CHAPTER XXV

Fourteen Arguments in Favour of Mr. Quiverful's Claims

We have most of us heard of the terrible anger of a lioness when,

surrounded by her cubs, she guards her prey. Few of us wish to disturb

the mother of a litter of puppies when mouthing a bone in the midst of

her young family. Medea and her children are familiar to us, and so is

the grief of Constance. Mrs. Quiverful, when she first heard from her

husband the news which he had to impart, felt within her bosom all the

rage of the lioness, the rapacity of the hound, the fury of the tragic

queen, and the deep despair of the bereaved mother.

Doubting, but yet hardly fearing, what might have been the tenor of

Mr. Slope's discourse, she rushed back to her husband as soon as the

front door was closed behind the visitor. It was well for Mr. Slope

that he so escaped--the anger of such a woman, at such a moment,

would have cowed even him. As a general rule, it is highly desirable

that ladies should keep their temper: a woman when she storms always

makes herself ugly, and usually ridiculous also. There is nothing so

odious to man as a virago. Though Theseus loved an Amazon, he showed

his love but roughly, and from the time of Theseus downward, no man

ever wished to have his wife remarkable rather for forward prowess

than retiring gentleness. A low voice "is an excellent thing in

woman."

Such may be laid down as a very general rule; and few women should

allow themselves to deviate from it, and then only on rare occasions.

But if there be a time when a woman may let her hair to the winds,

when she may loose her arms, and scream out trumpet-tongued to the

ears of men, it is when nature calls out within her not for her own

wants, but for the wants of those whom her womb has borne, whom her

breasts have suckled, for those who look to her for their daily bread

as naturally as man looks to his Creator.

There was nothing poetic in the nature of Mrs. Quiverful. She was

neither a Medea nor a Constance. When angry, she spoke out her anger

in plain words, and in a tone which might have been modulated with

advantage; but she did so, at any rate, without affectation. Now,

without knowing it, she rose to a tragic vein.

"Well, my dear, we are not to have it." Such were the words with

which her ears were greeted when she entered the parlour, still hot

from the kitchen fire. And the face of her husband spoke even more

plainly than his words:--

E'en such a man, so faint, so spiritless,

So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone,

Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night.

"What!" said she--and Mrs. Siddons could not have put more passion

into a single syllable--"What! Not have it? Who says so?" And she

sat opposite to her husband, with her elbows on the table, her hands

clasped together, and her coarse, solid, but once handsome face

stretched over it towards him.

She sat as silent as death while he told his story, and very dreadful

to him her silence was. He told it very lamely and badly but still

in such a manner that she soon understood the whole of it.

"And so you have resigned it?" said she.

"I have had no opportunity of accepting it," he replied. "I had no

witnesses to Mr. Slope's offer, even if that offer would bind the

bishop. It was better for me, on the whole, to keep on good terms

with such men than to fight for what I should never get!"

"Witnesses!" she screamed, rising quickly to her feet and walking up

and down the room. "Do clergymen require witnesses to their words?

He made the promise in the bishop's name, and if it is to be broken,

I'll know the reason why. Did he not positively say that the bishop

had sent him to offer you the place?"

"He did, my dear. But that is now nothing to the purpose."

"It is everything to the purpose, Mr. Quiverful. Witnesses indeed!

And then to talk of your honour being questioned because you wish to

provide for fourteen children. It is everything to the purpose; and

so they shall know, if I scream it into their ears from the town

cross of Barchester."

"You forget, Letitia, that the bishop has so many things in his gift.

We must wait a little longer. That is all."

"Wait! Shall we feed the children by waiting? Will waiting put George,

and Tom, and Sam out into the world? Will it enable my poor girls to

give up some of their drudgery? Will waiting make Bessy and Jane fit

even to be governesses? Will waiting pay for the things we got in

Barchester last week?"

"It is all we can do, my dear. The disappointment is as much to me

as to you; and yet, God knows, I feel it more for your sake than my

own."

Mrs. Quiverful was looking full into her husband's face, and saw a

small hot tear appear on each of those furrowed cheeks. This was too

much for her woman's heart. He also had risen, and was standing with

his back to the empty grate. She rushed towards him and, seizing him

in her arms, sobbed aloud upon his bosom.

"You are too good, too soft, too yielding," she said at last. "These

men, when they want you, they use you like a cat's paw; and when they

want you no longer, they throw you aside like an old shoe. This is

twice they have treated you so."

"In one way this will be all for the better," argued he. "It will

make the bishop feel that he is bound to do something for me."

"At any rate he shall hear of it," said the lady, again reverting

to her more angry mood. "At any rate he shall hear of it, and that

loudly; and so shall she. She little knows Letitia Quiverful, if she

thinks I will sit down quietly with the loss after all that passed

between us at the palace. If there's any feeling within her, I'll

make her ashamed of herself,"--and she paced the room again, stamping

the floor as she went with her fat, heavy foot. "Good heavens! What

a heart she must have within her to treat in such a way as this the

father of fourteen unprovided children!"

Mr. Quiverful proceeded to explain that he didn't think that Mrs.

Proudie had had anything to do with it.

"Don't tell me," said Mrs. Quiverful; "I know more about it than

that. Doesn't all the world know that Mrs. Proudie is bishop of

Barchester and that Mr. Slope is merely her creature? Wasn't it she

that made me the promise, just as though the thing was in her own

particular gift? I tell you, it was that woman who sent him over

here to-day, because, for some reason of her own, she wants to go

back from her word."

"My dear, you're wrong--"

"Now, Q., don't be so soft," she continued. "Take my word for it,

the bishop knows no more about it than Jemima does." Jemima was the

two-year-old. "And if you'll take my advice, you'll lose no time in

going over and seeing him yourself."

Soft, however, as Mr. Quiverful might be, he would not allow himself

to be talked out of his opinion on this occasion, and proceeded with

much minuteness to explain to his wife the tone in which Mr. Slope

had spoken of Mrs. Proudie's interference in diocesan matters. As he

did so, a new idea gradually instilled itself into the matron's head,

and a new course of conduct presented itself to her judgement. What

if, after all, Mrs. Proudie knew nothing of this visit of Mr. Slope's?

In that case, might it not be possible that that lady would still be

staunch to her in this matter, still stand her friend, and, perhaps,

possibly carry her through in opposition to Mr. Slope? Mrs. Quiverful

said nothing as this vague hope occurred to her, but listened with

more than ordinary patience to what her husband had to say. While he

was still explaining that in all probability the world was wrong in

its estimation of Mrs. Proudie's power and authority, she had fully

made up her mind as to her course of action. She did not, however,

proclaim her intention. She shook her head ominously as he continued

his narration, and when he had completed, she rose to go, merely

observing that it was cruel, cruel treatment. She then asked him if

he would mind waiting for a late dinner instead of dining at their

usual hour of three; and, having received from him a concession on

this point, she proceeded to carry her purpose into execution.

She determined that she would at once go to the palace, that she

would do so, if possible, before Mrs. Proudie could have had an

interview with Mr. Slope, and that she would be either submissive,

piteous, and pathetic, or else indignant, violent, and exacting,

according to the manner in which she was received.

She was quite confident in her own power. Strengthened as she was by

the pressing wants of fourteen children, she felt that she could make

her way through legions of episcopal servants and force herself, if

need be, into the presence of the lady who had so wronged her. She

had no shame about it, no _mauvaise honte_, no dread of archdeacons.

She would, as she declared to her husband, make her wail heard in

the market-place if she did not get redress and justice. It might

be very well for an unmarried young curate to be shamefaced in such

matters; it might be all right that a snug rector, really in want of

nothing, but still looking for better preferment, should carry on his

affairs decently under the rose. But Mrs. Quiverful, with fourteen

children, had given over being shamefaced and, in some things, had

given over being decent. If it were intended that she should be

ill-used in the manner proposed by Mr. Slope, it should not be done

under the rose. All the world should know of it.

In her present mood, Mrs. Quiverful was not over-careful about her

attire. She tied her bonnet under her chin, threw her shawl over her

shoulders, armed herself with the old family cotton umbrella, and

started for Barchester. A journey to the palace was not quite so

easy a thing for Mrs. Quiverful as for our friend at Plumstead.

Plumstead is nine miles from Barchester, and Puddingdale is but

four. But the archdeacon could order round his brougham, and his

high-trotting fast bay gelding would take him into the city within

the hour. There was no brougham in the coach-house of Puddingdale

Vicarage, no bay horse in the stables. There was no method of

locomotion for its inhabitants but that which nature has assigned

to man.

Mrs. Quiverful was a broad, heavy woman, not young, nor given to

walking. In her kitchen, and in the family dormitories, she was

active enough, but her pace and gait were not adapted for the road.

A walk into Barchester and back in the middle of an August day would

be to her a terrible task, if not altogether impracticable. There

was living in the parish, about half a mile from the vicarage on the

road to the city, a decent, kindly farmer, well to do as regards this

world and so far mindful of the next that he attended his parish

church with decent regularity. To him Mrs. Quiverful had before now

appealed in some of her more pressing family troubles, and had not

appealed in vain. At his door she now presented herself, and, having

explained to his wife that most urgent business required her to go at

once to Barchester, begged that Farmer Subsoil would take her thither

in his tax-cart. The farmer did not reject her plan, and, as soon as

Prince could be got into his collar, they started on their journey.

Mrs. Quiverful did not mention the purpose of her business, nor did

the farmer alloy his kindness by any unseemly questions. She merely

begged to be put down at the bridge going into the city and to be

taken up again at the same place in the course of two hours. The

farmer promised to be punctual to his appointment, and the lady,

supported by her umbrella, took the short cut to the close and, in

a few minutes, was at the bishop's door.

Hitherto she had felt no dread with regard to the coming interview.

She had felt nothing but an indignant longing to pour forth her

claims, and declare her wrongs, if those claims were not fully

admitted. But now the difficulty of her situation touched her a

little. She had been at the palace once before, but then she went to

give grateful thanks. Those who have thanks to return for favours

received find easy admittance to the halls of the great. Such is not

always the case with men, or even with women, who have favours to

beg. Still less easy is access for those who demand the fulfilment

of promises already made.

Mrs. Quiverful had not been slow to learn the ways of the world. She

knew all this, and she knew also that her cotton umbrella and all but

ragged shawl would not command respect in the eyes of the palatial

servants. If she were too humble, she knew well that she would never

succeed. To overcome by imperious overbearing with such a shawl as

hers upon her shoulders and such a bonnet on her head would have

required a personal bearing very superior to that with which nature

had endowed her. Of this also Mrs. Quiverful was aware. She must

make it known that she was the wife of a gentleman and a clergyman,

and must yet condescend to conciliate.

The poor lady knew but one way to overcome these difficulties at

the very threshold of her enterprise, and to this she resorted.

Low as were the domestic funds at Puddingdale, she still retained

possession of half a crown, and this she sacrificed to the avarice

of Mrs. Proudie's metropolitan sesquipedalian serving-man. She

was, she said, Mrs. Quiverful of Puddingdale, the wife of the Rev.

Mr. Quiverful. She wished to see Mrs. Proudie. It was indeed quite

indispensable that she should see Mrs. Proudie. James Fitzplush

looked worse than dubious, did not know whether his lady were out, or

engaged, or in her bedroom; thought it most probable she was subject

to one of these or to some other cause that would make her invisible;

but Mrs. Quiverful could sit down in the waiting-room while inquiry

was being made of Mrs. Proudie's maid.

"Look here, my man," said Mrs. Quiverful; "I must see her;" and she

put her card and half-crown--think of it, my reader, think of it; her

last half-crown--into the man's hand and sat herself down on a chair

in the waiting-room.

Whether the bribe carried the day, or whether the bishop's wife

really chose to see the vicar's wife, it boots not now to inquire.

The man returned and, begging Mrs. Quiverful to follow him, ushered

her into the presence of the mistress of the diocese.

Mrs. Quiverful at once saw that her patroness was in a smiling

humour. Triumph sat throned upon her brow, and all the joys of

dominion hovered about her curls. Her lord had that morning

contested with her a great point. He had received an invitation to

spend a couple of days with the archbishop. His soul longed for the

gratification. Not a word, however, in his grace's note alluded to

the fact of his being a married man; if he went at all, he must go

alone. This necessity would have presented no insurmountable bar to

the visit, or have militated much against the pleasure, had he been

able to go without any reference to Mrs. Proudie. But this he could

not do. He could not order his portmanteau to be packed and start

with his own man, merely telling the lady of his heart that he would

probably be back on Saturday. There are men--may we not rather say

monsters?--who do such things, and there are wives--may we not rather

say slaves?--who put up with such usage. But Dr. and Mrs. Proudie

were not among the number.

The bishop, with some beating about the bush, made the lady

understand that he very much wished to go. The lady, without any

beating about the bush, made the bishop understand that she wouldn't

hear of it. It would be useless here to repeat the arguments that

were used on each side, and needless to record the result. Those

who are married will understand very well how the battle was lost

and won, and those who are single will never understand it till

they learn the lesson which experience alone can give. When Mrs.

Quiverful was shown into Mrs. Proudie's room, that lady had only

returned a few minutes from her lord. But before she left him she

had seen the answer to the archbishop's note written and sealed. No

wonder that her face was wreathed with smiles as she received Mrs.

Quiverful.

She instantly spoke of the subject which was so near the heart of her

visitor. "Well, Mrs. Quiverful," said she, "is it decided yet when

you are to move into Barchester?"

"That woman," as she had an hour or two since been called, became

instantly re-endowed with all the graces that can adorn a bishop's

wife. Mrs. Quiverful immediately saw that her business was to be

piteous, and that nothing was to be gained by indignation--nothing,

indeed, unless she could be indignant in company with her patroness.

"Oh, Mrs. Proudie," she began, "I fear we are not to move to

Barchester at all."

"Why not?" said that lady sharply, dropping at a moment's notice her

smiles and condescension, and turning with her sharp quick way to

business which she saw at a glance was important.

And then Mrs. Quiverful told her tale. As she progressed in the

history of her wrongs she perceived that the heavier she leant upon

Mr. Slope the blacker became Mrs. Proudie's brow, but that such

blackness was not injurious to her own case. When Mr. Slope was

at Puddingdale Vicarage that morning she had regarded him as the

creature of the lady-bishop; now she perceived that they were

enemies. She admitted her mistake to herself without any pain or

humiliation. She had but one feeling, and that was confined to her

family. She cared little how she twisted and turned among these

new-comers at the bishop's palace so long as she could twist her

husband into the warden's house. She cared not which was her friend

or which was her enemy, if only she could get this preferment which

she so sorely wanted.

She told her tale, and Mrs. Proudie listened to it almost in silence.

She told how Mr. Slope had cozened her husband into resigning his

claim, and had declared that it was the bishop's will that none but

Mr. Harding should be warden. Mrs. Proudie's brow became blacker

and blacker. At last she started from her chair and, begging Mrs.

Quiverful to sit and wait for her return, marched out of the room.

"Oh, Mrs. Proudie, it's for fourteen children--for fourteen

children." Such was the burden that fell on her ear as she closed

the door behind her.