CHAPTER XXXIV

Oxford--The Master and Tutor of Lazarus

Mr. Arabin, as we have said, had but a sad walk of it under the trees

of Plumstead churchyard. He did not appear to any of the family till

dinner-time, and then he seemed, as far as their judgement went, to

be quite himself. He had, as was his wont, asked himself a great many

questions and given himself a great many answers; and the upshot of

this was that he had sent himself down for an ass. He had determined

that he was much too old and much too rusty to commence the manoeuvres

of love-making; that he had let the time slip through his hands which

should have been used for such purposes; and that now he must lie on

his bed as he had made it. Then he asked himself whether in truth

he did love this woman; and he answered himself, not without a long

struggle, but at last honestly, that he certainly did love her. He

then asked himself whether he did not also love her money, and he

again answered himself that he did so. But here he did not answer

honestly. It was and ever had been his weakness to look for impure

motives for his own conduct. No doubt, circumstanced as he was, with a

small living and a fellowship, accustomed as he had been to collegiate

luxuries and expensive comforts, he might have hesitated to marry a

penniless woman had he felt ever so strong a predilection for the

woman herself; no doubt Eleanor's fortune put all such difficulties

out of the question; but it was equally without doubt that his love

for her had crept upon him without the slightest idea on his part that

he could ever benefit his own condition by sharing her wealth.

When he had stood on the hearth-rug, counting the pattern and counting

also the future chances of his own life, the remembrances of Mrs.

Bold's comfortable income had certainly not damped his first assured

feeling of love for her. And why should it have done so? Need it have

done so with the purest of men? Be that as it may, Mr. Arabin decided

against himself; he decided that it had done so in his case, and that

he was not the purest of men.

He also decided, which was more to his purpose, that Eleanor did not

care a straw for him, and that very probably she did care a straw

for his rival. Then he made up his mind not to think of her any

more, and went on thinking of her till he was almost in a state to

drown himself in the little brook which ran at the bottom of the

archdeacon's grounds.

And ever and again his mind would revert to the Signora Neroni, and

he would make comparisons between her and Eleanor Bold, not always in

favour of the latter. The signora had listened to him, and flattered

him, and believed in him; at least she had told him so. Mrs. Bold

had also listened to him, but had never flattered him; had not always

believed in him; and now had broken from him in violent rage. The

signora, too, was the more lovely woman of the two, and had also

the additional attraction of her affliction--for to him it was an

attraction.

But he never could have loved the Signora Neroni as he felt that he

now loved Eleanor; and so he flung stones into the brook, instead of

flinging in himself, and sat down on its margin as sad a gentleman as

you shall meet in a summer's day.

He heard the dinner-bell ring from the churchyard, and he knew that

it was time to recover his self-possession. He felt that he was

disgracing himself in his own eyes, that he had been idling his

time and neglecting the high duties which he had taken upon himself

to perform. He should have spent this afternoon among the poor at

St. Ewold's, instead of wandering about at Plumstead, an ancient,

love-lorn swain, dejected and sighing, full of imaginary sorrows and

Wertherian grief. He was thoroughly ashamed of himself, and determined

to lose no time in retrieving his character, so damaged in his own

eyes.

Thus when he appeared at dinner he was as animated as ever and was

the author of most of the conversation which graced the archdeacon's

board on that evening. Mr. Harding was ill at ease and sick at heart,

and did not care to appear more comfortable than he really was; what

little he did say was said to his daughter. He thought that the

archdeacon and Mr. Arabin had leagued together against Eleanor's

comfort, and his wish now was to break away from the pair and undergo

in his Barchester lodgings whatever Fate had in store for him. He

hated the name of the hospital; his attempt to regain his lost

inheritance there had brought upon him so much suffering. As far as

he was concerned, Mr. Quiverful was now welcome to the place.

And the archdeacon was not very lively. The poor dean's illness was

of course discussed in the first place. Dr. Grantly did not mention

Mr. Slope's name in connexion with the expected event of Dr. Trefoil's

death; he did not wish to say anything about Mr. Slope just at

present, nor did he wish to make known his sad surmises; but the idea

that his enemy might possibly become Dean of Barchester made him very

gloomy. Should such an event take place, such a dire catastrophe

come about, there would be an end to his life as far as his life was

connected with the city of Barchester. He must give up all his old

haunts, all his old habits, and live quietly as a retired rector at

Plumstead. It had been a severe trial for him to have Dr. Proudie in

the palace, but with Mr. Slope also in the deanery he felt that he

should be unable to draw his breath in Barchester close.

Thus it came to pass that in spite of the sorrow at his heart, Mr.

Arabin was apparently the gayest of the party. Both Mr. Harding and

Mrs. Grantly were in a slight degree angry with him on account of his

want of gloom. To the one it appeared as though he were triumphing

at Eleanor's banishment, and to the other that he was not affected as

he should have been by all the sad circumstances of the day--Eleanor's

obstinacy, Mr. Slope's success, and the poor dean's apoplexy. And so

they were all at cross-purposes.

Mr. Harding left the room almost together with the ladies, and then

the archdeacon opened his heart to Mr. Arabin. He still harped upon

the hospital. "What did that fellow mean," said he, "by saying in

his letter to Mrs. Bold that if Mr. Harding would call on the bishop,

it would be all right? Of course I would not be guided by anything

he might say, but still it may be well that Mr. Harding should see

the bishop. It would be foolish to let the thing slip through our

fingers because Mrs. Bold is determined to make a fool of herself."

Mr. Arabin hinted that he was not quite so sure that Mrs. Bold would

make a fool of herself. He said that he was not convinced that

she did regard Mr. Slope so warmly as she was supposed to do. The

archdeacon questioned and cross-questioned him about this, but

elicited nothing, and at last remained firm in his own conviction

that he was destined, _malgré lui_, to be the brother-in-law of Mr.

Slope. Mr. Arabin strongly advised that Mr. Harding should take no

step regarding the hospital in connexion with, or in consequence

of, Mr. Slope's letter. "If the bishop really means to confer the

appointment on Mr. Harding," argued Mr. Arabin, "he will take care to

let him have some other intimation than a message conveyed through a

letter to a lady. Were Mr. Harding to present himself at the palace,

he might merely be playing Mr. Slope's game;" and thus it was settled

that nothing should be done till the great Dr. Gwynne's arrival, or

at any rate without that potentate's sanction.

It was droll to observe how these men talked of Mr. Harding as though

he were a puppet, and planned their intrigues and small ecclesiastical

manoeuvres in reference to Mr. Harding's future position without

dreaming of taking him into their confidence. There was a comfortable

house and income in question, and it was very desirable, and certainly

very just, that Mr. Harding should have them; but that at present

was not the main point; it was expedient to beat the bishop and, if

possible, to smash Mr. Slope. Mr. Slope had set up, or was supposed to

have set up, a rival candidate. Of all things the most desirable would

have been to have had Mr. Quiverful's appointment published to the

public and then annulled by the clamour of an indignant world, loud in

the defence of Mr. Harding's rights. But of such an event the chance

was small; a slight fraction only of the world would be indignant, and

that fraction would be one not accustomed to loud speaking. And then

the preferment had, in a sort of way, been offered to Mr. Harding and

had, in a sort of way, been refused by him.

Mr. Slope's wicked, cunning hand had been peculiarly conspicuous

in the way in which this had been brought to pass, and it was the

success of Mr. Slope's cunning which was so painfully grating to the

feelings of the archdeacon. That which of all things he most dreaded

was that he should be outgeneralled by Mr. Slope; and just at present

it appeared probable that Mr. Slope would turn his flank, steal a

march on him, cut off his provisions, carry his strong town by a _coup

de main_, and at last beat him thoroughly in a regular pitched battle.

The archdeacon felt that his flank had been turned when desired to

wait on Mr. Slope instead of the bishop, that a march had been stolen

when Mr. Harding was induced to refuse the bishop's offer, that his

provisions would be cut off when Mr. Quiverful got the hospital,

that Eleanor was the strong town doomed to be taken, and that Mr.

Slope, as Dean of Barchester, would be regarded by all the world as

conqueror in the final conflict.

Dr. Gwynne was the _Deus ex machina_ who was to come down upon the

Barchester stage and bring about deliverance from these terrible

evils. But how can melodramatic _dénouements_ be properly brought

about, how can vice and Mr. Slope be punished, and virtue and the

archdeacon be rewarded, while the avenging god is laid up with the

gout? In the mean time evil may be triumphant, and poor innocence,

transfixed to the earth by an arrow from Dr. Proudie's quiver, may

lie dead upon the ground, not to be resuscitated even by Dr. Gwynne.

Two or three days after Eleanor's departure, Mr. Arabin went to

Oxford and soon found himself closeted with the august head of his

college. It was quite clear that Dr. Gwynne was not very sanguine as

to the effects of his journey to Barchester, and not over-anxious to

interfere with the bishop. He had had the gout, but was very nearly

convalescent, and Mr. Arabin at once saw that had the mission been

one of which the master thoroughly approved, he would before this

have been at Plumstead.

As it was, Dr. Gwynne was resolved on visiting his friend, and

willingly promised to return to Barchester with Mr. Arabin. He could

not bring himself to believe that there was any probability that Mr.

Slope would be made Dean of Barchester. Rumour, he said, had reached

even his ears, not at all favourable to that gentleman's character,

and he expressed himself strongly of opinion that any such

appointment was quite out of the question. At this stage of the

proceedings, the master's right-hand man, Tom Staple, was called in

to assist at the conference. Tom Staple was the Tutor of Lazarus

and, moreover, a great man at Oxford. Though universally known by a

species of nomenclature so very undignified, Tom Staple was one who

maintained a high dignity in the university. He was, as it were, the

leader of the Oxford tutors, a body of men who consider themselves

collectively as being by very little, if at all, second in importance

to the heads themselves. It is not always the case that the master,

or warden, or provost, or principal can hit it off exactly with his

tutor. A tutor is by no means indisposed to have a will of his own.

But at Lazarus they were great friends and firm allies at the time of

which we are writing.

Tom Staple was a hale, strong man of about forty-five, short in

stature, swarthy in face, with strong, sturdy black hair and crisp

black beard of which very little was allowed to show itself in shape

of whiskers. He always wore a white neckcloth, clean indeed, but

not tied with that scrupulous care which now distinguishes some of

our younger clergy. He was, of course, always clothed in a seemly

suit of solemn black. Mr. Staple was a decent cleanly liver, not

over-addicted to any sensuality; but nevertheless a somewhat warmish

hue was beginning to adorn his nose, the peculiar effect, as his

friends averred, of a certain pipe of port introduced into the cellars

of Lazarus the very same year in which the tutor entered it as a

freshman. There was also, perhaps, a little redolence of port wine, as

it were the slightest possible twang, in Mr. Staple's voice.

In these latter days Tom Staple was not a happy man; university

reform had long been his bugbear, and now was his bane. It was not

with him, as with most others, an affair of politics, respecting

which, when the need existed, he could, for parties' sake or on

behalf of principle, maintain a certain amount of necessary zeal;

it was not with him a subject for dilettante warfare and courteous,

commonplace opposition. To him it was life and death. The _status

quo_ of the university was his only idea of life, and any reformation

was as bad to him as death. He would willingly have been a martyr in

the cause, had the cause admitted of martyrdom.

At the present day, unfortunately, public affairs will allow of no

martyrs, and therefore it is that there is such a deficiency of zeal.

Could gentlemen of £10,000 a year have died on their own door-steps

in defence of protection, no doubt some half-dozen glorious old

baronets would have so fallen, and the school of protection would at

this day have been crowded with scholars. Who can fight strenuously

in any combat in which there is no danger? Tom Staple would have

willingly been impaled before a Committee of the House, could he by

such self-sacrifice have infused his own spirit into the component

members of the hebdomadal board.

Tom Staple was one of those who in his heart approved of the credit

system which had of old been in vogue between the students and

tradesmen of the university. He knew and acknowledged to himself

that it was useless in these degenerate days publicly to contend with

"The Jupiter" on such a subject. "The Jupiter" had undertaken to rule

the university, and Tom Staple was well aware that "The Jupiter" was

too powerful for him. But in secret, and among his safe companions,

he would argue that the system of credit was an ordeal good for young

men to undergo.

The bad men, said he, the weak and worthless, blunder into danger and

burn their feet; but the good men, they who have any character, they

who have that within them which can reflect credit on their alma

mater, they come through scatheless. What merit will there be to a

young man to get through safely, if he be guarded and protected and

restrained like a schoolboy? By so doing, the period of the ordeal

is only postponed, and the manhood of the man will be deferred from

the age of twenty to that of twenty-four. If you bind him with

leading-strings at college, he will break loose while eating for the

bar in London; bind him there, and he will break loose afterwards,

when he is a married man. The wild oats must be sown somewhere.

'Twas thus that Tom Staple would argue of young men, not, indeed,

with much consistency, but still with some practical knowledge of the

subject gathered from long experience.

And now Tom Staple proffered such wisdom as he had for the assistance

of Dr. Gwynne and Mr. Arabin.

"Quite out of the question," said he, arguing that Mr. Slope could

not possibly be made the new Dean of Barchester.

"So I think," said the master. "He has no standing, and, if all I

hear be true, very little character."

"As to character," said Tom Staple, "I don't think much of that.

They rather like loose parsons for deans; a little fast living, or a

dash of infidelity, is no bad recommendation to a cathedral close.

But they couldn't make Mr. Slope; the last two deans have been

Cambridge men; you'll not show me an instance of their making three

men running from the same university. We don't get our share and

never shall, I suppose, but we must at least have one out of three."

"Those sort of rules are all gone by now," said Mr. Arabin.

"Everything has gone by, I believe," said Tom Staple. "The cigar has

been smoked out, and we are the ashes."

"Speak for yourself, Staple," said the master.

"I speak for all," said the tutor stoutly. "It is coming to that,

that there will be no life left anywhere in the country. No one

is any longer fit to rule himself, or those belonging to him. The

Government is to find us all in everything, and the press is to find

the Government. Nevertheless, Mr. Slope won't be Dean of

Barchester."

"And who will be warden of the hospital?" said Mr. Arabin.

"I hear that Mr. Quiverful is already appointed," said Tom Staple.

"I think not," said the master. "And I think, moreover, that Dr.

Proudie will not be so short-sighted as to run against such a rock:

Mr. Slope should himself have sense enough to prevent it."

"But perhaps Mr. Slope may have no objection to see his patron on a

rock," said the suspicious tutor.

"What could he get by that?" asked Mr. Arabin.

"It is impossible to see the doubles of such a man," said Mr. Staple.

"It seems quite clear that Bishop Proudie is altogether in his hands,

and it is equally clear that he has been moving heaven and earth to

get this Mr. Quiverful into the hospital, although he must know that

such an appointment would be most damaging to the bishop. It is

impossible to understand such a man, and dreadful to think," added Tom

Staple, sighing deeply, "that the welfare and fortunes of good men

may depend on his intrigues."

Dr. Gwynne or Mr. Staple were not in the least aware, nor even was

Mr. Arabin, that this Mr. Slope, of whom they were talking, had been

using his utmost efforts to put their own candidate into the hospital,

and that in lieu of being permanent in the palace, his own expulsion

therefrom had been already decided on by the high powers of the

diocese.

"I'll tell you what," said the tutor, "if this Quiverful is thrust

into the hospital and Dr. Trefoil does die, I should not wonder if

the Government were to make Mr. Harding Dean of Barchester. They

would feel bound to do something for him after all that was said when

he resigned."

Dr. Gwynne at the moment made no reply to this suggestion, but it did

not the less impress itself on his mind. If Mr. Harding could not be

warden of the hospital, why should he not be Dean of Barchester?

And so the conference ended without any very fixed resolution, and

Dr. Gwynne and Mr. Arabin prepared for their journey to Plumstead on

the morrow.