Ullathorne Sports--Act I
The trouble in civilized 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
entertain his company? A clown can sometimes do so, and sometimes
a dancer in short petticoats and stuffed pink legs; occasionally,
perhaps, a 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 barristers, 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 neighbour, "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 not dance.
She offered to them good, honest household cake made of currants and
flour and eggs and sweetmeat, but they would feed themselves 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 _déjeuner_ 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 civilization 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 themselves, 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 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. Clantantram was announced.
No announcement was necessary, indeed, for the good lady's voice
was heard as she walked across the courtyard 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 roque-laure. It's clean spoilt,
and forever. 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. Clantantram 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 recommend her, Miss Thorne was to a certain
extent fond of her. She sent the roque-laure 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
Thorne, with a countess, a bishop, and the county grandees, 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 Ullathorne drawing-room; but her children did
feel a little abashed at the sort of reception they met with. It was
not in Miss Thorne'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."
"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
Thorne'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. 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 anything 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 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. Thorne 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 someone 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 through the world, the Proudies
drove up. It was soon apparent that no everyday 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 cortège 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. 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 Thorne 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 you know 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 unexceptionable 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 fête champêtre,
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 graphically 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
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, fingering 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 Thorne, standing triumphant as the queen of
beauty on an inverted tub which some chance had brought thither from
the farmyard.
"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 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
appurtenances 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 herself. 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
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 anyone 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. Harding, 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 expression. She understood at once the accusation
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."
"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. Arabin 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 explaining and giving rise 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 odious 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 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 suspicion;
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 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 shrubberies, and there were many people near them. Poor
Mr. Harding stammered out his excuse as best he could, and Eleanor
with an effort controlled her tears and returned her handkerchief to
her pocket. She did not find it difficult to forgive her father, nor
could she altogether 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 forgiveness, 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.