CHAPTER XIX

Barchester by Moonlight

There was much cause for grief and occasional perturbation of spirits

in the Stanhope family, but yet they rarely seemed to be grieved or

to be disturbed. It was the peculiar gift of each of them that each

was able to bear his or her own burden without complaint, and perhaps

without sympathy. They habitually looked on the sunny side of the

wall, if there was a gleam on either side for them to look at; if

there was none, they endured the shade with an indifference which,

if not stoical, answered the end at which the Stoics aimed. Old

Stanhope could not but feel that he had ill-performed his duties as a

father and a clergyman, and could hardly look forward to his own death

without grief at the position in which he would leave his family.

His income for many years had been as high as £3,000 a year, and yet

they had among them no other provision than their mother's fortune

of £10,000. He had not only spent his income, but was in debt. Yet

with all this he seldom showed much outward sign of trouble.

It was the same with the mother. If she added little to the pleasures

of her children, she detracted still less: she neither grumbled at

her lot, nor spoke much of her past or future sufferings; as long as

she had a maid to adjust her dress, and had those dresses well made,

nature with her was satisfied. It was the same with the children.

Charlotte never rebuked her father with the prospect of their future

poverty, nor did it seem to grieve her that she was becoming an old

maid so quickly; her temper was rarely ruffled, and, if we might

judge by her appearance, she was always happy. The signora was not so

sweet-tempered, but she possessed much enduring courage; she seldom

complained--never, indeed, to her family. Though she had a cause for

affliction which would have utterly broken down the heart of most

women as beautiful as she and as devoid of all religious support, yet

she bore her suffering in silence, or alluded to it only to elicit

the sympathy and stimulate the admiration of the men with whom she

flirted. As to Bertie, one would have imagined from the sound of his

voice and the gleam of his eye that he had not a sorrow nor a care in

the world. Nor had he. He was incapable of anticipating to-morrow's

griefs. The prospect of future want no more disturbed his appetite

than does that of the butcher's knife disturb the appetite of the

sheep.

Such was the usual tenor of their way; but there were rare exceptions.

Occasionally the father would allow an angry glance to fall from his

eye, and the lion would send forth a low dangerous roar as though he

meditated some deed of blood. Occasionally also Madame Neroni would

become bitter against mankind, more than usually antagonistic to the

world's decencies, and would seem as though she was about to break from

her moorings and allow herself to be carried forth by the tide of her

feelings to utter ruin and shipwreck. She, however, like the rest of

them, had no real feelings, could feel no true passion. In that was her

security. Before she resolved on any contemplated escapade she would

make a small calculation, and generally summed up that the Stanhope

villa or even Barchester close was better than the world at large.

They were most irregular in their hours. The father was generally the

earliest in the breakfast-parlour, and Charlotte would soon follow and

give him his coffee, but the others breakfasted anywhere, anyhow, and

at any time. On the morning after the archdeacon's futile visit to the

palace, Dr. Stanhope came downstairs with an ominously dark look about

his eyebrows; his white locks were rougher than usual, and he breathed

thickly and loudly as he took his seat in his armchair. He had open

letters in his hand, and when Charlotte came into the room, he was

still reading them. She went up and kissed him as was her wont, but he

hardly noticed her as she did so, and she knew at once that something

was the matter.

"What's the meaning of that?" said he, throwing over the table a

letter with a Milan postmark. Charlotte was a little frightened as

she took it up, but her mind was relieved when she saw that it

was merely the bill of their Italian milliner. The sum total was

certainly large, but not so large as to create an important row.

"It's for our clothes, Papa, for six months before we came here. The

three of us can't dress for nothing, you know."

"Nothing, indeed!" said he, looking at the figures which, in Milanese

denominations, were certainly monstrous.

"The man should have sent it to me," said Charlotte.

"I wish he had with all my heart--if you would have paid it. I see

enough in it to know that three quarters of it are for Madeline."

"She has little else to amuse her, sir," said Charlotte with true

good nature.

"And I suppose he has nothing else to amuse him," said the doctor,

throwing over another letter to his daughter. It was from some

member of the family of Sidonia, and politely requested the father to

pay a small trifle of £700, being the amount of a bill discounted in

favour of Mr. Ethelbert Stanhope and now overdue for a period of nine

months.

Charlotte read the letter, slowly folded it up, and put it under the

edge of the tea-tray.

"I suppose he has nothing to amuse him but discounting bills with

Jews. Does he think I'll pay that?"

"I am sure he thinks no such thing," said she.

"And who does he think will pay it?"

"As far as honesty goes I suppose it won't much matter if it is never

paid," said she. "I dare say he got very little of it."

"I suppose it won't much matter either," said the father, "if he goes

to prison and rots there. It seems to me that that's the other

alternative."

Dr. Stanhope spoke of the custom of his youth. But his daughter,

though she had lived so long abroad, was much more completely versed

in the ways of the English world. "If the man arrests him," said

she, "he must go through the court."

It is thus, thou great family of Sidonia--it is thus that we Gentiles

treat thee, when, in our extremest need, thou and thine have aided

us with mountains of gold as big as lions--and occasionally with

wine-warrants and orders for dozens of dressing-cases.

"What, and become an insolvent?" said the doctor.

"He's that already," said Charlotte, wishing always to get over a

difficulty.

"What a condition," said the doctor, "for the son of a clergyman of

the Church of England."

"I don't see why clergymen's sons should pay their debts more than

other young men," said Charlotte.

"He's had as much from me since he left school as is held sufficient

for the eldest son of many a nobleman," said the angry father.

"Well, sir," said Charlotte, "give him another chance."

"What!" said the doctor, "do you mean that I am to pay that Jew?"

"Oh, no! I wouldn't pay him, he must take his chance; and if the

worst comes to the worst, Bertie must go abroad. But I want you to

be civil to Bertie and let him remain here as long as we stop. He

has a plan in his head that may put him on his feet after all."

"Has he any plan for following up his profession?"

"Oh, he'll do that too; but that must follow. He's thinking of

getting married."

Just at that moment the door opened, and Bertie came in whistling.

The doctor immediately devoted himself to his egg and allowed Bertie

to whistle himself round to his sister's side without noticing him.

Charlotte gave a sign to him with her eye, first glancing at her

father, and then at the letter, the corner of which peeped out from

under the tea-tray. Bertie saw and understood, and with the quiet

motion of a cat he abstracted the letter and made himself acquainted

with its contents. The doctor, however, had seen him, deep as he

appeared to be mersed in his egg-shell, and said in his harshest

voice, "Well, sir, do you know that gentleman?"

"Yes, sir," said Bertie. "I have a sort of acquaintance with him,

but none that can justify him in troubling you. If you will allow

me, sir, I will answer this."

"At any rate I shan't," said the father, and then he added, after a

pause, "Is it true, sir, that you owe the man £700?"

"Well," said Bertie, "I think I should be inclined to dispute the

amount, if I were in a condition to pay him such of it as I really do

owe him."

"Has he your bill for £700?" said the father, speaking very loudly

and very angrily.

"Well, I believe he has," said Bertie, "but all the money I ever got

from him was £150."

"And what became of the £550?"

"Why, sir, the commission was £100 or so, and I took the remainder in

paving-stones and rocking-horses."

"Paving-stones and rocking-horses!" said the doctor. "Where are

they?"

"Oh, sir, I suppose they are in London somewhere--but I'll inquire if

you wish for them."

"He's an idiot," said the doctor, "and it's sheer folly to waste more

money on him. Nothing can save him from ruin," and so saying, the

unhappy father walked out of the room.

"Would the governor like to have the paving-stones?" said Bertie to

his sister.

"I'll tell you what," said she. "If you don't take care, you will

find yourself loose upon the world without even a house over your

head; you don't know him as well as I do. He's very angry."

Bertie stroked his big beard, sipped his tea, chatted over his

misfortunes in a half-comic, half-serious tone, and ended by

promising his sister that he would do his very best to make himself

agreeable to the Widow Bold. Then Charlotte followed her father to

his own room, softened down his wrath, and persuaded him to say

nothing more about the Jew bill discounter, at any rate for a few

weeks. He even went so far as to say he would pay the £700, or at

any rate settle the bill, if he saw a certainty of his son's securing

for himself anything like a decent provision in life. Nothing was

said openly between them about poor Eleanor, but the father and the

daughter understood each other.

They all met together in the drawing-room at nine o'clock, in perfect

good humour with each other, and about that hour Mrs. Bold was

announced. She had never been in the house before, though she had of

course called, and now she felt it strange to find herself there in

her usual evening dress, entering the drawing-room of these strangers

in this friendly, unceremonious way, as though she had known them

all her life. But in three minutes they made her at home. Charlotte

tripped downstairs and took her bonnet from her, and Bertie came to

relieve her from her shawl, and the signora smiled on her as she

could smile when she chose to be gracious, and the old doctor shook

hands with her in a kind benedictory manner that went to her heart at

once and made her feel that he must be a good man.

She had not been seated for above five minutes when the door again

opened and Mr. Slope was announced. She felt rather surprised,

because she was told that nobody was to be there, and it was very

evident from the manner of some of them that Mr. Slope was not

unexpected. But still there was not much in it. In such invitations

a bachelor or two more or less are always spoken of as nobodies,

and there was no reason why Mr. Slope should not drink tea at Dr.

Stanhope's as well as Eleanor herself. He, however, was very much

surprised and not very much gratified at finding that his own embryo

spouse made one of the party. He had come there to gratify himself

by gazing on Madame Neroni's beauty and listening to and returning

her flattery: and though he had not owned as much to himself, he

still felt that if he spent the evening as he had intended to do, he

might probably not thereby advance his suit with Mrs. Bold.

The signora, who had no idea of a rival, received Mr. Slope with

her usual marks of distinction. As he took her hand, she made some

confidential communication to him in a low voice, declaring that

she had a plan to communicate to him after tea, and was evidently

prepared to go on with her work of reducing the chaplain to a state

of captivity. Poor Mr. Slope was rather beside himself. He thought

that Eleanor could not but have learnt from his demeanour that he was

an admirer of her own, and he had also flattered himself that the

idea was not unacceptable to her. What would she think of him if he

now devoted himself to a married woman!

But Eleanor was not inclined to be severe in her criticisms on him

in this respect, and felt no annoyance of any kind, when she found

herself seated between Bertie and Charlotte Stanhope. She had no

suspicion of Mr. Slope's intentions; she had no suspicion even of the

suspicion of other people; but still she felt well-pleased not to

have Mr. Slope too near to her.

And she was not ill-pleased to have Bertie Stanhope near her. It

was rarely indeed that he failed to make an agreeable impression on

strangers. With a bishop indeed who thought much of his own dignity

it was possible that he might fail, but hardly with a young and

pretty woman. He possessed the tact of becoming instantly intimate

with women without giving rise to any fear of impertinence. He had

about him somewhat of the propensities of a tame cat. It seemed

quite natural that he should be petted, caressed, and treated with

familiar good nature, and that in return he should purr, and be sleek

and graceful, and above all never show his claws. Like other tame

cats, however, he had his claws, and sometimes made them dangerous.

When tea was over, Charlotte went to the open window and declared

loudly that the full harvest moon was much too beautiful to be

disregarded, and called them all to look at it. To tell the truth

there was but one there who cared much about the moon's beauty, and

that one was not Charlotte, but she knew how valuable an aid to her

purpose the chaste goddess might become, and could easily create a

little enthusiasm for the purpose of the moment. Eleanor and Bertie

were soon with her. The doctor was now quiet in his armchair, and

Mrs. Stanhope in hers, both prepared for slumber.

"Are you a Whewellite or a Brewsterite, or a t'othermanite, Mrs.

Bold?" said Charlotte, who knew a little about everything, and had

read about a third of each of the books to which she alluded.

"Oh!" said Eleanor; "I have not read any of the books, but I feel

sure that there is one man in the moon at least, if not more."

"You don't believe in the pulpy gelatinous matter?" said Bertie.

"I heard about that," said Eleanor, "and I really think it's almost

wicked to talk in such a manner. How can we argue about God's power

in the other stars from the laws which he has given for our rule in

this one?"

"How indeed!" said Bertie. "Why shouldn't there be a race of

salamanders in Venus? And even if there be nothing but fish in

Jupiter, why shouldn't the fish there be as wide awake as the men and

women here?"

"That would be saying very little for them," said Charlotte. "I am

for Dr. Whewell myself, for I do not think that men and women are

worth being repeated in such countless worlds. There may be souls in

other stars, but I doubt their having any bodies attached to them.

But come, Mrs. Bold, let us put our bonnets on and walk round the

close. If we are to discuss sidereal questions, we shall do so much

better under the towers of the cathedral than stuck in this narrow

window."

Mrs. Bold made no objection, and a party was made to walk out.

Charlotte Stanhope well knew the rule as to three being no company,

and she had therefore to induce her sister to allow Mr. Slope to

accompany them.

"Come, Mr. Slope," she said, "I'm sure you'll join us. We shall be

in again in a quarter of an hour, Madeline."

Madeline read in her eye all that she had to say, knew her object,

and as she had to depend on her sister for so many of her amusements,

she felt that she must yield. It was hard to be left alone while

others of her own age walked out to feel the soft influence of the

bright night, but it would be harder still to be without the sort of

sanction which Charlotte gave to all her flirtations and intrigues.

Charlotte's eye told her that she must give up just at present for

the good of the family, and so Madeline obeyed.

But Charlotte's eyes said nothing of the sort to Mr. Slope. He had

no objection at all to the _tête-à-tête_ with the signora which the

departure of the other three would allow him, and gently whispered to

her, "I shall not leave you alone."

"Oh, yes," said she; "go--pray go, pray go, for my sake. Do not

think that I am so selfish. It is understood that nobody is kept

within for me. You will understand this too when you know me better.

Pray join them, Mr. Slope, but when you come in speak to me for five

minutes before you leave us."

Mr. Slope understood that he was to go, and he therefore joined the

party in the hall. He would have had no objection at all to this

arrangement, if he could have secured Mrs. Bold's arm; but this

of course was out of the question. Indeed, his fate was very soon

settled, for no sooner had he reached the hall-door than Miss

Stanhope put her hand within his arm, and Bertie walked off with

Eleanor just as naturally as though she were already his own

property.

And so they sauntered forth: first they walked round the close,

according to their avowed intent; then they went under the old arched

gateway below St. Cuthbert's little church, and then they turned

behind the grounds of the bishop's palace, and so on till they came

to the bridge just at the edge of the town, from which passers-by can

look down into the gardens of Hiram's Hospital; and here Charlotte

and Mr. Slope, who were in advance, stopped till the other two came

up to them. Mr. Slope knew that the gable-ends and old brick chimneys

which stood up so prettily in the moonlight were those of Mr.

Harding's late abode, and would not have stopped on such a spot, in

such company, if he could have avoided it; but Miss Stanhope would not

take the hint which he tried to give.

"This is a very pretty place, Mrs. Bold," said Charlotte; "by far the

prettiest place near Barchester. I wonder your father gave it up."

It was a very pretty place, and now by the deceitful light of the

moon looked twice larger, twice prettier, twice more antiquely

picturesque than it would have done in truth-telling daylight. Who

does not know the air of complex multiplicity and the mysterious

interesting grace which the moon always lends to old gabled buildings

half-surrounded, as was the hospital, by fine trees! As seen from

the bridge on the night of which we are speaking, Mr. Harding's late

abode did look very lovely, and though Eleanor did not grieve at her

father's having left it, she felt at the moment an intense wish that

he might be allowed to return.

"He is going to return to it almost immediately, is he not?" asked

Bertie.

Eleanor made no immediate reply. Many such a question passes

unanswered without the notice of the questioner, but such was not now

the case. They all remained silent as though expecting her to reply,

and after a moment or two, Charlotte said, "I believe it is settled

that Mr. Harding returns to the hospital, is it not?"

"I don't think anything about it is settled yet," said Eleanor.

"But it must be a matter of course," said Bertie; "that is, if your

father wishes it. Who else on earth could hold it after what has

occurred?"

Eleanor quietly made her companion understand that the matter was one

which she could not discuss in the present company, and then they

passed on. Charlotte said she would go a short way up the hill out

of the town so as to look back upon the towers of the cathedral, and

as Eleanor leant upon Bertie's arm for assistance in the walk, she

told him how the matter stood between her father and the bishop.

"And, he," said Bertie, pointing on to Mr. Slope, "what part does he

take in it?"

Eleanor explained how Mr. Slope had at first endeavoured to tyrannize

over her father, but how he had latterly come round and done all

he could to talk the bishop over in Mr. Harding's favour. "But my

father," she said, "is hardly inclined to trust him; they all say he

is so arrogant to the old clergymen of the city."

"Take my word for it," said Bertie, "your father is right. If I am

not very much mistaken, that man is both arrogant and false."

They strolled up to the top of the hill and then returned through the

fields by a foot-path which leads by a small wooden bridge, or rather

a plank with a rustic rail to it, over the river to the other side

of the cathedral from that at which they had started. They had thus

walked round the bishop's grounds, through which the river runs,

and round the cathedral and adjacent fields, and it was past eleven

before they reached the doctor's door.

"It is very late," said Eleanor; "it will be a shame to disturb your

mother again at such an hour."

"Oh"' said Charlotte, laughing, "you won't disturb Mamma; I dare say

she is in bed by this time, and Madeline would be furious if you did

not come in and see her. Come, Bertie, take Mrs. Bold's bonnet from

her."

They went upstairs and found the signora alone, reading. She looked

somewhat sad and melancholy, but not more so perhaps than was

sufficient to excite additional interest in the bosom of Mr. Slope;

and she was soon deep in whispered intercourse with that happy

gentleman, who was allowed to find a resting-place on her sofa. The

signora had a way of whispering that was peculiarly her own, and was

exactly the reverse of that which prevails among great tragedians.

The great tragedian hisses out a positive whisper, made with bated

breath, and produced by inarticulated tongue-formed sounds, but yet

he is audible through the whole house. The signora, however, used no

hisses and produced all her words in a clear, silver tone, but they

could only be heard by the ear into which they were poured.

Charlotte hurried and scurried about the room hither and thither,

doing, or pretending to do many things; then, saying something about

seeing her mother, ran upstairs. Eleanor was thus left alone with

Bertie, and she hardly felt an hour fly by her. To give Bertie his

due credit, he could not have played his cards better. He did not

make love to her, nor sigh, nor look languishing, but he was amusing

and familiar, yet respectful; and when he left Eleanor at her own

door at one o'clock, which he did by the by with the assistance

of the now jealous Slope, she thought that he was one of the most

agreeable men and the Stanhopes decidedly the most agreeable family

that she had ever met.