Barchester Towers
by
Anthony Trollope
Part 8 out of 11
Mr Pomney 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 deshabilles. 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 go on a side saddle, and have a tilt at it
herself.
What must a young man be, thought she, who could prefer maundering
among the 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 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 were also missing, for every egg in the parish had been
whipped into custards, baked into pies, or boiled into lobster
salad. The allowances 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 eye; 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 Normand, 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 the Earl de Courcy,
should ride at a quintain in company with a Saxon yeoman? 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 recognised 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 a 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 of 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 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 example 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 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 that 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
unauthorized claimant for a plate, of whom it was impossible to get
quit without some commotion than the place and food were worth.
CHAPTER XXXVI
ULLATHORNE SPORTS--ACT I
The trouble in civilised life of entertaining company, as it is
called too generally without much regard to strict veracity, is so
great that it cannot but be matter of wonder that people are so
fond of attempting it. It is difficult to ascertain what is the
quid pro quo. If they who give such laborious parties, and who
endure such toil and turmoil in the vain hope of giving them
successfully, really enjoyed the parties given by others, the
matter would be understood. A sense of justice would induce men and
women to undergo, in behalf of others, those miseries which others
had undergone on their behalf. But they all profess that going out
is as great a bore as receiving; and to look at them when they are
out, one cannot but believe them.
Entertain! Who shall have sufficient self-assurance, who shall feel
sufficient confidence in his own powers to dare to boast that he
can entertain his company? A clown can sometimes do so, and
sometimes a dancer in short petticoats and stuffed pink legs;
occasionally, perhaps, a singer. But beyond these, success in this
art of entertaining is not often achieved. Young men and girls
linking themselves kind with kind, pairing like birds in spring,
because nature wills it, they, after a simple fashion, do entertain
each other. Few others even try.
Ladies, when they open their houses, modestly confessing, it may be
presumed, their own incapacity, mainly trust to wax candles and
upholstery. Gentlemen seem to rely on their white waistcoats. To
these are added, for the delight of the more sensual, champagne and
such good things of the table as fashion allows to be still
considered as comestible. Even in this respect the world is
deteriorating. All the good soups are now tabooed; and at the
houses of one's accustomed friends, small barristers, doctors,
government clerks, and such like, (for we cannot all of us always
live as grandees, surrounded by an Elysium of livery servants), one
gets a cold potato handed to one as a sort of finale to one's slice
of mutton. Alas! for those happy days when one could say to one's
neighbourhood, 'Jones, shall I give you some mashed turnip--may I
trouble you for a little cabbage?' And then the pleasure of
drinking wine with Mrs Jones and Miss Smith; with all the Joneses
and all the Smiths! These latter-day habits are certainly more
economical.
Miss Thorne, however, boldly attempted to leave the modern beaten
track, and made a positive effort to entertain her guests. Alas!
she did so with but moderate success. They had all their own way of
going, and would not go her way. She piped to them, but they would
not dance. She offered to them good honest household cake, made of
currants and flour and eggs and sweetmeat; but they would feed
themselves on trashy wafers from the shop of the Barchester
pastry-cook, on chalk and gum and adulterated sugar. Poor Miss
Thorne! yours is not the first honest soul that has vainly striven
to recall the glories of happy days gone by! If fashion suggests to
a Lady De Courcy that when invited to a dejeuner at twelve o'clock
she ought to come at three, no eloquence of thine will teach her
the advantage of a nearer approach to punctuality.
She had fondly thought that when she called on her friends to come
at twelve, and especially begged them to believe that she meant it,
she would be able to see them comfortably seated in their tents at
two. Vain woman--or rather ignorant woman--ignorant of the advances
of that civilization which the world had witnessed while she was
growing old. At twelve she found herself alone, dressed in all the
glory of the newest of her many suits of raiment; with strong shoes
however, and a serviceable bonnet on her head, and a warm rich
shawl on her shoulders. Thus clad she peered out into the tent,
went to the ha-ha, and satisfied herself that at any rate the
youngsters were amusing themselves, spoke a word to Mrs Greenacre
over the ditch, and took one look at the quintain. Three or four
young farmers were turning the machine round and round, and poking
at the bag of flour in a manner not at all intended by the inventor
of the game; but no mounted sportsmen were there. Miss Thorne
looked at her watch. It was only fifteen minutes past twelve, and
it was understood that Harry Greenacre was not to begin till the
half hour.
Miss Thorne returned to her drawing-room rather quicker than her
wont, fearing that the countess might come and find none to welcome
her. She need not have hurried, for no one was there. At half-past
twelve she peeped into the kitchen; at a quarter to one she was
joined by her brother; and just then the first fashionable arrival
took place. Mrs Clantantram was announced.
No announcement was necessary, indeed; for the good lady's voice
was heard as she walked across the court-yard to the house scolding
the unfortunate postilion who had driven her from Barchester. At
the moment Miss Thorne could not but be thankful that the other
guests were more fashionable, and were thus spared the fury of Mrs
Clantantram's indignation.
'Oh, Miss Thorne, look here!' said she, as soon as she found
herself in the drawing-room; 'do look at my roquelaure! It's clean
spoilt, and for ever. I wouldn't but wear it because I know you
wished us all to be grand to-day; and yet I had my misgivings. Oh
dear, oh dear! It was five-and-twenty shillings a yard.'
The Barchester post horses had misbehaved in some unfortunate
manner just as Mrs Clantantram was getting out of the chaise and
had nearly thrown her under the wheel.
Mrs Clantantram belonged to other days, and therefore, though she
had but little else to recommend her, Miss Thorne was to a certain
extent fond of her. She sent the roquelaure away to be cleaned, and
lent her one of her best shawls out of her own wardrobe.
The next comer was Mr Arabin, who was immediately informed of Mrs
Clantantram's misfortune, and of her determination to pay neither
master nor post-boy; although, as she remarked, she intended to get
her lift home before she made known her mind upon that matter. Then
a good deal of rustling was heard in the sort of lobby that was
used for the ladies' outside cloaks; and the door having been
thrown wide open, the servant announced, not in the most confident
of voices, Mrs Lookaloft, and the Miss Lookalofts, and Mr Augustus
Lookaloft.
Poor man!--we mean the footman. He knew, none better, that Mrs
Lookaloft had no business there, that she was not wanted there, and
would not be welcome. But he had not the courage to tell a stout
lady with a low dress, short sleeves, and satin at eight shillings
a yard, that she had come to the wrong tent; he had not dared to
hint to young ladies with white dancing shoes and long gloves, that
there was a place ready for them in the paddock. And thus Mrs
Lookaloft carried her point, broke through the guards, and made her
way into the citadel. That she would have to pass an uncomfortable
time there, she had surmised before. But nothing now could rob her
of the power of boasting that she had consorted on the lawn with
the squire and Miss Thorne, with a countess, a bishop, and the
country grandees, while Mrs Greenacres and such like were walking
about with the ploughboys in the park. It was a great point gained
by Mrs Lookaloft, and it might be fairly expected that from this
time forward the tradesmen of Barchester would, with undoubting
pens, address her husband and T. Lookaloft, Esquire.
Mrs Lookaloft's pluck carried her through everything, and she
walked triumphant into the Ullathorne drawing-room; but her
children did feel a little abashed at the sort of reception they
met with. It was not in Miss Thorne's heart to insult her own
guests; but neither was it in her disposition to overlook such
effrontery.
'Oh, Mrs Lookaloft, is this you,' said she; 'and your daughters and
son? Well, we're very glad to see you; but I'm sorry you've come in
such low dresses, as we are all going out of doors. Could we lend
you anything?'
'Oh dear no! thank ye, Miss Thorne,' said the mother; 'the girls
and myself are quite used to low dresses, when we're out.'
'Are you, indeed?' said Miss Thorne shuddering; but the shudder was
not lost on Mrs Lookaloft.
'And where's Lookaloft,' said the master of the house, coming up to
welcome his tenant's wife. Let the faults of the family be what
they would, he could not but remember that their rent was well
paid; he was therefore not willing to give them a cold shoulder.
'Such a headache, Mr Thorne!' said Mrs Lookaloft. 'In fact he
couldn't stir, or you may be certain on such a day he would not
have absented himself.'
'Dear me,' said Miss Thorne. 'If he is so ill, I sure you'd wish to
be with him.'
'Not at all!' said Mrs Lookaloft. 'Not at all, Miss Thorne.
It is only bilious you know, and when he's that way he can bear
nobody nigh him.'
The fact however was that Mr Lookaloft, having either more sense or
less courage than his wife, had not chosen to intrude on Miss
Thorne's drawing-room; and as he could not very well have gone
among the plebeians while his wife was with the patricians, he
thought it most expedient to remain at Rosebank.
Mrs Lookaloft soon found herself on a sofa, and the Miss Lookalofts
on two chairs, while Mr Augustus stood near the door; and here they
remained till in due time they were seated all four together at the
bottom of the dining-room table.
Then the Grantlys came; the archdeacon and Mrs Grantly and the two
girls, and Dr Gwynne and Mr Harding; and as ill luck would have it,
they were closely followed by Dr Stanhope's carriage. As Eleanor
looked out of the carriage window, she saw her brother-in-law
helping the ladies out, and threw herself back into her seat,
dreading to be discovered. She had had an odious journey. Mr
Slope's civility had been more than ordinarily greasy; and now,
though he had not in fact said anything which she could notice, she
had for the first time entertained a suspicion that he was
intending to make love to her. Was it after all true that she had
been conducting herself in a way that justified the world in
thinking that she liked the man? After all, could it be possible
that the archdeacon and Mr Arabin were right, and that she was
wrong? Charlotte Stanhope had also been watching Mr Slope, and had
come to the conclusion that it behoved her brother to lose no
further time, if he meant to gain the widow. She almost regretted
that it had not been contrived that Bertie should be at Ullathorne
before them.
Dr Grantly did not see his sister-in-law in company with Mr Slope,
but Mr Arabin did. Mr Arabin came out with Mr Thorne to the front
door to welcome Mrs Grantly, and he remained in the courtyard till
all their party had passed on. Eleanor hung back in the carriage as
long as she well could, but she was nearest to the door, and when
Mr Slope, having alighted, offered her his hand, she had no
alternative but to take it.
Mr Arabin standing at the open door, while Mrs Grantly was shaking
hands with someone within, saw a clergyman alight from the carriage
whom he at once knew to be Mr Slope, and then she saw this
clergyman hand out Mrs Bold. Having seen so much, Mr Arabin, rather
sick at heart, followed Mrs Grantly into the house.
Eleanor was, however, spared any further immediate degradation, for
Dr Stanhope gave her his arm across the courtyard, and Mr Slope was
fain to throw away his attention upon Charlotte.
They had hardly passed into the house, and from the house to the
lawn, when, with a loud rattle and such noise as great men and
great woman are entitled to make in their passage through the
world, the Proudies drove up. It was soon apparent that no every
day comer was at the door. One servant whispered to another that it
was the bishop, and the word soon ran through all the hangers-on
and strange grooms and coachmen about the place. There was quite a
little cortege to see the bishop and his 'lady' walk across the
courtyard, and the good man was pleased to see that the church was
held in such respect in the parish of St Ewold's.
And now the guests came fast and thick, and the lawn began to be
crowded, and the room to be full. Voices buzzed, silk rustled
against silk, and muslin crumpled against muslin. Miss Thorne
became more happy than she had been, and again bethought her of her
sports. There were targets and bows and arrows prepared at the
further end of the lawn. Here the gardens of the place encroached
with a somewhat wide sweep upon the paddock, and gave ample room
for the doings of the toxophilites. Miss Thorne got together such
daughters of Diana as could bend a bow, and marshalled them to the
targets. There were the Grantly girls and the Proudie girls and the
Chadwick girls, and the two daughters of the burly chancellor, and
Miss Knowle; and with them went Frederick and Augustus Chadwick,
and young Knowle of Knowle park, and Frank Foster of the Elms, and
Mr Vellem Deeds the dashing attorney of the High Street, and the
Rev Mr Green, and the Rev Mr Browne, and the Rev Mr White, all of
whom as in duty bound, attended the steps of the three Miss
Proudies.
'Did you ever ride at the quintain, Mr Foster?' said Miss Thorne,
as she walked with her party, across the lawn.
'The quintain?' said young Foster, who considered himself a dab at
horsemanship. 'Is it a sort of gate, Miss Thorne?'
Miss Thorne had to explain the noble game she spoke of, and Frank
Foster had to own that he never had ridden at the quintain.
'Would you like to come and see?' said Miss Thorne. 'There'll be
plenty here without you, if you like it.'
'Well, I don't mind,' said Frank; 'I suppose the ladies can come
too.'
'Oh, yes,' said Miss Thorne; 'those who like it; I have no doubt
they'll go to see your prowess, if you'll ride, Mr Foster.'
Mr Foster looked down at a most unexceptionable pair of pantaloons,
which had arrived from London only the day before. They were the
very things, at least he thought so, for a picnic of fete
champetre; but he was not prepared to ride in them. Nor was he more
encouraged than had been Mr Thorne, by the idea of being attacked
from behind by the bag of flour which Miss Thorne had graphically
described to him.
'Well, I don't know about riding, Miss Thorne,' said he; 'I fear
I'm not quite prepared.'
Miss Thorne sighed, but said nothing further. She left the
toxophilites to their bows and arrows, and returned towards the
house. But as she passed by the entrance to the small park, she
thought that she might at any rate encourage the yeomen by her
presence, as she could not induced her more fashionable guests to
mix with them in their many amusements.
Accordingly she once more betook herself to the quintain post.
Here to her great delight she found Harry Greenacre ready mounted,
with his pole in his hand, and a lot of comrades standing round
him, encouraging him to the assault. She stood at a little distance
and nodded to him in token of her good pleasure.
'Shall I begin, ma'am?' said Henry fingering his long staff in a
rather awkward way, while his horse moved uneasily beneath him, not
accustomed to a rider armed with such a weapon.
'Yes, yes,' said Miss Thorne, standing triumphant as the queen of
beauty, on an inverted tub which some chance had brought hither
from the farm-yard.
'Here goes then,' said Harry as he wheeled his horse round to get
the necessary momentum of a sharp gallop. The quintain post stood
right before him, and the square board at which he was to tilt was
fairly in the way. If he hit that duly in the middle, and
maintained his pace as he did so, it was calculated that he would
be carried out of reach of the flour bag, which, suspended at the
other end of the cross-bar on the post, would swing round when the
board was struck. It was also calculated that if the rider did not
maintain his pace, he would get a blow from the flour bag just at
the back of his head, and bear about him the signs of his
awkwardness to the great amusement of the lookers-on.
Harry Greenacre did not object to being powdered with flour in the
service of his mistress, and therefore gallantly touched his steed
with his spur, having laid his lance in rest to the best of his
ability. But his ability in this respect was not great, and his
appurtenances probably not very good; consequently, he struck his
horse with his pole unintentionally on the side of the head as he
started. The animal swerved and shied, and galloped off wide of the
quintain. Harry well accustomed to manage a horse, but not to do so
with a twelve-foot rod on his arm, lowered his right hand to the
bridle and thus the end of the lance came to the ground, and got
between the legs of the steed. Down came the rider and steed and
staff. Young Greenacre was thrown some six feet over the horse's
head, and poor Miss Thorne almost fell of her tub in a swoon.
'Oh gracious, he's killed,' shrieked a woman, who was near him when
he fell.
'The Lord be good to him! his poor mother, his poor mother!' said
another.
'Well, drat them dangerous plays all the world over,' said an old
crone.
'He has broke his neck sure enough, if ever man did,' said a
fourth.
Poor Miss Thorne. She heard all this and yet did not quite swoon.
She made her way through the crowd as best she could, sick herself
almost to death. Oh, his mother--his poor mother! how could she
ever forgive herself. The agony of that moment was terrific. She
could hardly get to the place where the poor lad was lying, as
three or four men in front were about the horse which had risen
with some difficulty; but at last she found herself close to the
young farmer.
'Has he marked himself? for heaven's sake tell me that; has he
marked his knees?' said Harry, slowly rising and rubbing his left
shoulder with his right hand, and thinking only of his horse's
legs. Miss Thorne soon found that he had not broken his neck, nor
any of his bones, nor been injured in any essential way. But from
that time forth she never instigated any one to ride at the
quintain.
Eleanor left Dr Stanhope as soon as she could do so civilly, and
went in quest of her father whom she found on the lawn in company
with Mr Arabin. She was not sorry to find them together. She was
anxious to disabuse at any rate her father's mind as to this report
which had got abroad respecting her, and would have been well
pleased to have been able to do the same with regard to Mr Arabin.
She put her own through her father's arm, coming up behind his
back, and then tendered her hand also to the vicar of St Ewold's.
'And how did you come?' said Mr Harding, when the first greeting
was over.
'The Stanhopes brought me,' said she; 'their carriage was obliged
to come twice, and has now gone back for the signora.' As she spoke
she caught Mr Arabin's eye, and saw that he was looking pointedly
at her with a severe expression. She understood at once the
accusation contained in his glance. It said as plainly as an eye
could speak, 'Yes, you came with the Stanhopes, but you did so in
order that you might be in company with Mr Slope.'
'Our party,' said she, still addressing her father, 'consisted of
the Doctor and Charlotte Stanhope, myself, and Mr Slope.' As she
mentioned the last name she felt her father's arm quiver slightly
beneath her touch. At the same moment Mr Arabin turned away from
them, and joining his hands behind his back strolled slowly away by
one of the paths.
'Papa,' said she, 'it was impossible to help coming in the same
carriage with Mr Slope; it was quite impossible. I had promised to
come with them before I dreamt of his coming, and afterwards I
could not get out of it without explaining and giving rise to talk.
You weren't at home, you know, I couldn't possibly help it.' She
said all this so quickly that by the time her apology was spoken
she was quite out of breath.
'I don't know why you should have wished to help it, my dear,' said
her father.
'Yes, papa, you do; you must know, you do know all the things they
said at Plumstead. I am sure you do. You know all the archdeacon
said. How unjust he was, and Mr Arabin too. He's a horrid man, a
horrid, odious man, but--'
'Who is an odious man, my dear? Mr Arabin?'
'No; but Mr Slope. You know I mean Mr Slope. He's the most odious
man I ever met in my life, and it was most unfortunate my having to
come here in the same carriage with him. But how could I help it?'
A great weight began to move itself off Mr Harding's mind. So,
after all, the archdeacon with all his wisdom, and Mrs Grantly with
all her tact, and Mr Arabin with all his talent were in the wrong.
His own child, his Eleanor, the daughter of whom he was so proud
was not to become the wife of Mr Slope. He had been about to give
his sanction to the marriage, so certified had he been of this
fact; and now he learnt that this imputed lover of Eleanor's was at
any rage as much disliked by her as by any one of the family. Mr
Harding, however, was by no means sufficiently a man of the world
to conceal the blunder he had made. He could not pretend that he
had entertained no suspicion; he could not make believe that he had
never joined the archdeacon in his surmises. He was greatly
surprised, and gratified beyond measure, and he could not help
showing that such was the case.
'My darling girl,' said he, 'I am so delighted, so overjoyed. My
own child; you have taken such a weight off my mind.'
'But surely, papa, you didn't think--'
'I didn't know what to think, my dear. The archdeacon told me that
-'
'The archdeacon!' said Eleanor, her face lighting up with passion.
'A man like the archdeacon might, one would think, be better
employed than in traducing his sister-in-law, and creating
bitterness between a father and his daughter.'
'He didn't mean to that, Eleanor.'
'What did he mean then? Why did he interfere with me, and fill your
mind with such falsehood?'
'Never mind it now, my child; never mind it now. We shall all know
you better now.'
'Oh, papa, that you should have thought it! that you should have
suspected me!'
'I don't know what you mean by suspicion, Eleanor. There would be
nothing disgraceful, you know; nothing wrong in such a marriage.
Nothing that could have justified my interfering as your father.'
And Mr Harding would have proceeded in his own defence to make out
that Mr Slope after all was a very good sort of man, and a very
fitting second husband for a young widow, had he not been
interrupted by Eleanor's greater energy.
'It would be disgraceful,' said she; 'it would be wrong; it would
be abominable. Could I do such a horrid thing, I should expect no
one to speak to me. Ugh--' and she shuddered as she thought of the
matrimonial torch which her friends had been so ready to light on
her behalf. I don't wonder at Dr Grantly; I don't wonder at Susan;
but, oh, papa, I do wonder at you. How could you, how could you
believe it?' Poor Eleanor, as she thought of her father's
defalcation, could resist her tears no longer, and was forced to
cover her face with her handkerchief.
The place was not very opportune for her grief. They were walking
through the shrubberies, and there were many people near them. Poor
Mr Harding stammered out his excuse as best he could, and Eleanor
with an effort controlled her tears, and returned her handkerchief
to her pocket. She did not find it difficult to forgive her father,
nor could she altogether refuse to join him in the returning gaiety
of spirit to which her present avowal gave rise. It was such a load
off his heart to think that he should not be called on to welcome
Mr Slope as his son-in-law; it was such a relief to him to find
that his daughter's feelings and his own were now, as they ever had
been, in unison. He had been so unhappy for the last six weeks
about this wretched Mr Slope!
He was so indifferent as to the loss of the hospital, so thankful
for the recovery of his daughter, that, strong as was the ground
for Eleanor's anger, she could not find it in her heart to be long
angry with him.
'Dear papa,' she said, hanging closely to his arm, 'never suspect
me again: promise me that you never will. Whatever I do, you may be
sure I shall tell you first; you may be sure I shall consult you.'
And Mr Harding did promise, and owned his sin, and promised again.
And so, while he promised amendment and she uttered forgiveness,
they returned together to the drawing-room windows.
And what had Eleanor meant when she declared that whatever she did,
she would tell her father first? What was she thinking of doing?
So ended the first act of the melodrama which Eleanor was called on
to perform this day at Ullathorne.
CHAPTER XXXVII
THE SIGNORA NERONI, THE COUNTESS DE COURCY, AND MRS PROUDIE MEET
EACH OTHER AT ULLATHORNE
And now there were new arrivals. Just as Eleanor reached the
drawing-room the signora was being wheeled into it. She had been
brought out of the carriage into the dining-room and there placed
on a sofa, and was now in the act of entering the other room, by
the joint aid of her brother and sister, Mr Arabin, and two
servants in livery. She was all in her glory, and looked so
pathetically happy, so full of affliction and grace, was so
beautiful, so pitiable, and so charming, that it was almost
impossible not to be glad she was there.
Miss Thorne was unaffectedly glad to welcome her. In fact, the
signora was a sort of lion; and though there was no drop of the
Leohunter blood in Miss Thorne's veins, she nevertheless did like
to see attractive people at her house.
The signora was attractive, and on her first settlement in the
dining-room she had whispered two or three soft feminine words into
Miss Thorne's ear, which, at the moment, had quite touched that
lady's heart.
'Oh, Miss Thorne; where is Miss Thorne?' she said, as soon as her
attendants had placed her in her position just before one of the
windows, from whence she could see all that was going on upon the
lawn; 'How am I to thank you for permitting a creature like me to
be here? But if you knew the pleasure you give me, I am sure you
would excuse the trouble I bring with me.' And as she spoke she
squeezed the spinster's little hand between her own.
'We are delighted to see you here,' said Miss Thorne; 'you give us
no trouble at all, and we think it a great favour conferred by you
to come and see us; don't we, Wilfred?'
'A very great favour indeed,' said Mr Thorne, with a gallant bow,
but of somewhat less cordial welcome than that conceded by his
sister. Mr Thorne had learned perhaps more of the antecedents of
his guest than his sister had done, and not as yet undergone the
power of the signora's charms.
But while the mother of the last of the Neros was thus in he full
splendour, with crowds of people gazing at her and the elite of the
company standing round her couch, her glory was paled by the
arrival of the Countess De Courcy. Miss Thorne had now been waiting
three hours for the countess, and could not therefore but show very
evident gratification when the arrival at last took place. She and
her brother of course went off to welcome the titled grandee, and
with them, alas, went many of the signora's admirers.
'Oh, Mr Thorne,' said the countess, while the act of being disrobed
of her fur cloaks, and re-robed in her gauze shawls, 'what dreadful
roads you have; perfectly frightful.'
It happened that Mr Thorne was way-warden for the district, and not
liking the attack, began to excuse his roads.
'Oh yes, indeed they are,' said the countess, not minding him in
the least, 'perfectly dreadful; are they not, Margaretta? Why, dear
Miss Thorne, we left Courcy Castle just at eleven; it was only just
past eleven, was it not, John? and--'
'Just past one, I think you mean,' said the Honourable John,
turning from the group and eyeing the signora through his glass.
The signora gave him back his own, as the saying is, and more with
it; so that the young nobleman was forced to avert his glance, and
drop his glass.
'I say, Thorne,' whispered he, 'who the deuce is that on the sofa?'
'Dr Stanhope's daughter,' whispered back Mr Thorne. 'Signora Neroni
she calls herself.'
'Whew-ew-ew!' whistled the Honourable John. 'The devil she is! I
have heard no end of stories about that filly. You must positively
introduce me, Thorne; you positively must.'
Mr Thorne who was respectability itself, did not quite like having
a guest about whom the Honourable John De Courcy had heard no end
of stories; but he couldn't help himself. He merely resolved that
before he went to bed he would let his sister know somewhat of the
history of the lady she was so willing to welcome. The innocence of
Miss Thorne, at her time of life, was perfectly charming; but even
innocence may be dangerous.
'John may say what he likes,' continued the countess, urging her
excuses on Miss Thorne; 'I am sure we were past the castle gate
before twelve, weren't we, Margaretta?'
'Upon my word, I don't know,' said the Lady Margaretta, 'for I was
half asleep. But I do know that I was called sometime in the middle
of the night, and was dressing myself before daylight.'
Wise people, when they are in the wrong, always put themselves
right by finding fault with the people against whom they have
sinned. Lady De Courcy was a wise woman; and therefore, having
treated Miss Thorne very badly by staying away till three o'clock,
she assumed the offensive and attacked Mr Thorne's roads. Her
daughter, not less wise, attacked Miss Thorne's early hours. The
art of doing this is among the most precious of those usually
cultivated by persons who know how to live. There is no
withstanding it. Who can go systematically to work, and having done
battle with the primary accusation and settled that, then bring
forward a counter-charge and support that also? Life is not long
enough for such labours. A man in the right relies easily on his
rectitude, and therefore goes about unarmed. His very strength is
his weakness; his very weakness is his strength. The one is never
prepared for combat, the other is always ready. Therefore it is
that in this world the man that is in the wrong almost invariably
conquers the man that is in the right, and invariably despises him.
A man must be an idiot or else an angel, who, after the age of
forty shall attempt to be just to his neighbours. Many like the
Lady Margaretta have learnt their lesson at a much earlier age. But
this of course depends on the school in which they have been
taught.
Poor Miss Thorne was altogether overcome. She knew very well that
she had been ill-treated, and yet she found herself making
apologies to Lady De Courcy. To do her ladyship justice, she
received them very graciously, and allowed herself with her train
of daughters to be led towards the lawn.
There were two windows in the drawing-room wide open for the
countess to pass through; but she saw that there was a woman on the
sofa, at the third window, and that that woman had, as it were, a
following attached to her. Her ladyship therefore determined to
investigate the woman. The De Courcys were hereditarily short
sighted, and had been so for thirty centuries at least. So Lady De
Courcy, who, when she entered the family had adopted the family
habits, did as her son had done before her, and taking her glass to
investigate the Signora Neroni, pressed in among the gentlemen who
surrounded the couch, and bowed slightly to those whom she chose to
honour by her acquaintance.
In order to get to the window she had to pass close to the front of
the couch, and as she did so she stared hard at the occupant. The
occupant in return stared hard at the countess. The countess who
since her countess-ship commenced had been accustomed to see all
eyes, not royal, ducal, or marquesal, fall down before her own,
paused as she went on, raised her eyebrows, and stared even harder
than before. But she had now to do with one who cared little for
countesses. It was, one may say, impossible for mortal man or woman
to abash Madeline Neroni. She opened her large bright lustrous eyes
wider and wider, till she seemed to be all eyes.
She gazed up into the lady's face, not as though she did it with an
effort, but as if she delighted in doing it. She used no glass to
assist her effrontery, and needed none. The faintest possible smile
of derision played round her mouth, and her nostrils were slightly
dilated, as if in sure anticipation of her triumph. And it was
sure. The Countess De Courcy, in spite of her thirty centuries and
De Courcy castle, and the fact that Lord De Courcy was grand master
of the ponies to the Prince of Wales, had not a chance with her.
At first the little circlet of gold wavered in the countess's hand,
then the hand shook, then the circlet fell, the countess's head
tossed itself into the air, and the countess's feet shambled out to
the lawn. She did not however go so fast but what she heard the
signora's voice, asking--
'Who on earth is that woman, Mr Slope?'
'That is Lady De Courcy.'
'Oh, ah. I might have supposed so. Ha, ha, ha. Well, that's as good
as a play.'
It was as good as a play to any there who had eyes to observe it,
and wit to comment on what they observed.
But the Lady De Courcy soon found a congenial spirit on the lawn.
There she encountered Mrs Proudie, and as Mrs Proudie was not only
the wife of a bishop, but was also the cousin of an earl, Lady De
Courcy considered her to be the fittest companion she was likely to
meet in that assemblage. They were accordingly delighted to see
each other. Mrs Proudie by no means despised a countess, and as
this countess lived in the county and within a sort of extensive
visiting distance of Barchester, she was glad to have this
opportunity of ingratiating herself.
'My dear Lady De Courcy, I am so delighted,' said she, looking as
little grim as it was in her nature to do so. 'I hardly expected to
see you here. It is such a distance, and then you know, such a
crowd.'
'And such roads, Mrs Proudie! I really wonder how the people ever
get about. But I don't suppose they ever do.'
'Well, I really don't know; but I suppose not. The Thorne don't, I
know,' said Mrs Proudie. 'Very nice person, Miss Thorne, isn't
she?'
'Oh, delightful and so queer; I've known her these twenty years. A
great pet of mine is dear Miss Thorne. She is so very strange, you
know. She always makes me think of the Esquimaux and the Indians.
Isn't her dress quite delightful?'
'Delightful,' said Mrs Proudie; 'I wonder now whether she paints.
Did you ever see such colour?'
'Oh, of course,' said Lady De Courcy; 'that is, I have no doubt she
does. But, Mrs Proudie, who is that woman on the sofa by the
window? just step this way and you'll see her, there--' and the
countess led her to a spot where she could plainly see the
signora's well-remembered face and figure.
She did not however do so without being equally well seen by the
signora. 'Look, look,' said that lady to Mr Slope, who was still
standing near to her; 'see the high spiritualities and
temporalities of the land in league together, and all against poor
me. I'll wager my bracelet, Mr Slope against your next sermon, that
they've taken up their position there on purpose to pull me to
pieces. Well, I can't rush to the combat, but I know how to protect
myself if the enemy come near me.'
But the enemy knew better. They could gain nothing be contact with
the signora Neroni, and they could abuse her as they pleased at a
distance from her on the lawn.
'She's that horrid Italian woman, Lady De Courcy; you must have
heard of her.'
'What Italian woman?' said her ladyship, quite alive to the coming
story; 'I don't think I've heard of any Italian woman coming into
the country. She doesn't look Italian either.'
'Oh, you must have heard of her,' said Mrs Proudie. 'No, she's not
absolutely Italian. She is Dr Stanhope's daughter--Dr Stanhope the
prebendary; and she calls herself the Signora Neroni.'
'Oh--h--h--h!' exclaimed the countess.
'I was sure you had heard of her,' continued Mrs Proudie. 'I don't
know anything about her husband. They do say that some man named
Neroni is still alive. I believe she did marry such a man abroad,
but I do not at all know who or what he was.'
'Ah--h--h--h!' said the countess, shaking her head with much
intelligence, as every additional 'h' fell from her lips. 'I know
all about it now. I have heard George mention her. George knows all
about her. George heard about her in Rome.'
'She's an abominable woman at any rate,' said Mrs Proudie.
'Insufferable,' said the countess.
'She made her way into the palace once, before I knew anything
about her; and I cannot tell you how dreadfully indecent her
conduct was.'
'Was it?' said the delighted countess.
'Insufferable,' said the prelatess.
'But why does she lie on a sofa?' asked the Lady De Courcy.
'She has only one leg,' said Mrs Proudie.
'Only one leg!' said the Lady De Courcy, who felt to a certain
degree dissatisfied that the signora was thus incapacitated. 'Was
she born so?'
'Oh, no,' said Mrs Proudie,--and her ladyship felt somewhat
recomforted by the assurance,--'she had two. But that Signor Neroni
beat her, I believe, till she was obliged to have one amputated. At
any rate she entirely lost the use of it.'
'Unfortunate creature!' said the countess, who herself knew
something of matrimonial trials.
'Yes,' said Mrs Proudie; 'one would pity her, in spite of her past
bad conduct, if she knew how to behave herself. But she does not.
She is the most insolent creature I have ever put my eyes on.'
'Indeed she is,' said Lady De Courcy.
'And her conduct with men is abominable, that she is not fit to be
admitted into any lady's drawing-room.'
'Dear me!' said the countess, becoming again excited, happy, and
merciless.
'You saw that man standing near her,--the clergyman with the red
hair?'
'Yes, yes.'
'She has absolutely ruined that man. The bishop, or I should rather
take the blame on myself, for it was I,--I brought him down from
London to Barchester. He is a tolerable preacher, an active young
man, and I therefore introduced him to the bishop. That woman, Lady
De Courcy, has got hold of him, and has so disgraced him, that I am
forced to required that he shall leave the palace; and I doubt very
much whether he won't lose his gown.'
'Why what an idiot the man must be!' said the countess.
'You don't know the intriguing villainy of that woman,' said Mrs
Proudie, remembering her own torn flounces.
'But you say she has only got one leg!'
'She is as full of mischief as tho' she had ten. Look at her eyes,
Lady De Courcy. Did you ever see such eyes in a decent woman's
head?'
'Indeed I never did, Mrs Proudie.'
'And her effrontery, and her voice; I quite pity her poor father,
who is really a good sort of man.'
'Dr Stanhope, isn't he?'
'Yes, Dr Stanhope. He is one of our prebendaries,--a good quiet
sort of man himself. But I am surprised that he should let his
daughter conduct herself as he does.'
'I suppose he can't help it,' said the countess.
'But a clergyman, you know, Lady De Courcy! He should at any rate
prevent her from exhibiting in public, if he cannot induce her to
behave at home. But he is to be pitied. I believe he has a
desperate life of it with the lot of them. That apish-looking man
there, with the long beard and the loose trousers,--he is the
woman's brother. He is nearly as bad as she is. They are both of
them infidels.'
'Infidels!' said Lady De Courcy, 'and their father a prebendary!'
'Yes, and likely to be the new dean too,' said Mrs Proudie.
'Oh, yes, poor dear Dr Trefoil!' said the countess, who had once in
her life spoken to that gentleman; 'I was so distressed to hear it,
Mrs Proudie. And so Dr Stanhope is to be the new dean! He comes of
an excellent family, and I wish him success in spite of his
daughter. Perhaps, Mrs Proudie, when he is dean, they'll be better
able to see the error of their ways.'
To this Mrs Proudie said nothing. Her dislike of the Signora Neroni
was too deep to admit of her even hoping that that lady should see
the error of her ways. Mrs Proudie looked on the signora as one of
the lost,--one of those beyond the reach of Christian charity, and
was therefore able to enjoy the luxury of hating her, without the
drawback of wishing her eventually well out of her sins.
Any further conversation between these congenial souls was
prevented by the advent of Mr Thorne, who came to lead the countess
to the tent. Indeed, he had been desired to do so some ten minutes
since; but he had been delayed in the drawing-room by the signora.
She had contrived to detain him, to bet him near to her sofa, and
at last to make him seat himself on a chair close to her beautiful
arm. The fish took the bait, was hooked, and caught, and landed.
Within that ten minutes he had heard the whole of signora's history
in such strains as she chose to use in telling it. He learnt from
the lady's own lips the whole of that mysterious tale to which the
Honourable George had merely alluded. He discovered that the
beautiful creature lying before him had been more sinned against
than sinning. She had owned to him that she had been weak,
confiding and indifferent to the world's opinion, and that she had
therefore been ill-used, deceived and evil spoken of. She had
spoken to him of her mutilated limb, her youth destroyed in the
fullest bloom, her beauty robbed of its every charm, her life
blighted, her hopes withered; and as she did so, a tear dropped
from her eye to her cheek. She had told him of these things, and
asked for his sympathy.
What could a good-natured genial Anglo-Saxon Squire Thorne do but
promise to sympathise with her? Mr Thorne did promise to
sympathise; promised also to come and see the last of the Neros, to
hear more of those fearful Roman days, of those light and innocent
but dangerous hours which flitted by so fast on the shores of Como,
and to make himself the confidant of the signora's sorrows.
We need hardly say that he dropped all idea of warning his sister
against the dangerous lady. He had been mistaken; never so much
mistaken in his life. He had always regarded that Honourable George
as a coarse brutal-minded young man; now he was more convinced than
ever that he was so. It was by such men as the Honourable George
that the reputation of such women as Madeline Neroni were
imperilled and damaged. He would go and see the lady in her own
house; he was fully sure in his own mind of the soundness of his
own judgment; if he found her, as he believed he should do, an
injured well-disposed, warm-hearted woman, he would get his sister
Monica to invite her out to Ullathorne.
'No,' said she, as at her instance he got up to leave her, and
declared that he himself would attend upon her wants; 'no, no, my
friend; I positively put a veto upon your doing so. What, in your
own house, with an assemblage round you such as there is here! Do
you wish to make every woman hate me and every man stare at me? I
lay a positive order on you not to come near me again to-day. Come
and see me at home. It is only at home that I can talk; it is only
at home that I really can live and enjoy myself. My days of going
out, days such as these, are rare indeed. Come and see me at home,
Mr Thorne, and then I will not bid you to leave me.'
It is, we believe, common with young men of five and twenty to look
on their seniors--on men of, say, double their own age--as so many
stocks and stones--stocks and stones, that is, in regard to
feminine beauty. There never was a greater mistake. Women, indeed,
generally know better; but on this subject men of one age are
thoroughly ignorant of what is the very nature of mankind of other
ages. No experience of what goes on in the world, no reading of
history, no observation of life, has any effect in teaching the
truth. Men of fifty don't dance mazurkas, being generally too fat
and wheezy; nor do they sit for the hour together on river banks at
their mistresses' feet, being somewhat afraid of rheumatism. But
for real true love, love at first sight, love to devotion, love
that robs a man of his sleep, love that 'will gaze an eagle blind,'
love that 'will hear the lowest sound when the suspicious tread of
theft is stopped,' love that is 'like a Hercules still climbing
trees in the Hesperides,'--we believe this best age is from
forty-five to seventy; up to that, men are generally given to mere
flirting.
At the present moment Mr Thorne, aetat. fifty, was over head and
ears in love at first sight with the Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni,
nata Stanhope.
Nevertheless he was sufficiently master of himself to offer his arm
with all propriety to Lady De Courcy, and the countess graciously
permitted herself to be led to the tent.
Such had been Miss Thorne's orders, as she had succeeded in
inducing the bishop to lead old Lady Knowle to the top of the
dining-room. One of the baronets was sent off in quest of Mrs
Proudie, and found that lady on the lawn not in the best of
humours. Mr Thorne and the countess had left her too abruptly; she
had in vain looked about for an attendant chaplain, or even a stray
curate; they were all drawing long bows with the young ladies at
the bottom of the lawn, or finding places for their graceful
co-toxophilites in some snug corner of the tent. In such position
Mrs Proudie had been wont in earlier days to fall back upon Mr
Slope; but now she could never fall back upon him again. She gave
her head one shake as she thought of her lone position, and that
shake was as good as a week deducted from Mr Slope's longer sojourn
in Barchester. Sir Harkaway Gorse, however, relieved her present
misery, though his doing so by no means mitigated the sinning
chaplain's doom.
And now the eating and drinking began in earnest. Dr Grantly, to
his great horror, found himself leagued to Mrs Clantantram. Mrs
Clantantram had a great regard for the archdeacon, which was not
cordially returned; and when she, coming up to him, whispered in
his ear, 'Come, archdeacon, I'm sure you won't begrudge an old
friend the favour of your arm,' and then proceeded to tell him the
whole history of her roquelaure, he resolved that he would shake
her off before he was fifteen minutes older. But latterly the
archdeacon had not been successful in his resolutions; and on the
present occasion Mrs Clantantram stuck to him till the banquet was
over.
Dr Gwynne got a baronet's wife, and Mrs Grantly fell to the lot of
a baronet. Charlotte Stanhope attached herself to Mr Harding in
order to make room for Bertie, who succeeded in sitting down in the
dining-room next to Mrs Bold. To speak sooth, now that he had love
in earnest to make, his heart almost failed him.
Eleanor had been right glad to avail herself of his arm, seeing
that Mr Slope was hovering nigh her. In striving to avoid that
terrible Charybdis of a Slope she was in great danger of falling
into an unseen Scylla on the other hand, that Scylla being Bertie
Stanhope. Nothing could be more gracious than she was to Bertie.
She almost jumped at his proffered arm. Charlotte perceived this
from a distance, and triumphed in her heart; Bertie felt it, and
was encouraged; Mr Slope saw it, and glowered with jealousy.
Eleanor and Bertie sat down to table in the dining-room; and as she
took her seat at his right hand, she found that Mr Slope was
already in possession of the chair at her own.
As these things were going on in the dining-room, Mr Arabin was
hanging enraptured and alone over the signora's sofa; and Eleanor
from her seat could look through the open door and see that he was
doing so.
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; and 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 re-cultivate his friendship with Eleanor; and in his
present frame of mind any such re-cultivation 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 teapot, 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, loveable, 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 arm-chair, 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 hr 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 any one
else to whom they might both be mutually obliged without any
concert between themselves. The sight in his present state of mind
was quite enough to upset him and his resolves. It was clear as
noonday. 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 come 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 her 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 to any one else, nor was he well pleased to hear any one 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.
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 woman
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; and
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
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 reflections 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 Easter idler swallows his dose of
opium, as the London reprobate swallows his dose of gin, so with
similar desire and for similar reasons did Mr Arabin prepare to
swallow the charms of the Signora Neroni.
'Why aren't you shooting with bows and arrows, Mr Arabin?' said
she, when they were nearly alone together in the sitting-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 as 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 in 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 look 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, people 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 rapt as you now are, cutting imaginary silken
cords with their fine edges, while those not so highly tempered
sever the every-day 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 out-distance you?' said
she. 'It 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 and 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 the other 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 some one, and what is good for a layman cannot surely 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, and 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 was 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 grateful 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, and 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 that 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 at St Ewold's.'
'One that would 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 would 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 unnecessary that Mr
Arabin should not 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 the world 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, 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 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 of the 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 bowed to Mr Slope, began eating his food, without saying
a word further. He was full of thoughts, 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.
Madame 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 done
so. 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 eyes 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 malgre
lui, even when truth must have been 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 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 the Thornes. She felt that
she could never 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 the 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.
CHAPTER XXXIX
THE LOOKALOFTS AND THE GREENACRES
On the whole, Miss Thorne's provision for the amusement and feeding
of the outer classes in the exoteric paddock was not unsuccessful.
Two little drawbacks to the general happiness did take place, but
they were of a temporary nature, and apparent rather than real. The
first was the downfall of young Harry Greenacre, and the other was
the uprise of Mrs Lookaloft and her family.
As to the quintain, it became more popular among the boys on foot,
than it would ever have been among the men on horseback, even had
young Greenacre been more successful. It was twirled round and
round till it was nearly twisted out of the ground; and the bag of
flour was used with great gusto in powdering the backs and heads of
all who could be coaxed within the vicinity.
Of course it was reported all throughout the assemblage that Harry
was dead, and there was a pathetic scene between him and his mother
when it was found that he had escaped scatheless from the fall. A
good deal of beer was drunk on the occasion, and the quintain was
'dratted' and 'bothered', and very generally anathematised by all
the mothers who had young sons likely to be placed in similar
jeopardy. But the affair of Mrs Lookaloft was of a more serious
nature.
'I do tell 'ee plainly,--face to face--she be there in madam's
drawing-room; herself and Gussy, and them two walloping gals,
dressed up to their very eyeses.' This was said by a very positive,
very indignant, and very fat farmer's wife, who was sitting on the
end of a bench leaning on the handle of a huge cotton umbrella.
'But you didn't zee her, Dame Guffern?' said Mrs Greenacres, whom
this information, joined to the recent peril undergone by her son,
almost overpowered. Mr Greenacres held just as much land as Mr
Lookaloft, paid his rent quite as punctually, and his opinion in
the vestry-room was reckoned to be every whit as good. Mrs
Lookaloft's rise in the world had been wormwood to Mrs Greenacre.
She had not taste herself for the sort of finery which converted
Barleystubb farm into Rosebank, and which had occasionally graced
Mr Lookaloft's letters with the dignity of esquirehood. She had no
wish to convert her own homeland into Violet Villa, or to see her
goodman go about with a new-fangled handle to his name. But it was
a mortal injury to her that Mrs Lookaloft should be successful in
her hunt after such honours. She had abused and ridiculed Mrs
Lookaloft to the extent of her little power. She had pushed against
her going out of church, and had excused herself with all the
easiness of equality. 'Ah, dame, I axes pardon; but you be grown so
mortal stout these time.' She had inquired with apparent cordiality
of Mr Lookaloft after 'the woman that owned him,' and had, as she
thought, been on the whole able to hold her own pretty well against
her aspiring neighbour. Now, however, she found herself distinctly
put into a separate and inferior class. Mrs Lookaloft was asked
into the Ullathorne drawing-room, merely because she called her
house Rosebank, and had talked over her husband into buying pianos
and silk dresses instead of putting his money by to stock farms for
his sons.
Mrs Greenacre, much as she reverenced Miss Thorne, and highly as
she respected her husband's landlord, could not but look on this as
an act of injustice done to her and hers. Hitherto the Lookalofts
had never been recognised as being of a different class from the
Greenacres. Their pretensions were all self-pretensions, their
finery was all paid for by themselves and not granted to them by
others. The local sovereigns of the vicinity, the district
fountains of honour, had hitherto conferred on them the stamp of no
rank. Hitherto their crinoline petticoats, late hours, and mincing
gait had been a fair subject of Mrs Greenacre's raillery, and this
raillery had been a safety valve for her envy. Now, however, and
from henceforward, the case would be very different. Now the
Lookalofts would boast that their aspirations had been sanctioned
by the gentry of the country; now they would declare with some show
of truth that their claims to peculiar consideration had been
recognised. They had sat as equal guests in the presence of bishops
and baronets; they had been curtseyed to by Miss Thorne on her own
drawing-room carpet; they were about to sit down to table in
company with a live countess! Bab Lookaloft, as she had always been
called by the young Greenacres in the days of their juvenile
equality, might possibly sit next to the Honourable George, and
that wretched Gussy might be permitted to hand a custard to the
Lady Margaretta De Courcy.
The fruition of these honours, or such of them as fell to the lot
of the envied family, was not such as should have caused much envy.
The attention paid to the Lookalofts by the De Courcys was very
limited, and the amount of society was hardly in itself a
recompense for the dull monotony of their day. But of what they
endured Mrs Greenacre took no account; she thought only of what she
considered they must enjoy, and of the dreadfully exalted tone of
living which would be manifested by the Rosebank family, as the
consequence of their present distinction.
'But did 'ee zee 'em there, dame, did 'ee zee 'em then with your
own eyes?' asked poor Mrs Greenacre, still hoping that there might
be some ground for doubt.
'And how could I do that, unless so be I was there myself?' asked
Mrs Guffen. 'I didn't set eyes on none of them this blessed
morning, but I zee'd them as did. You know our John; well, he will
be for keeping company with Betsey Rusk, madam's own maid, you
know. And Betsey isn't one of your common kitchen wenches. So
Betsey, she come out to our John, you know, and she's always vastly
polite to me, is Betsey Rusk, I must say. So before she took so
much as one turn with John, she told me every ha'porth that was
going on up in the house.'
'Did she now?' said Mrs Greenacre.
'Indeed she did,' said Mrs Guffern.
'And she told you them people was up there in the drawing-room?'
'She told me she zee'd them come in--that they was dressed finer by
half nor any of the family, with all their neckses and buzoms stark
naked as a born babby.'
'The minxes!' exclaimed Mrs Greenacre, who felt herself more put
about by this than any other mark of aristocratic distinction which
her enemies had assumed.
'Yes, indeed,' continued Mrs Guffern, 'as naked as you please,
while all the quality was dressed just as you and I be, Mrs
Greenacre.'
'Drat their impudence' said Mrs Greenacre, from whose well-covered
bosom all milk of human kindness was receding, as far as the family
of the Lookalofts were concerned.
'So says I,' said Mrs Guffern; 'and so says my good-man Thomas
Guffern, when he hear'd it. "Molly," says he to me, "if ever you
takes to going about o' mornings with yourself all naked in them
ways, I begs you won't come back no more to the old house." So says
I, "Thomas, no more I wull." "But," says he, "drat it, how the
deuce does she manage with her rheumatiz, and she not a rag on
her:"' said Mrs Giffern, laughed loudly as she though of Mrs
Lookalofts's probable sufferings from rheumatic attacks.
'But to liken herself that way to folk that ha' blood in their
veins,' said Mrs Greenacre.
'Well, but that warn't all neither that Betsey told. There they all
swelled into madam's drawing-room, like so many turkey cocks, as
much to say, "and who dare say no to us?" and Gregory was thinking
of telling them to come down here, only his heart failed him 'cause
of the grand way they was dressed. So in they went; but madam
looked at them as glum as death.'
'Well now,' said Mrs Greenacre, greatly relieved, 'so they wasn't
axed different from us all then?'
'Betsey says that Gregory says that madam wasn't a bit too well
pleased to see them where they was and that, to his believing, they
was expected to come here just like the rest of us.'
There was great consolation in this. Not that Mrs Greenacre was
altogether satisfied. She felt that justice to herself demanded
that Mrs Lookaloft should not only not be encouraged, but that she
should also be absolutely punished.
What had been done at that scriptural banquet, of which Mrs
Greenacre so often read the account to her family? Why had not Miss
Thorne boldly gone to the intruder and said: 'Friend, thou hast
come up hither to high places not fitted for thee. Go down lower,
and thou wilt find thy mates.' Let the Lookalofts be treated at the
present moment with ever so cold a shoulder, they would still be
enabled to boast hereafter of their position, their aspirations,
and their honour.
'Well, with all her grandeur, I do wonder that she be so mean,
continued Mrs Greenacre, unable to dismiss the subject.
'Did you hear, goodman?' she went on, about to repeat the whole
story to her husband who then came up. 'There's dame Lookaloft and
Bab and Gussy and the lot of 'em all sitting as grand as fivepence
in madam's drawing-room, and they not axed no more nor you nor me.
Did you ever hear tell the like o' that?'
'Well, and what for shouldn't they?' said Farmer Greenacre.
'Likening theyselves to the quality, as though they was estated
folk, or the like o' that!' said Mrs Guffern.
'Well, if they likes it and madam likes it, they's welcome for me,'
said the farmer. 'Now I likes the place better, cause I be more at
home like, and don't have to pay for them fine clothes for the
missus. Every one to his taste, Mrs Guffern, and if neighbour
Lookaloft thinks that he has the best of it, he's welcome.'
Mrs Greenacre sat down by her husband's side to begin the heavy
work of the banquet, and she did so in some measure of restored
tranquillity, but nevertheless she shook her head at her gossip to
show that in this instance she did not quite approve of her
husband's doctrine.
'And I'll tell 'ee what, dames,' continued he; 'if so be that we
cannot enjoy the dinner that madam gives us because Mother
Lookaloft is sitting up there on a grand sofa, I think we ought all
to go home. If we greet at that, what'll we do when true sorrow
comes across us? How would you be now, dame, if the boy there had
broke his neck when he got the tumble?'
Mrs Greenacre was humbled, and said nothing further on the matter.
But let prudent men, such as Mr Greenacre, preach as they will, the
family of the Lookalofts certainly does occasion a good deal of
heart-burning in the world at large.
It was pleasant to see Mr Plomacy, as leaning on his stout stick he
went about among the rural guests, acting as a sort of head
constable as well as master of the revels. 'Now, young 'un, if you
can't manage to get along without that screeching, you'd better go
to the other side of the twelve-acre field, and take your dinner
with you. Come, girls, what do you stand there for, twirling of
your thumbs? come out, and let the lads see you; you've no need to
be so ashamed of your faces. Hello! there, who are you? how did you
make your way in here?'
This last disagreeable question was put to a young man of about
twenty-four, who did not, in Mr Plomacy's eye, bear sufficient
vestiges of a rural education and residence.
'If you please, your worship, Master Barrell the coachman let me in
at the church wicket, 'cause I do be working mostly al'ays for the
family.'
'Then Master Barrell the coachman may let you out again,' said Mr
Plomacy, not even conciliated by the magisterial dignity which had
been conceded to him. 'What's your name? And what trade are you,
and who do you work for?'
'I'm Stubbs, your worship, Bob Stubbs; and--and--and--'
'And what's your trade, Stubbs?'
'Plaisterer, please your worship.'
'I'll plaister you and Barrell too; you'll just walk out of this
'ere field as quick as you walked in. We don't want no plaisterers;
when we do, we'll send for 'em. Come, my buck, walk.'
Stubbs the plasterer was much downcast at the dreadful edict. He
was a sprightly fellow, and had contrived since his egress into the
Ullathorne elysium to attract to himself a forest nymph, to whom he
was whispering a plasterer's usual soft nothings, when he was
encountered by the great Mr Plomacy. It was dreadful to be thus
dissevered from the dryad, and sent howling back to a Barchester
pandemonium just as the nectar and ambrosia were about to descend
on the fields of asphodel. He began to try what prayers would do,
but city prayers were vain against the great rural potentate. Not
only did Mr Plomacy order his exit, but raising his stick to show
the way which led to the gate that had been left in the custody of
that false Cerberus Barrell, proceeded himself to see the edict of
banishment carried out.
The goddess Mercy, however, the sweetest goddess that ever sat upon
a cloud, and the dearest to poor frail erring man appeared on the
field in the person of Mr Greenacre. Never was interceding goddess
more welcome.
'Come, man,' said Mr Greenacre, 'never stick at trifles such a day
as this. I know the lad well. Let him bide at my axing. Madam won't
miss what he can eat and drink, I know.'
Now Mr Plomacy and Mr Greenacre were sworn friends. Mr Plomacy had
at his own disposal as comfortable a room as there was in
Ullathorne House; but he was a bachelor, and alone there; and,
moreover, smoking in the house was not allowed even to Mr Plomacy.
His moments of truest happiness were spent in a huge arm-chair in
the warmest corner of Mrs Greenacre's beautifully clean front
kitchen. 'Twas there that the inner man dissolved itself, and
poured itself out in streams of pleasant chat; 'twas there, and
perhaps there only, that he could unburden himself from the
ceremonies of life without offending the dignity of those above
him, or incurring the familiarity of those below. 'Twas there that
his long pipe was always to be found on the accustomed chimney
board, not only permitted but encouraged.
Such being the state of the case, it was not to be supposed that Mr
Plomacy could refuse such a favour to Mr Greenacre; but
nevertheless he not grant it without some further show of austere
authority.
'Eat and drink, Mr Greenacre! No. it's not what he eats and drinks;
but the example such a chap shows, coming in where he's not
invited--a chap of his age too. He too that never did a day's work
about Ullathorne since he was born. Plaisterer! I'll plaister him!'
'He worked long enough for me, then Mr Plomacy. And a good hand he
is at setting tiles as any in Barchester,' said the other, not
sticking quite to veracity, as indeed mercy never should. 'Come,
come, let him alone to-day, and quarrel with him to-morrow. You
wouldn't shame him before his lass there?'
'It goes against the grain with me, then,' said Mr Plomacy. 'And
take care, you Stubbs, and behave yourself. If I hear a row, I
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