Barchester Towers

by Anthony Trollope

  Such a feeling as, this is very bitter when it first impresses itself on a young mind. To the old, such plots and plans, such matured schemes for obtaining the goods of this world without the trouble of earning them, such long-headed attempts to convert tuum into meum5a are the ways of life to which they are accustomed. ’Tis thus that many live, and it therefore behoves all those who are well-to-do in the world to be on their guard against those who are not. With them it is the success that disgusts, not the attempt. But Eleanor had not yet learnt to look on her money as a source of danger; she had not begun to regard herself as fair game to be hunted down by hungry gentlemen. She had enjoyed the society of the Stanhopes, she had greatly liked the cordiality of Charlotte, and had been happy in her new friends. Now she saw the cause of all this kindness, and her mind was opened to a new phase of human life.

  ‘Miss Stanhope,’ said she, haughtily, ‘has been contriving for me a great deal of honour, but she might have saved herself the trouble. I am not sufficiently ambitious.’

  ‘Pray don’t be angry with her, Mrs Bold,’ said he, ‘or with me either.’

  ‘Certainly not with you, Mr Stanhope,’ said she, with considerable sarcasm in her tone. ‘Certainly not with you.’

  ‘No – nor with her,’ said he, imploringly.

  ‘And why, may I ask you, Mr Stanhope, have you told me this singular story? For I may presume I may judge by your manner of telling it, that – that – that you and your sister are not exactly of one mind on the subject.’

  ‘No, we are not.’

  ‘And if so,’ said Mrs Bold, who was now really angry with the unnecessary insult which she thought had been offered to her, ‘and if so, why has it been worth your while to tell me all this?’

  ‘I did once think, Mrs Bold – that you – that you –’

  The widow now again became entirely impassive, and would not lend the slightest assistance to her companion.

  ‘I did once think that you perhaps might – might have been taught to regard me as more than a friend.’

  ‘Never!’ said Mrs Bold, ‘never. If I have ever allowed myself to do anything to encourage such an idea, I have been very much to blame – very much to blame indeed.’

  ‘You never have,’ said Bertie, who really had a good-natured anxiety to make what he said as little unpleasant as possible. ‘You never have, and I have seen for some time that I had no chance; but my sister’s hopes ran higher. I have not mistaken you, Mrs Bold, though perhaps she has.’

  ‘Then why have you said all this to me?’

  ‘Because I must not anger her.’

  ‘And will not this anger her? Upon my word, Mr Stanhope, I do not understand the policy of your family. Oh, how I wish I was at home!’ And as she expressed the wish she could restrain herself no longer, but burst out into a flood of tears.

  Poor Bertie was greatly moved. ‘You shall have the carriage to yourself going home,’ said he; ‘at least you and my father. As for me I can walk, or for the matter of that it does not much signify what I do.’ He perfectly understood that part of Eleanor’s grief arose from the apparent necessity of her going back to Barchester in the carriage with her second suitor.

  This somewhat mollified her. ‘Oh, Mr Stanhope,’ said she, ‘why should you have made me so miserable? What will you have gained by telling me all this?’

  He had not even yet explained to her the most difficult part of his proposition; he had not told her that she was to be a party to the little deception which he intended to play upon his sister. This suggestion had still to be made, and as it was absolutely necessary, he proceeded to make it.

  We need not follow him through the whole of his statement. At last, and not without considerable difficulty, he made Eleanor understand why he had let her into his confidence, seeing that he no longer intended her the honour of a formal offer. At last he made her comprehend the part which she was destined to play in this little family comedy.

  But when she did understand it, she was only more angry with him than ever; more angry, not only with him, but with Charlotte also. Her fair name was to be bandied about between them in different senses, and each sense false. She was to be played off by the sister against the father; and then by the brother against the sister. Her dear friend Charlotte, with all her agreeable sympathy and affection, was striving to sacrifice her for the Stanhope family welfare; and Bertie, who, as he now proclaimed himself, was over head and ears in debt, completed the compliment of owning that he did not care to have his debts paid at so great a sacrifice of himself. Then she was asked to conspire together with this unwilling suitor, for the sake of making the family believe that he had in obedience to their commands done his best to throw himself thus away!

  She lifted up her face when he had finished, and looking at him with much dignity, even through her tears, she said –

  ‘I regret to say it, Mr Stanhope; but after what has passed, I believe that all intercourse between your family and myself had better cease.’

  ‘Well, perhaps it had,’ said Bertie naïvely; ‘perhaps that will be better at any rate for a time; and then Charlotte will think you are offended at what I have done.’

  ‘And now I will go back to the house, if you please,’ said Eleanor. ‘I can find my way by myself, Mr Stanhope: after what has passed,’ she added, ‘I would rather go alone.’

  ‘But I must find the carriage for you, Mrs Bold, and I must tell my father that you will return with him alone, and I must make some excuse to him for not going with you; and I must bid the servant put you down at your own house, for I suppose you will not now choose to see them again in the close.’

  There was a truth about this, and a perspicuity in making arrangements for lessening her immediate embarrassment, which had some effect in softening Eleanor’s anger. So she suffered herself to walk by his side over the now deserted lawn, till they came to the drawing-room window. There was something about Bertie Stanhope which gave him, in the estimation of everyone, a different standing from that which any other man would occupy under similar circumstances. Angry as Eleanor was, and great as was her cause for anger, she was not half as angry with him as she would have been with anyone else. He was apparently so simple, so good-natured, so unaffected and easy to talk to, that she had already half forgiven him before he was at the drawing-room window.

  When they arrived there, Dr Stanhope was sitting nearly alone with Mr and Miss Thorne; one or two other unfortunates were there, who from one cause or another were still delayed in getting away; but they were every moment getting fewer in number.

  As soon as he had handed Eleanor over to his father, Bertie started off to the front gate, in search of the carriage, and there waited leaning patiently against the front wall, and comfortably smoking a cigar, till it came up. When he returned to the room Dr Stanhope and Eleanor were alone, with their hosts.

  ‘At last. Miss Thorne,’ said he cheerily, ‘I have come to relieve you. Mrs Bold and my father are the last roses of the very delightful summer you have given us, and desirable as Mrs Bold’s society always is, now at least you must be glad to see the last flowers plucked from the tree.’

  Miss Thorne declared that she was delighted to have Mrs Bold and Dr Stanhope still with her; and Mr Thorne would have said the same, had he not been checked by a yawn, which he could not suppress.

  ‘Father, will you give your arm to Mrs Bold?’ said Bertie: and so the last adieux were made, and the prebendary led out Mrs Bold, followed by his son.

  ‘I shall be home soon after you,’ said he, as the two got into the carriage.

  ‘Are you not coming in the carriage?’ said the father.

  ‘No, no; I have someone to see on the road, and shall walk. John, mind you drive to Mrs Bold’s house first’

  Eleanor, looking out of the window, saw him with his hat in his hand, bowing to her with his usual gay smile, as though nothing had happened to mar the tranquillity of the day. It was many a long year before she saw him again. Dr Stanhope hardly spo
ke to her on her way home; and she was safely deposited by John at her own hall door, before the carriage drove into the close.

  And thus our heroine played the last act of that day’s melodrama.

  CHAPTER 9

  Mr and Mrs Quiverful are Made Happy. Mr Slope is Encouraged by the Press

  BEFORE she started for Ullathorne, Mrs Proudie, careful soul, caused two letters to be written, one by herself and one by her lord, to the inhabitants of Puddingdale Vicarage, which made happy the hearth of those within it.

  As soon as the departure of the horses left the bishop’s stable-groom free for other services, that humble denizen of the diocese started on the bishop’s own pony with the two despatches. We have had so many letters lately that we will spare ourselves these. That from the bishop was simply a request that Mr Quiverful would wait upon his lordship the next morning at 11 a.m.; and that from the lady was as simply a request that Mrs Quiverful would do the same by her, though it was couched in somewhat longer and more grandiloquent phraseology.

  It had become a point of conscience with Mrs Proudie to urge the settlement of this great hospital question. She was resolved that Mr Quiverful should have it She was resolved that there should be no more doubt or delay, no more refusals and resignations, no more secret negotiations carried on by Mr Slope on his own account in opposition to her behests.

  ‘Bishop,’ she said immediately after breakfast, on the morning of that eventful day, ‘have you signed the appointment yet?’

  ‘No, my dear, not yet; it is not exactly signed as yet’

  ‘Then do it,’ said the lady.

  The bishop did it; and a very pleasant day indeed he spent at Ullathorne. And when he got home he had a glass of hot negus in his wife’s sitting-room, and read the last number of the Little Dorrit of the day1a with great inward satisfaction. Oh, husbands, oh, my marital friends, what great comfort is there to be derived from a wife well obeyed!

  Much perturbation and flutter, high expectation and renewed hopes, were occasioned at Puddingdale, by the receipt of these episcopal despatches. Mrs Quiverful, whose careful ear caught the sound of the pony’s feet as he trotted up to the vicarage kitchen door, brought them in hurriedly to her husband. She was at the moment concocting the Irish stew destined to satisfy the noonday wants of fourteen young birds, let alone the parent couple. She had taken the letters from the man’s hands between the folds of her capacious apron, so as to save them from the contamination of the stew, and in this guise she brought them to her husband’s desk.

  They at once divided the spoil, each taking that addressed to the other. ‘Quiverful,’ said she with impressive voice, ‘you are to be at the palace at eleven tomorrow.’

  ‘And so are you, my dear,’ said he, almost gasping with the importance of the tidings: and then they exchanged letters.

  ‘She’d never have sent for me again,’ said the lady, ‘if it wasn’t all right.’

  ‘Oh! my dear, don’t be too certain,’ said the gentleman. ‘Only think if it should be wrong.’

  ‘She’d never have sent for me, Q., if it wasn’t all right,’ again argued the lady. ‘She’s stiff and hard and proud as pie-crust, but I think she’s right at bottom.’ Such was Mrs Quiverful’s verdict about Mrs Proudie, to which in after times she always adhered. People when they get their income doubled usually think that those through whose instrumentality this little ceremony is performed are right at bottom.

  ‘Oh Letty!’ said Mr Quiverful, rising from his well-worn seat.

  ‘Oh Q.!’ said Mrs Quiverful: and then the two, unmindful of the kitchen apron, the greasy fingers, and the adherent Irish stew, threw themselves warmly into each other’s arms.

  ‘For heaven’s sake don’t let anyone cajole you out of it again,’ said the wife.

  ‘Let me alone for that,’ said the husband, with a look of almost fierce determination, pressing his fist as he spoke rigidly on his desk, as though he had Mr Slope’s head below his knuckles, and meant to keep it there.

  ‘I wonder how soon it will be,’ said she.

  ‘I wonder whether it will be at all,’ said he, still doubtful.

  ‘Well, I won’t say too much,’ said the lady. ‘The cup has slipped twice before, and it may fall altogether this time; but I’ll not believe it. He’ll give you the appointment tomorrow. You’ll find he will.’

  ‘Heaven send he may,’ said Mr Quiverful, solemnly. And who that considers the weight of the burden on this man’s back, will say that the prayer was an improper one? There were fourteen of them – fourteen of them living – as Mrs Quiverful had so powerfully urged in the presence of the bishop’s wife. As long as promotion cometh from any human source, whether north or south, east or west, will not such a claim as this hold good, in spite of all our examination tests,2a detur digniori’s,3a and optimist tendencies? It is fervently to be hoped that it may. Till we can become divine, we must be content to be human, lest in our hurry for a change we sink to something lower.

  And then the pair, sitting down lovingly together, talked over all their difficulties, as they so often did, and all their hopes as they so seldom were enabled to do.

  ‘You had better call on that man, Q., as you come away from the palace,’ said Mrs Quiverful, pointing to an angry call for money from the Barchester draper, which the postman had left at the vicarage that morning. Cormorant that he was, unjust hungry cormorant! When rumour first got abroad that the Quiverfuls were to go to the hospital, this fellow with fawning eagerness had pressed his goods upon the wants of the poor clergyman. He had done so, feeling that he should be paid from the hospital funds, and flattering himself that a man with fourteen children, and money wherewithal to clothe them, could not but be an excellent customer. As soon as the second rumour reached him, he applied for his money angrily.

  And ‘the fourteen’ – or such of them as were old enough to hope and discuss their hopes, talked over their golden future. The tall grown girls whispered to each other of possible Barchester parties, of possible allowances for dress, of a possible piano – the one they had in the vicarage was so weather-beaten with the storms of years and children as to be no longer worthy of the name – of the pretty garden, and the pretty house. ’Twas of such things it most behoved them to whisper.

  And the younger fry, they did not content themselves with whispers, but shouted to each other of their new playground beneath our dear ex-warden’s well-loved elms, of their future own gardens, of marbles to be procured in the wished-for city, and of the rumour which had reached them of a Barchester school.

  ’Twas in vain that their cautious mother tried to instil into their breasts the very feeling she had striven to banish from that of their father; ’twas in vain that she repeated to the girls that ‘there’s many a slip ‘twixt the cup and the lip’; ’twas in vain she attempted to make the children believe that they were to live at Puddingdale all their lives. Hopes mounted high and would not have themselves quelled. The neighbouring farmers heard the news and came in to congratulate them. ’Twas Mrs Quiverful herself who had kindled the fire, and in the first outbreak of her renewed expectations she did it so thoroughly, that it was quite past her power to put it out again.

  Poor matron! good honest matron! doing thy duty in the state to which thou hast been called, heartily if not contentedly; let the fire burn on; on this occasion the flames will not scorch; they shall warm thee and thine. ’Tis ordained that that husband of thine, that Q. of thy bosom, shall reign supreme for years to come over the bedesmen of Hiram’s Hospital.

  And the last in all Barchester to mar their hopes, had he heard and seen all that passed at Puddingdale that day, would have been Mr Harding. What wants had he to set in opposition to those of such a regiment of young ravens? There are fourteen of them living! with him, at any rate, let us say that that argument would have been sufficient for the appointment of Mr Quiverful.

  In the morning Q. and his wife kept their appointments with that punctuality which bespeaks an expectant mind. T
he friendly farmer’s gig was borrowed, and in that they went, discussing many things by the way. They had instructed the household to expect them back by one, and injunctions were given to the eldest pledge to have ready by that accustomed hour the remainder of the huge stew which the provident mother had prepared on the previous day. The hands of the kitchen clock came round to two, three, four, before the farmer’s gig wheels were again heard at the vicarage gate. With what palpitating hearts were the returning wanderers greeted!

  ‘I suppose, children, you all thought we were never coming back any more?’ said the mother, as she slowly let down her solid foot till it rested on the step of the gig. ‘Well, such a day as we’ve had!’ and then leaning heavily on a big boy’s shoulder, she stepped once more on terra firma.

  There was no need for more than the tone of her voice to tell them that all was right. The Irish stew might burn itself to cinders now.

  Then there was such kissing and hugging, such crying and laughing. Mr Quiverful could not sit still at all, but kept walking from room to room, then out into the garden, then down the avenue into the road, and then back again to his wife. She, however, lost no time so idly.

  ‘We must go to work at once, girls; and that in earnest. Mrs Proudie expects us to be in the hospital house on the 15th of October.’

  Had Mrs Proudie expressed a wish that they should all be there on the next morning, the girls would have had nothing to say against it.

  ‘And when will the pay begin?’ asked the eldest boy.

  ‘Today, my dear,’ said the gratified mother.

  ‘Oh – that is Jolly,’ said the boy.

  ‘Mrs Proudie insisted on our going down to the house,’ continued the mother; ‘and when there I thought I might save a journey by measuring some of the rooms and windows; so I got a knot of tape from Bobbins. Bobbins is as civil as you please, now.’