CHAPTER XXXV

Miss Thorne's Fête Champêtre

The day of the Ullathorne party arrived, and all the world were

there--or at least so much of the world as had been included in Miss

Thorne's invitation. As we have said, the bishop returned home on

the previous evening, and on the same evening and by the same train

came Dr. Gwynne and Mr. Arabin from Oxford. The archdeacon with his

brougham was in waiting for the Master of Lazarus, so that there was

a goodly show of church dignitaries on the platform of the railway.

The Stanhope party was finally arranged in the odious manner already

described, and Eleanor got into the doctor's carriage full of

apprehension and presentiment of further misfortune, whereas Mr.

Slope entered the vehicle elate with triumph.

He had received that morning a very civil note from Sir Nicholas

Fitzwhiggin, not promising much, indeed, but then Mr. Slope knew,

or fancied that he knew, that it was not etiquette for government

officers to make promises. Though Sir Nicholas promised nothing he

implied a good deal, declared his conviction that Mr. Slope would

make an excellent dean, and wished him every kind of success. To be

sure he added that, not being in the cabinet, he was never consulted

on such matters, and that even if he spoke on the subject, his voice

would go for nothing. But all this Mr. Slope took for the prudent

reserve of official life. To complete his anticipated triumphs,

another letter was brought to him just as he was about to start to

Ullathorne.

Mr. Slope also enjoyed the idea of handing Mrs. Bold out of Dr.

Stanhope's carriage before the multitude at Ullathorne gate as much

as Eleanor dreaded the same ceremony. He had fully made up his mind

to throw himself and his fortune at the widow's feet, and had almost

determined to select the present propitious morning for doing so.

The signora had of late been less than civil to him. She had indeed

admitted his visits and listened, at any rate without anger, to his

love, but she had tortured him and reviled him, jeered at him and

ridiculed him, while she allowed him to call her the most beautiful

of living women, to kiss her hand, and to proclaim himself with

reiterated oaths her adorer, her slave and worshipper.

Miss Thorne was in great perturbation, yet in great glory, on the

morning of the gala day. Mr. Thorne also, though the party was none

of his giving, had much heavy work on his hands. But perhaps the

most overtasked, the most anxious, and the most effective of all the

Ullathorne household was Mr. Plomacy, the steward. This last personage

had, in the time of Mr. Thorne's father, when the Directory held

dominion in France, gone over to Paris with letters in his boot-heel

for some of the royal party, and such had been his good luck that

he had returned safe. He had then been very young and was now very

old, but the exploit gave him a character for political enterprise

and secret discretion which still availed him as thoroughly as it

had done in its freshest gloss. Mr. Plomacy had been steward of

Ullathorne for more than fifty years, and a very easy life he had had

of it. Who could require much absolute work from a man who had carried

safely at his heel that which, if discovered, would have cost him

his head? Consequently Mr. Plomacy had never worked hard, and of

latter years had never worked at all. He had a taste for timber, and

therefore he marked the trees that were to be cut down; he had a taste

for gardening, and would therefore allow no shrub to be planted or

bed to be made without his express sanction. In these matters he was

sometimes driven to run counter to his mistress, but he rarely allowed

his mistress to carry the point against him.

But on occasions such as the present Mr. Plomacy came out strong. He

had the honour of the family at heart; he thoroughly appreciated the

duties of hospitality; and therefore, when gala doings were going on,

he always took the management into his own hands and reigned supreme

over master and mistress.

To give Mr. Plomacy his due, old as he was, he thoroughly understood

such work as he had in hand, and did it well.

The order of the day was to be as follows. The quality, as the upper

classes in rural districts are designated by the lower with so much

true discrimination, were to eat a breakfast, and the non-quality

were to eat a dinner. Two marquees had been erected for these two

banquets: that for the quality on the esoteric or garden side of a

certain deep ha-ha; and that for the non-quality on the exoteric or

paddock side of the same. Both were of huge dimensions--that on the

outer side was, one may say, on an egregious scale--but Mr. Plomacy

declared that neither would be sufficient. To remedy this, an

auxiliary banquet was prepared in the dining-room, and a subsidiary

board was to be spread _sub dio_ for the accommodation of the lower

class of yokels on the Ullathorne property.

No one who has not had a hand in the preparation of such an affair

can understand the manifold difficulties which Miss Thorne encountered

in her project. Had she not been made throughout of the very finest

whalebone, riveted with the best Yorkshire steel, she must have sunk

under them. Had not Mr. Plomacy felt how much was justly expected from

a man who at one time carried the destinies of Europe in his boot,

he would have given way, and his mistress, so deserted, must have

perished among her poles and canvas.

In the first place there was a dreadful line to be drawn. Who were

to dispose themselves within the ha-ha, and who without? To this

the unthinking will give an off-hand answer, as they will to every

ponderous question. Oh, the bishop and such-like within the ha-ha,

and Farmer Greenacre and such-like without. True, my unthinking

friend, but who shall define these such-likes? It is in such

definitions that the whole difficulty of society consists. To seat

the bishop on an arm-chair on the lawn and place Farmer Greenacre at

the end of a long table in the paddock is easy enough, but where will

you put Mrs. Lookaloft, whose husband, though a tenant on the estate,

hunts in a red coat, whose daughters go to a fashionable seminary

in Barchester, who calls her farm-house Rosebank, and who has a

pianoforte in her drawing-room? The Misses Lookaloft, as they call

themselves, won't sit contented among the bumpkins. Mrs. Lookaloft

won't squeeze her fine clothes on a bench and talk familiarly about

cream and ducklings to good Mrs. Greenacre. And yet Mrs. Lookaloft

is no fit companion and never has been the associate of the Thornes

and the Grantlys. And if Mrs. Lookaloft be admitted within the

sanctum of fashionable life, if she be allowed with her three

daughters to leap the ha-ha, why not the wives and daughters of other

families also? Mrs. Greenacre is at present well contented with the

paddock, but she might cease to be so if she saw Mrs. Lookaloft on

the lawn. And thus poor Miss Thorne had a hard time of it.

And how was she to divide her guests between the marquee and the

parlour? She had a countess coming, an Honourable John and an

Honourable George, and a whole bevy of Ladies Amelia, Rosina,

Margaretta, &c; she had a leash of baronets with their baronettes;

and, as we all know, she had a bishop. If she put them on the lawn,

no one would go into the parlour; if she put them into the parlour,

no one would go into the tent. She thought of keeping the old people

in the house and leaving the lawn to the lovers. She might as well

have seated herself at once in a hornet's nest. Mr. Plomacy knew

better than this. "Bless your soul, ma'am," said he, "there won't be

no old ladies--not one, barring yourself and old Mrs. Clantantram."

Personally Miss Thorne accepted this distinction in her favour as a

compliment to her good sense, but nevertheless she had no desire to

be closeted on the coming occasion with Mrs. Clantantram. She gave

up all idea of any arbitrary division of her guests and determined if

possible to put the bishop on the lawn and the countess in the house,

to sprinkle the baronets, and thus divide the attractions. What to

do with the Lookalofts even Mr. Plomacy could not decide. They must

take their chance. They had been specially told in the invitation

that all the tenants had been invited, and they might probably have

the good sense to stay away if they objected to mix with the rest of

the tenantry.

Then Mr. Plomacy declared his apprehension that the Honourable Johns

and Honourable Georges would come in a sort of amphibious costume,

half-morning, half-evening, satin neck-handkerchiefs, frock-coats,

primrose gloves, and polished boots; and that, being so dressed, they

would decline riding at the quintain, or taking part in any of the

athletic games which Miss Thorne had prepared with so much fond care.

If the Lord Johns and Lord Georges didn't ride at the quintain, Miss

Thorne might be sure that nobody else would.

"But," said she in dolorous voice, all but overcome by her cares, "it

was specially signified that there were to be sports."

"And so there will be, of course," said Mr. Plomacy. "They'll all be

sporting with the young ladies in the laurel walks. Them's the sports

they care most about now-a-days. If you gets the young men at the

quintain, you'll have all the young women in the pouts."

"Can't they look on as their great grandmothers did before them?" said

Miss Thorne.

"It seems to me that the ladies ain't contented with looking

now-a-days. Whatever the men do they'll do. If you'll have

side-saddles on the nags; and let them go at the quintain too, it'll

answer capital, no doubt."

Miss Thorne made no reply. She felt that she had no good ground on

which to defend her sex of the present generation from the sarcasm

of Mr. Plomacy. She had once declared, in one of her warmer moments,

"that now-a-days the gentlemen were all women, and the ladies all

men." She could not alter the debased character of the age. But,

such being the case, why should she take on herself to cater for the

amusement of people of such degraded tastes? This question she asked

herself more than once, and she could only answer herself with a

sigh. There was her own brother Wilfred, on whose shoulders rested

all the ancient honours of Ullathorne house; it was very doubtful

whether even he would consent to "go at the quintain," as Mr. Plomacy

not injudiciously expressed it.

And now the morning arrived. The Ullathorne household was early on

the move. Cooks were cooking in the kitchen long before daylight,

and men were dragging out tables and hammering red baize on to

benches at the earliest dawn. With what dread eagerness did Miss

Thorne look out at the weather as soon as the parting veil of night

permitted her to look at all! In this respect, at any rate, there

was nothing to grieve her. The glass had been rising for the last

three days, and the morning broke with that dull, chill, steady,

grey haze which in autumn generally presages a clear and dry day.

By seven she was dressed and down. Miss Thorne knew nothing of the

modern luxury of _déshabilles_. She would as soon have thought of

appearing before her brother without her stockings as without her

stays--and Miss Thorne's stays were no trifle.

And yet there was nothing for her to do when down. She fidgeted out

to the lawn and then back into the kitchen. She put on her high-heeled

clogs and fidgeted out into the paddock. Then she went into the small

home park where the quintain was erected. The pole and cross-bar and

the swivel and the target and the bag of flour were all complete. She

got up on a carpenter's bench and touched the target with her hand;

it went round with beautiful ease; the swivel had been oiled to

perfection. She almost wished to take old Plomacy at his word, to get

on a side-saddle and have a tilt at it herself. What must a young man

be, thought she, who could prefer maundering among laurel trees with a

wishy-washy school-girl to such fun as this? "Well," said she aloud to

herself, "one man can take a horse to water, but a thousand can't make

him drink. There it is. If they haven't the spirit to enjoy it, the

fault shan't be mine;" and so she returned to the house.

At a little after eight her brother came down, and they had a sort of

scrap breakfast in his study. The tea was made without the customary

urn, and they dispensed with the usual rolls and toast. Eggs also

were missing, for every egg in the parish had been whipped into

custards, baked into pies, or boiled into lobster salad. The allowance

of fresh butter was short, and Mr. Thorne was obliged to eat the leg

of a fowl without having it devilled in the manner he loved.

"I have been looking at the quintain, Wilfred," said she, "and it

appears to be quite right."

"Oh--ah, yes," said he. "It seemed to be so yesterday when I saw

it." Mr. Thorne was beginning to be rather bored by his sister's

love of sports, and had especially no affection for this quintain

post.

"I wish you'd just try it after breakfast," said she. "You could

have the saddle put on Mark Antony, and the pole is there all handy.

You can take the flour bag off, you know, if you think Mark Antony

won't be quick enough," added Miss Thorne, seeing that her brother's

countenance was not indicative of complete accordance with her little

proposition.

Now Mark Antony was a valuable old hunter, excellently suited to

Mr. Thorne's usual requirements, steady indeed at his fences, but

extremely sure, very good in deep ground, and safe on the roads. But

he had never yet been ridden at a quintain, and Mr. Thorne was not

inclined to put him to the trial, either with or without the bag of

flour. He hummed and hawed and finally declared that he was afraid

Mark Antony would shy.

"Then try the cob," said the indefatigable Miss Thorne.

"He's in physic," said Wilfred.

"There's the Beelzebub colt," said his sister. "I know he's in the

stable because I saw Peter exercising him just now."

"My dear Monica, he's so wild that it's as much as I can do to manage

him at all. He'd destroy himself and me, too, if I attempted to ride

him at such a rattletrap as that."

A rattletrap! The quintain that she had put up with so much anxious

care; the game that she had prepared for the amusement of the

stalwart yeomen of the country; the sport that had been honoured by

the affection of so many of their ancestors! It cut her to the heart

to hear it so denominated by her own brother. There were but the two

of them left together in the world, and it had ever been one of the

rules by which Miss Thorne had regulated her conduct through life to

say nothing that could provoke her brother. She had often had to

suffer from his indifference to time-honoured British customs, but

she had always suffered in silence. It was part of her creed that

the head of the family should never be upbraided in his own house,

and Miss Thorne had lived up to her creed. Now, however, she was

greatly tried. The colour mounted to her ancient cheek, and the

fire blazed in her still bright eyes; but yet she said nothing. She

resolved that, at any rate, to him nothing more should be said about

the quintain that day.

She sipped her tea in silent sorrow and thought with painful

regret of the glorious days when her great ancestor Ealfried had

successfully held Ullathorne against a Norman invader. There was no

such spirit now left in her family except that small useless spark

which burnt in her own bosom. And she herself, was not she at this

moment intent on entertaining a descendant of those very Normans,

a vain proud countess with a Frenchified name who would only think

that she graced Ullathorne too highly by entering its portals? Was it

likely that an Honourable John, the son of an Earl De Courcy, should

ride at a quintain in company with Saxon yeomen? And why should

she expect her brother to do that which her brother's guests would

decline to do?

Some dim faint idea of the impracticability of her own views flitted

across her brain. Perhaps it was necessary that races doomed to live

on the same soil should give way to each other and adopt each other's

pursuits. Perhaps it was impossible that after more than five

centuries of close intercourse, Normans should remain Normans, and

Saxons, Saxons. Perhaps, after all, her neighbours were wiser than

herself. Such ideas did occasionally present themselves to Miss

Thorne's mind and make her sad enough. But it never occurred to

her that her favourite quintain was but a modern copy of a Norman

knight's amusement, an adaptation of the noble tourney to the tastes

and habits of the Saxon yeomen. Of this she was ignorant, and it

would have been cruelty to instruct her.

When Mr. Thorne saw the tear in her eye, he repented himself of his

contemptuous expression. By him also it was recognized as a binding

law that every whim of his sister was to be respected. He was not

perhaps so firm in his observances to her as she was in hers to him.

But his intentions were equally good, and whenever he found that he

had forgotten them, it was matter of grief to him.

"My dear Monica," said he, "I beg your pardon. I don't in the least

mean to speak ill of the game. When I called it a rattletrap, I

merely meant that it was so for a man of my age. You know you always

forget that I an't a young man."

"I am quite sure you are not an old man, Wilfred," said she,

accepting the apology in her heart and smiling at him with the tear

still on her cheek.

"If I was five-and-twenty, or thirty," continued he, "I should like

nothing better than riding at the quintain all day."

"But you are not too old to hunt or to shoot," said she. "If you can

jump over a ditch and hedge, I am sure you could turn the quintain

round."

"But when I ride over the hedges, my dear--and it isn't very often I

do that--but when I do ride over the hedges, there isn't any bag of

flour coming after me. Think how I'd look taking the countess out to

breakfast with the back of my head all covered with meal."

Miss Thorne said nothing further. She didn't like the allusion to

the countess. She couldn't be satisfied with the reflection that

the sports at Ullathorne should be interfered with by the personal

attentions necessary for a Lady De Courcy. But she saw that it was

useless for her to push the matter further. It was conceded that Mr.

Thorne was to be spared the quintain, and Miss Thorne determined to

trust wholly to a youthful knight of hers, an immense favourite, who,

as she often declared, was a pattern to the young men of the age and

an excellent sample of an English yeoman.

This was Farmer Greenacre's eldest son, who, to tell the truth, had

from his earliest years taken the exact measure of Miss Thorne's

foot. In his boyhood he had never failed to obtain from her apples,

pocket-money, and forgiveness for his numerous trespasses; and now in

his early manhood he got privileges and immunities which were equally

valuable. He was allowed a day or two's shooting in September; he

schooled the squire's horses; got slips of trees out of the orchard

and roots of flowers out of the garden; and had the fishing of the

little river altogether in his own hands. He had undertaken to come

mounted on a nag of his father's and show the way at the quintain

post. Whatever young Greenacre did the others would do after him.

The juvenile Lookalofts might stand aloof, but the rest of the youth

of Ullathorne would be sure to venture if Harry Greenacre showed the

way. And so Miss Thorne made up her mind to dispense with the noble

Johns and Georges and trust, as her ancestors had done before her, to

the thews and sinews of native Ullathorne growth.

At about nine the lower orders began to congregate in the paddock and

park, under the surveillance of Mr. Plomacy and the head gardener and

head groom, who were sworn in as his deputies and were to assist him

in keeping the peace and promoting the sports. Many of the younger

inhabitants of the neighbourhood, thinking that they could not have

too much of a good thing, had come at a very early hour, and the road

between the house and the church had been thronged for some time

before the gates were thrown open.

And then another difficulty of huge dimensions arose, a difficulty

which Mr. Plomacy had indeed foreseen and for which he was in some

sort provided. Some of those who wished to share Miss Thorne's

hospitality were not so particular as they should have been as to the

preliminary ceremony of an invitation. They doubtless conceived that

they had been overlooked by accident, and instead of taking this in

dudgeon, as their betters would have done, they good-naturedly put up

with the slight, and showed that they did so by presenting themselves

at the gate in their Sunday best.

Mr. Plomacy, however, well-knew who were welcome and who were not.

To some, even though uninvited, he allowed ingress. "Don't be too

particular, Plomacy," his mistress had said, "especially with the

children. If they live anywhere near, let them in."

Acting on this hint, Mr. Plomacy did let in many an eager urchin and

a few tidily dressed girls with their swains who in no way belonged

to the property. But to the denizens of the city he was inexorable.

Many a Barchester apprentice made his appearance there that day and

urged with piteous supplication that he had been working all the week

in making saddles and boots for the use of Ullathorne, in compounding

doses for the horses, or cutting up carcasses for the kitchen. No

such claim was allowed. Mr. Plomacy knew nothing about the city

apprentices; he was to admit the tenants and labourers on the estate;

Miss Thorne wasn't going to take in the whole city of Barchester; and

so on.

Nevertheless, before the day was half over, all this was found to be

useless. Almost anybody who chose to come made his way into the park,

and the care of the guardians was transferred to the tables on which

the banquet was spread. Even here there was many an unauthorised

claimant for a place, of whom it was impossible to get quit without

more commotion than the place and food were worth.