet, and had almost 
 determined to select the present propitious 
 morning for doing so. The signora had of late 
 been less than civil to him. She had indeed 
 admitted his visits, and listened, at any rate 
 without anger, to his love; but she had
 
 4 8 4 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 tortured him and reviled him, jeered at him 
 and ridiculed him, while she allowed him to 
 call her the most beautiful of living women, to 
 kiss her hand, and to proclaim himself with 
 reiterated oaths her adorer, her slave, and 
 worshipper. 
 
 Miss Thorne was in great perturbation, yet in 
 great glory, on the morning of the gala day. 
 Mr. Thorne also, though the party was none of 
 his giving, had much heavy work on his hands. 
 But perhaps the most overtasked, the most 
 anxious, and the most effective of all the 
 Ullathorne household was Mr. Plomacy, the 
 steward. This last personage had, in the time 
 of Mr. Thome's father, when the Directory held 
 dominion in France, gone over to Paris with 
 letters in his boot heel for some of the royal 
 party; and such had been his good luck that 
 he had returned safe. He had then been very 
 young and was now very old, but the exploit 
 gave him a character for political enterprise and 
 secret discretion which still availed him as 
 thoroughly as it had done in its freshest gloss. 
 Mr. Plomacy had been steward of Ullathorne 
 for more than fifty years, and a very easy life 
 he had had of it. Who could require much abso- 
 lute work from a man who had carried safely at 
 his heel that which if discovered would have cost 
 him his head ? Consequently Mr. Plomacy 
 had never worked hard, and of latter years had 
 never worked at all. He had a taste for timber, 
 and therefore he marked the trees that were to 
 be cut down ; he had a taste for gardening, and 
 would therefore allow no shrub to be planted or 
 bed to be made without his express sanction.
 
 Miss Thome's Fete Champetre 485 
 
 In these matters he was sometimes driven to 
 run counter to his mistress, but he rarely 
 allowed his mistress to carry the point against 
 him. 
 
 But on occasions such as the present Mr. 
 Plomacy came out strong. He had the honour 
 of the family at heart ; he thoroughly appreci- 
 ated the duties of hospitality ; and therefore, 
 when gala doings were going on, always took 
 the management into his own hands and reigned 
 supreme over master and mistress. 
 
 To give Mr. Plomacy his due, old as he was, 
 he thoroughly understood such work as he had 
 in hand, and did it well. 
 
 The order of the day was to be as follows. 
 The quality, as the upper classes in rural districts 
 are designated by the lower with so much true 
 discrimination, were to eat a breakfast, and the 
 non-quality were to eat a dinner. Two marquees 
 had been erected for these two banquets, that 
 for the quality on the esoteric or garden side of 
 a certain deep ha-ha ; and that for the non- 
 quality on the exoteric or paddock side of the 
 same. Both were of huge dimensions ; that on 
 the outer side was, one may say, on an egregious 
 scale ; but Mr. Plomacy declared that neither 
 would be sufficient. To remedy this, an 
 auxiliary banquet was prepared in the dining- 
 room, and a subsidiary board was to be spread 
 sub dio for the accommodation of the lower class 
 of yokels on the Ullathorne property. 
 
 No one who has not had a hand in the 
 preparation of such an affair can understand 
 the manifold difficulties which Miss Thorne 
 encountered in her project. Had she not been
 
 486 Barchester Towers 
 
 made throughout of the very finest whalebone, 
 riveted with the best Yorkshire steel, she must 
 have sunk under them. Had not Mr. Plomacy 
 felt how much was justly expected from a man 
 who at one time carried the destinies of Europe 
 in his boot, he would have given way ; and his 
 mistress, so deserted, must have perished among 
 her poles and canvas. 
 
 In the first place there was a dreadful line to 
 be drawn. Who were to dispose themselves 
 within the ha-ha, and who without? To this 
 the unthinking will give an off-hand answer, as 
 they will to every ponderous question. Oh, the 
 bishop and such like within the ha-ha ; and 
 Farmer Greenacre and such like without. 
 True, my unthinking friend; but who shall 
 define these such-likes ? It is in such definitions 
 that the whole difficulty of society consists. To 
 seat the bishop on an arm chair on the lawn and 
 place Farmer Greenacre at the end of a long 
 table in the paddock is easy enough ; but where 
 will you put Mrs. Lookaloft, whose husband, 
 though a tenant on the estate, hunts in a red coat, 
 whose daughters go to a fashionable seminary 
 in Barchester, who calls her farm house Rose- 
 bank, and who has a pianoforte in her drawing- 
 room ? The Misses Lookaloft, as they call 
 themselves, won't sit contented among the 
 bumpkins. Mrs. Lookaloft won't squeeze her 
 fine clothes on a bench and talk familiarly about 
 cream and ducklings to good Mrs. Greenacre. 
 And yet Mrs. Lookaloft is no fit companion and 
 never has been the associate of the Thornes and 
 the Grantlys. And if Mrs. Lookaloft be 
 admitted within the sanctum of fashionable life,
 
 Miss Thome's Fete Champetre 487 
 
 if she be allowed with her three daughters to 
 leap the ha-ha, why not the wives and daughters 
 of other families also? Mrs. Greenacre is at 
 present well contented with the paddock, but 
 she might cease to be so if she saw Mrs. Look- 
 aloft on the lawn. And thus poor Miss Thome 
 had a hard time of it. 
 
 And how was she to divide her guests between 
 the marquee and the parlour? She had a 
 countess coming, an Honourable John and an 
 Honourable George, and a whole bevy of Ladies 
 Amelia, Rosina, Margaretta, &c. ; she had a 
 leash of baronets with their baronnettes ; and, 
 as we all know, she had a bishop. If she put 
 them on the lawn, no one would go into the 
 parlour; if she put them into the parlour, no 
 one would go into the tent She thought of 
 keeping the old people in the house, and leaving 
 the lawn to the lovers. She might as well have 
 seated herself at once in a hornet's nest. Mr. 
 Plomacy knew better than this. " Bless your 
 soul, Ma'am," said he, " there won't be no old 
 ladies ; not one, barring yourself and old Mrs. 
 Clantantram." 
 
 Personally Miss Thorne accepted this dis- 
 tinction in her favour as a compliment to her 
 good sense ; but nevertheless she had no desire 
 to be closeted on the coming occasion with Mrs. 
 Clantantram. She gave up all idea of any arbi- 
 trary division of her guests, and determined if 
 possible to put the bishop on the lawn and the 
 countess in the house, to sprinkle the baronets, 
 and thus divide the attractions. What to do with 
 the Lookalofts even Mr. Plomacy could not 
 decide. They must take their chance. They
 
 had been specially told in the invitation that all 
 the tenants had been invited ; and they might 
 probably have the good sense to stay away if 
 they objected to mix with the rest of the 
 tenantry. 
 
 Then Mr. Plomacy declared his apprehension 
 that the Honourable Johns and Honourable 
 Georges would come in a sort of amphibious 
 costume, half morning, half evening, satin neck- 
 handkerchiefs, frock coats, primrose gloves, and 
 polished boots ; and that, being so dressed, they 
 would decline riding at the quintain, or taking 
 part in any of the athletic games which Miss 
 Thorne had prepared with so much fond care. 
 If the Lord Johns and Lord Georges didn't ride 
 at the quintain, Miss Thorne might be sure that 
 nobody else would. 
 
 "But," said she, in dolorous voice, all but 
 overcome by her cares ; " it was specially 
 signified that there were to be sports." 
 
 "And so there will be, of course," said Mr. 
 Plomacy. "They'll all be sporting with the 
 young ladies in the laurel walks. Them's the 
 sports they care most about now-a-days. If 
 you gets the young men at the quintain, you'll 
 have all the young women in the pouts." 
 
 " Can't they look on, as their great grand- 
 mothers did before them ? " said Miss Thorne. 
 
 " It seems to me that the ladies ain't con- 
 tented with looking now-a-days. Whatever the 
 men do they'll do. If you'll have side saddles 
 on the nags, and let them go at the quintain too, 
 it'll answer capital, no doubt." 
 
 Miss Thorne made no reply. She felt that 
 she had no good ground on which to defend
 
 Miss Thome's Fete Champetre 489 
 
 her sex of the present generation from the 
 sarcasm of Mr. Plomacy. She had once de- 
 clared, in one of her warmer moments, " that 
 now-a-days the gentlemen were all women, and 
 the ladies all men." She could not alter the 
 debased character of the age. But, such being 
 the case, why should she take on herself to 
 cater for the amusement of people of such 
 degraded tastes ? This question she asked 
 herself more than once, and she could only 
 answer herself with a sigh. There was her 
 own brother Wilfred, on whose shoulders rested 
 all the ancient honours of Ullathorne house ; 
 it was very doubtful whether even he would 
 consent to " go at the quintain," as Mr. Plomacy 
 not injudiciously expressed it. 
 
 And now the morning arrived. The Ulla- 
 thorne household was early on the move. 
 Cooks were cooking in the kitchen long before 
 daylight, and men were dragging out tables and 
 hammering red baize on to benches at the 
 earliest dawn. With what dread eagerness did 
 Miss Thorne look out at the weather as soon 
 as the parting veil of night permitted her to 
 look at all ! In this respect at any rate there 
 was nothing to grieve her. The glass had been 
 rising for the last three days, and the morning 
 broke with that dull chill steady grey haze which 
 in autumn generally presages a clear and dry 
 day. By seven she was dressed and down. 
 Miss Thorne knew nothing of the modern 
 luxury of deshabilles. She would as soon have 
 thought of appearing before her brother without 
 her stockings as without her stays ; and Miss 
 Thome's stays were no trifle.
 
 490 Barchester Towers 
 
 And yet there was nothing for her to do when 
 down. She fidgeted out to the lawn, and then 
 back into the kitchen. She put on her high- 
 heeled clogs, and fidgeted out into the paddock. 
 Then she went into the small home park where 
 the quintain was erected. The pole and cross 
 bar and the swivel, and the target and the bag 
 of flour were all complete. She got up on a 
 carpenter's bench and touched the target with 
 her hand ; it went round with beautiful ease ; 
 the swivel had been oiled to perfection. She 
 almost wished to take old Plomacy at his word, 
 to get on a side saddle and have a tilt at it 
 herself. What must a young man be, thought 
 she, who could prefer maundering among laurel 
 trees with a wishy-washy school girl to such fun 
 as this ? " Well," said she aloud to herself, 
 " one man can take a horse to water, but a 
 thousand can't make him drink. There it is. 
 If they haven't the spirit to enjoy it, the fault 
 shan't be mine;" and so she returned to the 
 house. 
 
 At a little after eight her brother came down, 
 and they had a sort of scrap breakfast in his 
 study. The tea was made without the custom- 
 ary urn, and they dispensed with the usual rolls 
 and toast. Eggs also were missing, for every 
 egg in the parish had been whipped into 
 custards, baked into pies, or boiled into lobster 
 salad. The allowance of fresh butter was short, 
 and Mr. Thorne was obliged to eat the leg of a 
 fowl without having it devilled in the manner 
 he loved. 
 
 " I have been looking at the quintain, Wilfred," 
 said she, " and it appears to be quite right."
 
 Miss Thome's Fete Champetre 491 
 
 " Oh, ah ; yes ; " said he. " It seemed to 
 be so yesterday when I saw it." Mr. Thorne 
 was beginning to be rather bored by his sister's 
 love of sports, and had especially no affection 
 for this quintain post. 
 
 " I wish you'd just try it after breakfast," said 
 she. " You could have the saddle, put on Mark 
 Antony, and the pole is there all handy. You 
 can take the flour bag off, you know, if you 
 think Mark Antony won't be quick enough," 
 added Miss Thorne, seeing that her brother's 
 countenance was not indicative of complete 
 accordance with her little proposition. 
 
 Now Mark Antony was a valuable old hunter, 
 excellently suited to Mr. Thome's usual require- 
 ments, steady indeed at his fences, but extremely 
 sure, very good in deep ground, and safe on 
 the roads. But he had never yet been ridden 
 at a quintain, and Mr. Thorne was not inclined 
 to put him to the trial, either with or without 
 the bag of flour. He hummed and hawed, and 
 finally declared that he was afraid Mark Antony 
 would shy. 
 
 "Then try the cob," said the indefatigable 
 Miss Thorne. 
 
 " He's in physic," said Wilfred. 
 
 " There's the Beelzebub colt," said his sister ; 
 " I know he's in the stable, because I saw Peter 
 exercising him just now." 
 
 " My dear Monica, he's so wild, that it's as 
 much as I can do to manage him at all. He'd 
 destroy himself and me too, if I attempted to 
 ride him at such a rattletrap as that." 
 
 A rattletrap ! The quintain that she had put 
 up with so much anxious care ; the game that
 
 492 Barchester Towers 
 
 she had prepared for the amusement of the stal- 
 wart yeomen of the country ; the sport that had 
 been honoured by the affection of so many of 
 their ancestors ! It cut her to the heart to hear 
 it so denominated by her own brother. There 
 were but the two of them left together in the 
 world ; and it had ever been one of the rules by 
 which Miss Thome had regulated her conduct 
 through life, to say nothing that could provoke 
 her brother. She had often had to suffer from his 
 indifference to time-honoured British customs; 
 but she, had always suffered in silence. It was 
 part of her creed that the head of the family 
 should never be upbraided in his own house ; and 
 Miss Thorne had lived up to her creed. Now, 
 however, she was greatly tried. The colour 
 mounted to her ancient cheek, and the fire blazed 
 in her still bright eye ; but yet she said nothing. 
 She resolved that at any rate, to him nothing 
 more should be said about the quintain that 
 day. 
 
 She sipped her tea in silent sorrow, and 
 thought with painful regret of the glorious days 
 when her great ancestor Ealfried had success- 
 fully held Ullathorne against a Norman invader. 
 There was no such spirit now left in her family 
 except that small useless spark which burnt 
 in her own bosom. And she herself, was not 
 she at this moment intent on entertaining a de- 
 scendant of those very Normans, a vain proud 
 countess with a frenchified name, who would 
 only think that she graced Ullathorne too highly 
 by entering its portals? Was it likely that an 
 honourable John, the son of an Earl De Courcy, 
 should ride at a quintain in company with Saxon
 
 Miss Thome's Fete Champ^tre 493 
 
 yeomen ? And why should she expect her 
 brother to do that which her brother's guests 
 would decline to do ? 
 
 Some dim faint idea of the impracticability of 
 her own views flitted across her brain. Perhaps 
 it was necessary that races doomed to live on 
 the same soil should give way to each other, and 
 adopt each other's pursuits. Perhaps it was 
 impossible that after more than five centuries 
 of close intercourse, Normans should remain 
 Normans, and Saxons, Saxons. Perhaps after 
 all her neighbours were wiser than herself. Such 
 ideas did occasionally present themselves to 
 Miss Thome's mind, and make her sad enough. 
 But it never occurred to her that her favourite 
 quintain was but a modern copy of a Norman 
 knight's amusement, an adaptation of the noble 
 tourney to the tastes and habits of the Saxon 
 yeomen. Of this she was ignorant, and it would 
 have been cruelty to instruct her. 
 
 When Mr. Thorne saw the tear in her eye, he 
 repented himself of his contemptuous expression. 
 By him also it was recognised as a binding law 
 that every whim of his sister was to be respected. 
 He was not perhaps so firm in his observances 
 to her, as she was in hers to him. But his in- 
 tentions were equally good, and whenever he 
 found that he had forgotten them it was matter 
 of grief to him. 
 
 " My dear Monica," said he, " I beg your 
 pardon ; I don't in the least mean to speak ill 
 of the game. When I called it a rattletrap, I 
 merely meant that it was so for a man of my 
 age. You know you always forget that I an't a 
 young man."
 
 494 Barchester Towers 
 
 "I am quite sure you are not an old man, 
 Wilfred," said she, accepting the apology in her 
 heart, and smiling at him with the tear still on 
 her cheek. 
 
 " If I was five-and-twenty, or thirty," continued 
 he, " I should like nothing better than riding at 
 the quintain all day." 
 
 " But you are not too old to hunt or shoot," 
 said she. " If you can jump over a ditch and 
 hedge I am sure you could turn the quintain 
 round." 
 
 " But when I ride over the hedges, my dear 
 and it isn't very often I do that but when I 
 do ride over the hedges there isn't any bag of 
 flour coming after me. Think how I'd look 
 taking the countess out to breakfast with the 
 back of my head all covered with meal." 
 
 Miss Thorne said nothing further. She didn't 
 like the allusion to the countess. She couldn't 
 be satisfied with the reflection that the sports of 
 Ullathorne should be interfered with by the per- 
 sonal attentions necessary for a Lady De Courcy. 
 But she saw that it was useless for her to push 
 the matter further. It was conceded that Mr. 
 Thorne was to be spared the quintain ; and Miss 
 Thorne determined to trust wholly to a youthful 
 knight of hers, an immense favourite, who, as 
 she often declared, was a pattern to the young 
 men of the age, and an excellent sample of an 
 English yeoman. 
 
 This was Farmer Greenacre's eldest son; 
 who, to tell the truth, had from his earliest years 
 taken the exact measure of Miss Thome's foot. 
 In his boyhood he had never failed to obtain 
 from her, apples, pocket money, and forgiveness
 
 Miss Thome's Fete Champetre 495 
 
 for his numerous trespasses ; and now in his 
 early manhood he got privileges and immunities 
 which were equally valuable. He was allowed 
 a day or two's shooting in September; he 
 schooled the squire's horses ; got slips of trees 
 out of the orchard, and roots of flowers out of 
 the garden; and had the fishing of the little 
 river altogether in his own hands. He had 
 undertaken to come mounted on a nag of his 
 father's, and show the way at the quintain post. 
 Whatever young Greenacre did the others would 
 do after him. The juvenile Lookalofts might 
 stand aloof, but the rest of the youth of Ullathorne 
 would be sure to venture if Harry Greenacre 
 showed the way. And so Miss Thorne made 
 up her mind to dispense with the noble Johns 
 and Georges, and trust, as her ancestors had 
 done before her, to the thews and sinews of 
 native Ullathorne growth. 
 
 At about nine the lower orders began to con- 
 gregate in the paddock and park, under the 
 surveillance of Mr. Plomacy and the head 
 gardener and head groom, who were sworn in 
 as his deputies, and were to assist him in keeping 
 the peace and promoting the sports. Many of 
 the younger inhabitants of the neighbourhood, 
 thinking that they could not have too much of 
 a good thing, had come at a very early hour, 
 and the road between the house and the church 
 had been thronged for some time before the 
 gates were thrown open. 
 
 And then another difficulty of huge dimensions 
 arose, a difficulty which Mr. Plomacy had indeed 
 foreseen and for which he was in some sort pro- 
 vided. Some of those who wished to share Miss
 
 49 6 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 Thome's hospitality were not so particular as 
 they should have been as to the preliminary 
 ceremony of an invitation. They doubtless 
 conceived that they had been overlooked by 
 accident ; and instead of taking this in dudgeon, 
 as their betters would have done, they good- 
 naturedly put up with the slight, and showed 
 that they did so by presenting themselves at the 
 gate in their Sunday best. 
 
 Mr. Plomacy, however, well knew who were 
 welcome and who were not. To some, even 
 though uninvited, he allowed ingress. " Don't 
 be too particular, Plomacy," his mistress had 
 said; "especially with the children. If they 
 live anywhere near, let them in." 
 
 Acting on this hint, Mr. Plomacy did let in 
 many an eager urchin, and a few tidily dressed 
 girls with their swains, who in no way belonged 
 to the property. But to the denizens of the 
 city he was inexorable. Many a Barchester 
 apprentice made his appearance there that day, 
 and urged with piteous supplication that he had 
 been working all the week in making saddles 
 and boots for the use of Ullathorne, in com- 
 pounding doses for the horses, or cutting up 
 carcases for the kitchen. No such claim was 
 allowed. Mr. Plomacy knew nothing about the 
 city apprentices; he was to admit the tenants 
 and labourers on the estate; Miss Thorne 
 wasn't going to take in the whole city of Bar- 
 chester ; and so on. 
 
 Nevertheless, before the day was half over, all 
 this was found to be useless. Almost anybody 
 who chose to come made his way into the park, 
 and the care of the guardians was transferred to
 
 Ullathorne Sports. Act I 497 
 
 the tables on which the banquet was spread. 
 Even here there was many an unauthorised 
 claimant for a place, of whom it was impossible 
 to get quit without more commotion than the 
 place and food were worth. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 ULLATHORNE SPORTS. ACT I 
 
 THE trouble in civilised life of entertaining 
 company, as it is called too generally without 
 much regard to strict veracity, is so great that 
 it cannot but be matter of wonder that people 
 are so fond of attempting it. It is difficult to 
 ascertain what is the quid pro quo. If they who 
 give such laborious parties, and who endure 
 such toil and turmoil in the vain hope of giving 
 them successfully, really enjoyed the parties 
 given by others, the matter could be understood. 
 A sense of justice would induce men and women 
 to undergo, in behalf of others, those miseries 
 which others had undergone in their behalf. 
 But they all profess that going out is as great a 
 bore as receiving ; and to look at them when 
 they are out, one cannot but believe them. 
 
 Entertain ! Who shall have sufficient self- 
 assurance, who shall feel sufficient confidence in 
 his own powers to dare to boast that he can enter- 
 tain his company? A clown can sometimes do 
 so, and sometimes a dancer in short petticoats 
 and stuffed pink legs; occasionally, perhaps, a
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 singer. But beyond these, success in this art of 
 entertaining is not often achieved. Young men 
 and girls linking themselves kind with kind, 
 pairing like birds in spring because nature wills 
 it, they, after a simple fashion, do entertain each 
 other. Few others even try. 
 
 Ladies, when they open their houses, modestly 
 confessing, it may be presumed, their own 
 incapacity, mainly trust to wax candles and 
 upholstery. Gentlemen seem to rely on their 
 white waistcoats. To these are added, for the 
 delight of the more sensual, champagne and such 
 good things of the table as fashion allows to be 
 still considered as comestible. Even in this 
 respect the world is deteriorating. All the good 
 soups are now tabooed; and at the houses of 
 one's accustomed friends, small banisters, 
 doctors, government clerks, and such like (for 
 we cannot all of us always live as grandees, 
 surrounded by an elysium of livery servants), 
 one gets a cold potato handed to one as a sort 
 of finale to one's slice of mutton. Alas ! for those 
 happy days when one could say to one's neigh- 
 bourhood, " Jones, shall I give you some mashed 
 turnip ? may I trouble you for a little cabbage?" 
 And then the pleasure of drinking wine with 
 Mrs. Jones and Miss Smith ; with all the Joneses 
 and all the Smiths ! These latter-day habits are 
 certainly more economical. 
 
 Miss Thorne, however, boldly attempted to 
 leave the modern beaten track, and made a 
 positive effort to entertain her guests. Alas ! 
 she did so with but moderate success. They 
 had all their own way of going, and would not 
 go her way. She piped to them, but they would
 
 Ullathorne Sports. Act I 499 
 
 not dance. She offered to them good honest 
 household cake, made of currants and flour and 
 eggs and sweetmeat ; but they would feed them- 
 selves on trashy wafers from the shop of the 
 Barchester pastry-cook, on chalk and gum and 
 adulterated sugar. Poor Miss Thorne ! yours 
 is not the first honest soul that has vainly striven 
 to recall the glories of happy days gone by ! 
 If fashion suggests to a Lady De Courcy that 
 when invited to a dejeuner at twelve she ought 
 to come at three, no eloquence of thine will 
 teach her the advantage of a nearer approach 
 to punctuality. 
 
 She had fondly thought that when she called 
 on her friends to come at twelve, and specially 
 begged them to believe that she meant it, she 
 would be able to see them comfortably seated 
 in their tents at two. Vain woman or rather 
 ignorant woman ignorant of the advances of 
 that civilisation which the world had witnessed 
 while she was growing old. At twelve she 
 found herself alone, dressed in all the glory of 
 the newest of her many suits of raiment; with 
 strong shoes however, and a serviceable bonnet 
 on her head, and a warm rich shawl on her 
 shoulders. Thus clad she peered out into the 
 tent, went to the ha-ha, and satisfied herself that 
 at any rate the youngsters were amusing them- 
 selves, spoke a word to Mrs. Greenacre over the 
 ditch, and took one look at the quintain. Three 
 or four young farmers were turning the machine 
 round and round, and poking at the bag of flour 
 in a manner not at all intended by the inventor 
 of the game; but no mounted sportsmen were 
 there. Miss Thorne looked at her watch. It
 
 500 Barchester Towers 
 
 was only fifteen minutes past twelve, and it was 
 understood that Harry Greenacre was not to 
 begin till the half hour. 
 
 Miss Thorne returned to her drawing-room 
 rather quicker than was her wont, fearing that 
 the countess might come and find none to 
 welcome her. She need not have hurried, for no 
 one was there. At half-past twelve she peeped 
 into the kitchen ; at a quarter to one she was 
 joined by her brother; and just then the first 
 fashionable arrival took place. Mrs. Clantan- 
 tram was announced. 
 
 No announcement was necessary, indeed; 
 for the good lady's voice was heard as she 
 walked across the court-yard to the house 
 scolding the unfortunate postilion who had 
 driven her from Barchester. At the moment, 
 Miss Thorne could not but be thankful that the 
 other guests were more fashionable, and were 
 thus spared the fury of Mrs. Clantantram's 
 indignation. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Thorne, look here ! " said she, as 
 soon as she found herself in the drawing-room ; 
 " do look at my roquelaure ! It's clean 
 spoilt, and for ever. I wouldn't but wear it 
 because I knew you wished us all to be grand 
 to-day; and yet I had my misgivings. Oh 
 dear, oh dear ! It was five-and-twenty shillings 
 a yard." 
 
 The Barchester post horses had misbehaved 
 in some unfortunate manner just as Mrs. Clan- 
 tantram was getting out of the chaise, and had 
 nearly thrown her under the wheel. 
 
 Mrs. Clantantram belonged to other days, 
 and therefore, though she had but little else to
 
 Ullathorne Sports. Act I 501 
 
 recommend her, Miss Thome was to a certain 
 extent fond of her. She sent the roquelaure 
 away to be cleaned, and lent her one of her 
 best shawls out of her own wardrobe. 
 
 The next comer was Mr. Arabin, who was 
 immediately informed of Mrs. Clantantram's 
 misfortune, and of her determination to pay 
 neither master nor post-boy; although, as she 
 remarked, she intended to get her lift home 
 before she made known her mind upon that 
 matter. Then a good deal of rustling was heard 
 in the sort of lobby that was used for the ladies' 
 outside cloaks; and the door having been 
 thrown wide open, the servant announced, not 
 in the most confident of voices, Mrs. Lookaloft, 
 and the Miss Lookalofts, and Mr. Augustus 
 Lookaloft. 
 
 Poor man ! we mean the footman. He 
 knew, none better, that Mrs. Lookaloft had no 
 business there, that she was not wanted there, 
 and would not be welcome. But he had not 
 the courage to tell a stout lady with a low dress, 
 short sleeves, and satin at eight shillings a yard, 
 that she had come to the wrong tent ; he had 
 not dared to hint to young ladies with white 
 dancing shoes and long gloves, that there was a 
 place ready for them in the paddock. And thus 
 Mrs. Lookaloft carried her point, broke through 
 the guards, and made her way into the citadel. 
 That she would have to pass an uncomfortable 
 time there, she had surmised before. But 
 nothing now could rob her of the power of 
 boasting that she had consorted on the lawn 
 with the squire and Miss Thome, with a 
 countess, a bishop, and the county grandees,
 
 502 Barchester Towers 
 
 while Mrs. Greenacre and such like were 
 walking about with the ploughboys in the park. 
 It was a great point gained by Mrs. Lookaloft, 
 and it might be fairly expected that from this 
 time forward the tradesmen of Barchester would, 
 with undoubting pens, address her husband as 
 T. Lookaloft, Esquire. 
 
 Mrs. Lookaloft's pluck carried her through 
 everything, and she walked triumphant into the 
 Ullathome drawing-room ; but her children did 
 feel a little abashed at the sort of reception they 
 met with. It was not in Miss Thome's heart 
 to insult her own guests ; but neither was it in 
 her disposition to overlook such effrontery. 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Lookaloft, is this you," said she ; 
 "and your daughters and son? Well, we're 
 very glad to see you; but I'm sorry you've 
 come in such low dresses, as we are all going 
 out of doors. Could we lend you anything ? " 
 
 " Oh dear no ! thank ye, Miss Thorne," said 
 the mother; "the girls and myself are quite 
 used to low dresses, when we're out." 
 
 "Are you, indeed?" said Miss Thorne 
 shuddering ; but the shudder was lost on Mrs. 
 Lookaloft. 
 
 "And where's Lookaloft?" said the master 
 of the house, coming up to welcome his tenant's 
 wife. Let the faults of the family be what they 
 would, he could not but remember that their 
 rent was well paid ; he was therefore not willing 
 to give them a cold shoulder. 
 
 " Such a headache, Mr. Thorne ! " said Mrs. 
 Lookaloft. " In fact, he couldn't stir, or you 
 may be certain on such a day he would not 
 have absented hisself."
 
 Ullathorne Sports. Act I 503 
 
 " Dear me," said Miss Thorne. " If he is so 
 ill, I'm sure you'd wish to be with him." 
 
 " Not at all ! " said Mrs. Lookaloft. " Not 
 at all, Miss Thorne. It is only bilious, you 
 know, and when he's that way he can bear 
 nobody nigh him." 
 
 The fact however was that Mr. Lookaloft, 
 having either more sense or less courage than 
 his wife, had not chosen to intrude on Miss 
 Thome's drawing-room ; and as he could not 
 very well have gone among the plebeians while 
 his wife was with the patricians, he thought it 
 most expedient to remain at Rosebank. 
 
 Mrs. Lookaloft soon found herself on a sofa, 
 and the Miss Lookalofts on two chairs, while 
 Mr. Augustus stood near the door; and here 
 they remained till in due time they were seated 
 all four together at the bottom of the dining- 
 room table. 
 
 Then the Grantlys came; the archdeacon 
 and Mrs. Grantly and the two girls, and Dr. 
 Gwynne and Mr. Harding; and as ill luck 
 would have it, they were closely followed by 
 Dr. Stanhope's carriage. As Eleanor looked 
 out of the carriage window, she saw her brother- 
 in-law helping the ladies out, and threw herself 
 back into her seat, dreading to be discovered. 
 She had had an odious journey. Mr. Slope's 
 civility had been more than ordinarily greasy ; 
 and now, though he had not in fact said any- 
 thing which she could notice, she had for the 
 first time entertained a suspicion that he was 
 intending to make love to her. Was it after all 
 true that she had been conducting herself in a 
 way that justified the world in thinking that she
 
 504 Barchester Towers 
 
 liked the man ? After all, could it be possible 
 that the archdeacon and Mr. Arabin were right, 
 and that she was wrong? Charlotte Stanhope 
 had also been watching Mr. Slope, and had 
 come to the conclusion that it behoved her 
 brother to lose no further time, if he meant to 
 gain the widow. She almost regretted that 
 it had not been contrived that Bertie should be 
 at Ullathorne before them. 
 
 Dr. Grantly did not see his sister-in-law in 
 company with Mr. Slope, but Mr. Arabin did. 
 Mr. Arabin came out with Mr. Thome to the 
 front door to welcome Mrs. Grantly, and he 
 remained in the courtyard till all their party 
 had passed on. Eleanor hung back in the 
 carriage as long as she well could, but she was 
 nearest to the door, and when Mr. Slope, 
 having alighted, offered her his hand, she had 
 no alternative but to take it. Mr. Arabin, 
 standing at the open door while Mrs. Grantly 
 was shaking hands with some one within, saw a 
 clergyman alight from the carriage whom he at 
 once knew to be Mr. Slope, and then he saw 
 this clergyman hand out Mrs. Bold. Having 
 seen so much, Mr. Arabin, rather sick at heart, 
 followed Mrs. Grantly into the house. 
 
 Eleanor was, however, spared any further 
 immediate degradation, for Dr. Stanhope gave 
 her his arm across the courtyard, and Mr. Slope 
 was fain to throw away his attention upon 
 Charlotte. 
 
 They had hardly passed into the house, and 
 from the house to the lawn, when, with a loud 
 rattle and such noise as great men and great 
 women are entitled to make in their passage
 
 Ullathorne Sports. Act I 505 
 
 through the world, the Proudies drove up. It was 
 soon apparent that no every-day comer was at the 
 door. One servant whispered to another that it 
 was the bishop, and the word soon ran through 
 all the hangers-on and strange grooms and 
 coachmen about the place. There was quite a 
 little cortege to see the bishop and his " lady " 
 walk across the courtyard, and the good man 
 was pleased to see that the church was held in 
 such respect in the parish of St. Ewold's. 
 
 And now the guests came fast and thick, and 
 the lawn began to be crowded, and the room to 
 be full. Voices buzzed, silk rustled against silk, 
 and muslin crumpled against muslin. Miss 
 Thorne became more happy than she had been, 
 and again bethought her of her sports. There 
 were targets and bows and arrows prepared at 
 the further end of the lawn. Here the gardens 
 of the place encroached with a somewhat wide 
 sweep upon the paddock, and gave ample room 
 for the doings of the toxophilites. Miss Thorne 
 got together such daughters of Diana as could 
 bend a bow, and marshalled them to the targets. 
 There were the Grantly girls and the Proudie 
 girls and the Chadwick girls, and the two 
 daughters of the burly chancellor, and Miss 
 Knowle ; and with them went Frederick and 
 Augustus Chadwick, and young Knowle of 
 Knowle park, and Frank Foster of the Elms, 
 and Mr. Vellem Deeds the dashing attorney of 
 the High Street, and the Rev. Mr. Green, and 
 the Rev. Mr. Brown, and the Rev. Mr. White, 
 all of whom, as in duty bound, attended the 
 steps of the three Miss Proudies. 
 
 "Did you ever ride at the quintain, Mr.
 
 506 Barchester Towers 
 
 Foster ? " said Miss Thorne, as she walked with 
 her party, across the lawn. 
 
 " The quintain ? " said young Foster, who 
 considered himself a dab at horsemanship. " Is 
 it a sort of gate, Miss Thorne ? " 
 
 Miss Thome had to explain the noble game 
 she spoke of, and Frank Foster had to own that 
 he never had ridden at the quintain. 
 
 " Would you like to come and see ? " said 
 Miss Thorne. " There'll be plenty here without 
 you, if you like it." 
 
 " Well, I don't mind," said Frank ; "I suppose 
 the ladies can come too." 
 
 "Oh yes," said Miss Thorne; "those who 
 like it ; I have no doubt they'll go to see your 
 prowess, if you'll ride, Mr. Foster." 
 
 Mr. Foster looked down at a most unex- 
 ceptionable pair of pantaloons, which had 
 arrived from London only the day before. 
 They were the very things, at least he thought 
 so, for a picnic or fete champetre ; but he was 
 not prepared to ride in them. Nor was he 
 more encouraged than had been Mr. Thorne, 
 by the idea of being attacked from behind by 
 the bag of flour which Miss Thorne had graphi- 
 cally described to him. 
 
 "Well, I don't know about riding, Miss 
 Thorne," said he ; "I fear I'm not quite 
 prepared." 
 
 Miss Thorne sighed, but said nothing further. 
 She left the toxophilites to their bows and 
 arrows, and returned towards the house. But 
 as she passed by the entrance to the small park, 
 she thought that she might at any rate encourage 
 the yeomen by her presence, as she could not
 
 Ullathorne Sports. Act I 507 
 
 induce her more fashionable guests to mix with 
 them in their manly amusements. Accordingly 
 she once more betook herself to the quintain post. 
 
 Here to her great delight she found Harry 
 Greenacre ready mounted, with his pole in his 
 hand, and a lot of comrades standing round 
 him, encouraging him to the assault. She stood 
 at a little distance and nodded to him in token 
 of her good pleasure. 
 
 " Shall I begin, ma'am ? " said Harry, finger- 
 ing his long staff in a rather awkward way, while 
 his horse moved uneasily beneath him, not 
 accustomed to a rider armed with such a 
 weapon. 
 
 " Yes, yes," said Miss Thome, standing 
 triumphant as the queen of beauty, on an 
 inverted tub which some chance had brought 
 thither from the farm-yard. 
 
 " Here goes then," said Harry, as he wheeled 
 his horse round to get the necessary momentum 
 of a sharp gallop. The quintain post stood 
 right before him, and the square board at which 
 he was to tilt was fairly in his way. If he hit 
 that duly in the middle, and maintained his 
 pace as he did so, it was calculated that he 
 would be carried out of reach of the flour bag, 
 which, suspended at the other end of the cross- 
 bar on the post, would swing round when the 
 board was struck. It was also calculated that 
 if the rider did not maintain his pace, he would 
 get a blow from the flour bag just at the back 
 of his head, and bear about him the signs of 
 his awkwardness to the great amusement of the 
 lookers-on. 
 
 Harry Greenacre did not object to being
 
 5 o8 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 powdered with flour in the service of his 
 mistress, and therefore gallantly touched his 
 steed with his spur, having laid his lance in 
 rest to the best of his ability. But his ability 
 in this respect was not great, and his appurte- 
 nances probably not very good; consequently, 
 he struck his horse with his pole unintentionally 
 on the side of the head as he started. The 
 animal swerved and shied, and galloped off 
 wide of the quintain. Harry well accustomed 
 to manage a horse, but not to do so with a 
 twelve-foot rod on his arm, lowered his right 
 hand to the bridle and thus the end of the lance 
 came to the ground, and got between the legs 
 of the steed. Down came rider and steed and 
 staff. Young Greenacre was thrown some six 
 feet over the horse's head, and poor Miss 
 Thorne almost fell off her tub in a swoon. 
 
 " Oh gracious, he's killed," shrieked a woman 
 who was near him when he fell. 
 
 " The Lord be good to him ! his poor mother, 
 his poor mother ! " said another. 
 
 "Well, drat them dangerous plays all the 
 world over," said an old crone. 
 
 " He has broke his neck sure enough, if ever 
 man did," said a fourth. 
 
 Poor Miss Thorne. She heard all this and 
 yet did not quite swoon. She made her way 
 through the crowd as best she could, sick 
 herself almost to death. Oh, his mother his 
 poor mother ! how could she ever forgive her- 
 self? The agony of that moment was terrific. 
 She could hardly get to the place where the 
 poor lad was lying, as three or four men in front 
 were about the horse which had risen with some
 
 Ullathorne Sports. Act I 509 
 
 difficulty ; but at last she found herself close to 
 the young farmer. 
 
 "Has he marked himself? for heaven's sake 
 tell me that ; has he marked his knees ? " said 
 Harry, slowly rising and rubbing his left shoulder 
 with his right hand, and thinking only of his 
 horse's legs. Miss Thorne soon found that he 
 had not broken his neck, nor any of his bones, 
 nor been injured in any essential way. But 
 from that time forth she never instigated any 
 one to ride at a quintain. 
 
 Eleanor left Dr. Stanhope as soon as she 
 could do so civilly, and went in quest of her 
 father whom she found on the lawn in company 
 with Mr. Arabin. She was not sorry to find 
 them together. She was anxious to disabuse at 
 any rate her father's mind as to this report 
 which had got abroad respecting her, and would 
 have been well pleased to have been able to do 
 the same with regard to Mr. Arabin. She put 
 her own through her father's arm, coming up 
 behind his back, and then tendered her hand 
 also to the vicar of St. Ewold's. 
 
 " And how did you come ? " said Mr. Har- 
 ding, when the first greeting was over. 
 
 " The Stanhopes brought me," said she ; " their 
 carriage was obliged to come twice, and has 
 now gone back for the signora." As she spoke 
 she caught Mr. Arabin's eye, and saw that he 
 was looking pointedly at her with a severe ex- 
 pression. She understood at once the accusa- 
 tion contained in his glance. It said as plainly 
 as an eye could speak, " Yes, you came with the 
 Stanhopes, but you did so in order that you 
 might be in company with Mr. Slope."
 
 510 Barchester Towers 
 
 " Our party," said she, still addressing her 
 father, " consisted of the doctor and Charlotte 
 Stanhope, myself, and Mr. Slope." As she 
 mentioned the last name she felt her father's 
 arm quiver slightly beneath her touch. At the 
 same moment Mr. Arab in turned away from 
 them, and joining his hands behind his back 
 strolled slowly away by one of the paths. 
 
 " Papa," said she, " it was impossible to help 
 coming in the same carriage with Mr. Slope ; it 
 was quite impossible. I had promised to come 
 with them before I dreamt of his coming, and 
 afterwards I could not get out of it without ex- 
 plaining and giving risk to talk. You weren't 
 at home, you know; I couldn't possibly help 
 it." She said all this so quickly that by the 
 time her apology was spoken she was quite out 
 of breath. 
 
 " I don't know why you should have wished 
 to help it, my dear," said her father. 
 
 " Yes, papa, you do ; you must know, you do 
 know all the things they said at Plumstead. I 
 am sure you do. You know all the archdeacon 
 said. How unjust he was ; and Mr. Arabin too. 
 He's a horrid man, a horrid odious man, 
 but " 
 
 "Who is an odius man, my dear? Mr. 
 Arabin?" 
 
 "No; but Mr. Slope. You know I mean 
 Mr. Slope. He's the most odious man I ever 
 met in my life, and it was most unfortunate my 
 having to come here in the same carriage with 
 him. But how could I help it ? " 
 
 A great weight began to move itself off Mr. 
 Harding's mind. So, after all, the archdeacon
 
 Ullathorne Sports. Act I 511 
 
 with all his wisdom, and Mrs. Grantly with all 
 her tact, and Mr. Arabin with all his talent, 
 were in the wrong. His own child, his Eleanor, 
 the daughter of whom he was so proud, was not 
 to become the wife of a Mr. Slope. He had 
 been about to give his sanction to the marriage, 
 so certified had he been of the fact ; and now 
 he learnt that this imputed lover of Eleanor's 
 was at any rate as much disliked by her as by any 
 one of the family. Mr. Harding, however, was 
 by no means sufficiently a man of the world to 
 conceal the blunder he had made. He could 
 not pretend that he had entertained no sus- 
 picion ; he could not make believe that he had 
 never joined the archdeacon in his surmises. 
 He was greatly surprised, and gratified beyond 
 measure, and he could not help showing that 
 such was the case. 
 
 " My darling girl," said he, " I am so delighted, 
 so overjoyed. My own child ; you have taken 
 such a weight off my mind." 
 
 " But surely, papa, you didn't think " 
 
 " I didn't know what to think, my dear. The 
 archdeacon told me that " 
 
 " The archdeacon ! " said Eleanor, her face 
 lighting up with passion. "A man like the 
 archdeacon might, one would think, be better 
 employed than in traducing his sister-in-law, 
 and creating bitterness between a father and his 
 daughter ! " 
 
 " He didn't mean to do that, Eleanor." 
 
 "What did he mean then? Why did he 
 interfere with me, and fill your mind with such 
 falsehood?" 
 
 "Never mind it now, my child; never
 
 512 Barchester Towers 
 
 mind it now. We shall all know you better 
 now." 
 
 " Oh, papa, that you should have thought it ! 
 that you should have suspected me ! " 
 
 " I don't know what you mean by suspicion, 
 Eleanor. There would be nothing disgraceful, 
 you know ; nothing wrong in such a marriage. 
 Nothing that could have justified my interfering 
 as your father." And Mr. Harding would have 
 proceeded in his own defence to make out that 
 Mr. Slope after all was a very good sort of man. 
 and a very fitting second husband for a young 
 widow, had he not been interrupted by Eleanor's 
 greater energy. 
 
 " It would be disgraceful," said she ; " it 
 would be wrong ; it would be abominable. 
 Could I do such a horrid thing, I should expect 
 
 no one to speak to me. Ugh " and she 
 
 shuddered as she thought of the matrimonial 
 torch which her friends had been so ready to 
 light on her behalf. " I don't wonder at Dr. 
 Grantly ; I don't wonder at Susan ; but, oh, 
 papa, I do wonder at you. How could you, 
 how could you believe it ? " Poor Eleanor, as 
 she thought of her father's defalcation, could 
 resist her tears no longer, and was forced to 
 cover her face with her handkerchief. 
 
 The place was not very opportune for her 
 grief. They were walking through the shrub- 
 beries, and there were many people near them. 
 Poor Mr. Harding stammered out his excuse as 
 best he could, and Eleanor with an effort con- 
 trolled her tears, and returned her handkerchief 
 to her pocket. She did not find it difficult to 
 forgive her father, nor could she altogether
 
 Ullathorne Sports. Act I 513 
 
 refuse to join him in the returning gaiety of 
 spirit to which her present avowal gave rise. It 
 was such a load off his heart to think that he 
 should not be called on to welcome Mr. Slope 
 as his son-in-law. It was such a relief to him 
 to find that his daughter's feelings and his own 
 were now, as they ever had been, in unison. 
 He had been so unhappy for the last six weeks 
 about this wretched Mr. Slope ! He was so 
 indifferent as to the loss of the hospital, so 
 thankful for the recovery of his daughter, that, 
 strong as was the ground for Eleanor's anger, 
 she could not find it in her heart to be long 
 angry with him. 
 
 " Dear papa," she said, hanging closely to his 
 arm, " never suspect me again : promise me that 
 you never will. Whatever I do, you may be 
 sure I shall tell you first ; you may be sure I 
 shall consult you." 
 
 And Mr. Harding did promise, and owned 
 his sin, and promised again. And so, while he 
 promised amendment and she uttered forgive- 
 ness, they returned together to the drawing- 
 room windows. 
 
 And what had Eleanor meant when she 
 declared that -whatever she did, she would tell 
 her father first? What was she thinking of 
 doing ? 
 
 So ended the first act of the melodrama which 
 Eleanor was called on to perform this day at 
 Ullathorne.
 
 514 Barchester Towers 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 THE SIGNORA NERONI, THE COUNTESS DE 
 COURCY, AND MRS. PROUDIE MEET EACH 
 OTHER AT ULLATHORNE 
 
 AND now there were new arrivals. Just as 
 Eleanor reached the drawing-room the signora 
 was being wheeled into it. She had been 
 brought out of the carriage into the dining-room 
 and there placed on a sofa, and was now in the 
 act of entering the other room, by the joint aid 
 of her brother and sister, Mr. Arabin, and two 
 servants in livery. She was all in her glory, and 
 looked so pathetically happy, so full of affliction 
 and grace, was so beautiful, so pitiable, and so 
 charming, that it was almost impossible not to 
 be glad she was there. 
 
 Miss Thorne was unaffectedly glad to welcome 
 her. In fact, the signora was a sort of lion ; 
 and though there was no drop of the Leohunter 
 blood in Miss Thome's veins, she nevertheless 
 did like to see attractive people at her house. 
 The signora was attractive, and on her first 
 settlement in the dining-room she had whispered 
 two or three soft feminine words into Miss 
 Thome's ear, which, at the moment, had quite 
 touched that lady's heart. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Thorne ; where is Miss Thorne ? " 
 she said, as soon as her attendants had placed 
 her in her position just before one of the 
 windows, from whence she could see all that 
 was going on upon the lawn ; " How am I to
 
 A Meeting at Ullathorne 515 
 
 thank you for permitting a creature like me to 
 be here? But if you knew the pleasure you 
 give me, I am sure you would excuse the trouble 
 I bring with me." And as she spoke she 
 squeezed the spinster's little hand between her 
 own. 
 
 "We are delighted to see you here," said 
 Miss Thorne ; " you give us no trouble at all, 
 and we think it a great favour conferred by 
 you to come and see us ; don't we, Wilfred ? " 
 
 " A very great favour indeed," said Mr. 
 Thorne, with a gallant bow, but of a somewhat 
 less cordial welcome than that conceded by his 
 sister. Mr. Thorne had heard perhaps more of 
 the antecedents of his guest than his sister had 
 done, and had not as yet undergone the power 
 of the signora's charms. 
 
 But while the mother of the last of the Neros 
 was thus in her full splendour, with crowds of 
 people gazing at her and the elite of the company 
 standing round her couch, her glory was paled 
 by the arrival of the Countess De Courcy. Miss 
 Thorne had now been waiting three hours for 
 the countess, and could not therefore but show 
 very evident gratification when the arrival at last 
 took place. She and her brother of course went 
 off to welcome the titled grandees, and with them, 
 alas, went many of the signora's admirers. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Thorne," said the countess, while 
 in the act of being disrobed of her fur cloaks, 
 and re-robed in her gauze shawls, " what dread- 
 ful roads you have ; perfectly frightful." 
 
 It happened that Mr. Thorne was way-warden 
 for the district, and not liking the attack, began 
 to excuse his roads.
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 " Oh yes, indeed they are," said the countess, 
 not minding him in the least, " perfectly dread- 
 ful; are they not, Margaretta? Why, my dear 
 Miss Thorne, we left Courcy Castle just at 
 eleven ; it was only just past eleven, was it not, 
 John? and " 
 
 " Just past one, I think you mean," said the 
 Honourable John, turning from the group and 
 eyeing the signora through his glass. The 
 signora gave him back his own, as the saying 
 is, and more with it ; so that the young noble- 
 man was forced to avert his glance, and drop 
 his glass. 
 
 " I say, Thorne," whispered he, " who the 
 deuce is that on the sofa ? " 
 
 "Dr. Stanhope's daughter," whispered back 
 Mr. Thorne. "Signora Neroni, she calls 
 herself." 
 
 " Whew-ew-ew ! " whistled the Honourable 
 John. " The devil she is ! I have heard no 
 end of stories about that filly. You must posi- 
 tively introduce me, Thorne; you positively 
 must." 
 
 Mr. Thorne, who was respectability itself, did 
 not quite like having a guest about whom the 
 Honourable John De Courcy had heard no end 
 of stories; but he couldn't help himself. He 
 merely resolved that before he went to bed he 
 would let his sister know somewhat of the 
 history of the lady she was so willing to wel- 
 come. The innocence of Miss Thome, at her 
 time of life, was perfectly charming; but even 
 innocence may be dangerous. 
 
 " John may say what he likes," continued the 
 countess, urging her excuses to Miss Thorne;
 
 A Meeting at Ullathorne 517 
 
 " I am sure we were past the castle gate before 
 twelve, weren't we, Margaretta ? " 
 
 " Upon my word I don't know," said the Lady 
 Margaretta, "for I was half asleep. But I do 
 know that I was called sometime in the middle 
 of the night, and was dressing myself before 
 daylight." 
 
 Wise people, when they are in the wrong, 
 always put themselves right by finding fault 
 with the people against whom they have sinned. 
 Lady De Courcy was a wise woman ; and there- 
 fore, having treated Miss Thorne very badly by 
 staying away till three o'clock, she assumed the 
 offensive and attacked Mr. Thome's roads. Her 
 daughter, not less wise, attacked Miss Thome's 
 early hours. The art of doing this is among the 
 most precious of those usually cultivated by 
 persons who know how to live. There is no 
 withstanding it. Who can go systematically to 
 work, and having done battle with the primary 
 accusation and settled that, then bring forward a 
 counter-charge and support that also ? Life is 
 not long enough for such labours. A man in 
 the right relies easily on his rectitude, and there- 
 fore goes about unarmed. His very strength is 
 his weakness. A man in the wrong knows that 
 he must look to his weapons ; his very weakness 
 is his strength. The one is never prepared for 
 combat, the other is always ready. Therefore 
 it is that in this world the man that is in 
 the wrong almost invariably conquers the man 
 that is in the right, and invariably despises 
 him. 
 
 A man must be an idiot or else an angel, who 
 after the age of forty shall attempt to be just to
 
 518 Barchester Towers 
 
 his neighbours. Many like the Lady Margaretta 
 have learnt their lesson at a much earlier age. 
 But this of course depends on the school in 
 which they have been taught. 
 
 Poor Miss Thome was altogether overcome. 
 She knew very well that she had been ill-treated, 
 and yet she found herself making apologies to 
 Lady De Courcy. To do her ladyship justice, 
 she received them very graciously, and allowed 
 herself with her train of daughters to be led 
 towards the lawn. 
 
 There were two windows in the drawing-room 
 wide open for the countess to pass through ; but 
 she saw that there was a woman on a sofa, at 
 the third window, and that that woman had, as 
 it were, a following attached to her. Her lady- 
 ship therefore determined to investigate the 
 woman. The De Courcys were hereditarily 
 short sighted, and had been so for thirty 
 centuries at least. So Lady De Courcy, who 
 when she entered the family had adopted the 
 family habits, did as her son had done before 
 her, and taking her glass to investigate the 
 Signora Neroni, pressed in among the gentlemen 
 who surrounded the couch, and bowed slightly 
 to those whom she chose to honour by her 
 acquaintance. 
 
 In order to get to the window she had to pass 
 close to the front of the couch, and as she did 
 so she stared hard at the occupant. The 
 occupant in return stared hard at the countess. 
 The countess who since her countess-ship 
 commenced had been accustomed to see all 
 eyes, not royal, ducal or marquesal, fall before 
 her own, paused as she went on, raised her
 
 A Meeting at Ullathorne 519 
 
 eyebrows, and stared even harder than before. 
 But she had now to do with one who cared 
 little for countesses. It was, one may say, 
 impossible for mortal man or woman to abash 
 Madeline Neroni. She opened her large bright 
 lustrous eyes wider and wider, till she seemed 
 to be all eyes. She gazed up into the lady's 
 face, not as though she did it with an effort, 
 but as if she delighted in doing it. She used 
 no glass to assist her effrontery, and needed 
 none. The faintest possible smile of derision 
 played round her mouth, and her nostrils were 
 slightly dilated, as if in sure anticipation of her 
 triumph. And it was sure. The Countess De 
 Courcy, in spite of her thirty centuries and De 
 Courcy castle, and the fact that Lord De Courcy 
 was grand master of the ponies to the Prince of 
 Wales, had not a chance with her. At first the 
 little circlet of gold wavered in the countess's 
 hand, then the hand shook, then the circlet fell, 
 the countess's head tossed itself into the air, 
 and the countess's feet shambled out to the 
 lawn. She did not however go so fast but what 
 she heard the signora's voice, asking 
 
 " Who on earth is that woman, Mr. Slope ? " 
 
 " That is Lady De Courcy." 
 
 " Oh, ah. I might have supposed so. Ha, 
 ha, ha. Well, that's as good as a play." 
 
 It was as good as a play to any there who 
 had eyes to observe it, and wit to comment on 
 what they observed. 
 
 But the Lady De Courcy soon found a 
 congenial spirit on the lawn. There she en- 
 countered Mrs. Proudie, and as Mrs. Proudie 
 was not only the wife of a bishop, but was also
 
 520 Barchester Towers 
 
 the cousin of an earl, Lady De Courcy con- 
 sidered her to be the fittest companion she was 
 likely to meet in that assemblage. They were 
 accordingly delighted to see each other. Mrs. 
 Proudie by no means despised a countess, and 
 as this countess lived in the county and within 
 a sort of extensive visiting distance of Barchester, 
 she was glad to have this opportunity of ingrati- 
 ating herself. 
 
 "My dear Lady De Courcy, I am so 
 delighted," said she, looking as little grim as 
 it was in her nature to do. " I hardly expected 
 to see you here. It is such a distance, and then 
 you know, such a crowd." 
 
 " And such roads, Mrs. Proudie ! I really 
 wonder how the people ever get about. But 
 I don't suppose they ever do." 
 
 " Well, I really don't know ; but I suppose 
 not. The Thornes don't, I know," said Mrs. 
 Proudie. "Very nice person, Miss Thorne, 
 isn't she?" 
 
 " Oh, delightful, and so queer ; I've known 
 her these twenty years. A great pet of mine 
 is dear Miss Thorne. She is so very strange, 
 you know. She always makes me think of the 
 Esquimaux and the Indians. Isn't her dress 
 quite delightful ? " 
 
 " Delightful," said Mrs. Proudie ; " I wonder 
 now whether she paints. Did you ever see 
 such colour ? " 
 
 " Oh, of course," said Lady De Courcy ; 
 " that is, I have no doubt she does. But, Mrs. 
 Proudie, who is that woman on the sofa by the 
 window ? just step this way and you'll see her, 
 there " and the countess led her to a spot
 
 A Meeting at Ullathorne 521 
 
 where she could plainly see the signora's well- 
 remembered face and figure. 
 
 She did not however do so without being 
 equally well seen by the signora. " Look, 
 look," said that lady to Mr. Slope, who was 
 still standing near to her ; " see the high 
 spiritualities and temporalities of the land in 
 league together, and all against poor me. I'll 
 wager my bracelet, Mr. Slope, against your 
 next sermon, that they've taken up their position 
 there on purpose to pull me to pieces. Well, 
 I can't rush to the combat, but I know how 
 to protect myself if the enemy come near me." 
 
 But the enemy knew better. They could 
 gain nothing by contact with the Signora Neroni, 
 and they could abuse her as they pleased at a 
 distance from her on the lawn. 
 
 " She's that horrid Italian woman, Lady De 
 Courcy ; you must have heard of her." 
 
 " What Italian woman ? " said her ladyship, 
 quite alive to the coming story ; " I don't think 
 I've heard of any Italian woman coming into 
 the country. She doesn't look Italian either." 
 
 " Oh, you must have heard of her," said Mrs. 
 Proudie. " No, she's not absolutely Italian. 
 She is Dr. Stanhope's daughter Dr. Stanhope 
 the prebendary ; and she calls herself the 
 Signora Neroni." 
 
 " Oh-h-h-h ! " exclaimed the countess. 
 
 " I was sure you had heard of her," continued 
 Mrs. Proudie. " I don't know anything about 
 her husband. They do say that some man 
 named Neroni is still alive. I believe she did 
 marry such a man abroad, but I do not at all 
 know who or what he was."
 
 522 Barchester Towers 
 
 " Ah-h-h-h ! " said the countess, shaking her 
 head with much intelligence, as every additional 
 " h " fell from her lips. " I know all about it 
 now. I have heard George mention her. 
 George knows all about her. George heard 
 about her in Rome." 
 
 " She's an abominable woman, at any rate," 
 said Mrs. Proudie. 
 
 " Insufferable," said the countess. 
 
 "She made her way into the palace once, 
 before I knew anything about her ; and I cannot 
 tell you how dreadfully indecent her conduct was." 
 
 " Was it ? " said the delighted countess. 
 
 " Insufferable," said the prelatess. 
 
 "But why does she lie on a sofa?" asked 
 Lady De Courcy. 
 
 " She has only one leg," replied Mrs. Proudie. 
 
 " Only one leg 1 " said Lady De Courcy, who 
 felt to a certain degree dissatisfied that the 
 signora was thus incapacitated. " Was she born 
 so?" 
 
 " Oh, no," said Mrs. Proudie, and her lady- 
 ship felt somewhat recomforted by the assurance, 
 " she had two. But that Signer Neroni beat 
 her, I believe, till she was obliged to have one 
 amputated. At any rate, she entirely lost the 
 use of it." 
 
 " Unfortunate creature ! " said the countess, 
 who herself knew something of matrimonial 
 trials. 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Proudie ; " one would pity 
 her, in spite of her past bad conduct, if she now 
 knew how to behave herself. But she does not. 
 She is the most insolent creature I ever put my 
 eyes on."
 
 A Meeting at Ullathorne 523 
 
 " Indeed she is," said Lady De Courcy. 
 
 " And her conduct with men is so abominable, 
 that she is not fit to be admitted into any lady's 
 drawing-room." 
 
 " Dear me ! " said the countess, becoming 
 again excited, happy, and merciless. 
 
 " You saw that man standing near her, the 
 clergyman with the red hair ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes." 
 
 " She has absolutely ruined that man. The 
 bishop, or I should rather take the blame on 
 myself, for it was I, I brought him down from 
 London to Barchester. He is a tolerable 
 preacher, an active young man, and I therefore 
 introduced him to the bishop. That woman, 
 Lady De Courcy, has got hold of him, and 
 has so disgraced him, that I am forced to 
 require that he shall leave the palace; and 
 I doubt very much whether he won't lose his 
 gown ! " ,\) *!Qi 
 
 " Why, what an idiot the man must be ! " said 
 the countess. 
 
 " You don't know the intriguing villany of 
 that woman," said Mrs. Proudie, remembering 
 her torn flounces. 
 
 " But you say she has only got one leg ! " 
 
 " She is as full of mischief as tho' she had 
 ten. Look at her eyes, Lady De Courcy. Did 
 you ever see such eyes in a decent woman's 
 head ? " 
 
 " Indeed I never did, Mrs. Proudie." 
 
 " And her effrontery, and her voice ; I quite 
 pity her poor father, who is really a good sort 
 of man." 
 
 " Dr. Stanhope, isn't he ?"
 
 524 Barchester Towers 
 
 " Yes, Dr. Stanhope. He is one of our pre- 
 bendaries, a good quiet sort of man himself. 
 But I am surprised that he should let his 
 daughter conduct herself as she does." 
 
 "I suppose he can't help it," said the 
 countess. 
 
 " But a clergyman, you know, Lady De 
 Courcy ! He should at any rate prevent her 
 from exhibiting in public, if he cannot induce 
 her to behave at home. But he is to be pitied. 
 I believe he has a desperate life of it with the 
 lot of them. That apish-looking man there, 
 with the long beard and the loose trousers, he 
 is the woman's brother. He is nearly as bad 
 as she is. They are both of them infidels." 
 
 " Infidels ! " said Lady De Courcy, " and their 
 father a prebendary ! " 
 
 " Yes, and likely to be the new dean too," 
 said Mrs. Proudie. 
 
 " Oh, yes, poor dear Dr. Trefoil ! " said the 
 countess, who had once in her life spoken to 
 that gentleman ; " I was so distressed to hear it, 
 Mrs. Proudie. And so Dr. Stanhope is to be 
 the new dean ! He comes of an excellent 
 family, and I wish him success in spite of his 
 daughter. Perhaps, Mrs. Proudie, when he is 
 dean they'll be better able to see the error of 
 their ways." 
 
 To this Mrs. Proudie said nothing. Her dis- 
 like of the Signora Neroni was too deep to 
 admit of her even hoping that that lady should 
 see the error of her ways. Mrs. Proudie looked 
 on the signora as one of the lost, one of those 
 beyond the reach of Christian charity, and was 
 therefore able to enjoy the luxury of hating her,
 
 A Meeting at Ullathorne 525 
 
 without the drawback of wishing her eventually 
 well out of her sins. 
 
 Any further conversation between these con- 
 genial souls was prevented by the advent of Mr. 
 Thome, who came to lead the countess to the 
 tent. Indeed, he had been desired to so do some 
 ten minutes since ; but he had been delayed in 
 the drawing-room by the signora. She had con- 
 trived to detain him, to get him near to her sofa, 
 and at last to make him seat himself on a chair 
 close to her beautiful arm. The fish took the 
 bait, was hooked, and caught, and landed. 
 Within that ten minutes he had heard the whole 
 of the signora's history in such strains as she 
 chose to use in telling it. He learnt from the 
 lady's own lips the whole of that mysterious tale 
 to which the Honourable George had merely 
 alluded. He discovered that the beautiful 
 creature lying before him had been more sinned 
 against than sinning. She had owned to him 
 that she had been weak, confiding and indifferent 
 to the world's opinion, and that she had there- 
 fore been ill-used, deceived and evil spoken of. 
 She had spoken to him of her mutilated limb, 
 her youth destroyed in its fullest bloom, her 
 beauty robbed of its every charm, her life 
 blighted, her hopes withered ; and as she did so, 
 a tear dropped from her eye to her cheek. She 
 had told him of these things, and asked for his 
 sympathy. 
 
 What could a good-natured genial Anglo-Saxon 
 Squire Thorne do but promise to sympathise 
 with her ? Mr. Thorne did promise to sympa- 
 thise ; promised also to come and see the last 
 of the Neros, to hear more of those fearful
 
 526 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 Roman days, of those light and innocent but 
 dangerous hours which flitted by so fast on the 
 shores of Como, and to make himself the 
 confidant of the signora's sorrows. 
 
 We need hardly say that he dropped all idea 
 of warning his sister against the dangerous lady. 
 He had been mistaken; never so much mis- 
 taken in his life. He had always regarded that 
 Honourable George as a coarse brutal-minded 
 young man ; now he was more convinced than 
 ever that he was so. It was by such men as 
 the Honourable George that the reputations of 
 such women as Madeline Neroni were imperilled 
 and damaged. He would go and see the lady 
 in her own house ; he was fully sure in his own 
 mind of the soundness of his own judgment ; if 
 he found her, as he believed he should do, an 
 injured well-disposed warm-hearted woman, he 
 would get his sister Monica to invite her out to 
 Ullathorne. 
 
 " No," said she, as at her instance he got up 
 to leave her, and declared that he himself would 
 attend upon her wants ; " no, no, my friend ; I 
 positively put a veto upon your doing so. 
 What, in your own house, with an assemblage 
 round you such as there is here ! Do you wish 
 to make every woman hate me and every man 
 stare at me ? I lay a positive order on you not 
 to come near me again to-day. Come and see 
 me at home. It is only at home that I can 
 talk ; it is only at home that I really can live 
 and enjoy myself. My days of going out, days 
 such as these, are rare indeed. Come and see 
 me at home, Mr. Thorne, and then I will not 
 bid you to leave me."
 
 A Meeting at Ullathorne 527 
 
 It is, we believe, common with young men of 
 five and twenty to look on their seniors on 
 men of, say, double their own age as so many 
 stocks and stones, stocks and stones, that is, 
 in regard to feminine beauty. There never was 
 a greater mistake. Women, indeed, generally 
 know better; but on this subject men of one 
 age are thoroughly ignorant of what is the very 
 nature of mankind of other ages. No experi- 
 ence of what goes on in the world, no reading 
 of history, no observation of life, has any effect 
 in teaching the truth. Men of fifty don't dance 
 mazurkas, being generally too fat and wheezy ; 
 nor do they sit for the hour together on river 
 banks at their mistresses' feet, being somewhat 
 afraid of rheumatism. But for real true love, 
 love at first sight, love to devotion, love that 
 robs a man of his sleep, love that " will gaze an 
 eagle blind," love that "will hear the lowest 
 sound when the suspicious tread of theft is 
 stopped," love that is "like a Hercules, still 
 climbing trees in the Hesperides," we believe 
 the best age is from forty-five to seventy ; up to 
 that, men are generally given to mere flirting. 
 
 At the present moment Mr. Thorne, cstat. 
 fifty, was over head and ears in love at first 
 sight with the Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni, 
 nata Stanhope. 
 
 Nevertheless he was sufficiently master of 
 himself to offer his arm with all propriety to 
 Lady De Courcy, and the countess graciously 
 permitted herself to be led to the tent. Such 
 had been Miss Thome's orders, as she had 
 succeeded in inducing the bishop to lead old 
 Lady Knowle to the top of the dining-room.
 
 528 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 One of the baronets was sent off in quest of 
 Mrs. Proudie, and found that lady on the lawn 
 not in the best of humours. Mr. Thome and 
 the countess had left her too abruptly ; she had 
 in vain looked about for an attendant chaplain, 
 or even a stray curate ; they were all drawing 
 long bows with the young ladies at the bottom 
 of the lawn, or finding places for their graceful 
 co-toxophilites in some snug corner of the tent. 
 In such position Mrs. Proudie had been wont 
 in earlier days to fall back upon Mr. Slope ; but 
 now she could never fall back upon him again. 
 She gave her head one shake as she thought of 
 her lone position, and that shake was as good 
 as a week deducted from Mr. Slope's longer 
 sojourn in Barchester. Sir Harkaway Gorse, 
 however, relieved her present misery, though 
 his doing so by no means mitigated the sinning 
 chaplain's doom. 
 
 And now the eating and drinking began in 
 earnest. Dr. Grantly, to his great horror, 
 found himself leagued to Mrs. Clantantram. 
 Mrs. Clantantram had a great regard for the 
 archdeacon, which was not cordially returned ; 
 and when she, coming up to him, whispered in 
 his ear, " Come, archdeacon, I'm sure you won't 
 begrudge an old friend the favour of your arm," 
 and then proceeded to tell him the whole 
 history of her roquelaure, he resolved that he 
 would shake her off before he was fifteen 
 minutes older. But latterly the archdeacon 
 had not been successful in his resolutions ; and 
 on the present occasion Mrs. Clantantram stuck 
 to him till the banquet was over. 
 
 Dr. Gwynne got a baronet's wife, and Mrs.
 
 A Meeting at Ullathorne 529 
 
 Grantly fell to the lot of a baronet. Charlotte 
 Stanhope attached herself to Mr. Harding in 
 order to make room for Bertie, who succeeded 
 in sitting down in the dining-room next to 
 Mrs. Bold. To speak sooth, now that he had 
 love in earnest to make, his heart almost failed 
 him. 
 
 Eleanor had been right glad to avail herself 
 of his arm, seeing that Mr. Slope was hovering 
 nigh her. In striving to avoid that terrible 
 Charybdis of a Slope she was in great danger of 
 falling into an unseen Scylla on the other hand, 
 that Scylla being Bertie Stanhope. Nothing 
 could be more gracious than she was to 
 Bertie. She almost jumped at his proffered arm. 
 Charlotte perceived this from a distance, and 
 triumphed in her heart ; Bertie felt it, and was 
 encouraged ; Mr. Slope saw it, and glowered with 
 jealousy. Eleanor and Bertie sat down to table 
 in the dining-room ; and as she took her seat at 
 his right hand, she found that Mr. Slope was 
 already in possession of the chair at her own. 
 
 As these things were going on in the dining- 
 room, Mr. Arabin was hanging enraptured and 
 alone over the signora's sofa ; and Eleanor from 
 her seat could look through the open door and 
 see that he was doing so.
 
 530 Barchester Towers 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 THE BISHOP BREAKFASTS, AND THE DEAN DIES 
 
 THE bishop of Barchester said grace over the 
 well-spread board in the Ullathorne dining-room ; 
 and while he did so the last breath was flying 
 from the dean of Barchester as he lay in his sick- 
 room in the deanery. When the bishop of 
 Barchester raised his first glass of champagne to 
 his lips, the deanship of Barchester was a good 
 thing in the gift of the prime minister. Before 
 the bishop of Barchester had left the table, the 
 minister of the day was made aware of the fact at 
 his country seat in Hampshire, and had already 
 turned over in his mind the names of five very 
 respectable aspirants for the preferment. It is 
 at present only necessary to say that. Mr. Slope's 
 name was not among the five. 
 
 "'Twas merry in the hall when the beards 
 wagged all ; " and the clerical beards wagged 
 merrily in the hall of Ullathorne that day. It 
 was not till after the last cork had been drawn, 
 the last speech made, the last nut cracked, that 
 tidings reached and were whispered about that 
 the poor dean was no more. It was well for 
 the happiness of the clerical beards that this 
 little delay took place, as otherwise decency 
 would have forbidden them to wag at all. 
 
 But there was one sad man among them that 
 day. Mr. Arabin's beard did not wag as it 
 should have done. He had come there hoping 
 the best, striving to think the best, about
 
 The Bishop breakfasts 531 
 
 Eleanor ; turning over in his mind all the words 
 he remembered to have fallen from her about 
 Mr. Slope, and trying to gather from them a 
 conviction unfavourable to his rival. He had 
 not exactly resolved to come that day to some 
 decisive proof as to the widow's intention; but he 
 had meant, if possible, to re-cultivate his friend- 
 ship with Eleanor ; and in his present frame of 
 mind any such re-cultivation must have ended 
 in a declaration of love. 
 
 He had passed the previous night alone at his 
 new parsonage, and it was the first night that he 
 had so passed. It had been dull and sombre 
 enough. Mrs. Grantly. had been right in saying 
 that a priestess would be wanting at St. Ewold's. 
 He had sat there alone with his glass before 
 him, and then with his teapot, thinking about 
 Eleanor Bold. As is usual in such meditations, 
 he did little but blame her ; blame her for liking 
 Mr. Slope, and blame her for not liking him; 
 blame her for her cordiality to himself, and 
 blame her for her want of cordiality ; blame her 
 for being stubborn, headstrong, and passionate ; 
 and yet the more he thought of her the higher 
 she rose in his affection. If only it should turn 
 out, if only it could be made to turn out, that 
 she had defended Mr. Slope, not from love, but 
 on principle, all would be right. Such principle 
 in itself would be admirable, loveable, womanly ; 
 he felt that he could be pleased to allow Mr. 
 
 Slope just so much favour as that. But if 
 
 And then Mr. Arabin poked his fire most un- 
 necessarily, spoke crossly to his new parlour-maid 
 who came in for the tea-things, and threw him- 
 self back in his chair determined to go to sleep.
 
 532 Barchester Towers 
 
 Why had she been so stiffnecked when asked a 
 plain question ? She could not but have known 
 in what light he regarded her. Why had she 
 not answered a plain question, and so put an 
 end to his misery ? Then, instead of going to 
 sleep in his arm-chair, Mr. Arabin walked about 
 the room as though he had been possessed. 
 
 On the following morning, when he attended 
 Miss Thome's behests he was still in a somewhat 
 confused state. His first duty had been to con- 
 verse with Mrs. Clantantram, and that lady had 
 found it impossible to elicit the slightest sym- 
 pathy from him on the subject of her roquelaure. 
 Miss Thorne had asked him whether Mrs. Bold 
 was coming with the Grantlys; and the two 
 names of Bold and Grantly together had nearly 
 made him jump from his seat. 
 
 He was in this state of confused uncertainty, 
 hope, and doubt, when he saw Mr. Slope, with 
 his most polished smile, handing Eleanor out of 
 her carriage. He thought of nothing more. 
 He never considered whether the carriage 
 belonged to her or to Mr. Slope, or to any one 
 else to whom they might both be mutually 
 obliged without any concert between themselves. 
 This sight in his present state of mind was quite 
 enough to upset him and his resolves. It was 
 clear as noonday. Had he seen her handed 
 into a carriage by Mr. Slope at a church door 
 with a white veil over her head, the truth could 
 not be more manifest. He went into the house, 
 and, as we have seen, soon found himself walk- 
 ing with Mr. Harding. Shortly afterwards 
 Eleanor came up ; and then he had to leave his 
 companion, and either go about alone or find
 
 The Bishop breakfasts 533 
 
 another. While in this state he was encountered 
 by the archdeacon. 
 
 " I wonder," said Dr. Grantly, " if it be true 
 that Mr. Slope and Mrs. Bold came here together. 
 Susan says she is almost sure she saw their faces 
 in the same carriage as she got out of her own." 
 
 Mr. Arabin had nothing for it but to bear 
 his testimony to the correctness of Mrs. Grantly's 
 eyesight. 
 
 . " It is perfectly shameful," said the arch- 
 deacon ; " or I should rather say, shameless. 
 She was asked here as my guest ; and if she be 
 determined to disgrace herself, she should have 
 feeling enough not to do so before my immediate 
 friends. I wonder how that man got himself 
 invited. I wonder whether she had the face to 
 bring him." 
 
 To this Mr. Arabin could answer nothing, nor 
 did he wish to answer anything. Though he 
 abused Eleanor to himself, he did not choose to 
 abuse her to any one else, nor was he well 
 pleased to hear any one else speak ill of her. 
 Dr. Grantly, however, was very angry, and did 
 not spare his sister-in-law. Mr. Arabin there- 
 fore left him as soon as he could, and wandered 
 back into the house. 
 
 He had not been there long, when the signora 
 was brought in. For some time he kept him- 
 self out of temptation, and merely hovered round 
 her at a distance ; but as soon as Mr. Thorne 
 had left her, he yielded himself up to the basilisk, 
 and allowed himself to be made prey of. 
 
 It is impossible to say how the knowledge 
 had been acquired, but the signora had a sort of 
 instinctive knowledge that Mr. Arabin was an
 
 534 Barchester Towers 
 
 admirer of Mrs. Bold. Men hunt foxes by the 
 aid of dogs, and are aware that they do so by 
 the strong organ of smell with which the dog is 
 endowed. They do not, however, in the least 
 comprehend how such a sense can work with 
 such acuteness. The organ by which women 
 instinctively, as it were, know and feel how 
 other women are regarded by men, and how 
 also men are regarded by other women, is 
 equally strong, and equally incomprehensible. 
 A glance, a word, a motion, suffices : by some 
 such acute exercise of her feminine senses the 
 signora was aware that Mr. Arabin loved Eleanor 
 Bold ; and therefore, by a further exercise of 
 her peculiar feminine propensities, it was quite 
 natural for her to entrap Mr. Arabin into her net. 
 
 The work was half done before she came to 
 Ullathorne, and when could she have a better 
 opportunity of completing it? She had had 
 almost enough of Mr. Slope, though she could 
 not quite resist the fun of driving a very sancti- 
 monious clergyman to madness by a desperate 
 and ruinous passion. Mr. Thorne had fallen 
 too easily to give much pleasure in the chase. 
 His position as a man of wealth might make 
 his alliance of value, but as a lover he was 
 very second-rate. We may say that she re- 
 garded him somewhat as a sportsman does a 
 pheasant. The bird is so easily shot, that he 
 would not be worth the shooting were it not for 
 the very respectable appearance that he makes 
 in a larder. The signora would not waste much 
 time in shooting Mr. Thorne, but still he was 
 worth bagging for family uses. 
 
 But Mr. Arabin was game of another sort.
 
 The Bishop breakfasts 535 
 
 The signora was herself possessed of quite suffi- 
 cient intelligence to know that Mr. Arabin was 
 a man more than usually intellectual. She 
 knew also, that as a clergyman he was of a 
 much higher stamp than Mr. Slope, and that as 
 a gentleman he was better educated than Mr. 
 Thorne. She would never have attempted to 
 drive Mr. Arabin into ridiculous misery as she 
 did Mr. Slope, nor would she think it possible 
 to dispose of him in ten minutes as she had 
 done with Mr. Thorne. 
 
 Such were her reflections about Mr. Arabin. 
 As to Mr. Arabin, it cannot be said that he 
 reflected at all about the signora. He knew 
 that she was beautiful, and he felt that she was 
 able to charm him. He required charming in 
 his present misery, and therefore he went and 
 stood at the head of her couch. She knew all 
 about it. Such were her peculiar gifts. It was 
 her nature to see that he required charming, 
 and it was her province to charm him. As the 
 Eastern idler swallows his dose of opium, as the 
 London reprobate swallows his dose of gin, so 
 with similar desires and for similar reasons did 
 Mr. Arabin prepare to swallow the charms of 
 the Signora Neroni. 
 
 " Why an't you shooting with bows and arrows, 
 Mr. Arabin ? " said she, when they were nearly 
 alone together in the drawing-room ; " or talking 
 with young ladies in shady bowers, or turning 
 your talents to account in some way ? What 
 was a bachelor like you asked here for ? Don't 
 you mean to earn your cold chicken and 
 champagne ? Were I you, I should be ashamed 
 to be so idle"
 
 536 Barchester Towers 
 
 Mr. Arabin murmured some sort of answer. 
 Though he wished to be charmed, he was 
 hardly yet in a mood to be playful in return. 
 
 " Why, what ails you, Mr. Arabin ? " said she. 
 " Here you are in your own parish ; Miss Thorne 
 tells me that her party is given expressly in your 
 honour ; and yet you are the only dull man at 
 it. Your friend Mr. Slope was with me a few 
 minutes since, full of life and spirits ; why don't 
 you rival him ? " 
 
 It was not difficult for so acute an observer 
 as Madeline Neroni to see that she had hit the 
 nail on the head and driven the bolt home. 
 Mr. Arabin winced visibly before her attack, 
 and she knew at once that he was jealous of 
 Mr. Slope. 
 
 " But I look on you and Mr. Slope as the 
 very antipodes of men," said she. "There is 
 nothing in which you are not each the reverse 
 of the other, except in belonging to the same 
 profession ; and even in that you are so unlike 
 as perfectly to maintain the rule. He is gre- 
 garious, you are given to solitude. He is active, 
 you are passive. He works, you think. He 
 likes women, you despise them. He is fond of 
 position and power, and so are you, but for 
 directly different reasons. He loves to be 
 praised, you very foolishly abhor it. He will 
 gain his rewards, which will be an insipid useful 
 wife, a comfortable income, and a reputation for 
 sanctimony. You will also gain yours." 
 
 "Well, and what will they be?" said Mr. 
 Arabin, who knew that he was being flattered, 
 and yet suffered himself to put up with it. 
 " What will be my rewards ? "
 
 The Bishop breakfasts 537 
 
 "The heart of some woman whom you will 
 be too austere to own that you love, and the 
 respect of some few friends which you will be 
 too proud to own that you value." 
 
 " Rich rewards," said he ; " but of little worth 
 if they are to be so treated." 
 
 " Oh, you are not to look for such success as 
 awaits Mr. Slope. He is born to be a success- 
 ful man. He suggests to himself an object, and 
 then starts for it with eager intention. Nothing 
 will deter him from his pursuit. He will have 
 no scruples, no fears, no hesitation. His desire 
 is to be a bishop with a rising family, the wife 
 will come first, and in due time the apron. You 
 will see all this, and then " 
 
 " Well, and what then ? " 
 
 " Then you will begin to wish that you had 
 done the same." 
 
 Mr. Arabin looked placidly out at the lawn, 
 and resting his shoulder on the head of the 
 sofa, rubbed his chin with his hand. It was a 
 trick he had when he was thinking deeply ; and 
 what the signora said made him think. Was 
 it not all true? Would he not hereafter look 
 back, if not at Mr. Slope, at some others, 
 perhaps not equally gifted with himself, who 
 had risen in the world while he had lagged be- 
 hind, and then wish that he had done the 
 same ? 
 
 " Is not such the doom of all speculative men 
 of talent ? " said she. " Do they not all sit rapt 
 as you now are, cutting imaginary silken cords 
 with their fine edges, while those not so highly 
 tempered sever the every-day Gordian knots of 
 the world's struggle, and win wealth and renown ?
 
 538 Barchester Towers 
 
 Steel too highly polished, edges too sharp, do 
 not do for this world's work, Mr. Arabin." 
 
 Who was this woman that thus read the secrets 
 of his heart, and re-uttered to him the unwel- 
 come bodings of his own soul? He looked 
 full into her face when she had done speaking, 
 and said, "Am I one of those foolish blades, 
 too' sharp and too fine to do a useful day's 
 work?" 
 
 " Why do you let the Slopes of the world out- 
 distance you ? " said she. " Is not the blood in 
 your veins as warm as his ? does not your pulse 
 beat as fast ? Has not God made you a man, 
 and intended you to do a man's work here, ay, 
 and to take a man's wages also ? " 
 
 Mr. Arabin sat ruminating and rubbing his 
 face, and wondering why these things were said 
 to him; but he replied nothing. The signora 
 went on 
 
 " The greatest mistake any man ever made is 
 to suppose that the good things of the world are 
 not worth the winning. And it is a mistake so 
 opposed to the religion which you preach ! 
 Why does God permit his bishops one after 
 another to have their five thousands and ten 
 thousands a year if such wealth be bad and not 
 worth having ? Why are beautiful things given to 
 us, and luxuries and pleasant enjoyments, if they 
 be not intended to be used? They must be 
 meant for some one, and what is good for a 
 layman cannot surely be bad for a clerk. You 
 try to despise these good things, but you only 
 try ; you don't succeed." 
 
 " Don't I ? " said Mr. Arabin, still musing, and 
 not knowing what he said.
 
 The Bishop breakfasts 539 
 
 " I ask you the question ; do you succeed ? " 
 
 Mr. Arabin looked at her piteously. It seemed 
 to him as though he were being interrogated by 
 some inner spirit of his own, to whom he could 
 not refuse an answer, and to whom he did not 
 dare to give a false reply. 
 
 " Come, Mr. Arabin, confess ; do you suc- 
 ceed ? Is money so contemptible ? Is worldly 
 power so worthless ? Is feminine beauty a trifle 
 to be so slightly regarded by a wise man ? " 
 
 " Feminine beauty ! " said he, gazing into her 
 face, as though all the feminine beauty in the 
 world were concentrated there. " Why do you 
 say I do not regard it ? " 
 
 " If you look at me like that, Mr. Arabin, I 
 shall alter my opinion or should do so, were I 
 not of course aware that I have no beauty of 
 my own worth regarding." 
 
 The gentleman blushed crimson, but the lady 
 did not blush at all. A slightly increased colour 
 animated her face, just so much so as to give 
 her an air of special interest. She expected a 
 compliment from her admirer, but she was 
 rather grateful than -otherwise by finding that he 
 did not pay it to her. Messrs. Slope and 
 Thome, Messrs. Brown, Jones and Robinson, 
 they all paid her compliments. She was rather 
 in hopes that she would ultimately succeed in 
 inducing Mr. Arabin to abuse her. 
 
 " But your gaze," said she, " is one of wonder, 
 and not of admiration. You wonder at my 
 audacity in asking you such questions about 
 yourself." 
 
 "Well, I do rather," said he. 
 
 " Nevertheless I expect an answer, Mr.
 
 54 Barchester Towers 
 
 Arabin. Why were women made beautiful if 
 men are not to regard them ? " 
 
 " But men do regard them," he replied. 
 
 " And why not you ? " 
 
 "You are begging the question, Madame 
 Neroni." 
 
 u I am sure I shall beg nothing, Mr. Arabin, 
 which you will not grant, and I do beg for an 
 answer. Do you not as a rule think women below 
 your notice as companions ? Let us see. There 
 is the widow Bold looking round at you from her 
 chair this minute. What would you say to her 
 as a companion for life ? " 
 
 Mr. Arabin, rising from his position, leaned 
 over the sofa and looked through the drawing- 
 room door to the place where Eleanor was seated 
 between Bertie Stanhope and Mr. Slope. She 
 at once caught his glance, and averted her own. 
 She was not pleasantly placed in her present 
 position. Mr. Slope was doing his best to 
 attract her attention ; and she was striving to 
 prevent his doing so by talking to Mr. Stanhope, 
 while her mind was intently fixed on Mr. Arabin 
 and Madame Neroni. Bertie Stanhope en- 
 deavoured to take advantage of her favours, but 
 he was thinking more of the manner in which 
 he would by-and-by throw himself at her feet, 
 than of amusing her at the present moment. 
 
 " There," said the signora. " She was stretch- 
 ing her beautiful neck to look at you, and now 
 you have disturbed her. Well, I declare, I 
 believe I am wrong about you ; I believe that 
 you do think Mrs. Bold a charming woman. 
 Your looks seem to say so ; and by her looks 
 I should say that she is jealous of me. Come,
 
 The Bishop breakfasts 541 
 
 Mr. Arabin, confide in me, and if it is so, I'll 
 do all in my power to make up the match." 
 
 It is needless to say that the signora was not 
 very sincere in her offer. She was never sincere 
 on such subjects. She never expected others 
 to be so, nor did she expect others to think her 
 so. Such matters were her playthings, her 
 billiard table, her hounds and hunters, her waltzes 
 and polkas, her picnics and summer-day excur- 
 sions. She had little else to amuse her, and 
 therefore played at love-making in all its forms. 
 She was now playing at it with Mr. Arabin, and 
 did not at all expect the earnestness and truth 
 of his answer. 
 
 " All in your power would be nothing," said 
 he ; " for Mrs. Bold is, I imagine, already 
 engaged to another." 
 
 " Then you own the impeachment yourself." 
 
 "You cross-question me rather unfairly," he 
 replied, " and I do not know why I answer you 
 at all. Mrs. Bold is a very beautiful woman, 
 and as intelligent as beautiful. It is impossible 
 to know her without admiring her." 
 
 "So you think the widow a very beautiful 
 woman ? " 
 
 " Indeed I do." 
 
 " And one that would grace the parsonage of 
 St. Ewold's." 
 
 " One that would well grace any man's 
 house." 
 
 " And you really have the effrontery to tell 
 me this," said she ; " to tell me, who, as you 
 very well know, set up to be a beauty myself, 
 and who am at this very moment taking such 
 an interest in your affairs, you really have the
 
 542 Barchester Towers 
 
 effrontery to tell me that Mrs. Bold is the most 
 beautiful woman you know." 
 
 " I did not say so," said Mr. Arabin ; " you 
 are more beautiful " 
 
 "Ah, come now, that is something like. I 
 thought you could not be so unfeeling." 
 
 "You are more beautiful, perhaps more 
 clever." 
 
 " Thank you, thank you, Mr. Arabin. I knew 
 that you and I should be friends." 
 
 But " 
 
 " Not a word further. I will not hear a word 
 further. If you talk till midnight, you cannot 
 improve what you have said." 
 
 "But Madame Neroni, Mrs. Bold " 
 
 " I will not hear a word about Mrs. Bold. 
 Dread thoughts of strychnine did pass across 
 my brain, but she is welcome to the second 
 place." 
 
 " Her place " 
 
 " I won't hear anything about her or her 
 place. I am satisfied, and that is enough. 
 But, Mr. Arabin, I am dying with hunger; 
 beautiful and clever as I am, you know I can- 
 not go to my food, and yet you do not bring it 
 to me." 
 
 This at any rate was so true as to make it 
 necessary that Mr. Arabin should act upon it, 
 and he accordingly went into the dining-room 
 and supplied the signora's wants. 
 
 "And yourself? " said she. 
 
 " Oh," said he, " I am not hungry ; I never 
 eat at this hour." 
 
 " Come, come, Mr. Arabin, don't let love 
 interfere with your appetite. It never does
 
 The Bishop breakfasts 543 
 
 with mine. Give me half a glass more cham- 
 pagne, and then go to the table. Mrs. Bold 
 will do me an injury if you stay talking to me 
 any longer." 
 
 Mr. Arabin did as he was bid. He took her 
 plate and glass from her, and going into the 
 dining-room, helped himself to a sandwich from 
 the crowded table and began munching it in a 
 corner. 
 
 As he was doing so, Miss Thorne, who had 
 hardly sat down for a moment, came into the 
 room, and seeing him standing, was greatly 
 distressed. 
 
 " Oh, my dear Mr. Arabin," said she, " have 
 you never sat down yet ? I am so distressed. 
 You of all men too." 
 
 Mr. Arabin assured her that he had only just 
 come into the room. 
 
 " That is the very reason why you should lose 
 no more time. Come, I'll make room for you. 
 Thank 'ee, my dear," she said, seeing that Mrs. 
 Bold was making an attempt to move from her 
 chair, " but I would not for worlds see you 
 stir, for all the ladies would think it necessary 
 to follow. But, perhaps, if Mr. Stanhope has 
 done just for a minute, Mr. Stanhope till I 
 can get another chair." 
 
 And so Bertie had to rise to make way for his 
 rival. This he did, as he did everything, with 
 an air of good-humoured pleasantry which made 
 it impossible for Mr. Arabin to refuse the 
 proffered seat. 
 
 " His bishopric let another take," said Bertie ; 
 the quotation being certainly not very appro- 
 priate, either for the occasion or the person
 
 544 Barchester Towers 
 
 spoken to. " I have eaten and am satisfied. 
 Mr. Arabin, pray take my chair. I wish for 
 your sake that it really was a bishop's seat." 
 
 Mr. Arabin did sit down, and as he did so, 
 Mrs. Bold got up as though to follow her 
 neighbour. 
 
 " Pray, pray don't move," said Miss Thorne, 
 almost forcing Eleanor back into her chair. 
 " Mr. Stanhope is not going to leave us. He 
 will stand behind you like a true knight as he 
 is. And now I think of it, Mr. Arabin, let me 
 introduce you to Mr. Slope. Mr. Slope, Mr. 
 Arabin." And the two gentlemen bowed stiffly 
 to each other across the lady whom they both 
 intended to marry, while the other gentleman 
 who also intended to marry her stood behind, 
 watching them. 
 
 The two had never met each other before, 
 and the present was certainly not a good op- 
 portunity for much cordial conversation, even 
 if cordial conversation between them had been 
 possible. As it was, the whole four who formed 
 the party seemed as though their tongues were 
 tied. Mr. Slope, who was wide awake to what 
 he hoped was his coming opportunity, was not 
 much concerned in the interest of the moment. 
 His wish was to see Eleanor move, that he might 
 pursue her. Bertie was not exactly in the same 
 frame of mind ; the evil day was near enough ; 
 there was no reason why he should precipitate 
 it. He had made up his mind to marry Eleanor 
 Bold if he could, and was resolved to-day to take 
 the first preliminary step towards doing so. 
 But there was time enough before him. He 
 was not going to make an offer of marriage
 
 The Bishop breakfasts 545 
 
 over the table-cloth. Having thus good- 
 naturedly made way for Mr. Arabin, he was 
 willing also to let him talk to the future Mrs. 
 Stanhope as long as they remained in their 
 present position. 
 
 Mr. Arabin, having bowed to Mr. Slope, 
 began eating his food without saying a word 
 further. He was full of thought, and though he 
 ate he did so unconsciously. 
 
 But poor Eleanor was the most to be pitied. 
 The only friend on whom she thought she could 
 rely, was Bertie Stanhope, and he, it seemed, was 
 determined to desert her. Mr. Arabin did not 
 attempt to address her. She said a few words 
 in reply to some remarks from Mr. Slope, and 
 then feeling the situation too much for her, 
 started from her chair in spite of Miss Thorne, 
 and hurried from the room. Mr. Slope followed 
 her, and young Stanhope lost the occasion. 
 
 Madeline Neroni, when she was left alone, 
 could not help pondering much on the singular 
 interview she had had with this singular man. 
 Not a word that she had spoken to him had been 
 intended by her to be received as true, and yet 
 he had answered her in the very spirit of truth. 
 He had done so, and she had been aware that 
 he had so done. She had wormed from him 
 his secret ; and he, debarred as it would seem 
 from man's usual privilege of lying, had inno- 
 cently laid bare his whole soul to her. He loved 
 Eleanor Bold, but Eleanor was not in his eye 
 so beautiful as herself. He would fain have 
 Eleanor for his wife, but yet he had acknow- 
 ledged that she was the less gifted of the two. 
 The man had literally been unable to falsify 
 
 T
 
 546 Barchester Towers 
 
 his thoughts when questioned, and had been 
 compelled to be true malgre lui, even when truth 
 must have been so disagreeable to him. 
 
 This teacher of men, this Oxford pundit, this 
 double-distilled quintessence of university per- 
 fection, this writer of religious treatises, this 
 speaker of ecclesiastical speeches, had been like 
 a little child in her hands ; she had turned him 
 inside out, and read his very heart as she might 
 have done that of a young girl. She could not 
 but despise him for his facile openness, and yet 
 she liked him for it too. It was a novelty to 
 her, a new trait in a man's character. She felt 
 also that she could never so completely make a 
 fool of him as she did of the Slopes and Thornes. 
 She felt that she never could induce Mr. Arabin 
 to make protestations to her that were not 
 true, or to listen to nonsense that was mere 
 nonsense. 
 
 It was quite clear that Mr. Arabin was heartily 
 in love with Mrs. Bold, and the signora, with 
 very unwonted good nature, began to turn it 
 over in her mind whether she could not do him 
 a good turn. Of course Bertie was to have the 
 first chance. It was an understood family 
 arrangement that her brother was, if possible, to 
 marry the widow Bold. Madeline knew too 
 well his necessities and what was due to her 
 sister to interfere with so excellent a plan, as 
 long as it might be feasible. But she had strong 
 suspicion that it was not feasible. She did not 
 think it likely that Mrs. Bold would accept a 
 man in her brother's position, and she had fre- 
 quently said so to Charlotte. She was inclined 
 to believe that Mr. Slope had more chance of
 
 success ; and with her it would be a labour of 
 love to rob Mr. Slope of his wife. 
 
 And so the signora resolved, should Bertie 
 fail, to do a good-natured act for once in her 
 life, and give up Mr. Arabin to the woman whom 
 he loved. 
 
 .Ollrfun 8I/OJ132 
 
 //inrrJq so 1 Ibl ob'l" 
 
 tt m ; 
 (CHAPTER XXXIX j ijftf* 
 
 v B yc; I.)fS8 // <jidT ".335'jvji yiay ijyrfj QJ 
 
 THE LOOKALOFTS AND THE GREENACRES 
 
 ON the whole, Miss Thome's provision for the 
 amusement and feeding of the outer classes in 
 the exoteric paddock was not unsuccessful. 
 
 Two little drawbacks to the general happiness 
 did take place, but they were of a temporary 
 nature, and apparent rather than real. The first 
 was the downfall of young Harry Greenacre, 
 and the other the uprise of Mrs. Lookaloft and 
 her family. 
 
 As to the quintain, it became more popular 
 among the boys on foot, than it would ever have 
 been among the men on horseback, even had 
 young Greenacre been more successful. It was 
 twirled round and round till it was nearly twirled 
 out of the ground; and the bag of flour was 
 used with great gusto in powdering the backs 
 and heads of all who could be coaxed within its 
 vicinity. 
 
 Of course it was reported all through the 
 assemblage that Harry was dead, and there was 
 a pathetic scene between him and his mother
 
 548 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 when it was found that he had escaped scathe- 
 less from the fall. A good deal of beer was 
 drunk on the occasion, and the quintain was 
 " dratted " and " bothered," and very generally 
 anathematised by all the mothers who had young 
 sons likely to be placed in similar jeopardy. 
 But the affair of Mrs. Lookaloft was of a more 
 serious nature. 
 
 " I do tell 'ee plainly, face to face, she be 
 there in madam's drawing-room ; herself and 
 Gussy, and them two walloping gals, dressed up 
 to their very eyeses." This was said by a very 
 positive, very indignant, and very fat farmer's 
 wife, who was sitting on the end of a bench 
 leaning on the handle of a huge cotton umbrella. 
 
 "But you didn't zee her, Dame Guffern?" 
 said Mrs. Greenacre, whom this information, 
 joined to the recent peril undergone by her 
 son, almost overpowered. Mr. Greenacre held 
 just as much land as Mr. Lookaloft, paid his 
 rent quite as punctually, and his opinion in the 
 vestry-room was reckoned to be every whit as 
 good. Mrs. Lookaloft's rise in the world had 
 been wormwood to Mrs. Greenacre. She had 
 no taste herself for the sort of finery which had 
 converted Barleystubb farm into Rosebank, and 
 which had occasionally graced Mr. Lookaloft's 
 letters with the dignity of esquirehood. She had 
 no wish to convert her own homestead into Violet 
 Villa, or to see her goodman go about with a 
 new-fangled handle to his name. But it was a 
 mortal injury to her that Mrs. Lookaloft should 
 be successful in her hunt after such honours. 
 She had abused and ridiculed Mrs. Lookaloft to 
 the extent of her little power. She had pushed
 
 The Lookalofts and Greenacres 549 
 
 against her going out of church, and had excused 
 herself with all the easiness of equality. " Ah, 
 dame, I axes pardon; but you be grown so 
 mortal stout these times." She had inquired 
 with apparent cordiality of Mr. Lookaloft, after 
 "the woman that owned him," and had, as 
 she thought, been on the whole able to 
 hold her own pretty well against her aspiring 
 neighbour. Now, however, she found herself 
 distinctly put into a separate and inferior class. 
 Mrs. Lookaloft was asked into the Ullathorne 
 drawing-room merely because she called her 
 house Rosebank,and had talked over her husband 
 into buying pianos and silk dresses instead of 
 putting his money by to stock farms for his 
 sons. 
 
 Mrs. Greenacre, much as she reverenced Miss 
 Thorne, and highly as she respected her 
 husband's landlord, could not but look on this 
 as an act of injustice done to her and hers. 
 Hitherto the Lookalofts had never been recog- 
 nised as being of a different class from the 
 Greenacres. Their pretensions were all self- 
 pretensions, their finery was all paid for by 
 themselves and not granted to them by others. 
 The local sovereigns of the vicinity, the district 
 fountains of honour, had hitherto conferred on 
 them the stamp of no rank. Hitherto their 
 crinoline petticoats, late hours, and mincing 
 gait had been a fair subject of Mrs. Greenacre's 
 raillery, and this raillery had been a safety valve 
 for her envy. Now, however, and from hence- 
 forward, the case would be very different. 
 Now the Lookalofts would boast that their 
 aspirations had been sanctioned by the gentry
 
 55 Barchester Towers 
 
 of the country; now they would declare with 
 some show of truth that their claims to peculiar 
 consideration had been recognised. They had 
 sat as equal guests in the presence of bishops 
 and baronets; they had been curtseyed to by 
 Miss Thome on her own drawing-room carpet ; 
 they were about to sit down to table in company 
 with a live countess ! Bab Lookaloft, as she 
 had always been called by the young Greenacres 
 in the days of their juvenile equality, might 
 possibly sit next to the Honourable George, 
 and that wretched Gussy might be permitted to 
 hand a custard to the Lady Margaretta De 
 Courcy. 
 
 The fruition of those honours, or such of 
 them as fell to the lot of the envied family, was 
 not such as should have caused much envy. 
 The attention paid to the Lookalofts by the 
 De Courcys was very limited, and the amount 
 of entertainment which they received from the 
 bishop's society was hardly in itself a recom- 
 pense for the dull monotony of their day. But 
 Of what they endured Mrs. Greenacre took no 
 account; she thought only of what she con- 
 sidered they must enjoy, and of the dreadfully 
 exalted tone of living which would be manifested 
 by the Rosebank family, as the consequence of 
 their present distinction. 
 
 " But did 'ee zee 'em there, dame, did 'ee zee 
 'em there with your own eyes?" asked poor 
 Mrs. Greenacre; still hoping that there might 
 be some ground for doubt. 
 
 "And how could I do that, unless so be I 
 was there myself?" asked Mrs. Guffern. "I 
 didn't zet eyes on none of them this blessed
 
 The Lookalofts and Greenacres 551 
 
 morning, but I zee'd them as did. You know 
 our John ; well, he will be for keeping company 
 with Betsey Rusk, madam's own maid, you 
 know. And Betsey isn't none of your common 
 kitchen wenches. So Betsey, she come out to 
 our John, you know, and she's always vastly 
 polite to me, is Betsey Rusk, I must say. So 
 before she took so much as one turn with John, 
 she told me every ha'porth that was going on 
 up in the house." 
 
 " Did she now ? " said Mrs. Greenacre. 
 
 " Indeed she did," said Mrs. Guffern. 
 
 " And she told you them people was up there 
 in the drawing-room ? " 
 
 " She told me she zee'd them come in, that 
 they was dressed finer by half nor any of the 
 family, with all their neckses and buzoms stark 
 naked as a born babby." 
 
 " The minxes ! " exclaimed Mrs. Greenacre, 
 who felt herself more put about by this than 
 any other mark of aristocratic distinction which 
 her enemies had assumed. 
 
 "Yes, indeed," continued Mrs. Guffern, "as 
 naked as you please, while all the quality was 
 dressed just as you and I be, Mrs. Greenacre." 
 
 "Drat their impudence," said Mrs. Greeii- 
 acre, from whose well-covered bosom all milk 
 of human kindness was receding, as far as the 
 family of the Lookalofts were concerned. 
 
 "So says I," said Mrs. Guffern; "and so 
 says my goodman, Thomas Guffern, when he 
 hear'd it. ' Molly,' says he to me, ' if ever you 
 takes to going about o' mornings with yourself 
 all naked in them ways, I begs you won't come 
 back no more to the old house.' So says I,
 
 552 Barchester Towers 
 
 'Thomas, no more I wull.' 'But,' says he, 
 ' drat it, how the deuce does she manage with 
 her rheumatiz, and she not a rag on her : ' " and 
 Mrs. Guffern laughed loudly as she thought of 
 Mrs. Lookaloft's probable sufferings from rheu- 
 matic attacks. 
 
 " But to liken herself that way to folk that ha' 
 blood in their veins," said Mrs. Greenacre. 
 
 " Well, but that warn't all neither that Betsey 
 told. There they all swelled into madam's 
 drawing-room, like so many turkey cocks, as 
 much as to say, ' and who dare say no to us ? ' 
 and Gregory was thinking of telling of 'em to 
 come down here, only his heart failed him 
 'cause of the grand way they was dressed. So 
 in they went ; but madam looked at them as 
 glum as death." 
 
 " Well now," said Mrs. Greenacre, greatly 
 relieved, " so they wasn't axed different from us 
 at all then ? " 
 
 " Betsey says that Gregory says that madam 
 wasn't a bit too well pleased to see them where 
 they was, and that, to his believing, they was 
 expected to come here just like the rest of us." 
 
 There was great consolation in this. Not 
 that Mrs. Greenacre was altogether satisfied. 
 She felt that justice to herself demanded that 
 Mrs. Lookaloft should not only not be en- 
 couraged, but that she should also be absolutely 
 punished. What had been done at that scrip- 
 tural banquet, of which Mrs. Greenacre so often 
 read the account to her family ? Why had not 
 Miss Thorne boldly gone to the intruder and 
 said, " Friend, thou hast come up hither to high 
 places not fitted to thee. Go down lower, and
 
 The Lookalofts and Greenacres 553 
 
 thou wilt find thy mates." Let the Lookalofts 
 be treated at the present moment with ever so 
 cold a shoulder, they would still be enabled to 
 boast hereafter of their position, their aspirations, 
 and their honour. 
 
 " Well, with all her grandeur, I do wonder 
 that she be so mean," continued Mrs. Green- 
 acre, unable to dismiss the subject. " Did you 
 hear, goodman ? " she went on, about to repeat 
 the whole story to her husband who then came 
 up. " There's dame Lookaloft and Bab and 
 Gussy and the' lot of 'em all sitting as grand as 
 fivepence in madam's drawing-room, and they 
 not axed no more nor you nor me. Did you 
 ever hear tell the like o' that ? " 
 
 "Well, and what for shouldn't they?" said 
 Farmer Greenacre. 
 
 " Likening theyselves to the quality, as though 
 they was estated folk, or the like o' that ! " said 
 Mrs. Guffern. 
 
 " Well, if they likes it and madam likes it, 
 they's welcome for me," said the farmer. " Now 
 I likes this place better, 'cause I be more at 
 home like, and don't have to pay for them fine 
 clothes for the missus. Every one to his taste, 
 Mrs. Guffern, and if neighbour Lookaloft thinks 
 that he has the best of it, he's welcome." 
 
 Mrs. Greenacre sat down by her husband's 
 side to begin the heavy work of the banquet, 
 and she did so in some measure with restored 
 tranquillity, but nevertheless she shook her head 
 at her gossip to show that in this instance she 
 did not quite approve of her husband's doctrine. 
 
 " And I'll tell 'ee what, dames," continued he ; 
 " if so be that we cannot enjoy the dinner that
 
 554 Barchester Towers 
 
 madam gives us because Mother Lookaloft is 
 sitting up there on a grand sofa, I think we 
 ought all to go home. If we greet at that, 
 what'll we do when true sorrow comes across 
 us ? How would you be now, dame, if the boy 
 there had broke his neck when he got the 
 tumble ? " 
 
 Mrs. Greenacre was humbled and said nothing 
 further on the matter. But let prudent men, 
 such as Mr. Greenacre, preach as they will, the 
 family of the Lookalofts certainly does occasion 
 a good deal of heart-burning in the world at 
 large. 
 
 It was pleasant to see Mr. Plomacy, as lean- 
 ing on his stout stick he went about among the 
 rural guests, acting as a sort of head constable 
 as well as master of the revels. " Now, young 
 'un, if you can't manage to get along without 
 that screeching, you'd better go to the other 
 side of the twelve-acre field, and take your 
 dinner with you. Come, girls, what do you 
 stand there for, twirling of your thumbs ? come 
 out, and let the lads see you ; you've no need to 
 be so ashamed of your faces. Hollo ! there, 
 who are you ? how did you make your way in 
 here?" 
 
 This last disagreeable question was put to a 
 young man of about twenty-four, who did not, 
 in Mr. Plomacy's eye, bear sufficient vestiges of 
 a rural education and residence. 
 
 " If you please, your worship, Master Barrell 
 the coachman let me in at the church wicket, 
 'cause I do be working mostly al'ays for the 
 family." 
 
 " Then Master Barrell the coachman may let
 
 The Lookalofts and Greenacres 555 
 
 you out again," said Mr. Plomacy, not even con- 
 ciliated by the magisterial dignity which had 
 been conceded to him. "What's your name? 
 and what trade are you, and who do you work 
 for ? " 
 
 " I'm Stubbs, your worship, Bob Stubbs ; and 
 and and " 
 
 " And what's your trade, Stubbs ? " 
 
 J ' 
 
 " Plaisterer, please your worship." 
 
 " I'll plaister you, and Barrell too ; you'll just 
 walk out of this 'ere field as quick as you walked 
 in. We don't want no plaisterers; when we 
 do, we'll send for 'em. Come, my buck, 
 walk." 
 
 Stubbs the plasterer was much downcast at 
 this dreadful edict. He was a sprightly fellow, 
 and had contrived since his egress into the 
 Ullathorne elysium to attract to himself a forest 
 nymph, to whom he was whispering a plasterer's 
 usual soft nothings, when he was encountered by 
 the great Mr. Plomacy. It was dreadful to be 
 thus dissevered from his dryad, and sent howl- 
 ing back to a Barchester pandemonium just as 
 the nectar and ambrosia were about to descend 
 on the fields of asphodel. He began to try 
 what prayers would do, but city prayers were 
 vain against the great rural potentate. Not only 
 did Mr. Plomacy order his exit, but raising his 
 stick to show the way which led to the gate 
 that had been left in the custody of that false 
 Cerberus Barrell, proceeded himself to see the 
 edict of banishment carried out. 
 
 The goddess Mercy, however, the sweetest 
 goddess that ever sat upon a cloud, and the 
 dearest to poor frail erring man, appeared on
 
 556 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 the field in the person of Mr. Greenacre. Never 
 was interceding goddess more welcome. 
 
 "Come, man," said Mr. Greenacre, "never 
 stick at trifles such a day as this. I know the 
 lad well. Let him bide at my axing. Madam 
 won't miss what he can eat and drink, I 
 know." 
 
 Now Mr. Plomacy and Mr. Greenacre were 
 sworn friends. Mr. Plomacy had at his own 
 disposal as comfortable a room as there was in 
 Ullathorne House ; but he was a bachelor, and 
 alone there; and, moreover, smoking in the 
 house was not allowed even to Mr. Plomacy. 
 His moments of truest happiness were spent in 
 a huge arm-chair in the warmest corner of Mrs. 
 Greenacre's beautifully clean front kitchen. 'Twas 
 there that the inner man dissolved itself, and 
 poured itself out in streams of pleasant chat ; 
 'twas there that he was respected and yet at his 
 ease ; 'twas there, and perhaps there only, that 
 he could unburden himself from the ceremonies 
 of life without offending the dignity of those 
 above him, or incurring the familiarity of those 
 below. 'Twas there that his long pipe was 
 always to be found on the accustomed chimney 
 board, not only permitted but encouraged. 
 
 Such being the state of the case, it was not to 
 be supposed that Mr. Plomacy could refuse such 
 a favour to Mr. Greenacre ; but nevertheless he 
 did not grant it without some further show of 
 austere authority. 
 
 " Eat and drink, Mr. Greenacre ! No. It's 
 not what he eats and drinks ; but the example 
 such a chap shows, coming in where he's not 
 invited a chap of his age too. He too that
 
 The Lookalofts and Greenacres 557 
 
 never did a day's work about Ullathorne since 
 he was born. Plaisterer ! I'll plaister him ! " 
 
 " He worked long enough for me, then, Mr. 
 Plomacy. And a good hand he is at setting 
 tiles as any in Barchester," said the other, not 
 sticking quite to veracity, as indeed mercy never 
 should. "Come, come, let him alone to-day, 
 and quarrel with him to-morrow. You wouldn't 
 shame him before his lass there ? " 
 
 " It goes against the grain with me, then," 
 said Mr. Plomacy. " And take care, you Stubbs, 
 and behave yourself. If I hear a row I shall 
 know where it comes from. I'm up to you 
 Barchester journeymen; I know what stuff 
 you're made of." 
 
 And so Stubbs went off happy, pulling at the 
 forelock of his shock head of hair in honour 
 of the steward's clemency, and giving another 
 double pull at it in honour of the farmer's 
 kindness. And as he went he swore within his 
 grateful heart, that if ever Farmer Greenacre 
 wanted a day's work done for nothing, he was 
 the lad to do it for him. Which promise it was 
 not probable that he would ever be called on to 
 perform. 
 
 But Mr. Plomacy was not quite happy in his 
 mind, for he thought of the unjust steward, and 
 began to reflect whether he had not made for 
 himself friends of the mammon of unrighteous- 
 ness. This, however, did not interfere with 
 the manner in which he performed his duties 
 at the bottom of the long board ; nor did Mr. 
 Greenacre perform his the worse at the top on 
 account of the good wishes of Stubbs the 
 plasterer. Moreover, the guests did not think
 
 558 Barchester Towers 
 
 it anything amiss when Mr. Plomacy, rising to 
 say grace, prayed that God would make them all 
 truly thankful for the good things which Madam 
 Thorne in her great liberality had set before 
 them ! 
 
 All this time the quality in the tent on the 
 lawn were getting on swimmingly; that is, if 
 champagne without restriction can enable 
 quality folk to swim. Sir Harkaway Gorse 
 proposed the health of Miss Thorne, and 
 likened her to a blood race-horse, always in 
 condition, and not to be tired down by any 
 amount of work. Mr. Thorne returned thanks, 
 saying he hoped his sister would always be 
 found able to run when called upon, and then 
 gave the health and prosperity of the De Courcy 
 family. His sister was very much honoured by 
 seeing so many of them at her poor board. 
 They were all aware that important avocations 
 made the absence of the earl necessary. As his 
 duty to his prince had called him from his 
 family hearth, he, Mr. Thorne, could not 
 venture to regret that he did not see him at 
 UUathorne ; but nevertheless he would venture 
 to say that was to express a wish an opinion 
 he meant to say And so Mr. Thorne be- 
 came somewhat gravelled, as country gentlemen 
 in similar circumstances usually do; but he 
 ultimately sat down, declaring that he had 
 much satisfaction in drinking the noble earl's 
 health, together with that of the countess, and 
 all the family of De Courcy castle. 
 
 And then the Honourable George returned 
 thanks. We will not follow him through the 
 different periods of his somewhat irregular
 
 The Lookalofts and Greenacres 559 
 
 eloquence. Those immediately in his neigh- 
 bourhood found it at first rather difficult to get 
 him on his legs, but much greater difficulty was 
 soon experienced in inducing him to resume his 
 seat. One of two arrangements should certainly 
 be made in these days : either let all speech- 
 making on festive occasions be utterly tabooed 
 and made as it were impossible or else let 
 those who are to exercise the privilege be first 
 subjected to a competing examination before 
 the civil service examining commissioners. As 
 it is now, the Honourable Georges do but little 
 honour to our exertions in favour of British 
 education. 
 
 In the dining-room the bishop went through 
 the honours of the day with much more neatness 
 and propriety. He also drank Miss Thome'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. 
 
 mus 
 im/J
 
 560 Barchester Towers 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 ULLATHORNE SPORTS. ACT II 
 
 " THAT which has made them drunk, has made 
 me bold." 'Twas thus that Mr. Slope encou- 
 raged 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
 
 Ullathorne Sports. Act II 561 
 
 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 cordiaJ 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, how- 
 ever, at the present moment imbibed too much 
 of Mr. Thome'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 en- 
 countered 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
 
 562 Barchester Towers 
 
 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 vindi- 
 cation 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 her- 
 self quite justified in admitting him among her 
 acquaintance, had ridiculed the idea of his con- 
 sidering himself as more than an acquaintance, 
 and had resented the archdeacon's caution in
 
 Ullathorne Sports. Act II 563 
 
 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, and 
 there receive his offer in full view of Miss 
 Thome'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 "
 
 564 Barchester Towers 
 
 " 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 
 informed 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 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 con- 
 ferred 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 a while 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 all still bidden to
 
 Ullathorne Sports. Act II 565 
 
 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 step, 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 Thome'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 "
 
 566 Barchester Towers 
 
 " 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 clever- 
 ness, 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 
 onay, 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 good will, that it sounded among the trees 
 like a miniature thunder-clap. 
 
 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
 
 Ullathorne Sports. Act II 567 
 
 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 fisty-cuffs 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 her- 
 self. 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 piety 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 direct to 
 his pride. He conceived himself lowered in his 
 dignity, and personally outraged. He could 
 almost have struck at her again in his rage.
 
 568 Barchester Towers 
 
 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 grace- 
 ful 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
 
 Ullathorne Sports. Act II 569 
 
 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 every one 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 medi- 
 tating how he might best devote his enemy to 
 the infernal gods with all the passion of his ac- 
 customed 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. Thome'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
 
 570 Barchester Towers 
 
 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 Baalj 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 conversa- 
 tion 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, and pointing to the tent ; " very
 
 Ullathorne Sports. Act II 571 
 
 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, how- 
 ever, 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
 
 572 Barchester Towers 
 
 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 dis- 
 regarded 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 communica- 
 tion with Mr. Slope, ran hurriedly back towards 
 the house. The thought, however, of what she
 
 Mrs. Bold's Confidences 573 
 
 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 
 melodrame. 
 
 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 her- 
 self 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 any one 
 told her a week ago that he would have put his 
 arm round her waist at this party of Miss 
 Thome's, she would have been utterly incredu- 
 lous. 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 com- 
 mitted ; and now there was nothing she could
 
 574 Barchester Towers 
 
 not believe of him. In the 5 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 with- 
 out 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 ! some- 
 thing has distressed you. What is it? What 
 can I do for you ? " 
 
 Eleanor answered her only by a sort of spas- 
 modic 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
 
 Mrs. Bold's Confidences 575 
 
 way, and we shall not be seen. What has hap- 
 pened 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 impera- 
 tively called on to make a confidence; in 
 which not to do so requires a disagreeable reso- 
 lution and also a disagreeable suspicion. There 
 are people of both sexes who never make con- 
 fidences ; 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 ? "
 
 576 Barchester Towers 
 
 " 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 encourage- 
 ment 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 villany, 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." 
 
 " Oh, I am sure he was," said Eleanor. " I 
 am sure he must have been tipsy."
 
 Mrs. Hold's Confidences 577 
 
 "Well, I declare I didn't observe it. But 
 what was it, my love ? " 
 
 " Why, I believe I can hardly tell you. He 
 talked such horrid stuff that you never heard the 
 like; about religion, and heaven, and love. 
 Oh, dear, he is such a nasty man." 
 
 " I can easily imagine the sort of stuff he 
 would talk. Well, and then ? " 
 
 " And then he took hold of me." 
 
 "Took hold of you?" 
 
 "Yes, he somehow got close to me, and 
 took hold of me " 
 
 " By the waist ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Eleanor shuddering. 
 
 "And then " 
 
 " Then I jumped away from him, and gave 
 him a slap on the face ; and ran away along the 
 path, till I saw you." 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! " Charlotte Stanhope laughed 
 heartily at the finale to the tragedy. It was 
 delightful to her to think that Mr. Slope had 
 had his ears boxed. She did not quite ap- 
 preciate the feeling which made her friend so 
 unhappy at the result of the interview. To her 
 thinking, the matter had ended happily enough 
 as regarded the widow, who indeed was entitled 
 to some sort of triumph among her friends. 
 Whereas to Mr. Slope would be due all those 
 jibes and jeers which would naturally follow 
 such an affair. His friends would ask him 
 whether [his ears tingled whenever he saw a 
 widow ; and he would be cautioned that beautiful 
 things were made to be looked at, and not to be 
 touched. 
 
 Such were Charlotte Stanhope's views on such 
 
 u
 
 578 Barchester Towers 
 
 matters : but she did not at the present moment 
 clearly explain them to Mrs. Bold. Her object 
 was to endear herself to her friend ; and there- 
 fore, having had her laugh, she was ready enough 
 to offer sympathy. Could Bertie do anything ? 
 Should Bertie speak to the man, and warn him 
 that in future he must behave with more de- 
 corum ? Bertie, indeed, she declared, would be 
 more angry than any one else when he heard to 
 what insult Mrs. Bold had been subjected. 
 
 " But you won't tell him ? " said Mrs. Bold 
 with a look of horror. 
 
 " Not if you don't like it," said Charlotte ; 
 "but considering everything, I would strongly 
 advise it. If you had a brother, you know, it 
 would be unnecessary. But it is very right that 
 Mr. Slope should know that you have somebody 
 by you that will, and can protect you." 
 
 " But my father is here." 
 
 " Yes, but it is so disagreeable for clergymen 
 to have to quarrel with each other ; and circum- 
 stanced as your father is just at this moment, it 
 would be very inexpedient that there should be 
 anything unpleasant between him and Mr. Slope. 
 Surely you and Bertie are intimate enough for 
 you to permit him to take your part." 
 
 Charlotte Stanhope was very anxious that her 
 brother should at once on that very day settle 
 matters with his future wife. Things had now 
 come to that point between him and his father, 
 and between him and his creditors, that he must 
 either do so, or leave Barchester; either do that, 
 or go back to his unwashed associates, dirty 
 lodgings, and poor living at Carrara. Unless he 
 could provide himself with an income, he must
 
 Mrs. Hold's Confidences 579 
 
 go to Carrara, or to . His father the pre- 
 bendary had not said this in so many words, 
 but had he done so, he could not have signified 
 it more plainly. 
 
 Such being the state of the case, it was very 
 necessary that no more time should be lost. 
 Charlotte had seen her brother's apathy, when 
 he neglected to follow Mrs. Bold out of the 
 room,j with anger which she could hardly sup- 
 press. It was grievous to think that Mr. Slope 
 should have so distanced him. Charlotte felt 
 that she had played her part with sufficient skill. 
 She had brought them together and induced 
 such a degree of intimacy, that her brother was 
 really relieved from all trouble and labour in the 
 matter. And moreover, it was quite plain that 
 Mrs. Bold was very fond of Bertie. And now 
 it was plain enough also that he had nothing to 
 fear from his rival Mr. Slope. 
 
 There was certainly an awkwardness in sub- 
 jecting Mrs. Bold to a second offer on the same 
 day. It would have been well perhaps to have 
 put the matter off for a week, could a week have 
 been spared. But circumstances are frequently 
 too peremptory to be arranged as we would wish 
 to arrange them ; and such was the case now. 
 This being so, could not this affair of Mr. 
 Slope's be turned to advantage ? Could it not 
 be made the excuse for bringing Bertie and 
 Mrs. Bold into still closer connection; into 
 such close connection that they could not fail 
 to throw themselves into each other's arms ? 
 Such was the game which Miss Stanhope now at 
 a moment's notice resolved to play. 
 
 And very well she played it. In the first
 
 580 Barchester Towers 
 
 place, it was arranged that Mr. Slope should 
 not return in the Stanhopes' carriage to Bar- 
 Chester. It so happened that Mr. Slope was 
 already gone, but of that of course they knew 
 nothing. The signora should be induced to 
 go first, with only the servants and her sister, 
 and Bertie should take Mr. Slope's place in the 
 second journey. Bertie was to be told in con- 
 fidence of the whole affair, and when the carriage 
 was gone off with its first load, Eleanor was to 
 be left under Bertie's special protection, so as to 
 insure her from any further aggression from Mr. 
 Slope. While the carriage was getting ready, 
 Bertie was to seek out that gentleman and make 
 him understand that he must provide himself 
 with another conveyance back to Barchester. 
 Their immediate object should be to walk about 
 together in search of Bertie. Bertie, in short, 
 was to be the Pegasus on whose wings they 
 were to ride out of their present dilemma. 
 
 There was a warmth of friendship and cordial 
 kindliness in all this, that was very soothing to 
 the widow ; but yet, though she gave way to it, 
 she was hardly reconciled to doing so. It never 
 occurred to her, that now that she had killed one 
 dragon, another was about to spring up in her 
 path ; she had no remote idea that she would have 
 to encounter another suitor in her proposed pro- 
 tector, but she hardly liked the thought of 
 putting herself so much into the hands of young 
 Stanhope. She felt that if she wanted protec- 
 tion, she should go to her father. She felt that 
 she should ask him to provide a carriage for 
 her back to Barchester. Mrs. Clantantram she 
 knew would give her a seat. She knew that
 
 Mrs. Hold's Confidences 581 
 
 she should not throw herself entirely upon 
 friends whose friendship dated as it were but 
 from yesterday. But yet she could not say 
 " no," to one who was so sisterly in her kind- 
 ness, so eager in her good nature, so comfor- 
 tably sympathetic as Charlotte Stanhope. And 
 thus she gave way to all the propositions made 
 to her. 
 
 They first went into the dining-room, looking 
 for their champion, and from thence to the 
 drawing-room. Here they found Mr. Arabin, 
 still hanging over the signora's sofa ; or, rather, 
 they found him sitting near her head, as a 
 physician might have sat, had the lady been his 
 patient. There was no other person in the 
 room. The guests were some in the tent, some 
 few still in the dining-room, some at the bows 
 and arrows, but most of them walking with 
 Miss Thorne through the park, and looking at 
 the games that were going on. 
 
 All that had passed, and was passing between 
 Mr. Arabin and the lady, it is unnecessary to 
 give in detail. She was doing with him as she 
 did with all others. It was her mission to make 
 fools of men, and she was pursuing her mission 
 with Mr. Arabin. She had almost got him to 
 own his love for Mrs. Bold, and had subse- 
 quently almost induced him to acknowledge a 
 passion for herself. He, poor man, was hardly 
 aware what he was doing or saying, hardly 
 conscious whether he was in heaven or in hell. 
 So little had he known of female attractions of 
 that peculiar class which the signora owned, that 
 he became affected with a kind of temporary 
 delirium, when first subjected to its power. He
 
 582 Barch ester Towers 
 
 lost his head rather than his heart, and toppled 
 about mentally, reeling in his ideas as a drunken 
 man does on his legs. She had whispered to 
 him words that really meant nothing, but which 
 coming from such beautiful lips, and accom- 
 panied by such lustrous glances, seemed to 
 have a mysterious significance, which he felt 
 though he could not understand. 
 
 In being thus be-sirened, Mr. Arabin behaved 
 himself very differently from Mr. Slope. The 
 signora had said truly, that the two men were 
 the contrasts of each other ; that the one was 
 all for action, the other all for thought. Mr. 
 Slope, when this lady laid upon his senses the 
 overpowering breath of her charms, immediately 
 attempted to obtain some fruition, to achieve 
 some mighty triumph. He began by catching 
 at her hand, and progressed by kissing it He 
 made vows of love, and asked for vows in return. 
 He promised everlasting devotion, knelt before 
 her, and swore that had she been on Mount Ida, 
 Juno would have had no cause to hate the off- 
 spring of Venus. But Mr. Arabin uttered no 
 oaths, kept his hand mostly in his trousers 
 pocket, and had no more thought of kissing 
 Madam Neroni, than of kissing the Countess 
 De Courcy. 
 
 As soon as Mr. Arabin saw Mrs. Bold enter 
 the room, he blushed and rose from his chair ; 
 then he sat down again, and then again got up. 
 The signora saw the blush at once, and smiled 
 at the poor victim, but Eleanor was too much 
 confused to see anything. 
 
 " Oh, Madeline," said Charlotte, " I want to 
 speak to you particularly; we must arrange
 
 Mrs. Bold's Confidences 583 
 
 about the carriage, you know ; " and she stooped 
 down to whisper to her sister. Mr. Arabin im- 
 mediately withdrew to a little distance, and as 
 Charlotte had in fact much to explain before 
 she could make the new carriage arrangement 
 intelligible, he had nothing to do but to talk to 
 Mrs. Bold. 
 
 "We have had a very pleasant party," said 
 he, using the tone he would have used had he 
 declared that the sun was shining very brightly, 
 or the rain falling very fast. 
 
 " Very," said Eleanor, who never in her life 
 had passed a more unpleasant day. 
 
 " I hope Mr. Harding has enjoyed himself." 
 
 " Oh, yes, very much," said Eleanor, who had 
 not seen her father since she parted from him 
 soon after her arrival. *- tiyi 
 
 " He returns to Barchester to-night, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 " Yes, I believe so ; that is, I think he is 
 staying at Plumstead." 
 
 " Oh, staying at Plumstead," said Mr. Arabin. 
 
 " He came from there this morning. I 
 believe he is going back ; he didn't exactly say, 
 however." 
 
 " I hope Mrs. Grantly is quite well." 
 
 " She seemed to be quite well. She is here ; 
 that is, unless she has gone away." 
 
 " Oh, yes, to be sure. I was talking to her. 
 Looking very well indeed." Then there was a 
 considerable pause ; for Charlotte could not at 
 once make Madeline understand why she was to 
 be sent home in a hurry without her brother. 
 
 " Are you returning to Plumstead, Mrs. 
 Bold ? " Mr. Arabin merely asked this by way
 
 584 Barchester Towers 
 
 of making conversation, but he immediately 
 perceived that he was approaching dangerous 
 ground. 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Bold, very quietly ; " I am 
 going home to Barchester." 
 
 " Oh, ah, yes. I had forgotten that you had 
 returned." And then Mr. Arabin, finding it 
 impossible to say anything further, stood silent 
 till Charlotte had completed her plans, and 
 Mrs. Bold stood equally silent, intently occupied 
 as"it appeared in the arrangement of her rings. 
 
 And yet these two people were thoroughly in 
 love with each other ; and though one was a 
 middle-aged clergyman, and the other a lady at 
 any rate past the wishy-washy bread-and-butter 
 period of life, they were as unable to tell their 
 own minds to each other as any Damon and 
 Phillis, whose united ages would not make up 
 that to which Mr. Arabin had already attained. 
 
 Madeline Neroni consented to her sister's 
 proposal, and then the two ladies again went off 
 in quest of Bertie Stanhope. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII 
 
 ULLATHORNE SPORTS. ACT III 
 
 AND now Miss Thome's guests were beginning 
 to take their departure, and the amusement of 
 those who remained was becoming slack. It 
 was getting dark, and ladies in morning costumes 
 were thinking that if they were to appear by
 
 Ullathorne Sports. Act III 585 
 
 candle-light they ought to readjust themselves. 
 Some young gentlemen had been heard to 
 talk so loud that prudent mammas determined 
 to retire judiciously, and the more discreet of 
 the male sex, whose libations had been moderate, 
 felt that there was not much more left for them 
 to do. 
 
 Morning parties, as a rule, are failures. 
 People never know how to get away from them 
 gracefully. A picnic on an island or a 
 mountain or in a wood may perhaps be per- 
 mitted. There is no master of the mountain 
 bound by courtesy to bid you stay while in his 
 heart he is longing for your departure. But in 
 a private house or in private grounds a morning 
 party is a bore. One is called on to eat and 
 drink at unnatural hours. One is obliged to 
 give up the day which is useful, and is then left 
 without resource for the evening which is use- 
 less. One gets home fagged and desativre, and 
 yet at an hour too early for bed. There is 
 no comfortable resource left. Cards in these 
 genteel days are among the things tabooed, and 
 a rubber of whist is impracticable. 
 
 All this began now to be felt. Some young 
 people had come with some amount of hope 
 that they might get up a dance in the evening, 
 and were unwilling to leave till all such hope 
 was at an end. Others, fearful of staying longer 
 than was expected, had ordered their carriages 
 early, and were doing their best to go, solicitous 
 for their servants and horses. The countess 
 and her noble brood were among the first to 
 leave, and as regarded the Hon. George, it was 
 certainly time that he did so. Her ladyship
 
 5 86 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 was in a great fret and fume. Those horrid 
 roads would, she was sure, be the death of her 
 if unhappily she were caught in them by the 
 dark night. The lamps she was assured were 
 good, but no lamp could withstand the jolting 
 of the roads of East Barsetshire. The De 
 Courcy property lay in the western division of 
 the county. 
 
 Mrs. Proudie could not stay when the countess 
 was gone. So the bishop was searched for by 
 the Revs. Messrs. Grey and Green, and found 
 in one corner of the tent enjoying himself 
 thoroughly in a disquisition on the hebdomadal 
 board. He obeyed, however, the behests of 
 his lady without finishing the sentence in which 
 he was promising to Dr. Gwynne that his 
 authority at Oxford should remain unimpaired ; 
 and the episcopal horses turned their noses 
 towards the palatial stables. Then the Grantlys 
 went. Before they did so, Mr. Harding managed 
 to whisper a word into his daughter's ear. Of 
 course, he said he would undeceive the Grantlys 
 as to that foolish rumour about Mr. Slope. 
 
 " No, no, no," said Eleanor ; " pray do not 
 pray wait till I see you. You will be home 
 in a day or two, and then I will explain to you 
 everything." 
 
 " I shall be home to-morrow," said he. 
 
 "I am so glad," said Eleanor. "You will 
 come and dine with me, and then we shall be 
 so comfortable." 
 
 Mr. Harding promised. He did not exactly 
 know what there was to be explained, or why 
 Dr. Grantly's mind should not be disabused of 
 the mistake into which he had fallen ; but never-
 
 Ullathorne Sports. Act III 587 
 
 theless he promised. He owed some reparation 
 to his daughter, and he thought that he might 
 best make it by obedience. 
 
 And thus the people were thinning off by 
 degrees, as Charlotte and Eleanor walked about 
 in | quest of Bertie. Their search might have 
 been long, had they not happened to hear his 
 voice. He was comfortably ensconced in the ha- 
 ha, with his back to the sloping side, smoking a 
 cigar, and eagerly engaged in conversation with 
 some youngster from . the further side of the 
 county, whom he had never met before, who 
 was also smoking under Bertie's pupilage, and 
 listening with open ears to an account given by 
 his companion of some of the pastimes of 
 Eastern clime. 
 
 " Bertie, I am seeking you everywhere," said 
 Charlotte. " Come up here at once.'' no 
 
 Bertie looked up out of the ha-ha, and saw 
 the two ladies before him. As there was nothing 
 for him but to obey, he got up and threw away 
 his cigar. From the first moment of his ac- 
 quaintance with her he had liked Eleanor Bold. 
 Had he been left to his own devices, had she 
 been penniless, and had it then been quite out 
 of the question that he should marry her, he 
 would most probably have fallen violently in 
 love with her. But now he could not help 
 regarding her somewhat as he did the marble 
 workshops at Carrara, as he had done his easel 
 and palette, as he had done the lawyer's chambers 
 in London ; in fact, as he had invariably regarded 
 everything by which it had been proposed to him 
 to obtain the means of living. Eleanor Bold 
 appeared before him, no longer as a beautiful
 
 588 Barchester Towers 
 
 woman, but as a new profession called matri- 
 mony. It was a profession indeed requiring 
 but little labour, and one in which an income 
 was insured to him. But nevertheless he had 
 been as it were goaded on to it ; his sister had 
 talked to him of Eleanor, just as she had talked 
 of busts and portraits. Bertie did not dislike 
 money, but he hated the very thought of earning 
 it He was now called away from his pleasant 
 cigar to earn it, by offering himself as a husband 
 to Mrs. Bold. The work indeed was made easy 
 enough ; for in lieu of his having to seek the 
 widow, the widow had apparently come to seek 
 him. 
 
 He made some sudden absurd excuse to his 
 auditor, and then throwing away his cigar, 
 climbed up the wall of the ha-ha and joined the 
 ladies on the lawn. 
 
 "Come and give Mrs. Bold an arm," said 
 Charlotte, " while I set you on a piece of duty 
 which, as a preux chevalier, you must imme- 
 diately perform. Your personal danger will, I 
 fear, be insignificant, as your antagonist is a 
 clergyman." 
 
 Bertie immediately gave his arm to Eleanor, 
 walking between her and his sister. He had 
 lived too long abroad to fall into the English- 
 man's habit of offering each an arm to two 
 ladies at the same time ; a habit, by-the-by, which 
 foreigners regard as an approach to bigamy, or 
 a sort of incipient Mormonism. 
 
 The little history of Mr. Slope's misconduct 
 was then told to Bertie by his sister, Eleanor's 
 ears tingling the while. And well they might 
 tingle. If it were necessary to speak of the
 
 Ullathorne Sports. Act III 589 
 
 outrage at all, why should it be spoken of to 
 such a person as Mr. Stanhope, and why in her 
 own hearing ? She knew she was wrong, and was 
 unhappy and dispirited, and yet she could think 
 of no way to extricate herself, no way to set 
 herself right. Charlotte spared her as much as 
 she possibly could, spoke of the whole thing as 
 though Mr. Slope had taken a glass of wine too 
 much, said that of course there would be nothing 
 more about it, but that steps must be taken to 
 exclude Mr. Slope from the carriage. 
 
 "Mrs. Bold need be under no alarm about that," 
 said Bertie, " for Mr. Slope has gone this hour 
 past. He told me that business made it necessary 
 that he should start at once for Barchester." 
 
 " He is not so tipsy, at any rate, but what he 
 knows his fault," said Charlotte. "Well, my 
 dear, that is one difficulty over. Now I'll leave 
 you with your true knight, and get Madeline off 
 as quickly as I can. The carriage is here, I 
 suppose, Bertie?" 
 
 " It has been here for the last hour." 
 
 " That's well. Good-bye, my dear. Of 
 course you'll come in to tea. I shall trust to you 
 to bring her, Bertie ; even by force if necessary." 
 And so saying, Charlotte ran off across the 
 lawn, leaving her brother alone with the widow. 
 
 As Miss Stanhope went off, Eleanor bethought 
 herself that, as Mr. Slope had taken his departure, 
 there no longer existed any necessity for separa- 
 ting Mr. Stanhope from his sister Madeline, 
 who so much needed his aid. It had been 
 arranged that he should remain so as to 
 preoccupy Mr. Slope's place in the carriage, and 
 act as a social policeman to effect the exclusion
 
 590 Barchester Towers 
 
 of that disagreeable gentleman. But Mr. Slope 
 had effected his own exclusion, and there was 
 no possible reason now why Bertie should not 
 go with his sister. At least Eleanor saw none, 
 and she said as much. 
 
 "Oh, let Charlotte have her own way," said 
 he. " She has arranged it, and there will be no 
 end of confusion, if we make another change. 
 Charlotte always arranges everything in our 
 house ; and rules us like a despot." 
 
 " But the signora ? " said Eleanor. 
 
 "Oh, the signora can do very well without 
 me. Indeed, she will have to do without me," 
 he added, thinking rather of his studies in 
 Carrara, than of his Barchester hymeneals. 
 
 " Why, you are not going to leave us ? " asked 
 Eleanor. 
 
 It has been said that Bertie Stanhope was a 
 man without principle. He certainly was so. 
 He had no power of using active mental 
 exertion to keep himself from doing evil. Evil 
 had no ugliness in his eyes ; virtue no beauty. 
 He was void of any of these feelings which actuate 
 men to do good. But he was perhaps equally 
 void of those which actuate men to do evil. 
 He got into debt with utter recklessness, think- 
 ing nothing as to whether the tradesmen would 
 ever be paid or not. But he did not invent 
 active schemes of deceit for the sake of extract- 
 ing the goods of others. If a man gave him 
 credit, that was the man's look-out; Bertie 
 Stanhope troubled himself nothing further. In 
 borrowing money he did the same; he gave 
 people references to " his governor ; " told them 
 that the " old chap " had a good income ; and
 
 Ullathorne Sports. Act III 591 
 
 agreed to pay sixty per cent, for the accommo- 
 dation. All this he did without a scruple of 
 conscience ; but then he never contrived active 
 villany. 
 
 In this affair of his marriage, it had been 
 represented to him as a matter of duty that 
 he ought to put himself in possession of Mrs. 
 Bold's hand and fortune ; and at first he had so 
 regarded it. About her he had thought but 
 little. It was the customary thing for men 
 situated as he was to marry for money, and 
 there was no reason why he should not do what 
 others around him did. And so he consented. 
 But now he began to see the matter in another 
 light. He was setting himself down to catch 
 this woman, as a cat sits to catch a mouse. 
 He was to catch her, and swallow her up, her 
 and her child, and her houses and land, in 
 order that he might live on her instead of on 
 his father. There was a cold, calculating, 
 cautious cunning about this quite at variance 
 with Bertie's character. The prudence of the 
 measure was quite as antagonistic to his feelings 
 as the iniquity. 
 
 And then, should he be successful, what 
 would be the reward? Having satisfied his 
 creditors with half of the widow's fortune, he 
 would be allowed to sit down quietly at Bar- 
 chester, keeping economical house with the 
 remainder. His duty would be to rock the 
 cradle of the late Mr. Bold's child, and his 
 highest excitement a demure party at Plumstead 
 rectory, should it ultimately turn out that the 
 archdeacon would be sufficiently ^reconciled to 
 receive him.
 
 592 Barchester Towers 
 
 There was very little in the programme to 
 allure such a man as Bertie Stanhope. Would 
 not the Carrara workshop, or whatever worldly 
 career fortune might have in store for him, 
 would not almost anything be better than this ? 
 The lady herself was undoubtedly all that was 
 desirable ; but the most desirable lady becomes 
 nauseous when she has to be taken as a pill. 
 He was pledged to his sister, however, and let 
 him quarrel with whom he would, it behoved 
 him not to quarrel with her. If she were lost 
 to him all would be lost that he could ever 
 hope to derive henceforward from the paternal 
 roof-tree. His mother was apparently indifferent 
 to his weal or woe, to his wants or his warfare. 
 His father's brow got blacker and blacker from 
 day to day, as the old man looked at his hopeless 
 son. And as for Madeline poor Madeline, 
 whom of all of them he liked the best, she 
 had enough to do to shift for herself. No; 
 come what might, he must cling to his sister 
 and obey her behests, let them be ever so 
 stern ; or at the very least seem to obey them. 
 Could not some happy deceit bring him through 
 in this matter so that he might save appearances 
 with his sister, and yet not betray the widow to 
 her ruin ? What if he made a confederate of 
 Eleanor? 'Twas in this spirit that Bertie 
 Stanhope set about his wooing. 
 
 " But you are not going to leave Barchester?" 
 asked Eleanor. 
 
 " I do not know," he replied ; " I hardly know 
 yet what I am going to do. But it is at any rate 
 certain that I must dp something." 
 
 " You mean about your profession ? " said she.
 
 Ullathorne Sports. Act III 593 
 
 "Yes, about my profession, if you can call 
 it one." 
 
 "And is it not one?" said Eleanor. " Were 
 I a man, I know none I should prefer to it, 
 except painting. And I believe the one is as 
 much in your power as the other." 
 
 " Yes, just about equally so," said Bertie, 
 with a little touch of inward satire directed at 
 himself. He knew in his heart that he would 
 never make a penny by either. 
 
 " I have often wondered, Mr. Stanhope, why 
 you do not exert yourself more," said Eleanor, 
 who felt a friendly fondness for the man with 
 whom she was walking. " But I know it is very 
 impertinent in me to say so." 
 
 " Impertinent ! " said he. " Not so, but much 
 too kind. It is much too kind in you to take 
 any interest in so idle a scamp." 
 
 " But you are not a scamp, though you are 
 perhaps idle ; and I do take an interest in you ; 
 a very great interest," she added, in a voice 
 which almost made him resolve to change his 
 mind. " And when I call you idle, I know you 
 are* only so for the present moment. Why 
 can't you settle steadily to work here in Bar- 
 chester ? " 
 
 "And make busts of the bishop, dean and 
 chapter ? or perhaps, if I achieve a great success, 
 obtain a commission to put up an elaborate 
 tombstone over a prebendary's widow, a dead 
 lady with a Grecian nose, a bandeau, and an 
 intricate lace veil ; lying of course on a marble 
 sofa, from among the legs of which Death will 
 be creeping out and poking at his victim with a 
 small toasting-fork."
 
 594 Barchester Towers 
 
 Eleanor laughed ; but yet she thought that if 
 the surviving prebendary paid the bill, the object 
 of the artist as a professional man would, in a 
 great measure, be obtained. 
 
 "I don't know about the dean and chapter 
 and the prebendary's widow," said Eleanor. 
 " Of course you must take them as they come. 
 But the fact of your having a great cathedral in 
 which such ornaments are required, could not 
 but be in your favour." 
 
 " No real artist could descend to the orna- 
 mentation of a cathedral," said Bertie, who had 
 his ideas of the high ecstatic ambition of art, as 
 indeed all artists have, who are not in receipt of 
 a good income. " Buildings should be fitted to 
 grace the sculpture, not the sculpture to grace 
 the building." 
 
 " Yes, when the work of art is good enough 
 to merit it. Do you, Mr. Stanhope, do some- 
 thing sufficiently excellent, and we ladies of 
 Barchester will erect for it a fitting receptacle. 
 Come, what shall the subject be ? " 
 
 " I'll put you in your pony chair, Mrs. Bold, 
 as Dannecker put Ariadne on her lion. Only 
 you must promise to sit for me." 
 
 "My ponies are too tame, I fear, and my 
 broad-brimmed straw hat will not look so well 
 in marble as the lace veil of the prebendary's 
 wife." 
 
 " If you will not consent to that, Mrs. Bold, 
 I will consent to try no other subject in Bar- 
 chester." 
 
 "You are determined, then, to push your 
 fortune in other lands ? " 
 
 " I am determined," said Bertie, slowly and
 
 Ullathorne Sports. Act III 595 
 
 significantly, as he tried to bring up his mind 
 to a great resolve ; " I am determined in this 
 matter to be guided wholly by you." 
 
 " Wholly by me ! " said Eleanor, astonished 
 at, and not quite liking, his altered manner. 
 
 " Wholly by you," said Bertie, dropping his 
 companion's arm, and standing before her on 
 the path. In their walk they had come exactly 
 to the spot in which Eleanor had been provoked 
 into slapping Mr. Slope's face. Could it be 
 possible that this place was peculiarly unpro- 
 pitious to her comfort ? could it be possible that 
 she should here have to encounter yet another 
 amorous swain ? 
 
 " If you will be guided by me, Mr. Stanhope, 
 you will set yourself down to steady and perse- 
 vering work, and you will be ruled by your 
 father as to the place in which it will be most 
 advisable for you to do so." 
 
 " Nothing could be more prudent, if only it 
 were practicable. But now, if you will let me, 
 I will tell you how it is that I will be guided by 
 you, and why. Will you let me tell you ? " 
 
 " I really do not know what you can have 
 to tell." 
 
 " No, you cannot know. It is impossible 
 that you should. But we have been very good 
 friends, Mrs. Bold, have we not ? " 
 
 " Yes, I think we have," said she, observing 
 in his demeanour an earnestness very unusual 
 with him. 
 
 " You were kind enough to say just now that 
 you took an interest in me, and I was perhaps 
 vain enough to believe you." 
 
 " There is no vanity in that ; I do so as
 
 596 Barchester Towers 
 
 your sister's brother, and as my own friend 
 also." 
 
 " Well, I don't deserve that you should feel so 
 kindly towards me," said Bertie ; " but upon my 
 word I am very grateful for it," and he paused 
 awhile, hardly knowing how to introduce the 
 subject that he had in hand. 
 
 And it was no wonder that he found it diffi- 
 cult. He had to make known to his companion 
 the scheme that had been prepared to rob her 
 of her wealth ; he had to tell her that he had 
 intended to marry her without loving her, or 
 else that he loved her without intending to 
 marry her; and he had also to bespeak from 
 her not only his own pardon, but also that of 
 his sister, and induce Mrs. Bold to protest in 
 her future communion with Charlotte that an 
 offer had been duly made to her and duly 
 rejected. 
 
 Bertie Stanhope was not prone to be very 
 diffident of his own conversational powers, but 
 it did seem to him that he was about to tax 
 them almost too far. He hardly knew where 
 to begin, and he hardly knew where he should 
 end. 
 
 By this time Eleanor was again walking on 
 slowly by his side, not taking his arm as she 
 had heretofore done, but listening very intently 
 for whatever Bertie might have to say to her. 
 
 " I wish to be guided by you," said he ; 
 " and, indeed, in this matter, there is no one 
 else who can set me right." 
 
 " Oh, that must be nonsense," said she. 
 
 " Well, listen to me now, Mrs. Bold ; and if 
 you can help it, pray don't be angry with me."
 
 Ullathorne Sports. Act III 597 
 
 " Angry ! " said she. 
 
 " Oh, indeed you will have cause to be so. 
 You know how very much attached to you my 
 sister Charlotte is." 
 
 Eleanor acknowledged that she did. 
 
 " Indeed she is j I never knew her to love 
 any one so warmly on so short an acquaintance. 
 You know also how well she loves me ? " 
 
 Eleanor now made no answer, but she felt 
 the blood tingle in her cheek as she gathered 
 from what he said the probable result of this 
 double-barrelled love on the part of Miss 
 Stanhope. 
 
 " I am her only brother, Mrs. Bold, and it is 
 not to be wondered at that she should love me. 
 But you do not yet know Charlotte, you do 
 not know how entirely the well-being of our 
 family hangs on her. Without her to manage 
 for us, I do not know how we should get on 
 from day to day. You cannot yet have observed 
 all this." 
 
 Eleanor had indeed observed a good deal of 
 this; she did not however now say so, but 
 allowed him to proceed with his story. 
 
 "You cannot therefore be surprised that 
 Charlotte should be most anxious to do the best 
 for us all." 
 
 Eleanor said that she was not at all surprised. 
 
 " And she has had a very difficult game to 
 play, Mrs. Bold a very difficult game. Poor 
 Madeline's unfortunate marriage and terrible 
 accident, my mother's ill health, my father's 
 absence from England, and last, and worst 
 perhaps, my own roving, idle spirit have almost 
 been too much for her. You cannot wonder if
 
 598 Barchester Towers 
 
 among all her cares one'of the foremost is to see 
 me settled in the world." 
 
 Eleanor on this occasion expressed no acqui- 
 escence. She certainly supposed that a formal 
 offer was to be made, and could not but think 
 that so singular an exordium was never before 
 made by a gentleman in a similar position. Mr. 
 Slope had annoyed her by the excess of his 
 ardour. It was quite clear that no such danger 
 was to be feared from Mr. Stanhope. Pru- 
 dential motives alone actuated him. Not only 
 was he about to make love because his sister 
 told him, but he also took the precaution of 
 explaining all this before he began. 'Twas thus, 
 we may presume, that the matter presented itself 
 to Mrs. Bold. 
 
 When he had got so far, Bertie began poking 
 the gravel with a little cane which he carried. 
 He still kept moving on, but very slowly, and 
 his companion moved slowly by his side, not 
 inclined to assist him in the task the performance 
 of which appeared to be difficult to him. 
 
 " Knowing how fond she is of yourself, Mrs. 
 Bold, cannot you imagine what scheme should 
 have occurred to her ? " 
 
 " I can imagine no better scheme, Mr. Stan- 
 hope, than the one I proposed to you just now." 
 
 " No," said he, somewhat lack-a-daisically ; 
 " I suppose that would be the best ; but Charlotte 
 thinks another plan might be joined with it. 
 She wants me to marry you." 
 
 A thousand remembrances flashed across 
 Eleanor's mind all in a moment, how Charlotte 
 had talked about and praised her brother, how 
 she had continually contrived to throw the two
 
 Ullathorne Sports. Act III 599 
 
 of them together, how she had encouraged all 
 manner of little intimacies, how she had with 
 singular cordiality persisted in treating Eleanor 
 as one of the family. All this had been done to 
 secure her comfortable income for the benefit of 
 one of the family ! 
 
 Such a feeling as this is very bitter when it 
 first impresses itself on a young mind. To the 
 old such plots and plans, such matured schemes 
 for obtaining the goods of this world without 
 the trouble of earning them, such long-headed 
 attempts to convert " tuum " into " meum," are 
 the ways of life to which they are accustomed. 
 'Tis thus that many live, and it therefore behoves 
 all those who are well to do in the world to be 
 on their guard against those who are not. With 
 them it is the success that disgusts, not the 
 attempt. But Eleanor had not yet learnt to 
 look on her money as a source of danger; she 
 had not begun to regard herself as fair game to 
 be hunted down by hungry gentlemen. She 
 had enjoyed the society of the Stanhopes, she had 
 greatly liked the cordiality of Charlotte, and 
 had been happy in her new friends. Now she 
 saw the cause of all this kindness, and her mind 
 was opened to a new phase of human life. 
 
 " Miss Stanhope," said she, haughtily, " has 
 been contriving for me a great deal of honour, 
 but she might have saved herself the trouble. 
 I am not sufficiently ambitious." 
 
 " Pray don't be angry with her, Mrs. Bold," 
 said he, " or with me either." 
 
 " Certainly not with you, Mr. Stanhope," said 
 she, with considerable sarcasm in her tone. 
 " Certainly not with you."
 
 600 Barchester Towers 
 
 " No, nor with her," said he, imploringly. 
 
 " And why, may I ask you, Mr. Stanhope, 
 have you told me this singular story ? For I 
 may presume I may judge by your manner of 
 telling it, that that that you and your sister 
 are not exactly of one mind on the subject." 
 
 " No, we are not." 
 
 " And if so," said Mrs. Bold, who was now 
 really angry with the unnecessary insult which 
 she thought had been offered to her, "and 
 if so, why has it been worth your while to tell 
 me all this ? " 
 
 " I did once think, Mrs. Bold, that you 
 that you " 
 
 The widow now again became entirely impas- 
 sive, and would not lend the slightest assistance 
 to her companion. 
 
 " I did once think that you perhaps might, 
 might have been taught to regard me as more 
 than a friend." 
 
 "Never!" said Mrs. Bold, "never. If I 
 have ever allowed myself to do anything to 
 encourage such an idea, I have been very 
 much to blame, very much to blame indeed." 
 
 " You never have," said Bertie, who really 
 had a good-natured anxiety to make what he 
 said as little unpleasant as possible. " You 
 never have, and I have seen for some time that 
 I had no chance ; but my sister's hopes ran 
 higher. I have not mistaken you, Mrs. Bold, 
 though perhaps she has." 
 
 " Then why have you said all this to me ? " 
 
 " Because I must not anger her." 
 
 " And will not this anger her ? Upon my 
 word, Mr. Stanhope, I do not understand the
 
 Ullathorne Sports. Act III 60 1 
 
 policy of your family. Oh, how I wish I was at 
 home ! " And as she expressed the wish, she 
 could restrain herself no longer, but burst out 
 into a flood of tears. 
 
 Poor Bertie was greatly moved. " You shall 
 have the carriage to yourself going home," said 
 he ; " at least you and my father. As for me I 
 can walk, or for the matter of that it does not 
 much signify what I do." He perfectly under- 
 stood that part of Eleanor's grief arose from the 
 apparent necessity of her going back to Bar- 
 chester in the carriage with her second suitor. 
 
 This somewhat mollified her. " Oh, Mr. 
 Stanhope," said she, "why should you have 
 made me so miserable? What will you have 
 gained by telling me all this ? " 
 
 He had not even yet explained to her the 
 most difficult part of his proposition; he had 
 not told her that she was to be a party to the 
 little deception which he intended to play off 
 upon his sister. This suggestion had still to be 
 made, and as it was absolutely necessary, he 
 proceeded to make it. 
 
 We need not follow him through the whole 
 of his statement. At last, and not without con- 
 siderable difficulty, he made Eleanor understand 
 why he had let her into his confidence, seeing 
 that he no longer intended her the honour of a 
 formal offer. At last he mad her comprehend 
 the part which she was destined to play in this 
 little family comedy. 
 
 But when she did understand it, she was only 
 more angry with him than ever : more angry, 
 not only with him, but with Charlotte also. 
 Her fair name was to be bandied about between
 
 602 Barchester Towers 
 
 them in different senses, and each sense false. 
 She was to be played off by the sister against 
 the father ; and then by the brother against the 
 sister. Her dear friend Charlotte, with all her 
 agreeable sympathy and affection, was striving 
 to sacrifice her for the Stanhope family welfare ; 
 and Bertie, who, as he now proclaimed himself, 
 was over head and ears in debt, completed the 
 compliment of owning that he did not care to 
 have his debts paid at so great a sacrifice of 
 himself. Then she was asked to conspire 
 together with this unwilling suitor, for the sake 
 of making the family believe that he had in 
 obedience to their commands done his best to 
 throw himself thus away ! 
 
 She lifted up her face when he had finished, 
 and looking at him with much dignity, even 
 through her tears, she said 
 
 " I regret to say it, Mr. Stanhope ; but after 
 what has passed, I believe that all intercourse 
 between your family and myself had better 
 cease." 
 
 " Well, perhaps it had," said Bertie naively ; 
 " perhaps that will be better, at any rate for a 
 time ; and then Charlotte will think you are 
 offended at what I have done." 
 
 " And now I will go back to the house, if you 
 please," said Eleanor. " I can find my way by 
 myself, Mr. Stanhope : after what has passed," 
 she added, " I would rather go alone." 
 
 " But I must find the carriage for you, Mrs. 
 Bold, and I must tell my father that you will 
 return with him alone, and I must make some 
 excuse to him for not going with you ; and I 
 must bid the servant put you down at your own
 
 Ullathorne Sports. Act III 603 
 
 house, for I suppose you will not now choose to 
 see them again in the close." 
 
 There was a truth about this, and a perspicuity 
 in; making arrangements for lessening her im- 
 mediate embarrassment, which had some effect 
 in softening Eleanor's anger. So she suffered 
 herself to walk by his side over the now deserted 
 lawn, till they came to the drawing-room window. 
 There was something about Bertie Stanhope, 
 which gave him, in the estimation of every one, 
 a different standing from that which any other 
 man would occupy under similar circumstances. 
 Angry as Eleanor was, and great as was her 
 cause for anger, she was not half as angry with 
 him as she would have been with any one else. 
 He was apparently so simple, so good-natured, 
 so unaffected and easy to talk to, that she had 
 already half-forgiven him before he was at the 
 drawing-room window. When they arrived 
 there, Dr. Stanhope was sitting nearly alone 
 with Mr. and Miss Thorne ; one or two other 
 unfortunates were there, who from one cause 
 or another were still delayed in getting away ; 
 but they were every moment getting fewer in 
 number. 
 
 As soon as he had handed Eleanor over to 
 his father, Bertie started off to the front gate, 
 in search of the carriage, and there waited 
 leaning patiently against the front wall, and 
 comfortably smoking a cigar, till it came up. 
 When he returned to the room Dr. Stanhope 
 and Eleanor were alone with their hosts. 
 
 " At last, Miss Thorne," said he cheerily, " I 
 have come to relieve you. Mrs. Bold and my 
 father are the last roses of the very delightful
 
 604 Barchester Towers 
 
 summer you have given us, and desirable as Mrs. 
 Bold's society always is, now at least you must 
 be glad to see the last flowers plucked from the 
 tree." 
 
 Miss Thorne declared that she was delighted 
 to have Mrs. Bold and Dr. Stanhope still with 
 her; and Mr. Thorne would have said the 
 same, had he not been checked by a yawn, 
 which he could not suppress. 
 
 " Father, will you give your arm to Mrs. 
 Bold ? " said Bertie : and so the last adieux 
 were made, and the prebendary led out Mrs. 
 Bold, followed by his son. 
 
 " I shall be home soon after you," said he, as 
 the two got into the carriage. 
 
 " Are you not coming in the carnage ? " said 
 the father. 
 
 " No, no ; I have some one to see on the 
 road, and shall walk. John, mind you drive to 
 Mrs. Bold's house first." 
 
 Eleanor looking out of the window, saw him 
 with his hat in his hand, bowing to her with his 
 usual gay smile, as though nothing had happened 
 to mar the tranquillity of the day. It was many 
 a long year before she saw him again. Dr. 
 Stanhope hardly spoke to her on her way home ; 
 and she was safely deposited by John at her 
 own hall-door, before the carriage drove into the 
 close. 
 
 And thus our heroine played the last act of 
 that day's melodrama.
 
 ( 605 J 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII 
 
 MR. AND MRS. QUIVERFUL ARE MADE HAPPY. 
 MR. SLOPE IS ENCOURAGED BY THE PRESS 
 
 BEFORE she started for Ullathorne, Mrs. Proudie, 
 careful soul, caused two letters to be written, 
 one by herself and one by her lord, to the 
 inhabitants of Puddingdale vicarage, which 
 made happy the hearth of those within it. 
 
 As soon as the departure of the horses left 
 the bishop's stable-groom free for other services, 
 that humble denizen of the diocese started on 
 the bishop's own pony with the two despatches. 
 We have had so many letters lately that we 
 will spare ourselves these. That from the 
 bishop was simply a request that Mr. Quiverful 
 would wait upon his lordship the next morn- 
 ing at 1 1 A.M. ; and that from the lady was as 
 simply a request that Mrs. Quiverful would 
 do the same by her, though it was couched in 
 somewhat longer and more grandiloquent 
 phraseology. 
 
 It had become a point of conscience with 
 Mrs. Proudie to urge the settlement of this 
 great hospital question. She was resolved that 
 Mr. Quiverful should have it. She was resolved 
 that there should be no more doubt or delay, 
 no more refusals and resignations, no more 
 secret negotiations carried on by Mr. Slope on 
 his own account in opposition to her behests. 
 
 "J5ishop,"she said, immediately after breakfast,
 
 606 Barchester Towers 
 
 on the morning of that eventful day, " have you 
 signed the appointment yet ? " 
 
 " No, my dear, not yet ; it is not exactly 
 signed as yet." 
 
 " Then do it," said the lady. 
 
 The bishop did it ; and a very pleasant day 
 indeed he spent at Ullathorne. And when he 
 got home he had a glass of hot negus in his 
 wife's sitting-room, and read the last number of 
 the " Little Dorrit " of the day with great inward 
 satisfaction. Oh, husbands, oh, my marital 
 friends,what great comfort is there to be derived 
 from a wife well obeyed ! 
 
 Much perturbation and flutter, high expecta- 
 tion and renewed hopes, were occasioned at 
 Puddingdale, by the receipt of these episcopal 
 despatches. Mrs. Quiverful, whose careful ear 
 caught the sound of the pony's feet as he trotted 
 up to the vicarage kitchen door, brought them 
 in hurriedly to her husband. She was at the 
 moment concocting the Irish stew destined to 
 satisfy the noonday wants of fourteen young 
 birds, let alone the parent couple. She had 
 taken the letters from the man's hands between 
 the folds of her capacious apron, so as to save 
 them from the contamination of the stew, and 
 in this guise she brought them to her husband's 
 desk. 
 
 They at once divided the spoil, each taking 
 that addressed to the other. " Quiverful," said 
 she with impressive voice, " you are to be at 
 the palace at eleven to-morrow." 
 
 " And so are you, my dear," said he, almost 
 gasping with the importance of the tidings : and 
 then they exchanged letters.
 
 The Quiverfuls made Happy 607 
 
 "She'd never have sent for me again," said 
 the lady, " if it wasn't all right." 
 
 " Oh ! my dear, don't be too certain," said the 
 gentleman. " Only think if it should be wrong." 
 
 "She'd never have sent for me, Q., if it 
 wasn't all right," again argued the lady. " She's 
 stiff and hard and proud as pie-crust, but I 
 think she's right at bottom." Such was Mrs. 
 Quiverful's verdict about Mrs. Proudie, to which 
 in after times she always adhered. People 
 when they get their income doubled usually 
 think that those through whose instrumentality 
 this little ceremony is performed are right at 
 bottom. 
 
 " Oh Letty 1 " said Mr. Quiverful, rising from 
 his well-worn seat. 
 
 " Oh Q. ! " said Mrs. Quiverful : and then the 
 two, unmindful of the kitchen apron, the greasy 
 ringers, and the adherent Irish stew, threw them- 
 selves warmly into each other's arms. 
 
 " For heaven's sake don't let any one cajole 
 you out of it again," said the wife. 
 
 " Let me alone for that," said the husband, 
 with a look of almost fierce determination, 
 pressing his fist as he spoke rigidly on his desk, 
 as though he had Mr. Slope's head below his 
 knuckles, and meant to keep it there. 
 
 " I wonder how soon it will be," said she. 
 
 " I wonder whether it will be at all," said he, 
 still doubtful. 
 
 " Well, I won't say too much," said the lady. 
 " The cup has slipped twice before, and it may 
 fall altogether this time ; but I'll not believe it. 
 He'll give you the appointment to-morrow. 
 You'll find he will."
 
 608 Barchester Towers 
 
 " Heaven send he may," said Mr. Quiverful, 
 solemnly. And who that considers the weight 
 of the burden on this man's back, will say that 
 the prayer was an improper one ? There were 
 fourteen of them fourteen of them living as 
 Mrs. Quiverful had so powerfully urged in the 
 presence of the bishop's wife. As long as pro- 
 motion cometh from any human source, whether 
 north or south, east or west, will not such a 
 claim as this hold good, in spite of all our 
 examination tests, detur dignioris and optimist 
 tendencies ? It is fervently to be hoped that it 
 may. Till we can become divine we must be 
 content to be human, lest in our hurry for a 
 change we sink to something lower. 
 
 And then the pair sitting down lovingly 
 together, talked over all their difficulties, as 
 they so often did, and all their hopes, as they 
 so seldom were enabled to do. 
 
 " You had better call on that man, Q., as you 
 come away from the palace," said Mrs. Quiver- 
 ful, pointing to an angry call for money from 
 the Barchester draper, which the postman had 
 left at the vicarage that morning. Cormorant 
 that he was, unjust, hungry cormorant ! When 
 rumour first got abroad that the Quiverfuls were 
 to go to the hospital, this fellow with fawning 
 eagerness had pressed his goods upon the wants 
 of the poor clergyman. He had done so, feel- 
 ing that he should be paid from the hospital 
 funds, and flattering himself that a man with 
 fourteen children, and money wherewithal to 
 clothe them, could not but be an excellent 
 customer. As soon as the second rumour 
 reached him, he applied for his money angrily.
 
 The Quiverfuls made Happy 609 
 
 And "the fourteen" or such of them as 
 were old enough to hope and discuss their 
 hopes, talked over their golden future. The 
 tall-grown girls whispered to each other of 
 possible Barchester parties, of possible allow- 
 ances for dress, of a possible piano the one 
 they had in the vicarage was so weather-beaten 
 with the storms of years and children as to be 
 no longer worthy of the name of the pretty 
 garden, and the pretty house. 'Twas of such 
 things it most behoved them to whisper. 
 
 And the younger fry, they did not content 
 themselves with whispers, but shouted to each 
 other of their new play-ground beneath our 
 dear ex-warden's well-loved elms, of their future 
 own gardens, of marbles to be procured in the 
 wished-for city, and of the rumour which had 
 reached them of a Barchester school. 
 
 'Twas in vain that their cautious mother tried 
 to instil into their breasts the very feeling she 
 had striven to banish from that of their father ; 
 'twas in vain that she repeated to the girls that 
 " there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the 
 lip ; " 'twas in vain she attempted to make the 
 children believe that they were to live at 
 Puddingdale all their lives. Hopes mounted 
 high and would not have themselves quelled. 
 The neighbouring farmers heard the news, and 
 came in to congratulate them. 'Twas Mrs. 
 Quiverful herself who had kindled the fire, and 
 in the first outbreak of her renewed expectations 
 she did it so thoroughly, that it was quite past 
 her power to put it out again. 
 
 Poor matron ! good honest matron ! doing 
 thy duty in the state to which thou hast been 
 
 x
 
 610 Barchester Towers 
 
 called, heartily if not contentedly; let the fire 
 bum on ; on this occasion the flames will not 
 scorch; they shall warm thee and thine. 'Tis 
 ordained that that husband of thine, that Q. of 
 thy bosom, shall reign supreme for years to 
 come over the bedesmen of Hiram's hospital. 
 
 And the last in all Barchester to mar their 
 hopes, had he heard and seen all that passed 
 at Puddingdale that day, would have been Mr. 
 Harding. What wants had he to set in opposi- 
 tion to those of such a regiment of young ravens? 
 There are fourteen of them living ! with him at 
 any rate, let us say, that that argument would 
 have been sufficient for the appointment of 
 Mr. Quiverful. 
 
 In the morning, Q. and his wife kept their 
 appointments with that punctuality which be- 
 speaks an expectant mind. The friendly 
 farmer's gig was borrowed, and in that they 
 went, discussing many things by the way. They 
 had instructed the household to expect them 
 back by one, and injunctions were given to the 
 eldest pledge to have ready by that accustomed 
 hour the remainder of the huge stew which the 
 provident mother had prepared on the previous 
 day. The hands of the kitchen clock came 
 round to two, three, four, before the farmer's 
 gig-wheels were again heard at the vicarage gate. 
 With what palpitating hearts were the returning 
 wanderers greeted ! 
 
 " I suppose, children, you all thought we 
 were never coming back any more ? " said the 
 mother, as she slowly let down her solid foot 
 till it rested on the step of the gig. " Well, such 
 a day as we've had ! " and then leaning heavily
 
 The Quiverfuls made Happy 611 
 
 on a big boy's shoulder, she stepped once more 
 on terra firma. 
 
 There was no need for more than the tone of 
 her voice to tell them that all was right. The 
 Irish stew might burn itself to cinders now. 
 
 Then there was such kissing and hugging, 
 such crying and laughing. Mr. Quiverful could 
 not sit still at all, but kept walking from 
 room to room, then out into the garden, then 
 down the avenue into the road, and then back 
 again to his wife. She, however, lost no time 
 so idly. 
 
 "We must go to work at once, girls; and 
 that in earnest. Mrs. Proudie expects us to be 
 in the hospital house on the i5th 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
 
 612 Barchester Towers 
 
 practical experience, she pulled from her pocket 
 the portions of tape which showed the length 
 and breadth of the various rooms at the hos- 
 pital 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 I might be allowed 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 diffi- 
 culty 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 : and 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
 
 The Quiverfuls made Happy 613 
 
 hospital, we can only leave him to the indigna- 
 tion 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 ward- 
 robes, 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
 
 6 14 Barchester Towers 
 
 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."
 
 The Quiverfuls made Happy 615 
 
 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, stiffnecked, 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,' " said she. " 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 week days as well as on Sundays." 
 
 " On week days you can't take heed not to 
 despise them," said Mrs. Proudie, " because then 
 they are out in the fields. On week days 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 men- 
 tioned. What was he to do with such a woman
 
 616 Barchester Towers 
 
 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 apologise 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 ? " sug- 
 gested 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 ap- 
 pointment 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
 
 The Quiverfuls made Happy 617 
 
 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 despatch 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 dab- 
 bled in it himself ever since he had taken his 
 degree, and 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
 
 618 Barchester Towers 
 
 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 
 broad sheets 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 sub- 
 ject we must not quarrel with Mr. Slope, for 
 the feeling is too general to be met with dis- 
 respect. 
 
 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 Bar- 
 Chester. 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 in- 
 teresting 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
 
 The Quiverfuls made Happy 619 
 
 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 him- 
 self 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 inform- 
 ing our readers that Hiram's hospital will be 
 immediately re-opened under new auspices. 
 Heretofore, provision was made for the main- 
 tenance 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
 
 t)2O Barchester Towers 
 
 charity than that heretofore paid. The stipend 
 we believe will be 45o/. We may add that the 
 excellent house which the former warden in- 
 habited 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 discre- 
 tion of the new warden. This might have been 
 made the most important part of the establish- 
 ment, 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 in- 
 come 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.
 
 The Quiverfuls made Happy 621 
 
 But while we are on the subject of Barchester, 
 we will venture with all respectful humility to 
 express our opinion on another matter, con- 
 nected 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 expired 
 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 pur- 
 pose 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.
 
 622 Barchester Towers 
 
 "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 conscienti- 
 ously believe, a truly pious clergyman. We 
 know that his services in the city of Barchester 
 have been highly appreciated. He is an elo- 
 quent preacher and a ripe scholar. Such a 
 selection as this would go far to raise the con- 
 fidence of the public in the present administra- 
 tion of church patronage, and would teach men 
 to believe that from henceforth the establish- 
 ment 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 
 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 dis- 
 satisfied. 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
 
 The Quiverfuls made Happy 623 
 
 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 god- 
 send. 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 a while 
 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, speak- 
 ing 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
 
 624 Barchester Towers 
 
 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 Ulla- 
 thorne on the evening of Miss Thome'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 cordi- 
 ally 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 patri- 
 mony 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 per- 
 ceived 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 pre- 
 bendary 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
 
 Mrs. Bold at Home 625 
 
 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
 
 6 26 Barchester Towers 
 
 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 acquaint- 
 ance 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
 
 Mrs. Bold at Home 627 
 
 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 dis- 
 tressed her greatly. She had, as it were, sepa- 
 rated herself from her old friends to throw 
 herself into the arms of this family; and then
 
 628 Barchester Towers 
 
 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. 
 
 " You'll have some tea, Eleanor," she said. 
 
 " Oh, I don't care," said she ; though in fact 
 she must have been very hungry, for she had 
 eaten nothing at Ullathorne. 
 
 Mary quietly made the tea, and buttered the 
 bread, laid aside the cloak, and made things 
 look comfortable. 
 
 " He's fast asleep," said she, " you're very 
 tired ; let me take him up to bed."
 
 Mrs. Bold at Home 629 
 
 But Eleanor would not let her sister touch 
 him. She looked wistfully at her baby's eyes, 
 saw that they were lost in the deepest slumber, 
 and then made a sort of couch for him on the 
 sofa. She was determined that nothing should 
 prevail upon her to let him out of her sight that 
 night. 
 
 " Come, Nelly," said Mary, " don't be cross 
 with me. I at least have done nothing to 
 offend you." 
 
 " I an't cross," said Eleanor. 
 
 " Are you angry then ? Surely you can't be 
 angry with me." 
 
 " No, I an't angry ; at least not with you." 
 
 " If you are not, drink the tea I have made 
 for you. I am sure you must want it." 
 
 Eleanor did drink it, and allowed herself to 
 be persuaded. She ate and drank, and as the 
 inner woman was recruited she felt a little more 
 charitable towards the world at large. At last 
 she found words to begin her story, and before 
 she went to bed, she had made a clean breast 
 of it and told everything everything, that is, as 
 to the lovers she had rejected : of Mr. Arab in 
 she said not a word. 
 
 " I know I was wrong," said she, speaking of 
 the blow she had given to Mr. Slope; "but I 
 didn't know what he might do, and I had to 
 protect myself." 
 
 " He richly deserved it," said Mary. 
 
 " Deserved it ! " said Eleanor, whose mind as 
 regarded Mr. Slope was almost bloodthirsty. 
 " Had I stabbed him with a dagger, he would 
 have deserved it. But what will they say about 
 it at Plumstead ? "
 
 630 Barchester Towers 
 
 "I don't think I should tell them," said 
 Mary. Eleanor began to think that she would 
 not. 
 
 There could have been no kinder comforter 
 than Mary Bold. There was not the slightest 
 dash of triumph about her when she heard of 
 the Stanhope scheme, nor did she allude to her 
 former opinion when Eleanor called her late 
 friend Charlotte a base, designing woman. She 
 re-echoed all the abuse that was heaped on Mr. 
 Slope's head, and never hinted that she had 
 said as much before. " I told you so, I told 
 you so ! " is the croak of a true Job's comforter. 
 But Mary, when she found her friend lying in 
 her sorrow and scraping herself with potsherds, 
 forebore to argue and to exult. Eleanor acknow- 
 ledged the merit of the forbearance, and at 
 length allowed herself to be tranquillised. 
 
 On the next day she did not go out of the 
 house. Barchester she thought would be 
 crowded with Stanhopes and Slopes ; perhaps 
 also with Arabins and Grantlys. Indeed there 
 was hardly any one among her friends whom 
 she could have met, without some cause of 
 uneasiness. 
 
 In the course of the afternoon she heard that 
 the dean was dead; and she also heard that 
 Mr. Quiverful had been finally appointed to the 
 hospital. 
 
 In the evening her father came to her, and 
 then the story, or as much of it as she could 
 bring herself to tell him, had to be repeated. 
 He was not in truth much surprised at Mr. 
 Slope's effrontery ; but he was obliged to act 
 as though he had been, to save his daughter's
 
 Mrs. Bold at Home 631 
 
 feelings. He was, however, anything but skilful 
 in his deceit, and she saw through it. 
 
 " I see," said she, " that you think it only in 
 the common course of things that Mr. Slope 
 should have treated me in this way." She had 
 said nothing to him about the embrace, nor yet 
 of the way in which it had been met. 
 
 "I do not think it at all strange," said he, 
 " that any one should admire my Eleanor." 
 
 " It is strange to me," said she, " that any 
 man should have so much audacity, without ever 
 having received the slightest encouragement." 
 
 To this Mr. Harding answered nothing. 
 With the archdeacon it would have been the 
 text for a rejoinder, which would not have dis- 
 graced Bildad the Shuhite. 
 
 " But you'll tell the archdeacon ? " asked Mr. 
 Harding. 
 
 " Tell him what ? " said she sharply. 
 
 "Or Susan?" continued Mr. Harding. 
 " You'll tell Susan ; you'll let them know that 
 they wronged you in supposing that this man's 
 addresses would be agreeable to you." 
 
 " They may find that out their own way," said 
 she ; " I shall not ever willingly mention Mr. 
 Slope's name to either of them." 
 
 " But I may." 
 
 " I have no right to hinder you from doing 
 anything that may be necessary to your own 
 comfort, but pray do not do it for my sake. 
 Dr. Grantly never thought well of me, and never 
 will. I don't know now that I am even anxious 
 that he should do so." 
 
 And then they went to the affair of the hos- 
 pital. " But is it true, papa ? "
 
 632 Barchester Towers 
 
 "What, my dear?" said he. "About the 
 dean ? Yes, I fear quite true. Indeed I know 
 there is no doubt about it." 
 
 " Poor Miss Trefoil. I am so sorry for her. 
 But I did not mean that," said Eleanor. " But 
 about the hospital, papa ? " 
 
 "Yes, my dear. I believe it is true that 
 Mr. Quiverful is to have it." 
 
 " Oh, what a shame ! " 
 
 " No, my dear, not at all, not at all a shame : 
 I am sure I hope it will suit him." 
 
 " But, papa, you know it is a shame. After 
 all your hopes, all your expectations to get back 
 to your old house, to see it given away in this 
 way to a perfect stranger ! " 
 
 " My dear, the bishop had a right to give it 
 to whom he pleased." 
 
 " I deny that, papa. He had no such right. 
 It is not as though you were a candidate for a 
 new piece of preferment. If the bishop has a 
 grain of justice " 
 
 " The bishop offered it to me on his terms, 
 and as I did not like the terms, I refused it. 
 After that, I cannot complain." 
 
 " Terms ! he had no right to make terms." 
 
 "I don't know about that; but it seems 
 he had the power. But to tell you the truth, 
 Nelly, I am as well satisfied as it is. When 
 the affair became the subject of angry dis- 
 cussion, I thoroughly wished to be rid of it 
 altogether." 
 
 " But you did want to go back to the old 
 house, papa. You told me so yourself." 
 
 " Yes, my dear, I did. For a short time I did 
 wish it. And I was foolish in doing so. I am
 
 Mrs. Bold at Home 633 
 
 getting old now ; and my chief worldly wish is 
 for peace and rest. Had I gone back to the 
 hospital, I should have had endless contentions 
 with the bishop, contentions with his chaplain, 
 and contentions with the archdeacon. I am not 
 up to this now, I am not able to meet such 
 troubles ; and therefore I am not ill-pleased to 
 find myself left to the little church of St. Cuth- 
 bert's. I shall never starve," added he, laughing, 
 " as long as you are here." 
 
 " But will you come and live with me, papa ? " 
 she said earnestly, taking him by both his hands. 
 " If you will do that, if you will promise that, I 
 will own that you are right." 
 
 " I will dine with you to-day at any rate." 
 
 " No, but live here altogether. Give up that 
 close, odious little room in High Street." 
 
 " My dear, it's a very nice little room ; and 
 you are really quite uncivil." 
 
 " Oh, papa, don't joke. It's not a nice place 
 for you. You say you are growing old, though 
 I am sure you are not." 
 
 " Am not I, my dear ? " 
 
 " No, papa, not old not to say old. But 
 you are quite old enough to feel the want of a 
 decent room to sit in. You know how lonely 
 Mary and I are here. You know nobody ever 
 sleeps in the big front bed-room. It is really 
 unkind of you to remain up there alone, when 
 you are so much wanted here." 
 
 "Thank you, Nelly thank you. But, my 
 dear " 
 
 " If you had been living here, papa, with us, 
 as I really think you ought to have done, con- 
 sidering how lonely we are, there would have been
 
 634 Barchester Towers 
 
 none of all this dreadful affair about Mr. 
 Slope." 
 
 Mr. Harding, however, did not allow himself 
 to be talked over into giving up his own and 
 only little pied ct, terre in the High Street. He 
 promised to come and dine with his daughter, 
 and stay with her, and visit her, and do 
 everything but absolutely live with her. It 
 did not suit the peculiar feelings of the man to 
 tell his daughter that though she had rejected 
 Mr. Slope, and been ready to reject Mr. Stan- 
 hope, some other more favoured suitor would 
 probably soon appear ; and that on the ap- 
 pearance of such a suitor the big front bed- 
 room might perhaps be more frequently in re- 
 quisition than at present. But doubtless such an 
 idea crossed his mind, and added its weight to 
 the other reasons which made him decide on 
 still keeping the close, odious little room in High 
 Street. 
 
 The evening passed over quietly and in 
 comfort. Eleanor was always happier with her 
 father than with any one else. He had not, 
 perhaps, any natural taste for baby-worship, but 
 he was always ready to sacrifice himself, and 
 therefore made an excellent third in a trio with 
 his daughter and Mary Bold in singing the praises 
 of the wonderful child. 
 
 They were standing together over their music 
 in the evening, the baby having again been put 
 to bed upon the sofa, when the servant brought 
 in a very small note in a beautiful pink envelope. 
 It quite filled the room with perfume as it lay 
 upon the small salver. Mary Bold and Mrs. 
 Bold were both at the piano, and Mr. Harding
 
 Mrs. Bold at Home 635 
 
 was sitting close to them, with the violoncello 
 between his legs ; so that the elegancy of the 
 epistle was visible to them all. 
 
 " Please, ma'am, Dr. Stanhope's coachman says 
 he is to wait for an answer," said the servant.- 
 
 Eleanor got very red in the face as she took 
 the note in her hand. She had never seen the 
 writing before. Charlotte's epistles, to which 
 she was well accustomed, were of a very different 
 style and kind. She generally wrote on large 
 note-paper ; she twisted up her letters into the 
 shape and sometimes into the size of cocked 
 hats ; she addressed them in a sprawling manly 
 hand, and not unusually added a blot or a 
 smudge, as though such were her own peculiar 
 sign-manual. The address of this note was 
 written in a beautiful female hand, and the 
 gummed wafer bore on it an impress of a gilt 
 coronet. Though Eleanor had never seen such 
 a one before, she guessed that it came from the 
 signora. Such epistles were very numerously 
 sent out from any house in which the signora 
 might happen to be dwelling, but they were 
 rarely addressed to ladies. When the coachman 
 was told by the lady's maid to take the letter to 
 Mrs. Bold, he openly expressed his opinion that 
 there was some mistake about it. Whereupon 
 the lady's maid boxed the coachman's ears. 
 Had Mr. Slope seen in how meek a spirit the 
 coachman took the rebuke, he might have learnt 
 a useful lesson, both in philosophy and religion. 
 
 The note was as follows. It may be taken as 
 a faithful promise that no further letter what- 
 ever shall be transcribed at length in these 
 pages.
 
 636 Barchester Towers 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Bold, May I ask you, as a 
 great favour, to call on me to-morrow? You 
 can say what hour will best suit you ; but quite 
 early, if you can. I need hardly say that if I 
 could call upon you I should not take this 
 liberty with you. 
 
 " I partly know what occurred the other day, 
 and I promise you that you shall meet with no 
 annoyance if you will come to me. My brother 
 leaves us for London to-day; from thence he 
 goes to Italy. 
 
 " It will probably occur to you that I should 
 not thus intrude on you, unless I had that to say 
 to you which may be of considerable moment. 
 Pray therefore excuse me, even if you do not 
 grant my request, and believe me, 
 
 " Very sincerely yours, 
 " M. VESEY NERONI. 
 
 " Thursday Evening." 
 
 The three of them sat in consultation on this 
 epistle for some ten or fifteen minutes, and then 
 decided that Eleanor should write a line saying 
 that she would see the signora the next morning, 
 at twelve o'clock.
 
 CHAPTER XLV 
 
 THE STANHOPES AT HOME 
 
 WE must now return to the Stanhopes, and see 
 how they behaved themselves on their return 
 from Ullathorne. 
 
 Charlotte, who came back in the first home- 
 ward journey with her sister, waited in palpitating 
 expectation till the carriage drove up to the 
 door a second time. She did not run down or 
 stand at the window, or show in any outward 
 manner that she looked for anything wonderful 
 to occur; but, when she heard the carriage- 
 wheels, she stood up with erect ears, listening 
 for Eleanor's footfall on the pavement or the 
 cheery sound of Bertie's voice welcoming her 
 in. Had she heard either, she would have felt 
 that all was right ; but neither sound was there 
 for her to hear. She heard only her father's 
 slow step, as he ponderously let himself down 
 from the carriage, and slowly walked along the 
 hall, till he got into his own private room on 
 the ground floor. "Send Miss Stanhope to 
 me," he said to the servant. 
 
 " There's something wrong now," said Made- 
 line, who was lying on her sofa in the back 
 drawing-room. 
 
 " It's all up with Bertie," replied Charlotte. 
 " I know, I know," she said to the servant, as he 
 brought up the message. " Tell my father I 
 will be with him immediately."
 
 638 Barchester Towers 
 
 " Bertie's wooing has gone astray," said Made- 
 line ; " I knew it would." 
 
 "It has been his own fault then. She was 
 ready enough, I am quite sure," said Charlotte, 
 with that sort of ill-nature which is not un- 
 common when one woman speaks of another. 
 
 "What will you say to him now?" By 
 " him," the signora meant their father. 
 
 " That will be as I find him. He was ready 
 to pay two hundred pounds for Bertie, to stave 
 off the worst of his creditors, if this marriage 
 had gone on. Bertie must now have the money 
 instead, and go and take his chance." 
 
 " Where is he now ? " 
 
 " Heaven knows ! smoking in the bottom of 
 Mr. Thome's ha-ha, or philandering with some 
 of those Miss Chadwicks. Nothing will ever 
 make an impression on him. But he'll be 
 furious if I don't go down." 
 
 " No ; nothing ever will. But don't be long, 
 Charlotte, for I want my tea." 
 
 And so Charlotte went down to her father. 
 There was a very black cloud on the old man's 
 brow ; blacker than his daughter could ever yet 
 remember to have seen there. He was sitting 
 in his own arm-chair, not comfortably over the 
 fire, but in the middle of the room, waiting till 
 she should come and listen to him. 
 
 "What has become of your brother?" he 
 said, as soon as the door was shut. 
 
 "I should rather ask you," said Charlotte. 
 " I left you both at Ullathorne, when I came 
 away. What have you done with Mrs. Bold ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Bold ! nonsense. The woman has 
 gone home as she ought to do. And heartily
 
 The Stanhopes at Home 639 
 
 glad I am that she should not be sacrificed to 
 so heartless a reprobate." 
 
 " Oh, papa ! " 
 
 " A heartless reprobate ! Tell me now where 
 he is, and what he is going to do. I have 
 allowed myself to be fooled between you. 
 Marriage, indeed ! Who on earth that has 
 money, or credit, or respect in the world to 
 lose, would marry him ? " 
 
 " It is no use your scolding me, papa. I 
 have done the best I could for him and you." 
 
 " And Madeline is nearly as bad," said the 
 prebendary, who was in truth very, very angry. 
 
 " Oh, I suppose we are all bad," replied 
 Charlotte. 
 
 The old man emitted a huge leonine sigh. 
 If they were all bad, who had made them so ? 
 If they were unprincipled, selfish, and disreput- 
 able, who was to be blamed for the education 
 which had had so injurious an effect ? 
 
 " I know you'll ruin me among you," said he. 
 
 " Why, papa, what nonsense that is. You are 
 living within your income this minute, and if 
 there are any new debts, I don't know of them. 
 I am sure there ought to be none, for we are 
 dull enough here." 
 
 " Are those bills of Madeline's paid ? " 
 
 " No, they are not. Who was to pay them ? " 
 
 " Her husband may pay them." 
 
 " Her husband ! would you wish me to tell 
 her you say so ? Do you wish to turn her out 
 of your house ? " 
 
 " I wish she would know how to behave 
 herself." 
 
 " Why, what on earth has she done now ?
 
 640 Barchester Towers 
 
 Poor Madeline ! To-day is only the second 
 time she has gone out since we came to this 
 vile town." 
 
 He then sat silent for a time, thinking in 
 what shape he would declare his resolve. 
 " Well, papa," said Charlotte, " shall I stay here, 
 or may I go up-stairs and give mamma her 
 tea?" 
 
 " You are in your brother's confidence. Tell 
 me what he is going to do ? " 
 
 " Nothing, that I am aware of." 
 
 " Nothing nothing ! nothing but eat and 
 drink, and spend every shilling of my money he 
 can lay his hands upon. I have made up my 
 mind, Charlotte. He shall eat and drink no 
 more in this house." 
 
 " Very well. Then I suppose he must go 
 back to Italy." 
 
 " He may go where he pleases." 
 
 " That's easily said, papa ; but what does it 
 mean ? You can't let him " 
 
 " It means this," said the doctor, speaking 
 more loudly than was his wont, and with wrath 
 flashing from his eyes ; " that as sure as God 
 rules in heaven, I will not maintain him any 
 longer in idleness." 
 
 " Oh, ruling in heaven ! " said Charlotte. " It 
 is no use talking about that. You must rule 
 him here on earth; and the question is, how 
 you can do it. You can't turn him out of 
 the house penniless, to beg about the street." 
 
 " He may beg where he likes." 
 
 " He must go back to Carrara. That is the 
 cheapest place he can live at, and nobody there 
 will give him credit for above two or three
 
 The Stanhopes at Home 641 
 
 hundred pauls. But you must let him have the 
 means of going." 
 
 " As sure as " 
 
 " Oh, papa, don't swear. You know you 
 must do it. You were ready to pay two 
 hundred pounds for him if this marriage came 
 off. Half that will start him to Carrara." 
 
 " What ? give him a hundred pounds ! " 
 
 "You know we are all in the dark, papa," 
 said she, thinking it expedient to change the 
 conversation. " For anything we know, he 
 may be at this moment engaged to Mrs. 
 Bold." 
 
 " Fiddlestick," said the father, who had seen 
 the way in which Mrs. Bold had got into the 
 carriage, while his son stood apart without even 
 offering her his hand. 
 
 "Well, then, he must go to Carrara," said 
 Charlotte. 
 
 Just at this moment the lock of the front door 
 was heard, and Charlotte's quick ears detected 
 her brother's cat-like step in the hall. She said 
 nothing, feeling that for the present Bertie had 
 better keep out of her father's way. But Dr. 
 Stanhope also heard the sound of the lock. 
 
 "Who's that?" he demanded. Charlotte 
 made no reply, and he asked again, " Who is 
 that that has just come in? Open the door. 
 Who is it?" 
 
 " I suppose it is Bertie." 
 
 " Bid him come here," said the father. But 
 Bertie, who was close to the door and heard 
 the call, required no further bidding, but walked 
 in with a perfectly unconcerned and cheerful air. 
 It was this peculiar insouciance which angered 
 
 Y
 
 642 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 Dr. Stanhope, even more than his son's extra- 
 vagance. 
 
 "Well, sir?" said the doctor. 
 
 " And how did you get home, sir, with your 
 fair companion ? " said Bertie. " I suppose she 
 is not up-stairs, Charlotte ? " 
 
 " Bertie," said Charlotte, " papa is in no 
 humour for joking. He is very angry with 
 you." 
 
 " Angry ! " said Bertie, raising his eyebrows, 
 as though he had never yet given his parent 
 cause for a single moment's uneasiness. 
 
 " Sit down, if you please, sir," said Dr. Stan- 
 hope very sternly, but not now very loudly. 
 "And I'll trouble you to sit down too, Char- 
 lotte. Your mother can wait for her tea a 
 few minutes." 
 
 Charlotte sat down on the chair nearest to the 
 door, in somewhat of a perverse sort of manner ; 
 as much as though she would say Well, here I 
 am ; you shan't say I don't do what I am bid ; 
 but I'll be whipped if I give way to you. And 
 she was determined not to give way. She too 
 was angry with Bertie ; but she was not the 
 less ready on that account to defend him from 
 his father. Bertie also sat down. He drew his 
 chair close to the library-table, upon which he 
 put his elbow, and then resting his face comfort- 
 ably on one hand, he began drawing little pic- 
 tures on a sheet of paper with the other. Before 
 the scene was over he had completed admirable 
 figures of Miss Thorne, Mrs. Proudie, and Lady 
 De Courcy, and begun a family piece to com- 
 prise the whole set of the Lookalofts. 
 
 " Would it suit you, sir," said the father, " to
 
 The Stanhopes at Home 643 
 
 give me some idea as to what your present 
 intentions are ? what way of living you propose 
 to yourself ? " 
 
 " I'll do anything you can suggest, sir," 
 replied Bertie. 
 
 " No, I shall suggest nothing further. My 
 time for suggesting has gone by. I have only 
 one order to give, and that is, that you leave my 
 house." 
 
 "To-night?" said Bertie; and the simple 
 tone of the question left the doctor without any 
 adequately dignified method of reply. 
 
 " Papa does not quite mean to-night," said 
 Charlotte, " at least I suppose not." 
 
 " To-morrow, perhaps," suggested Bertie.,oita 
 
 " Yes, sir, to-morrow," said the doctor. 
 " You shall leave this to-morrow." 
 
 " Very well, sir. Will the 4.30 P.M. train be 
 soon enough ? " and Bertie, as he asked, put the 
 finishing touch to Miss Thome's high-heeled 
 boots. 
 
 " You may go how and when and where you 
 please, so that you leave my house to-morrow. 
 You have disgraced me, sir ; you have disgraced 
 yourself, and me, and your sisters." 
 
 "I am glad at least, sir, that I have not dis- 
 graced my mother," said Bertie. 
 
 Charlotte could hardly keep her countenance; 
 but the doctor's brow grew still blacker than 
 ever. Bertie was executing his chef d'ceuvre in 
 the delineation of Mrs. Proudie's nose and 
 mouth. 
 
 " You are a heartless reprobate, sir ; a heart- 
 less, thankless, good-for-nothing reprobate. I 
 have done with you. You are my son that I
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 cannot help ; but you shall have no more part 
 or parcel in me as my child, nor I in you as 
 your father." 
 
 " Oh, papa, papa ! you must not, shall not 
 say so," said Charlotte. 
 
 " I will say so, and do say so," said the father, 
 rising from his chair. " And now leave the 
 room, sir." 
 
 "Stop, stop," said Charlotte; "why don't 
 you speak, Bertie ? why don't you look up and 
 speak ? It is your manner that makes papa so 
 angry." 
 
 " He is perfectly indifferent to all decency, to 
 all propriety," said the doctor ; and then he 
 shouted out, " Leave the room, sir ! Do you 
 hear what I say ? " 
 
 " Papa, papa, I will not let you part so. I 
 know you will be sorry for it." And then she 
 added, getting up and whispering into his ear, 
 " Is he only to blame ? Think of that. We 
 have made our own bed, and, such as it is, we 
 must lie on it. It is no use for us to quarrel 
 among ourselves," and as she finished her 
 whisper Bertie finished off the countess's bustle, 
 which was so well done that it absolutely seemed 
 to be swaying to and fro on the paper with its 
 usual lateral motion. 
 
 " My father is angry at the present time," said 
 Bertie, looking up for a moment from his 
 sketches, "because I am not going to marry 
 Mrs. Bold. What can I say on the matter ? It 
 is true that I am not going to marry her. In 
 the first place " 
 
 "That is not true, sir," said Dr. Stanhope; 
 " but I will not argue with you."
 
 The Stanhopes at Home 645 
 
 " You were angry just this moment because I 
 would not speak," said Bertie, going on with a 
 young Lookaloft. 
 
 " Give over drawing," said Charlotte, going 
 up to him and taking the paper from under his 
 hand. The caricatures, however, she preserved, 
 and showed them afterwards to the friends of 
 the Thornes, the Proudies, and De Courcys. 
 Bertie, deprived of his occupation, threw himself 
 back in his chair and waited further orders. 
 
 " I think it will certainly be for the best that 
 Bertie should leave this at once, perhaps to- 
 morrow," said Charlotte ; " but pray, papa, let 
 us arrange some scheme together." 
 
 " If he will leave this to-morrow, I will give 
 him io/., and he shall be paid 5/. a month by 
 the banker at Carrara as long as he stays per- 
 manently in that place." 
 
 " Well, sir ! it won't be long," said Bertie ; 
 " for I shall be starved to death in about three 
 months." 
 
 " He must have marble to work with," said 
 Charlotte. 
 
 " I have plenty there in the studio to last me 
 three months," said Bertie. " It will be no use 
 attempting anything large in so limited a time ; 
 unless I do my own tombstone." 
 
 Terms, however, were ultimately come to, 
 somewhat more liberal than those proposed, and 
 the doctor was induced tg. shake hands with his 
 son, and bid him good night. Dr. Stanhope 
 would not go up to tea, but had it brought to 
 him in his study by his daughter. 
 
 But Bertie went up-stairs and spent a pleasant 
 evening. He finished the Lookalofts, greatly to
 
 646 Barchester Towers 
 
 the delight of his sisters, though the manner of 
 portraying their decollete dresses was not the 
 most refined. Finding how matters were going, 
 he by degrees allowed it to escape from him 
 that he had not pressed his suit upon the widow 
 in a very urgent way. 
 
 " I suppose, in point of fact, you never pro- 
 posed at all ? " said Charlotte. 
 
 " Oh, she understood that she rru'ght have me 
 if she wished," said he. 
 ' " And she didn't wish," said the signora. 
 
 "You have thrown me over in the most 
 shameful manner," said Charlotte. " I suppose 
 you told her all about my little plan ? " 
 
 "Well, it came out somehow; at least the 
 most of it." 
 
 "There's an end of that alliance," said 
 Charlotte ; " but it doesn't matter much. I 
 suppose we shall all be back at Como soon." 
 
 " I am sure I hope so," said the signora ; 
 " I'm sick of the sight of black coats. If that 
 Mr. Slope comes here any more, he'll be the 
 death of me." 
 
 " You've been the ruin of him, I think," said 
 Charlotte. 
 
 " And as for a second black-coated lover of 
 mine, I am going to make a present of him to 
 another lady with most singular disinterested- 
 ness." 
 
 The next day, true to his promise, Bertie 
 packed up and went off by the 4.30 P.M. train, 
 with 20/. in his pocket, bound for the marble 
 quarries of Carrara. And so he disappears 
 from our scene. 
 
 At twelve o'clock on the day following that
 
 on which Bertie went, Mrs. Bold, true also to 
 her word; knocked at Dr. Stanhope's door with 
 a timid hand and palpitating heart. She was at 
 once shown up to the back drawing-room, the 
 folding doors of which were closed, so that in 
 visiting the signora Eleanor was not necessarily 
 thrown into any communion with those in the 
 front room. As she went up the stairs, she saw 
 none of the family, and was so far saved much 
 of the annoyance which she had dreaded. 
 
 " This is very kind of you, Mrs. Bold ; very 
 kind, after what has happened," said the lady 
 on the sofa with her sweetest smile. 
 
 " You wrote in such a strain that I could not 
 but come to you." 
 
 " I did, I did j I wanted to force you to see 
 me." 
 
 " Well, signora ; I am here." 
 
 " How cold you are to me. But I suppose I 
 must put up with that. I know you think you 
 have reason to be displeased with us all. Poor 
 Bertie ! if you knew all, you would not be angry 
 with him." 
 
 " I am not angry with your brother not in 
 the least. But I hope you did not send for me 
 here to talk about him." 
 
 " If you are angry with Charlotte, that is 
 worse; for you have no warmer friend in all 
 Barchester. But I did not send for you to talk 
 about this,- pray bring your chair nearer, Mrs. 
 Bold, so that I may look at you. It is so 
 unnatural to see you keeping so far off from 
 me." 
 
 Eleanor did as she was bid, and brought her 
 chair close to the sofa.
 
 6 4 8 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 " And now, Mrs. Bold, I am going to tell you 
 something which you may perhaps think in- 
 delicate; but yet I know that I am right in 
 doing so." 
 
 Hereupon Mrs. Bold said nothing, but felt 
 inclined to shake in her chair. The signora, 
 she knew, was not very particular, and that 
 which to her appeared to be indelicate might to 
 Mrs. Bold appear to be extremely indecent. 
 
 " I believe you know Mr. Arabin ? " 
 
 Mrs. Bold would have given the world not to 
 blush, but her blood was not at her own com- 
 mand. She did blush up to her forehead, and 
 the signora, who had made her sit in a special 
 light in order that she might watch her, saw that 
 she did so. 
 
 " Yes, I am acquainted with him. That is, 
 slightly. He is an intimate friend of Dr. 
 Grantly, and Dr. Grantly is my brother-in-law." 
 
 "Well; if you know Mr. Arabin, I am sure 
 you must like him. I know and like him much. 
 Everybody that knows him must like him." 
 
 Mrs. Bold felt it quite impossible to say 
 anything in reply to this. Her blood was 
 rushing about her body she knew not how or 
 why. She felt as though she were swinging in 
 her chair ; and she knew that she was not only 
 red in the face, but also almost suffocated with 
 heat. However, she sat still and said nothing. 
 
 "How stiff you are with me, Mrs. Bold," 
 said the signora ; " and I the while am doing 
 for you all that one woman can do to serve 
 another." 
 
 A kind of thought came over the widow's 
 inind that perhaps the signora's friendship was
 
 The Stanhopes at Home 649 
 
 real, and that at any rate it could not hurt her ; 
 and another kind of thought, a glimmering of a 
 thought, came to her also, that Mr. Arabin 
 was too precious to be lost. She despised the 
 signora ; but might she not stoop to conquer ? 
 It should be but the smallest fraction of a 
 stoop ! 
 
 " I don't want to be stiff," she said ; " but 
 your questions are so very singular." 
 
 " Well, then, I will ask you one more singular 
 still," said Madeline Neroni, raising herself on 
 her elbow and turning her own face full upon 
 her companion's. " Do you love him, love him 
 with all your heart and soul, with all the love 
 your bosom can feel ? For I can tell you that 
 he loves you, adores you, worships you, thinks 
 of you and nothing else, is now thinking of you 
 as he attempts to write his sermon for next 
 Sunday's preaching. What would I not give 
 to be loved in such a way by such a man, 
 that is, if I were an object fit for any man to 
 love!" / 10 
 
 Mrs. Bold got up from her seat and stood 
 speechless before the woman who was now 
 addressing her in this impassioned way. When 
 the signora thus alluded to herself, the widow's 
 heart was softened, and she put her own hand, 
 as though caressingly, on that of her companion, 
 which was resting on the table. The signora 
 grasped it and went on speaking. 
 
 " What I tell you is God's own truth ; and it 
 is for you to use it as may be best for your own 
 happiness. But you must not betray me. He 
 knows nothing of this. He knows nothing of 
 my knowing his inmost heart. He is simple as
 
 650 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 a child in these matters. He told me his secret 
 in a thousand ways because he could not dis- 
 semble ; but he does not dream that he has 
 told it. You know it now, and I advise you to 
 use it." 
 
 Eleanor returned the pressure of the other's 
 hand with an infinitesimal soiipfon of a squeeze. 
 
 " And remember," continued the signora, " he 
 is not like other men. You must not expect him 
 to come to you with vows and oaths and pretty 
 presents, to kneel at your feet, and kiss your 
 shoe-strings. If you want that, there are plenty 
 to do it ; but he won't be one of them." 
 Eleanor's bosom nearly burst with a sigh; but 
 Madeline, not heeding her, went on. "With 
 him, yea will stand for yea, and nay for nay. 
 Though his heart should break for it, the 
 woman who shall reject him once, will have 
 rejected him once and for all. Remember that. 
 And now, Mrs. Bold, I will not keep you, for 
 you are fluttered. I partly guess what use you 
 will make of what I have said to you. If ever 
 you are a happy wife in that man's house, we 
 shall be far away ; but I shall expect you to 
 write me one line to say that you have forgiven 
 the sins of the family." 
 
 Eleanor half whispered that she would, and 
 then, without uttering another word, crept out 
 of the room, and down the stairs, opened the 
 front door for herself without hearing or seeing 
 any one, and found herself in the close. 
 
 It would be difficult to analyse Eleanor's feel- 
 ings as she walked home. She was nearly stupe- 
 fied by the things that had been said to her. 
 She felt sore that her heart should have been so
 
 A Parting Interview 651 
 
 searched and riddled by a comparative stranger, 
 by a woman whom she had never liked and 
 never could like. She was mortified that the 
 man whom she owned to herself that she loved 
 should have concealed his love from her and 
 shown it to another. There was much to vex 
 her proud spirit. But there was, nevertheless, 
 an under-stratum of joy in all this which buoyed 
 her up wondrously. She tried if she could dis- 
 believe what Madame Neroni had said to her; 
 but she found that she could not. It was true ; 
 it must be true. She could not, would not, did 
 not doubt it. 
 
 On one point she fully resolved to follow the 
 advice given her. If it should ever please Mr. 
 Arabin to put such a question to her as that 
 suggested, her " yea " should be " yea." Would 
 not all her miseries be at an end, if she could 
 talk of them to him openly, with her head 
 resting on his shoulder ? 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI 
 
 MR. SLOPE'S PARTING INTERVIEW WITH THE 
 SIGNORA 
 
 ON the following day the signora was in her 
 pride. She was dressed in her brightest of 
 morning dresses, and had quite a levee round 
 her couch. It was a beautifully bright October 
 afternoon ; all the gentlemen of the neighbour- 
 hood were in Barchester, and those who had
 
 652 Barchester Towers 
 
 the entry of Dr. Stanhope's house were in the 
 signora's back drawing-room. Charlotte and 
 Mrs. Stanhope were in the front room, and such 
 of the lady's squires as could not for the moment 
 get near the centre of attraction had to waste 
 their fragrance on the mother and sister. 
 
 The first who came and the last to leave was 
 Mr. Arabin. This was the second visit he had 
 paid to Madame Neroni since he had met her at 
 Ullathorne. He came he knew not why, to 
 talk about he knew not what. But, in truth, 
 the feelings which now troubled him were new 
 to him, and he could not analyse them. It may 
 seem strange that he should thus come dangling 
 about Madame Neroni because he was in love 
 with Mrs. Bold ; but it was nevertheless the 
 fact ; and though he could not understand why 
 he did so, Madame Neroni understood it well 
 enough. 
 
 She had been gentle and kind to him, and 
 had encouraged his staying. Therefore he 
 stayed on. She pressed his hand when he first 
 greeted her; she made him remain near her; 
 and whispered to him little nothings. And then 
 her eye, brilliant and bright, now mirthful, now 
 melancholy, and invincible in either way ! 
 What man with \yarm feelings, blood unchilled, 
 and a heart not guarded by a triple steel of 
 experience, could have withstood those eyes ! 
 The lady, it is true, intended to do him no 
 mortal injury; she merely chose to inhale a 
 slight breath of incense before she handed the 
 casket over to another. Whether Mrs. Bold 
 would willingly have spared even so much is 
 another question.
 
 A Parting Interview 653 
 
 And then came Mr. Slope. All the world 
 now knew that Mr. Slope was a candidate for the 
 deanery, and that he was generally considered to 
 be the favourite. Mr. Slope, therefore, walked 
 rather largely upon the earth. He gave to him- 
 self a portly air, such as might become a dean, 
 spoke but little to other clergymen, and shunned 
 the bishop as much as possible. How the 
 meagre little prebendary, and the burly chancel- 
 lor, and all the minor canons and vicars 
 choral, ay, and all the choristers too, cowered 
 and shook and walked about with long faces 
 when they read or heard of that article in " The 
 Jupiter." Now were coming the days when 
 nothing would avail to keep the impure spirit 
 from the cathedral pulpit. That pulpit would 
 indeed be his own. Precentors, vicars, and 
 choristers might hang up their harps on the 
 willows. Ichabod ! Ichabod ! the glory of their 
 house was departing from them. 
 
 Mr. Slope, great as he was with embryo 
 grandeur, still came to see the signora. Indeed, 
 he could not keep himself away. He dreamed 
 of that soft hand which he had kissed so often, 
 and of that imperial brow which his lips had 
 once pressed, and he then dreamed also of 
 further favours. 
 
 And Mr. Thorne was there also. It was the 
 first visit he had ever paid to the signora, and 
 he made it not without due preparation. Mr. 
 Thorne was a gentleman usually precise in his 
 dress, and prone to make the most of himself 
 in an unpretending way. The grey hairs in his 
 whiskers were eliminated perhaps once a 
 month ; those on his head were softened by a
 
 654 Barchester Towers 
 
 mixture which we will not call a dye ; it was 
 only a wash. His tailor lived in St. James's 
 Street, and his bootmaker at the corner of that 
 street and Piccadilly. He was particular in the 
 article of gloves, and the getting up of his shirts 
 was a matter not lightly thought of in the Ulla- 
 thorne laundry. On the occasion of the present 
 visit he had rather overdone his usual efforts, 
 and caused some little uneasiness to his sister, 
 who had not hitherto received very cordially the 
 proposition for a lengthened visit from the signora 
 at Ullathorne. 
 
 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. 
 Thome, who was somewhat of a grand signior, as 
 a country gentleman always is in a provincial city. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Thome, this is so kind of you I " 
 said the signora. " You promised to come ; but 
 I really did not expect it. I thought you 
 country gentlemen never kept your pledges." 
 
 " Oh, yes, sometimes," said Mr. Thorne, 
 looking rather sheepish, and making his saluta- 
 tions 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 Parlia- 
 ment ? " 
 
 " 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 ? "
 
 A Parting Interview 655 
 
 Mr. Thorne gave him a look which undeaned 
 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. Thome's expense. 
 
 " I never deceived 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 antedi- 
 luvian 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.
 
 656 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 " 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. Stan- 
 hope'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 extrava- 
 gant 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 that 
 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 ? "
 
 A Parting Interview 657 
 
 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 terrific to him, all her finery, 
 into his arms. The lace and starch crumpled 
 against his waistcoat and trowsers, 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 so magnificent a lady, 
 nor holding her what to do with 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 had 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 if it is not time for you 
 to go out." 
 
 But little Miss Julia, though she had not 
 exactly liked the nature of Mr. Thome's atten- 
 tion, 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
 
 6 5 8 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 Julia still went pouting about the room. " Char- 
 lotte, 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 cross- 
 ness 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.'Vuh riji// j: 
 
 " 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 satis- 
 fied as he had done. 
 
 " Mr. Arabin," continued the signora, " don't 
 you think Mr. Slope is a very lucky man ? " 
 
 " Not more so 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 " 
 
 f( He is to be the new dean there is no 
 manner of doubt of it, Mr. Thorne." 
 
 " Hum ! " said Mr. Thorne.
 
 A Parting Interview 659 
 
 " 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 1 
 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 ? ": hot; 
 
 " When will what be ? " said he, !fa r \ 
 
 " Oh ! we know when the affair of the dean 
 will be : a week will settle that. The new hat, 
 I have no doubt, has been already 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
 
 660 Barchester Towers 
 
 board with you ; which, by-the-by, 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 the 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 trowsers pockets. 
 
 " Come, come, Mr. Slope, don't be so bash- 
 ful," continued the signora. " We all know that 
 you proposed to the lady the other day at Ulla- 
 thorne. Tell us with what words she accepted 
 you. Was it with a simple 'yes,' or with two 
 ' no no's,' which make 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 ease. There sat Mr. Thorne, laugh- 
 ing silently. There stood his old antagonist,
 
 A Parting Interview 66 1 
 
 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 had 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 car- 
 buncle and mute as a fish ; grinning just suffi- 
 ciently 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 the woman has been fool 
 enough to refuse you ? She can't surely 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 solemn subjects in a very 
 improper way." 
 
 " Solemn subjects what solemn subject ? 
 Surely a dean's hat is not such a solemn subject."
 
 662 Barchester Towers 
 
 " I have no aspirations such as those you 
 impute to me. Perhaps you will drop the 
 subject." 
 
 " Oh, certainly, Mr. Slope ; but one \vord 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 imagi- 
 nations, 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 his 
 hat 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
 
 The Dean Elect 663 
 
 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 him- 
 self in Barchester, the pre-eminent place in 
 his soul's hatred was usually allotted to the 
 signora. 
 
 oil; oJ inaminjoqq.s a'iahaviut,) 
 sH .iM fons ,'MvwiVris Va\jj ,i6vsw6r 
 88-5! toft, aew JnsrrrJn/oqrqK isd) ni ponop^iopoK 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII 
 
 Otis : qoneiQ Sildj/q r. 3;fern 
 
 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.
 
 664 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 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 diplo- 
 matic 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 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 were done and over, 
 so that she might hear no more about it.
 
 The Dean Elect 665 
 
 And there was yet another ground of misery 
 which cut him to the quick, nearly as closely 
 as either of the 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 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 arch- 
 deacon his due, he was really attached to 
 Mr. Arabin, and grieved greatly at his back- 
 sliding. 
 
 They were sitting, talking over their sorrows, 
 in the drawing-room before dinner on the day 
 after Mr. Slope's departure for London ; and on 
 this occasion Mrs. Grantly spoke out her mind 
 freely. She had opinions of her own about 
 parish clergymen, and now thought it right to 
 give vent to them. 
 
 " If you would have been led by me, arch- 
 deacon, 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 them- 
 selves." 
 
 " 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 ? "
 
 The Dean Elect 667 
 
 "Yes, to be sure they are, when they get 
 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 con- 
 duct 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 him- 
 self and he will understand well enough what 
 that means," said Mrs. Grantly. 
 
 The archdeacon had nothing for it but groan- 
 ing. There was Mr. Slope ; he was going to be 
 made dean ; he was going to take a wife ; he 
 was about to achieve respectability and wealth ; 
 an excellent family mansion, and a family car- 
 riage ; he would soon be among the comfortable
 
 668 Barchester Towers 
 
 elite of the ecclesiastical world of Barchester; 
 whereas his own protege^ the true scion of the 
 true church, by whom he had sworn, would be 
 still but 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 in 
 Plumstead drawing-room when Dr. and Mrs. 
 Grantly were disturbed in their sweet discourse 
 by the quick rattle of a carriage and 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 betokened rather the 
 advent of some person or persons who were in 
 a hurry to reach the house, and had no inten- 
 tion of immediately leaving it. Guests invited 
 to stay a week, and who were conscious of 
 arriving after the first dinner bell, would pro- 
 bably approach in such a manner. So might 
 arrive an attorney with the news of a grand- 
 uncle's death, or a son from college with all the 
 fresh honours of a double first. No one would 
 have had himself driven up 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 arch- 
 deacon to his wife. He then quietly got up 
 and stood with the drawing-room door open in 
 his hand. " Why, it's your father ! "
 
 The Dean Elect 669 
 
 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 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. Har- 
 ding. " 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 this moment, Susan," said Mr. 
 Harding; " I have something to tell you.". 4 hi, 
 
 " 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 discus- 
 sion. 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,"
 
 670 Barchester Towers 
 
 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 displeasure. 
 
 " 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 round her father's 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."
 
 The Dean Elect 671 
 
 "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. silj .g/KQtx 
 
 "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 arch- 
 deacon'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 Plum- 
 stead on purpose to say. Nor could anything 
 more be said till the servants were gone after 
 dinner. The joy of Dr. Grantly was so un- 
 controllable that he could not refrain from 
 calling his father-in-law Mr. Dean before the 
 men ; and therefore it was soon matter of 
 discussion in the lower regions how Mr. Har- 
 ding, instead of his daughter's future husband,
 
 672 Barchester Towers 
 
 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. 
 
 " He's a mean chap all the same," said the 
 footman ; " and it an't along of him that I says 
 so. But I always did admire the missus's sister ; 
 and she'd well become the situation." 
 
 While these were the ideas down-stairs, a 
 very great difference of opinion existed above. 
 As soon as the cloth was drawn and the wine 
 on the table, Mr. Harding made for himself an 
 opportunity of speaking. It was, however, with 
 much inward troubling that he said : 
 
 " It's very kind of Lord , very kind, and 
 
 I feel it deeply, most deeply. I am, I must 
 confess, gratified by the offer " 
 
 " I should think so," said the archdeacon. 
 
 " But, all the same, I am afraid that I can't 
 accept it." 
 
 The decanter almost fell from the archdeacon's 
 hand upon the table ; and the start he made 
 was so great as to make his wife jump up from 
 her chair. Not accept the deanship ! If it 
 really ended in this, there would be no longer 
 any doubt that his father-in-law was demented. 
 The question now was whether a clergyman 
 with low rank, and preferment amounting to 
 less than aoo/. a year, should accept high rank, 
 i2oo/. a year, and one of the most desirable 
 positions which his profession had to afford ! 
 
 " What ! " said the archdeacon, gasping for 
 breath, and staring at his guest as though the
 
 The Dean Elect 673 
 
 violence of his emotion had almost thrown him 
 into a fit. 
 
 " What ! " 
 
 " I do not find myself fit for new duties r " 
 urged Mr. Harding. 
 
 " New duties ! what duties ? " said the arch- 
 deacon, with unintended sarcasm. 
 
 " Oh, papa," said Mrs. Grantly, " nothing 
 can be easier than what a dean has to do. 
 Surely you are more active than Dr. Trefoil." 
 
 " He won't have half as much to do as he has 
 at present," said Dr. Grantly. 
 
 " Did you see what ' The Jupiter ' said the 
 other day about young men ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and I saw that ' The Jupiter ' said all 
 that it could to induce the appointment of Mr. 
 Slope. Perhaps you would wish to see Mr. 
 Slope made dean." 
 
 Mr. Harding made no reply to this rebuke, 
 though he felt it strongly. He had not come 
 over to Plumstead to have further contention 
 with his son-in-law about Mr. Slope, so he 
 allowed it to pass by. 
 
 " I know I cannot make you understand my 
 feeling," he said, " for we have been cast in 
 different moulds. I may wish that I had your 
 spirit and energy and power of combating ; but 
 I have not. Every day that is added to my 
 life increases my wish for peace and rest." 
 
 " And where on earth can a man have peace 
 and rest if not in a deanery ? " said the arch- 
 deacon. 
 
 " People will say that I am too old for it." 
 
 " Good heavens ! people ! what people ? 
 What need you care for any people ? " 
 
 z
 
 674 Barcbester Towers 
 
 " But I think myself I am too old for any 
 new place." 
 
 " Dear papa," said Mrs. Grantly, " men ten 
 years older than you are appointed to new 
 situations day after day." 
 
 " My dear," said he, "it is impossible that I 
 should make you understand my feelings, nor 
 do I pretend to any great virtue in the 
 matter. The truth is, I want the force of 
 character which might enable me to stand 
 against the spirit of the times. The call on all 
 sides now is for young men, and I have not the 
 nerve to put myself in opposition to the 
 demand. Were ' The Jupiter,' when it hears of 
 my appointment, to write article after article, 
 setting forth my incompetency, I am sure it 
 would cost me my reason. I ought to be able 
 to bear with such things, you will say. Well, 
 my dear, I own that I ought. But I feel my 
 weakness, and I know that I can't. And, to 
 tell you the truth, I know no more than a child 
 what the dean has to do." 
 
 " Pshaw ! " exclaimed the archdeacon. 
 
 " Don't be angry with me, archdeacon : don't 
 let us quarrel about it, Susan. If you knew how 
 keenly I feel the necessity of having to disoblige 
 you in this matter, you would not be angry with 
 me." 
 
 This was a dreadful blow to Dr. Grantly. 
 Nothing could possibly have suited him better 
 than having Mr. Harding in the deanery. 
 Though he had never looked down on Mr. 
 Harding on account of his recent poverty, he 
 did fully recognise the satisfaction of having 
 those belonging to him in comfortable positions.
 
 The Dean Elect 675 
 
 It would be much more suitable that Mr. 
 Harding should be dean of Barchester than 
 vicar of St. Cuthbert's and precentor to boot. 
 And then the great discomfiture of that arch 
 enemy of all that was respectable in Barchester, 
 of that new low-church clerical parvenu that 
 had fallen amongst them, that alone would be 
 worth more, almost, than the situation itself. It 
 was frightful to think that such unhoped-for 
 good fortune should be marred by the absurd 
 crotchets and unwholesome hallucinations by 
 which Mr. Harding allowed himself to be led 
 astray. To have the cup so near his lips and 
 then to lose the drinking of it, was more than 
 Dr. Grantly could endure. 
 
 And yet it appeared as though he would have 
 to endure it. In vain he threatened and in 
 vain he coaxed. Mr. Harding did not indeed 
 speak with perfect decision of refusing the 
 proffered glory, but he would not speak with 
 anything like decision of accepting it. When 
 pressed again and again, he would again and 
 again allege that he was wholly unfitted to new 
 duties. It was in vain that the archdeacon 
 tried to insinuate, though he could not plainly 
 declare, that there were no new duties to perform. 
 It was in vain he hinted that in all cases of 
 difficulty he, the archdeacon, was willing and 
 able to guide a weak-minded dean. Mr. Harding 
 seemed to have a foolish idea, not only that 
 there were new duties to do, but that no one 
 should accept the place who was not himself 
 prepared to do them. 
 
 The conference ended in an understanding 
 that Mr. Harding should at once acknowledge
 
 6 7 6 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 the letter he had received from the minister's 
 private secretary, and should beg that he might 
 be allowed two days to make up his mind ; and 
 that during those two days the matter should be 
 considered. 
 
 On the following morning the archdeacon 
 was to drive Mr. Harding back to Barchester. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII 
 
 MISS THORNE SHOWS HER TALENT AT MATCH- 
 MAKING 
 
 ON Mr. Harding's return to Barchester from 
 Plumstead, which was effected by him in due 
 course in company with the archdeacon, more 
 tidings of a surprising nature met him. He was, 
 during the journey, subjected to such a weight 
 of unanswerable argument, all of which went to 
 prove that it was his bounden duty not to inter- 
 fere with the paternal government that was so 
 anxious to make him a dean, that when he 
 arrived at the chemist's door in High Street, he 
 hardly knew which way to turn himself in the 
 matter. But, perplexed as he was, he was 
 doomed to further perplexity. He found a note 
 there from his daughter begging him most 
 urgently to come to her immediately. But we 
 must again go back a little in our story. 
 
 Miss Thorne had not been slow to hear the 
 rumours respecting Mr. Arab in, which had so 
 much disturbed the happiness of Mrs. Grantly. 
 And she, also, was unhappy to think that her
 
 Match-making 677 
 
 parish clergyman should be accused of wor- 
 shipping a strange goddess. She, also, was of 
 opinion, that rectors and vicars should all be 
 married, and with that good-natured energy which 
 was characteristic of her, she put her wits to 
 work to find a fitting match for Mr. Arabin. 
 Mrs. Grantly, in this difficulty, could think of 
 no better remedy than a lecture from the arch- 
 deacon. Miss Thorne thought that a young 
 lady, marriageable, and with a dowry, might be 
 of more efficacy. In looking through the cata- 
 logue of her unmarried friends, who might 
 possibly be in want of a husband, and might 
 also be fit for such promotion as a country 
 parsonage affords, she could think of no one 
 more eligible than Mrs. Bold ; and, consequently, 
 losing no time, she went into Barchester on the 
 day of Mr. Slope's discomfiture, the same day 
 that her brother had had his interesting inter- 
 view with the last of the Neros, and invited Mrs. 
 Bold to bring her nurse and baby to Ullathorne 
 and make them a protracted visit. 
 
 Miss Thorne suggested a month or two, 
 intending to use her influence afterwards in pro- 
 longing it so as to last out the winter, in order 
 that Mr. Arabin might have an opportunity 
 of becoming fairly intimate with his intended 
 bride. " We'll have Mr. Arabin too," said Miss 
 Thorne to herself; "and before the spring 
 they'll know each other; and in twelve or 
 eighteen months' time, if all goes well, Mrs. 
 Bold will be domiciled at St. Ewold's;" and 
 then the kind-hearted lady gave herself some 
 not undeserved praise for her match-making 
 genius.
 
 678 Barchester Towers 
 
 Eleanor was taken a little by surprise, but 
 the matter ended in her promising to go to 
 Ullathorne for at any rate a week or two ; and 
 on the day previous to that on which her father 
 drove out to Plumstead, she had had herself 
 driven out to Ullathorne. 
 
 Miss Thorne would not perplex her with her 
 embryo lord on that same evening, thinking that 
 she would allow her a few hours to make herself 
 at home; but on the following morning Mr. 
 Arabin arrived. " And now," said Miss Thorne 
 to herself, " I must contrive to throw them in 
 each other's way." That same day, after dinner, 
 Eleanor, with an assumed air of dignity which 
 she could not maintain, with tears that she could 
 not suppress, with a flutter which she could not 
 conquer, and a joy which she could not hide, 
 told Miss Thorne that she was engaged to marry 
 Mr. Arabin, and that it behoved her to get back 
 home to Barchester as quick as she could. 
 
 To say simply that Miss Thorne was rejoiced 
 at the success of the scheme, would give a very 
 faint idea of her feelings on the occasion. My 
 readers may probably have dreamt before now 
 that they have had before them some terribly 
 long walk to accomplish, some journey of twenty 
 or thirty miles, an amount of labour frightful to 
 anticipate, and that immediately on starting they 
 have ingeniously found some accommodating 
 short cut which has brought them without fatigue 
 to their work's end in five minutes. Miss Thome's 
 waking feelings were somewhat of the same 
 nature. My readers may perhaps have had to 
 do with children, and may on some occasion 
 have promised to their young charges some
 
 Match-making 679 
 
 great gratification intended to come off, perhaps 
 at the end of the winter, or at the beginning of 
 summer. The impatient juveniles, however, 
 will not wait, and clamorously demand their 
 treat before they go to bed. Miss Thome had 
 a sort of feeling that her children were equally 
 unreasonable. She was like an inexperienced 
 gunner, who has ill-calculated the length of the 
 train that he has laid. The gunpowder exploded 
 much too soon, and poor Miss Thorne felt that 
 she was blown up by the strength of her own 
 petard. 
 
 Miss Thorne had had lovers of her own, but 
 they had been gentlemen of old-fashioned and 
 deliberate habits. Miss Thome's heart also 
 had not always been hard, though she was still 
 a virgin spinster ; but it had never yielded in 
 this way at the first assault. She had intended 
 to bring together a middle-aged studious clergy- 
 man, and a discreet matron who might possibly 
 be induced to marry again ; and in doing so 
 she had thrown fire among tinder. Well, it was 
 all as it should be, but she did feel perhaps a 
 little put out by the precipitancy of her own 
 success; and perhaps a little vexed at the 
 readiness of Mrs. Bold to be wooed. 
 
 She said, however, nothing about it to any 
 one, and ascribed it all to the altered manners 
 of the new age. Their mothers and grand- 
 mothers were perhaps a little more deliberate ; 
 but it was admitted on all sides that things were 
 conducted very differently now than in former 
 times. For aught Miss Thorne knew of the 
 matter, a couple of hours might be quite suffi- 
 cient under the new rdgiine to complete that
 
 680 Barchester Towers 
 
 for which she in her ignorance had allotted 
 twelve months. 
 
 But we must not pass over the wooing so 
 cavalierly. It has been told, with perhaps 
 tedious accuracy, how Eleanor disposed of 
 two of her lovers at Ullathorne; and it must 
 also be told with equal accuracy, and if possible 
 with less tedium, how she encountered Mr. 
 Arabin. 
 
 It cannot be denied that when Eleanor 
 accepted Miss Thome's invitation, she remem- 
 bered that Ullathorne was in the parish of St. 
 Ewold's. Since her interview with the signora 
 she had done little else than think about Mr. 
 Arabin, and the appeal that had been made to 
 her. She could not bring herself to believe or 
 try to bring herself to believe, that what she 
 had been told was untrue. Think of it how 
 she would, she could not but accept it as a 
 fact that Mr. Arabin was fond of her ; and then 
 when she went further, and asked herself the 
 question, she could not but accept it as a fact 
 also that she was fond of him. If it were 
 destined for her to be the partner of his hopes 
 and sorrows, to whom could she look for friend- 
 ship so properly as to Miss Thorne? This 
 invitation was like an ordained step towards 
 the fulfilment of her destiny, and when she 
 also heard that Mr. Arabin was expected to be 
 at Ullathorne on the following day, it seemed 
 as though all the world were conspiring in her 
 favour. Well, did she not deserve it ? In 
 that affair of Mr. Slope, had not all the world 
 conspired against her ? 
 
 She could not, however, make herself easy
 
 Match-making 68 1 
 
 and at home. When in the evening after 
 dinner Miss Thorne expatiated on the excel- 
 lence of Mr. Arabin's qualities, and hinted that 
 any little rumour which might be ill-naturedly 
 spread abroad concerning him really meant 
 nothing, Mrs. Bold found herself unable to 
 answer. When Miss Thorne went a little 
 further and declared that she did not know a 
 prettier vicarage-house in the county than St. 
 Ewold's, Mrs. Bold, remembering the projected 
 bow-window and the projected priestess, still 
 held her tongue ; though her ears tingled with 
 the conviction that all the world knew that she 
 was in love with Mr. Arabin. Well; what 
 would that matter if they could only meet 
 and tell each other what each now longed 
 to tell ? 
 
 And they did meet. Mr. Arabin came early 
 in the day, and found the two ladies together 
 at work in the drawing-room. Miss Thorne, 
 who had she known all the truth would have 
 vanished into air at once, had no conception 
 that her immediate absence would be a blessing, 
 and remained chatting with them till luncheon- 
 time. Mr. Arabin could talk about nothing but 
 the Signora Neroni's beauty, would discuss no 
 people but the Stanhopes. This was very dis- 
 tressing to Eleanor, and not very satisfactory to 
 Miss Thorne. But yet there was evidence of 
 innocence in his open avowal of admiration. 
 
 And then they had lunch, and then Mr. 
 Arabin went out on parish duty, and Eleanor 
 and Miss Thorne were left to take a walk 
 together. 
 
 "Do you think the Signora Neroni is so
 
 682 Barchester Towers 
 
 lovely as people say ? " Eleanor asked as they 
 were coming home. 
 
 " She is very beautiful certainly, very beauti- 
 ful," Miss Thorne answered ; " but I do not 
 know that any one considers her lovely. She 
 is a woman all men would like to look at ; but 
 few I imagine would be glad to take her to their 
 hearths, even were she unmarried and not 
 afflicted as she is." 
 
 There was some little comfort in this. Eleanor 
 made the most of it till she got back to the 
 house. She was then left alone in the drawing- 
 room, and just as it was getting dark Mr. Arabin 
 came in. 
 
 It was a beautiful afternoon in the beginning 
 of October, and Eleanor was sitting in the 
 window to get the advantage of the last day- 
 light for her novel. There was a fire in the 
 comfortable room, but the weather was not cold 
 enough to make it attractive ; and as she could 
 see the sun from where she sat, she was not very 
 attentive to her book. 
 
 Mr. Arabin when he entered stood awhile 
 with his back to the fire in his usual way, merely 
 uttering a few common-place remarks about the 
 beauty of the weather, while he plucked up 
 courage for more interesting converse. It can- 
 not probably be said that he had resolved then 
 and there to make an offer to Eleanor. Men 
 we believe seldom make such resolves. Mr. 
 Slope and Mr. Stanhope had done so, it is true ; 
 but gentlemen generally propose without any 
 absolutely defined determination as to their 
 doing so. Such was now the case with Mr. 
 Arabin.
 
 Match-making 683 
 
 " It is a lovely sunset," said Eleanor, answering 
 him on the dreadfully trite subject which he had 
 chosen. 
 
 Mr. Arabin could not see the sunset from the 
 hearth-rug, so he had to go close to her. 
 
 " Very lovely," said he, standing modestly 
 so far away from her as to avoid touching the 
 flounces of her dress. Then it appeared that 
 he had nothing further to say ; so after gazing 
 for a moment in silence at the brightness of the 
 setting sun, he returned to the fire. 
 
 Eleanor found that it was quite impossible for 
 herself to commence a conversation. In the first 
 place she could find nothing to say; words, 
 which were generally plenty enough with her, 
 would not come to her relief. And, moreover, 
 do what she would, she could hardly prevent 
 herself from crying. 
 
 " Do you like Ullathorne ? " said Mr. Arabin, 
 speaking from the safely distant position which 
 he had assumed on the hearth-rug. 
 
 " Yes, indeed, very much ! " 
 
 "I don't mean Mr. and Miss Thorne. I 
 know you like them ; but the style of the house. 
 There is something about old-fashioned mansions, 
 built as this is, and old-fashioned gardens, that 
 to me is especially delightful." 
 
 " I like everything old-fashioned," said 
 Eleanor; "old-fashioned things are so much 
 the honestest." 
 
 " I don't know about that," said Mr. Arabin, 
 gently laughing. " That is an opinion on which 
 very much may be said on either side. It is 
 strange how widely the world is divided on a 
 subject which so nearly concerns us all, and
 
 684 Barchester Towers 
 
 which is so close beneath our eyes. Some think 
 that we are quickly progressing towards perfec- 
 tion, while others imagine that virtue is dis- 
 appearing from the earth." 
 
 " And you, Mr. Arabin, what do you think ? " 
 said Eleanor. She felt somewhat surprised at 
 the tone which his conversation was taking, and 
 yet she was relieved at his saying something 
 which enabled herself to speak without showing 
 her own emotion. 
 
 "What do I think, Mrs. Bold?" and then he 
 rumbled his money with his hands in his trowsers 
 pockets, and looked and spoke very little like a 
 thriving lover. " It is the bane of my life 
 that on important subjects I acquire no fixed 
 opinion. I think, and think, and go on think- 
 ing ; and yet my thoughts are running ever in 
 different directions. I hardly know whether or 
 no we do lean more confidently than our fathers 
 did on those high hopes to which we profess to 
 aspire." 
 
 " I think the world grows more worldly every 
 day," said Eleanor. 
 
 " That is because you see more of it than 
 when you were younger. But we should hardly 
 judge by what we see, we see so very very 
 little." There was then a pause for a while, 
 during which Mr. Arabin continued to turn over 
 his shillings and half-crowns. " If we believe in 
 Scripture, we can hardly think that mankind in 
 general will now be allowed to retrograde." 
 
 Eleanor, whose mind was certainly engaged 
 otherwise than on the general state of mankind, 
 made no answer to this. She felt thoroughly 
 dissatisfied with herself. She could not force
 
 Match-making 685 
 
 her thoughts away from the topic on which the 
 signora had spoken to her in so strange a way, 
 and yet she knew that she could not converse 
 with Mr. Arabin in an unrestrained natural tone 
 till she did so. She was most anxious not to 
 show to him any special emotion, and yet she 
 felt that if he looked at her he would at once 
 see that she was not at ease. 
 
 But he did not look at her. Instead of doing 
 so, he left the fireplace and began walking up 
 and down the room. Eleanor took up her book 
 resolutely ; but she could not read, for there was 
 a tear in her eye, and do what she would it fell 
 on her cheek. When Mr. Arabin's back was 
 turned to her she wiped it away ; but another 
 was soon coursing down her face in its place. 
 They would come ; not a deluge of tears that 
 would have betrayed her at once, but one by 
 one, single monitors. Mr. Arabin did not 
 observe her closely, and they passed unseen. 
 
 Mr. Arabin, thus pacing up and down the 
 room, took four or five turns before he spoke 
 another word, and Eleanor sat equally silent 
 with her face bent over her book. She was 
 afraid that her tears would get the better of her, 
 and was preparing for an escape from the room, 
 when Mr. Arabin in his walk stood opposite to 
 her. He did not come close up, but stood 
 exactly on the spot to which his course brought 
 him, and then, with his hands under his coat 
 tails, thus made his confession. 
 
 " Mrs. Bold," said he, " I owe you retribution 
 for a great offence of which I have been guilty 
 towards you." Eleanor's heart beat so that she 
 could not trust herself to say that he had never
 
 686 Barchester Towers 
 
 been guilty of any offence. So Mr. Arabin thus 
 went on. 
 
 " I have thought much of it since, and I am 
 now aware that I was wholly unwarranted in 
 putting to you a question which I once asked 
 you. It was indelicate on my part, and perhaps 
 unmanly. No intimacy which may exist between 
 myself and your connection, Dr. Grantly, could 
 justify it. Nor could the acquaintance which 
 existed between ourselves." This word acquaint- 
 ance struck cold on Eleanor's heart. Was this 
 to be her doom after all ? "I therefore think it 
 right to beg your pardon in a humble spirit, 
 and I now do so." 
 
 What was Eleanor to say to him ? She could 
 not say much, because she was crying, and yet 
 she must say something. She was most anxious 
 to say that something graciously, kindly, and yet 
 not in such a manner as to betray herself. She 
 had never felt herself so much at a loss for 
 words. 
 
 " Indeed I took no offence, Mr. Arabin." 
 
 " Oh, but you did ! And had you not done 
 so, you would not have been yourself. You 
 were as right to be offended, as I was wrong so 
 to offend you. I have not forgiven myself, but 
 I hope to hear that you forgive me." 
 
 She was now past speaking calmly, though 
 she still continued to hide her tears, and Mr. 
 Arabin, after pausing a moment in vain for her 
 reply, was walking off towards the door. She 
 felt that she could not allow him to go un- 
 answered without grievously sinning against all 
 charity; so, rising from her seat, she gently 
 touched his arm and said : " Oh, Mr. Arabin,
 
 Match-making 687 
 
 do not go till I speak to you ! I do forgive 
 you. You know that I forgive you." 
 
 He took the hand that had so gently touched 
 his arm, and then gazed into her face as if he 
 would peruse there, as though written in a book, 
 the whole future destiny of his life ; and as he 
 did so, there was a sober sad seriousness in his 
 own countenance, which Eleanor found herself 
 unable to sustain. She could only look down 
 upon the carpet, let her tears trickle as they 
 would, and leave her hand within his. 
 
 It was but for a minute that they stood so, 
 but the duration of that minute was sufficient to 
 make it ever memorable to them both. Eleanor 
 was sure now that she was loved. No words, 
 be their eloquence what it might, could be more 
 impressive than that eager, melancholy gaze. 
 
 Why did he look so into her eyes ? Why did 
 he not speak to her? Could it be that he 
 looked for her to make the first sign ? 
 
 And he, though he knew but little of women, 
 even he knew that he was loved. He had only 
 to ask and it would be all his own, that inex- 
 pressible loveliness, those ever speaking but yet 
 now mute eyes, that feminine brightness and 
 eager loving spirit which had so attracted him 
 since first he had encountered it at St. Ewold's. 
 It might, must be all his own now. On no other 
 supposition was it possible that she should allow 
 her hand to remain thus clasped within his own. 
 He had only to ask. Ah ! but that was the 
 difficulty. Did a minute suffice for all this ? 
 Nay, perhaps it might be more than a minute. 
 
 " Mrs. Bold " at last he said, and then 
 
 stopped himself.
 
 688 Barchester Towers 
 
 If he could not speak, how was she to do so ? 
 He had called her by her name, the same name 
 that any merest stranger would have used ! She 
 withdrew her hand from his, and moved as 
 though to return to her seat. " Eleanor ! " he 
 then said, in his softest tone, as though the 
 courage of a lover were as yet but half assumed, 
 as though he were still afraid of giving offence 
 by the freedom which he took. She looked 
 slowly, gently, almost piteously up into his face. 
 There was at any rate no anger there to deter him. 
 
 " Eleanor ! " he again exclaimed ; and in a 
 moment he had her clasped to his bosom. How 
 this was done, whether the doing was with him 
 or her, whether she had flown thither conquered 
 by the tenderness of his voice, or he with a 
 violence not likely to give offence had drawn 
 her to his breast, neither of them knew ; nor 
 can I declare. There was now that sympathy 
 between them which hardly admitted of individual 
 motion. They were one and the same, one 
 flesh, one spirit, one life. 
 
 " Eleanor, my own Eleanor, my own, my 
 wife ! " She ventured to look up at him through 
 her tears, and he, bowing his face down over 
 hers, pressed his lips upon her brow ; his virgin 
 lips, which, since a beard first grew upon his 
 chin, had never yet tasted the luxury of a woman's 
 cheek. 
 
 She had been told that her yea must be yea, 
 or her nay, nay; but she was called on for 
 neither the one nor the other. She told Miss 
 Thorne that she was engaged to Mr. Arabin, 
 but no such words had passed between them, no 
 promises had been asked or given.
 
 Match-making 689 
 
 " Oh, let me go," said she ; " let me go now. 
 I am too happy to remain, let me go, that I 
 may be alone." He did not try to hinder her ; 
 he did not repeat the kiss ; he did not press 
 another on her lips. He might have done so had 
 he been so minded. She was now all his own. 
 He took his arm from round her waist, his arm 
 that was trembling with a new delight, and let 
 her go. She fled like a roe to her own chamber, 
 and then, having turned the bolt, she enjoyed 
 the full luxury of her love. She idolised, almost 
 worshipped this man who had so meekly begged 
 her pardon. And he was now her own. Oh, 
 how she wept and cried and laughed, as the 
 hopes and fears and miseries of the last few 
 weeks passed in remembrance through her 
 mind. 
 
 Mr. Slope ! That any one should have dared 
 to think that she who had been chosen by him 
 could possibly have mated herself with Mr. 
 Slope ! That they should have dared to tell 
 him, also, and subject her bright happiness to 
 such needless risk ! And then she smiled with 
 joy as she thought of all the comforts that she 
 could give him ; not that he cared for comforts, 
 but that it would be so delicious for her to give. 
 
 She got up and rang for her maid that she 
 might tell her little boy of his new father ; and 
 in her own way she did tell him. She desired 
 her maid to leave her, in order that she might 
 be alone with her child ; and then, while he lay 
 sprawling on the bed, she poured forth the 
 praises, all unmeaning to him, of the man she 
 had selected to guard his infancy. 
 
 She could not be happy, however, till she had
 
 690 Barchester Towers 
 
 made Mr. Arabin take the child to himself, and 
 thus, as it were, adopt him as his own. The 
 moment the idea struck her she took the baby 
 up in her arms, and, opening her door, ran 
 quickly down to the drawing-room. She at once 
 found, by his step still pacing on the floor, that 
 he was there ; and a glance within the room 
 told her that he was alone. She hesitated a 
 moment, and then hurried in with her precious 
 charge. 
 
 Mr. Arabin met her in the middle of the 
 room. "There," said she, breathless with her 
 haste ; " there, take him take him and love him." 
 
 Mr. Arabin took the little fellow from her, 
 and kissing him again and again, prayed God to 
 bless him. " He shall be all as my own all 
 as my own," said he. Eleanor, as she stooped 
 to take back her child, kissed the hand that 
 held him, and then rushed back with her treasure 
 to her chamber. 
 
 It was thus that Mr. Harding's younger 
 daughter was won for the second time. At 
 dinner neither she nor Mr. Arabin were very 
 bright, but their silence occasioned no remark. 
 In the drawing-room, as we have before said, 
 she told Miss Thome what had occurred. The 
 next morning she returned to Barchester, and 
 Mr. Arabin went over with his budget of news 
 to the archdeacon. As Dr. Grantly was not 
 there, he could only satisfy himself by telling 
 Mrs. Grantly how that he intended himself the 
 honour of becoming her brother-in-law. In the 
 ecstasy of her joy at hearing such tidings, Mrs. 
 Grantly vouchsafed him a warmer welcome than 
 any he had yet received from Eleanor.
 
 The Belzebub Colt 691 
 
 " Good heavens ! " she exclaimed it was the 
 general exclamation of the rectory. "Poor 
 Eleanor ! Dear Eleanor ! What a monstrous 
 injustice has been done her ! Well, it shall all 
 be made up now." And then she thought of the 
 signora. " What lies people tell," she said to 
 herself. 
 
 But people in this matter had told no lies 
 at all. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX 
 
 THE BELZEBUB COLT 
 
 WHEN Miss Thorne left the dining-room, Eleanor 
 had formed no intention of revealing to her 
 what had occurred; but when she was seated 
 beside her hostess on the sofa the secret dropped 
 from her almost unawares. Eleanor was but a 
 bad hypocrite, and she found herself quite unable 
 to continue talking about Mr. Arabin as though 
 he were a stranger, while her heart was full of 
 him. When Miss Thorne, pursuing her own 
 scheme with discreet zeal, asked the young 
 widow whether, in her opinion, it would not be 
 a good thing for Mr. Arabin to get married, she 
 had nothing for it but to confess the truth. " I 
 suppose it would," said Eleanor, rather sheep- 
 ishly. Whereupon Miss Thorne amplified on 
 the idea. " Oh, Miss Thorne," said Eleanor, 
 " he is going to be married : I am engaged to 
 him."
 
 692 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 Now Miss Thorne knew very well that there 
 had been no such engagement when she had 
 been walking with Mrs. Bold in the morning. 
 She had also heard enough to be tolerably sure 
 that there had been no preliminaries to such an 
 engagement. She was, therefore, as we have 
 before described, taken a little by surprise. But, 
 nevertheless, she embraced her guest, and cor- 
 dially congratulated her. 
 
 Eleanor had no opportunity of speaking 
 another word to Mr. Arabin that evening, except 
 such words as all the world might hear; and 
 these, as may be supposed, were few enough. 
 Miss Thorne did her best to leave them in 
 privacy ; but Mr. Thorne, who knew nothing of 
 what had occurred, and another guest, a friend 
 of his, entirely interfered with her good inten- 
 tions. So poor Eleanor had to go to bed without 
 one sign of affection. Her state, nevertheless, 
 was not to be pitied. 
 
 The next morning she was up early. It 'was 
 probable, she thought, that by going down a 
 little before the usual hour of breakfast, she 
 might find Mr. Arabin alone in the dining-room. 
 Might it not be that he also would calculate that 
 an interview would thus be possible ? Thus 
 thinking, Eleanor was dressed a full hour before 
 the time fixed in the Ullathorne household for 
 morning prayers. She did not at once go down. 
 She was afraid to seem to be too anxious to 
 meet her lover; though, heaven knows, her 
 anxiety was intense enough. She therefore sat 
 herself down at her window, and repeatedly 
 looking at her watch, nursed her child till she 
 thought she might venture forth.
 
 The Belzebub Colt 693 
 
 When she found herself at the dining-room 
 door, she stood a moment, hesitating to turn the 
 handle ; but when she heard Mr. Thome's voice 
 inside she hesitated no longer. Her object was 
 defeated, and she might now go in as soon as 
 she liked without the slightest imputation on her 
 delicacy. Mr. Thorne and Mr. Arabin were 
 standing on the hearth-rug, discussing the merits 
 of the Belzebub colt ; or rather, Mr. Thorne was 
 discussing, and Mr. Arabin was listening. That 
 interesting animal had rubbed the stump of his 
 tail against the wall of his stable, and occasioned 
 much uneasiness to the Ullathorne master of the 
 horse. Had Eleanor but waited another minute, 
 Mr. Thorne would have been in the stables. 
 
 Mr. Thorne, when he saw his lady guest, re- 
 pressed his anxiety. The Belzebub colt must 
 do without him. And so the three stood, saying 
 little or nothing to each other, till at last the 
 master of the house, finding that he could no 
 longer bear his present state of suspense respect- 
 ing his favourite young steed, made an elaborate 
 apology to Mrs. Bold, and escaped. As he shut 
 the door behind him, Eleanor almost wished 
 that he had remained. It was not that she 
 was afraid of Mr. Arabin, but she hardly yet 
 knew how to address him. 
 
 He, however, soon relieved her from her 
 embarrassment. He came up to her, and taking 
 both her hands in his, he said : " So, Eleanor, 
 you and I are to be man and wife. Is it so ? " 
 
 She looked up into his face, and her lips 
 formed themselves into a single syllable. She 
 uttered no sound, but he could read the affirma- 
 tive plainly in her face.
 
 694 Barchester Towers 
 
 " It is a great trust," said he ; "a very great 
 trust." 
 
 " It is it is," said Eleanor, not exactly taking 
 what he had said in the sense that he had meant. 
 " It is a very, very great trust, and I will do my 
 utmost to deserve it." 
 
 " And I also will do my utmost to deserve it," 
 said Mr. Arabin, very solemnly. And then, 
 winding his arm round her waist, he stood there 
 gazing at the fire, and she with her head leaning 
 on his shoulder, stood by him, well satisfied with 
 her position. They neither of them spoke, or 
 found any want of speaking. All that was need- 
 ful for them to say had been said. The yea, 
 yea, had been spoken by Eleanor in her own 
 way and that way had been perfectly satis- 
 factory to Mr. Arabin. 
 
 And now it remained to them each to enjoy 
 the assurance of the other's love. And how 
 great that luxury is ! How far it surpasses any 
 other pleasure which God has allowed to his 
 creatures ! And to a woman's heart how doubly 
 delightful ! 
 
 When the ivy has found its tower, when the 
 delicate creeper has found its strong wall, we 
 know how the parasite plants grow and prosper. 
 They were not created to stretch forth their 
 branches alone, and endure without protection 
 the summer's sun and the winter's storm. Alone 
 they but spread themselves on the ground, and 
 cower unseen in the dingy shade. But when 
 they have found their firm supporters, how 
 wonderful is their beauty; how all pervading 
 and victorious ! What is the turret without its 
 ivy, or the high garden-wall without the jasmine
 
 The Belzebub Colt 695 
 
 which gives it its beauty and fragrance ? The 
 hedge without the honeysuckle is but a 
 hedge. 
 
 There is a feeling still half existing, but now 
 half conquered by the force of human nature, 
 that a woman should be ashamed of her love 
 till the husband's right to her compels her to 
 acknowledge it. We would fain preach a 
 different doctrine. A woman should glory in 
 her love ; but on that account let her take 
 the more care that it be such as to justify her 
 glory. 
 
 Eleanor did glory in hers, and she felt, and 
 had cause to feel, that it deserved to be held as 
 glorious. She could have stood there for hours 
 with his arm round her, had fate and Mr. 
 Thorne permitted it. Each moment she crept 
 nearer to his bosom, and felt more and more 
 certain that there was her home. What now to 
 her was the archdeacon's arrogance, her sister's 
 coldness, or her dear father's weakness ? What 
 need she care for the duplicity of such friends 
 as Charlotte Stanhope ? She had found the 
 strong shield that should guard her from all 
 wrongs, the trusty pilot that should hence- 
 forward guide her through the shoals and rocks. 
 She would give up the heavy burden of her 
 independence, and once more assume the posi- 
 tion of a woman, and the duties of a trusting and 
 loving wife. 
 
 And he, too, stood there fully satisfied with 
 his place. They were both looking intently on 
 the fire, as though they could read there their 
 future fate, till at last Eleanor turned her face 
 towards his. " How sad you are," she said,
 
 696 Barchester Towers 
 
 smiling; and indeed his face was, if not sad, 
 at least serious. " How sad you are, love ! " 
 
 " Sad," said he, looking down at her ; " no, 
 certainly not sad." Her sweet loving eyes were 
 turned towards him, and she smiled softly as he 
 answered her. The temptation was too strong 
 even for the demure propriety of Mr. Arabin, 
 and, bending orer her, he pressed his lips to 
 hers. 
 
 Immediately after this, Mr. Thorne appeared, 
 and they were both delighted to hear that the tail 
 of the Belzebub colt was not materially injured. 
 
 It had been Mr. Harding's intention to hurry 
 over to Ullathorne as soon as possible after his 
 return to Barchester, in order to secure the 
 support of his daughter in his meditated revolt 
 against the archdeacon as touching the deanery ; 
 but he was spared the additional journey by 
 hearing that Mrs. Bold had returned unex- 
 pectedly home. As soon as he had read her 
 note he started off, and found her waiting for 
 him in her own house. 
 
 How much each of them had to tell the other, 
 and how certain each was that the story which 
 he or she had to tell would astonish the other ! 
 
 " My dear, I am so anxious to see you," said 
 Mr. Harding, kissing his daughter. 
 
 " Oh, papa, I have so much to tell you ! " said 
 the daughter, returning the embrace. 
 
 " My dear, they have offered me the deanery ! " 
 said Mr. Harding, anticipating by the sudden- 
 ness of the revelation the tidings which Eleanor 
 had to give him. 
 
 " Oh, papa," said she, forgetting her own love 
 and happiness in her joy at the surprising news;
 
 The Belzebub Colt 697 
 
 "oh, papa, can it be possible? Dear papa, 
 how thoroughly, thoroughly happy that makes 
 me!" 
 
 " But, my dear, I think it best to refuse it." 
 
 " Oh, papa ! 'I 
 
 " I am sure you will agree with me, Eleanor, 
 when I explain it to you. You know, my dear, 
 how old I am. If I live, I " 
 
 ' But, papa, I must tell you about myself." 
 
 ' Well, my dear." 
 
 ' I do so wonder how you'll take it." 
 
 'Take what?" 
 
 ' If you don't rejoice at it, if it doesn't make 
 you happy, if you don't encourage me, I shall 
 break my heart." 
 
 " If that be the case, Nelly, I certainly will 
 encourage you." 
 
 " But I fear you won't. I do so fear you 
 won't. And yet you can't but think I am the 
 most fortunate woman living on God's earth." 
 
 "Are you, dearest? Then I certainly will 
 rejoice with you. Come, Nelly, come to me, 
 and tell me what it is." 
 
 " I am going " 
 
 He led her to the sofa, and seating himself 
 beside her, took both her hands in his. " You 
 are going to be married, Nelly. Is not that it ? " 
 
 " Yes," she said, faintly. " That is if you will 
 approve ; " and then she blushed as she remem- 
 bered the promise which she had so lately 
 volunteered to him, and which she had so 
 utterly forgotten in making her engagement with 
 Mr. Arab in. 
 
 Mr. Harding thought for a moment who the 
 man could be whom he was to be called upon
 
 6 9 8 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 to welcome as his son-in-law. A week since he 
 would have had no doubt whom to name. In 
 that case he would have been prepared to give 
 his sanction, although he would have done so 
 with a heavy heart. Now he knew that at any 
 rate it would not be Mr. Slope, though he was 
 perfectly at a loss to guess who could possibly 
 have filled the place. For a moment he thought 
 that the man might be Bertie Stanhope, and his 
 very soul sank within him. 
 
 " Well, Nelly ? " 
 
 " Oh, papa, promise to me that, for my sake, 
 you will love him." 
 
 " Come, Nelly, come ; tell me who it is." 
 
 " But will you love him, papa ? " 
 
 " Dearest, I must love any one that you love." 
 Then she turned her face to his, and whispered 
 into his ear the name of Mr. Arabin. 
 
 No man that she could have named could 
 have more surprised or more delighted him. 
 Had he looked round the world for a son-in-law 
 to his taste, he could have selected no one whom 
 he would have preferred to Mr. Arabin. He 
 was a clergyman ; he held a living in the neigh- 
 bourhood; he was of a set to which all Mr. 
 Harding's own partialities most closely adhered ; 
 he was the great friend of Dr. Grantly ; and he 
 was, moreover, a man of whom Mr. Harding 
 knew nothing but what he approved. Neverthe- 
 less, his surprise was so great as to prevent the 
 immediate expression of his joy. He had never 
 thought of Mr. Arabin in connection with his 
 daughter ; he had never imagined that they had 
 any feeling in common. He had feared that his 
 daughter had been made hostile to clergymen of
 
 The Belzebub Colt 699 
 
 Mr. Arabin's stamp by her intolerance of the 
 archdeacon's pretensions. Had he been put to 
 wish, he might have wished for Mr. Arabin for 
 a son-in-law; but had he been put to guess, 
 the name would never have occurred to him. 
 
 " Mr. Arabin ! " he exclaimed ; " impos- 
 sible!" 
 
 y" Oh, papa, for heaven's sake don't say any- 
 thing against him ! If you love me, don't say 
 anything against him. Oh, papa, it's done, and 
 mustn't be undone oh, papa ! " 
 
 Fickle Eleanor ! where was the promise that 
 she would make no choice for herself without 
 her father's approval ? She had chosen, and 
 now demanded his acquiescence. " Oh, papa, 
 isn't he good ? isn't he noble ? isn't he religious, 
 high-minded, everything that a good man pos- 
 sibly can be ? " and she clung to her father, 
 beseeching him for his consent. 
 
 " My Nelly, my child, my own daughter I 
 He is ; he is noble and good and high-minded ; 
 he is all that a woman can love and a man 
 admire. He shall be my son, my own son. 
 He shall be as close to my heart as you are. 
 My Nelly, my child, my happy, happy child ! " 
 
 We need not pursue the interview any further. 
 By degrees they returned to the subject of the 
 new promotion. Eleanor tried to prove to him, 
 as 'the Grantlys had done, that his age could be 
 no bar to his being a very excellent dean ; but 
 those arguments had now even less weight on 
 him than before. He said little or nothing, but 
 sat meditative. Every now and then he would 
 kiss his daughter, and say " yes," or " no," or 
 "very true," or "well, my dear, I can't quite
 
 700 Barchester Towers 
 
 agree with you there," but he could not be got 
 to enter sharply into the question of " to be, or 
 not to be " dean of Barchester. Of her and her 
 happiness, of Mr. Arabin and his virtues, he 
 would talk as much as Eleanor desired ; and, to 
 tell the truth, that was not a little ; but about 
 the deanery he would now say nothing further. 
 He had got a new idea into his head Why 
 should not Mr. Arabin be the new dean ? 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 THE ARCHDEACON IS SATISFIED WITH THE 
 STATE OF AFFAIRS 
 
 THE archdeacon, in his journey into Barchester, 
 had been assured by Mr. Harding that all their 
 prognostications about Mr. Slope and Eleanor 
 were groundless. Mr. Harding, however, had 
 found it very difficult to shake his son-in-law's 
 faith in his own acuteness. The matter had, to 
 Dr. Grantly, been so plainly corroborated by 
 such patent evidence, borne out by 'such endless 
 circumstances, that he at first refused to take as 
 true the positive statement which Mr. Harding 
 made to him of Eleanor's own disavowal of the 
 impeachment. But at last he yielded in a quali- 
 fied way. He brought himself to admit that he 
 would at the present regard his past convictions 
 as a mistake ; but in doing this he so guarded 
 himself, that if, at any future time, Eleanor 
 should come forth to the world as Mrs. Slope,
 
 The Archdeacon is satisfied 701 
 
 he might still be able to say : " There, I told 
 you so. Remember what you said and what I 
 said; and remember also for coming years, that 
 I was right in this matter, as in all others." 
 
 He carried, however, his concession so far as 
 to bring himself to undertake to call at Eleanor's 
 house, and he did call accordingly, while the 
 father and daughter were yet in the middle of 
 their conference. Mr. Harding had had so 
 much to hear and to say that he had forgotten 
 to advertise Eleanor of the honour that awaited 
 her, and she heard her brother-in-law's voice in 
 the hall, while she was quite unprepared to see 
 him. 
 
 " There's the archdeacon," she said, springing 
 up. 
 
 " Yes, my dear. He told me to tell you that 
 he would come and see you; but, to tell the 
 truth, I had forgotten all about it." 
 
 Eleanor fled away, regardless of all her father's 
 entreaties. She could not now, in the first hours 
 of her joy, bring herself to bear all the arch- 
 deacon's retractions, apologies, and congratula- 
 tions. He would have so much to say, and 
 would be so tedious in saying it ; consequently, 
 the archdeacon, when he was shown into the 
 drawing-room, found no one there but Mr. 
 Harding. 
 
 "You must excuse Eleanor," said Mr. Har- 
 ding. 
 
 " Is anything the matter ? " asked the doctor, 
 who at once anticipated that the whole truth 
 about Mr. Slope had at last come out. 
 
 "Well, something is the matter. I wonder 
 now whether you will be much surprised ? "
 
 702 Barchester Towers 
 
 The archdeacon saw by his father-in-law's 
 manner that after all he had nothing to tell him 
 about Mr. Slope. "No," said he, "certainly 
 not nothing will ever surprise me again." 
 Very many men now-a-days, besides the arch- 
 deacon, adopt or affect to adopt the nil admirari 
 doctrine ; but nevertheless, to judge from their 
 appearance, they are just as subject to sudden 
 emotions as their grandfathers and grandmothers 
 were before them. 
 
 " What do you think Mr. Arabin has done ? " 
 
 " Mr. Arabin ! It's nothing about that 
 daughter of Stanhope's, I hope ? " 
 
 " No, not that woman," said Mr. Harding, 
 enjoying his joke in his sleeve. 
 
 " Not that woman ! Is he going to do any- 
 thing about any woman ? Why can't you speak 
 out if you have anything to say ? There is 
 nothing I hate so much as these sort of 
 mysteries." 
 
 " There shall be no mystery with you, arch- 
 deacon ; though, of course, it must go no further 
 at present." 
 
 " Well." 
 
 " Except Susan. You must promise me you'll 
 tell no one else." 
 
 " Nonsense ! " exclaimed the archdeacon, who 
 was becoming angry in his suspense. " You 
 can't have any secret about Mr. Arabin." 
 
 " Only this that he and Eleanor are engaged." 
 
 It was quite clear to see, by the archdeacon's 
 face, that he did not believe a word of it. " Mr. 
 Arabin ! It's impossible ! " 
 
 " Eleanor, at any rate, has just now told me 
 so."
 
 The Archdeacon is satisfied 703 
 
 " It's impossible," repeated the archdeacon. 
 
 " Well, I can't say I think it impossible. It 
 certainly took me by surprise; but that does 
 not make it impossible." 
 
 " She must be mistaken." 
 
 Mr. Harding assured him that there was no 
 mistake ; that he would find, on returning home, 
 that Mr. Arabin had been at Plumstead with 
 the express object of making the same declara- 
 tion, that even Miss Thorne knew all about it ; 
 and that, in fact, the thing was as clearly settled 
 as any such arrangement between a lady and a 
 gentleman could well be. 
 
 " Good heavens ! " said the archdeacon, walk- 
 ing up and down Eleanor's drawing-room. 
 " Good heavens ! Good heavens ! " 
 
 Now, these exclamations certainly betokened 
 faith. Mr. Harding properly gathered from it 
 that, at last, Dr. Grantly did believe the fact. 
 The first utterance clearly evinced a certain 
 amount of distaste at the information he had 
 received ; the second, simply indicated surprise ; 
 in the tone of the third, Mr. Harding fancied 
 that he could catch a certain gleam of satis- 
 faction. 
 
 The archdeacon had truly expressed the 
 workings of his mind. He could not but be 
 disgusted to find how utterly astray he had been 
 in all his anticipations. Had he only been 
 lucky enough to have suggested this marriage 
 himself when he first brought Mr. Arabin into 
 the country, his character for judgment and 
 wisdom would have received an addition which 
 would have classed him at any rate next to 
 Solomon. And why had he not done so ?
 
 704 Barchester Towers 
 
 Might he not have foreseen that Mr. Arabin 
 would want a wife in his parsonage ? He had 
 foreseen that Eleanor would want a husband ; 
 but should he not also have perceived that Mr. 
 Arabin was a man much more likely to attract 
 her than Mr. Slope ? The archdeacon found 
 that he had been at fault, and of course could 
 not immediately get over his discomfiture. 
 
 Then his surprise was intense. How sly this 
 pair of young turtle doves had been with him. 
 How egregiously they had hoaxed him. He 
 had preached to Eleanor against her fancied 
 attachment to Mr. Slope, at the very time that 
 she was in love with his own protege, Mr. 
 Arabin ; and had absolutely taken that same 
 Mr. Arabin into his confidence with reference 
 to his dread of Mr. Slope's alliance. It was 
 very natural that the archdeacon should feel 
 surprise. 
 
 But there was also great ground for satisfac- 
 tion. Looking at the match by itself, it was the 
 very thing to help the doctor out of his diffi- 
 culties. In the first place, the assurance that he 
 should never have Mr. Slope for his brother-in- 
 law, was in itself a great comfort. Then Mr. 
 Arabin was, of all men, the one with whom it 
 would best suit him to be so intimately con- 
 nected. But the crowning comfort was the blow 
 which this marriage would give to Mr. Slope. 
 He had now certainly lost his wife ; rumour was 
 beginning to whisper that he might possibly lose 
 his position in the palace ; and if Mr. Harding 
 would only be true, the great danger of all would 
 be surmounted. In such case it might be ex- 
 pected that Mr. Slope would own himself
 
 The Archdeacon is satisfied 705 
 
 vanquished, and take himself altogether away 
 from Barchester. And so the archdeacon would 
 again be able to breathe pure air. 
 
 " Well, well," said he. " Good heavens ! 
 good heavens ! " and the tone of the fifth excla- 
 mation made Mr. Harding fully aware that 
 content was reigning in the archdeacon's 
 bosom. 
 
 And then slowly, gradually, and craftily Mr. 
 Harding propounded his own new scheme. 
 Why should not Mr. Arabin be the new dean ? 
 
 Slowly, gradually, and thoughtfully Dr. Grantly 
 fell into his father-in-law's views. Much as he 
 liked Mr. Arabin, sincere as was his admiration 
 for that gentleman's ecclesiastical abilities, he 
 would not have sanctioned a measure which 
 would rob his father-in-law of his fairly-earned 
 promotion, were it at all practicable to induce 
 his father-in-law to accept the promotion which 
 he had earned. But the archdeacon had, on a 
 former occasion, received proof of the obstinacy 
 with which Mr. Harding could adhere to his own 
 views in opposition to the advice of all his 
 friends. He knew tolerably well that nothing 
 would induce the meek, mild man before him to 
 take the high place offered to him, if he thought 
 it wrong to do so. Knowing this, he also said 
 to himself more than once : " Why should not 
 Mr. Arabin be Dean of Barchester?" It was 
 at last arranged between them that they would 
 together start to London by the earliest train on 
 the following morning, making a little detour to 
 Oxford on their journey. Dr. Gwynne's counsels, 
 they imagined, might perhaps be of assistance 
 to them. 
 
 2 A
 
 706 Barchester Towers 
 
 These matters settled, the archdeacon hurried 
 off, that he might return to Plumstead and 
 prepare for his journey. The day was extremely 
 fine, and he came into the city in an open gig. 
 As he was driving up the High Street he 
 encountered Mr. Slope at a crossing. Had he 
 not pulled up rather sharply, he would have run 
 over him. The two had never spoken to each 
 other since they had met on a memorable occa- 
 sion in the bishop's study. They did not speak 
 now ; but they looked each other full in the 
 face, and Mr. Slope's countenance was as impu- 
 dent, as triumphant, as defiant as ever. Had 
 Dr. Grantly not known to the contrary, he 
 would have imagined that his enemy had won 
 the deanship, the wife, and all the rich honours, 
 for which he had been striving. As it was, he 
 had lost everything that he had in the world, 
 and had just received his conge from the bishop. 
 
 In leaving the town the archdeacon drove by 
 the well-remembered entrance of Hiram's hos- 
 pital. There, at the gate, was a large, untidy, 
 farmer's wagon, laden with untidy-looking furni- 
 ture ; and there, inspecting the arrival, was good 
 Mrs. Quiverful not dressed in her Sunday best 
 not very clean in her apparel not graceful 
 as to her bonnet and shawl; or, indeed, with 
 many feminine charms as to her whole appear- 
 ance. She was busy at domestic work in her 
 new house, and had just ventured out, expecting 
 to see no one on the arrival of the family chattels. 
 The archdeacon was down upon her before she 
 knew where she was. 
 
 Her acquaintance with Dr. Grantly or his 
 family was very slight indeed. The archdeacon,
 
 The Archdeacon is satisfied 707 
 
 as a matter of course, knew every clergyman in 
 the archdeaconry, it may almost be said in the 
 diocese, and had some acquaintance, more or 
 less intimate, with their wives and families. 
 With Mr. Quiverful he had been concerned on 
 various matters of business ; but of Mrs. Q. he 
 had seen very little. Now, however, he was in 
 too gracious a mood to pass her by unnoticed. 
 The Quiverfuls, one and all, had looked for the 
 bitterest hostility from Dr. Grantly ; they knew 
 his anxiety that Mr. Harding should return to 
 his old home at the hospital, and they did not 
 know that a new home had been offered to him 
 at the deanery. Mrs. Quiverful was therefore 
 not a little surprised and not a little rejoiced 
 also, at the tone in which she was addressed. 
 
 " How do you do, Mrs. Quiverful ? how do 
 you do ? " said he, stretching his left hand out 
 of the gig, as he spoke to her. " I am very glad 
 to see you employed in so pleasant and useful a 
 manner ; very glad indeed." 
 
 Mrs. Quiverful thanked him, and shook hands 
 with him, and looked into his face suspiciously. 
 She was not sure whether the congratulations 
 and kindness were or were not ironical. 
 
 " Pray tell Mr. Quiverful from me," he con- 
 tinued, " that I am rejoiced at his appointment. 
 It's a comfortable place, Mrs. Quiverful, and a 
 comfortable house, and I am very glad to see 
 you in it. Good-bye good-bye." And he 
 drove on, leaving the lady well pleased and 
 astonished at his good-nature. On the whole 
 things were going well with the archdeacon, and 
 he could afford to be charitable to Mrs. Quiverful. 
 He looked forth from his gig smilingly on all
 
 708 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 the world, and forgave every one in Barchester 
 their sins, excepting only Mrs. Proudie and Mr. 
 Slope. Had he seen the bishop, he would 
 have felt inclined to pat even him kindly on the 
 head. 
 
 He determined to go home by St. Ewold's. 
 This would take him some three miles out of his 
 way ; but he felt that he could not leave Plum- 
 stead comfortably without saying one word of 
 good fellowship to Mr. Arabin. When he 
 reached the parsonage the vicar was still out ; 
 but, from what he had heard, he did not doubt 
 but that he would meet him on the road between 
 their two houses. He was right in this, for 
 about halfway home, at a narrow turn, he came 
 upon Mr. Arabin, who was on horseback. 
 
 " Well, well, well, well ; " said the archdeacon, 
 loudly, joyously, and with supreme good humour; 
 " well, well, well, well ; so, after all, we have no 
 further cause to fear Mr. Slope." 
 
 " I hear from Mrs. Grantly that they have 
 offered the deanery to Mr. Harding," said the 
 other. 
 
 " Mr. Slope has lost more than the deanery, 
 I find," and then the archdeacon laughed 
 jocosely. " Come, come, Arabin, you have 
 kept your secret well enough. I know all about 
 it now." 
 
 " I have had no secret, archdeacon," said the 
 other with a quiet smile. " None at all not 
 for a day. It was only yesterday that I knew 
 my own good fortune, and to-day I went over 
 to Plumstead to ask your approval. From what 
 Mrs. Grantly has said to me, I am led to hope 
 that I shall have it."
 
 The Archdeacon is satisfied 709 
 
 " With all my heart, with all my heart," said 
 the archdeacon cordially, holding his friend fast 
 by the hand. " It's just as I would have it. 
 She is an excellent young woman ; she will not 
 come to you empty-handed; and I think she 
 will make you a good wife. If she does her 
 duty by you as her sister does by me, you'll be 
 a happy man ; that's all I can say." And as he 
 finished speaking, a tear might have been 
 observed in each of the doctor's eyes. 
 
 Mr. Arabin warmly returned the archdeacon's 
 grasp, but he said little. His heart was too full 
 for speaking, and he could not express the 
 gratitude which he felt. Dr. Grantly understood 
 him as well as though he had spoken for an hour. 
 
 " And mind, Arabin," said he, " no one but 
 myself shall tie the knot. We'll get Eleanor out 
 to Plumstead, and it shall come off there. I'll 
 make Susan stir herself, and we'll do it in style. 
 I must be off to London to-morrow on special 
 business. Harding goes with me. But I'll be 
 back before your bride has got her wedding 
 dress ready." And so they parted. 
 
 On his journey home the archdeacon occupied 
 his mind with preparations for the marriage 
 festivities. He made a great resolve that he 
 would atone to Eleanor for all the injury he had 
 done her by the munificence of his future treat- 
 ment. He would show her what was the differ- 
 ence in his eyes between a Slope and an Arabin. 
 On one other thing also he decided with a firm 
 mind : if the affair of the dean should not be 
 settled in Mr. Arabin's favour, nothing should 
 prevent him putting a new front and bow-window 
 to the dining-room at St. Ewold's parsonage.
 
 710 Barchester Towers 
 
 " So we're sold after all, Sue," said he to his 
 wife, accosting her with a kiss as soon as he 
 entered his house. He did not call his wife Sue 
 above twice or thrice in a year, and these occa- 
 sions were great high days. 
 
 " Eleanor has had more sense than we gave 
 her credit for," said Mrs. Grantly. 
 
 And there was great content in Plumstead 
 rectory that evening ; and Mrs. Grantly promised 
 her husband that she would now open her heart, 
 and take Mr. Arabin into it. Hitherto she had 
 declined to do so. 
 
 CHAPTER LI 
 
 MR. SLOPE BIDS FAREWELL TO THE PALACE 
 AND ITS INHABITANTS 
 
 WE must now take leave of Mr. Slope, and of 
 the bishop also, and of Mrs. Proudie. These 
 leave-takings in novels are as disagreeable as 
 they are in real life; not so sad, indeed, for 
 they want the reality of sadness ; but quite as 
 perplexing, and generally less satisfactory. What 
 novelist, what Fielding, what Scott, what George 
 Sand, or Sue, or Dumas, can impart an interest 
 to the last chapter of his fictitious history? 
 Promises of two children and superhuman happi- 
 ness are of no avail nor assurance of extreme 
 respectability carried to an age far exceeding 
 that usually allotted to mortals. The sorrows 
 of our heroes and heroines, they are your delight,
 
 Mr. Slope bids Farewell 711 
 
 oh public ! their sorrows, or their sins, or their 
 absurdities; not their virtues, good sense, and 
 consequent rewards. When we begin to tint 
 our final pages with couleur de rose, as in accord- 
 ance with fixed rule we must do, we altogether 
 extinguish our own powers of pleasing. When 
 we become dull we offend your intellect; and 
 we must become dull or we should offend your 
 taste. A late writer, wishing to sustain his 
 interest to the last page, hung his hero at the 
 end of the third volume. The consequence was, 
 that no one would read his novel. And who 
 can apportion out and dovetail his incidents, 
 dialogues, characters, and descriptive morsels, 
 so as to fit them all exactly into 439 pages, 
 without either compressing them unnaturally, or 
 extending them artificially at the end of his 
 labour? Do I not myself know that I am at 
 this moment in want of a dozen pages, and that 
 I am sick with cudgelling my brains to find 
 them ? And then when everything is done, the 
 kindest-hearted critic of them all invariably twits 
 us with the incompetency and lameness of our 
 conclusion. We have either become idle and 
 neglected it, or tedious and overlaboured it. 
 It is insipid or unnatural, overstrained or im- 
 becile. It means nothing, or attempts too 
 much. The last scene of all, as all last scenes 
 we fear must be, 
 
 " Is second childishness, and mere oblivion, 
 Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything." 
 
 I can only say that if some critic, who 
 thoroughly knows his work, and has laboured 
 on it till experience has made him perfect, will
 
 712 Barchester Towers 
 
 write the last fifty pages of a novel in the way 
 they should be written, I, for one, will in future 
 do my best to copy the example. Guided by 
 my own lights only, I confess that I despair of 
 success. 
 
 For the last week or ten days, Mr. Slope had 
 seen nothing of Mrs. Proudie, and very little of 
 the bishop. He still lived in the palace, and 
 still went through his usual routine work; but 
 the confidential doings of the diocese had passed 
 into other hands. He had seen this clearly, 
 and marked it well; but it had not much dis- 
 turbed him. He had indulged in other hopes 
 till the bishop's affairs had become dull to him, 
 and he was moreover aware that, as regarded 
 the diocese, Mrs. Proudie had checkmated him. 
 It has been explained, in the beginning of these 
 pages, how three or four were contending 
 together as to who, in fact, should be bishop of 
 Barchester. Each of these had now admitted 
 to himself (or boasted to herself) that Mrs. 
 Proudie was victorious in the struggle. They 
 had gone through a competitive examination of 
 considerable severity, and she had come forth 
 the winner, facile princeps. Mr. Slope had, for 
 a moment, run her hard, but it was only for a 
 moment. It had become, as it were, acknow- 
 ledged that Hiram's hospital should be the 
 testing point between them, and now Mr. 
 Quiverful was already in the hospital, the proof 
 of Mrs. Proudie's skill and courage. 
 
 All this did not break down Mr. Slope's spirit, 
 because he had other hopes. But, alas, at last 
 there came to him a note from his friend Sir 
 Nicholas, informing him that the deanship was
 
 Mr. Slope bids Farewell 713 
 
 disposed of. Let us give Mr. Slope his due. 
 He did not lie prostrate under this blow, or give 
 himself up to vain lamentations ; he did not 
 henceforward despair of life, and call upon gods 
 above and gods below to carry him off. He sat 
 himself down in his chair, counted out what 
 monies he had in hand for present purposes, and 
 what others were coming in to him, bethought 
 himself as to the best sphere for his future exer- 
 tions, and at once wrote off a letter to a rich 
 sugar-refiner's wife in Baker Street, who, as he 
 well knew, was much given to the entertainment 
 and encouragement of serious young evangelical 
 clergymen. He was again, he said, " upon the 
 world, having found the air of a cathedral town, 
 and the very nature of cathedral services, uncon- 
 genial to his spirit ; " and then he sat awhile, 
 making firm resolves as to his manner of parting 
 from the bishop, and also as to his future 
 conduct. 
 
 " At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue (black), 
 To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new." 
 
 Having received a formal command to wait 
 upon the bishop, he rose and proceeded to obey 
 it. He rang the bell and desired the servant to 
 inform his master that if it suited his lordship, 
 he, Mr. Slope, was ready to wait upon him. 
 The servant, who well understood that Mr. 
 Slope was no longer in the ascendant, brought 
 back a message, saying that " his lordship desired 
 that Mr. Slope would attend him immediately in 
 his study." Mr. Slope waited about ten minutes 
 more to prove his independence, and then he 
 went into the bishop's room. There, as he had
 
 714 Barchester Towers 
 
 expected, he found Mrs. Proudie, together with 
 her husband. 
 
 " Hum, ha, Mr. Slope, pray take a chair," 
 said the gentleman bishop. 
 
 "Pray be seated, Mr. Slope," said the lady 
 bishop. 
 
 "Thank ye, thank ye," said Mr. Slope, and 
 walking round to the fire, he threw himself into 
 one of the arm-chairs that graced the hearth- 
 rug. 
 
 " Mr. Slope," said the bishop, " it has become 
 necessary that I should speak to you definitively 
 on a matter that has for some time been press- 
 ing itself on my attention." 
 
 " May I ask whether the subject is in any way 
 connected with myself? " said Mr. Slope. 
 
 " It is so, certainly, yes, it certainly is con- 
 nected with yourself, Mr. Slope." 
 
 " Then, my lord, if I may be allowed to 
 express a wish, I would prefer that no discus- 
 sion on the subject should take place between 
 us in the presence of a third person." 
 
 " Don't alarm yourself, Mr. Slope," said Mrs. 
 Proudie, " no discussion is at all necessary. 
 The bishop merely intends to express his own 
 wishes." 
 
 " I merely intend, Mr. Slope, to express my 
 own wishes, no discussion will be at all neces- 
 sary," said the bishop, reiterating his wife's 
 words. 
 
 " That is more, my lord, than we any of us 
 can be sure of," said Mr. Slope ; " I cannot, 
 however, force Mrs. Proudie to leave the room ; 
 nor can I refuse to remain here if it be your 
 lordship's wish that I should do so."
 
 Mr. Slope bids Farewell 715 
 
 " It is his lordship's wish, certainly," said Mrs. 
 Proudie. 
 
 " Mr. Slope," began the bishop, in a solemn, 
 serious voice, " it grieves me to have to find 
 fault. It grieves me much to have to find fault 
 with a clergyman ; but especially so with a 
 clergyman in your position." 
 
 " Why, what have I done amiss, my lord ? " 
 demanded Mr. Slope, boldly. 
 
 " What have you done amiss, Mr. Slope ? " 
 said Mrs. Proudie, standing erect before the 
 culprit, and raising that terrible forefinger. 
 " Do you dare to ask the bishop what you have 
 done amiss ? does not your conscience " 
 
 " Mrs. Proudie, pray let it be understood, 
 once for all, that I will have no words with you." 
 
 " Ah, sir, but you will have words," said she ; 
 " you must have words. Why have you had so 
 many words with that Signora Neroni? Why 
 have you disgraced yourself, you a clergyman 
 too, by constantly consorting with such a woman 
 as that, with a married woman with one 
 altogether unfit for a clergyman's society ? " 
 
 " At any rate, I was introduced to her in your 
 drawing-room," retorted Mr. Slope. 
 
 " And shamefully you behaved there," said 
 Mrs. Proudie, " most shamefully. I was wrong 
 to allow you to remain in the house a day after 
 what I then saw. I should have insisted on 
 your instant dismissal." 
 
 " I have yet to learn, Mrs. Proudie, that you 
 have the power to insist either on my going 
 from hence or on my staying here." 
 
 " What ! " said the lady ; " I am not to have 
 the privilege of saying who shall and who shall
 
 ji6 Barchester Towers 
 
 not frequent my own drawing-room ! I am not 
 to save my servants and dependents from having 
 their morals corrupted by improper conduct ! 
 I am not to save my own daughters from 
 impurity ! I will let you see, Mr. Slope, whether 
 I have the power or whether I have not. You 
 will have the goodness to understand that you 
 no longer fill any situation about the bishop; 
 and as your room will be immediately wanted in 
 the palace for another chaplain, I must ask you 
 to provide yourself with apartments as soon as 
 may be convenient to you." 
 
 " 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 out 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 trans- 
 action, my lord, as I decidedly shall do in my
 
 Mr. Slope bids Farewell 717 
 
 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 Bar- 
 chester. 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 slobber- 
 ing 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 ; and, 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 cir- 
 cumspect in your conduct, the bishop will men- 
 tion your name to Mr. Quiverful, who now wants 
 a curate at Puddingdale. The house is, I 
 imagine, quite sufficient for your requirements :
 
 71 8 Barchester Towers 
 
 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 allusions 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 train 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 incon- 
 solable : or, in other words, in want of consola- 
 tion. Mr. Slope consoled her, and soon found 
 himself settled with much comfort in the house
 
 Mr. Slope bids Farewell 719 
 
 in Baker Street. He possessed himself, also, 
 before long, of a church in the vicinity of the 
 New Road, and became known to fame as one 
 of the most eloquent preachers and pious clergy- 
 men 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 tho- 
 roughly learnt that his proper sphere of action 
 lay in close contiguity with Mrs. Proudie's ward- 
 robe. 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 new-fangled manners of the age 
 have discovered him to be superannuated, and
 
 720 Barchester Towers 
 
 bestowed on him a pension. As for Mrs. 
 Proudie, our prayers for her are that she may 
 live for ever. 
 
 CHAPTER LII a ^ <j 
 
 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 a 
 while tried his hand at persuading Mr. 
 Harding that he was foolish, over-scrupulous, 
 self-willed, and weak-minded ; but he tried in 
 vain. If Mr. Harding would not give way to 
 Dr. Grantly, it was not likely 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,
 
 New Dean and New Warden 721 
 
 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 Govern- 
 ment, 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 com- 
 plained 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
 
 722 Barchester Towers 
 
 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 
 clergyman 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 re- 
 tirement 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.
 
 New Dean and New Warden 723 
 
 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 em- 
 bryo 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 sur- 
 prised 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.
 
 724 Barchester Towers 
 
 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 
 dumfounded, 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 ? "
 
 New Dean and New Warden 725 
 
 " 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 un- 
 happiness in the matter, at least not of unhappi- 
 ness 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 arch- 
 deacon. " 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 horse-hair 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 posi- 
 tion which, according to her ideas, he had so 
 well earned; and with joy in that he, her darling
 
 726 Barchester Towers 
 
 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 be- 
 hoved 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
 
 New Dean and New Warden 727 
 
 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 on 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 housewarmings, 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
 
 728 
 
 Barchester Towers 
 
 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 ; and 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. Har- 
 ding, had been very bitter. Under his circum- 
 stances 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 comprehen- 
 sion 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
 
 New Dean and New Warden 729 
 
 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 quad- 
 rangle 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 clergy- 
 man 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."
 
 730 Barchester Towers 
 
 " 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-beloved 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 acknow- 
 ledge. 
 
 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
 
 Conclusion 73 1 
 
 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 per- 
 formed. 
 
 Mrs. Bold had been somewhat more than two
 
 732 Barchester Towers 
 
 years a widow before she was married to her 
 second husband, and little Johnnie was then 
 able with due assistance to walk on his own 
 legs into the drawing-room to receive the saluta- 
 tions 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 break- 
 fast and bouquets, and Mary Bold distributed 
 the cards and cake. The archdeacon's three 
 sons had also come home for the occasion. 
 The eldest 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 arch- 
 deacon. He literally made presents to every- 
 body. As Mr. Arabin had already moved out 
 of the parsonage of St. Ewold's, that scheme of 
 elongating the dining-room was of course aban- 
 doned ; 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
 
 Conclusion 733 
 
 cameos for his wife, and a sapphire bracelet for 
 Miss Bold; showered pearls and workboxes on 
 his daughters, and to each of his sons he pre- 
 sented a cheque for zo/. On Mr. Harding he 
 bestowed a magnificent violoncello with all the 
 new-fashioned arrangements and expensive addi- 
 tions, 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, per- 
 fectly understood the cause of his extravagance. 
 'Twas thus that he sang his song of triumph 
 over Mr. Slope. This was his psean, 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. 
 
 The Arabins after their marriage went abroad 
 for a couple of months, according to the custom 
 in such matters now duly established, and then 
 commenced their deanery life under good 
 auspices. And nothing can be more pleasant 
 than the present arrangement of ecclesiastical 
 affairs' in Barchester. The titular bishop never 
 interfered, and Mrs. Proudie not often. Her 
 sphere is more extended, more noble, and more 
 suited to her ambition than that of a cathedral 
 city. As long as she can do what she pleases 
 with the diocese, she is willing to leave the dean 
 and chapter to themselves. Mr. Slope tried his 
 hand at subverting the old-established customs 
 of the close, and from his failure she has learnt
 
 734 Barchester Towers 
 
 experience. The burly chancellor and the 
 meagre little prebendary are not teased by any 
 application respecting Sabbath-day schools, the 
 dean is left to his own dominions, and the inter- 
 course between Mrs. Proudie and Mrs. Arabin 
 is confined to a yearly dinner given by each to 
 the other. At these dinners Dr. Grantly will 
 not take a part; but he never fails to ask for 
 and receive a full account of all that Mrs. Proudie 
 either does or says. 
 
 His ecclesiastical authority has been greatly 
 shorn since the palmy days in which he reigned 
 supreme as mayor of the palace to his father, 
 but nevertheless such authority as is now left to 
 him he can enjoy without interference. He can 
 walk down the High Street of Barchester with- 
 out feeling that those who see him are compar- 
 ing his claims with those of Mr. Slope. The 
 intercourse between Plumstead and the deanery 
 is of the most constant and familiar description. 
 Since Eleanor has been married to a clergyman, 
 and especially to a dignitary of the church, Mrs. 
 Grantly has found many more points of sym- 
 pathy with her sister ; and on a coming occasion, 
 which is much looked forward to by all parties, 
 she intends to spend a month or two at the 
 deanery. She never thought of spending a 
 month in Barchester when little Johnny Bold 
 was born ! 
 
 The two sisters do not quite agree on matters 
 of church doctrine, though their differences are 
 of the most amicable description. Mr. Arabin's 
 church is two degrees higher than that of Mrs. 
 Grantly. This may seem strange to those who 
 will remember that Eleanor was once accused of
 
 Conclusion 735 
 
 partiality to Mr. Slope ; but it is no less the 
 fact. She likes her husband's silken vest, she 
 likes his adherence to the rubric, she specially 
 likes the eloquent philosophy of his sermons, 
 and she likes the red letters in her own prayer- 
 book. It must not be presumed that she has a 
 taste for candles, or that she is at all astray 
 about the real presence ; but she has an inkling 
 that way. She sent a handsome subscription 
 towards certain very heavy ecclesiastical legal 
 expenses which have lately been incurred in 
 Bath, her name of course not appearing; she 
 assumes a smile of gentle ridicule when the 
 Archbishop of Canterbury is named, and she 
 has put up a memorial window in the cathedral. 
 Mrs. Grantly, who belongs to the high and 
 dry church, the high church as it was some fifty 
 years since, before tracts were written and young 
 clergymen took upon themselves the highly 
 meritorious duty of cleaning churches, rather 
 laughs at her sister. She shrugs her shoulders, 
 and tells Miss Thorne that she supposes Eleanor 
 will have an oratory in the deanery before she 
 has done. But she is not on that account a 
 whit displeased. A few high church vagaries do 
 not, she thinks, sit amiss on the shoulders of a 
 young dean's wife, it shows at any rate that 
 her heart is in the subject ; and it shows more- 
 over that she is removed, wide as the poles 
 asunder, from that cesspool of abomination in 
 which it was once suspected that she would 
 wallow and grovel. Anathema maranatha ! 
 Let anything else be held as blessed, so that 
 that be well cursed. Welcome kneelings and 
 bowings, welcome matins and complines, welcome
 
 736 Barchester Towers 
 
 bell, book, and candle, so that Mr. Slope's dirty 
 surplices and ceremonial Sabbaths be held in 
 due execration ! 
 
 If it be essentially and absolutely necessary to 
 choose between the two, we are inclined to agree 
 with Mrs. Grantly that the bell, book, and candle 
 are the lesser evil of the two. Let it however 
 be understood that no such necessity is admitted 
 in these pages. 
 
 Dr. Arabin (we suppose he must have become 
 a doctor when he became a dean) is more 
 moderate and less outspoken on doctrinal 
 points than his wife, as indeed in his station 
 it behoves him to be. He is a studious, thought- 
 ful, hard-working man. He lives constantly at 
 the deanery, and preaches nearly every Sunday. 
 His time is spent in sifting and editing old 
 ecclesiastical literature, and in producing the 
 same articles new. At Oxford he is generally 
 regarded as the most promising clerical ornament 
 of the age. He and his wife live together in 
 perfect mutual confidence. There is but one 
 secret in her bosom which he has not shared. 
 He has never yet learned how Mr. Slope had his 
 ears boxed. 
 
 The Stanhopes soon found that Mr. Slope's 
 power need no longer operate to keep them from 
 the delight of their Italian villa. Before Eleanor's 
 marriage they had all migrated back to the shores 
 of Como. They had not been resettled long 
 before the signora received from Mrs. Arabin a 
 very pretty though very short epistle, in which 
 she was informed of the fate of the writer. This 
 letter was answered by another, bright, charming, 
 and witty, as the signora's letters always were ;
 
 Conclusion 737 
 
 and so ended the friendship between Eleanor 
 and the Stanhopes. 
 
 One word of Mr. Harding, and we have 
 done. 
 
 He is still Precentor of Barchester, and still 
 pastor of the little church of St. Cuthbert's. In 
 spite of what he has so often said himself, he is 
 not even yet an old man. He does such duties 
 as fall to his lot well and conscientiously, and 
 is thankful that he has never been tempted to 
 assume others for which he might be less fitted. 
 
 The Author now leaves him in the hands of 
 his readers ; not as a hero, not as a man to be 
 admired and talked of, not as a man who should 
 be toasted at public dinners and spoken of with 
 conventional absurdity as a perfect divine, but 
 as a good man without guile, believing humbly 
 in the religion which he has striven to teach, 
 and guided by the precepts which he has striven 
 to learn. 
 
 THE END 
 
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