“I could do nothing, Mr. Slope, without consulting my father.”
“Ah!” said he, “that would be useless; you would then only be your father’s messenger. Does anything occur to yourself? Something must be done. Your father shall not be ruined by so ridiculous a misunderstanding.”
Eleanor said that nothing occurred to her, but that it was very hard; and the tears came to her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Mr. Slope would have given much to have had the privilege of drying them, but he had tact enough to know that he had still a great deal to do before he could even hope for any privilege with Mrs. Bold.
“It cuts me to the heart to see you so grieved,” said he. “But pray let me assure you that your father’s interests shall not be sacrificed if it be possible for me to protect them. I will tell the bishop openly what are the facts. I will explain to him that he has hardly the right to appoint any other than your father, and will show him that if he does so he will be guilty of great injustice—and you, Mrs. Bold, you will have the charity at any rate to believe this of me, that I am truly anxious for your father’s welfare—for his and for your own.”
The widow hardly knew what answer to make. She was quite aware that her father would not be at all thankful to Mr. Slope; she had a strong wish to share her father’s feelings; and yet she could not but acknowledge that Mr. Slope was very kind. Her father, who was generally so charitable to all men, who seldom spoke ill of anyone, had warned her against Mr. Slope, and yet she did not know how to abstain from thanking him. What interest could he have in the matter but that which he professed? Nevertheless there was that in his manner which even she distrusted. She felt, she did not know why, that there was something about him which ought to put her on her guard.
Mr. Slope read all this in her hesitating manner just as plainly as though she had opened her heart to him. It was the talent of the man that he could so read the inward feelings of women with whom he conversed. He knew that Eleanor was doubting him, and that, if she thanked him, she would only do so because she could not help it, but yet this did not make him angry or even annoy him. Rome was not built in a day.
“I did not come for thanks,” continued he, seeing her hesitation, “and do not want them—at any rate before they are merited. But this I do want, Mrs. Bold, that I may make to myself friends in this fold to which it has pleased God to call me as one of the humblest of his shepherds. If I cannot do so, my task here must indeed be a sad one. I will at any rate endeavour to deserve them.”
“I’m sure,” said she, “you will soon make plenty of friends.” She felt herself obliged to say something.
“That will be nothing unless they are such as will sympathize with my feelings; unless they are such as I can reverence and admire—and love. If the best and purest turn away from me, I cannot bring myself to be satisfied with the friendship of the less estimable. In such case I must live alone.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will not do that, Mr. Slope.” Eleanor meant nothing, but it suited him to appear to think some special allusion had been intended.
“Indeed, Mrs. Bold, I shall live alone, quite alone as far as the heart is concerned, if those with whom I yearn to ally myself turn away from me. But enough of this; I have called you my friend, and I hope you will not contradict me. I trust the time may come when I may also call your father so. May God bless you, Mrs. Bold, you and your darling boy. And tell your father from me that what can be done for his interest shall be done.”
And so he took his leave, pressing the widow’s hand rather more closely than usual. Circumstances, however, seemed just then to make this intelligible, and the lady did not feel called on to resent it.
“I cannot understand him,” said Eleanor to Mary Bold a few minutes afterwards. “I do not know whether he is a good man or a bad man—whether he is true or false.”
“Then give him the benefit of the doubt,” said Mary, “and believe the best.”
“On the whole, I think I do,” said Eleanor. “I think I do believe that he means well—and if so, it is a shame that we should revile him and make him miserable while he is among us. But, oh, Mary, I fear Papa will be disappointed in the hospital.”
CHAPTER 17
Who Shall Be Cock of the Walk?
All this time things were going somewhat uneasily at the palace. The hint or two which Mr. Slope had given was by no means thrown away upon the bishop. He had a feeling that if he ever meant to oppose the now almost unendurable despotism of his wife, he must lose no further time in doing so; that if he ever meant to be himself master in his own diocese, let alone his own house, he should begin at once. It would have been easier to have done so from the day of his consecration than now, but easier now than when Mrs. Proudie should have succeeded in thoroughly mastering the diocesan details. Then the proffered assistance of Mr. Slope was a great thing for him, a most unexpected and invaluable aid. Hitherto he had looked on the two as allied forces and had considered that, as allies, they were impregnable. He had begun to believe that his only chance of escape would be by the advancement of Mr. Slope to some distant and rich preferment. But now it seemed that one of his enemies, certainly the least potent of them, but nevertheless one very important, was willing to desert his own camp. Assisted by Mr. Slope what might he not do? He walked up and down his little study, almost thinking that the time might come when he would be able to appropriate to his own use the big room upstairs in which his predecessor had always sat.
As he revolved these things in his mind a note was brought to him from Archdeacon Grantly, in which that divine begged his lordship to do him the honour of seeing him on the morrow—would his lordship have the kindness to name an hour? Dr. Grantly’s proposed visit would have reference to the reappointment of Mr. Harding to the wardenship of Barchester Hospital. The bishop having read his note was informed that the archdeacon’s servant was waiting for an answer.
Here at once a great opportunity offered itself to the bishop of acting on his own responsibility. He bethought himself however of his new ally and rang the bell for Mr. Slope. It turned out that Mr. Slope was not in the house, and then, greatly daring, the bishop with his own unassisted spirit wrote a note to the archdeacon saving that he would see him, and naming an hour for doing so. Having watched from his study-window that the messenger got safely off from the premises with this dispatch, he began to turn over in his mind what step he should next take.
To-morrow he would have to declare to the archdeacon either that Mr. Harding should have the appointment, or that he should not have it. The bishop felt that he could not honestly throw over the Quiverfuls without informing Mrs. Proudie, and he resolved at last to brave the lioness in her den and tell her that circumstances were such that it behoved him to reappoint Mr. Harding. He did not feel that he should at all derogate from his new courage by promising Mrs. Proudie that the very first piece of available preferment at his disposal should be given to Quiverful to atone for the injury done to him. If he could mollify the lioness with such a sop, how happy would he think his first efforts to have been!
Not without many misgivings did he find himself in Mrs. Proudie’s boudoir. He had at first thought of sending for her. But it was not at all impossible that she might choose to take such a message amiss, and then also it might be some protection to him to have his daughters present at the interview. He found her sitting with her account-books before her, nibbling the end of her pencil, evidently immersed in pecuniary difficulties, and harassed in mind by the multiplicity of palatial expenses and the heavy cost of episcopal grandeur. Her daughters were around her. Olivia was reading a novel, Augusta was crossing a note to her bosom friend in Baker Street, and Netta was working diminutive coach wheels for the bottom of a petticoat. If the bishop could get the better of his wife in her present mood, he would be a man indeed. He might then consider the victory his own forever. After all, in such cases the matter between husband and wife stands much the same as it does between two boys at the same school, two cocks in the same
yard, or two armies on the same continent. The conqueror once is generally the conqueror forever after. The prestige of victory is everything.
“Ahem—my dear,” began the bishop, “if you are disengaged, I wished to speak to you.” Mrs. Proudie put her pencil down carefully at the point to which she had totted her figures, marked down in her memory the sum she had arrived at, and then looked up, sourly enough, into her helpmate’s face. “If you are busy, another time will do as well,” continued the bishop, whose courage, like Bob Acres’, had oozed out now that he found himself on the ground of battle.
“What is it about, Bishop?” asked the lady.
“Well—it was about those Quiverfuls—but I see you are engaged. Another time will do just as well for me.”
“What about the Quiverfuls? It is quite understood, I believe, that they are to come to the hospital. There is to be no doubt about that, is there?” and as she spoke she kept her pencil sternly and vigorously fixed on the column of figures before her.
“Why, my dear, there is a difficulty,” said the bishop.
“A difficulty!” said Mrs. Proudie, “what difficulty? The place has been promised to Mr. Quiverful, and of course he must have it. He has made all his arrangements. He has written for a curate for Puddingdale, he has spoken to the auctioneer about selling his farm, horses, and cows, and in all respects considers the place as his own. Of course he must have it.”
Now, Bishop, look well to thyself and call up all the manhood that is in thee. Think how much is at stake. If now thou art not true to thy guns, no Slope can hereafter aid thee. How can he who deserts his own colours at the first smell of gunpowder expect faith in any ally? Thou thyself hast sought the battlefield: fight out the battle manfully now thou art there. Courage, Bishop, courage! Frowns cannot kill, nor can sharp words break any bones. After all, the apron is thine own. She can appoint no wardens, give away no benefices, nominate no chaplains, an’ thou art but true to thyself. Up, man, and at her with a constant heart.
Some little monitor within the bishop’s breast so addressed him. But then there was another monitor there which advised him differently, and as follows. Remember, Bishop, she is a woman, and such a woman too as thou well knowest: a battle of words with such a woman is the very mischief. Were it not better for thee to carry on this war, if it must be waged, from behind thine own table in thine own study? Does not every cock fight best on his own dunghill? Thy daughters also are here, the pledges of thy love, the fruits of thy loins: is it well that they should see thee in the hour of thy victory over their mother? Nay, is it well that they should see thee in the possible hour of thy defeat? Besides, hast thou not chosen thy opportunity with wonderful little skill, indeed with no touch of that sagacity for which thou art famous? Will it not turn out that thou art wrong in this matter and thine enemy right; that thou hast actually pledged thyself in this matter of the hospital, and that now thou wouldest turn upon thy wife because she requires from thee but the fulfilment of thy promise? Art thou not a Christian bishop, and is not thy word to be held sacred whatever be the result? Return, Bishop, to thy sanctum on the lower floor and postpone thy combative propensities for some occasion in which at least thou mayest fight the battle against odds less tremendously against thee.
All this passed within the bishop’s bosom while Mrs. Proudie still sat with her fixed pencil, and the figures of her sum still enduring on the tablets of her memory. “£4 17s. 7d.” she said to herself. “Of course Mr. Quiverful must have the hospital,” she said out loud to her lord.
“Well, my dear, I merely wanted to suggest to you that Mr. Slope seems to think that if Mr. Harding be not appointed, public feeling in the matter would be against us, and that the press might perhaps take it up.”
“Mr. Slope seems to think!” said Mrs. Proudie in a tone of voice which plainly showed the bishop that he was right in looking for a breach in that quarter. “And what has Mr. Slope to do with it? I hope, my lord, you are not going to allow yourself to be governed by a chaplain.” And now in her eagerness the lady lost her place in her account.
“Certainly not, my dear. Nothing I can assure you is less probable. But still, Mr. Slope may be useful in finding how the wind blows, and I really thought that if we could give something else as good to the Quiverfuls—”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Proudie; “it would be years before you could give them anything else that could suit them half as well, and as for the press and the public and all that, remember there are two ways of telling a story. If Mr. Harding is fool enough to tell his tale, we can also tell ours. The place was offered to him, and he refused it. It has now been given to someone else, and there’s an end of it. At least I should think so.”
“Well, my dear, I rather believe you are right,” said the bishop, and sneaking out of the room, he went downstairs, troubled in his mind as to how he should receive the archdeacon on the morrow. He felt himself not very well just at present, and began to consider that he might, not improbably, be detained in his room the next morning by an attack of bile. He was, unfortunately, very subject to bilious annoyances.
“Mr. Slope, indeed! I’ll Slope him,” said the indignant matron to her listening progeny. “I don’t know what has come to Mr. Slope. I believe he thinks he is to be Bishop of Barchester himself, because I’ve taken him by the hand and got your father to make him his domestic chaplain.”
“He was always full of impudence,” said Olivia; “I told you so once before, Mamma.” Olivia, however, had not thought him too impudent when once before he had proposed to make her Mrs. Slope.
“Well, Olivia, I always thought you liked him,” said Augusta, who at that moment had some grudge against her sister. “I always disliked the man, because I think him thoroughly vulgar.”
“There you’re wrong,” said Mrs. Proudie; “he’s not vulgar at all; and what is more, he is a soul-stirring, eloquent preacher; but he must be taught to know his place if he is to remain in this house.”
“He has the horridest eyes I ever saw in a man’s head,” said Netta; “and I tell you what, he’s terribly greedy; did you see all the currant pie he ate yesterday?”
When Mr. Slope got home he soon learnt from the bishop, as much from his manner as his words, that Mrs. Proudie’s behests in the matter of the hospital were to be obeyed. Dr. Proudie let fall something as to “this occasion only” and “keeping all affairs about patronage exclusively in his own hands.” But he was quite decided about Mr. Harding; and as Mr. Slope did not wish to have both the prelate and the prelatess against him, he did not at present see that he could do anything but yield.
He merely remarked that he would of course carry out the bishop’s views, and that he was quite sure that if the bishop trusted to his own judgement things in the diocese would certainly be well ordered. Mr. Slope knew that if you hit a nail on the head often enough, it will penetrate at last.
He was sitting alone in his room on the same evening when a light knock was made on his door, and before he could answer it the door was opened, and his patroness appeared. He was all smiles in a moment, but so was not she also. She took, however, the chair that was offered to her, and thus began her expostulation:
“Mr. Slope, I did not at all approve your conduct the other night with that Italian woman. Anyone would have thought that you were her lover.”
“Good gracious, my dear madam,” said Mr. Slope with a look of horror. “Why, she is a married woman.”
“That’s more than I know,” said Mrs. Proudie; “however she chooses to pass for such. But married or not married, such attention as you paid to her was improper. I cannot believe that you would wish to give offence in my drawing-room, Mr. Slope, but I owe it to myself and my daughters to tell you that I disapprove of your conduct.”
Mr. Slope opened wide his huge protruding eyes and stared out of them with a look of well-feigned surprise. “Why, Mrs. Proudie,” said he, “I did but fetch her something to eat when she said she was hungry.”
“And you
have called on her since,” continued she, looking at the culprit with the stern look of a detective policeman in the act of declaring himself.
Mr. Slope turned over in his mind whether it would be well for him to tell this termagant at once that he should call on whom he liked, and do what he liked; but he remembered that his footing in Barchester was not yet sufficiently firm, and that it would be better for him to pacify her.
“I certainly called since at Dr. Stanhope’s house, and certainly saw Madame Neroni.”
“Yes, and you saw her alone,” said the episcopal Argus.
“Undoubtedly, I did,” said Mr. Slope, “but that was because nobody else happened to be in the room. Surely it was no fault of mine if the rest of the family were out.”
“Perhaps not, but I assure you, Mr. Slope, you will fall greatly in my estimation if I find that you allow yourself to be caught by the lures of that woman. I know women better than you do, Mr. Slope, and you may believe me that that signora, as she calls herself, is not a fitting companion for a strict evangelical unmarried young clergyman.”
How Mr. Slope would have liked to laugh at her, had he dared! But he did not dare. So he merely said, “I can assure you, Mrs. Proudie, the lady in question is nothing to me.”
“Well, I hope not, Mr. Slope. But I have considered it my duty to give you this caution. And now there is another thing I feel myself called on to speak about: it is your conduct to the bishop, Mr. Slope.”
“My conduct to the bishop,” said he, now truly surprised and ignorant what the lady alluded to.
“Yes, Mr. Slope, your conduct to the bishop. It is by no means what I would wish to see it.”
“Has the bishop said anything, Mrs. Proudie?”
“No, the bishop has said nothing. He probably thinks that any remarks on the matter will come better from me, who first introduced you to his lordship’s notice. The fact is, Mr. Slope, you are a little inclined to take too much upon yourself.”
The Chronicles of Barsetshire Page 38