ULLATHORNE SPORTS--ACT I
The trouble in civilised life of entertaining company, as it is
called too generally without much regard to strict veracity, is so
great that it cannot but be matter of wonder that people are so
fond of attempting it. It is difficult to ascertain what is the
quid pro quo. If they who give such laborious parties, and who
endure such toil and turmoil in the vain hope of giving them
successfully, really enjoyed the parties given by others, the
matter would be understood. A sense of justice would induce men and
women to undergo, in behalf of others, those miseries which others
had undergone on 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
neighbourhood, '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 dejeuner at twelve o'clock
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 especially 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 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 court-yard to the house scolding
the unfortunate postilion who had driven her from Barchester. At
the moment Miss Thorne could not but be thankful that the other
guests were more fashionable, and were thus spared the fury of Mrs
Clantantram's indignation.
'Oh, Miss Thorne, look here!' said she, as soon as she found
herself in the drawing-room; 'do look at my roquelaure! It's clean
spoilt, and for ever. I wouldn't but wear it because I know 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 roquelaure away to be cleaned, and
lent her one of her best shawls out of her own wardrobe.
The next comer was Mr Arabin, who was immediately informed of Mrs
Clantantram's misfortune, and of her determination to pay neither
master nor post-boy; although, as she remarked, she intended to get
her lift home before she made known her mind upon that matter. Then
a good deal of rustling was heard in the sort of lobby that was
used for the ladies' outside cloaks; and the door having been
thrown wide open, the servant announced, not in the most confident
of voices, Mrs Lookaloft, and the Miss Lookalofts, and Mr Augustus
Lookaloft.
Poor man!--we mean the footman. He knew, none better, that Mrs
Lookaloft had no business there, that she was not wanted there, and
would not be welcome. But he had not the courage to tell a stout
lady with a low dress, short sleeves, and satin at eight shillings
a yard, that she had come to the wrong tent; he had not dared to
hint to young ladies with white dancing shoes and long gloves, that
there was a place ready for them in the paddock. And thus Mrs
Lookaloft carried her point, broke through the guards, and made her
way into the citadel. That she would have to pass an uncomfortable
time there, she had surmised before. But nothing now could rob her
of the power of boasting that she had consorted on the lawn with
the squire and Miss Thorne, with a countess, a bishop, and the
country grandees, while Mrs Greenacres 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 and 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
not 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 himself.'
'Dear me,' said Miss Thorne. 'If he is so ill, I 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; and as ill luck would have it,
they were closely followed by Dr Stanhope's carriage. As Eleanor
looked out of the carriage window, she saw her brother-in-law
helping the ladies out, and threw herself back into her seat,
dreading to be discovered. She had had an odious journey. Mr
Slope's civility had been more than ordinarily greasy; and now,
though he had not in fact said 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 she 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 woman are entitled to make in their passage through the
world, the Proudies drove up. It was soon apparent that no every
day comer was at the door. One servant whispered to another that it
was the bishop, and the word soon ran through all the hangers-on
and strange grooms and coachmen about the place. There was quite a
little cortege to see the bishop and his 'lady' walk across the
courtyard, and the good man was pleased to see that the church was
held in such respect in the parish of St Ewold's.
And now the guests came fast and thick, and the lawn began to be
crowded, and the room to be full. Voices buzzed, silk rustled
against silk, and muslin crumpled against muslin. Miss Thorne
became more happy than she had been, and again bethought her of her
sports. There were targets and bows and arrows prepared at the
further end of the lawn. Here the gardens of the place encroached
with a somewhat wide sweep upon the paddock, and gave ample room
for the doings of the toxophilites. Miss Thorne got together such
daughters of Diana as could bend a bow, and marshalled them to the
targets. There were the Grantly girls and the Proudie girls and the
Chadwick girls, and the two daughters of the burly chancellor, and
Miss Knowle; and with them went Frederick and Augustus Chadwick,
and young Knowle of Knowle park, and Frank Foster of the Elms, and
Mr Vellem Deeds the dashing attorney of the High Street, and the
Rev Mr Green, and the Rev Mr Browne, 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 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 of fete
champetre; but he was not prepared to ride in them. Nor was he more
encouraged than had been Mr Thorne, by the idea of being attacked
from behind by the bag of flour which Miss Thorne had 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 induced her more fashionable guests to
mix with them in their many 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 Henry 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 hither
from the farm-yard.
'Here goes then,' said Harry as he wheeled his horse round to get
the necessary momentum of a sharp gallop. The quintain post stood
right before him, and the square board at which he was to tilt was
fairly in the 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 the rider and steed and
staff. Young Greenacre was thrown some six feet over the horse's
head, and poor Miss Thorne almost fell of 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 any one to ride at the
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 Mr Slope. He had been about to give
his sanction to the marriage, so certified had he been of this
fact; and now he learnt that this imputed lover of Eleanor's was at
any rage 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 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.