CHAPTER XXIV

Mr. Slope 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 Mr. Grantly seemed to

have forgotten her iniquity 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, mothlike, 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 affliction 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 license 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 is unpleasant

to her. Eleanor had no such self-knowledge. She thought in her own

heart that 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 anyone blame my heroine for this? Let him or her rather thank

God for all His goodness--for His mercy endureth forever.

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 Hindu 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 are 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 had

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 his 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 his 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 realized 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 connexion 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 he 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 should be.

The bishop had declared that Mr. Quiverful should be the new warden.

As Mr. Slope went downstairs, 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

necessaries 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, painstaking, 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 to 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 were 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 his 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 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 could 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 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 frowns

of 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 a 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 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 £450 a year out of fine feeling? And

what signifies it whom 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."

Thus, while the outer world was accusing Mr. Quiverful of rapacity

for promotion and of disregard to his honour, the inner world of his

own household was falling foul of him, with equal vehemence, for

his willingness to sacrifice their interests 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 were 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 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 reflexion 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 further, Mr.

Quiverful."

Mr. Quiverful said that of course 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 on 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 in 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 the 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 own 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 right 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 anyone whom he has once

marked with approval. If you would allow me to advise you as a

friend--"

"Indeed, I shall be most 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 the bishop that you decline

to stand in Mr. Harding's way, I think I may promise you--though, by

the by, 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 armchair, 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 fit, 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 again 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.