PLUMSTEAD EPISCOPI
The reader must now be requested to visit the rectory of Plumstead
Episcopi; and as it is as yet still early morning, to ascend again
with us into the bedroom of the archdeacon. The mistress of the
mansion was at her toilet; on which we will not dwell with profane
eyes, but proceed into a small inner room, where the doctor dressed
and kept his boots and sermons; and here we will take our stand,
premising that the door of the room was so open as to admit of a
conversation between our reverend Adam and his valued Eve.
"It's all your own fault, archdeacon," said the latter. "I told you
from the beginning how it would end, and papa has no one to thank but
you."
"Good gracious, my dear," said the doctor, appearing at the door of
his dressing-room, with his face and head enveloped in the rough towel
which he was violently using; "how can you say so? I am doing my very
best."
"I wish you had never done so much," said the lady, interrupting him.
"If you'd just have let John Bold come and go there, as he and papa
liked, he and Eleanor would have been married by this time, and we
should not have heard one word about all this affair."
"But, my dear--"
"Oh, it's all very well, archdeacon; and of course you're right; I
don't for a moment think you'll ever admit that you could be wrong;
but the fact is, you've brought this young man down upon papa by
huffing him as you have done."
"But, my love--"
"And all because you didn't like John Bold for a brother-in-law.
How is she ever to do better? Papa hasn't got a shilling; and though
Eleanor is well enough, she has not at all a taking style of beauty.
I'm sure I don't know how she's to do better than marry John Bold; or
as well indeed," added the anxious sister, giving the last twist to
her last shoe-string.
Dr Grantly felt keenly the injustice of this attack; but what could he
say? He certainly had huffed John Bold; he certainly had objected to
him as a brother-in-law, and a very few months ago the very idea had
excited his wrath: but now matters were changed; John Bold had shown
his power, and, though he was as odious as ever to the archdeacon,
power is always respected, and the reverend dignitary began to think
that such an alliance might not have been imprudent. Nevertheless,
his motto was still "no surrender;" he would still fight it out;
he believed confidently in Oxford, in the bench of bishops, in Sir
Abraham Haphazard, and in himself; and it was only when alone with
his wife that doubts of defeat ever beset him. He once more tried to
communicate this confidence to Mrs Grantly, and for the twentieth time
began to tell her of Sir Abraham.
"Oh, Sir Abraham!" said she, collecting all her house keys into her
basket before she descended; "Sir Abraham won't get Eleanor a husband;
Sir Abraham won't get papa another income when he has been worreted
out of the hospital. Mark what I tell you, archdeacon: while you and
Sir Abraham are fighting, papa will lose his preferment; and what will
you do then with him and Eleanor on your hands? besides, who's to pay
Sir Abraham? I suppose he won't take the case up for nothing?" And
so the lady descended to family worship among her children and
servants, the pattern of a good and prudent wife.
Dr Grantly was blessed with a happy, thriving family. There were,
first, three boys, now at home from school for the holidays. They
were called, respectively, Charles James, Henry, and Samuel. The two
younger (there were five in all) were girls; the elder, Florinda, bore
the name of the Archbishop of York's wife, whose godchild she was:
and the younger had been christened Grizzel, after a sister of the
Archbishop of Canterbury. The boys were all clever, and gave good
promise of being well able to meet the cares and trials of the world;
and yet they were not alike in their dispositions, and each had his
individual character, and each his separate admirers among the
doctor's friends.
Charles James was an exact and careful boy; he never committed
himself; he well knew how much was expected from the eldest son of the
Archdeacon of Barchester, and was therefore mindful not to mix too
freely with other boys. He had not the great talents of his younger
brothers, but he exceeded them in judgment and propriety of demeanour;
his fault, if he had one, was an over-attention to words instead of
things; there was a thought too much finesse about him, and, as even
his father sometimes told him, he was too fond of a compromise.
The second was the archdeacon's favourite son, and Henry was indeed a
brilliant boy. The versatility of his genius was surprising, and the
visitors at Plumstead Episcopi were often amazed at the marvellous
manner in which he would, when called on, adapt his capacity to
apparently most uncongenial pursuits. He appeared once before a large
circle as Luther the reformer, and delighted them with the perfect
manner in which he assumed the character; and within three days he
again astonished them by acting the part of a Capuchin friar to the
very life. For this last exploit his father gave him a golden guinea,
and his brothers said the reward had been promised beforehand in the
event of the performance being successful. He was also sent on a tour
into Devonshire; a treat which the lad was most anxious of enjoying.
His father's friends there, however, did not appreciate his talents,
and sad accounts were sent home of the perversity of his nature. He
was a most courageous lad, game to the backbone.
It was soon known, both at home, where he lived, and within some miles
of Barchester Cathedral, and also at Westminster, where he was at
school, that young Henry could box well and would never own himself
beat; other boys would fight while they had a leg to stand on, but he
would fight with no leg at all. Those backing him would sometimes
think him crushed by the weight of blows and faint with loss of blood,
and his friends would endeavour to withdraw him from the contest; but
no, Henry never gave in, was never weary of the battle. The ring was
the only element in which he seemed to enjoy himself; and while other
boys were happy in the number of their friends, he rejoiced most in
the multitude of his foes.
His relations could not but admire his pluck, but they sometimes were
forced to regret that he was inclined to be a bully; and those not
so partial to him as his father was, observed with pain that, though
he could fawn to the masters and the archdeacon's friends, he was
imperious and masterful to the servants and the poor.
But perhaps Samuel was the general favourite; and dear little Soapy,
as he was familiarly called, was as engaging a child as ever fond
mother petted. He was soft and gentle in his manners, and attractive
in his speech; the tone of his voice was melody, and every action was
a grace; unlike his brothers, he was courteous to all, he was affable
to the lowly, and meek even to the very scullery-maid. He was a boy
of great promise, minding his books and delighting the hearts of his
masters. His brothers, however, were not particularly fond of him;
they would complain to their mother that Soapy's civility all meant
something; they thought that his voice was too often listened to at
Plumstead Episcopi, and evidently feared that, as he grew up, he
would have more weight in the house than either of them; there was,
therefore, a sort of agreement among them to put young Soapy down.
This, however, was not so easy to be done; Samuel, though young, was
sharp; he could not assume the stiff decorum of Charles James, nor
could he fight like Henry; but he was a perfect master of his own
weapons, and contrived, in the teeth of both of them, to hold the
place which he had assumed. Henry declared that he was a false,
cunning creature; and Charles James, though he always spoke of him as
his dear brother Samuel, was not slow to say a word against him when
opportunity offered. To speak the truth, Samuel was a cunning boy,
and those even who loved him best could not but own that for one so
young, he was too adroit in choosing his words, and too skilled in
modulating his voice.
The two little girls Florinda and Grizzel were nice little girls
enough, but they did not possess the strong sterling qualities of
their brothers; their voices were not often heard at Plumstead
Episcopi; they were bashful and timid by nature, slow to speak before
company even when asked to do so; and though they looked very nice in
their clean white muslin frocks and pink sashes, they were but little
noticed by the archdeacon's visitors.
Whatever of submissive humility may have appeared in the gait and
visage of the archdeacon during his colloquy with his wife in the
sanctum of their dressing-rooms was dispelled as he entered his
breakfast-parlour with erect head and powerful step. In the presence
of a third person he assumed the lord and master; and that wise and
talented lady too well knew the man to whom her lot for life was
bound, to stretch her authority beyond the point at which it would be
borne. Strangers at Plumstead Episcopi, when they saw the imperious
brow with which he commanded silence from the large circle of
visitors, children, and servants who came together in the morning to
hear him read the word of God, and watched how meekly that wife seated
herself behind her basket of keys with a little girl on each side,
as she caught that commanding glance; strangers, I say, seeing this,
could little guess that some fifteen minutes since she had stoutly
held her ground against him, hardly allowing him to open his mouth in
his own defence. But such is the tact and talent of women!
And now let us observe the well-furnished breakfast-parlour at
Plumstead Episcopi, and the comfortable air of all the belongings of
the rectory. Comfortable they certainly were, but neither gorgeous
nor even grand; indeed, considering the money that had been spent
there, the eye and taste might have been better served; there was an
air of heaviness about the rooms which might have been avoided without
any sacrifice of propriety; colours might have been better chosen and
lights more perfectly diffused; but perhaps in doing so the thorough
clerical aspect of the whole might have been somewhat marred; at any
rate, it was not without ample consideration that those thick, dark,
costly carpets were put down; those embossed, but sombre papers hung
up; those heavy curtains draped so as to half exclude the light of
the sun: nor were these old-fashioned chairs, bought at a price far
exceeding that now given for more modern goods, without a purpose.
The breakfast-service on the table was equally costly and equally
plain; the apparent object had been to spend money without obtaining
brilliancy or splendour. The urn was of thick and solid silver, as
were also the tea-pot, coffee-pot, cream-ewer, and sugar-bowl; the
cups were old, dim dragon china, worth about a pound a piece, but very
despicable in the eyes of the uninitiated. The silver forks were so
heavy as to be disagreeable to the hand, and the bread-basket was of a
weight really formidable to any but robust persons. The tea consumed
was the very best, the coffee the very blackest, the cream the
very thickest; there was dry toast and buttered toast, muffins and
crumpets; hot bread and cold bread, white bread and brown bread,
home-made bread and bakers' bread, wheaten bread and oaten bread; and
if there be other breads than these, they were there; there were eggs
in napkins, and crispy bits of bacon under silver covers; and there
were little fishes in a little box, and devilled kidneys frizzling on
a hot-water dish; which, by the bye, were placed closely contiguous to
the plate of the worthy archdeacon himself. Over and above this, on
a snow-white napkin, spread upon the sideboard, was a huge ham and a
huge sirloin; the latter having laden the dinner table on the previous
evening. Such was the ordinary fare at Plumstead Episcopi.
And yet I have never found the rectory a pleasant house. The
fact that man shall not live by bread alone seemed to be somewhat
forgotten; and noble as was the appearance of the host, and sweet and
good-natured as was the face of the hostess, talented as were the
children, and excellent as were the viands and the wines, in spite
of these attractions, I generally found the rectory somewhat dull.
After breakfast the archdeacon would retire, of course to his clerical
pursuits. Mrs Grantly, I presume, inspected her kitchen, though she
had a first-rate housekeeper, with sixty pounds a year; and attended
to the lessons of Florinda and Grizzel, though she had an excellent
governess with thirty pounds a year: but at any rate she disappeared:
and I never could make companions of the boys. Charles James, though
he always looked as though there was something in him, never seemed to
have much to say; and what he did say he would always unsay the next
minute. He told me once that he considered cricket, on the whole, to
be a gentleman-like game for boys, provided they would play without
running about; and that fives, also, was a seemly game, so that those
who played it never heated themselves. Henry once quarrelled with me
for taking his sister Grizzel's part in a contest between them as to
the best mode of using a watering-pot for the garden flowers; and from
that day to this he has not spoken to me, though he speaks at me often
enough. For half an hour or so I certainly did like Sammy's gentle
speeches; but one gets tired of honey, and I found that he preferred
the more admiring listeners whom he met in the kitchen-garden and back
precincts of the establishment; besides, I think I once caught Sammy
fibbing.
On the whole, therefore, I found the rectory a dull house, though it
must be admitted that everything there was of the very best.
After breakfast, on the morning of which we are writing, the
archdeacon, as usual, retired to his study, intimating that he was
going to be very busy, but that he would see Mr Chadwick if he called.
On entering this sacred room he carefully opened the paper case on
which he was wont to compose his favourite sermons, and spread on it
a fair sheet of paper and one partly written on; he then placed his
inkstand, looked at his pen, and folded his blotting paper; having
done so, he got up again from his seat, stood with his back to the
fire-place, and yawned comfortably, stretching out vastly his huge
arms and opening his burly chest. He then walked across the room and
locked the door; and having so prepared himself, he threw himself into
his easy-chair, took from a secret drawer beneath his table a volume
of Rabelais, and began to amuse himself with the witty mischief of
Panurge; and so passed the archdeacon's morning on that day.
He was left undisturbed at his studies for an hour or two, when a
knock came to the door, and Mr Chadwick was announced. Rabelais
retired into the secret drawer, the easy-chair seemed knowingly to
betake itself off, and when the archdeacon quickly undid his bolt,
he was discovered by the steward working, as usual, for that church
of which he was so useful a pillar. Mr Chadwick had just come from
London, and was, therefore, known to be the bearer of important news.
"We've got Sir Abraham's opinion at last," said Mr Chadwick, as he
seated himself.
"Well, well, well!" exclaimed the archdeacon impatiently.
"Oh, it's as long as my arm," said the other; "it can't be told in a
word, but you can read it;" and he handed him a copy, in heaven knows
how many spun-out folios, of the opinion which the attorney-general
had managed to cram on the back and sides of the case as originally
submitted to him.
"The upshot is," said Chadwick, "that there's a screw loose in their
case, and we had better do nothing. They are proceeding against Mr
Harding and myself, and Sir Abraham holds that, under the wording of
the will, and subsequent arrangements legally sanctioned, Mr Harding
and I are only paid servants. The defendants should have been either
the Corporation of Barchester, or possibly the chapter of your
father."
"W-hoo!" said the archdeacon; "so Master Bold is on the wrong scent,
is he?"
"That's Sir Abraham's opinion; but any scent almost would be a wrong
scent. Sir Abraham thinks that if they'd taken the corporation, or
the chapter, we could have baffled them. The bishop, he thinks, would
be the surest shot; but even there we could plead that the bishop is
only a visitor, and that he has never made himself a consenting party
to the performance of other duties."
"That's quite clear," said the archdeacon.
"Not quite so clear," said the other. "You see the will says, 'My
lord, the bishop, being graciously pleased to see that due justice
be done.' Now, it may be a question whether, in accepting and
administering the patronage, your father has not accepted also the
other duties assigned. It is doubtful, however; but even if they hit
that nail,--and they are far off from that yet,--the point is so nice,
as Sir Abraham says, that you would force them into fifteen thousand
pounds' cost before they could bring it to an issue! and where's that
sum of money to come from?"
The archdeacon rubbed his hands with delight; he had never doubted the
justice of his case, but he had begun to have some dread of unjust
success on the part of his enemies. It was delightful to him thus to
hear that their cause was surrounded with such rocks and shoals; such
causes of shipwreck unseen by the landsman's eye, but visible enough
to the keen eyes of practical law mariners. How wrong his wife was to
wish that Bold should marry Eleanor! Bold! why, if he should be ass
enough to persevere, he would be a beggar before he knew whom he was
at law with!
"That's excellent, Chadwick;--that's excellent! I told you Sir
Abraham was the man for us;" and he put down on the table the copy of
the opinion, and patted it fondly.
"Don't you let that be seen, though, archdeacon."
"Who?--I!--not for worlds," said the doctor.
"People will talk, you know, archdeacon."
"Of course, of course," said the doctor.
"Because, if that gets abroad, it would teach them how to fight their
own battle."
"Quite true," said the doctor.
"No one here in Barchester ought to see that but you and I,
archdeacon."
"No, no, certainly no one else," said the archdeacon, pleased with the
closeness of the confidence; "no one else shall."
"Mrs Grantly is very interested in the matter, I know," said Mr
Chadwick.
Did the archdeacon wink, or did he not? I am inclined to think he did
not quite wink; but that without such, perhaps, unseemly gesture he
communicated to Mr Chadwick, with the corner of his eye, intimation
that, deep as was Mrs Grantly's interest in the matter, it should not
procure for her a perusal of that document; and at the same time he
partly opened the small drawer, above spoken of, deposited the paper
on the volume of Rabelais, and showed to Mr Chadwick the nature of the
key which guarded these hidden treasures. The careful steward then
expressed himself contented. Ah! vain man! he could fasten up his
Rabelais, and other things secret, with all the skill of Bramah or
of Chubb; but where could he fasten up the key which solved these
mechanical mysteries? It is probable to us that the contents of
no drawer in that house were unknown to its mistress, and we think,
moreover, that she was entitled to all such knowledge.
"But," said Mr Chadwick, "we must, of course, tell your father and Mr
Harding so much of Sir Abraham's opinion as will satisfy them that the
matter is doing well."
"Oh, certainly,--yes, of course," said the doctor.
"You had better let them know that Sir Abraham is of opinion that
there is no case at any rate against Mr Harding; and that as the
action is worded at present, it must fall to the ground; they must be
nonsuited, if they carry it on; you had better tell Mr Harding, that
Sir Abraham is clearly of opinion that he is only a servant, and as
such not liable;--or if you like it, I'll see Mr Harding myself."
"Oh, I must see him to-morrow, and my father too, and I'll explain to
them exactly so much;--you won't go before lunch, Mr Chadwick: well,
if you will, you must, for I know your time is precious;" and he shook
hands with the diocesan steward, and bowed him out.
The archdeacon had again recourse to his drawer, and twice read
through the essence of Sir Abraham Haphazard's law-enlightened and
law-bewildered brains. It was very clear that to Sir Abraham, the
justice of the old men's claim or the justice of Mr Harding's defence
were ideas that had never presented themselves. A legal victory
over an opposing party was the service for which Sir Abraham was, as
he imagined, to be paid; and that he, according to his lights, had
diligently laboured to achieve, and with probable hope of success.
Of the intense desire which Mr Harding felt to be assured on fit
authority that he was wronging no man, that he was entitled in true
equity to his income, that he might sleep at night without pangs of
conscience, that he was no robber, no spoiler of the poor; that he and
all the world might be openly convinced that he was not the man which
_The Jupiter_ had described him to be; of such longings on the part of
Mr Harding, Sir Abraham was entirely ignorant; nor, indeed, could it
be looked on as part of his business to gratify such desires. Such
was not the system on which his battles were fought, and victories
gained. Success was his object, and he was generally successful.
He conquered his enemies by their weakness rather than by his own
strength, and it had been found almost impossible to make up a case
in which Sir Abraham, as an antagonist, would not find a flaw.
The archdeacon was delighted with the closeness of the reasoning. To
do him justice, it was not a selfish triumph that he desired; he would
personally lose nothing by defeat, or at least what he might lose did
not actuate him; but neither was it love of justice which made him so
anxious, nor even mainly solicitude for his father-in-law. He was
fighting a part of a never-ending battle against a never-conquered
foe--that of the church against its enemies.
He knew Mr Harding could not pay all the expense of these doings: for
these long opinions of Sir Abraham's, these causes to be pleaded,
these speeches to be made, these various courts through which the case
was, he presumed, to be dragged. He knew that he and his father must
at least bear the heavier portion of this tremendous cost; but to do
the archdeacon justice, he did not recoil from this. He was a man
fond of obtaining money, greedy of a large income, but open-handed
enough in expending it, and it was a triumph to him to foresee the
success of this measure, although he might be called on to pay so
dearly for it himself.