CHAPTER XXXVIII

The Bishop Sits Down to Breakfast, and the Dean Dies

The Bishop of Barchester said grace over the well-spread board in the

Ullathorne dining-room; while he did so, the last breath was flying

from the Dean of Barchester as he lay in his sick room in the deanery.

When the Bishop of Barchester raised his first glass of champagne to

his lips, the deanship of Barchester was a good thing in the gift

of the prime minister. Before the Bishop of Barchester had left the

table, the minister of the day was made aware of the fact at his

country-seat in Hampshire, and had already turned over in his mind the

names of five very respectable aspirants for the preferment. It is at

present only necessary to say that Mr. Slope's name was not among the

five.

"'Twas merry in the hall when the beards wagged all," and the clerical

beards wagged merrily in the hall of Ullathorne that day. It was

not till after the last cork had been drawn, the last speech made,

the last nut cracked, that tidings reached and were whispered about

that the poor dean was no more. It was well for the happiness of

the clerical beards that this little delay took place, as otherwise

decency would have forbidden them to wag at all.

But there was one sad man among them that day. Mr. Arabin's beard

did not wag as it should have done. He had come there hoping the

best, striving to think the best, about Eleanor; turning over in his

mind all the words he remembered to have fallen from her about Mr.

Slope, and trying to gather from them a conviction unfavourable to

his rival. He had not exactly resolved to come that day to some

decisive proof as to the widow's intention, but he had meant, if

possible, to recultivate his friendship with Eleanor, and in his

present frame of mind any such recultivation must have ended in a

declaration of love.

He had passed the previous night alone at his new parsonage, and it

was the first night that he had so passed. It had been dull and sombre

enough. Mrs. Grantly had been right in saying that a priestess would

be wanting at St. Ewold's. He had sat there alone with his glass

before him, and then with his tea-pot, thinking about Eleanor Bold.

As is usual in such meditations, he did little but blame her; blame

her for liking Mr. Slope, and blame her for not liking him; blame

her for her cordiality to himself, and blame her for her want of

cordiality; blame her for being stubborn, headstrong, and passionate;

and yet the more he thought of her the higher she rose in his

affection. If only it should turn out, if only it could be made to

turn out, that she had defended Mr. Slope, not from love, but on

principle, all would be right. Such principle in itself would be

admirable, lovable, womanly; he felt that he could be pleased to

allow Mr. Slope just so much favour as that. But if--And then Mr.

Arabin poked his fire most unnecessarily, spoke crossly to his new

parlour-maid who came in for the tea-things, and threw himself back in

his chair determined to go to sleep. Why had she been so stiff-necked

when asked a plain question? She could not but have known in what

light he regarded her. Why had she not answered a plain question and

so put an end to his misery? Then, instead of going to sleep in his

armchair, Mr. Arabin walked about the room as though he had been

possessed.

On the following morning, when he attended Miss Thorne's behests, he

was still in a somewhat confused state. His first duty had been to

converse with Mrs. Clantantram, and that lady had found it impossible

to elicit the slightest sympathy from him on the subject of her

roquelaure. Miss Thorne had asked him whether Mrs. Bold was coming

with the Grantlys, and the two names of Bold and Grantly together had

nearly made him jump from his seat.

He was in this state of confused uncertainty, hope, and doubt, when he

saw Mr. Slope, with his most polished smile, handing Eleanor out of

her carriage. He thought of nothing more. He never considered whether

the carriage belonged to her or to Mr. Slope, or to anyone else to

whom they might both be mutually obliged without any concert between

themselves. This sight in his present state of mind was quite enough

to upset him and his resolves. It was clear as noon-day. Had he seen

her handed into a carriage by Mr. Slope at a church door with a white

veil over her head, the truth could not be more manifest. He went into

the house and, as we have seen, soon found himself walking with Mr.

Harding. Shortly afterwards Eleanor came up, and then he had to leave

his companion and either go about alone or find another. While in this

state he was encountered by the archdeacon.

"I wonder," said Dr. Grantly, "if it be true that Mr. Slope and Mrs.

Bold came here together. Susan says she is almost sure she saw their

faces in the same carriage as she got out of her own."

Mr. Arabin had nothing for it but to bear his testimony to the

correctness of Mrs. Grantly's eyesight.

"It is perfectly shameful," said the archdeacon; "or, I should

rather say, shameless. She was asked here as my guest, and if she be

determined to disgrace herself, she should have feeling enough not to

do so before my immediate friends. I wonder how that man got himself

invited. I wonder whether she had the face to bring him."

To this Mr. Arabin could answer nothing, nor did he wish to answer

anything. Though he abused Eleanor to himself, he did not choose to

abuse her to anyone else, nor was he well-pleased to hear anyone else

speak ill of her. Dr. Grantly, however, was very angry and did not

spare his sister-in-law. Mr. Arabin therefore left him as soon as he

could and wandered back into the house.

He had not been there long when the signora was brought in. For some

time he kept himself out of temptation, and merely hovered round her

at a distance; but as soon as Mr. Thorne had left her, he yielded

himself up to the basilisk and allowed himself to be made prey of.

It is impossible to say how the knowledge had been acquired, but the

signora had a sort of instinctive knowledge that Mr. Arabin was an

admirer of Mrs. Bold. Men hunt foxes by the aid of dogs, and are

aware that they do so by the strong organ of smell with which the

dog is endowed. They do not, however, in the least comprehend how

such a sense can work with such acuteness. The organ by which women

instinctively, as it were, know and feel how other women are regarded

by men, and how also men are regarded by other women, is equally

strong, and equally incomprehensible. A glance, a word, a motion,

suffices: by some such acute exercise of her feminine senses the

signora was aware that Mr. Arabin loved Eleanor Bold; therefore, by a

further exercise of her peculiar feminine propensities, it was quite

natural for her to entrap Mr. Arabin into her net.

The work was half-done before she came to Ullathorne, and when could

she have a better opportunity of completing it? She had had almost

enough of Mr. Slope, though she could not quite resist the fun of

driving a very sanctimonious clergyman to madness by a desperate

and ruinous passion. Mr. Thorne had fallen too easily to give much

pleasure in the chase. His position as a man of wealth might make

his alliance of value, but as a lover he was very second-rate. We

may say that she regarded him somewhat as a sportsman does a pheasant.

The bird is so easily shot that he would not be worth the shooting

were it not for the very respectable appearance that he makes in a

larder. The signora would not waste much time in shooting Mr. Thorne,

but still he was worth bagging for family uses.

But Mr. Arabin was game of another sort. The signora was herself

possessed of quite sufficient intelligence to know that Mr. Arabin

was a man more than usually intellectual. She knew also that, as a

clergyman, he was of a much higher stamp than Mr. Slope and that, as

a gentleman, he was better educated than Mr. Thorne. She would never

have attempted to drive Mr. Arabin into ridiculous misery as she did

Mr. Slope, nor would she think it possible to dispose of him in ten

minutes as she had done with Mr. Thorne.

Such were her reflexions about Mr. Arabin. As to Mr. Arabin, it

cannot be said that he reflected at all about the signora. He knew

that she was beautiful, and he felt that she was able to charm him.

He required charming in his present misery, and therefore he went

and stood at the head of her couch. She knew all about it. Such

were her peculiar gifts. It was her nature to see that he required

charming, and it was her province to charm him. As the Eastern idler

swallows his dose of opium, as the London reprobate swallows his

dose of gin, so with similar desires and for similar reasons did Mr.

Arabin prepare to swallow the charms of the Signora Neroni.

"Why an't you shooting with bows and arrows, Mr. Arabin?" said she,

when they were nearly alone together in the drawing-room, "or talking

with young ladies in shady bowers, or turning your talents to account

in some way? What was a bachelor like you asked here for? Don't you

mean to earn your cold chicken and champagne? Were I you, I should

be ashamed to be so idle."

Mr. Arabin murmured some sort of answer. Though he wished to be

charmed, he was hardly yet in a mood to be playful in return.

"Why what ails you, Mr. Arabin?" said she. "Here you are in your own

parish--Miss Thorne tells me that her party is given expressly in

your honour--and yet you are the only dull man at it. Your friend

Mr. Slope was with me a few minutes since, full of life and spirits;

why don't you rival him?"

It was not difficult for so acute an observer as Madeline Neroni to

see that she had hit the nail on the head and driven the bolt home.

Mr. Arabin winced visibly before her attack, and she knew at once

that he was jealous of Mr. Slope.

"But I look on you and Mr. Slope as the very antipodes of men," said

she. "There is nothing in which you are not each the reverse of the

other, except in belonging to the same profession--and even in that

you are so unlike as perfectly to maintain the rule. He is gregarious;

you are given to solitude. He is active; you are passive. He works;

you think. He likes women; you despise them. He is fond of position

and power; and so are you, but for directly different reasons. He

loves to be praised; you very foolishly abhor it. He will gain his

rewards, which will be an insipid, useful wife, a comfortable income,

and a reputation for sanctimony; you will also gain yours."

"Well, and what will they be?" said Mr. Arabin, who knew that he was

being flattered and yet suffered himself to put up with it. "What will

be my rewards?"

"The heart of some woman whom you will be too austere to own that you

love, and the respect of some few friends which you will be too proud

to own that you value."

"Rich rewards," said he; "but of little worth, if they are to be so

treated."

"Oh, you are not to look for such success as awaits Mr. Slope. He is

born to be a successful man. He suggests to himself an object and

then starts for it with eager intention. Nothing will deter him from

his pursuit. He will have no scruples, no fears, no hesitation. His

desire is to be a bishop with a rising family--the wife will come

first, and in due time the apron. You will see all this, and then--"

"Well, and what then?"

"Then you will begin to wish that you had done the same."

Mr. Arabin looked placidly out at the lawn and, resting his shoulder

on the head of the sofa, rubbed his chin with his hand. It was a trick

he had when he was thinking deeply, and what the signora said made him

think. Was it not all true? Would he not hereafter look back, if not

at Mr. Slope, at some others, perhaps not equally gifted with himself,

who had risen in the world while he had lagged behind, and then wish

that he had done the same?

"Is not such the doom of all speculative men of talent?" said she.

"Do they not all sit wrapt as you now are, cutting imaginary silken

cords with their fine edges, while those not so highly tempered sever

the everyday Gordian knots of the world's struggle and win wealth and

renown? Steel too highly polished, edges too sharp, do not do for

this world's work, Mr. Arabin."

Who was this woman that thus read the secrets of his heart and

re-uttered to him the unwelcome bodings of his own soul? He looked

full into her face when she had done speaking and said, "Am I one of

those foolish blades, too sharp and too fine to do a useful day's

work?"

"Why do you let the Slopes of the world outdistance you?" said she.

"Is not the blood in your veins as warm as his? Does not your pulse

beat as fast? Has not God made you a man and intended you to do a

man's work here, ay, and to take a man's wages also?"

Mr. Arabin sat ruminating, rubbing his face, and wondering why these

things were said to him, but he replied nothing. The signora went

on:

"The greatest mistake any man ever made is to suppose that the good

things of the world are not worth the winning. And it is a mistake

so opposed to the religion which you preach! Why does God permit

his bishops one after another to have their five thousands and ten

thousands a year if such wealth be bad and not worth having? Why are

beautiful things given to us, and luxuries and pleasant enjoyments,

if they be not intended to be used? They must be meant for someone,

and what is good for a layman surely cannot be bad for a clerk. You

try to despise these good things, but you only try--you don't

succeed."

"Don't I?" said Mr. Arabin, still musing, not knowing what he said.

"I ask you the question: do you succeed?"

Mr. Arabin looked at her piteously. It seemed to him as though he

were being interrogated by some inner spirit of his own, to whom he

could not refuse an answer, and to whom he did not dare to give a

false reply.

"Come, Mr. Arabin, confess; do you succeed? Is money so contemptible?

Is worldly power so worthless? Is feminine beauty a trifle to be so

slightly regarded by a wise man?"

"Feminine beauty!" said he, gazing into her face, as though all the

feminine beauty in the world were concentrated there. "Why do you say

I do not regard it?"

"If you look at me like that, Mr. Arabin, I shall alter my

opinion--or should do so, were I not of course aware that I have no

beauty of my own worth regarding."

The gentleman blushed crimson, but the lady did not blush at all. A

slightly increased colour animated her face, just so much so as to

give her an air of special interest. She expected a compliment from

her admirer, but she was rather gratified than otherwise by finding

that he did not pay it to her. Messrs. Slope and Thorne, Messrs.

Brown, Jones, and Robinson, they all paid her compliments. She was

rather in hopes that she would ultimately succeed in inducing Mr.

Arabin to abuse her.

"But your gaze," said she, "is one of wonder, not of admiration. You

wonder at my audacity in asking you such questions about yourself."

"Well, I do rather," said he.

"Nevertheless, I expect an answer, Mr. Arabin. Why were women made

beautiful if men are not to regard them?"

"But men do regard them," he replied.

"And why not you?"

"You are begging the question, Madame Neroni."

"I am sure I shall beg nothing, Mr. Arabin, which you will not grant,

and I do beg for an answer. Do you not as a rule think women below

your notice as companions? Let us see. There is the Widow Bold looking

round at you from her chair this minute. What would you say to her as

a companion for life?"

Mr. Arabin, rising from his position, leaned over the sofa and looked

through the drawing-room door to the place where Eleanor was seated

between Bertie Stanhope and Mr. Slope. She at once caught his glance

and averted her own. She was not pleasantly placed in her present

position. Mr. Slope was doing his best to attract her attention, and

she was striving to prevent his doing so by talking to Mr. Stanhope,

while her mind was intently fixed on Mr. Arabin and Madame Neroni.

Bertie Stanhope endeavoured to take advantage of her favours, but he

was thinking more of the manner in which he would by and by throw

himself at her feet than of amusing her at the present moment.

"There," said the signora. "She was stretching her beautiful neck

to look at you, and now you have disturbed her. Well, I declare I

believe I am wrong about you; I believe that you do think Mrs. Bold a

charming woman. Your looks seem to say so, and by her looks I should

say that she is jealous of me. Come, Mr. Arabin, confide in me, and

if it is so, I'll do all in my power to make up the match."

It is needless to say that the signora was not very sincere in her

offer. She was never sincere on such subjects. She never expected

others to be so, nor did she expect others to think her so. Such

matters were her playthings, her billiard table, her hounds and

hunters, her waltzes and polkas, her picnics and summer-day

excursions. She had little else to amuse her, and therefore played

at love-making in all its forms. She was now playing at it with Mr.

Arabin, and did not at all expect the earnestness and truth of his

answer.

"All in your power would be nothing," said he, "for Mrs. Bold is, I

imagine, already engaged to another."

"Then you own the impeachment yourself."

"You cross-question me rather unfairly," he replied, "and I do not

know why I answer you at all. Mrs. Bold is a very beautiful woman,

and as intelligent as beautiful. It is impossible to know her without

admiring her."

"So you think the widow a very beautiful woman?"

"Indeed I do."

"And one that would grace the parsonage of St. Ewold's."

"One that would well grace any man's house."

"And you really have the effrontery to tell me this," said she; "to

tell me, who, as you very well know, set up to be a beauty myself, and

who am at this very moment taking such an interest in your affairs,

you really have the effrontery to tell me that Mrs. Bold is the most

beautiful woman you know."

"I did not say so," said Mr. Arabin; "you are more beautiful--"

"Ah, come now, that is something like. I thought you could not be so

unfeeling."

"You are more beautiful, perhaps more clever."

"Thank you, thank you, Mr. Arabin. I knew that you and I should be

friends."

"But--"

"Not a word further. I will not hear a word further. If you talk till

midnight you cannot improve what you have said."

"But Madame Neroni, Mrs. Bold--"

"I will not hear a word about Mrs. Bold. Dread thoughts of strychnine

did pass across my brain, but she is welcome to the second place."

"Her place--"

"I won't hear anything about her or her place. I am satisfied, and

that is enough. But Mr. Arabin, I am dying with hunger; beautiful and

clever as I am, you know I cannot go to my food, and yet you do not

bring it to me."

This at any rate was so true as to make it necessary that Mr. Arabin

should act upon it, and he accordingly went into the dining-room and

supplied the signora's wants.

"And yourself?" said she.

"Oh," said he, "I am not hungry. I never eat at this hour."

"Come, come, Mr. Arabin, don't let love interfere with your appetite.

It never does with mine. Give me half a glass more champagne and

then go to the table. Mrs. Bold will do me an injury if you stay

talking to me any longer."

Mr. Arabin did as he was bid. He took her plate and glass from her

and, going into the dining-room, helped himself to a sandwich from

the crowded table and began munching it in a corner.

As he was doing so Miss Thorne, who had hardly sat down for a moment,

came into the room and, seeing him standing, was greatly distressed.

"Oh, my dear Mr. Arabin," said she, "have you never sat down yet?

I am so distressed. You of all men, too."

Mr. Arabin assured her that he had only just come into the room.

"That is the very reason why you should lose no more time. Come, I'll

make room for you. Thank'ee, my dear," she said, seeing that Mrs.

Bold was making an attempt to move from her chair, "but I would not

for worlds see you stir, for all the ladies would think it necessary

to follow. But, perhaps, if Mr. Stanhope has done--just for a minute,

Mr. Stanhope, till I can get another chair."

And so Bertie had to rise to make way for his rival. This he did, as

he did everything, with an air of good-humoured pleasantry which made

it impossible for Mr. Arabin to refuse the proffered seat.

"His bishopric let another take," said Bertie, the quotation being

certainly not very appropriate either for the occasion or the person

spoken to. "I have eaten and am satisfied; Mr. Arabin, pray take my

chair. I wish for your sake that it really was a bishop's seat."

Mr. Arabin did sit down, and as he did so Mrs. Bold got up as though

to follow her neighbour.

"Pray, pray don't move," said Miss Thorne, almost forcing Eleanor

back into her chair. "Mr. Stanhope is not going to leave us. He will

stand behind you like a true knight as he is. And now I think of it,

Mr. Arabin, let me introduce you to Mr. Slope. Mr. Slope, Mr. Arabin."

And the two gentlemen bowed stiffly to each other across the lady

whom they both intended to marry, while the other gentleman who also

intended to marry her stood behind, watching them.

The two had never met each other before, and the present was certainly

not a good opportunity for much cordial conversation, even if cordial

conversation between them had been possible. As it was, the whole four

who formed the party seemed as though their tongues were tied. Mr.

Slope, who was wide awake to what he hoped was his coming opportunity,

was not much concerned in the interest of the moment. His wish was to

see Eleanor move, that he might pursue her. Bertie was not exactly

in the same frame of mind; the evil day was near enough; there was

no reason why he should precipitate it. He had made up his mind to

marry Eleanor Bold if he could, and was resolved to-day to take the

first preliminary step towards doing so. But there was time enough

before him. He was not going to make an offer of marriage over the

table-cloth. Having thus good-naturedly made way for Mr. Arabin, he

was willing also to let him talk to the future Mrs. Stanhope as long

as they remained in their present position.

Mr. Arabin, having bowed to Mr. Slope, began eating his food without

saying a word further. He was full of thought, and though he ate he

did so unconsciously.

But poor Eleanor was the most to be pitied. The only friend on whom

she thought she could rely was Bertie Stanhope, and he, it seemed,

was determined to desert her. Mr. Arabin did not attempt to address

her. She said a few words in reply to some remarks from Mr. Slope

and then, feeling the situation too much for her, started from her

chair in spite of Miss Thorne and hurried from the room. Mr. Slope

followed her, and young Stanhope lost the occasion.

Madeline Neroni, when she was left alone, could not help pondering

much on the singular interview she had had with this singular man.

Not a word that she had spoken to him had been intended by her to be

received as true, and yet he had answered her in the very spirit of

truth. He had done so, and she had been aware that he had so done.

She had wormed from him his secret, and he, debarred as it would seem

from man's usual privilege of lying, had innocently laid bare his

whole soul to her. He loved Eleanor Bold, but Eleanor was not in

his eye so beautiful as herself. He would fain have Eleanor for his

wife, but yet he had acknowledged that she was the less gifted of the

two. The man had literally been unable to falsify his thoughts when

questioned, and had been compelled to be true _malgré lui_, even when

truth must have been so disagreeable to him.

This teacher of men, this Oxford pundit, this double-distilled

quintessence of university perfection, this writer of religious

treatises, this speaker of ecclesiastical speeches, had been like a

little child in her hands; she had turned him inside out and read his

very heart as she might have done that of a young girl. She could not

but despise him for his facile openness, and yet she liked him for it,

too. It was a novelty to her, a new trait in a man's character. She

felt also that she could never so completely make a fool of him as she

did of the Slopes and Thornes. She felt that she never could induce

Mr. Arabin to make protestations to her that were not true, or to

listen to nonsense that was mere nonsense.

It was quite clear that Mr. Arabin was heartily in love with Mrs.

Bold; and the signora, with very unwonted good nature, began to turn

it over in her mind whether she could not do him a good turn. Of

course Bertie was to have the first chance. It was an understood

family arrangement that her brother was, if possible, to marry the

Widow Bold. Madeline knew too well his necessities and what was due

to her sister to interfere with so excellent a plan, as long as it

might be feasible. But she had strong suspicion that it was not

feasible. She did not think it likely that Mrs. Bold would accept

a man in her brother's position, and she had frequently said so

to Charlotte. She was inclined to believe that Mr. Slope had more

chance of success, and with her it would be a labour of love to rob

Mr. Slope of his wife.

And so the signora resolved, should Bertie fail, to do a good-natured

act for once in her life and give up Mr. Arabin to the woman whom he

loved.