MRS PROUDIE VICTRIX
The next week passed over at Barchester with much apparent
tranquillity. The hearts, however, 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 had prophesied that he would
do, much to amazement, and some thought, disgust, of Dr Fillgrave.
The bishop still remained away. He had stayed a day or two in town,
and had also remained longer at the archbishop'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 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 Stanhopes, of whom she became
fonder and fonder. If asked, she would have said that Charlotte
Stanhope was her special 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
intimate with her, and made little speeches to her, and said little
things of 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 position 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, 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 cordiality, 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 agreeable 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 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 Stanshopes new
amusements 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 improper? And that those who are never
improper should so often be dull and heavy? Now Charlotte Stanhope
was always bright, and never heavy: but 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 bit
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 required was that he should own that he had
sinned.
She was to meet him at Ullathorne on the 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 Elizabeth. Everything of more modern
growth was to be tabooed, if possible. On one subject Miss Thorne
was very unhappy. She had been turning in her mind the matter of
the 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 constrained to abandon the idea. Quintains, however,
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 tournament; but, as she said to
her brother, that had been tried, and the age had proved itself too
decidedly inferior to its fore-runners to admit of such a pastime.
Mr Thorne did not seem to participate 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
parsonage; an intended harvest-home gala for the labourers and
their wives and children had subsequently been amalgamated with it,
and thus it had grown into its present dimensions. All the
Plumstead party had of course been asked, 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 permission of Miss Thorne to
bring him.
This permission Miss Thorne gave, having no other alternative; but
she did so with a trembling heart, fearing Mr Arabin would be
offended. Immediately on his return she apologised, almost with
tears, so dire an enmity was presumed to rage between the two
gentlemen. But Mr Arabin comforted 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 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
servants 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 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 Stanhope's;
but, as a rule, Mr Slope's visits there had been 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 to
Eleanor's face that this assortment 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, dear,' said she, 'but we could not manage
it otherwise. Bertie would give his eyes to go with you, but
Madeline cannot possibly go without him. Nor could we possibly put
Mr Slope and Madeline in the same carriage without anyone 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
travelling 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
shall 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 that I am not
embarrassed by so many difficulties 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?'
'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 would
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 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 protestations, a 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 so 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
in 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 Ullathorne party, and was
received at home with 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 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, 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 disapprove 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 as poignant, as to leave him little spirit for further
rebellion.
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 cosy. 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.
'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 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 was 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 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 archbishop.'
'You don't mean to tell me,' said Mrs Proudie, 'that you are going
to make yourself ridiculous by lending your name to such
preposterous attempts 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 any thing so ridiculous? What was it you did say to the
archbishop?'
'Why, I did just 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.'
'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 was wise to renew it.'
'Renew it! I am very sorry you ever mentioned it. What will the
archbishop think of that?'
'You may be sure, my dear, that 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
Barchester! I suppose he'll be looking for bishoprics some of these
days--a man that hardly knows who his 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 born 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 as well as you used to do.'
'Get on!' said Mrs Proudie, moving her foot uneasily on the
hearth-rug, and compressing her lips in a manner that betokened
such 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 therefore 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 loud. 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 terrible 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; making broils and quarrels among the clergy, getting
you, my dear, into scrapes, and taking upon himself as though he
was 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 archbishop; 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.