MR SLOPE'S 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 injury 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 herself 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
flames of the signora's candle. Mrs Bold, too, had been there, and
had felt somewhat displeased with the taste, want of taste she
called it, shown by Mr Arabin in paying so much attention to Madame
Neroni. It was as infallible 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 afflictions
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,
however, 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 licence 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 meretricious manners. Mr Arabin did not
understand 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 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 was
unpleasant to her. Eleanor had no such self-knowledge. She thought
in her own heart 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 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 weeping-willow left in its construction. It is
singular how these emblems of grief fade away by unseen gradations.
Each pretends to be the counterpart 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 playing 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 the
inhabitants of the rectory with all the fury of a water-spout. 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 expressed to Mr Slope in his
dressing-room, his determination that Mr Quiverful should be
confirmed in his appointment to the hospital, and that his lordship
requested Mr Slope to communicate 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 checkmated 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 if two such men as you 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 Plumstead
and assist in driving the bishop into compliance. The master had
rejoined, raising some difficulty, but not declining; and the
archdeacon 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 regarded
the party at Plumstead.
But Mr Harding had another friend fighting the battle for him,
quite as powerful as the master of Lazarus, and this was Mr Slope.
Though the bishop had so pertinaciously insisted on giving way to
his wife in the matter of the hospital, Mr Slope did not think it
necessary to abandon the 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 his means would be more likely to
receive him as a son-in-law, than Mr Harding growling 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 Barchester 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 would
be.
The bishop had declared that Mr Quiverful should be the new warden.
As Mr Slope went down stairs prepared to see the archdeacon if
necessary, but fully satisfied that no such necessity would arise,
he declared to himself 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 them with decency the common
necessities of life, had had an effect upon him not beneficial
either to his spirit, or his keen sense of honour. Who can boast
that he would have supported such a burden with a different result?
Mr Quiverful was an honest, pain- staking, drudging man; anxious,
indeed, for bread and meat, anxious for means to quiet his butcher
and cover with returning smiles the now sour countenance 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
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
was not decent shoes and stockings for them all to wear. He thought
of the well-worn sleeves 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 the 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 all 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
would 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 so coldly
on Mr Quiverful? Had they not all shown that they regarded with
complacency 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 circumstanced 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 wardenship; he had not even accepted it till he had
been assured that Mr Harding had refused it. 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.
Whatever the husband might feel, the wife cared nothing for the
frowns of the 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 ambition 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 also from Mrs Proudie. Now, indeed, they might reckon
with safety on their good fortune. But what if it 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 L 450 out of fine feeling? And
what signifies it when 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.'
This, while the rest of the world was accusing Mr Quiverful of
rapacity for promotion and disregard for 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 was 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,' 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
to 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 purpose 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 farther, Mr
Quiverful.'
Mr Quiverful said of course that 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 in 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 on 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 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 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 sure you have no wish
to obtain possession of an income which belongs by all rights 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 doubtful as to what his
conduct under such circumstances 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 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 his lordship that you
decline to stand in Mr Harding's way, I think I may promise
you--though, by the bye, 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, 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, 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 without witnesses; but
then the original promise was made in the same way.
Mr Slope assured him that he should not be forgotten, and then rode
back to Barchester, satisfied that he would now be able to mould
the bishop to his wishes.