BARCHESTER TOWERS


By Anthony Trollope


Chapter 1

Who Will be the New Bishop?

In the latter days of July in the year 185-, a most 
important question was for ten days hourly asked in the 
cathedral city of Barchester, and answered every hour in 
various ways - Who was to be the new Bishop?
The death of old Dr Grantly, who had for many years filled 
that chair with meek authority, took place exactly as the 
ministry of Lord -- was going to give place to that of Lord -
-. The illness of the good old man was long and lingering, 
and it became at last a matter of intense interest to those 
concerned whether the new appointment should be made by a 
conservative or liberal government.
It was pretty well understood that the out-going premier had 
made his selection, and that if the question rested with 
him, the mitre would descend on the head of Archdeacon 
Grantly, the old bishop's son. The archdeacon had long 
managed the affairs of the diocese; and for some months 
previous to the demise of his father, rumour had confidently 
assigned to him the reversion of his father's honours.
Bishop Grantly died as he had lived, peaceably, slowly, 
without pain and without excitement. The breath ebbed from 
him almost imperceptibly, and for a month before his death, 
it was a question whether he were alive or dead.
A trying time was this for the archdeacon, for whom was 
designed the reversion of his father's see by those who then 
had the giving away of episcopal thrones. I would not be 
understood to say that the prime minister had in so many 
words promised the bishopric to Dr Grantly. He was too 
discreet a man for that. There is a proverb with reference 
to the killing of cats, and those who know anything either 
of high or low government places, will be well aware that a 
promise may be made without positive words, and that an 
expectant may be put into the highest state of 
encouragement, though the great man on whose breath he hangs 
may have done no more than whisper that 'Mr So-and-so is 
certainly a rising man.'
Such a whisper had been made, and was known by those who 
heard it to signify that the cures of the diocese of 
Barchester should not be taken out of the hands of the 
archdeacon. The then prime minister was all in all at 
Oxford, and had lately passed a night at the house of the 
master of Lazarus. Now the master of Lazarus - which is, by 
the bye, in many respects the most comfortable, as well as 
the richest college at Oxford - was the archdeacon's most 
intimate friend and most trusted counsellor. On the occasion 
of the prime minister's visit, Dr Grantly was of course 
present, and the meeting was very gracious. On the following 
morning Dr Gwynne, the master, told the archdeacon that in 
his opinion the thing was settled.
At this time the bishop was quite on his last legs; but the 
ministry also were tottering. Dr Grantly returned from 
Oxford happy and elated, to resume his place in the palace, 
and to continue to perform for the father the last duties of 
a son; which, to give him his due, he performed with more 
tender care than was to be expected from his usual somewhat 
worldly manners.
A month since the physicians had named four weeks as the 
outside period during which breath could be supported within 
the body of the dying man. At the end of the month the 
physicians wondered, and named another fortnight. The old 
man lived on wine alone, but at the end of the fortnight he 
still lived; and the tidings of the fall of the ministry 
became more frequent. Sir Lamda Mewnew and Sir Omicron Pie, 
the two great London doctors, now came down for the fifth 
time, and declared, shaking their learned heads, that 
another week of life was impossible; and as they sat down to 
lunch in the episcopal dining-room, whispered to the 
archdeacon their own private knowledge that the ministry 
must fall within five days. The son returned to his father's 
room, and after administering with his own hands the 
sustaining modicum of madeira, sat down by the bedside to 
calculate his chances.
The ministry were to be out within five days: his father was 
to be dead within - No, he rejected that view of the 
subject. The ministry were to be out, and the diocese might 
probably be vacant at the same period. There was much doubt 
as to the names of the men who were to succeed to power, and 
a week must elapse before a Cabinet was formed. Would not 
vacancies be filled by the out-going men during this week? 
Dr Grantly had a kind of idea that such would be the case, 
but did not know; and then he wondered at his own ignorance 
on such a question.
He tried to keep his mind away from the subject, but he 
could not. The race was so very close, and the stakes were 
so very high. He then looked at the dying man's impassive, 
placid face. There was no sign there of death or disease; it 
was something thinner than of yore, somewhat greyer, and the 
deep lines of age more marked; but, as far as he could 
judge, life might yet hang there for weeks to come. Sir 
Lamda Mewnew and Sir Omicron Pie had thrice been wrong, and 
might yet be wrong thrice again. The old bishop slept during 
twenty of the twenty-four hours, but during the short 
periods of his waking moments, he knew both his son and his 
dear old friend, Mr Harding, the archdeacon's father-in-law, 
and would thank them tenderly for their care and love. Now 
he lay sleeping like a baby, resting easily on his back, his 
mouth just open, and his few Gary hairs straggling from 
beneath his cap; his breath was perfectly noiseless, and his 
thin, wan hand, which lay above the coverlid, never moved. 
Nothing could be easier than the old man's passage from this 
world to the next.
But by no means easy were the emotions of him who sat there 
watching. He knew it must be now or never. He was already 
over fifty, and there was little chance that his friends who 
were now leaving office would soon return to it. No probable 
British prime minister but he who was now in, he who was so 
soon to be out, would think of making a bishop of Dr 
Grantly. Thus he thought long and sadly, in deep silence, 
and then gazed at that still living face, and then at last 
dared to ask himself whether he really longed for his 
father's death.
The effort was a salutary one, and the question was answered 
in a moment. The proud, wishful, worldly man, sank on his 
knees by the bedside, and taking the bishop's hand within 
his own, prayed eagerly that his sins might be forgiven him.
His face was still buried in the clothes when the door of 
the bedroom opened noiselessly, and Mr Harding entered with 
a velvet step. Mr Harding's attendance at that bedside had 
been nearly as constant as that of the archdeacon, and his 
ingress and egress was as much a matter of course as that of 
his son-in-law. He was standing close beside the archdeacon 
before he was perceived, and would also have knelt in prayer 
had he not feared that his doing so might have caused some 
sudden start, and have disturbed the dying man. Dr Grantly, 
however, instantly perceived him, and rose from his knees. 
As he did so Mr Harding took both his hands, and pressed 
them warmly. There was more fellowship between them at that 
moment than there had ever been before, and it so happened 
that after circumstances greatly preserved the feeling. As 
they stood there pressing each other's hands, the tears 
rolled freely down their cheeks.
'God bless you, my dears,' said the bishop with feeble voice 
as he woke - 'God bless you - may God bless you both, my 
dear children': and so he died.
There was no loud rattle in the throat, no dreadful 
struggle, no palpable sign of death; but the lower jaw fell 
a little from its place, and the eyes, which had been so 
constantly closed in sleep, now remained fixed and open. 
Neither Mr Harding nor Dr Grantly knew that life was gone, 
though both suspected it.
'I believe it's all over,' said Mr Harding, still pressing 
the other's hands. 'I think - nay, I hope it is.'
'I will ring the bell,' said the other, speaking all but in 
a whisper. 'Mrs Phillips should be here.'
Mrs Phillips, the nurse, was soon in the room, and 
immediately, with practised hand, closed those staring eyes.
'It's all over, Mrs Phillips?' asked Mr Harding.
'My lord's no more,' said Mrs Phillips, turning round and 
curtseying low with solemn face; 'his lordship's gone more 
like a sleeping babby than any that I ever saw.'
'It's a great relief, archdeacon,' said Mr Harding, 'a great 
relief - dear, good, excellent old man. Oh that our last 
moments may be as innocent and as peaceful as his!'
'Surely,' said Mrs Phillips. 'The Lord be praised for all 
his mercies; but, for a meek, mild, gentle-spoken Christian, 
his lordship was -' and Mrs Phillips, with unaffected but 
easy grief, put up her white apron to her flowing eyes.
'You cannot but rejoice that it is over,' said Mr Harding, 
still consoling his friend. The archdeacon's mind, however, 
had already travelled from the death chamber to the closet 
of the prime minister. He had brought himself to pray for 
his father's life, but now that that life was done, minutes 
were too precious to be lost. It was now useless to dally 
with the fact of the bishop's death - useless to lose 
perhaps everything for the pretence of a foolish sentiment.
But how was he to act while his father-in-law stood there 
holding his hand? how, without appearing unfeeling, was he 
to forget his father in the bishop - to overlook what he had 
lost, and think only of what he might possibly gain? 'No; I 
suppose not,' said he, at last, in answer to Mr Harding. 'We 
have all expected it so long.'
Mr Harding took him by the arm and led him from the room. 
'We will see him again tomorrow morning,' said he; 'we had 
better leave the room now to the women.' And so they went 
downstairs.
It was already evening and nearly dark. It was most 
important that the prime minister should know that night 
that the diocese was vacant. Everything might depend on it; 
and so, in answer to Mr Harding's further consolation, the 
archdeacon suggested that a telegraph message should be 
immediately sent off to London. Mr Harding who had really 
been somewhat surprised to find Dr Grantly, as he thought, 
so much affected, was rather taken aback; but he made no 
objection. He knew that the archdeacon had some hope of 
succeeding to his father's place, though he by no means knew 
how highly raised that hope had been.
'Yes,' said Dr Grantly, collecting himself and shaking off 
his weakness, 'we must send a message at once; we don't know 
what might be the consequence of delay. Will you do it?'
'I! oh yes; certainly: I'll do anything, only I don't know 
exactly what it is you want.'
Dr Grantly sat down before a writing table, and taking pen 
and ink, wrote on a slip of paper as follows:

'By Electric Telegraph.
'For the Earl of --, Downing Street, or elsewhere.
'"'The Bishop of Barchester is dead."
'Message sent by the Rev. Septimus Harding.'

'There,' said he, 'just take that to the telegraph office at 
the railway station, and give it in as it is; they'll 
probably make you copy it on to one of their own slips; 
that's all you'll have to do: then you'll have to pay them 
half-a-crown'; and the archdeacon put his hand in his pocket 
and pulled out the necessary sum.
Mr Harding felt very much like an errand-boy, and also felt 
that he was called on to perform his duties as such at 
rather an unseemly time; but he said nothing, and took the 
slip of paper and the proffered coin.
'But you've put my name into it, archdeacon.'
'Yes,' said the other, 'there should be the name of some 
clergyman you know, and what name so proper as that of so 
old a friend as yourself? The Earl won't look at the name, 
you may be sure of that; but, my dear Mr Harding, pray don't 
lose any time.'
Mr Harding got as far as the library door on his way to the 
station, when he suddenly remembered the news with which he 
was fraught when he entered the poor bishop's bedroom. He 
had found the moment so inopportune for any mundane tidings, 
that he had repressed the words which were on his tongue, 
and immediately afterwards all recollection of the 
circumstance was for the time banished by the scene which 
had occurred.
'But, archdeacon,' said he, turning back, 'I forgot to tell 
you - The ministry are out.'
'Out!' ejaculated the archdeacon, in a tone which too 
plainly showed his anxiety and dismay, although under the 
circumstances of the moment he endeavoured to control 
himself: 'Out! who told you so?'
Mr Harding explained that news to this effect had come down 
by electric telegraph, and that the tidings had been left at 
the palace door by Mr Chadwick.
The archdeacon sat silent for a while meditating, and Mr 
Harding stood looking at him. 'Never mind,' said the 
archdeacon at last; 'send the message all the same. The news 
must be sent to someone, and there is at present no one else 
in a position to receive it. Do it at once, my dear friend; 
you know I would not trouble you, were I in a state to do it 
myself. A few minutes' time is of the greatest importance.'
Mr Harding went out and sent the message, and it may be as 
well that we should follow it to its destination. Within 
thirty minutes of its leaving Barchester it reached the Earl 
of -- in his inner library. What elaborate letters, what 
eloquent appeals, what indignant remonstrances, he might 
there have to frame, at such a moment, may be conceived, but 
not described! How he was preparing his thunder for 
successful rivals, standing like a British peer with his 
back to the sea-coal fire, and his hands in his breeches 
pockets - how his fine eye was lit up with anger, and his 
forehead gleamed with patriotism - how he stamped his foot 
as he thought of his heavy associates - how he all but swore 
as he remembered how much too clever one of them had been, - 
my creative readers may imagine. But was he so engaged? No: 
history and truth compel me to deny it. He was sitting 
easily in a lounging chair, conning over a Newmarket list, 
and by his elbow on the table was lying open an uncut French 
novel on which he was engaged.
He opened the cover in which the message was enclosed, and 
having read it, he took his pen and wrote on the back of it -

'For the Earl of --,
'With the Earl of --'s compliments,'

and sent it off again on its journey.
Thus terminated our unfortunate friend's chance of 
possessing the glories of a bishopric.
The names of many divines were given in the papers as that 
of the bishop elect. The British Grandmother declared that 
Dr Gwynne was to be the man, in compliment to the late 
ministry. This was a heavy blow to Dr Grantly, but he was 
not doomed to see himself superseded by his friend. The 
Anglican Devotee put forward confidently the claims of a 
great London preacher of austere doctrines; and The Eastern 
Hemisphere, an evening paper supposed to possess much 
official knowledge, declared in favour of an eminent 
naturalist, a gentleman most completely versed in the 
knowledge of rocks and minerals, but supposed by many to 
hold on religious subjects no special doctrines whatever. 
The Jupiter, that daily paper, which, as we all know, is the 
only true source of infallibly correct information on all 
subjects, for a while was silent, but at last spoke out. The 
merits of all these candidates were discussed and somewhat 
irreverently disposed of, and then The Jupiter declared that 
Dr Proudie was to be the man.
Dr Proudie was the man. Just a month after the demise of the 
late bishop, Dr Proudie kissed the Queen's hand as his 
successor elect.
We must beg to be allowed to draw a curtain over the sorrows 
of the archdeacon as he sat, sombre and sad at heart, in the 
study of his parsonage at Plumstead Episcopi. On the day 
subsequent to the despatch of the message he heard that the 
Earl of -- had consented to undertake the formation of a 
ministry, and from that moment he knew that his chance was 
over. Many will think that he was wicked to grieve for the 
loss of episcopal power, wicked to have coveted it, nay, 
wicked even to have thought about it, in the way and at the 
moments he had done so.
With such censures I cannot profess that I completely agree. 
The nolo episcopari, though still in use, is so directly at 
variance with the tendency of all human wishes, that it 
cannot be thought to express the true aspirations of rising 
priests in the Church of England. A lawyer does not sin in 
seeking to be a judge, or in compassing his wishes by all 
honest means. A young diplomat entertains a fair ambition 
when he looks forward to be the lord of a first-rate 
embassy; and a poor novelist when he attempts to rival 
Dickens or rise above Fitzjeames, commits no fault, though 
he may be foolish. Sydney Smith truly said that in these 
recreant days we cannot expect to find the majesty of St 
Paul beneath the cassock of a curate. If we look to our 
clergymen to be more than men, we shall probably teach 
ourselves to think that they are less, and can hardly hope 
to raise the character of the pastor by denying to him the 
right to entertain the aspirations of a man.
Our archdeacon was worldly - who among us is not so? He was 
ambitious - who among us is ashamed to own that 'last 
infirmity of noble minds!' He was avaricious, my readers 
will say. No - it was for no love of lucre that he wished to 
be bishop of Barchester. He was his father's only child, and 
his father had left him great wealth. His preferment brought 
him in nearly three thousand a year. The bishopric, as cut 
down by the Ecclesiastical Commission, was only five. He 
would be a richer man as archdeacon than he could be as 
bishop. But he certainly did desire to play first fiddle; he 
did desire to sit in full lawn sleeves among the peers of 
the realm; and he did desire, if the truth must out, to be 
called 'My Lord' by his reverend brethren.
His hopes, however, were they innocent or sinful, were not 
fated to be realised; and Dr Proudie was consecrated Bishop 
of Barchester.



Chapter 2

Hiram's Hospital according to Act of Parliament

It is hardly necessary that I should here give to the public 
any lengthened biography of Mr Harding, up to the period of 
the commencement of this tale. The public cannot have 
forgotten how ill that sensitive gentleman bore the attack 
that was made on him in the columns of The Jupiter, with 
reference to the income which he received as warden of 
Hiram's Hospital, in the city of Barchester. Nor can it yet 
be forgotten that a lawsuit was instituted against him on 
the matter of that charity by Mr John Bold, who afterwards 
married his, Mr Harding's younger and then only unmarried 
daughter. Under pressure of these attacks, Mr Harding had 
resigned his wardenship, though strongly recommended to 
abstain from doing so, both by his friends and by his 
lawyers. He did, however, resign it, and betook himself 
manfully to the duties of the small parish of St Cuthbert's, 
in the city, of which he was vicar, continuing also to 
perform those of precentor of the cathedral, a situation of 
small emolument which had hitherto been supposed to be 
joined, as a matter of course, to the wardenship of the 
Hospital above spoken of.
When he left the hospital from which he had been so 
ruthlessly driven, and settled himself down in his own 
modest manner in the High Street of Barchester, he had not 
expected that others would make more fuss about it than he 
was inclined to do himself; and the extent of his hope was, 
that the movement might have been made in time to prevent 
any further paragraphs in The Jupiter. His affairs, however, 
were not allowed to subside thus quietly, and people were 
quite as much inclined to talk about the disinterested 
sacrifice he had made, as they had before been to upbraid 
him for his cupidity.
The most remarkable thing that occurred, was the receipt of 
an autograph letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury, in 
which the primate very warmly praised his conduct, and 
begged to know what his intentions were for the future. Mr 
Harding replied that he intended to be rector of St 
Cuthbert's, in Barchester: and so that matter dropped. Then 
the newspapers took up his case, The Jupiter among the rest, 
and wafted his name in eulogistic strains through every 
reading-room in the nation. It was discovered also, that he 
was the author of that great musical work, Harding's Church 
Music - and a new edition was spoken of, though, I believe, 
never printed. It is, however, certain that the work was 
introduced into the Royal Chapel at St James's, and that a 
long criticism appeared in the Musical Scrutator, declaring 
that in no previous work of the kind had so much research 
been joined with such exalted musical ability, and asserting 
that the name of Harding would henceforward be known 
wherever the Arts were cultivated, or Religion valued.
This was high praise, and I will not deny that Mr Harding 
was gratified by such flattery; for if Mr Harding was vain 
on any subject it was on that of music. But here the matter 
rested. The second edition, if printed, was never purchased; 
the copies which had been introduced into the Royal Chapel 
disappeared again, and were laid by in peace, with a load of 
similar literature. Mr Towers, of The Jupiter, and his 
brethren, occupied themselves with other names, and the 
undying fame promised to our friend was clearly intended to 
be posthumous.
Mr Harding had spent much of his time with his friend the 
bishop, much with his daughter Mrs Bold, now, alas, a widow; 
and had almost daily visited the wretched remnant of his 
former subjects, the few surviving bedesmen now left at 
Hiram's Hospital. Six of them were still living. The number, 
according to old Hiram's will, should always have been 
twelve. But after the abdication of their warden, the bishop 
had appointed no successor to him, no new occupants of the 
charity had been nominated, and it appeared as though the 
hospital at Barchester would fall into abeyance, unless the 
powers that be should take some steps towards putting it 
once more into working order.
During the past five years, the powers that be had not 
overlooked Barchester Hospital, and sundry political doctors 
had taken the matter in hand. Shortly after Mr Harding's 
resignation, The Jupiter had very clearly shown what ought 
to be done. In about half a column it had distributed the 
income, rebuilt the building, put an end to all bickerings, 
regenerated kindly feeling, provided for Mr Harding, and 
placed the whole thing on a footing which could not but be 
satisfactory to the city and Bishop of Barchester, and to 
the nation at large. The wisdom of this scheme was testified 
by the number of letters which 'Common Sense,' 'Veritas,' 
and 'One that loves fair play' sent to The Jupiter, all 
expressing admiration, and amplifying on the details given. 
It is singular enough that no adverse letter appeared at 
all, and therefore, none of course was written.
But Cassandra was not believed, and even the wisdom of The 
Jupiter sometimes falls on deaf ears. Though other plans did 
not put themselves forward in the columns of The Jupiter, 
reformers of church charities were not slack to make known 
in various places their different nostrums for setting 
Hiram's Hospital on its feet again. A learned bishop took 
occasion, in the Upper House, to allude to the matter, 
intimating that he had communicated on the subject with his 
right reverend brother of Barchester. The radical member for 
Staleybridge had suggested that the funds should be 
alienated for the education of the agricultural poor of the 
country, and he amused the house by some anecdotes touching 
the superstition and habits of the agriculturists in 
question. A political pamphleteer had produced a few dozen 
pages, which he called 'Who are John Hiram's heirs?' 
intending to give an infallible rule for the governance of 
all such establishments; and, at last, a member of the 
government promised that in the next session a short bill 
should be introduced for regulating the affairs of 
Barchester, and other kindred concerns.
The next session came, and, contrary to custom, the bill 
came also. Men's minds were then intent on other things. The 
first threatenings of a huge war hung heavily over the 
nation, and the question as to Hiram's heirs did not appear 
to interest very many people either in or out of the House. 
The bill, however, was read and re-read, and in some 
undistinguished manner passed through its eleven stages 
without appeal or dissent. What would John Hiram have said 
in the matter, could he have predicted that some forty-five 
gentlemen would take on themselves to make a law altering 
the whole purport of his will, without in the least knowing 
at the moment of their making it, what it was that they were 
doing? It is however to be hoped that the under-secretary 
for the Home Office knew, for to him had the matter been 
confided.
The bill, however, did pass, and at the time at which this 
history is supposed to commence, it had been ordained that 
there should be, as heretofore, twelve old men in Barchester 
Hospital, each with 1s. 4d. a day; that there should also be 
twelve old women to be located in a house to be built, each 
with 1s. 2d. a day; that there should be a matron, with a 
house and £70 a year; a steward with £150 a year; and 
latterly, a warden with £450 a year, who should have the 
spiritual guidance of both establishments, and the temporal 
guidance of that appertaining to the male sex. The bishop, 
dean, and warden were, as formerly, to appoint in turn the 
recipients of the charity, and the bishop was to appoint the 
officers. There was nothing said as to the wardenship being 
held by the precentor of the cathedral, nor a word as to Mr 
Harding's right to the situation.
It was not, however, till some months after the death of the 
old bishop, and almost immediately consequent on the 
installation of his successor, that notice was given that 
the reform was about to be carried out. The new law and the 
new bishop were among the earliest works of a new ministry, 
or rather of a ministry who, having for a while given place 
to their opponents, had then returned to power; and the 
death of Dr Grantly occurred, as we have seen, exactly at 
the period of the change.
Poor Eleanor Bold! How well does that widow's cap become 
her, and the solemn gravity with which she devotes herself 
to her new duties. Poor Eleanor!
Poor Eleanor! I cannot say that with me John Bold was ever a 
favourite. I never thought him worthy of the wife he had 
won. But in her estimation he was most worthy. Hers was one 
of those feminine hearts which cling to a husband, not with 
idolatry, for worship can admit of no defect in its idol, 
but with the perfect tenacity of ivy. As the parasite plant 
will follow even the defects of the trunk which it embraces, 
so did Eleanor cling to and love the very faults of her 
husband. She had once declared that whatever her father did 
should in her eyes be right. She then transferred her 
allegiance, and became ever ready to defend the worst 
failings of her lord and master.
And John Bold was a man to be loved by a woman; he was 
himself affectionate, he was confiding and manly; and that 
arrogance of thought, unsustained by first-rate abilities, 
that attempt at being better than his neighbours which 
jarred so painfully on the feelings of his acquaintance, did 
not injure him in the estimation of his wife.
Could she even have admitted that he had a fault, his early 
death would have blotted out the memory of it. She wept as 
for the loss of the most perfect treasure with which mortal 
woman had ever been endowed; for weeks after he was gone the 
idea of future happiness in this world was hateful to her; 
consolation, as it is called, was insupportable, and tears 
and sleep were her only relief.
But God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. She knew that 
she had within her the living source of other cares. She 
knew that there was to be created for her another subject of 
weal or woe, of unutterable joy or despairing sorrow, as God 
in his mercy might vouchsafe to her. At first this did but 
augment her grief! To be the mother of a poor infant, 
orphaned before it was born, brought forth to the sorrows of 
an ever desolate hearth, nurtured amidst tears and wailing, 
and then turned adrift into the world without the aid of a 
father's care! There was at first no joy in this.
By degrees, however, her heart became anxious for another 
object, and, before its birth, the stranger was expected 
with all the eagerness of a longing mother. Just eight 
months after the father's death a second John Bold was born, 
and if the worship of one creature can be innocent in 
another, let us hope that the adoration offered over the 
cradle of the fatherless infant may not be imputed as a sin.
It will not be worth our while to define the character of 
the child, or to point out in how far the faults of the 
father were redeemed within that little breast by the 
virtues of the mother. The baby, as a baby, was all that was 
delightful, and I cannot foresee that it will be necessary 
for us to inquire into the facts of his after life. Our 
present business at Barchester will not occupy us above a 
year or two at the furthest, and I will leave it to some 
other pen to produce, if necessary, the biography of John 
Bold the Younger.
But, as a baby, this baby was all that could be desired. 
This fact no one attempted to deny. 'Is he not delightful?' 
she would say to her father, looking up into his face from 
her knees, her lustrous eyes overflowing with soft tears, 
her young face encircled by her close widow's cap and her 
hands on each side of the cradle in which her treasure was 
sleeping. The grandfather would gladly admit that the 
treasure was delightful, and the uncle archdeacon himself 
would agree, and Mrs Grantly, Eleanor's sister, would re-
echo the word with true sisterly energy; and Mary Bold - but 
Mary Bold was a second worshipper at the same shrine.
The baby was really delightful; he took his food with a 
will, struck out his toes merrily whenever his legs were 
uncovered, and did not have fits. These are supposed to be 
the strongest points of baby perfection, and in all these 
our baby excelled.
And thus the widow's deep grief was softened, and a sweet 
balm was poured into the wound which she had thought nothing 
but death could heal. How much kinder is God to us than we 
are willing to be to ourselves! At the loss of every dear 
face, at the last going of every well-beloved one, we all 
doom ourselves to an eternity of sorrow, and look to waste 
ourselves away in an ever-running fountain of tears. How 
seldom does such grief endure! how blessed is the goodness 
which forbids it to do so!' Let me ever remember my living 
friends, but forget them as soon as dead,' was the prayer of 
a wise man who understood the mercy of God. Few perhaps 
would have the courage to express such a wish, and yet to do 
so would only be to ask for that release from sorrow, which 
a kind Creator almost always extends to us.
I would not, however, have it imagined that Mrs Bold forgot 
her husband. She daily thought of him with all conjugal 
love, and enshrined his memory in the innermost centre of 
her heart. But yet she was happy in her baby. It was so 
sweet to press the living toy to her breast, and feel that a 
human being existed who did owe, and was to owe everything 
to her; whose daily food was drawn from herself; whose 
little wants could all be satisfied by her; whose little 
heart would first love her and her only; whose infant tongue 
would make its first effort in calling her by the sweetest 
name a woman can hear. And so Eleanor's bosom became 
tranquil, and she set about her new duties eagerly and 
gratefully.
As regards the concerns of the world, John Bold had left his 
widow in prosperous circumstances. He had bequeathed to her 
all that he possessed, and that comprised an income much 
exceeding what she or her friends thought necessary for her. 
It amounted to nearly a thousand a year; and when she 
reflected on its extent, her dearest hope was to hand it 
over, not only unimpaired but increased, to her husband's 
son, to her own darling, to the little man who now lay 
sleeping on her knee, happily ignorant of the cares which 
were to be accumulated in his behalf.
When John Bold died she earnestly implored her father to 
come and live with her, but this Mr Harding declined, though 
for some weeks he remained with her as a visitor. He could 
not be prevailed upon to forego the possession of some small 
home of his own, and so remained in the lodgings he had 
first selected over a chemist's shop in the High Street of 
Barchester.


Chapter 3

Dr and Mrs Proudie

This narrative is supposed to commence immediately after the 
installation of Dr Proudie. I will not describe the 
ceremony, as I do not precisely understand its nature. I am 
ignorant whether a bishop be chaired like a member of 
parliament, or carried in a gilt coach like a lord mayor, or 
sworn in like a justice of peace, or introduced like a peer 
to the upper house, or led between two brethren like a 
knight of the garter; but I do know that everything was 
properly done, and that nothing fit or becoming to a young 
bishop was omitted on the occasion.
Dr Proudie was not the man to allow anything to be omitted 
that might be becoming to his new dignity. He understood 
well the value of forms, and knew that the due observance of 
rank could not be maintained unless the exterior trappings 
belonging to it were held in proper esteem. He was a man 
born to move in high circles; at least so he thought 
himself, and circumstances had certainly sustained him in 
this view. He was the nephew of an Irish baron by his 
mother's side, and his wife was the niece of a Scotch earl. 
He had for years held some clerical office appertaining to 
courtly matters, which had enabled him to live in London, 
and to entrust his parish to his curate. He had been 
preacher to the royal beefeaters, curator of theological 
manuscripts in the Ecclesiastical Courts, chaplain to the 
Queen's yeomanry guard, and almoner to his Royal Highness 
the Prince of Rappe-Blankenburg.
His residence in the metropolis, rendered necessary by the 
duties thus entrusted to him, his high connections, and the 
peculiar talents and nature of the man, recommended him to 
persons in power; and Dr Proudie became known as a useful 
and rising clergyman.
Some few years since, even within the memory of many who are 
not yet willing to call themselves old, a liberal clergyman 
was a person not frequently to be met. Sydney Smith was 
such, and was looked on as little better than an infidel; a 
few others also might be named, but they were 'rarae aves,' 
and were regarded with doubt and distrust by their brethren. 
No man was so surely a Tory as a country rector - nowhere 
were the powers that be so cherished as at Oxford.
When, however, Dr Whately was made an archbishop, and Dr 
Hampden some years afterwards regius professor, many wise 
divines saw that a change was taking place in men's minds, 
and that more liberal ideas would henceforward be suitable 
to the priests as well as to the laity. Clergymen began to 
be heard of who had ceased to anathematise papists on the 
one hand, or vilify dissenters on the other. It appeared 
clear that high-church principles, as they are called, were 
no longer to be surest claims to promotion with at any rate 
one section of statesmen, and Dr Proudie was one among those 
who early in life adapted himself to the views held by the 
Whigs on most theological and religious subjects. He bore 
with the idolatry of Rome, tolerated even the infidelity of 
Socinianism, and was hand and glove with the Presbyterian 
Synods of Scotland and Ulster.
Such a man at such a time was found to be useful, and Dr 
Proudie's name began to appear in the newspapers. He was 
made one of a commission who went over to Ireland to arrange 
matters preparative to the working of the national board; he 
became honorary secretary to another commission nominated to 
inquire into the revenues of cathedral chapters; and had had 
something to do with both the regium donum and the Maynooth 
grant.
It must not on this account be taken as proved that Dr 
Proudie was a man of great mental powers, or even of much 
capacity for business, for such qualities had not been 
required in him. In the arrangement of those church reforms 
with which he was connected, the ideas and original 
conception of the work to be done were generally furnished 
by the liberal statesmen of the day, and the labour of the 
details was borne by officials of a lower rank. It was, 
however, thought expedient that the name of some clergyman 
should appear in such matters, and as Dr Proudie had become 
known as a tolerating divine, great use of this sort was 
made of his name. If he did not do much active good, he 
never did any harm; he was amenable to those who were really 
in authority, and at the sittings of the various boards to 
which he belonged maintained a kind of dignity which had its 
value.
He was certainly possessed of sufficient tact to answer the 
purpose for which he was required without making himself 
troublesome; but it must not therefore be surmised that he 
doubted his own power, or failed to believe that he could 
himself take a high part in high affairs when his own turn 
came. He was biding his time, and patiently looking forward 
to the days when he himself would sit authoritative at some 
board, and talk and direct, and rule the roast, while lesser 
stars sat round and obeyed, as he had so well accustomed 
himself to do.
His reward and his time had now come. He was selected for 
the vacant bishopric, and on the next vacancy which might 
occur in any diocese would take his place in the House of 
Lords, prepared to give not a silent vote in all matters 
concerning the weal of the church establishment. Toleration 
was to be the basis on which he was to fight his battles, 
and in the honest courage of his heart he thought no evil 
would come to him in encountering even such foes as his 
brethren of Exeter and Oxford.
Dr Proudie was an ambitious man, and before he was well 
consecrated Bishop of Barchester, he had begun to look up to 
archiepiscopal splendour, and the glories of Lambeth, or at 
any rate of Bishopsthorpe. He was comparatively young, and 
had, as he fondly flattered himself, been selected as 
possessing such gifts, natural and acquired, as must be sure 
to recommend him to a yet higher notice, now that a higher 
sphere was opened to him. Dr Proudie was, therefore, quite 
prepared to take a conspicuous part in all theological 
affairs appertaining to these realms; and having such views, 
by no means intended to bury himself at Barchester as his 
predecessor had done. No: London should still be his ground: 
a comfortable mansion in a provincial city might be well 
enough for the dead months of the year. Indeed Dr Proudie 
had always felt it necessary to his position to retire from 
London when other great and fashionable people did so; but 
London should still be his fixed residence, and it was in 
London that he resolved to exercise that hospitality so 
peculiarly recommended to all bishops by St Paul. How 
otherwise could he keep himself before the world? how else 
give to the government, in matters theological, the full 
benefit of his weight and talents?
This resolution was no doubt a salutary one as regarded the 
world at large, but was not likely to make him popular 
either with the clergy or people of Barchester. Dr Grantly 
had always lived there; and in truth it was hard for a 
bishop to be popular after Dr Grantly. His income had 
averaged £9000 a year; his successor was to be rigidly 
limited to £5000. He had but one child on whom to spend his 
money; Dr Proudie had seven or eight. He had been a man of 
few personal expenses, and they had been confined to the 
tastes of a moderate gentleman; but Dr Proudie had to 
maintain a position in fashionable society, and had that to 
do with comparatively small means. Dr Grantly had certainly 
kept his carriage, as became a bishop; but his carriage, 
horses, and coachman, though they did very well for 
Barchester, would have been almost ridiculous at 
Westminster. Mrs Proudie determined that her husband's 
equipage should not shame her, and things on which Mrs 
Proudie resolved, were generally accomplished.
From all this it was likely to result that Dr Proudie would 
not spend much money at Barchester; whereas his predecessor 
had dealt with the tradesmen of the city in a manner very 
much to their satisfaction. The Grantlys, father and son, 
had spent their money like gentlemen; but it soon became 
whispered in Barchester that Dr Proudie was not unacquainted 
with those prudent devices by which the utmost show of 
wealth is produced from limited means.
In person Dr Proudie is a good-looking man; spruce and 
dapper, and very tidy. He is somewhat below middle height, 
being about five feet four; but he makes up for the inches 
which he wants by the dignity with which he carries those 
which he has. It is no fault of his own if he has not a 
commanding eye, for he studies hard to assume it. His 
features are well formed, though perhaps the sharpness of 
his nose may give to his face in the eyes of some people an 
air of insignificance. If so, it is greatly redeemed by his 
mouth and chin, of which he is justly proud.
Dr Proudie may well be said to have been a fortunate man, 
for he was not born to wealth, and he is now bishop of 
Barchester; but nevertheless he has his cares. He has a 
large family, of whom the three eldest are daughters, now 
all grown up and fit for fashionable life; and he has a 
wife. It is not my intention to breathe a word against the 
character of Mrs Proudie, but still I cannot think that with 
all her virtues she adds much to her husband's happiness. 
The truth is that in matters domestic she rules supreme over 
her titular lord, and rules with a rod of iron. Nor is this 
all. Things domestic Dr Proudie might have abandoned to her, 
if not voluntarily, yet willingly. But Mrs Proudie is not 
satisfied with such home dominion, and stretches her power 
over all his movements, and will not even abstain from 
things spiritual. In fact, the bishop is henpecked.
The archdeacon's wife, in her happy home at Plumstead, knows 
how to assume the full privileges of her rank, and express 
her own mind in becoming tone and place. But Mrs Grantly's 
sway, if sway she has, is easy and beneficent. She never 
shames her husband; before the world she is a pattern of 
obedience; her voice is never loud, nor her looks sharp: 
doubtless she values power, and has not unsuccessfully 
striven to acquire it; but she knows what should be the 
limits of a woman's rule.
Not so Mrs Proudie. This lady is habitually authoritative to 
all, but to her poor husband she is despotic. Successful as 
has been his career in the eyes of the world, it would seem 
that in the eyes of his wife he is never right. All hope of 
defending himself has long passed from him; indeed he rarely 
even attempts self-justification; and is aware that 
submission produces the nearest approach to peace which his 
own house can ever attain.
Mrs Proudie has not been able to sit at the boards and 
committees to which her husband has been called by the 
state; nor, as he often reflects, can she make her voice 
heard in the House of Lords. It may be that she will refuse 
to him permission to attend to this branch of a bishop's 
duties; it may be that she will insist on his close 
attendance to his own closet. He has never whispered a word 
on the subject to living ears, but he has already made his 
fixed resolve. Should such an attempt be made he will rebel. 
Dogs have turned against their masters, and even Neapolitans 
against their rulers, when oppression has been too severe. 
And Dr Proudie feels within himself that if the cord be 
drawn too tight, he also can muster courage and resist.
The state of vassalage in which our bishop has been kept by 
his wife has not tended to exalt his character in the eyes 
of his daughters, who assume in addressing their father too 
much of that authority which is not properly belonging, at 
any rate, to them. They are, on the whole, fine engaging 
young ladies. They are tall and robust like their mother, 
whose high cheek-bones, and - we may say auburn hair, they 
all inherit. They think somewhat too much of their grand 
uncles, who have not hitherto returned the compliment by 
thinking much of them. But now that their father is a 
bishop, it is probable that family ties will be drawn 
closer. Considering their connection with the church, they 
entertain but few prejudices against the pleasures of the 
world; and have certainly not distressed their parents, as 
too many English girls have lately done, by any enthusiastic 
wish to devote themselves to the seclusion of a protestant 
nunnery. Dr Proudie's sons are still at school.
One other marked peculiarity in the character of the 
bishop's wife must be mentioned. Though not averse to the 
society and manners of the world, she is in her own way a 
religious woman; and the form in which this tendency shows 
itself in her is by a strict observance of Sabbatarian rule. 
Dissipation and low dresses during the week are, under her 
control, atoned for by three services, an evening sermon 
read by herself, and a perfect abstinence from any cheering 
employment on the Sunday. Unfortunately for those under her 
roof to whom the dissipation and low dresses are not 
extended, her servants namely and her husband, the 
compensating strictness of the Sabbath includes all. Woe 
betide the recreant housemaid who is found to have been 
listening to the honey of a sweetheart in the Regent's park, 
instead of the soul-stirring evening discourse of Mr Slope. 
Not only is she sent adrift, but she is so sent with a 
character which leaves her little hope of a decent place. 
Woe betide the six-foot hero who escorts Mrs Proudie to her 
pew in red plush breeches, if he slips away to the 
neighbouring beer-shop, instead of falling into the back 
seat appropriated to his use. Mrs Proudie has the eyes of 
Argus for such offenders. Occasional drunkenness in the week 
may be overlooked, for six feet on low wages are hardly to 
be procured if the morals are always kept at a high pitch; 
but not even for grandeur or economy will Mrs Proudie 
forgive a desecration of the Sabbath.
In such matters Mrs Proudie allows herself to be often 
guided by that eloquent preacher, the Rev. Mr Slope, and as 
Dr Proudie is guided by his wife, it necessarily follows 
that the eminent man we have named has obtained a good deal 
of control over Dr Proudie in matters concerning religion. 
Mr Slope's only preferment has hitherto been that of reader 
and preacher in a London district church: and on the 
consecration of his friend the new bishop, he readily gave 
this up to undertake the onerous but congenial duties of 
domestic chaplain to his lordship.
Mr Slope, however, on his first introduction must not be 
brought before the public at the tail of a chapter.


Chapter 4

The Bishop's Chaplain

Of the Rev. Mr Slope's parentage I am not able to say much. 
I have heard it asserted that he is lineally descended from 
that eminent physician who assisted at the birth of Mr T. 
Shandy, and that in early years he added an 'e' to his name, 
for the sake of euphony, as other great men have done before 
him. If this be so, I presume he was christened Obadiah, for 
that is his name, in commemoration of the conflict in which 
his ancestor so distinguished himself. All my researches on 
the subject have, however, failed in enabling me to fix the 
date on which the family changed its religion.
He had been a sizar at Cambridge, and had there conducted 
himself at any rate successfully, for in due process of time 
he was an M.A., having university pupils under his care. 
From thence he was transferred to London, and became 
preacher at a new district church built on the confines of 
Baker Street. He was in this position when congenial ideas 
on religious subjects recommended him to Mrs Proudie, and 
the intercourse had become close and confidential.
Having been thus familiarly thrown among the Misses Proudie, 
it was no more than natural that some softer feeling than 
friendship should be engendered. There have been some 
passages of love between him and the eldest hope, Olivia; 
but they have hitherto resulted in no favourable 
arrangement. In truth, Mr Slope having made a declaration of 
affection, afterwards withdrew it on finding that the doctor 
had no immediate worldly funds with which to endow his 
child; and it may easily be conceived that Miss Proudie, 
after such an announcement on his part, was not readily 
disposed to receive any further show of affection. On the 
appointment of Dr Proudie to the bishopric of Barchester, Mr 
Slope's views were in truth somewhat altered. Bishops, even 
though they be poor, can provide for clerical children, and 
Mr Slope began to regret that he had not been more 
disinterested. He no sooner heard the tidings of the 
doctor's elevation, than he recommenced his siege, not 
violently, indeed, but respectfully, and at a distance. 
Olivia Proudie, however, was a girl of spirit: she had the 
blood of two peers in her veins, and, better still, she had 
another lover on her books; so Mr Slope sighed in vain; and 
the pair soon found it convenient to establish a mutual bond 
of inveterate hatred.
It may be thought singular that Mrs Proudie's friendship for 
the young clergyman should remain firm after such an affair; 
but, to tell the truth, she had known nothing of it. Though 
very fond of Mr Slope herself, she had never conceived the 
idea that either of her daughters would become so, and 
remembering their high birth and social advantages, expected 
for them matches of a different sort. Neither the gentleman 
nor the lady found it necessary to enlighten her. Olivia's 
two sisters had each known of the affair, so had all the 
servants, so had all the people living in the adjoining 
houses on either side; but Mrs Proudie had been kept in the 
dark.
Mr Slope soon comforted himself with the reflection, that as 
he had been selected as chaplain to the bishop, it would 
probably be in his power to get the good things in the 
bishop's gift, without troubling himself with the bishop's 
daughter; and he found himself able to endure the pangs of 
rejected love. As he sat himself down in the railway 
carriage, confronting the bishop and Mrs Proudie, as they 
started on their first journey to Barchester, he began to 
form in his own mind a plan of his future life. He knew well 
his patron's strong points, but he knew the weak ones as 
well. He understood correctly enough to what attempts the 
new bishop's high spirit would soar, and he rightly guessed 
that public life would better suit the great man's taste, 
than the small details of diocesan duty.
He, therefore, he, Mr Slope, would in effect be bishop of 
Barchester. Such was his resolve; and to give Mr Slope his 
due, he had both courage and spirit to bear him out in his 
resolution. He knew that he should have a hard battle to 
fight, for the power and patronage of the see would be 
equally coveted by another great mind - Mrs Proudie would 
also choose to be bishop of Barchester. Mr Slope, however, 
flattered himself that he could out-manoeuvre the lady. She 
must live much in London, while he would always be on the 
spot. She would necessarily remain ignorant of much, while 
he would know everything belonging to the diocese. At first, 
doubtless, he must flatter and cajole, perhaps yield, in 
some things; but he did not doubt of ultimate triumph. If 
all other means failed, he could join the bishop against his 
wife, inspire courage into the unhappy man, lay an axe to 
the root of the woman's power, and emancipate the husband.
Such were his thoughts as he sat looking at the sleeping 
pair in the railway carriage, and Mr Slope is not the man to 
trouble himself with such thoughts for nothing. He is 
possessed of more than average abilities, and is of good 
courage. Though he can stoop to fawn, and stoop low indeed, 
if need be, he has still within him the power to assume the 
tyrant; and with the power he has certainly the wish. His 
acquirements are not of the highest order, but such as they 
are they are completely under control, and he knows the use 
of them. He is gifted with a certain kind of pulpit 
eloquence, not likely indeed to be persuasive with men, but 
powerful with the softer sex. In his sermons he deals 
greatly in denunciations, excites the minds of his weaker 
hearers with a not unpleasant terror, and leaves an 
impression on their minds that all mankind are in a perilous 
state, and all womankind too, except those who attend 
regularly to the evening lectures in Baker Street. His looks 
and tones are extremely severe, so much so that one cannot 
but fancy that he regards the greater part of the world as 
being infinitely too bad for his care. As he walks through 
the streets, his very face denotes his horror of the world's 
wickedness; and there is always an anathema lurking in the 
corner of his eye.
In doctrine, he, like his patron, is tolerant of dissent, if 
so strict a mind can be called tolerant of anything. With 
Wesleyan-Methodists he has something in common, but his soul 
trembles in agony at the iniquities of the Puseyites. His 
aversion is carried to things outward as well as inward. His 
gall rises at a new church with a high pitched roof; a full-
breasted black silk waistcoat is with him a symbol of Satan; 
and a profane jest-book would not, in his view, more foully 
desecrate the church seat of a Christian, than a book of 
prayer printed with red letters, and ornamented with a cross 
on the back. Most active clergymen have their hobby, and 
Sunday observances are his. Sunday, however, is a word which 
never pollutes his mouth - it is always 'the Sabbath.' The 
'desecration of the Sabbath,' as he delights to call it, is 
to him meat and drink: - he thrives upon that as policemen 
do on the general evil habits of the community. It is the 
loved subject of all his evening discourses, the source of 
all his eloquence, the secret of all his power over the 
female heart. To him the revelation of God appears only in 
that one law given for Jewish observance. To him the mercies 
of our Saviour speak in vain, to him in vain has been 
preached that sermon which fell from divine lips on the 
mountain - 'Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the 
earth' - 'Blessed are the merciful. for they shall obtain 
mercy.' To him the New Testament is comparatively of little 
moment, for from it can he draw no fresh authority for that 
dominion which he loves to exercise over at least a seventh 
part of man's allotted time here below.
Mr Slope is tall, and not ill made. His feet and hands are 
large, as has ever been the case with all his family, but he 
has a broad chest and wide shoulders to carry off these 
excrescences, and on the whole his figure is good. His 
countenance, however, is not specially prepossessing. His 
hair is lank, and of a dull pale reddish hue. It is always 
formed into three straight lumpy masses, each brushed with 
admirable precision, and cemented with much grease; two of 
them adhere closely to the sides of his face, and the other 
lies at right angles above them. He wears no whiskers, and 
is always punctiliously shaven. His face is nearly of the 
same colour as his hair, though perhaps a little redder: it 
is not unlike beef - beef, however, one would say, of a bad 
quality. His forehead is capacious and high, but square and 
heavy, and unpleasantly shining. His mouth is large, though 
his lips are thin and bloodless; and his big prominent, pale 
brown eyes inspire anything but confidence. His nose, 
however, is his redeeming feature: it is pronounced straight 
and well-formed; though I myself should have liked it better 
did it not possess a somewhat spongy, porous appearance, as 
though it had been cleverly formed out of a red coloured 
cork.
I never could endure to shake hands with Mr Slope. A cold, 
clammy perspiration always exudes from him, the small drops 
are ever to be seen standing on his brow, and his friendly 
grasp is unpleasant.
Such is Mr Slope - such is the man who has suddenly fallen 
into the midst of Barchester Close, and is destined there to 
assume the station which has heretofore been filled by the 
son of the late bishop. Think, oh, my meditative reader, 
what an associate we have here for those comfortable 
prebendaries, those gentlemanlike clerical doctors, those 
happy well-used well-fed minor canons, who have grown into 
existence at Barchester under the kindly wings of Bishop 
Grantly!
But not as a mere associate for these does Mr Slope travel 
down to Barchester with the bishop and his wife. He intends 
to be, if not their master, at least the chief among them. 
He intends to lead, and to have followers; he intends to 
hold the purse strings of the diocese, and draw round him an 
obedient herd of his poor and hungry brethren.
And here we can hardly fail to draw a comparison between the 
archdeacon and our new private chaplain; and despite the 
manifold faults of the former, one can hardly fail to make 
it much to his advantage.
Both men are eager, much too eager, to support and increase 
the power of their order. Both are anxious that the world 
should be priest-governed, though they have probably never 
confessed so much even to themselves. Both begrudge any 
other kind of dominion held by man over man. Dr Grantly, if 
he admits the Queen's supremacy in things spiritual, only 
admits it as being due to the quasi priesthood conveyed in 
the consecrating qualities of her coronation; and he regards 
things temporal as being by their nature subject to those 
which are spiritual. Mr Slope's ideas of sacerdotal rule are 
of quite a different class. He cares nothing, one way or the 
other, for the Queen's supremacy; these to his ears are 
empty words, meaning nothing. Forrns he regards but little, 
and such titular expressions as supremacy, consecration, 
ordination, and the like, convey of themselves no 
significance to him. Let him be supreme who can. The 
temporal king, judge, or gaoler, can work but on the body. 
The spiritual master, if he have the necessary gifts, and 
can duly use them, has a wider field of empire. He works 
upon the soul. If he can make himself be believed, he can be 
all powerful over those who listen. If he be careful to 
meddle with none who are too strong in intellect, or too 
weak in flesh, he may indeed be supreme. And such was the 
ambition of Mr Slope.
Dr Grantly interfered very little with the worldly doings of 
those who were in any way subject to him. I do not mean to 
say that he omitted to notice misconduct among his clergy, 
immorality in his parish, or omissions in his family; but he 
was not anxious to do so where the necessity could be 
avoided. He was not troubled with a propensity to be 
curious, and as long as those around him were tainted with 
no heretical leaning towards dissent, as long as they fully 
and freely admitted the efficacy of Mother Church, he was 
willing that that mother should be merciful and 
affectionate, prone to indulgence, and unwilling to 
chastise. He himself enjoyed the good things of this world, 
and liked to let it be known that he did so. He cordially 
despised any brother rector who thought harm of dinner 
parties, or dreaded the dangers of a moderate claret-jug; 
consequently dinner-parties and claret-jugs were common in 
the diocese. He liked to give laws and to be obeyed in them 
implicitly, but he endeavoured that his ordinances should be 
within the compass of the man, and not unpalatable to the 
gentleman. He had ruled among his clerical neighbours now 
for sundry years, and as he had maintained his power without 
becoming unpopular, it may be presumed that he had exercised 
some wisdom.
Of Mr Slope's conduct much cannot be said, as his grand 
career is yet to commence; but it may be premised that his 
tastes will be very different from those of the archdeacon. 
He conceives it to be his duty to know all the private 
doings and desires of the flock entrusted to his care. From 
the poorer classes he exacts an unconditional obedience to 
set rules of conduct, and if disobeyed he has recourse, like 
his great ancestor, to the fulminations of an Ernulfus: 
'Thou shalt be damned in thy going in and in thy coming out -
 in thy eating and thy drinking,' etc. etc. etc. With the rich, 
experience has already taught him that a different line of 
action is necessary. Men in the upper walks of life do not 
mind being cursed, and the women, presuming that it be done 
in delicate phrase, rather like it. But he has not, 
therefore, given up so important a portion of believing 
Christians. With the men, indeed, he is generally at 
variance; they are hardened sinners, on whom the voice of 
the priestly charmer too often falls in vain; but with the 
ladies, old and young, firm and frail, devout and 
dissipated, he is, as he conceives, all powerful. He can 
reprove faults with so much flattery, and utter censure in 
so caressing a manner, that the female heart, if it glow 
with a spark of low-church susceptibility, cannot withstand 
him. In many houses he is thus an admired guest: the 
husbands, for their wives' sake, are fain to admit him; and 
when once admitted it is not easy to shake him off. He has, 
however, a pawing, greasy way with him, which does not 
endear him to those who do not value him for their souls' 
sake, and he is not a man to make himself at once popular in 
a large circle such as is now likely to surround him at 
Barchester.



Chapter 5

A Morning Visit

It was known that Dr Proudie would immediately have to 
reappoint to the wardenship of the hospital under the act of 
Parliament to which allusion has been made; but no one 
imagined that any choice was left to him - no one for a 
moment thought that he could appoint any other than Mr 
Harding. Mr Harding himself, when he heard how the matter 
had been settled, without troubling himself much on the 
subject, considered it as certain that he would go back to 
his pleasant house and garden. And though there would be 
much that was melancholy, nay, almost heartrending, in such 
a return, he still was glad that it was to be so. His 
daughter might probably be persuaded to return there with 
him. She had, indeed, all but promised to do so, though she 
still entertained an idea that that greatest of mortals, 
that important atom of humanity, that little god upon earth, 
Johnny Bold her baby, ought to have a house of his own over 
his head.
Such being the state of Mr Harding's mind in the matter, he 
did not feel any peculiar personal interest in the 
appointment of Dr Proudie to the bishopric. He, as well as 
others at Barchester, regretted that a man should be sent 
among them who, they were aware, was not of their way of 
thinking; but Mr Harding himself was not a bigoted man on 
points of church doctrine, and he was quite prepared to 
welcome Dr Proudie to Barchester in a graceful and becoming 
manner. He had nothing to seek and nothing to fear; he felt 
that it behoved him to be on good terms with his bishop, and 
he did not anticipate any obstacle that would prevent it.
In such a frame of mind he proceeded to pay his respects at 
the palace the second day after the arrival of the bishop 
and his chaplain. But he did not go alone. Dr Grantly 
proposed to accompany him, and Mr Harding was not sorry to 
have a companion, who would remove from his shoulders the 
burden of the conversation in such an interview. In the 
affair of the consecration Dr Grantly had been introduced to 
the bishop, and Mr Harding had also been there. He had, 
however, kept himself in the background, and he was now to 
be presented to the great man for the first time. The 
archdeacon's feelings were of a much stronger nature. He was 
not exactly the man to overlook his own slighted claims, or 
to forgive the preference shown to another. Dr Proudie was 
playing Venus to his Juno, and he was prepared to wage an 
internecine war against the owner of the wished-for apple, 
and all his satellites, private chaplains, and others.
Nevertheless, it behoved him also to conduct himself towards 
the intruder as an old archdeacon should conduct himself to 
an incoming bishop; and though he was well aware of all Dr 
Proudie's abominable opinions as regarded dissenters, church 
reform, the hebdomadal council, and such like; though he 
disliked the man, and hated the doctrines, still he was 
prepared to show respect to the station of the bishop. So he 
and Mr Harding called together at the palace.
His lordship was at home, and the two visitors were shown 
through the accustomed hall into the well-known room, where 
the good old bishop used to sit. The furniture had been 
bought at a valuation, and every chair and table, every 
bookshelf against the wall, and every square in the carpet, 
was as well known to each of them as their own bedrooms. 
Nevertheless they at once felt that they were strangers 
there. The furniture was for the most part the same, yet the 
place had been metamorphosed. A new sofa had been 
introduced, a horrid chintz affair, most unprelatical and 
almost irreligious: such a sofa as never yet stood in the 
study of any decent high-church clergyman of the Church of 
England. The old curtains had also given way. They had, to 
be sure, become dingy, and that which had been originally a 
rich and goodly ruby had degenerated into a reddish brown. 
Mr Harding, however, thought the old reddish brown much 
preferable to the gaudy buff-coloured trumpery moreen which 
Mrs Proudie had deemed good enough for her husband's own 
room in the provincial city of Barchester.
Our friends found Dr Proudie sitting on the old bishop's 
chair, looking very nice in his new apron; they found, too, 
Mr Slope standing on the hearthrug, persuasive and eager, 
just as the archdeacon used to stand; but on the sofa they 
also found Mrs Proudie, an innovation for which a precedent 
might in vain be sought in all the annals of the Barchester 
bishopric!
There she was, however, and they could only make the best of 
her. The introductions were gone through in much form. The 
archdeacon shook hands with the bishop, and named Mr 
Harding, who received such an amount of greeting as was due 
from a bishop to a precentor. His lordship then presented 
them to his lady wife; the archdeacon first, with 
archidiaconal honours, and then the precentor with 
diminished parade. After this Mr Slope presented himself. 
The bishop, it is true, did mention his name, and so did Mrs 
Proudie too, in a louder tone; but Mr Slope took upon 
himself the chief burden of his own introduction. He had 
great pleasure in making himself acquainted with Dr Grantly; 
he had heard much of the archdeacon's good works in that 
part of the diocese in which his duties as archdeacon had 
been exercised (thus purposely ignoring the archdeacon's 
hitherto unlimited dominion over the diocese at large). He 
was aware that his lordship depended greatly on the 
assistance which Dr Grantly would be able to give him in 
that portion of his diocese. He then thrust out his hand, 
and grasping that of his new foe, bedewed it unmercifully. 
Dr Grantly in return bowed, looked stiff, contracted his 
eyebrows, and wiped his hand with his pocket-handkerchief. 
Nothing abashed, Mr Slope then noticed the precentor, and 
descended to the grade of the lower clergy. He gave him a 
squeeze of the hand, damp indeed, but affectionate, and was 
very glad to make the acquaintance of Mr - oh yes, Mr 
Harding; he had not exactly caught the name - 'Precentor in 
the cathedral,' surmised Mr Slope. Mr Harding confessed that 
such was the humble sphere of his work. Some 'parish duty as 
well,' suggested Mr Slope. Mr Harding acknowledged the 
diminutive incumbency of St Cuthbert's. Mr Slope then left 
him alone, having condescended sufficiently, and joined the 
conversation among the higher powers.
There were four persons there, each of whom considered 
himself the most important personage in the diocese; 
himself, indeed, or herself, as Mrs Proudie was one of them; 
and with such a difference of opinion it was not probable 
that they would get on pleasantly together. The bishop 
himself actually wore the visible apron, and trusted mainly 
to that - to that and his title, both being facts which 
could not be overlooked. The archdeacon knew his subject, 
and really understood the business of bishoping, which the 
others did not; and this was his strong ground. Mrs Proudie 
had her sex to back her, and her habit of command, and was 
nothing daunted by the high tone of Dr Grantly's face and 
figure. Mr Slope had only himself and his own courage and 
tact to depend on, but he nevertheless was perfectly self-
assured, and did not doubt but that he should soon get the 
better of weak men who trusted so much to externals, as both 
bishop and archdeacon appeared to do.
'Do you reside in Barchester, Dr Grantly?' asked the lady 
with her sweetest smile.
Dr Grantly explained that he lived in his own parish of 
Plumstead Episcopi, a few miles out of the city. Whereupon 
the lady hoped that the distance was not too great for 
country visiting, as she would be so glad to make the 
acquaintance of Mrs Grantly. She would take the earliest 
opportunity, after the arrival of her horses at Barchester; 
their horses were at present in London; their horses were 
not immediately coming down, as the bishop would be obliged, 
in a few days, to return to town. Dr Grantly was no doubt 
aware that the bishop was at present much called upon by the 
'University Improvement Committee': indeed, the Committee 
could not well proceed without him, as their final report 
had now to be drawn up. The bishop had also to prepare a 
scheme for the 'Manufacturing Towns Morning and Evening 
Sunday School Society,' of which he was a patron, or 
president, or director, and therefore the horses would not 
come down to Barchester at present; but whenever the horses 
did come down, she would take the earliest opportunity of 
calling at Plumstead Episcopi, providing the distance was 
not too great for country visiting.
The archdeacon made his fifth bow: he had made one at each 
mention of the horses; and promised that Mrs Grantly would 
do herself the honour of calling at the palace on an early 
day. Mrs Proudie declared that she would be delighted: she 
hadn't liked to ask, not being quite sure whether Mrs 
Grantly had horses; besides, the distance might have been, 
etc. etc.
Dr Grantly again bowed, but said nothing. He could have 
bought every individual possession of the whole family of 
the Proudies, and have restored them as a gift, without much 
feeling the loss; and had kept a separate pair of horses for 
the exclusive use of his wife since the day of his marriage; 
whereas Mrs Proudie had been hitherto jobbed about the 
streets of London at so much a month during the season; and 
at other times had managed to walk, or hire a smart fly from 
the livery stables.
'Are the arrangements with reference to the Sabbath-day 
schools generally pretty good in your archdeaconry?' asked 
Mr Slope.
'Sabbath-day schools!' repeated the archdeacon with an 
affectation of surprise. 'Upon my word, I can't tell; it 
depends mainly on the parson's wife and daughters. There is 
none at Plumstead.' This was almost a fib on the part of the 
archdeacon, for Mrs Grantly has a very nice school. To be 
sure it is not a Sunday school exclusively, and is not so 
designated; but that exemplary lady always attends there an 
hour before church, and hears the children say their 
catechism, and sees that they are clean and tidy for church, 
with their hands washed, and their shoes tied; and Grisel 
and Florinda, her daughters, carry thither a basket of large 
buns, baked on the Saturday afternoon, and distribute them 
to all the children not especially under disgrace, which 
buns are carried home after church with considerable 
content, and eaten hot at tea, being then split and toasted. 
The children of Plumstead would indeed open their eyes if 
they heard their venerated pastor declare that there was no 
Sunday school in his parish.
Mr Slope merely opened his eyes wider, and slightly shrugged 
his shoulders. He was not, however, prepared to give up his 
darling project.
'I fear there is a great deal of Sabbath travelling here,' 
said he. 'On looking at the "Bradshaw," I see that there are 
three trains in and three out every Sabbath. Could nothing 
be done to induce the company to withdraw them? Don't you 
think, Dr Grantly, that a little energy might diminish the 
evil?'
'Not being a director, I really can't say. But if you can 
withdraw the passengers, the company, I dare say, will 
withdraw the trains,' said the doctor. 'It's merely a 
question of dividends.'
'But surely, Dr Grantly,' said the lady, 'surely we should 
look at it differently. You and I, for instance, in our 
position: surely, we should do all that we can to control so 
grievous a sin. Don't you think so, Mr Harding?' and she 
turned to the precentor, who was sitting mute and unhappy.
Mr Harding thought that all porters and stokers, guards, 
brakesmen, and pointsmen ought to have an opportunity of 
going to church, and he hoped that they all had.
'But surely, surely,' continued Mrs Proudie, 'surely that is 
not enough. Surely that will not secure such an observance 
of the Sabbath as we are taught to conceive is not only 
expedient but indispensable; surely -'
Come what come might, Dr Grantly was not to be forced into a 
dissertation on a point of doctrine with Mrs Proudie, nor 
yet with Mr Slope; so without much ceremony he turned his 
back upon the sofa, and began to hope that Dr Proudie had 
found that the palace repairs had been such as to meet his 
wishes.
'Yes, yes,' said his lordship; upon the whole he thought so -
 upon the whole, he didn't know that there was much ground 
for complaint; the architect, perhaps, might have - but his 
double, Mr Slope, who had sidled over to the bishop's chair, 
would not allow his lordship to finish his ambiguous speech.
'There is one point I would like to mention, Mr Archdeacon. 
His lordship asked me to step through the premises, and I 
see that the stalls in the second stable are not perfect.'
'Why - there's standing there for a dozen horses,' said the 
archdeacon.
'Perhaps so,' said the other; 'indeed, I've no doubt of it; 
but visitors, you know, often require so much accommodation. 
There are so many of the bishop's relatives who always bring 
their own horses.'
Dr Grantly promised that due provision for the relatives' 
horses should be made, as far at least as the extent of the 
original stable building would allow. He would himself 
communicate with the architect.
'And the coach-house, Dr Grantly,' continued Mr Slope; 
'there is really hardly room for a second carriage in the 
large coach-house, and the smaller one, of course, holds 
only one.'
'And the gas,' chimed in the lady; 'there is no gas through 
the house, none whatever, but in the kitchen and passages. 
Surely the palace should have been fitted through with pipes 
for gas, and hot water too. There is no hot water laid on 
anywhere above the ground-floor; surely there should be the 
means of getting hot water in the bedrooms without having it 
brought in jugs from the kitchen.'
The bishop had a decided opinion that there should be pipes 
for hot water. Hot water was very essential for the comfort 
of the palace. It was, indeed, a requisite in any decent 
gentleman's house.
Mr Slope had remarked that the coping on the garden wall was 
in many places imperfect.
Mrs Proudie had discovered a large hole, evidently the work 
of rats, in the servants' hall.
The bishop expressed an utter detestation of rats. There was 
nothing, he believed, in this world, that he so much hated 
as a rat.
Mr Slope had, moreover, observed that the locks of the out-
houses were very imperfect: he might specify the coal-
cellar, and the wood-house.
Mrs Proudie had also seen that those on the doors of the 
servants' bedrooms were in an equally bad condition; indeed 
the locks all through the house were old-fashioned and 
unserviceable.
The bishop thought that a great deal depended on a good 
lock, and quite as much on the key. He had observed that the 
fault very often lay with the key, especially if the wards 
were in any way twisted.
Mr Slope was going on with his catalogue of grievances, when 
he was somewhat loudly interrupted by the archdeacon, who 
succeeded in explaining that the diocesan architect, or 
rather his foreman, was the person to be addressed on such 
subjects; and that he, Dr Grantly, had inquired as to the 
comfort of the palace, merely as a point of compliment. He 
was sorry, however, that so many things had been found 
amiss: and then he rose from his chair to escape.
Mrs Proudie, though she had contrived to lend her assistance 
in recapitulating the palatial dilapidations, had not on 
that account given up her hold of Mr Harding, nor ceased 
from her cross-examinations as to the iniquity of Sabbatical 
amusements. Over and over again had she thrown out her 
'Surely, surely' at Mr Harding's devoted head, and ill had 
that gentleman been able to parry the attack.
He had never before found himself subjected to such a 
nuisance. Ladies hitherto, when they had consulted him on 
religious subjects, had listened to what he might choose to 
say with some deference, and had differed, if they differed, 
in silence. But Mrs Proudie interrogated him, and then 
lectured. 'Neither thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, nor 
thy man servant, nor thy maid servant,' said she, 
impressively, and more than once, as though Mr Harding had 
forgotten the words. She shook her finger at him as she 
quoted the favourite law, as though menacing him with 
punishment; and then called upon him categorically to state 
whether he did not think that travelling on the Sabbath was 
an abomination and a desecration.
Mr Harding had never been so hard pressed in his life. He 
felt that he ought to rebuke the lady for presuming so to 
talk to a gentleman and a clergyman many years her senior; 
but he recoiled from the idea of scolding the bishop's wife, 
in the bishop's presence, on his first visit to the palace; 
moreover, to tell the truth, he was somewhat afraid of her. 
She, seeing him sit silent and absorbed, by no means 
refrained from the attack. 'I hope, Mr Harding,' said she, 
shaking her head slowly and solemnly, 'I hope you will not 
leave me to think that you approve of Sabbath travelling,' 
and she looked a look of unutterable meaning into his eyes.
There was no standing this, for Mr Slope was now looking at 
him, and so was the bishop, and so was the archdeacon, who 
had completed his adieux on that side of the room. Mr 
Harding therefore got up also, and putting out his hand to 
Mrs Proudie said: 'If you will come to St Cuthbert's some 
Sunday, I will preach you a sermon on that subject.'
And so the archdeacon and the precentor took their 
departure, bowing low to the lady, shaking hands with the 
lord, and escaping from Mr Slope in the best manner each 
could. Mr Harding was again maltreated; but Dr Grantly swore 
deeply in the bottom of his heart, that no earthly 
consideration should ever again induce him to touch the paw 
of that impure and filthy animal.
And now, had I the pen of a mighty poet, would I sing in 
epic verse the noble wrath of the archdeacon. The palace 
steps descend to a broad gravel sweep, from whence a small 
gate opens out into the street, very near the covered 
gateway leading into the close. The road from the palace 
door turns to the left, through the spacious gardens, and 
terminates on the London road, half a mile from the 
cathedral.
Till they had both passed this small gate and entered the 
close, neither of them spoke a word; but the precentor 
clearly saw from his companion's face that a tornado was to 
be expected, nor was he himself inclined to stop it. Though 
by nature far less irritable than the archdeacon, even he 
was angry: he even - that mild and courteous man - was 
inclined to express himself in anything but courteous terms.



Chapter 6

War

'Good heavens!' exclaimed the archdeacon, as he placed his 
foot on the gravel walk of the close, and raising his hat 
with one hand, passed the other somewhat violently over his 
now grizzled locks; smoke issued forth from the uplifted 
beaver as it were a cloud of wrath, and the safety-valve of 
his anger opened, and emitted a visible steam, preventing 
positive explosion and probable apoplexy. 'Good heavens!' - 
and the archdeacon looked up to the grey pinnacles of the 
cathedral tower, making a mute appeal to that still living 
witness which had looked down on the doings of so many 
bishops of Barchester.
'I don't think I shall ever like that Mr Slope,' said Mr 
Harding.
'Like him!' roared the archdeacon, standing still for a 
moment to give more force to his voice; 'like him!' All the 
ravens of the close cawed their assent. The old bells of the 
tower, in chiming the hour, echoed the words; and the 
swallows flying out from their nests mutely expressed a 
similar opinion. Like Mr Slope! Why no, it was not very 
probable that any Barchester-bred living thing should like 
Mr Slope!
'Nor Mrs Proudie either,' said Mr Harding.
The archdeacon hereupon forgot himself. I will not follow 
his example, nor shock my readers by transcribing the term 
in which he expressed his feeling as to the lady who had 
been named. The ravens and the last lingering notes of the 
clock bells were less scrupulous, and repeated in 
corresponding echoes the very improper exclamation. The 
archdeacon again raised his hat, and another salutary escape 
of steam was effected.
There was a pause, during which the precentor tried to 
realise the fact that the wife of a bishop of Barchester had 
been thus designated, in the close of the cathedral, by the 
lips of its own archdeacon: but he could not do it.
'The bishop seems to be a quiet man enough,' suggested Mr 
Harding, having acknowledged to himself his own failure.
'Idiot!' exclaimed the doctor, who for the nonce was not 
capable of more than such spasmodic attempts at utterance.
'Well, he did not seem very bright,' said Mr Harding, 'and 
yet he has always had the reputation of a clever man. I 
suppose he's cautious and not inclined to express himself 
very freely.'
The new bishop of Barchester was already so contemptible a 
creature in Dr Grantly's eyes, that he could not condescend 
to discuss his character. He was a puppet to be played by 
others; a mere wax doll, done up in an apron and a shovel 
hat, to be stuck on a throne or elsewhere, and pulled about 
by wires as others chose. Dr Grantly did not choose to let 
himself down low enough to talk about Dr Proudie; but he saw 
that he would have to talk about the other members of his 
household, the coadjutor bishops, who had brought his 
lordship down, as it were, in a box, and were about to 
handle the wires as they willed. This in itself was a 
terrible vexation to the archdeacon. Could he have ignored 
the chaplain, and have fought the bishop, there would have 
been, at any rate, nothing degrading in such a contest. Let 
the Queen make whom she would bishop of Barchester; a man, 
or even an ape, when once a bishop, would be a respectable 
adversary, if he would but fight, himself. But what was such 
a person as Dr Grantly to do, when such another person as Mr 
Slope was put forward as his antagonist?
If he, our archdeacon, refused the combat, Mr Slope would 
walk triumphant over the field, and have the diocese of 
Barchester under his heel.
If, on the other hand, the archdeacon accepted as his enemy 
the man whom the new puppet bishop put before him as such, 
he would have to talk about Mr Slope, and write about Mr 
Slope, and in all matters treat with Mr Slope, as a being 
standing, in some degree, on ground similar to his own. He 
would have to meet Mr Slope; to - Bah! the idea was 
sickening. He could not bring himself to have to do with Mr 
Slope.
'He is the most thoroughly bestial creature that ever I set 
my eyes on,' said the archdeacon.
'Who - the bishop?' asked the other, innocently.
'Bishop! no - I'm not talking about the bishop. How on earth 
such a creature got ordained! - they'll ordain anybody now, 
I know; but he's been in the church these ten years; and 
they used to be a little careful ten years ago.'
'Oh! you mean Mr Slope.'
'Did you ever see any animal less like a gentleman?' asked 
Dr Grantly. 'I can't say I felt myself much disposed to like 
him.'
'Like him!' again shouted the doctor, and the assenting 
ravens again cawed an echo; 'of course, you don't like him: 
it's not a question of liking. But what are we to do with 
him?'
'Do with him?' asked Mr Harding.
'Yes - what are we to do with him? How are we to treat him? 
There he is, and there he'll stay. He has put his foot in 
that palace, and he will never take it out again till he's 
driven. How are we to get rid of him?'
'I don't suppose he can do us much harm.'
'Not do harm! - Well, I think you'll find yourself of a 
different opinion before a month is gone. What would you say 
now, if he got himself put into the hospital? Would that be 
harm?'
Mr Harding mused awhile, and then said he didn't think the 
new bishop would put Mr Slope into the hospital.
'If he doesn't put him there, he'll put him somewhere else 
where he'll be as bad. I tell you that that man, to all 
intents and purposes, will be Bishop of Barchester'; and 
again Dr Grantly raised his hat, and rubbed his hand 
thoughtfully and sadly over his head.
'Impudent scoundrel!' he continued after a while. 'To dare 
to cross-examine me about the Sunday schools in the diocese, 
and Sunday travelling too: I never in my life met his equal 
for sheer impudence. Why, he must have thought we were two 
candidates for ordination!'
'I declare I thought Mrs Proudie was the worst of the two,' 
said Mr Harding.
'When a woman is impertinent, one must only put up with it, 
and keep out of her way in future; but I am not inclined to 
put up with Mr Slope. "Sabbath travelling!"' and the doctor 
attempted to imitate the peculiar drawl of the man he so 
much disliked: '"Sabbath travelling!" Those are the sort of 
men who will ruin the Church of England, and make the 
profession of a clergyman disreputable. It is not the 
dissenters or the papists that we should fear, but the set 
of canting, low-bred hypocrites who are wriggling their way 
in among us; men who have no fixed principle, no standard 
ideas of religion or doctrine, but who take up some popular 
cry, as this fellow has done about "Sabbath travelling."'
Dr Grantly did not again repeat the question aloud, but he 
did so constantly to himself, 'What were they to do with Mr 
Slope?' How was he openly, before the world, to show that he 
utterly disapproved of and abhorred such a man? Hitherto 
Barchester had escaped the taint of any extreme rigour of 
church doctrine. The clergymen of the city and 
neighbourhood, though very well inclined to promote high-
church principles, privileges, and prerogatives, had never 
committed themselves to tendencies, which are somewhat too 
loosely called Puseyite practices. They all preached in 
their black gowns, as their fathers had done before them; 
they wore ordinary black cloth waistcoats; they had no 
candles on their altars, either lighted or unlighted; they 
made no private genuflexions, and were contented to confine 
themselves to such ceremonial observances as had been in 
vogue for the last hundred years. The services were decently 
and demurely read in their parish churches, chanting was 
confined to the cathedral, and the science of intoning was 
unknown. One young man who had come direct from Oxford as a 
curate to Plumstead had, after the lapse of two or three 
Sundays, made a faint attempt, much to the bewilderment of 
the poorer part of the congregation. Dr Grantly had not been 
present on the occasion; but Mrs Grantly, who had her own 
opinion on the subject, immediately after the service 
expressed a hope that the young gentleman had not been taken 
ill, and offered to send him all kinds of condiments 
supposed to be good for a sore throat. After that there had 
been no more intoning at Plumstead Episcopi.
But now the archdeacon began to meditate on some strong 
measures of absolute opposition. Dr Proudie and his crew 
were of the lowest possible order of Church of England 
clergymen, and therefore it behoved him, Dr Grantly, to be 
of the very highest. Dr Proudie would abolish all forms and 
ceremonies, and therefore Dr Grantly felt the sudden 
necessity of multiplying them. Dr Proudie would consent to 
deprive the church of all collective authority and rule, and 
therefore Dr Grantly would stand up for the full power of 
convocation, and the renewal of all its ancient privileges.
It was true that he could not himself intone the service, 
but he could procure the co-operation of any number of 
gentlemanlike curates well trained in the mystery of doing 
so. He would not willingly alter his own fashion of dress, 
but he could people Barchester with young clergymen dressed 
in the longest frocks, and in the highest-breasted silk 
waistcoats. He certainly was not prepared to cross himself, 
or to advocate the real presence; but, without going this 
length, there were various observances, by adopting which he 
could plainly show his antipathy to such men as Dr Proudie 
and Mr Slope. All these things passed through his mind as he 
paced up and down the close with Mr Harding. War, war, 
internecine war was in his heart. He felt that, as regarded 
himself and Mr Slope, one of the two must be annihilated as 
far as the city of Barchester was concerned; and he did not 
intend to give way until there was not left to him an inch 
of ground on which he could stand. He still flattered 
himself that he could make Barchester too hot to hold Mr 
Slope, and he had no weakness of spirit to prevent his 
bringing about such a consummation if it were in his power.
'I suppose Susan must call at the palace,' said Mr Harding.
'Yes, she shall call there; but it shall be once and once 
only. I dare say "the horses" won't find it convenient to 
come out to Plumstead very soon, and when that once is done 
the matter may drop.'
'I don't suppose Eleanor need call. I don't think Eleanor 
would get on at all well with Mrs Proudie.'
'Not the least necessity in life,' replied the archdeacon, 
not without the reflection that a ceremony which was 
necessary for his wife, might not be at all binding on the 
widow of John Bold. 'Not the slightest reason on earth why 
she should do so, if she doesn't like it. For myself, I 
don't think that any decent young woman should be subjected 
to the nuisance of being in the same room with that man.'
And so the two clergymen parted, Mr Harding going to his 
daughter's house, and the archdeacon seeking the seclusion 
of his brougham.
The new inhabitants of the palace did not express any higher 
opinion of their visitors than their visitors had expressed 
of them. Though they did not use quite such strong language 
as Dr Grantly had done, they felt as much personal aversion, 
and were quite as well aware as he was that there would be a 
battle to be fought, and that there was hardly room for 
Proudieism in Barchester as long as Grantlyism was 
predominant.
Indeed, it may be doubted whether Mr Slope had not already 
within his breast a better prepared system of strategy, a 
more accurately-defined line of hostile conduct than the 
archdeacon. Dr Grantly was going to fight because he found 
that he hated the man. Mr Slope had predetermined to hate 
the man, because he foresaw the necessity of fighting him. 
When he had first reviewed the carte du pays, previous to 
his entry into Barchester, the idea had occurred to him of 
conciliating the archdeacon, of cajoling and flattering him 
into submission, and of obtaining the upper hand by cunning 
instead of courage. A little inquiry, however, sufficed to 
convince him that all his cunning would fail to win over 
such a man as Dr Grantly to such a mode of action as that to 
be adopted by Mr Slope; and then he determined to fall back 
upon his courage. He at once saw that open battle against Dr 
Grantly and all Dr Grantly's adherents was a necessity of 
his position, and he deliberately planned the most expedient 
methods of giving offence.
Soon after his arrival the bishop had intimated to the dean 
that, with the permission of the canon then in residence, 
his chaplain would preach in the cathedral on the next 
Sunday. The canon in residence happened to be the Hon. and 
Rev. Dr Vesey Stanhope, who at this time was very busy on 
the shores of the Lake of Como, adding to that unique 
collection of butterflies for which he is so famous. Or, 
rather, he would have been in residence but for the 
butterflies and other such summer-day considerations; and 
the vicar-choral, who was to take his place in the pulpit, 
by no means objected to having his work done for him by Mr 
Slope.
Mr Slope accordingly preached, and if a preacher can have 
satisfaction in being listened to, Mr Slope ought to have 
been gratified. I have reason to think that he was 
gratified, and that he left the pulpit with the conviction 
that he had done what he intended to do when he entered it.
On this occasion the new bishop took his seat for the first 
time in the throne allotted to him. New scarlet cushions and 
drapery had been prepared, with new gilt binding and new 
fringe. The old carved oak-wood of the throne, ascending 
with its numerous grotesque pinnacles half-way up to the 
roof of the choir, had been washed, and dusted, and rubbed, 
and it all looked very smart. Ah! how often sitting there, 
in happy early days, on those lowly benches in front of the 
altar, have I whiled away the tedium of a sermon in 
considering how best I might thread my way up amidst those 
wooden towers, and climb safely to the topmost pinnacle!
All Barchester went to hear Mr Slope; either for that or to 
gaze at the new bishop. All the best bonnets of the city 
were there, and moreover all the best glossy clerical hats. 
Not a stall but had its fitting occupant; for though some of 
the prebendaries might be away in Italy or elsewhere, their 
places were filled by brethren, who flocked into Barchester 
on the occasion. The dean was there, a heavy old man, now 
too old, indeed, to attend frequently in his place: and so 
was the archdeacon. So also were the chancellor, the 
treasurer, the precentor, sundry canons and minor canons, 
and every lay member of the choir, prepared to sing the new 
bishop in with due melody and harmonious expression of 
sacred welcome.
The service was certainly very well performed. Such was 
always the case at Barchester, as the musical education of 
the choir had been good, and the voices had been carefully 
selected. The psalms were beautifully chanted; the Te Deum 
was magnificently sung; and the litany was given in a manner 
which is still to be found at Barchester, but, if my taste 
be correct, is to be found nowhere else. The litany in 
Barchester cathedral has long been the special task to which 
Mr Harding's skill and voice have been devoted. Crowded 
audiences generally make good performers, and though Mr 
Harding was not aware of any extraordinary exertion on his 
part, yet probably he rather exceeded his usual mark. Others 
were doing their best, and it was natural that he should 
emulate his brethren. So the service went on, and at last Mr 
Slope got into the pulpit.
He chose for his text a verse from the precepts addressed by 
St Paul to Timothy, as to the conduct necessary in a 
spiritual pastor and guide, and it was immediately evident 
that the good clergy of Barchester were to have a lesson.
'Study to show thyself approved unto God, a workman that 
needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of 
truth.' These were the words of his text, and with such a 
subject in such a place, it may be supposed that such a 
preacher would be listened to by such an audience. He was 
listened to with breathless attention, and not without 
considerable surprise. Whatever opinion of Mr Slope might 
have been held in Barchester before he commenced his 
discourse, none of his hearers, when it was over, could 
mistake him either for a fool or a coward.
It would not be becoming were I to travestie a sermon, or 
even to repeat the language of it in the pages of a novel. 
In endeavouring to depict the characters of the persons of 
whom I write, I am to a certain extent forced to speak of 
sacred things. I trust, however, that I shall not be thought 
to scoff at the pulpit, though some may imagine that I do 
not feel all the reverence that is due to the cloth. I may 
question the infallibility of the teachers, but I hope that 
I shall not therefore be accused of doubt as to the thing to 
be taught.
Mr Slope, in commencing his sermon, showed no slight tact in 
his ambiguous manner of hinting that, humble as he was 
himself, he stood there as the mouthpiece of the illustrious 
divine who sat opposite to him; and having premised so much, 
he gave forth a very accurate definition of the conduct 
which that prelate would rejoice to see in the clergymen now 
brought under his jurisdiction. It is only necessary to say, 
that the peculiar points insisted upon were exactly those 
which were most distasteful to the clergy of the diocese, 
and most averse to their practice and opinions; and that all 
those peculiar habits and privileges which have always been 
dear to high-church priests, to that party which is now 
scandalously called the high-and-dry church, were ridiculed, 
abused, and anathematised. Now, the clergymen of the diocese 
of Barchester are all of the high-and-dry church.
Having thus, according to his own opinion, explained how a 
clergyman should show himself approved unto God, as a 
workman that needeth not to be ashamed, he went on to 
explain how the word of truth should be divided; and here he 
took a rather narrow view of the question, and fetched his 
arguments from afar. His object was to express his 
abomination of all ceremonious modes of utterance, to cry 
down any religious feeling which might be excited, not by 
the sense, but by the sound of words, and in fact to insult 
cathedral practices. Had St Paul spoken of rightly 
pronouncing instead of rightly dividing the word of truth, 
this part of his sermon would have been more to the purpose; 
but the preacher's immediate object was to preach Mr Slope's 
doctrine, and not St Paul's, and he contrived to give the 
necessary twist to the text with some skill.
He could not exactly say, preaching from a cathedral pulpit, 
that chanting should be abandoned in cathedral services. By 
such an assertion, he would have overshot his mark and 
rendered himself absurd, to the delight of his hearers. He 
could, however, and did, allude with heavy denunciations to 
the practice of intoning in parish churches, although the 
practice was all but unknown in the diocese; and from thence 
he came round to the undue preponderance, which he asserted, 
music had over meaning in the beautiful service which they 
had just heard. He was aware, he said, that the practices of 
our ancestors could not be abandoned at a moment's notice; 
the feelings of the aged would be outraged, and the minds of 
respectable men would be shocked. There were many, he was 
aware, of not sufficient calibre of thought to perceive, of 
not sufficient education to know, that a mode of service, 
which was effective when outward ceremonies were of more 
moment than inward feelings, had become all but barbarous at 
a time when inward conviction was everything, when each word 
of the minister's lips should fall intelligibly into the 
listener's heart. Formerly the religion of the multitude had 
been an affair of the imagination; now, in these latter 
days, it had become necessary that a Christian should have a 
reason for his faith - should not only believe, but digest - 
not only hear, but understand. The words of our morning 
service, how beautiful, how apposite, how intelligible they 
were, when read with simple and distinct decorum! but how 
much of the meaning of the words was lost when they were 
produced with all the meretricious charms of melody! etc. etc.
Here was a sermon to be preached before Mr Archdeacon 
Grantly, Mr Precentor Harding, and the rest of them! before 
a whole dean and chapter assembled in their own cathedral! 
before men who had grown old in the exercise of their 
peculiar services, with a full conviction of their 
excellence for all intended purposes! This too from such a 
man, a clerical parvenu, a man without a cure, a mere 
chaplain, an intruder among them; a fellow raked up, so said 
Dr Grantly, from the gutters of Marylebone! They had to sit 
through it! None of them, not even Dr Grantly, could close 
his ears, nor leave the house of God during the hours of 
service. They were under an obligation of listening, and 
that too, without any immediate power of reply.
There is, perhaps, no greater hardship at present inflicted 
on mankind in civilised and free countries, than the 
necessity of listening to sermons. No one but a preaching 
clergyman has, in these realms, the power of compelling an 
audience to sit silent, and be tormented. No one but a 
preaching clergyman can revel in platitudes, truisms, and 
untruisms, and yet receive, as his undisputed privilege, the 
same respectful demeanour as though words of impassioned 
eloquence, or persuasive logic, fell from his lips. Let a 
professor of law or physic find his place in a lecture-room, 
and there pour forth jejune words and useless empty phrases, 
and he will pour them forth to empty benches. Let a 
barrister attempt to talk without talking well, and he will 
talk but seldom. A judge's charge need be listened to 
perforce by none but the jury, prisoner, and gaoler. A 
member of Parliament can be coughed down or counted out. 
Town councillors can be tabooed. But no one can rid himself 
of the preaching clergyman. He is the bore of the age, the 
old man whom we Sindbads cannot shake off, the nightmare 
that disturbs our Sunday's rest, the incubus that overloads 
our religion and makes God's service distasteful. We are not 
forced into church! No: but we desire more than that. We 
desire not to be forced to stay away. We desire, nay, we are 
resolute, to enjoy the comfort of public worship; but we 
desire also that we may do so without an amount of tedium 
which ordinary human nature cannot endure with patience; 
that we may be able to leave the house of God, without that 
anxious longing for escape, which is the common consequence 
of common sermons.
With what complacency will a young parson deduce false 
conclusions from misunderstood texts, and then threaten us 
with all the penalties of Hades if we neglect to comply with 
the injunctions he has given us! Yes, my too self-confident 
juvenile friend, I do believe in those mysteries, which are 
so common in your mouth; I do believe in the unadulterated 
word which you hold there in your hand; but you must pardon 
me if, in some things, I doubt your interpretation. The 
bible is good, the prayer-book is good, nay, you yourself 
would be acceptable, if you would read to me some portion of 
those time-honoured discourses which our great divines have 
elaborated in the full maturity of their powers. But you 
must excuse me, my insufficient young lecturer, if I yawn 
over your imperfect sentences, your repeated phrases, your 
false pathos, your drawlings and denouncings, your humming 
and hawing, your oh-ing and ah-ing, your black gloves and 
your white handkerchief. To me, it all means nothing; and 
hours are too precious to be so wasted - if one could only 
avoid it.
And here I must make a protest against the pretence, so 
often put forward by the working clergy, that they are 
overburdened by the multitude of sermons to be preached. We 
are all too fond of our own voices, and a preacher is 
encouraged in the vanity of making his heard by the 
privilege of a compelled audience. His sermon is the 
pleasant morsel of his life, his delicious moment of self-
exaltation. 'I have preached nine sermons this week,' said a 
young friend to me the other day, with hand languidly raised 
to his brow, the picture of an overburdened martyr. 'Nine 
this week, seven last week, four the week before. I have 
preached twenty-three sermons this month. It is really too 
much.' 'Too much, indeed,' said I, shuddering; 'too much for 
the strength of any one.' 'Yes,' he answered meekly, 'indeed 
it is; I am beginning to feel it painfully.' 'Would,' said 
I, 'you could feel it - would that you could be made to feel 
it.' But he never guessed that my heart was wrung for the 
poor listeners.
There was, at any rate, no tedium felt in listening to Mr 
Slope on the occasion in question. His subject came too home 
to his audience to be dull; and, to tell the truth, Mr Slope 
had the gift of using words forcibly. He was heard through 
his thirty minutes of eloquence with mute attention and open 
ears; but with angry eyes, which glared round from one 
enraged parson to another, with widespread nostrils from 
which already burst forth fumes of indignation, and with 
many shufflings of the feet and uneasy motions of the body, 
which betokened minds disturbed, and hearts not at peace 
with all the world.
At last the bishop, who, of all the congregation, had been 
most surprised, and whose hair almost stood on end with 
terror, gave the blessing in a manner not at all equal to 
that in which he had long been practising it in his own 
study, and the congregation was free to go their way.


Chapter 7

The Dean and Chapter take Counsel

All Barchester was in a tumult. Dr Grantly could hardly get 
himself out of the cathedral porch before he exploded in his 
wrath. The old dean betook himself silently to his deanery, 
afraid to speak; and there sat, half stupefied, pondering 
many things in vain. Mr Harding crept forth solitary and 
unhappy; and, slowly passing beneath the elms of the close, 
could scarcely bring himself to believe that the words which 
he had heard had proceeded from the pulpit of Barchester 
cathedral. Was he again to be disturbed? was his whole life 
to be shown up as a useless sham a second time? would he 
have to abdicate his precentorship, as he had his 
wardenship, and to give up chanting, as he had given up his 
twelve old bedesmen? And what if he did! Some other Jupiter, 
some other Mr Slope, would come and turn him out of St 
Cuthbert's. Surely he could not have been wrong all his life 
in chanting the litany as he had done! He began, however, to 
have his doubts. Doubting himself was Mr Harding's weakness. 
It is not, however, the usual fault of his order.
Yes! all Barchester was in a tumult. It was not only the 
clergy who were affected. The laity also had listened to Mr 
Slope's new doctrine, all with surprise, some with 
indignation, and some with a mixed feeling, in which dislike 
of the preacher was not so strongly blended. The old bishop 
and his chaplains, the dean and his canons and minor canons, 
the old choir, and especially Mr Harding who was at the head 
of it, had all been popular in Barchester. They had spent 
their money and done good; the poor had not been ground 
down; the clergy in society had neither been overbearing nor 
austere: and the whole repute of the city was due to its 
ecclesiastical importance. Yet there were those who had 
heard Mr Slope with satisfaction.
It is so pleasant to receive a fillip of excitement when 
suffering from the dull routine of everyday life! The 
anthems and Te Deums were in themselves delightful, but they 
had been heard so often! Mr Slope was certainly not 
delightful, but he was new, and, moreover, clever. They had 
long thought it slow, so said now many of the 
Barchesterians, to go on as they had done in their old 
humdrum way, giving ear to none of the religious changes 
which were moving the world without. People in advance of 
the age now had new ideas, and it was quite time that 
Barchester should go in advance. Mr Slope might be right. 
Sunday certainly had not been strictly kept in Barchester, 
except as regarded the cathedral services. Indeed the two 
hours between services had long been appropriated to morning 
calls and hot luncheons. Then Sunday schools! really more 
ought to have been done as to Sunday schools; Sabbath-day 
schools Mr Slope had called them. The late bishop had really 
not thought of Sunday schools as he should have done. (These 
people probably did not reflect that catechisms and collects 
are quite as hard work to the young mind as book-keeping is 
to the elderly; and that quite as little feeling of worship 
enters into the one task as the other.) And then, as 
regarded that great question of musical services, there 
might be much to be said on Mr Slope's side of the question. 
It certainly was the fact, that people went to the cathedral 
to hear the music, etc. etc.
And so a party absolutely formed itself in Barchester on Mr 
Slope's side of the question! This consisted, among the 
upper classes, chiefly of ladies. No man - that is, no 
gentleman - could possibly be attracted by Mr Slope, or 
consent to sit at the feet of so abhorrent a Gamaliel. 
Ladies are sometimes less nice in their appreciation of 
physical disqualification; and, provided that a man speak to 
them well, they will listen, though he speak from a mouth 
never so deformed and hideous. Wilkes was most fortunate as 
a lover; and the damp, sandy-haired, saucer-eyed, red-fisted 
Mr Slope was powerful only over the female breast.
There were, however, one or two of the neighbouring clergy 
who thought it not quite safe to neglect the baskets in 
which for the nonce were stored the loaves and fishes of the 
diocese of Barchester. They, and they only, came to call on 
Mr Slope after his performance in the cathedral pulpit. 
Among these Mr Quiverful, the rector of Puddingdale, whose 
wife still continued to present him from year to year with 
fresh pledges of her love, and so to increase his cares and, 
it is to be hoped, his happiness equally. Who can wonder 
that a gentleman, with fourteen living children and a bare 
income of £400 a year, should look after the loaves and 
fishes, even when they are under the thumb of a Mr Slope?
Very soon after the Sunday on which the sermon was preached, 
the leading clergy of the neighbourhood held high debate 
together as to how Mr Slope should be put down. In the first 
place he should never again preach from the pulpit of 
Barchester cathedral. This was Dr Grantly's earliest dictum; 
and they all agreed, providing only that they had the power 
to exclude him. Dr Grantly declared that the power rested 
with the dean and chapter, observing that no clergyman out 
of the chapter had a claim to preach there, saving only the 
bishop himself. To this the dean assented, but alleged that 
contests on such a subject would be unseemly; to which 
rejoined a meagre little doctor, one of the cathedral 
prebendaries, that the contest must be all on the side of Mr 
Slope if every prebendary were always there ready to take 
his own place in the pulpit. Cunning little meagre doctor, 
whom it suits well to live in his own cosy house within 
Barchester close, and who is well content to have his little 
fling at Dr Vesey Stanhope and other absentees, whose 
Italian villas, or enticing London homes, are more tempting 
than cathedral stalls and residences!
To this answered the burly chancellor, a man rather silent 
indeed, but very sensible, that absent prebendaries had 
their vicars, and that in such case the vicar's right to the 
pulpit was the same as that of the higher order. To which 
the dean assented, groaning deeply at these truths. 
Thereupon, however, the meagre doctor remarked that they 
would be in the hands of their minor canons, one of whom 
might at any hour betray his trust. Whereon was heard from 
the burly chancellor an ejaculation sounding somewhat like 
'Pooh, pooh, pooh!' but it might be that the worthy man was 
but blowing out the heavy breath from his windpipe. Why 
silence him at all? suggested Mr Harding. Let them not be 
ashamed to hear what any man might have to preach to them, 
unless he preached false doctrine; in which case, let the 
bishop silence him. So spoke our friend; vainly; for human 
ends must be attained by human means. But the dean saw a ray 
of hope out of those purblind old eyes of his. Yes, let them 
tell the bishop how distasteful to them was this Mr Slope: a 
new bishop just come to his seat could not wish to insult 
his clergy while the gloss was yet fresh on his first apron.
Then up rose Dr Grantly; and, having thus collected the 
scattered wisdom of his associates, spoke forth with words 
of deep authority. When I say up rose the archdeacon, I 
speak of the inner man, which then sprang up to more 
immediate action, for the doctor had, bodily, been standing 
all along with his back to the dean's empty fire-grate, and 
the tails of his frock coat supported over his two arms. His 
hands were in his breeches pockets.
'It is quite clear that this man must not be allowed to 
preach again in this cathedral. We all see that, except our 
dear friend here, the milk of whose nature runs so softly, 
that he would not have the heart to refuse the Pope the loan 
of his pulpit, if the Pope would come and ask it. We must 
not, however, allow the man to preach again here. It is not 
because his opinion on church matters may be different from 
ours - with that one would not quarrel. It is because he has 
purposely insulted us. When he went up into the pulpit last 
Sunday, his studied object was to give offence to men who 
had grown old in reverence of those things of which he dared 
to speak so slightingly. What! to come here a stranger, a 
young, unknown, and unfriended stranger, and tell us, in the 
name of the bishop his master, that we are ignorant of our 
duties, old-fashioned, and useless! I don't know whether 
most to admire his courage or his impudence! And one thing I 
will tell you: that sermon originated solely with the man 
himself. The bishop was no more a party to it than was the 
dean here. You all know how grieved I am to see a bishop in 
this diocese holding the latitudinarian ideas by which Dr 
Proudie has made himself conspicuous. You all know how 
greatly I should distrust the opinion of such a man. But in 
this matter I hold him to be blameless. I believe Dr Proudie 
has lived too long among gentlemen to be guilty, or to 
instigate another to be guilty, of so gross an outrage. No! 
that man uttered what was untrue when he hinted that he was 
speaking as the mouthpiece of the bishop. It suited his 
ambitious views at once to throw down the gauntlet to us - 
at once to defy us here in the quiet of our own religious 
duties - here within the walls of our own loved cathedral - 
here where we have for so many years exercised our ministry 
without schism and with good repute. Such an attack upon us, 
coming from such a quarter, is abominable.'
'Abominable,' groaned the dean. 'Abominable,' muttered the 
meagre doctor. 'Abominable,' re-echoed the chancellor, 
uttering the sound from the bottom of his deep chest. 'I 
really think it was,' said Mr Harding.
'Most abominable and most unjustifiable,' continued the 
archdeacon. 'But, Mr Dean, thank God, that pulpit is still 
our own: your own, I should say. That pulpit belongs solely 
to the dean and chapter of Barchester Cathedral, and, as 
yet, Mr Slope is no part of that chapter. You, Mr Dean, have 
suggested that we should appeal to the bishop to abstain 
from forcing this man on us; but what if the bishop allow 
himself to be ruled by his chaplain? In my opinion, the 
matter is in our own hands. Mr Slope cannot preach there 
without permission asked and obtained, and let that 
permission be invariably refused. Let all participation in 
the ministry of the cathedral service be refused to him. 
Then, if the bishop choose to interfere, we shall know what 
answer to make to the bishop. My friend here has suggested 
that this man may again find his way into the pulpit by 
undertaking the duty of some of your minor canons; but I am 
sure that we may fully trust to these gentlemen to support 
us, when it is known that the dean objects to any such 
transfer.'
'Of course you may,' said the chancellor.
There was much more discussion among the learned conclave, 
all of which, of course, ended in obedience to the 
archdeacon's commands. They had too long been accustomed to 
his rule to shake it off so soon; and in this particular 
case they had none of them a wish to abet the man whom he 
was so anxious to put down.
Such a meeting as that we have just recorded is not held in 
such a city as Barchester unknown and untold of. Not only 
was the fact of the meeting talked of in every respectable 
house, including the palace, but the very speeches of the 
dean, the archdeacon, and chancellor were repeated; not 
without many additions and imaginary circumstances, 
according to the tastes and opinions of the relaters.
All, however, agreed in saying that Mr Slope was to be 
debarred from opening his mouth in the cathedral of 
Barchester; many believed that the vergers were to be 
ordered to refuse him even the accommodation of a seat; and 
some of the most far-going advocates for strong measures, 
declared that his sermon was looked upon as an indictable 
offence, and that proceedings were to be taken against him 
for brawling.
The party who were inclined to defend him - the 
enthusiastically religious young ladies, and the middle-aged 
spinsters desirous of a move - of course took up his defence 
the more warmly on account of this attack. If they could not 
hear Mr Slope in the cathedral, they would hear him 
elsewhere; they would leave the dull dean, the dull old 
prebendaries, and the scarcely less dull young minor canons, 
to preach to each other; they would work slippers and 
cushions, and hem bands for Mr Slope, make him a happy 
martyr, and stick him up in some new Sion or Bethesda, and 
put the cathedral quite out of fashion.
Dr and Mrs Proudie at once returned to London. They thought 
it expedient not to have to encounter any personal 
application from the dean and chapter respecting the sermon, 
till the violence of the storm had expended itself; but they 
left Mr Slope behind them nothing daunted, and he went about 
his work zealously, flattering such as would listen to his 
flattery, whispering religious twaddle into the ears of 
foolish women, ingratiating himself with the few clergy who 
would receive him, visiting the houses of the poor, 
inquiring into all people, prying into everything, and 
searching with his minutest eye into all palatial 
dilapidations. He did not, however, make any immediate 
attempt to preach again in the cathedral. And so all 
Barchester was by the ears.



Chapter 8

The Ex-Warden Rejoices in his Probable Return to the 
Hospital

Among the ladies in Barchester who have hitherto 
acknowledged Mr Slope as their spiritual director, must not 
be reckoned either the widow Bold, or her sister-in-law. On 
the first outbreak of the wrath of the denizens of the 
close, none had been more animated against the intruder than 
these two ladies. And this was natural. Who could be so 
proud of the musical distinction of their own cathedral as 
the favourite daughter of the precentor? Who would be so 
likely to resent an insult offered to the old choir? And in 
such matters Miss Bold and her sister-in-law had but one 
opinion.
This wrath, however, has in some degree been mitigated, and 
I regret to say that these ladies allowed Mr Slope to be his 
own apologist. About a fortnight after the sermon had been 
preached, they were both of them not a little surprised by 
hearing Mr Slope announced, as the page in buttons opened 
Mrs Bold's drawing-room door. Indeed, what living man could, 
by a mere morning visit, have surprised them more? Here was 
the great enemy of all that was good in Barchester coming 
into their own drawing-room, and they had no strong arm, no 
ready tongue, near at hand for their protection. The widow 
snatched her baby out of its cradle into her lap, and Mary 
Bold stood up ready to die manfully in that baby's behalf, 
should, under any circumstances, such a sacrifice become 
necessary.
In this manner was Mr Slope received. But when he left, he 
was allowed by each lady to take her hand, and to make his 
adieux as gentlemen do who have been graciously entertained! 
Yes; he shook hands with them, and was curtseyed out 
courteously, the buttoned page opening the door, as he would 
have done for the best canon of them all. He had touched the 
baby's little hand and blessed him with a fervid blessing; 
he had spoken to the widow of her early sorrows, and 
Eleanor's silent tears had not rebuked him; he had told Mary 
Bold that her devotion would be rewarded, and Mary Bold had 
heard the praise without disgust. And how had he done all 
this? how had he so quickly turned aversion into, at any 
rate, acquaintance? how had he overcome the enmity with 
which these ladies had been ready to receive him, and made 
his peace with them so easily?
My readers will guess from what I have written that I myself 
do not like Mr Slope; but I am constrained to admit that he 
is a man of parts. He knows how to say a soft word in the 
proper place; he knows how to adapt his flattery to the ears 
of his hearers; he knows the wiles of the serpent, and he 
uses them. Could Mr Slope have adapted his manners to men as 
well as to women, could he ever have learnt the ways of a 
gentleman, he might have risen to great things.
He commenced his acquaintance with Eleanor by praising her 
father. He had, he said, become aware that he had 
unfortunately offended the feelings of a man of whom he 
could not speak too highly; he would not now allude to a 
subject which was probably too serious for drawing-room 
conversation, but he would say, that it had been very far 
from him to utter a word in disparagement of a man, of whom 
all the world, at least the clerical world, spoke so highly 
as it did of Mr Harding. And so he went on, unsaying a great 
deal of his sermon, expressing his highest admiration for 
the precentor's musical talents, eulogising the father and 
the daughter and the sister-in-law, speaking in that low 
silky whisper which he always had specially prepared for 
feminine ears, and, ultimately, gaining his object. When he 
left, he expressed a hope that he might again be allowed to 
call; and though Eleanor gave no verbal assent to this, she 
did not express dissent: and so Mr Slope's right to visit at 
the widow's house was established.
The day after this visit Eleanor told her father of it, and 
expressed an opinion that Mr Slope was not quite so black as 
he had been painted. Mr Harding opened his eyes rather wider 
than usual when he heard what had occurred, but he said 
little; he could not agree in any praise of Mr Slope, and it 
was not his practice to say much evil of any one. He did 
not, however, like the visit, and simple-minded as he was, 
he felt sure that Mr Slope had some deeper motive than the 
mere pleasure of making soft speeches to two ladies.
Mr Harding, however, had come to see his daughter with other 
purpose than that of speaking either good or evil of Mr 
Slope. He had come to tell her that the place of warden in 
Hiram's Hospital was again to be filled up, and that in all 
probability he would once more return to his old home and 
his twelve bedesmen.
'But,' said he, laughing, 'I shall be greatly shorn of my 
ancient glory.'
'Why so, papa?'
'This new act of parliament, that is to put us all on our 
feet again,' continued he, 'settles my income at four 
hundred and fifty pounds per annum.'
'Four hundred and fifty,' said she, 'instead of eight 
hundred! Well; that is rather shabby. But still, papa, 
you'll have the dear old house and the garden?'
'My dear,' said he, 'it's worth twice the money'; and as he 
spoke he showed a jaunty kind of satisfaction in his tone 
and manner, and in the quick, pleasant way in which he paced 
Eleanor's drawing-room. 'It's worth twice the money. I shall 
have the house and the garden, and a larger income than I 
can possibly want.'
'At any rate, you'll have no extravagant daughter to provide 
for'; and as she spoke, the young widow put her arm within 
his, and made him sit on the sofa beside her; 'at any rate 
you'll not have that expense.'
'No, my dear; and I shall be rather lonely without her; but 
we won't think of that now. As regards income I shall have 
plenty for all I want. I shall have my old house; and I 
don't mind owning now that I have felt sometimes the 
inconvenience of living in a lodging. Lodgings are very nice 
for young men, but at my time of life there is a want of - I 
hardly know what to call it, perhaps not respectability -'
'Oh, papa! I'm sure there's been nothing like that. Nobody 
has thought it; nobody in all Barchester has been more 
respected than you have been since you took those rooms in 
High Street. Nobody! Not the dean in his deanery, or the 
archdeacon out at Plumstead.'
'The archdeacon would not be much obliged to you if he heard 
you,' said he, smiling somewhat at the exclusive manner in 
which his daughter confined her illustration to the church 
dignitaries of the chapter of Barchester; 'but at any rate I 
shall be glad to get back to the old house. Since I heard 
that it was all settled, I have begun to fancy that I can't 
be comfortable without my two sitting-rooms.'
'Come and stay with me, papa, till it is settled - there's a 
dear papa.'
'Thank ye, Nelly. But no; I won't do that. It would make two 
movings. I shall be very glad to get back to my old men 
again. Alas! alas! There have six of them gone in these few 
last years. Six out of twelve! And the others I fear have 
had but a sorry life of it there. Poor Bunce, poor old 
Bunce!' Bunce was one of the surviving recipients of Hiram's 
charity; an old man, now over ninety, who had long been a 
favourite of Mr Harding's.
'How happy old Bunce will be,' said Mrs Bold, clapping her 
soft hands softly. 'How happy they all will be to have you 
back again. You may be sure there will soon be friendship 
among them again when you are there.'
'But,' said he, half laughing, 'I am to have new troubles, 
which will be terrible to me. There are to be twelve old 
women, and a matron. How shall I manage twelve women and a 
matron!'
'The matron will manage the women, of course.'
'And who'll manage the matron?' said he.
'She won't want to be managed. She'll be a great lady 
herself, I suppose. But, papa, where will the matron live? 
She is not to live in the warden's house with you, is she?'
'Well, I hope not, my dear.'
'Oh, papa, I tell you fairly, I won't have a matron for a 
new stepmother.'
'You shan't, my dear; that is, if I can help it. But they 
are going to build another house for the matron and the 
women; and I believe they haven't even fixed yet on the site 
of the building.'
'And have they appointed the matron?' said Eleanor.
'They haven't appointed the warden yet,' replied he.
'But there's no doubt about that, I suppose,' said his 
daughter.
Mr Harding explained that he thought there was no doubt; 
that the archdeacon had declared as much, saying that the 
bishop and his chaplain between them had not the power to 
appoint any one else, even if they had the will to do so, 
and sufficient impudence to carry out such a will. The 
archdeacon was of opinion, that though Mr Harding had 
resigned his wardenship, and had done so unconditionally, he 
had done so under circumstances which left the bishop no 
choice as to his re-appointment, now that the affair of the 
hospital had been settled on a new basis by act of 
parliament. Such was the archdeacon's opinion, and his 
father-in-law received it without a shadow of doubt.
Dr Grantly had always been strongly opposed to Mr Harding's 
resignation of the place. He had done all in his power to 
dissuade him from it. He had considered that Mr Harding was 
bound to withstand the popular clamour with which he was 
attacked for receiving so large an income as eight hundred a 
year from such a charity, and was not even yet satisfied 
that his father-in-law's conduct had not been pusillanimous 
and undignified. He looked also on this reduction of the 
warden's income as a shabby, paltry scheme on the part of 
government for escaping from a difficulty into which it had 
been brought by the public press. Dr Grantly observed that 
the government had no more right to dispose of a sum of four 
hundred and fifty pounds a year out of the income of Hiram's 
legacy, than of nine hundred; whereas, as he said, the 
bishop, dean, and chapter clearly had a right to settle what 
sum should be paid. He also declared that the government had 
no more right to saddle the charity with twelve old women 
than with twelve hundred; and he was, therefore, very 
indignant on the matter. He probably forgot when so talking 
that government had done nothing of the kind, and had never 
assumed any such might or any such right. He made the common 
mistake of attributing to the government, which in such 
matters is powerless, the doings of parliament, which in 
such matters is omnipotent.
But though he felt that the glory and honour of the 
situation of warden of Barchester hospital were indeed 
curtailed by the new arrangement; that the whole 
establishment had to a certain degree been made vile by the 
touch of Whig commissioners; that the place with its 
lessened income, its old women, and other innovations, was 
very different from the hospital of former days; still the 
archdeacon was too practical a man of the world to wish that 
his father-in-law, who had at present little more than £200 
per annum for all his wants, should refuse the situation, 
defiled, undignified, and commission-ridden as it was.
Mr Harding had, accordingly, made up his mind that he would 
return to his old home at the hospital, and to tell the 
truth, had experienced almost a childish pleasure in the 
idea of doing so. The diminished income was to him not even 
the source of momentary regret. The matron and the old women 
did rather go against the grain; but he was able to console 
himself with the reflection, that, after all, such an 
arrangement might be of real service to the poor of the 
city. The thought that he must receive his re-appointment as 
the gift of the new bishop, and probably through the hands 
of Mr Slope, annoyed him a little; but his mind was set at 
rest by the assurance of the archdeacon that there would be 
no favour in such a presentation. The re-appointment of the 
old warden would be regarded by all the world as a matter of 
course. Mr Harding, therefore, felt no hesitation in telling 
his daughter that they might look upon his return to his old 
quarters as a settled matter.
'And you won't have to ask for it, papa.'
'Certainly not, my dear. There is no ground on which I could 
ask for any favour from the bishop, whom, indeed, I hardly 
know. Nor would I ask a favour, the granting of which might 
possibly be made a question to be settled by Mr Slope. No,' 
said he, moved for a moment by a spirit very unlike his own, 
'I certainly shall be very glad to go back to the hospital; 
but I should never go there, if it were necessary that my 
doing so should be the subject of a request to Mr Slope.'
This little outbreak of her father's anger jarred on the 
present tone of Eleanor's mind. She had not learnt to like 
Mr Slope, but she had learnt to think that he had much 
respect for her father; and she would, therefore, willingly 
use her efforts to induce something like good feeling 
between them.
'Papa,' said she, 'I think you somewhat mistake Mr Slope's 
character.'
'Do I?' said he, placidly.
'I think you do, papa. I think he intended no personal 
disrespect to you when he preached the sermon which made the 
archdeacon and the dean so angry!'
'I never supposed he did, my dear. I hope I never inquired 
within myself whether he did or no. Such a matter would be 
unworthy of any inquiry, and very unworthy of the 
consideration of the chapter. But I fear he intended 
disrespect to the ministration of God's services, as 
conducted in conformity with the rules of the Church of 
England.'
'But might it not be that he thought it his duty to express 
his dissent from that which you, and the dean, and all of us 
here so much approve?'
'It can hardly be the duty of a young man rudely to assail 
the religious convictions of his elders in the church. 
Courtesy should have kept him silent, even if neither 
charity nor modesty could do so.'
'But Mr Slope would say that on such a subject the commands 
of his heavenly Master do not admit of his being silent.'
'Nor of his being courteous, Eleanor?'
'He did not say that, papa.'
'Believe me, my child, that Christian ministers are never 
called on by God's word to insult the convictions, or even 
the prejudices of their brethren; and that religion is at 
any rate not less susceptible of urbane and courteous 
conduct among men, than any other study which men may take 
up. I am sorry to say that I cannot defend Mr Slope's sermon 
in the cathedral. But come, my dear, put on your bonnet, and 
let us walk round the dear old gardens at the hospital. I 
have never yet had the heart to go beyond the courtyard 
since we left the place. Now I think I can venture to 
enter.'
Eleanor rang the bell, and gave a variety of imperative 
charges as to the welfare of the precious baby, whom, all 
but unwillingly, she was about to leave for an hour or so, 
and then sauntered forth with her father to revisit the old 
hospital. It had been forbidden ground to her as well as to 
him since the day on which they had walked forth together 
from its walls.



Chapter 9

The Stanhope Family

It is now three months since Dr Proudie began his reign, and 
changes have already been effected in the diocese which show 
at least the energy of an active mind. Among other things 
absentee clergymen have been favoured with hints much too 
strong to be overlooked. Poor dear old Bishop Grantly had on 
this matter been too lenient, and the archdeacon had never 
been inclined to be severe with those who were absent on 
reputable pretences, and who provided for their duties in a 
liberal way.
Among the greatest of the diocesan sinners in this respect 
was Dr Vesey Stanhope. Years had now passed since he had 
done a day's duty; and yet there was no reason against his 
doing duty except a want of inclination on his own part. He 
held a prebendal stall in the diocese; one of the best 
residences in the close; and the two large rectories of 
Crabtree Canonicorum, and Stogpingum. Indeed, he had the 
cure of three parishes, for that of Eiderdown was joined to 
Stogpingum. He had resided in Italy for twelve years. His 
first going there had been attributed to a sore throat; and 
that sore throat, though never repeated in any violent 
manner, had stood him in such stead, that it had enabled him 
to live in easy idleness ever since.
He had now been summoned home - not, indeed, with rough 
violence, or by any peremptory command, but by a mandate 
which he found himself unable to disregard. Mr Slope had 
written to him by the bishop's desire. In the first place, 
the bishop much wanted the valuable co-operation of Dr Vesey 
Stanhope in the diocese; in the next, the bishop thought it 
his imperative duty to become personally acquainted with the 
most conspicuous of his diocesan clergy; then the bishop 
thought it essentially necessary for Dr Stanhope's own 
interests, that Dr Stanhope should, at any rate for a time, 
return to Barchester; and lastly, it was said that so strong 
a feeling was at the present moment evinced by the hierarchs 
of the church with reference to the absence of its clerical 
members, that it behoved Dr Vesey Stanhope not to allow his 
name to stand among those which would probably in a few 
months be submitted to the councils of the nation. There was 
something so ambiguously frightful in this last threat that 
Dr Stanhope determined to spend two or three summer months 
at his residence in Barchester. His rectories were inhabited 
by his curates, and he felt himself from disuse to be unfit 
for parochial duty; but his prebendal home was kept empty 
for him, and he thought it probable that he might be able 
now and again to preach a prebendal sermon. He arrived, 
therefore, with all his family at Barchester, and he and 
they must be introduced to my readers.
The great family characteristic of the Stanhopes might 
probably be said to be heartlessness; but this want of 
feeling was, in most of them, accompanied by so great an 
amount of good nature as to make itself but little 
noticeable to the world. They were so prone to oblige their 
neighbours that their neighbours failed to perceive how 
indifferent to them was the happiness and well-being of 
those around them. The Stanhopes would visit you in your 
sickness (provided it were not contagious), would bring you 
oranges, French novels, and the last new bit of scandal, and 
then hear of your death or your recovery with an equally 
indifferent composure. Their conduct to each other was the 
same as to the world; they bore and forbore: and there was 
sometimes, as will be seen, much necessity for forbearing: 
but their love among themselves rarely reached above this. 
It is astonishing how much each of the family was able to 
do, and how much each did, to prevent the well-being of the 
other four.
For there were five in all; the doctor, namely, and Mrs 
Stanhope, two daughters, and one son. The doctor, perhaps, 
was the least singular and most estimable of them all, and 
yet such good qualities as he possessed were all negative. 
He was a good-looking rather plethoric gentleman of about 
sixty years of age. His hair was snow white, very plentiful, 
and somewhat like wool of the finest description. His 
whiskers were very large and very white, and gave to his 
face the appearance of a benevolent sleepy old lion. His 
dress was always unexceptionable. Although he had lived so 
many years in Italy it was invariably of a decent clerical 
hue, but it never was hyperclerical. He was a man not given 
to much talking, but what little he did say was generally 
well said. His reading seldom went beyond romances and 
poetry of the lightest and not always most moral 
description. He was thoroughly a bon vivant; an accomplished 
judge of wine, though he never drank to excess; and a most 
inexorable critic in all affairs touching the kitchen. He 
had had much to forgive in his own family, since a family 
had grown up around him, and had forgiven everything - 
except inattention to his dinner. His weakness in that 
respect was now fully understood, and his temper but seldom 
tried. As Dr Stanhope was a clergyman, it may be supposed 
that his religious convictions made up a considerable part 
of his character; but this was not so. That he had religious 
convictions must be believed; but he rarely obtruded them, 
even on his children. This abstinence on his part was not 
systematic, but very characteristic of the man. It was not 
that he had predetermined never to influence their thoughts; 
but he was so habitually idle that his time for doing so had 
never come till the opportunity for doing so was gone for 
ever. Whatever conviction the father may have had, the 
children were at any rate but indifferent members of the 
church from which he drew his income.
Such was Dr Stanhope. The features of Mrs Stanhope's 
character were even less plainly marked than those of her 
lord. The far niente of her Italian life had entered into 
her very soul, and brought her to regard a state of 
inactivity as the only earthly good. In manner and 
appearance she was exceedingly prepossessing. She had been a 
beauty, and even now, at fifty-five, she was a handsome 
woman. Her dress was always perfect: she never dressed but 
once in the day, and never appeared till between three and 
four; but when she did appear, she appeared at her best. 
Whether the toil rested partly with her, or wholly with her 
handmaid, it is not for such a one as the author even to 
imagine. The structure of her attire was always elaborate, 
and yet never over-laboured. She was rich in apparel, but 
not bedizened with finery; her ornaments were costly, rare, 
and such as could not fail to attract notice, but they did 
not look as though worn with that purpose. She well knew the 
great architectural secret of decorating her constructions, 
and never descended to construct a decoration. But when we 
have said that Mrs Stanhope knew how to dress, and used her 
knowledge daily, we have said all. Other purpose in life she 
had none. It was something, indeed, that she did not 
interfere with the purposes of others. In early life she had 
undergone great trials with reference to the doctor's 
dinners; but for the last ten or twelve years her eldest 
daughter Charlotte had taken that labour off her hands, and 
she had had little to trouble her - little, that is, till 
the edict for this terrible English journey had gone forth: 
since, then, indeed, her life had been laborious enough. For 
such a one, the toil of being carried from the shores of 
Como to the city of Barchester is more than labour enough, 
let the care of the carriers be ever so vigilant. Mrs 
Stanhope had been obliged to have every one of her dresses 
taken in from the effects of the journey.
Charlotte Stanhope was at this time about thirty-five years 
old; and, whatever may have been her faults, she had none of 
those which belong particularly to old young ladies. She 
neither dressed young, nor talked young, nor indeed looked 
young. She appeared to be perfectly content with her time of 
life, and in no way affected the graces of youth. She was a 
fine young woman; and had she been a man, would have been a 
very fine young man. All that was done in the house, and 
that was not done by servants, was done by her. She gave the 
orders, paid the bills, hired and dismissed the domestics, 
made the tea, carved the meat, and managed everything in the 
Stanhope household. She, and she alone, could ever induce 
her father to look into the state of his worldly concerns. 
She, and she alone, could in any degree control the 
absurdities of her sister. She, and she alone, prevented the 
whole family from falling into utter disrepute and beggary. 
It was by her advice that they now found themselves very 
unpleasantly situated in Barchester.
So far, the character of Charlotte Stanhope is not 
unprepossessing. But it remains to be said, that the 
influence which she had in her family, though it had been 
used to a certain extent for their worldly well-being, had 
not been used to their real benefit, as it might have been. 
She had aided her father in his indifference to his 
professional duties, counselling him that his livings were 
as much his individual property as the estates of his elder 
brother were the property of that worthy peer. She had for 
years past stifled every little rising wish for a return to 
England which the doctor had from time to time expressed. 
She had encouraged her mother in her idleness in order that 
she herself might be mistress and manager of the Stanhope 
household. She had encouraged and fostered the follies of 
her sister, though she was always willing, and often able, 
to protect her from their probable result. She had done her 
best, and had thoroughly succeeded in spoiling her brother, 
and turning him loose upon the world an idle man without a 
profession, and without a shilling that he could call his 
own.
Miss Stanhope was a clever woman, able to talk on most 
subjects, and quite indifferent as to what the subject was. 
She prided herself on her freedom from English prejudice, 
and she might have added, from feminine delicacy. On 
religion she was a pure freethinker, and with much want of 
true affection, delighted to throw out her own views before 
the troubled mind of her father. To have shaken what 
remained of his Church of England faith would have gratified 
her much; but the idea of his abandoning his preferment in 
the church had never once presented itself to her mind. How 
could he indeed, when he had no income from any other 
source?
But the two most prominent members of the family still 
remain to be described. The second child had been christened 
Madeline, and had been a great beauty. We need not say had 
been, for she was never more beautiful than at the time of 
which we write, though her person for many years had been 
disfigured by an accident. It is unnecessary that we should 
give in detail the early history of Madeline Stanhope. She 
had gone to Italy when about seventeen years of age, and had 
been allowed to make the most of her surpassing beauty in 
the saloons of Milan, and among the crowded villas along the 
shores of the Lake of Como. She had become famous for 
adventures in which her character was just not lost, and had 
destroyed the hearts of a dozen cavaliers without once being 
touched in her own. Blood had flowed in quarrels about her 
charms, and she heard of these encounters with pleasurable 
excitement. It had been told of her that on one occasion she 
had stood by in the disguise of a page, and had seen her 
lover fall.
As is so often the case, she had married the very worst of 
those who sought her hand. Why she had chosen Paulo Neroni, 
a man of no birth and no property, a mere captain in the 
Pope's guard, one who had come up to Milan either simply as 
an adventurer or else as a spy, a man of harsh temper and 
oily manners, mean in figure, swarthy in face, and so false 
in words as to be hourly detected, need not now be told. 
When the moment for doing so came, she had probably no 
alternative. He, at any rate, had become her husband; and 
after a prolonged honeymoon among the lakes, they had gone 
together to Rome, the papal captain having vainly 
endeavoured to induce his wife to remain behind him.
Six months afterwards she arrived at her father's house a 
cripple, and a mother. She had arrived without even notice, 
with hardly clothes to cover her, and without one of those 
many ornaments which had graced her bridal trousseau. Her 
baby was in the arms of a poor girl from Milan, whom she had 
taken in exchange for the Roman maid who had accompanied her 
thus far, and who had then, as her mistress said, become 
homesick and had returned. It was clear that the lady had 
determined that there should be no witness to tell stories 
of her life in Rome.
She had fallen, she said, in ascending a ruin, and had 
fatally injured the sinews of her knee; so fatally, that 
when she stood she lost eight inches of her accustomed 
height; so fatally, that when she essayed to move, she could 
only drag herself painfully along, with protruded hip and 
extended foot in a manner less graceful than that of a 
hunchback. She had consequently made up her mind, once and 
for ever, that she would never stand, and never attempt to 
move herself.
Stories were not slow to follow her, averring that she had 
been cruelly ill-used by Neroni, and that to his violence 
had she owed her accident. Be that as it may, little had 
been said about her husband, but that little had made it 
clearly intelligible to the family that Signor Neroni was to 
be seen and heard of no more. There was no question as to 
readmitting the poor ill-used beauty to her old family 
rights, no question as to adopting her infant daughter 
beneath the Stanhope roof tree. Though heartless, the 
Stanhopes were not selfish. The two were taken in, petted, 
made much of, for a time all but adored, and then felt by 
the two parents to be great nuisances in the house. But in 
the house the lady was, and there she remained, having her 
own way, though that way was not very conformable with the 
customary usages of an English clergyman.
Madame Neroni, though forced to give up all motion in the 
world, had no intention whatever of giving up the world 
itself. The beauty of her face was uninjured, and that 
beauty was of a peculiar kind. Her copious rich brown hair 
was worn in Grecian bandeaux round her head, displaying as 
much as possible of her forehead and cheeks. Her forehead, 
though rather low, was very beautiful from its perfect 
contour and pearly whiteness. Her eyes were long and large, 
and marvellously bright; might I venture to say, bright as 
Lucifer's, I should perhaps best express the depth of their 
brilliancy. They were dreadful eyes to look at, such as 
would absolutely deter any man of quiet mind and easy spirit 
from attempting a passage of arms with such foes. There was 
talent in them, and the fire of passion and the play of wit, 
but there was no love. Cruelty was there instead, and 
courage, a desire of masterhood, cunning, and a wish for 
mischief. And yet, as eyes, they were very beautiful. The 
eyelashes were long and perfect, and the long steady 
unabashed gaze, with which she would look into the face of 
her admirer, fascinated while it frightened him. She was a 
basilisk from whom an ardent lover of beauty could make no 
escape. Her nose and mouth and teeth and chin and neck and 
bust were perfect, much more so at twenty-eight than they 
had been at eighteen. What wonder that with such charms 
still glowing in her face, and with such deformity 
destroying her figure, she should resolve to be seen, but 
only to be seen reclining on a sofa.
Her resolve had not been carried out without difficulty. She 
had still frequented the opera at Milan; she had still been 
seen occasionally in the saloons of the noblesse; she had 
caused herself to be carried in and out from her carriage, 
and that in such a manner as in nowise to disturb her 
charms, disarrange her dress, or expose her deformities. Her 
sister always accompanied her and a maid, a man-servant 
also, and on state occasions, two. It was impossible that 
her purpose could have been achieved with less: and yet, 
poor as she was, she had achieved her purpose. And then 
again the more dissolute Italian youths of Milan frequented 
the Stanhope villa and surrounded her couch, not greatly to 
her father's satisfaction. Sometimes his spirit would rise, 
a dark spot would show itself on his cheek, and he would 
rebel; but Charlotte would assuage him with some peculiar 
triumph of her culinary art, and all again would be smooth 
for a while.
Madeline affected all manner of rich and quaint devices in 
the garniture of her room, her person, and her feminine 
belongings. In nothing was this more apparent than in the 
visiting card which she had prepared for her use. For such 
an article one would say that she, in her present state, 
could have but small need, seeing how improbable it was that 
she should make a morning call: but not such was her own 
opinion. Her card was surrounded by a deep border of 
gilding; on this she had imprinted, in three lines -

'La Signora Madeline
					'Vesey Neroni.
- Nata Stanhope.'

And over the name she had a bright gilt coronet, which 
certainly looked very magnificent. How she had come to 
concoct such a name for herself it would be difficult to 
explain. Her father had been christened Vesey, as another 
man is christened Thomas; and she had no more right to 
assume it than would have the daughter of a Mr Josiah Jones 
to call herself Mrs Josiah Smith, on marrying a man of the 
latter name. The gold coronet was equally out of place, and 
perhaps inserted with even less excuse. Paulo Neroni had had 
not the faintest title to call himself a scion of even 
Italian nobility.
Had the pair met in England Neroni would probably have been 
a count; but they had met in Italy, and any such pretence on 
his part would have been simply ridiculous. A coronet, 
however, was a pretty ornament, and if it could solace a 
poor cripple to have such on her card, who would begrudge it 
to her?
Of her husband, or of his individual family, she never 
spoke; but with her admirers she would often allude in a 
mysterious way to her married life and isolated state, and, 
pointing to her daughter, would call her the last of the 
blood of the emperors, thus referring Neroni's extraction to 
the old Roman family from which the worst of the Caesars 
sprang.
The 'Signora' was not without talent, and not without a 
certain sort of industry; she was an indomitable letter 
writer, and her letters were worth the postage: they were 
full of wit, mischief, satire, love, latitudinarian 
philosophy, free religion, and, sometimes, alas! loose 
ribaldry. The subject, however, depended entirely on the 
recipient, and she was prepared to correspond with anyone 
but moral young ladies or stiff old women. She wrote also a 
kind of poetry, generally in Italian, and short romances, 
generally in French. She read much of a desultory sort of 
literature, and as a modern linguist had really made great 
proficiency. Such was the lady who had now come to wound the 
hearts of the men of Barchester.
Ethelbert Stanhope was in some respects like his younger 
sister, but he was less inestimable as a man than she as a 
woman. His great fault was an entire absence of that 
principle which should have induced him, as the son of a man 
without fortune, to earn his own bread. Many attempts had 
been made to get him to do so, but these had all been 
frustrated, not so much by idleness on his part, as by a 
disinclination to exert himself in any way not to his taste. 
He had been educated at Eton, and had been intended for the 
Church, but had left Cambridge in disgust after a single 
term, and notified to his father his intention to study for 
the bar. Preparatory to that, he thought it well that he 
should attend a German university, and consequently went to 
Leipzig. There he remained two years, and brought away a 
knowledge of German and a taste for the fine arts. He still, 
however, intended himself for the bar, took chambers, 
engaged himself to sit at the feet of a learned pundit, and 
spent a season in London. He there found that all his 
aptitudes inclined him to the life of an artist, and he 
determined to live by painting. With this object he returned 
to Milan, and had himself rigged out for Rome. As a painter 
he might have earned his bread, for he wanted only diligence 
to excel; but when at Rome his mind was carried away by 
other things: he soon wrote home for money, saying that he 
had been converted to the Mother Church, that he was already 
an acolyte of the Jesuits, and that he was about to start 
with others to Palestine on a mission for converting Jews. 
He did go to Judea, but being unable to convert the Jews, 
was converted by them. He again wrote home, to say that 
Moses was the only giver of perfect laws to the world, that 
the coming of the true Messiah was at hand, that great 
things were doing in Palestine, and that he had met one of 
the family of Sidonia, a most remarkable man, who was now on 
his way to Western Europe, and whom he had induced to 
deviate from his route with the object of calling at the 
Stanhope villa. Ethelbert then expressed his hope that his 
mother and sisters would listen to this wonderful prophet. 
His father he knew could not do so from pecuniary 
considerations. This Sidonia, however, did not take so 
strong a fancy to him as another of that family once did to 
a young English nobleman. At least he provided him with no 
heaps of gold as large as lions; so that the Judaised 
Ethelbert was again obliged to draw on the revenues of the 
Christian Church.
It is needless to tell how the father swore that he would 
send no more money and receive no Jew; nor how Charlotte 
declared that Ethelbert could not be left penniless in 
Jerusalem, and how 'La Signora Neroni' resolved to have 
Sidonia at her feet. The money was sent, and the Jew did 
come. The Jew did come, but he was not at all to the taste 
of 'La Signora.' He was a dirty little old man, and though 
he had provided no golden lions, he had, it seems, relieved 
young Stanhope's necessities. He positively refused to leave 
the villa till he had got a bill from the doctor on his 
London bankers.
Ethelbert did not long remain a Jew. He soon reappeared at 
the villa without prejudices on the subject of his religion, 
and with a firm resolve to achieve fame and fortune as a 
sculptor. He brought with him some models which he had 
originated at Rome, and which really gave such fair promise 
that his father was induced to go to further expense in 
furthering these views. Ethelbert opened an establishment, 
or rather took lodgings and a workshop, at Carrara, and 
there spoilt much marble, and made some few pretty images. 
Since that period, now four years ago, he had alternated 
between Carrara and the villa, but his sojourns at the 
workshop became shorter and shorter, and those at the villa 
longer and longer. 'Twas no wonder; for Carrara is not a 
spot in which an Englishman would like to dwell. When the 
family started for England he had resolved not to be left 
behind, and with the assistance of his elder sister had 
carried his point against his father's wishes. It was 
necessary, he said, that he should come to England for 
orders. How otherwise was he to bring his profession to 
account?
In personal appearance Ethelbert Stanhope was the most 
singular of beings. He was certainly very handsome. He had 
his sister Madeline's eyes without their stare, and without 
their hard cunning cruel firmness. They were also very much 
lighter, and of so light and clear a blue as to make his 
face remarkable, if nothing else did so. On entering a room 
with him, Ethelbert's blue eyes would be the first thing you 
would see, and on leaving it almost the last you would 
forget. His light hair was very long and silky, coming down 
over his coat. His beard had been prepared in holy land, and 
was patriarchal. He never shaved, and rarely trimmed it. It 
was glossy, soft, clean, and altogether not unprepossessing. 
It was such, that ladies might desire to reel it off and 
work it into their patterns in lieu of floss silk. His 
complexion was fair and almost pink, he was small in height, 
and slender in limb, but well-made, and his voice was of 
peculiar sweetness.
In manner and dress he was equally remarkable. He had none 
of the mauvaise honte of an Englishman. He required no 
introduction to make himself agreeable to any person. He 
habitually addressed strangers, ladies as well as men, 
without any such formality, and in doing so never seemed to 
meet with rebuke. His costume cannot be described, because 
it was so various; but it was always totally opposed in 
every principle of colour and construction to the dress of 
those with whom he for the time consorted.
He was habitually addicted to making love to ladies, and did 
so without any scruple of conscience, or any idea that such 
a practice was amiss. He had no heart to touch himself, and 
was literally unaware that humanity was subject to such an 
infliction. He had not thought much about it; but, had he 
been asked, would have said, that ill-treating a lady's 
heart meant injuring her promotion in the world. His 
principles therefore forbade him to pay attention to a girl, 
if he thought any man was present whom it might suit her to 
marry. In this manner, his good nature frequently interfered 
with his amusement; but he had no other motive in abstaining 
from the fullest declarations of love to every girl that 
pleased his eye.
Bertie Stanhope, as he was generally called, was, however, 
popular with both sexes; and with Italians as well as 
English. His circle of acquaintance was very large, and 
embraced people of all sorts. He had no respect for rank, 
and no aversion to those below him. He had lived on familiar 
terms with English peers, German shopkeepers, and Roman 
priests. All people were nearly alike to him. He was above, 
or rather below, all prejudices. No virtue could charm him, 
no vice shock him. He had about him a natural good manner, 
which seemed to qualify him for the highest circles, and yet 
he was never out of place in the lowest. He had no 
principle, no regard for others, no self-respect, no desire 
to be other than a drone in the hive, if only he could, as a 
drone, get what honey was sufficient for him. Of honey, in 
his latter days, it may probably be presaged, that he will 
have but short allowance.
Such was the family of the Stanhopes, who, at this period, 
suddenly joined themselves to the ecclesiastical circle of 
Barchester close. Any stranger union, it would be impossible 
perhaps to conceive. And it was not as though they all fell 
down into the cathedral precincts hitherto unknown and 
untalked of. In such case no amalgamation would have been at 
all probable between the new-comers and either the Proudie 
set or the Grantly set. But such was far from being the 
case. The Stanhopes were all known by name in Barchester, 
and Barchester was prepared to receive them with open arms. 
The doctor was one of her prebendaries, one of her rectors, 
one of her pillars of strength; and was, moreover, counted 
on, as a sure ally, both by Proudies and Grantlys.
He himself was the brother of one peer, and his wife was the 
sister of another - and both these peers were lords of 
whiggish tendency, with whom the new bishop had some sort of 
alliance. This was sufficient to give to Mr Slope high hope 
that he might enlist Dr Stanhope on his side, before his 
enemies could out-manoeuvre him. On the other hand, the old 
dean had many many years ago, in the days of the doctor's 
clerical energies, been instrumental in assisting him in his 
views as to preferment; and many many years ago also, the 
two doctors, Stanhope and Grantly, had, as young parsons, 
been joyous together in the common rooms of Oxford. Dr 
Grantly, consequently, did not doubt but that the new-comer 
would range himself under his banners.
Little did any of them dream of what ingredients the 
Stanhope family was now composed.



Chapter 10

Mrs Proudie's Reception - commenced

The bishop and his wife had only spent three or four days in 
Barchester on the occasion of their first visit. His 
lordship had, as we have seen, taken his seat on his throne; 
but his demeanour there, into which it had been his 
intention to infuse much hierarchal dignity, had been a good 
deal disarranged by the audacity of his chaplain's sermon. 
He had hardly dared to look his clergy in the face, and to 
declare by the severity of his countenance that in truth he 
meant all that his factotum was saying on his behalf; nor 
yet did he dare to throw Mr Slope over, and show to those 
around him that he was no party to the sermon, and would 
resent it.
He had accordingly blessed his people in a shambling manner, 
not at all to his own satisfaction, and had walked back to 
his palace with his mind very doubtful as to what he would 
say to his chaplain on the subject. He did not remain long 
in doubt. He had hardly doffed his lawn when the partner of 
all his toils entered his study, and exclaimed even before 
she had seated herself -
'Bishop, did you ever hear a more sublime, more spirit-
moving, more appropriate discourse than that?'
'Well, my love; ha - hum - he!' The bishop did not know what 
to say.
'I hope, my lord, you don't mean to say you disapprove?'
There was a look about the lady's eye which did not admit of 
my lord's disapproving at that moment. He felt that if he 
intended to disapprove, it must be now or never; but he also 
felt that it could not be now. It was not in him to say to 
the wife of his bosom that Mr Slope's sermon was ill-timed, 
impertinent and vexatious.
'No, no,' replied the bishop. 'No, I can't say I disapprove -
 a very clever sermon and very well intended, and I dare say 
will do a great deal of good.' This last praise was added, 
seeing that what he had already said by no means satisfied 
Mrs Proudie.
'I hope it will,' said she. 'I am sure it was well deserved. 
Did you ever in your life, bishop, hear anything so like 
play-acting as the way in which Mr Harding sings the litany? 
I shall beg Mr Slope to continue a course of sermons on the 
subject till all that is altered. We will have at any rate, 
in our cathedral, a decent, godly, modest morning service. 
There must be no more play-acting here now'; and so the lady 
rang for lunch.
The bishop knew more about cathedrals and deans, and 
precentors and church services than his wife did, and also 
more of a bishop's powers. But he thought it better at 
present to let the subject drop.
'My dear,' said he, 'I think we must go back to London on 
Tuesday. I find my staying here will be very inconvenient to 
the Government.'
The bishop knew that to this proposal his wife would not 
object; and he also felt that by thus retreating from the 
ground of battle, the heat of the fight might be got over in 
his absence.
'Mr Slope will remain here, of course?' said the lady.
'Oh, of course,' said the bishop.
Thus, after less than a week's sojourn in his palace, did 
the bishop fly from Barchester; nor did he return to it for 
two months, the London season being then over. During that 
time Mr Slope was not idle, but he did not again essay to 
preach in the cathedral. In answer to Mrs Proudie's letters, 
advising a course of sermons, he had pleaded that he would 
at any rate wish to put off such an undertaking till she was 
there to hear them.
He had employed his time in consolidating a Proudie and 
Slope party - or rather a Slope and Proudie party, and he 
had not employed his time in vain. He did not meddle with 
the dean and chapter, except by giving them little teasing 
intimations of the bishop's wishes about this and the 
bishop's feelings about that, in a manner which was to them 
sufficiently annoying, but which they could not resent. He 
preached once or twice in a distant church in the suburbs of 
the city, but made no allusion to the cathedral service. He 
commenced the establishment of two 'Bishop's Barchester 
Sabbath-day Schools,' gave notice of a proposed 'Bishop's 
Barchester Young Men's Sabbath Evening Lecture Room,' - and 
wrote three or four letters to the manager of the Barchester 
branch railway, informing him how anxious the bishop was 
that the Sunday trains should be discontinued.
At the end of two months, however, the bishop and the lady 
reappeared; and as a happy harbinger of their return, 
heralded their advent by the promise of an evening party on 
the largest scale. The tickets of invitation were sent out 
from London - they were dated from Bruton Street, and were 
despatched by the odious Sabbath-breaking railway, in a huge 
brown-paper parcel to Mr Slope. Everybody calling himself a 
gentleman, or herself a lady, within the city of Barchester, 
and a circle of two miles round it, was included. Tickets 
were sent to all the diocesan clergy, and also to many other 
persons of priestly note, of whose absence the bishop, or at 
least the bishop's wife, felt tolerably confident. It was 
intended, however, to be a thronged and noticeable affair, 
and preparations were made for receiving some hundreds.
And now there arose considerable agitation among the 
Grantlyites whether or no they would attend the episcopal 
bidding. The first feeling with them all was to send the 
briefest excuses both for themselves and their wives and 
daughters. But by degrees policy prevailed over passion. The 
archdeacon perceived that he would be making a false step if 
he allowed the cathedral clergy to give the bishop just 
ground of umbrage. They all met in conclave and agreed to 
go. They would show that they were willing to respect the 
office, much as they might dislike the man. They agreed to 
go. The old dean would crawl in, if it were but for half an 
hour. The chancellor, treasurer, archdeacon, prebendaries, 
and minor canons would all go, and would all take their 
wives. Mr Harding was especially bidden to do so, resolving 
in his heart to keep himself far removed from Mrs Proudie. 
And Mrs Bold was determined to go, though assured by her 
father that there was no necessity for such a sacrifice on 
her part. When all Barchester was to be there, neither 
Eleanor nor Mary Bold understood why they should stay away. 
Had they not been invited separately? and had not a separate 
little note from the chaplain, couched in the most 
respectful language, been enclosed with the huge episcopal 
card?
And the Stanhopes would be there, one and all. Even the 
lethargic mother would so far bestir herself on such an 
occasion. They had only just arrived. The card was at the 
residence waiting for them. No one in Barchester had seen 
them; and what better opportunity could they have of showing 
themselves to the Barchester world? Some few old friends, 
such as the archdeacon and his wife, had called, and had 
found the doctor and his eldest daughter; but the elite of 
the family were not yet known.
The doctor indeed wished in his heart to prevent the signora 
from accepting the bishop's invitation; but she herself had 
fully determined that she would accept it. If her father was 
ashamed of having his daughter carried into a bishop's 
palace, she had no such feeling.
'Indeed, I shall,' she had said to her sister who had gently 
endeavoured to dissuade her, by saying that the company 
would consist wholly of parsons and parsons' wives. 
'Parsons, I suppose, are much the same as other men, if you 
strip them of their black coats; and as to their wives, I 
dare say they won't trouble me. You may tell papa I don't at 
all mean to be left at home.'
Papa was told, and felt that he could do nothing but yield. 
He also felt that it was useless for him now to be ashamed 
of his children. Such as they were, they had become such 
under his auspices; as he had made his bed, so he must lie 
upon it; as he had sown his seed, so must he reap his corn. 
He did not indeed utter such reflections in such language, 
but such was the gist of his thoughts. It was not because 
Madeline was a cripple that he shrank from seeing her make 
one of the bishop's guests; but because he knew that she 
would practise her accustomed lures, and behave herself in a 
way that could not fail of being distasteful to the 
propriety of Englishwomen. These things had annoyed but not 
shocked him in Italy. There they had shocked no one; but 
here in Barchester, here among his fellow parsons, he was 
ashamed that they should be seen. Such had been his 
feelings, but he repressed them. What if his brother 
clergymen were shocked! They could not take from him his 
preferment because the manners of his married daughter were 
too free.
La Signora Neroni had, at any rate, no fear that she would 
shock anybody. Her ambition was to create a sensation, to 
have parsons at her feet, seeing that the manhood of 
Barchester consisted mainly of parsons, and to send, if 
possible, every parson's wife home with a green fit of 
jealousy. None could be too old for her, and hardly any too 
young. None too sanctified, and none too worldly. She was 
quite prepared to entrap the bishop himself, and then to 
turn up her nose at the bishop's wife. She did not doubt of 
success, for she had always succeeded; but one thing was 
absolutely necessary, she must secure the entire use of a 
sofa.
The card sent to Dr and Mrs Stanhope and family had been so 
sent in an envelope, having on the cover Mr Slope's name. 
The signora soon learnt that Mrs Proudie was not yet at the 
palace, and that the chaplain was managing everything. It 
was much more in her line to apply to him than to the lady, 
and she accordingly wrote him the prettiest little billet in 
the world. In five lines she explained everything, declared 
how impossible it was for her not to be desirous to make the 
acquaintance of such persons as the Bishop of Barchester and 
his wife, and she might add also of Mr Slope, depicted her 
own grievous state, and concluded by being assured that Mrs 
Proudie would forgive her extreme hardihood in petitioning 
to be allowed to be carried to a sofa. She then enclosed one 
of her beautiful cards. In return she received as polite an 
answer from Mr Slope - a sofa should be kept in the large 
drawing-room, immediately at the top of the grand stairs, 
especially for her use.
And now the day of the party had arrived. The bishop and his 
wife came down from town, only on the morning of the 
eventful day, as behoved such great people to do; but Mr 
Slope had toiled day and night to see that everything should 
be in right order. There had been much to do. No company had 
been seen in the palace since heaven knows when. New 
furniture had been required, new pots and pans, new cups and 
saucers, new dishes and plates. Mrs Proudie had at first 
declared that she would condescend to nothing so vulgar as 
eating and drinking; but Mr Slope had talked, or rather 
written her out of economy! Bishops should be given to 
hospitality, and hospitality meant eating and drinking. So 
the supper was conceded; the guests, however, were to stand 
as they consumed it.
There were four rooms opening into each other on the first 
floor of the house, which were denominated the drawing-
rooms, the reception-room, and Mrs Proudie's boudoir. In 
olden days one of these had been Bishop Grantly's bedroom, 
and another his common sitting-room and study. The present 
bishop, however, had been moved down into a back parlour, 
and had been given to understand, that he could very well 
receive his clergy in the dining-room, should they arrive in 
too large a flock to be admitted into his small sanctum. He 
had been unwilling to yield, but after a short debate had 
yielded.
Mrs Proudie's heart beat high as she inspected her suite of 
rooms. They were really very magnificent, or at least would 
be so by candlelight; and they had nevertheless been got up 
with commendable economy. Large rooms when full of people 
and full of light look well, because they are large, and are 
full, and are light. Small rooms are those which require 
costly fittings and rich furniture. Mrs Proudie knew this, 
and made the most of it; she had therefore a huge gas lamp 
with a dozen burners hanging from each of the ceilings.
People were to arrive at ten, supper was to last from twelve 
till one, and at half-past one everybody was to be gone. 
Carriages were to come in at the gate in the town and depart 
at the gate outside. They were desired to take up at a 
quarter before one. It was managed excellently, and Mr Slope 
was invaluable. At half-past nine the bishop and his wife 
and their three daughters entered the great reception-room, 
and very grand and very solemn they were. Mr Slope was 
downstairs giving the last orders about the wine. He well 
understood that curates and country vicars with their 
belongings did not require so generous an article as the 
dignitaries of the close. There is a useful gradation in 
such things, and Marsala at 20s. a dozen did very well for 
the exterior supplementary tables in the corner.
'Bishop,' said the lady, as his lordship sat himself down, 
'don't sit on that sofa, if you please; it is to be kept 
separate for a lady.'
The bishop jumped up and seated himself on a cane-bottomed 
chair. 'A lady?' he inquired meekly; 'do you mean one 
particular lady, my dear?'
'Yes, Bishop, one particular lady,' said his wife, 
disdaining to explain.
'She has got no legs, papa,' said the youngest daughter, 
tittering.
'No legs!' said the bishop, opening his eyes.
'Nonsense, Netta, what stuff you talk,' said Olivia. 'She 
has got legs, but she can't use them. She has always to be 
kept lying down, and three or four men carry her about 
everywhere.'
'Laws, how odd!' said Augusta. 'Always carried about by four 
men! I'm sure I shouldn't like it. Am I right behind, mamma? 
I feel as if I was open'; and she turned her back to her 
anxious parent.
'Open! to be sure you are,' said she, 'and a yard of 
petticoat strings hanging out. I don't know why I pay such 
high wages to Mrs Richards, if she can't take the trouble to 
see whether or no you are fit to be looked at,' and Mrs 
Proudie poked the strings here, and twitched the dress 
there, and gave her daughter a shove and a shake, and then 
pronounced it all right.
'But,' rejoined the bishop, who was dying with curiosity 
about the mysterious lady and her legs, 'who is it that is 
to have the sofa? What's her name, Netta?'
A thundering rap at the front door interrupted the 
conversation. Mrs Proudie stood up and shook herself gently, 
and touched her cap on each side as she looked in the 
mirror. Each of the girls stood on tiptoe, and rearranged 
the bows on their bosoms; and Mr Slope rushed upstairs three 
steps at a time.
'But who is it, Netta?' whispered the bishop to his youngest 
daughter.
'La Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni,' whispered back the 
daughter; 'and mind you don't let anyone sit upon the sofa.'
'La Signora Madeline Vicinironi!' muttered, to himself, the 
bewildered prelate. Had he been told that the Begum of Oude 
was to be there, or Queen Pomara of the Western Isles, he 
could not have been more astonished. La Signora Madeline 
Vicinironi, who, having no legs to stand on, had bespoken a 
sofa in his drawing-room! - who could she be? He however 
could now make no further inquiry, as Dr and Mrs Stanhope 
were announced. They had been sent on out of the way a 
little before the time, in order that the signora might have 
plenty of time to get herself conveniently packed into the 
carriage.
The bishop was all smiles for the prebendary's wife, and the 
bishop's wife was all smiles for the prebendary. Mr Slope 
was presented, and was delighted to make the acquaintance of 
one of whom he had heard so much. The doctor bowed very low, 
and then looked as though he could not return the compliment 
as regarded Mr Slope, of whom, indeed, he had heard nothing. 
The doctor, in spite of his long absence, knew an English 
gentleman when he saw him.
And then the guests came in shoals: Mr and Mrs Quiverful and 
their three grown daughters. Mr and Mrs Chadwick and their 
three daughters. The burly chancellor and his wife and 
clerical son from Oxford. The meagre little doctor without 
incumbrance. Mr Harding with Eleanor and Miss Bold. The dean 
leaning on a gaunt spinster, his only child now living with 
him, a lady very learned in stones, ferns, plants, and 
vermin, and who had written a book about petals. A wonderful 
woman in her way was Miss Trefoil. Mr Finnie, the attorney, 
with his wife, was to be seen, much to the dismay of many 
who had never met him in a drawing-room before. The five 
Barchester doctors were all there, and old Scalpen, the 
retired apothecary and toothdrawer, who was first taught to 
consider himself as belonging to the higher orders by the 
receipt of the bishop's card. Then came the archdeacon and 
his wife, with their elder daughter Griselda, a slim pale 
retiring girl of seventeen, who kept close to her mother, 
and looked out on the world with quiet watchful eyes, one 
who gave promise of much beauty when time should have 
ripened it.
And so the rooms became full, and knots were formed, and 
every new-comer paid his respects to my lord and passed on, 
not presuming to occupy too much of the great man's 
attention. The archdeacon shook hands very heartily with 
Doctor Stanhope, and Mrs Grantly seated herself by the 
doctor's wife. And Mrs Proudie moved about with well-
regulated grace, measuring out the quantity of her favours 
to the quality of her guests, just as Mr Slope had been 
doing with the wine. But the sofa was still empty, and five-
and-twenty ladies and five gentlemen had been courteously 
warned off it by the mindful chaplain.
'Why doesn't she come?' said the bishop to himself. His mind 
was so preoccupied with the signora, that he hardly 
remembered how to behave himself en bishop.
At last a carriage dashed up to the hall steps with a very 
different manner of approach from that of any other vehicle 
that had been there that evening. A perfect commotion took 
place. The doctor, who heard it as he was standing in the 
drawing-room, knew that his daughter was coming, and retired 
into the furthest corner, where he might not see her 
entrance. Mrs Proudie perked herself up, feeling that some 
important piece of business was in hand. The bishop was 
instinctively aware that La Signora Vicinironi was come at 
last, and Mr Slope hurried into the hall to give his 
assistance.
He was, however, nearly knocked down and trampled on by the 
cortege that he encountered on the hall steps. He got 
himself picked up as well as he could, and followed the 
cortege upstairs. The signora was carried head foremost, her 
head being the care of her brother and an Italian man-
servant who was accustomed to the work; her feet were in the 
care of the lady's maid and the lady's Italian page; and 
Charlotte Stanhope followed to see that all was done with 
due grace and decorum. In this manner they climbed easily 
into the drawing-room, and a broad way through the crowd 
having been opened, the signora rested safely on her couch. 
She had sent a servant beforehand to learn whether it was a 
right or a left hand sofa, for it required that she should 
dress accordingly, particularly as regarded her bracelets.
And very becoming her dress was. It was white velvet, 
without any other garniture than rich white lace worked with 
pearls across her bosom, and the same round the armlets of 
her dress. Across her brow she wore a band of red velvet, on 
the centre of which shone a magnificent Cupid in mosaic, the 
tints of whose wings were of the most lovely azure, and the 
colour of his chubby cheeks the clearest pink. On the one 
arm which her position required her to expose she wore three 
magnificent bracelets, each of different stones. Beneath her 
on the sofa, and over the cushion and head of it, was spread 
a crimson silk mantle or shawl, which went under her whole 
body and concealed her feet. Dressed as she was and looking 
as she did, so beautiful and yet so motionless, with the 
pure brilliancy of her white dress brought out and 
strengthened by the colour beneath it, with that lovely 
head, and those large bold bright staring eyes, it was 
impossible that either man or woman should do other than 
look at her.
Neither man nor woman for some minutes did do other.
Her bearers too were worthy of note. The three servants were 
Italian, and though perhaps not peculiar in their own 
country, were very much so in the palace at Barchester. The 
man especially attracted notice, and created a doubt in the 
mind of some whether he were a friend or a domestic. The 
same doubt was felt as to Ethelbert. The man was attired in 
a loose-fitting common black cloth morning coat. He had a 
jaunty fat well-pleased clean face, on which no atom of 
beard appeared, and he wore round his neck a loose black 
silk neck-handkerchief. The bishop essayed to make him a 
bow, but the man, who was well-trained, took no notice of 
him, and walked out of the room quite at his ease, followed 
by the woman and the boy.
Ethelbert Stanhope was dressed in light blue from head to 
foot. He had on the loosest possible blue coat, cut square 
like a shooting coat, and very short. It was lined with silk 
of azure blue. He had on a blue satin waistcoat, a blue neck-
handkerchief which was fastened beneath his throat with a 
coral ring, and very loose blue trousers which almost 
concealed his feet. His soft glossy beard was softer and 
more glossy than ever.
The bishop, who had made one mistake, thought that he also 
was a servant, and therefore tried to make way for him to 
pass. But Ethelbert soon corrected the error.



Chapter 11

Mrs Proudie's Reception-concluded

'Bishop of Barchester, I presume?' said Bertie Stanhope, 
putting out his hand, frankly; 'I am delighted to make your 
acquaintance. We are in rather close quarters here, a'nt 
we?'
In truth they were. They had been crowded up behind the head 
of the sofa: the bishop in waiting to receive his guest, and 
the other in carrying her; and they now had hardly room to 
move themselves.
The bishop gave his hand quickly, and made his little 
studied bow, and was delighted to make - He couldn't go on, 
for he did not know whether his friend was a signor, or a 
count, or a prince.
'My sister really puts you all to great trouble,' said 
Bertie.
'Not at all!' The bishop was delighted to have the 
opportunity of welcoming the Signora Vicinironi - so at 
least he said - and attempted to force his way round to the 
front of the sofa. He had, at any rate, learnt that his 
strange guests were brother and sister. The man, he 
presumed, must be Signor Vicinironi - or count, or prince, 
as it might be. It was wonderful what good English he spoke. 
There was just a twang of foreign accent, and no more.
'Do you like Barchester on the whole?' asked Bertie.
The bishop, looking dignified, said that he did like 
Barchester.
'You've not been here very long, I believe,' said Bertie.
'No - not long,' said the bishop, and tried again to make 
his way between the back of the sofa and a heavy rector, who 
was staring over it at the grimaces of the signora.
'You weren't a bishop before, were you?'
Dr Proudie explained that this was the first diocese he had 
held.
'Ah - I thought so,' said Bertie; 'but you are changed about 
sometimes, a'nt you?'
'Translations are occasionally made,' said Dr Proudie; 'but 
not so frequently as in former days.'
'They've cut them all down to pretty nearly the same figure, 
haven't they?' said Bertie.
To this the bishop could not bring himself to make any 
answer, but again attempted to move the rector.
'But the work, I suppose, is different?' continued Bertie. 
'Is there much to do here, at Barchester?' This was said 
exactly in the tone that a young Admiralty clerk might use 
in asking the same question of a brother acolyte at the 
Treasury.
'The work of a bishop of the Church of England,' said Dr 
Proudie, with considerable dignity, 'is not easy. The 
responsibility which he has to bear is very great indeed.'
'Is it?' said Bertie, opening wide his wonderful blue eyes. 
'Well; I never was afraid of responsibility. I once had 
thoughts of being a bishop, myself.'
'Had thoughts of being a bishop!' said Dr Proudie, much 
amazed.
'That is, a parson - a parson first, you know, and a bishop 
afterwards. If I had once begun, I'd have stuck to it. But, 
on the whole, I like the Church of Rome the best.'
The bishop could not discuss the point, so he remained 
silent.
'Now, there's my father,' continued Bertie; 'he hasn't stuck 
to it. I fancy he didn't like saying the same thing over so 
often. By the bye, Bishop, have you seen my father?'
The bishop was more amazed than ever. Had he seen his 
father? 'No,' he replied; 'he had not yet had the pleasure: 
he hoped he might'; and, as he said so, he resolved to bear 
heavy on that fat, immovable rector, if ever he had the 
power of doing so.
'He's in the room somewhere,' said Bertie, 'and he'll turn 
up soon. By the bye, do you know much about the Jews?'
At last the bishop saw a way out. 'I beg your pardon,' said 
he; 'but I'm forced to go round the room.'
'Well - I believe I'll follow in your wake,' said Bertie. 
'Terribly hot - isn't it?' This he addressed to the fat 
rector with whom he had brought himself into the closest 
contact. 'They've got this sofa into the worst possible part 
of the room; suppose we move it. Take care, Madeline.'
The sofa had certainly been so placed that those who were 
behind it found great difficulty in getting out; - there was 
but a narrow gangway, which one person could stop. This was 
a bad arrangement, and one which Bertie thought it might be 
well to improve.
'Take care, Madeline,' said he; and turning to the fat 
rector, added, 'Just help me with a slight push.'
The rector's weight was resting on the sofa, and unwittingly 
lent all its impetus to accelerate and increase the motion 
which Bertie intentionally originated. The sofa rushed from 
its moorings, and ran half-way into the middle of the room. 
Mrs Proudie was standing with Mr Slope in front of the 
signora, and had been trying to be condescending and 
sociable; but she was not in the very best of tempers; for 
she found that, whenever she spoke to the lady, the lady 
replied by speaking to Mr Slope. Mr Slope was a favourite, 
no doubt; but Mrs Proudie had no idea of being less thought 
of than the chaplain. She was beginning to be stately, 
stiff, and offended, when unfortunately the castor of the 
sofa caught itself in her lace train, and carried away there 
is no saying how much of her garniture. Gathers were heard 
to go, stitches to crack, plaits to fly open, flounces were 
seen to fall, and breadths to expose themselves; - a long 
ruin of rent lace disfigured the carpet, and still clung to 
the vile wheel on which the sofa moved.
So, when a granite battery is raised, excellent to the eyes 
of warfaring men, is its strength and symmetry admired. It 
is the work of years. Its neat embrasures, its finished 
parapets, its casemated stories, show all the skill of 
modern science. But, anon, a small spark is applied to the 
treacherous fusee - a cloud of dust arises to the heavens - 
and then nothing is to be seen but dirt and dust and ugly 
fragments.
We know what was the wrath of Juno when her beauty was 
despised. We know too what storms of passion even celestial 
minds can yield. As Juno may have looked at Paris on Mount 
Ida, so did Mrs Proudie look on Ethelbert Stanhope when he 
pushed the leg of the sofa into her lace train.
'Oh, you idiot, Bertie!' said the signora, seeing what had 
been done, and what were to be the consequences.
'Idiot!' re-echoed Mrs Proudie, as though the word were not 
half strong enough to express the required meaning; 'I'll 
let him know -' and then looking round to learn, at a 
glance, the worst, she saw that at present it behoved her to 
collect the scattered debris of her dress.
Bertie, when he saw what he had done, rushed over the sofa, 
and threw himself on one knee before the offended lady. His 
object, doubtless, was to liberate the torn lace from the 
castor; but he looked as though he were imploring pardon 
from a goddess.
'Unhand it, sir!' said Mrs Proudie. From what scrap of 
dramatic poetry she had extracted the word cannot be said; 
but it must have rested on her memory, and now seemed 
opportunely dignified for the occasion.
'I'll fly to the looms of the fairies to repair the damage, 
if you'll only forgive me,' said Ethelbert, still on his 
knees.
'Unhand it, sir!' said Mrs Proudie, with redoubled emphasis, 
and all but furious wrath. This allusion to the fairies was 
a direct mockery, and intended to turn her into ridicule. So 
at least it seemed to her. 'Unhand it, sir!' she almost 
screamed.
'It's not me; it's the cursed sofa,' said Bertie, looking 
imploringly in her face, and holding up both his hands to 
show that he was not touching her belongings, but still 
remaining on his knees.
Hereupon the signora laughed; not loud, indeed, but yet 
audibly. And as the tigress bereft of her young will turn 
with equal anger on any within reach, so did Mrs Proudie 
turn upon her female guest.
'Madam!' she said - and it is beyond the power of prose to 
tell of the fire which flashed from her eyes.
The signora stared her full in the face for a moment, and 
then turning to her brother said, playfully, 'Bertie, you 
idiot, get up.'
By this time the bishop, and Mr Slope, and her three 
daughters were around her, and had collected together the 
wide ruins of her magnificence. The girls fell into circular 
rank behind their mother, and thus following her and 
carrying out the fragments, they left the reception-rooms in 
a manner not altogether devoid of dignity. Mrs Proudie had 
to retire and re-array herself.
As soon as the constellation had swept by, Ethelbert rose 
from his knees, and turning with mock anger to the fat 
rector, said: 'After all it was your doing, sir - not mine. 
But perhaps you are waiting for preferment, and so I bore 
it.'
Whereupon there was a laugh against the fat rector, in which 
both the bishop and the chaplain joined; and thus things got 
themselves again into order.
'Oh! my lord, I am so sorry for this accident,' said the 
signora, putting out her hand so as to force the bishop to 
take it. 'My brother is so thoughtless. Pray sit down, and 
let me have the pleasure of making your acquaintance. Though 
I am so poor a creature as to want a sofa, I am not so 
selfish as to require it all.' Madeline could always dispose 
herself so as to make room for a gentleman, though, as she 
declared, the crinoline of her lady friends was much too 
bulky to be so accommodated.
'It was solely for the pleasure of meeting you that I have 
had myself dragged here,' she continued. 'Of course, with 
your occupation, one cannot even hope that you should have 
time to come to us, that is, in the way of calling. And at 
your English dinner-parties all is so dull and so stately. 
Do you know, my lord, that in coming to England my only 
consolation has been the thought that I should know you'; 
and she looked at him with the look of a she-devil.
The bishop, however, thought that she looked very like an 
angel, and accepting the proffered seat, sat down beside 
her. He uttered some platitude as to his deep obligation for 
the trouble she had taken, and wondered more and more who 
she was.
'Of course you know my sad story?' she continued.
The bishop didn't know a word of it. He knew, however, or 
thought he knew, that she couldn't walk into a room like 
other people, and so made the most of that. He put on a look 
of ineffable distress, and said that he was aware how God 
had afflicted her.
The signora just touched the corner of her eyes with the 
most lovely of pocket-handkerchiefs. Yes, she said - she had 
been sorely tried - tried, she thought, beyond the common 
endurance of humanity; but while her child was left to her, 
everything was left. 'Oh! my lord,' she exclaimed, 'you must 
see that infant - the last bud of a wondrous tree: you must 
let a mother hope that you will lay your holy hands on her 
innocent head, and consecrate her for female virtues. May I 
hope it?' said she, looking into the bishop's eye, and 
touching the bishop's arm with her hand.
The bishop was but a man, and said she might. After all, 
what was it but a request that he would confirm her 
daughter? - a request, indeed, very unnecessary to make, as 
he should do so as a matter of course, if the young lady 
came forward in the usual way.
'The blood of Tiberius,' said the signora, in all but a 
whisper; 'the blood of Tiberius flows in her veins. She is 
the last of the Neros!'
The bishop had heard of the last of the Visigoths, and had 
floating in his brain some indistinct idea of the last of 
the Mohicans, but to have the last of the Neros thus brought 
before him for a blessing was very staggering. Still he 
liked the lady: she had a proper way of thinking, and talked 
with more propriety than her brother. But who were they? It 
was now quite clear that that blue madman with the silky 
beard was not a Prince Vicinironi. The lady was married, and 
was of course one of the Vicinironis by right of the 
husband. So the bishop went on learning.
'When will you see her?' said the signora with a start.
'See whom?' said the bishop.
'My child,' said the mother.
'What is the young lady's age?' asked the bishop.
'She is just seven,' said the signora.
'Oh,' said the bishop, shaking his head; 'she is much too 
young - very much too young.'
'But in sunny Italy you know, we do not count by years,' and 
the signora gave the bishop one of her very sweetest smiles.
'But indeed, she is a great deal too young,' persisted the 
bishop; 'we never confirm before -'
'But you might speak to her; you might let her hear from 
your consecrated lips, that she is not a castaway because 
she is a Roman; that she may be a Nero and yet a Christian; 
that she may owe her black locks and dark cheeks to the 
blood of the pagan Caesars, and yet herself be a child of 
grace; you will tell her this, won't you, my friend?'
The friend said he would, and asked if the child could say 
her catechism.
'No,' said the signora, 'I would not allow her to learn 
lessons such as those in a land ridden over by priests, and 
polluted by the idolatry of Rome. It is here, here in 
Barchester, that she must first be taught to lisp those holy 
words. Oh, that you could be her instructor!'
Now, Dr Proudie certainly liked the lady, but, seeing that 
he was a bishop, it was not probable that he was going to 
instruct a little girl in the first rudiments of her 
catechism; so he said he'd send a teacher.
'But you'll see her, yourself, my lord?'
The bishop said he would, but where should he call.
'At papa's house,' said the signora, with an air of some 
little surprise at the question.
The bishop actually wanted the courage to ask her who was 
her papa; so he was forced at last to leave her without 
fathoming the mystery. Mrs Proudie, in her second best, had 
now returned to the rooms, and her husband thought it as 
well that he should not remain in too close conversation 
with the lady whom his wife appeared to hold in such slight 
esteem. Presently he came across his youngest daughter.
'Netta,' said he, 'do you know who is the father of that 
Signora Vicinironi?'
'It isn't Vicinironi, papa,' said Netta; 'but Vesey Neroni, 
and she's Doctor Stanhope's daughter. But I must go and do 
the civil to Griselda Grantly; I declare nobody has spoken a 
word to the poor girl this evening.'
Dr Stanhope! Dr Vesey Stanhope! Dr Vesey Stanhope's 
daughter, of whose marriage with a dissolute Italian scamp 
he now remembered to have heard something! And that 
impertinent blue cub who had examined him as to his 
episcopal bearings was old Stanhope's son, and the lady who 
had entreated him to come and teach her child the catechism 
was old Stanhope's daughter! the daughter of one of his own 
prebendaries! As these things flashed across his mind, he 
was nearly as angry as his wife had been. Nevertheless, he 
could not but own that the mother of the last of the Neros 
was an agreeable woman.
Dr Proudie tripped out into the adjoining room, in which 
were congregated a crowd of Grantlyite clergymen, among whom 
the archdeacon was standing pre-eminent, while the old dean 
was sitting nearly buried in a huge armchair by the fire-
place. The bishop was very anxious to be gracious, and, if 
possible, to diminish the bitterness which his chaplain had 
occasioned. Let Mr Slope do the fortiter in re, he himself 
would pour in the suaviter in modo.
'Pray don't stir, Mr Dean, pray don't stir,' he said, as the 
old man essayed to get up; 'I take it as a great kindness, 
your coming to such an omnium gatherum as this. But we have 
hardly got settled yet, and Mrs Proudie has not been able to 
see her friends as she would wish to do. Well, Mr 
Archdeacon, after all, we have not been so hard upon you at 
Oxford.'
'No,' said the archdeacon; 'you've only drawn our teeth and 
cut out our tongues; you've allowed us still to breathe and 
swallow.'
'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed the bishop; 'it's not quite so easy to 
cut out the tongue of an Oxford magnate - and as for teeth - 
ha, ha, ha! Why, in the way we've left the matter, it's very 
odd if the heads of colleges don't have their own way quite 
as fully as when the hebdomadal board was in all its glory; 
what do you say, Mr Dean?'
'An old man, my lord, never likes changes,' said the dean.
'You must have been sad bunglers if it is so,' said the 
archdeacon; 'and indeed, to tell the truth, I think you have 
bungled it. At any rate, you must own this; you have not 
done the half what you boasted you would do.'
'Now, as regards your system of professors -' began the 
chancellor slowly. He was never destined to get beyond such 
beginning.
'Talking of professors,' said a soft clear voice, close 
behind the chancellor's elbow; 'how much you Englishmen 
might learn from Germany; only you are all too proud.'
The bishop, looking round, perceived that that abominable 
young Stanhope had pursued him. The dean stared at him, as 
though he were some unearthly apparition; so also did two or 
three prebendaries and minor canons. The archdeacon laughed.
'The German professors are men of learning,' said Mr 
Harding, 'but -'
'German professors!' groaned out the chancellor, as though 
his nervous system had received a shock which nothing but a 
week of Oxford air could cure.
'Yes,' continued Ethelbert; not at all understanding why a 
German professor should be contemptible in the eyes of an 
Oxford don. 'Not but what the name is best earned at Oxford. 
In Germany, the professors do teach; at Oxford, I believe 
they only profess to do so, and sometimes not even that. 
You'll have those universities of yours about your ears 
soon, if you don't consent to take a lesson from Germany.'
There was no answering this. Dignified clergymen of sixty 
years of age could not condescend to discuss such a matter 
with a young man with such clothes and such a beard.
'Have you got good water out at Plumstead, Mr Archdeacon?' 
said the bishop by way of changing the conversation.
'Pretty good,' said Dr Grantly.
'But by no means so good as his wine, my lord,' said a witty 
minor canon.
'Nor so generally used,' said another; 'that is for inward 
application.'
'Ha, ha, ha!' laughed the bishop, 'a good cellar of wine is 
a very comfortable thing in a house.'
'Your German professors, sir, prefer beer, I believe,' said 
the sarcastic little meagre prebendary.
'They don't think much of either,' said Ethelbert; 'and that 
perhaps accounts for their superiority. Now the Jewish 
professor -'
The insult was becoming too deep for the spirit of Oxford to 
endure, so the archdeacon walked off one way and the 
chancellor another, followed by their disciples, and the 
bishop and the young reformer were left together on the 
hearth-rug.
'I was a Jew once myself,' began Bertie.
The bishop was determined not to stand another examination, 
or be led on any terms into Palestine; so he again 
remembered that he had to do something very particular, and 
left young Stanhope with the dean. The dean did not get the 
worst of it, for Ethelbert gave him a true account of his 
remarkable doings in the Holy Land. 'Oh, Mr Harding,' said 
the bishop, overtaking the ci-devant warden; 'I wanted to 
say one word about the hospital. You know, of course, that 
it is to be filled up.'
Mr Harding's heart beat a little, and he said that he had 
heard so.
'Of course,' continued the bishop; 'there can be only one 
man whom I could wish to see in that situation. I don't know 
what your own views may be, Mr Harding -'
'They are very simply told, my lord,' said the other; 'to 
take the place if it be offered me, and to put up with the 
want of it should another man get it.'
The bishop professed himself delighted to hear it; Mr 
Harding might be quite sure that no other man would get it. 
There were some few circumstances which would in a slight 
degree change the nature of the duties. Mr Harding was 
probably aware of this, and would, perhaps, not object to 
discuss the matter with Mr Slope. It was a subject to which 
Mr Slope had given a good deal of attention.
Mr Harding felt, he knew not why, oppressed and annoyed. 
What could Mr Slope do to him? He knew that there were to be 
changes. The nature of them must be communicated to the 
warden through somebody, and through whom so naturally as 
the bishop's chaplain. 'Twas thus he tried to argue himself 
back to an easy mind, but in vain.
Mr Slope in the meantime had taken the seat which the bishop 
had vacated on the signora's sofa, and remained with that 
lady till it was time to marshal the folk to supper. Not 
with contented eyes had Mrs Proudie seen this. Had not this 
woman laughed at her distress, and had not Mr Slope heard 
it? Was she not an intriguing Italian woman, half wife and 
half not, full of affectation, airs, and impudence? Was she 
not horribly bedizened with velvet and pearls, with velvet 
and pearls, too, which had not been torn off her back? Above 
all, did she not pretend to be more beautiful than her 
neighbours? To say that Mrs Proudie was jealous would give a 
wrong idea of her feelings. She had not the slightest desire 
that Mr Slope should be in love with herself. But she 
desired the incense of Mr Slope's spiritual and temporal 
services, and did not choose that they should be turned out 
of their course to such an object as Signora Neroni. She 
considered also that Mr Slope ought in duty to hate the 
signora; and it appeared from his manner that he was very 
far from hating her.
'Come, Mr Slope,' she said, sweeping by, and looking all 
that she felt; 'can't you make yourself useful? Do pray take 
Mrs Grantly down to supper.'
Mrs Grantly heard and escaped. The words were hardly out of 
Mrs Proudie's mouth, before the intended victim had stuck 
her hand through the arm of one of her husband's curates, 
and saved herself. What would the archdeacon have said had 
he seen her walking downstairs with Mr Slope?
Mr Slope heard also, but was by no means so obedient as was 
expected. Indeed, the period of Mr Slope's obedience to Mrs 
Proudie was drawing to a close. He did not wish yet to break 
with her, nor to break with her at all, if it could be 
avoided. But he intended to be master in that palace, and as 
she had made the same resolution it was not improbable that 
they might come to blows.
Before leaving the signora he arranged a little table before 
her, and begged to know what he should bring her. She was 
quite indifferent, she said - nothing - anything. It was now 
she felt the misery of her position, now that she must be 
left alone. Well, a little chicken, some ham, and a glass of 
champagne.
Mr Slope had to explain, not without blushing for his 
patron, that there was no champagne.
Sherry would do just as well. And then Mr Slope descended 
with the learned Miss Trefoil on his arm. Could she tell 
him, he asked, whether the ferns of Barsetshire were equal 
to those of Cumberland? His strongest worldly passion was 
for ferns - and before she could answer him he left her 
wedged between the door and the sideboard. It was fifty 
minutes before she escaped, and even then unfed.
'You are not leaving us, Mr Slope,' said the watchful lady 
of the house, seeing her slave escaping towards the door, 
with stores of provisions held high above the heads of the 
guests.
Mr Slope explained that the Signora Neroni was in want of 
her supper.
'Pray, Mr Slope, let her brother take it to her,' said Mrs 
Proudie, quite out loud. 'It is out of the question that you 
should be so employed. Pray, Mr Slope, oblige me; I am sure 
Mr Stanhope will wait upon his sister.'
Ethelbert was most agreeably occupied in the furthest corner 
of the room, making himself both useful and agreeable to Mrs 
Proudie's youngest daughter.
'I couldn't get out, madam, if Madeline were starving for 
her supper,' said he; 'I'm physically fixed, unless I could 
fly.'
The lady's anger was increased by seeing that her daughter 
also had gone over to the enemy; and when she saw, that in 
spite of her remonstrances, in the teeth of her positive 
orders, Mr Slope went off to the drawing-room, the cup of 
her indignation ran over, and she could not restrain 
herself. 'Such manners I never saw,' she said, muttering. 'I 
cannot, and will not permit it'; and then, after fussing and 
fuming for a few minutes, she pushed her way through the 
crowd, and followed Mr Slope.
When she reached the room above, she found it absolutely 
deserted, except by the guilty pair. The signora was sitting 
very comfortably up to her supper, and Mr Slope was leaning 
over her and administering to her wants. They had been 
discussing the merits of Sabbath-day schools, and the lady 
had suggested that as she could not possibly go to the 
children, she might be indulged in the wish of her heart by 
having the children brought to her.
'And when shall it be, Mr Slope?' said she.
Mr Slope was saved the necessity of committing himself to a 
promise by the entry of Mrs Proudie. She swept close up to 
the sofa so as to confront the guilty pair, stared full at 
them for a moment, and then said as she passed on to the 
next room, 'Mr Slope, his lordship is especially desirous of 
your attendance below; you will greatly oblige me if you 
will join him.' And so she stalked on.
Mr Slope muttered something in reply, and prepared to go 
downstairs. As for the bishop's wanting him, he knew his 
lady patroness well enough to take that assertion at what it 
was worth; but he did not wish to make himself the hero of a 
scene, or to become conspicuous for more gallantry than the 
occasion required.
'Is she always like this?' said the signora.
'Yes - always - madam,' said Mrs Proudie, returning; 'always 
the same - always equally adverse to impropriety of conduct 
of every description'; and she stalked back through the room 
again, following Mr Slope out of the door.
The signora couldn't follow her, or she certainly would have 
done so. But she laughed loud, and sent the sound of it 
ringing through the lobby and down the stairs after Mrs 
Proudie's feet. Had she been as active as Grimaldi, she 
could probably have taken no better revenge.
'Mr Slope,' said Mrs Proudie, catching the delinquent at the 
door, 'I am surprised that you should leave my company to 
attend on such a painted Jezebel as that.'
'But she's lame, Mrs Proudie, and cannot move. Somebody must 
have waited upon her.'
'Lame,' said Mrs Proudie; 'I'd lame her if she belonged to 
me. What business had she here at all? - such impertinence - 
such affectation.'
In the hall and adjacent rooms all manner of cloaking and 
shawling was going on, and the Barchester folk were getting 
themselves gone. Mrs Proudie did her best to smirk at each 
and every one, as they made their adieux, but she was hardly 
successful. Her temper had been tried fearfully. By slow 
degrees, the guests went.
'Send back the carriage quick,' said Ethelbert, as Dr and 
Mrs Stanhope took their departure.
The younger Stanhopes were left to the very last, and an 
uncomfortable party they made with the bishop's family. They 
all went into the dining-room, and then the bishop observing 
that 'the lady' was alone in the drawing-room, they followed 
him up. Mrs Proudie kept Mr Slope and her daughters in close 
conversation, resolving that he should not be indulged, nor 
they polluted. The bishop, in mortal dread of Bertie and the 
Jews, tried to converse with Charlotte Stanhope about the 
climate of Italy. Bertie and the signora had no resource but 
in each other.
'Did you get your supper, at last, Madeline?' said the 
impudent or else mischievous young man.
'Oh, yes,' said Madeline; 'Mr Slope was so very kind as to 
bring it me. I fear, however, he put himself to more 
inconvenience than I wished.'
Mrs Proudie looked at her, but said nothing. The meaning of 
her look might have been thus translated: 'If ever you find 
yourself within these walls again, I'll give you leave to be 
as impudent and affected, and as mischievous as you please.'
At last the carriage returned with the three Italian 
servants, and La Signora Madeline Vesey Neroni was carried 
out, as she had been carried in.
The lady of the palace retired to her chamber by no means 
contented with the result of her first grand party at 
Barchester.


Chapter 12

Slope versus Harding

Two or three days after the party, Mr Harding received a 
note, begging him to call on Mr Slope, at the palace, at an 
early hour the following morning. There was nothing uncivil 
in the communication, and yet the tone of it was thoroughly 
displeasing. It was as follows:

'My dear Mr Harding, - Will you favour me by calling on me 
at the palace tomorrow morning at 9.30 A.M. The bishop 
wishes me to speak to you touching the hospital. I hope you 
will excuse my naming so early an hour. I do so as my time 
is greatly occupied. If, however, it is positively 
inconvenient to you, I will change it to 10. You will, 
perhaps, be kind enough to let me have a note in reply.
		 'Believe me to be,
			'My dear Mr Harding,
				'Your assured friend,
					'OBH. SLOPE
'The Palace, Monday morning,
	'20th August, 185-'

Mr Harding neither could nor would believe anything of the 
sort; and he thought, moreover, that Mr Slope was rather 
impertinent to call himself by such a name. His assured 
friend, indeed! How many assured friends generally fall to 
the lot of a man in this world? And by what process are they 
made? and how much of such process had taken place as yet 
between Mr Harding and Mr Slope? Mr Harding could not help 
asking himself these questions as he read and re-read the 
note before him. He answered it, however, as follows:

'Dear Sir, - I will call at the palace tomorrow at 9.30 A.M. 
as you desire.
		Truly yours,
				'S. HARDING

'High Street, Barchester, Monday'

And on the following morning, punctually at half-past nine, 
he knocked at the palace door, and asked for Mr Slope. The 
bishop had one small room allotted to him on the ground-
floor, and Mr Slope had another. Into this latter Mr Harding 
was shown, and asked to sit down. Mr Slope was not yet 
there. The ex-warden stood up at the window looking into the 
garden, and could not help thinking how very short a time 
had passed since the whole of that house had been open to 
him, as though he had been a child of the family, born and 
bred in it. He remembered how the old servants used to smile 
as they opened the door to him; how the familiar butler 
would say, when he had been absent a few hours longer than 
usual, 'A sight of you, Mr Harding, is good for sore eyes;' 
how the fussy housekeeper would swear that he couldn't have 
dined, or couldn't have breakfasted, or couldn't have 
lunched. And then, above all, he remembered the pleasant 
gleam of inward satisfaction which always spread itself over 
the old bishop's face, whenever his friend entered his room.
A tear came into each eye as he reflected that all this was 
gone. What use would the hospital be to him now? He was 
alone in the world, and getting old; he would soon, very 
soon have to go, and leave it all, as his dear old friend 
had gone; - go, and leave the hospital, and his accustomed 
place in the cathedral, and his haunts and pleasures, to 
younger and perhaps wiser men. That chanting of his! - 
perhaps, in truth, the time for it had gone by. He felt as 
though the world were sinking from his feet; as though this, 
this was the time for him to turn with confidence to those 
hopes which he had preached with confidence to others. 
'What,' said he to himself, 'can a man's religion be worth, 
if it does not support him against the natural melancholy of 
declining years?' And, as he looked out through his dimmed 
eyes into the bright parterres of the bishop's garden, he 
felt that he had the support which he wanted.
Nevertheless, he did not like to be thus kept waiting. If Mr 
Slope did not really wish to see him at half-past nine 
o'clock, why force him to come away from his lodgings with 
his breakfast in his throat? To tell the truth, it was 
policy on the part of Mr Slope. Mr Slope had made up his 
mind that Mr Harding should either accept the hospital with 
abject submission, or else refuse it altogether; and had 
calculated that he would probably be more quick to do the 
latter, if he could be got to enter upon the subject in an 
ill-humour. Perhaps Mr Slope was not altogether wrong in his 
calculation.
It was nearly ten when Mr Slope hurried into the room, and, 
muttering something about the bishop and diocesan duties, 
shook Mr Harding's hand ruthlessly, and begged him to be 
seated.
Now the air of superiority which this man assumed, did go 
against the grain of Mr Harding; and yet he did not know how 
to resent it. The whole tendency of his mind and disposition 
was opposed to any contra-assumption of grandeur on his own 
part, and he hadn't the worldly spirit or quickness 
necessary to put down insolent pretensions by downright and 
open rebuke, as the archdeacon would have done. There was 
nothing for Mr Harding but to submit, and he accordingly did 
so.
'About the hospital, Mr Harding?' began Mr Slope, speaking 
of it as the head of a college at Cambridge might speak of 
some sizarship which had to be disposed of.
Mr Harding crossed one leg over another, and then one hand 
over the other on the top of them, and looked Mr Slope in 
the face; but he said nothing.
'It's to be filled up again,' said Mr Slope. Mr Harding said 
that he had understood so.
'Of course, you know the income will be very much reduced,' 
continued Mr Slope. 'The bishop wished to be liberal, and he 
therefore told the government that he thought it ought to be 
put at not less than £450. I think on the whole the bishop 
was right; for though the services required will not be of a 
very onerous nature, they will be more so than they were 
before. And it is, perhaps, well that the clergy immediately 
attached to the cathedral town should be made as comfortable 
as the extent of the ecclesiastical means at our disposal 
will allow. Those are the bishop's ideas, and I must say 
mine also.'
Mr Harding sat rubbing one hand on the other, but said not a 
word.
'So much for the income, Mr Harding. The house will, of 
course, remain to the warden, as before. It should, however, 
I think, be stipulated that he should paint inside every 
seven years, and outside every three years, and be subject 
to dilapidations, in the event of vacating, either by death 
or otherwise. But this is a matter on which the bishop must 
yet be consulted.'
Mr Harding still rubbed his hands, and still sat silent, 
gazing up into Mr Slope's unprepossessing face.
'Then, as to the duties,' continued he, 'I believe, if I am 
rightly informed, there can hardly be said to have been any 
duties hitherto,' and he gave a sort of half laugh, as 
though to pass off the accusation in the guise of a 
pleasantry.
Mr Harding thought of the happy, easy years he had passed in 
his old home; of the worn-out, aged men whom he had 
succoured; of his good intentions; and of his work, which 
had certainly been of the lightest. He thought of these 
things, doubting for a moment whether he did or did not 
deserve the sarcasm. He gave his enemy the benefit of the 
doubt, and did not rebuke him. He merely observed, very 
tranquilly, and perhaps with too much humility, that the 
duties of the situation, such as they were, had, he 
believed, been done to the satisfaction of the late bishop.
Mr Slope again smiled, and this time the smile was intended 
to operate against the memory of the late bishop, rather 
than against the energy of the ex-warden; and so it was 
understood by Mr Harding. The colour rose to his cheeks, and 
he began to feel very angry.
'You must be aware, Mr Harding, that things are a good deal 
changed in Barchester,' said Mr Slope.
Mr Harding said that he was aware of it. 'And not only in 
Barchester, Mr Harding, but in the world at large. It is not 
only in Barchester that a new man is carrying out new 
measures and casting away the useless rubbish of past 
centuries. The same thing is going on throughout the 
country. Work is now required from every man who receives 
wages; and they who have to superintend the doing of work, 
and the paying of wages, are bound to see that this rule is 
carried out. New men, Mr Harding, are now needed, and are 
now forthcoming in the church, as well as in other 
professions.'
All this was wormwood to our old friend. He had never rated 
very high his own abilities or activity; but all the 
feelings of his heart were with the old clergy, and any 
antipathies of which his heart was susceptible, were 
directed against those new, busy, uncharitable, self-lauding 
men, of whom Mr Slope was so good an example.
'Perhaps,' said he, 'the bishop will prefer a new man at the 
hospital?'
'By no means,' said Mr Slope. 'The bishop is very anxious 
that you should accept the appointment; but he wishes you 
should understand beforehand what will be the required 
duties. In the first place, a Sabbath-day school will be 
attached to the hospital.'
'What! for the old men?' asked Mr Harding.
'No, Mr Harding, not for the old men, but for the benefit of 
the children of such of the poor of Barchester as it may 
suit. The bishop will expect that you shall attend this 
school, and the teachers shall be under your inspection and 
care.'
Mr Harding slipped his topmost hand off the other, and began 
to rub the calf of the leg which was supported.
'As to the old men,' continued Mr Slope, 'and the old women 
who are to form a part of the hospital, the bishop is 
desirous that you shall have morning and evening service on 
the premises every Sabbath, and one week-day service; that 
you shall preach to them once at least on Sundays; and that 
the whole hospital be always collected for morning and 
evening prayer. The bishop thinks that this will render it 
unnecessary that any separate seats in the cathedral should 
be reserved for the hospital inmates.'
Mr Slope paused, but Mr Harding still said nothing.
'Indeed, it would be difficult to find seats for the women; 
and, on the whole, Mr Harding, I may as well say at once, 
that for people of that class the cathedral service does not 
appear to me the most useful - even if it be so for any 
class of people.'
'We will not discuss that, if you please,' said Mr Harding.
'I am not desirous of doing so; at least, not at the present 
moment. I hope, however, you fully understand the bishop's 
wishes about the new establishment of the hospital; and if, 
as I do not doubt, I shall receive from you an assurance 
that you accord with his lordship's views, it will give me 
very great pleasure to be the bearer from his lordship to 
you of the presentation to the appointment.'
'But if I disagree with his lordship's views?' asked Mr 
Harding.
'But I hope you do not,' said Mr Slope.
'But if I do?' again asked the other.
'If such unfortunately should be the case, which I can 
hardly conceive, I presume your own feelings will dictate to 
you the propriety of declining the appointment.'
'But if I accept the appointment, and yet disagree with the 
bishop, what then?'
This question rather bothered Mr Slope. It was true that he 
had talked the matter over with the bishop, and had received 
a sort of authority for suggesting to Mr Harding the 
propriety of a Sunday school, and certain hospital services; 
but he had no authority for saying that these propositions 
were to be made peremptory conditions attached to the 
appointment. The bishop's idea had been that Mr Harding 
would of course consent, and that the school would become, 
like the rest of those new establishments in the city, under 
the control of his wife and his chaplain. Mr Slope's idea 
had been more correct. He intended that Mr Harding should 
refuse the situation, and that an ally of his own should get 
it; but he had not conceived the possibility of Mr Harding 
openly accepting the appointment, and as openly rejecting 
the conditions.
'It is not, I presume, probable,' said he, 'that you will 
accept from the hands of the bishop a piece of preferment, 
with a fixed predetermination to disacknowledge the duties 
attached to it.'
'If I become warden,' said Mr Harding, 'and neglect my duty, 
the bishop has means by which he can remedy the grievance.'
'I hardly expected such an argument from you, or I may say 
the suggestion of such a line of conduct,' said Mr Slope, 
with a great look of injured virtue.
'Nor did I expect such a proposition.'
'I shall be glad at any rate to know what answer I am to 
make to his lordship,' said Mr Slope.
'I will take an early opportunity of seeing his lordship 
myself,' said Mr Harding.
'Such an arrangement,' said Mr Slope, 'will hardly give his 
lordship satisfaction. Indeed, it is impossible that the 
bishop should himself see every clergyman in the diocese on 
every subject of patronage that may arise. The bishop, I 
believe, did see you on the matter, and I really cannot see 
why he should be troubled to do so again.'
'Do you know, Mr Slope, how long I have been officiating as 
a clergyman in this city?' Mr Slope's wish was now nearly 
fulfilled. Mr Harding had become angry, and it was probable 
that he might commit himself.
'I really do not see what that has to do with the question. 
You cannot think the bishop would be justified in allowing 
you to regard as a sinecure a situation that requires an 
active man, merely because you have been employed for many 
years in the cathedral.'
'But it might induce the bishop to see me, if I asked him to 
do so. I shall consult my friends in this matter, Mr Slope; 
but I mean to be guilty of no subterfuge - you may tell the 
bishop that as I altogether disagree with his views about 
the hospital, I shall decline the situation if I find that 
any such conditions are attached to it as those you have 
suggested'; and so saying, Mr Harding took his hat and went 
his way.
Mr Slope was contented. He considered himself at liberty to 
accept Mr Harding's last speech as an absolute refusal of 
the appointment. At least, he so represented it to the 
bishop and to Mrs Proudie.
'That is very surprising,' said the bishop.
'Not at all,' said Mrs Proudie; 'you little know how 
determined the whole set of them are to withstand your 
authority.'
'But Mr Harding was so anxious for it,' said the bishop.
'Yes,' said Mr Slope, 'if he can hold it without the 
slightest acknowledgment of your lordship's jurisdiction.'
'That is out of the question,' said the bishop.
'I should imagine it to be quite so,' said the chaplain.
'Indeed, I should think so,' said the lady.
'I really am sorry for it,' said the bishop.
'I don't know that there is much cause for sorrow,' said the 
lady. 'Mr Quiverful is a much more deserving man, more in 
need of it, and one who will make himself much more useful 
in the close neighbourhood of the palace.'
'I suppose I had better see Quiverful?' said the chaplain.
'I suppose you had,' said the bishop.



Chapter 13

The Rubbish Cart

Mr Harding was not a happy man as he walked down the palace 
pathway, and stepped out into the close. His preferment and 
pleasant house were a second time gone from him; but that he 
could endure. He had been schooled and insulted by a man 
young enough to be his son; but that he could put up with. 
He could even draw from the very injuries, which had been 
inflicted on him, some of that consolation, which we may 
believe martyrs always receive from the injustice of their 
own sufferings, and which is generally proportioned in its 
strength to the extent of cruelty with which martyrs are 
treated. He had admitted to his daughter that he wanted the 
comfort of his old home, and yet he could have returned to 
his lodgings in the High Street, if not with exultation, at 
least with satisfaction, had that been all. But the venom of 
the chaplain's harangue had worked into his blood, and 
sapped the life of his sweet contentment.
'New men are carrying out new measures, and are carting away 
the useless rubbish of past centuries!' What cruel words 
these had been; and how often are they now used with all the 
heartless cruelty of a Slope! A man is sufficiently 
condemned if it can only be shown that either in politics or 
religion he does not belong to some new school established 
within the last score of years. He may then regard himself 
as rubbish and expect to be carted away. A man is nothing 
now unless he has within him a full appreciation of the new 
era; an era in which it would seem that neither honesty nor 
truth is very desirable, but in which success is the only 
touchstone of merit. We must laugh at everything that is 
established. Let the joke be ever so bad, ever so untrue to 
the real principles of joking; nevertheless we must laugh - 
or else beware the cart. We must talk, think, and live up to 
the spirit of the times, and write up to it too, if that 
cacoethes be upon us, or else we are nought. New men and new 
measures, long credit and few scruples, great success or 
wonderful ruin, such are now the tastes of Englishmen who 
know how to live. Alas, alas! under such circumstances Mr 
Harding could not but feel that he was an Englishman who did 
not know how to live. This new doctrine of Mr Slope and the 
rubbish cart, new at least at Barchester, sadly disturbed 
his equanimity.
'The same thing is going on throughout the whole country!' 
'Work is now required from every man who receives wages!' 
And had he been living all his life receiving wages, and 
doing no work? Had he in truth so lived as to be now in his 
old age justly reckoned as rubbish fit only to be hidden 
away in some huge dust-hole? The school of men to whom he 
professes to belong, the Grantlys, the Gwynnes, and the old 
high set of Oxford divines, are afflicted with no such self-
accusations as these which troubled Mr Harding. They, as a 
rule, are as satisfied with the wisdom and propriety of 
their own conduct as can be any Mr Slope, or any Dr Proudie, 
with his own. But unfortunately for himself Mr Harding had 
little of this self-reliance. When he heard himself 
designated as rubbish by the Slopes of the world, he had no 
other resource than to make inquiry within his own bosom as 
to the truth of the designation. Alas, alas! the evidence 
seemed generally to go against him.
He had professed to himself in the bishop's parlour that in 
these coming sources of the sorrow of age, in these fits of 
sad regret from which the latter years of few reflecting men 
can be free, religion would suffice to comfort him. Yes, 
religion could console him for the loss of any worldly good; 
but was his religion of that active sort which would enable 
him so to repent of misspent years as to pass those that 
were left to him in a spirit of hope for the future? And 
such repentance itself, is it not a work of agony and of 
tears? It is very easy to talk of repentance; but a man has 
to walk over hot ploughshares before he can complete it; to 
be skinned alive as was St Bartholomew; to be stuck full of 
arrows as was St Sebastian; to lie broiling on a gridiron 
like St Lorenzo! How if his past life required such 
repentance as this? had he the energy to go through with it?
Mr Harding, after leaving the palace, walked slowly for an 
hour or so beneath the shady elms of the close, and then 
betook himself to his daughter's house. He had at any rate 
made up his mind that he would go out to Plumstead to 
consult Dr Grantly, and that he would in the first instance 
tell Eleanor what had occurred.
And now he was doomed to undergo another misery. Mr Slope 
had forestalled him at the widow's house. He had called 
there on the preceding afternoon. He could not, he had said, 
deny himself the pleasure of telling Mrs Bold that her 
father was about to return to the pretty house at Hiram's 
Hospital. He had been instructed by the bishop to inform Mr 
Harding that the appointment would now be made at once. The 
bishop was of course only too happy to be able to be the 
means of restoring to Mr Harding the preferment which he had 
so long adorned. And then by degrees Mr Slope had introduced 
the subject of the pretty school which he hoped before long 
to see attached to the hospital. He had quite fascinated Mrs 
Bold by his description of this picturesque, useful, and 
charitable appendage, and she had gone so far as to say that 
she had no doubt her father would approve, and that she 
herself would gladly undertake a class.
Anyone who had heard the entirely different tone, and seen 
the entirely different manner in which Mr Slope had spoken 
of this projected institution to the daughter and to the 
father, could not have failed to own that Mr Slope was a man 
of genius. He said nothing to Mrs Bold about the hospital 
sermons and services, nothing about the exclusion of the old 
men from the cathedral, nothing about dilapidation and 
painting, nothing about carting away the rubbish. Eleanor 
had said to herself that certainly she did not like Mr Slope 
personally, but that he was a very active, zealous 
clergyman, and would no doubt be useful in Barchester. All 
this paved the way for much additional misery to Mr Harding.
Eleanor put on her happiest face as she heard her father on 
the stairs, for she thought she had only to congratulate 
him; but directly she saw his face, she knew that there was 
but little matter for congratulation. She had seen him with 
the same weary look of sorrow on one or two occasions 
before, and remembered it well. She had seen him when he 
first read that attack upon himself in The Jupiter which had 
ultimately caused him to resign the hospital; and she had 
seen him also when the archdeacon had persuaded him to 
remain there against his own sense of propriety and honour. 
She knew at a glance that his spirit was in deep trouble.
'Oh, papa, what is it?' said she, putting down her boy to 
crawl upon the floor.
'I came to tell you, my dear,' said he, 'that I am going out 
to Plumstead: you won't come with me, I suppose?' 'To 
Plumstead, papa? Shall you stay there?'
'I suppose I shall, tonight: I must consult the archdeacon 
about this weary hospital. Ah me! I wish I had never thought 
of it again.'
'Why, papa, what is the matter?'
'I've been with Mr Slope, my dear, and he isn't the 
pleasantest companion in the world, at least not to me.' 
Eleanor gave a sort of half blush; but she was wrong if she 
imagined that her father in any way alluded to her 
acquaintance with Mr Slope.
'Well, papa.'
'He wants to turn the hospital into a Sunday school and a 
preaching house; and I suppose he will have his way. I do 
not feel myself adapted for such an establishment, and 
therefore, I suppose, I must refuse the appointment.'
'What would be the harm of the school, papa?'
'The want of a proper schoolmaster, my dear.'
'But that would of course be supplied.'
'Mr Slope wishes to supply it by making me his schoolmaster. 
But as I am hardly fit for such work, I intend to decline.'
'Oh, papa! Mr Slope doesn't intend that. He was here 
yesterday, and what he intends -'
'He was here yesterday, was he?' asked Mr Harding.
'Yes, papa.'
'And talking about the hospital?'
'He was saying how glad he would be, and the bishop too, to 
see you back there again. And then he spoke about the Sunday 
school; and to tell the truth I agreed with him; and I 
thought you would have done so too. Mr Slope spoke of a 
school, not inside the hospital, but just connected with it, 
of which you would be the patron and visitor; and I thought 
you would have liked such a school as that; and I promised 
to look after it and to take a class - and it all seemed so 
very - But, oh, papa! I shall be so miserable if I find I 
have done wrong.'
'Nothing wrong at all, my dear,' said he, gently, very 
gently rejecting his daughter's caress. 'There can be 
nothing wrong in your wishing to make yourself useful; 
indeed, you ought to do so by all means. Everyone must now 
exert himself who would not choose to go to the wall.' Poor 
Mr Harding thus attempted in his misery to preach the new 
doctrine to his child. 'Himself or herself, it's all the 
same,' he continued; 'you will be quite right, my dear, to 
do something of this sort; but -'
'Well, papa.'
'I am not quite sure that if I were you I would select Mr 
Slope for my guide.'
'But I never have done so, and never shall.'
'It would be very wicked of me to speak evil of him, for to 
tell the truth I know no evil of him; but I am not quite 
sure that he is honest. That he is not gentleman-like in his 
manners, of that I am quite sure.'
'I never thought of taking him for my guide, papa.'
'As for myself, my dear,' continued he, 'we know the old 
proverb - "It's bad teaching an old dog tricks." I must 
decline the Sunday school, and shall therefore probably 
decline the hospital also. But I will first see your brother-
in-law.' So he took up his hat, kissed the baby, and 
withdrew, leaving Eleanor in as low spirits as himself.
All this was a great aggravation to his misery. He had so 
few with whom to sympathise, that he could not afford to be 
cut off from the one whose sympathy was of the most value to 
him. And yet it seemed probable that this would be the case. 
He did not own to himself that he wished his daughter to 
hate Mr Slope; yet had she expressed such a feeling there 
would have been very little bitterness in the rebuke he 
would have given her for so uncharitable a state of mind. 
The fact, however, was that she was on friendly terms with 
Mr Slope, that she coincided with his views, adhered at once 
to his plans, and listened with delight to his teaching. Mr 
Harding hardly wished his daughter to hate the man, but he 
would have preferred that to her loving him.
He walked away to the inn to order a fly, went home to put 
up his carpet bag, and then started for Plumstead. There 
was, at any rate, no danger that the archdeacon would 
fraternise with Mr Slope; but then he would recommend 
internecine war, public appeals, loud reproaches, and all 
the paraphernalia of open battle. Now that alternative was 
hardly more to Mr Harding's taste than the other.
When Mr Harding reached the parsonage he found that the 
archdeacon was out, and would not be home till dinner-time, 
so he began his complaint to his elder daughter. Mrs Grantly 
entertained quite as strong an antagonism to Mr Slope as did 
her husband; she was also quite as alive to the necessity of 
combating the Proudie faction, of supporting the old church 
interest of the close, of keeping in her own set such of the 
loaves and fishes as duly belonged to it; and was quite as 
well prepared as her lord to carry on the battle without 
giving or taking quarter. Not that she was a woman prone to 
quarrelling, or ill inclined to live at peace with her 
clerical neighbours; but she felt, as did the archdeacon, 
that the presence of Mr Slope in Barchester was an insult to 
everyone connected with the late bishop, and that his 
assumed dominion in the diocese was a spiritual injury to 
her husband. Hitherto people had little guessed how bitter 
Mrs Grantly could be. She lived on the best of terms with 
all the rectors' wives around her. She had been popular with 
all the ladies connected with the close. Though much the 
wealthiest of the ecclesiastical matrons of the county, she 
had so managed her affairs that her carriage and horses had 
given umbrage to none. She had never thrown herself among 
the county grandees so as to excite the envy of other 
clergymen's wives. She had never talked too loudly of earls 
and countesses, or boasted that she gave her governess sixty 
pounds a year, or her cook seventy. Mrs Grantly had lived 
the life of a wise, discreet, peace-making woman; and the 
people of Barchester were surprised at the amount of 
military vigour she displayed as general of the feminine 
Grantlyite forces.
Mrs Grantly soon learnt that her sister Eleanor had promised 
to assist Mr Slope in the affairs of the hospital; and it 
was on this point that her attention soon fixed itself.
'How can Eleanor endure him?' said she.
'He is a very crafty man,' said her father, 'and his craft 
has been successful in making Eleanor think that he is a 
meek, charitable, good clergyman. God forgive me, if I wrong 
him, but such is not his true character in my opinion.'
'His true character, indeed!' said she, with something 
approaching to scorn for her father's moderation. 'I only 
hope he won't have craft enough to make Eleanor forget 
herself and her position.'
'Do you mean marry him?' said he, startled out of his usual 
demeanour by the abruptness and horror of so dreadful a 
proposition.
'What is there so improbable in it? Of course that would be 
his own object if he thought he had any chance of success. 
Eleanor has a thousand a year entirely at her own disposal, 
and what better fortune could fall to Mr Slope's lot than 
the transferring of the disposal of such a fortune to 
himself?'
'But you can't think she likes him, Susan?'
'Why not?' said Susan. 'Why shouldn't she like him? He's 
just the sort of man to get on with a woman left as she is, 
with no one to look after her.'
'Look after her!' said the unhappy father; 'don't we look 
after her?'
'Ah, papa, how innocent you are! Of course it was to be 
expected that Eleanor should marry again. I should be the 
last to advise her against it, if she would only wait the 
proper time, and then marry at least a gentleman.'
'But you don't really mean to say that you suppose Eleanor 
has ever thought of marrying Mr Slope? Why, Mr Bold has only 
been dead a year.'
'Eighteen months,' said his daughter. 'But I don't suppose 
Eleanor has ever thought about it. It is very probable, 
though, that he has, and that he will try and make her do 
so; and that he will succeed too, if we don't take care what 
we are about.'
This was quite a new phase of the affair to poor Mr Harding. 
To have thrust upon him as his son-in-law, as the husband of 
his favourite child, the only man in the world whom he 
really positively disliked, would be a misfortune which he 
felt he would not know how to endure patiently. But then, 
could there be any ground for so dreadful a surmise? In all 
worldly matters he was apt to look upon the opinion of his 
eldest daughter, as one generally sound and trustworthy. In 
her appreciation of character, of motives, and the probable 
conduct both of men and women, she was usually not far 
wrong. She had early foreseen the marriage of Eleanor and 
John Bold; she had at a glance deciphered the character of 
the new bishop and his chaplain; could it possibly be that 
her present surmise should ever come forth as true?
'But you don't think that she likes him?' said Mr Harding 
again.
'Well, papa, I can't say that I think she dislikes him as 
she ought to do. Why is he visiting there as a confidential 
friend, when he never ought to have been admitted inside the 
house? Why is it that she speaks to him about your welfare 
and your position, as she clearly has done? At the bishop's 
party the other night, I saw her talking to him for half an 
hour at a stretch.'
'I thought Mr Slope seemed to talk to nobody there but that 
daughter of Stanhope's,' said Mr Harding, wishing to defend 
his child.
'Oh, Mr Slope is a cleverer man than you think of, papa, and 
keeps more than one iron in the fire.'
To give Eleanor her due, any suspicion as to the slightest 
inclination on her part towards Mr Slope was a wrong to her. 
She had no more idea of marrying Mr Slope than she had of 
marrying the bishop; and the idea that Mr Slope would 
present himself as a suitor had never occurred to her. 
Indeed, to give her her due again, she had never thought 
about suitors since her husband's death. But nevertheless it 
was true that she had overcome all that repugnance to the 
man which was so strongly felt for him by the rest of the 
Grantly faction. She had forgiven him his sermon. She had 
forgiven him his low-church tendencies, his Sabbath-schools, 
and puritanical observances. She had forgiven his 
pharisaical arrogance, and even his greasy face and oily 
vulgar manners. Having agreed to overlook such offences as 
these, why should she not in time be taught to regard Mr 
Slope as a suitor?
And as to him, it must also be affirmed that he was hitherto 
equally innocent of the crime imputed to him. How it had 
come to pass that a man whose eyes were generally so widely 
open to everything around him had not perceived that this 
young widow was rich as well as beautiful, cannot probably 
now be explained. But such was the fact. Mr Slope had 
ingratiated himself with Mrs Bold, merely as he had done 
with other ladies, in order to strengthen his party in the 
city. He subsequently amended his error; but it was not till 
after the interview between him and Mr Harding.



Chapter 14

The New Champion

The archdeacon did not return to the parsonage till close 
upon the hour of dinner, and there was therefore no time to 
discuss matters before that important ceremony. He seemed to 
be in an especial good humour, and welcomed his father-in-
law with a sort of jovial earnestness that was usual with 
him when things on which he was intent were going on as he 
would have them.
'It's all settled, my dear,' said he to his wife as he 
washed his hands in his dressing-room, while she, according 
to her wont, sat listening in the bedroom; 'Arabin has 
agreed to accept the living. He'll be here next week.' And 
the archdeacon scrubbed his hands and rubbed his face with a 
violent alacrity, which showed that Arabin's coming was a 
great point gained.
'Will he come here to Plumstead?' said the wife.
'He has promised to stay a month with us,' said the 
archdeacon, 'so that he may see what his parish is like. 
You'll like Arabin very much. He's a gentleman in every 
respect, and full of humour.'
'He's very queer, isn't he?' asked the lady.
'Well - he is a little odd in some of his fancies; but 
there's nothing about him you won't like. He is as staunch a 
churchman as there is at Oxford. I really don't know what we 
should do without Arabin. It's a great thing for me to have 
him so near me; and if anything can put Slope down, Arabin 
will do it.'
The Reverend Francis Arabin was a fellow of Lazarus, the 
favoured disciple of the great Dr Gwynne, a high churchman 
at all points; so high, indeed, that at one period of his 
career he had all but toppled over into the cesspool of 
Rome; a poet and also a polemical writer, a great pet in the 
common rooms at Oxford, an eloquent clergyman, a droll, odd, 
humorous, energetic, conscientious man, and, as the 
archdeacon had boasted of him, a thorough gentleman. As he 
will hereafter be brought more closely to our notice, it is 
now only necessary to add, that he had just been presented 
to the vicarage of St Ewold by Dr Grantly, in whose gift as 
archdeacon the living lay. St Ewold is a parish lying just 
without the city of Barchester. The suburbs of the new town, 
indeed, are partly within its precincts, and the pretty 
church and parsonage are not much above a mile distant from 
the city gate.
St Ewold is not a rich piece of preferment - it is worth 
some three or four hundred a year at most, and has generally 
been held by a clergyman attached to the cathedral choir. 
The archdeacon, however, felt, when the living on this 
occasion became vacant, that it imperatively behoved him to 
aid the force of his party with some tower of strength, if 
any such tower could be got to occupy St Ewold's. He had 
discussed the matter with his brethren in Barchester; not in 
any weak spirit as the holder of patronage to be used for 
his own or his family's benefit, but as one to whom was 
committed a trust, on the due administration of which much 
of the church's welfare might depend. He had submitted to 
them the name of Mr Arabin, as though the choice had rested 
with them all in conclave, and they had unanimously admitted 
that, if Mr Arabin would accept St Ewold's, no better choice 
could possibly be made.
If Mr Arabin would accept St Ewold's! There lay the 
difficulty. Mr Arabin was a man standing somewhat 
prominently before the world, that is, before the Church of 
England world. He was not a rich man, it is true, for he 
held no preferment but his fellowship; but he was a man not 
over-anxious for riches, not married of course, and one 
whose time was greatly taken up in discussing, both in print 
and on platforms, the privileges and practices of the church 
to which he belonged. As the archdeacon had done battle for 
its temporalities, so did Mr Arabin do battle for its 
spiritualities; and both had done so conscientiously; that 
is, not so much each for his own benefit as for that of 
others.
Holding such a position as Mr Arabin did, there was much 
reason to doubt whether he would consent to become the 
parson of St Ewold's, and Dr Grantly had taken the trouble 
to go himself to Oxford on the matter. Dr Gwynne and Dr 
Grantly together had succeeded in persuading this eminent 
divine that duty required him to go to Barchester. There 
were wheels within wheels in this affair. For some time past 
Mr Arabin had been engaged in a tremendous controversy with 
no less a person than Mr Slope, respecting the apostolic 
succession. These two gentlemen had never seen each other, 
but they had been extremely bitter in print. Mr Slope had 
endeavoured to strengthen his cause by calling Mr Arabin an 
owl, and Mr Arabin had retaliated by hinting that Mr Slope 
was an infidel. This battle had been commenced in the 
columns of the daily Jupiter, a powerful newspaper, the 
manager of which was very friendly to Mr Slope's view of the 
case. The matter, however, had become too tedious for the 
readers of The Jupiter, and a little note had therefore been 
appended to one of Mr Slope's most telling rejoinders, in 
which it had been stated that no further letters from the 
reverend gentleman could be inserted except as 
advertisements.
Other methods of publication were, however, found less 
expensive than advertisements in The Jupiter; and the war 
went on merrily. Mr Slope declared that the main part of the 
consecration of a clergyman was the self-devotion of the 
inner man to the duties of the ministry. Mr Arabin contended 
that a man was not consecrated at all, had, indeed, no 
single attribute of a clergyman, unless he became so through 
the imposition of some bishop's hands, who had become a 
bishop through the imposition of other hands, and so on in a 
direct line to one of the apostles. Each had repeatedly hung 
the other on the horns of a dilemma; but neither seemed to 
be a whit the worse for the hanging; and so the war went on 
merrily.
Whether or no the near neighbourhood of the foe may have 
acted in any way as an inducement to Mr Arabin to accept the 
living of St Ewold, we will not pretend to say; but it had 
at any rate been settled in Dr Gwynne's library, at Lazarus, 
that he would accept it, and that he would lend his 
assistance towards driving the enemy out of Barchester, or, 
at any rate, silencing him while he remained there. Mr 
Arabin intended to keep his rooms at Oxford, and to have the 
assistance of a curate at St Ewold; but he promised to give 
as much time as possible to the neighbourhood of Barchester, 
and from so great a man Dr Grantly was quite satisfied with 
such a promise. It was no small part of the satisfaction 
derivable from such an arrangement that Bishop Proudie would 
be forced to institute into a living, immediately under his 
own nose, the enemy of his favourite chaplain.
All through dinner the archdeacon's good humour shone 
brightly in his face. He ate of the good things heartily, he 
drank wine with his wife and daughter, he talked pleasantly 
of his doings at Oxford, told his father-in-law that he 
ought to visit Dr Gwynne at Lazarus, and launched out again 
in praise of Mr Arabin.
'Is Mr Arabin married, papa?' asked Griselda.
'No, my dear; the fellow of a college is never married.'
'Is he a young man, papa?'
'About forty, I believe,' said the archdeacon.
'Oh!' said Griselda. Had her father said eighty, Mr Arabin 
would not have appeared to her to be very much older.
When the two gentlemen were left alone over their wine, Mr 
Harding told his tale of woe. But even this, sad as it was, 
did not much diminish the archdeacon's good humour, though 
it greatly added to his pugnacity.
'He can't do it,' said Dr Grantly over and over again, as 
his father-in-law explained to him the terms on which the 
new warden of the hospital was to be appointed; 'he can't do 
it. What he says is not worth the trouble of listening to. 
He can't alter the duties of the place.'
'Who can't?' asked the ex-warden.
'Neither the bishop nor the chaplain, nor yet the bishop's 
wife, who, I take it, has really more to say to such matters 
than either of the other two. The whole body corporate of 
the palace together have no such power to turn the warden of 
the hospital into a Sunday schoolmaster.'
'But the bishop has the power to appoint whom he pleases, 
and -'
'I don't know that; I rather think he'll find he had no such 
power. Let him try it, and see what the press will say. For 
once we shall have the popular cry on our side. But Proudie, 
ass as he is, knows the world too well to get such a 
hornet's nest about his ears.'
Mr Harding winced at the idea of the press. He had had 
enough of that sort of publicity, and was unwilling to be 
shown up a second time either as a monster or as a martyr. 
He gently remarked that he hoped the newspapers would not 
get hold of his name again, and then suggested that perhaps 
it would be better that he should abandon his object. 'I am 
getting old,' said he; 'and after all I doubt whether I am 
fit to undertake new duties.'
'New duties!' said the archdeacon: 'don't I tell you there 
shall be no new duties?'
'Or, perhaps, old duties either,' said Mr Harding; 'I think 
I will remain content as I am.' The picture of Mr Slope 
carting away the rubbish was still present to his mind.
The archdeacon drank off his glass of claret, and prepared 
himself to be energetic. 'I do hope,' said he, 'that you are 
not going to be so weak as to allow such a man as Mr Slope 
to deter you from doing what you know it is your duty to do. 
You know it is your duty to resume your place at the 
hospital now that parliament has so settled the stipend as 
to remove those difficulties which induced you to resign it. 
You cannot deny this; and should your timidity now prevent 
you from doing so, your conscience will hereafter never 
forgive you'; and as he finished this clause of speech, he 
pushed over the bottle to his companion.
'Your conscience will never forgive you,' he continued. 'You 
resigned the place from conscientious scruples, scruples 
which I greatly respected, though I did not share them. All 
your friends respected them, and you left your old house as 
rich in reputation as you were ruined in fortune. It is now 
expected that you will return. Dr Gwynne was saying only the 
other day -'
'Dr Gwynne does not reflect how much older a man I am now 
than when he last saw me.'
'Old - nonsense!' said the archdeacon; 'you never thought 
yourself old till you listened to the impudent trash of that 
coxcomb at the palace.'
'I shall be sixty-five if I live till November,' said Mr 
Harding.
'And seventy-five, if you live till November ten years,' 
said the archdeacon. 'And you bid fair to be as efficient 
then as you were ten years ago. But for heaven's sake let us 
have no pretence in this matter. Your plea of old age is 
only a pretence. But you're not drinking your wine. It is 
only a pretence. The fact is, you are half afraid of this 
Slope, and would rather subject yourself to comparative 
poverty and discomfort, than come to blows with a man who 
will trample on you, if you let him.'
'I certainly don't like coming to blows, if I can help it.'
'Nor I neither - but sometimes we can't help it. This man's 
object is to induce you to refuse the hospital, that he may 
put some creature of his own into it; that he may show his 
power, and insult us all by insulting you, whose cause and 
character are so intimately bound up with that of the 
chapter. You owe it to us all to resist him in this, even if 
you have no solicitude for yourself. But surely, for your 
own sake, you will not be so lily-livered as to fall into 
this trap which he has baited for you, and let him take the 
very bread out of your mouth without a struggle.'
Mr Harding did not like being called lily-livered, and was 
rather inclined to resent it. 'I doubt there is any true 
courage,' said he, 'in squabbling for money.'
'If honest men did not squabble for money, in this wicked 
world of ours, the dishonest men would get it all; and I do 
not see that the
I } o
cause of virtue would be much improved. No - we must use the 
means which we have. If we were to carry your argument home, 
we might give away every shilling of revenue which the 
church has; and I presume you are not prepared to say that 
the church would be strengthened by such a sacrifice.' The 
archdeacon filled his glass and then emptied it, drinking 
with much reverence a silent toast to the well-being and 
permanent security of those temporalities which were so dear 
to his soul.
'I think all quarrels between a clergyman and his bishop 
should be avoided,' said Mr Harding.
'I think so too; but it is quite as much the duty of the 
bishop to look to that as of his inferior. I tell you what, 
my friend; I'll see the bishop in this matter, that is, if 
you will allow me; and you may be sure I will not compromise 
you. My opinion is, that all this trash about the Sunday-
schools and the sermons has originated wholly with Slope and 
Mrs Proudie, and that the bishop knows nothing about it. The 
bishop can't very well refuse to see me, and I'll come upon 
him when he has neither his wife nor his chaplain by him. I 
think you'll find that it will end in his sending you the 
appointment without any condition whatever. And as to the 
seats in the cathedral, we may safely leave that to Mr Dean. 
I believe the fool positively thinks that the bishop could 
walk away with the cathedral if he pleased.'
And so the matter was arranged between them. Mr Harding had 
come expressly for advice, and therefore felt himself bound 
to take the advice given him. He had known, moreover, 
beforehand, that the archdeacon would not hear of his giving 
the matter up, and accordingly though he had in perfect good 
faith put forward his own views, he was prepared to yield.
They therefore went into the drawing-room in good humour 
with each other, and the evening passed pleasantly in 
prophetic discussions on the future wars of Arabin and 
Slope. The frogs and the mice would be nothing to them, nor 
the angers of Agamemnon and Achilles. How the archdeacon 
rubbed his hands, and plumed himself on the success of his 
last move. He could not himself descend into the arena with 
Slope, but Arabin would have no such scruples. Arabin was 
exactly the man for such work, and the only man whom he knew 
that was fit for it.
The archdeacon's good humour and high buoyancy continued 
till, when reclining on his pillow, Mrs Grantly commenced to 
give him Ill her view of the state of affairs at Barchester. 
And then certainly he was startled. The last words he said 
that night were as follows: -
'If she does, by heaven I'll never speak to her again. She 
dragged me into the mire once, but I'll not pollute myself 
with such filth as that -' And the archdeacon gave a shudder 
which shook the whole room, so violently was he convulsed 
with the thought which then agitated his mind.
Now in this matter, the widow Bold was scandalously ill-
treated by her relatives. She had spoken to the man three or 
four times, and had expressed her willingness to teach in a 
Sunday-school. Such was the full extent of her sins in the 
matter of Mr Slope. Poor Eleanor! But time will show.
The next morning Mr Harding returned to Barchester, no 
further word having been spoken in his hearing respecting Mr 
Slope's acquaintance with his younger daughter. But he 
observed that the archdeacon at breakfast was less cordial 
than he had been on the preceding evening.



Chapter 15

The Widow's Suitors

Mr Slope lost no time in availing himself of the bishop's 
permission to see Mr Quiverful, and it was in his interview 
with this worthy pastor that he first learned that Mrs Bold 
was worth the wooing. He rode out to Puddingdale to 
communicate to theembryo warden the goodwill of the bishop 
in his favour, and during the discussion on the matter it 
was not unnatural that the pecuniary resources of Mr Harding 
and his family should become the subject of remark.
Mr Quiverful, with his fourteen children and his four 
hundred a year, was a very poor man, and the prospect of 
this new preferment, which was to be held together with his 
living, was very grateful to him. To what clergyman so 
circumstanced would not such a prospect be very grateful? 
But Mr Quiverful had long been acquainted with Mr Harding, 
and had received kindness at his hands, so that his heart 
misgave him as he thought of supplanting a friend at the 
hospital. Nevertheless, he was extremely civil, cringingly 
civil, to Mr Slope; treated him quite as the great man; 
entreated this great man to do him the honour to drink a 
glass of sherry, at which, as it was very poor Marsala, the 
now pampered Slope turned up his nose; and ended by 
declaring his extreme obligation to the bishop and Mr Slope, 
and his great desire to accept the hospital, if - if it were 
certainly the case that Mr Harding had refused it.
What man, as needy as Mr Quiverful, would have been more 
disinterested?
'Mr Harding did positively refuse it,' said Mr Slope, with a 
certain air of offended dignity, 'when he heard of the 
conditions to which the appointment is now subjected. Of 
course, you understand, Mr Quiverful, that the same 
conditions will be imposed on yourself.'
Mr Quiverful cared nothing for the conditions. He would have 
undertaken to preach any number of sermons Mr Slope might 
have chosen to dictate, and to pass every remaining hour of 
his Sundays within the walls of a Sunday-school. What 
sacrifices, or, at any rate, what promises, would have been 
too much to make for such an addition to his income, and for 
such a house! But his mind still recurred to Mr Harding.
'To be sure,' said he; 'Mr Harding's daughter is very rich, 
and why should he trouble himself with the hospital?'
'You mean Mrs Grantly,' said Slope.
'I meant his widowed daughter,' said the other. 'Mrs Bold 
has twelve hundred a year of her own, and I suppose Mr 
Harding means to live with her.'
'Twelve hundred a year of her own!' said Slope, and very 
shortly afterwards took his leave, avoiding, as far as it 
was possible for him to do, any further allusion to the 
hospital. Twelve hundred a year, said he to himself, as he 
rode slowly home. If it were the fact that Mrs Bold had 
twelve hundred a year of her own, what a fool would he be to 
oppose her father's return to his old place. The train of Mr 
Slope's ideas will probably be plain to all my readers. Why 
should he not make the twelve hundred a year his own? and if 
he did so, would it not be well for him to have a father-in-
law comfortably provided with the good things of this world? 
would it not, moreover, be much more easy for him to gain 
the daughter, if he did all in his power to forward the 
father's views?
These questions presented themselves to him in a very 
forcible way, and yet there were many points of doubt. If he 
resolved to restore to Mr Harding his former place, he must 
take the necessary steps for doing so at once; he must 
immediately talk over the bishop, quarrel on the matter with 
Mrs Proudie whom he knew he could not talk over, and let Mr 
Quiverful know that he had been a little too precipitate as 
to Mr Harding's positive refusal. That he could effect all 
this, he did not doubt; but he did not wish to effect it for 
nothing. He did not wish to give way to Mr Harding, and then 
be rejected by the daughter. He did not wish to lose one 
influential friend before he had gained another.
And thus he rode home, meditating many things in his mind. 
It occurred to him that Mrs Bold was sister-in-law to the 
archdeacon; and that not even for twelve hundred a year 
would he submit to that imperious man. A rich wife was a 
great desideratum to him, but success in his profession was 
still greater; there were, moreover, other rich women who 
might be willing to become wives; and after all, this twelve 
hundred a year might, when inquired into, melt away into 
some small sum utterly beneath his notice. Then also he 
remembered that Mrs Bold had a son.
Another circumstance also much influenced him, though it was 
one which may almost be said to have influenced him against 
his will. The vision of the Signora Neroni was perpetually 
before his eyes. It would be too much to say that Mr Slope 
was lost in love, but yet he thought, and kept continually 
thinking, that he had never seen so beautiful a woman. He 
was a man whose nature was open to such impulses, and the 
wiles of the Italianised charmer had been thoroughly 
successful in imposing upon his thoughts. We will not talk 
about his heart: not that he had no heart, but because his 
heart had little to do with his present feelings. His taste 
had been pleased, his eyes charmed, and his vanity 
gratified. He had been dazzled by a sort of loveliness which 
he had never before seen, and had been caught by an easy, 
free, voluptuous manner which was perfectly new to him. He 
had never been so tempted before, and the temptation was now 
irresistible. He had not owned to himself that he cared for 
this woman more than for others around him; but yet he 
thought often of the time when he might see her next, and 
made, almost unconsciously, little cunning plans for seeing 
her frequently.
He had called at Dr Stanhope's house the day after the 
bishop's party, and then the warmth of his admiration had 
been fed with fresh fuel. If the signora had been kind in 
her manner and flattering in her speech when lying upon the 
bishop's sofa, with the eyes of so many on her, she had been 
much more so in her mother's drawing-room, with no one 
present but her sister to repress either her nature or her 
art. Mr Slope had thus left her quite bewildered, and could 
not willingly admit into his brain any scheme, a part of 
which would be the necessity of his abandoning all further 
special friendship with this lady.
And so he slowly rode along very meditative.
And here the author must beg it to be remembered that Mr 
Slope was not in all things a bad man. His motives, like 
those of most men, were mixed; and though his conduct was 
generally very different from that which we would wish to 
praise, it was actuated perhaps as often as that of the 
majority of the world by a desire to do his duty. He 
believed in the religion which he taught, harsh, 
unpalatable, uncharitable as that religion was. He believed 
those whom he wished to get under his hoof, the Grantlys and 
Gwynnes of the church, to be the enemies of that religion. 
He believed himself to be a pillar of strength, destined to 
do great things; and with that subtle, selfish, ambiguous 
sophistry to which the minds of all men are so subject, he 
had taught himself to think that in doing much for the 
promotion of his own interests he was doing much also for 
the promotion of religion. But Mr Slope had never been an 
immoral man. Indeed, he had resisted temptations to 
immorality with a strength of purpose that was creditable to 
him. He had early in life devoted himself to works which 
were not compatible with the ordinary pleasures of youth, 
and he had abandoned such pleasures not without a struggle. 
It must therefore be conceived that he did not admit to 
himself that he warmly admired the beauty of a married woman 
without heartfelt stings of conscience; and to pacify that 
conscience, he had to teach himself that the nature of his 
admiration was innocent.
And thus he rode along meditative and ill at ease. His 
conscience had not a word to say against his choosing the 
widow and her fortune. That he looked upon as a godly work 
rather than otherwise; as a deed which, if carried through, 
would redound to his credit as a Christian. On that side lay 
no future remorse, no conduct which he might probably have 
to forget, no inward stings. If it should turn out to be 
really the fact that Mrs Bold had twelve hundred a year at 
her own disposal, Mr Slope would rather look upon it as a 
duty which he owed his religion to make himself the master 
of the wife and the money; as a duty, too, in which some 
amount of self-sacrifice would be necessary. He would have 
to give up his friendship with the signora, his resistance 
to Mr Harding, his antipathy - no, he found on mature self-
examination, that he could not bring himself to give up his 
antipathy to Dr Grantly. He would marry the lady as the 
enemy of her brother-in-law if such an arrangement suited 
her; if not, she must look elsewhere for a husband.
It was with such resolve as this that he reached Barchester. 
He would at once ascertain what the truth might be as to the 
lady's wealth, and having done this, he would be ruled by 
circumstances in his conduct respecting the hospital. If he 
found that he could turn round and secure the place for Mr 
Harding without much self-sacrifice, he would do so; but if 
not, he would woo the daughter in opposition to the father. 
But in no case would he succumb to the archdeacon.
He saw his horse taken round to the stable, and immediately 
went forth to commence his inquiries. To give Mr Slope his 
due, he was not a man who ever let much grass grow under his 
feet.
Poor Eleanor! She was doomed to be the intended victim of 
more schemes than one.
About the time that Mr Slope was visiting the vicar of 
Puddingdale, a discussion took place respecting her charms 
and wealth at Dr Stanhope's house in the close. There had 
been morning callers there, and people had told some truth 
and also some falsehood respecting the property which John 
Bold had left behind him. By degrees the visitors went, and 
as the doctor went with them, and as the doctor's wife had 
not made her appearance, Charlotte Stanhope and her brother 
were left together. He was sitting idly at the table, 
scrawling caricatures of Barchester notables, then yawning, 
then turning over a book or two, and evidently at a loss how 
to kill his time without much labour.
'You haven't done much, Bertie, about getting any orders,' 
said his sister.
'Orders!' said he; 'who on earth is there at Barchester to 
give one orders? Who among the people here could possibly 
think it worth his while to have his head done into marble?'
'Then you mean to give up your profession,' said she.
'No, I don't,' said he, going on with some absurd portrait 
of the bishop. 'Look at that, Lotte; isn't it the little man 
all over, apron and all? I'd go on with my profession at 
once, as you call it, if the governor would set me up with a 
studio in London; but as to sculpture at Barchester - I 
suppose half the people here don't know what a torso means.'
'The governor will not give you a shilling to start you in 
London,' said Lotte. 'Indeed, he can't give you what would 
be sufficient, for he has not got it. But you might start 
yourself very well, if you pleased.'
'How the deuce am I to do it?' said he.
'To tell you the truth, Bertie, you'll never make a penny by 
any profession.'
'That's what I often think myself,' said he, not in the 
least offended. 'Some men have a great gift of making money, 
but they can't spend it. Others can't put two shillings 
together, but they have a great talent for all sorts of 
outlay. I begin to think that my genius is wholly in the 
latter line.'
'How do you mean to live then?' asked the sister.
'I suppose I must regard myself as a young raven, and look 
for heavenly manna; besides, we have all got something when 
the governor goes.'
'Yes - you'll have enough to supply yourself with gloves and 
boots; that is, if the Jews have not got the possession of 
it all. I believe they have the most of it already. I 
wonder, Bertie, at your indifference; that you, with your 
talents and personal advantages, should never try to settle 
yourself in life. I look forward with dread to the time when 
the governor must go. Mother, and Madeline, and I - we shall 
be poor enough, but you will have absolutely nothing.'
'Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof,' said Bertie.
'Will you take my advice?' said his sister.
'Cela de'pend,' said the brother.
'Will you marry a wife with money?'
'At any rate,' said he, 'I won't marry one without: wives 
with money a'nt so easy to get nowadays; the parsons pick 
them all up.'
'And a parson will pick up the wife I mean for you, if you 
do not look quickly about it; the wife I mean is Mrs Bold.'
'Whew-w-w-w!' whistled Bertie, 'a widow!'
'She is very beautiful,' said Charlotte.
'With a son and heir all ready to my hand,' said Bertie.
'A baby that will very likely die,' said Charlotte.
'I don't see that,' said Bertie. 'But however, he may live 
for me - I don't wish to kill him; only, it must be owned 
that a ready-made family is a drawback.'
'There is only one after all,' pleaded Charlotte.
'And that a very little one, as the maid-servant said,' 
rejoined Bertie. 'Beggars mustn't be choosers, Bertie; you 
can't have everything.' 'God knows I am not unreasonable,' 
said he, 'nor yet opinionated; and if you'll arrange it at 
all for me, Lotte, I'll marry the lady. Only mark this; the 
money must be sure, and the income at my own disposal, at 
any rate for the lady's life.'
Charlotte was explaining to her brother that he must make 
love for himself if he meant to carry on the matter, and was 
encouraging him to do so, by warm eulogiums on Eleanor's 
beauty, when the signora was brought into the drawing-room. 
When at home, and subject to the gaze of none but her own 
family, she allowed herself to be dragged about by two 
persons, and her two bearers now deposited her on her sofa. 
She was not quite so grand in her apparel as she had been at 
the bishop's party, but yet she was dressed with much care, 
and though there was a look of care and pain about her eyes, 
she was, even by daylight, extremely beautiful.
'Well, Madeline, so I'm going to be married,' Bertie began, 
as soon as the servants had withdrawn.
'There's no other foolish thing left, that you haven't 
done,' said Madeline, 'and therefore you are quite right to 
try that.'
'Oh, you think it's a foolish thing, do you?' said he. 
'There's Lotte advising me to marry by all means. But on 
such a subject your opinion ought to be the best; you have 
experience to guide you.'
'Yes, I have,' said Madeline, with a sort of harsh sadness 
in her tone, which seemed to say - What is it to you if I am 
sad? I have never asked your sympathy.
Bertie was sorry when he saw that she was hurt by what he 
said, and he came and squatted on the floor close before her 
face to make his peace with her.
'Come, Mad, I was only joking; you know that. But in sober 
earnest, Lotte is advising me to marry. She wants me to 
marry this Mrs Bold. She's a widow with lots of tin, a fine 
baby, a beautiful complexion, and the George and Dragon 
hotel up in the High Street. By Jove, Lotte, if I marry her, 
I'll keep the public-house myself - it's just the life to 
suit me.'
'What?' said Madeline, 'that vapid swarthy creature in the 
widow's cap, who looked as though her clothes had been stuck 
on her back with a pitchfork!' The signora never allowed any 
woman to be beautiful.
'Instead of being vapid,' said Lotte, 'I call her a very 
lovely woman. She was by far the loveliest woman in the 
rooms the other night; that is, excepting you, Madeline.'
Even the compliment did not soften the asperity of the 
maimed beauty. 'Every woman is charming according to Lotte,' 
she said; 'I never knew an eye with so little true 
appreciation. In the first place, what woman on earth could 
look well in such a thing as that she had on her head?'
'Of course she wears a widow's cap; but she'll put that off 
when Bertie marries her.'
'I don't see any of course in it,' said Madeline. 'The death 
of twenty husbands should not make me undergo such a 
penance. It is as much a relic of paganism as the sacrifice 
of a Hindoo woman at the burning of her husband's body. If 
not so bloody, it is quite as barbarous, and quite as 
useless.'
'But you don't blame her for that,' said Bertie. 'She does 
it because it's the custom of the country. People would 
think ill of her if she didn't do it.'
'Exactly,' said Madeline. 'She is just one of those English 
nonentities who would tie her head up in a bag for three 
months every summer, if her mother and her grandmother had 
tied up their heads before her. It would never occur to her, 
to think whether there was any use in submitting to such a 
nuisance.'
'It's very hard, in a country like England, for a young 
woman to set herself in opposition to prejudices of that 
sort,' said the prudent Charlotte.
'What you mean is, that it's very hard for a fool not to be 
a fool,' said Madeline.
Bertie Stanhope had been so much knocked about the world 
from his earliest years, that he had not retained much 
respect for the gravity of English customs; but even to his 
mind an idea presented itself, that, perhaps in a wife, true 
British prejudice would not in the long run be less 
agreeable than Anglo-Italian freedom from restraint. He did 
not exactly say so, but he expressed the idea in another 
way.
'I fancy,' said he, 'that if I were to die, and then walk, I 
should think that my widow looked better in one of those 
caps than any other kind of head-dress.'
'Yes - and you'd fancy also that she could do nothing better 
than shut herself up and cry for you, or else burn herself. 
But she would think differently. She'd probably wear one of 
those horrid she-helmets, because she'd want the courage not 
to do so; but she'd wear it with a heart longing for the 
time when she might be allowed to throw it off. I hate such 
shallow false pretences. For my part, I would let the world 
say what it pleased, and show no grief if I felt none - and 
perhaps not, if I did.'
'But wearing a widow's cap won't lessen her fortune,' said 
Charlotte.
'Or increase it,' said Madeline. 'Then why on earth does she 
do it?'
'But Lotte's object is to make her put it off,' said Bertie.
'If it be true that she has got twelve hundred a year quite 
at her own disposal, and she be not utterly vulgar in her 
manners, I would advise you to marry her. I dare say she is 
to be had for the asking: and as you are not going to marry 
her for love, it doesn't much matter whether she is good-
looking or not. As to your really marrying a woman for love, 
I don't believe you are fool enough for that.'
'Oh, Madeline!' exclaimed her sister.
'And oh, Charlotte!' said the other.
'You don't mean to say that no man can love a woman unless 
he be a fool?'
'I mean very much the same thing - that any man who is 
willing to sacrifice his interest to get possession of a 
pretty face is a fool. Pretty faces are to be had cheaper 
than that. I hate your mawkish sentimentality, Lotte. You 
know as well as I do in what way husbands and wives 
generally live together; you know how far the warmth of 
conjugal affection can withstand the trial of a bad dinner, 
of a rainy day, or of the least privation which poverty 
brings with it; you know what freedom a man claims for 
himself, what slavery he would exact from his wife if he 
could! And you know also how wives generally obey. Marriage 
means tyranny on one side and deceit on the other. I say 
that a man is a fool to sacrifice his interests for such a 
bargain. A woman, too generally, has no other way of 
living.'
'But Bertie has no other way of living,' said Charlotte.
'Then, in God's name, let him marry Mrs Bold,' said 
Madeline. And so it was settled between them.
But let the gentle-hearted reader be under no apprehension 
whatsoever. It is not destined that Eleanor shall marry Mr 
Slope or Bertie Stanhope. And here, perhaps, it may be 
allowed to the novelist to explain his views on a very 
important point in the art of telling tales. He ventures to 
reprobate that system which goes so far to violate all 
proper confidence between the author and his readers, by 
maintaining nearly to the end of the third volume a mystery 
as to the fate of their favourite personage. Nay, more, and 
worse than this, is too frequently done. Have not often the 
profoundest efforts of genius been used to baffle the 
aspirations of the reader, to raise false hopes and false 
fears, and to give rise to expectations which are never to 
be realised? Are not promises all but made of delightful 
horrors, in lieu of which the writer produces nothing but 
most commonplace realities in his final chapter? And is 
there not a species of deceit in this to which the honesty 
of the present age should lend no countenance?
And what can be the worth of that solicitude which a peep 
into the third volume can utterly dissipate? What the value 
of those literary charms which are absolutely destroyed by 
their enjoyment? When we have once learnt what was that 
picture before which was hung Mrs Ratcliffe's solemn 
curtain, we feel no further interest about either the frame 
or the veil. They are to us, merely a receptacle for old 
bones, an inappropriate coffin, which we would wish to have 
decently buried out of our sight.
And then, how grievous a thing it is to have the pleasure of 
your novel destroyed by the ill-considered triumph of a 
previous reader. 'Oh, you needn't be alarmed for Augusta, of 
course she accepts Gustavus in the end.' 'How very ill-
natured you are, Susan,' says Kitty, with tears in her eyes; 
'I don't care a bit about it now.' Dear Kitty, if you will 
read my book, you may defy the ill-nature of your sister. 
There shall be no secret that she can tell you. Nay, take 
the last chapter if you please - learn from its pages all 
the results of our troubled story, and the story shall have 
lost none of its interest, if indeed there be any interest 
in it to lose.
Our doctrine is, that the author and the reader should move 
along together in full confidence with each other. Let the 
personages of the drama undergo ever so complete a comedy of 
errors among themselves, but let the spectator never mistake 
the Syracusan for the Ephesian; otherwise he is one of the 
dupes, and the part of a dupe is never dignified.
I would not for the value of this chapter have it believed 
by a single reader that my Eleanor could bring herself to 
marry Mr Slope, or that she should be sacrificed to a Bertie 
Stanhope. But among the good folk of Barchester many 
believed both the one and the other.



Chapter 16

Baby Worship

'Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle, dum, dum, dum,' said or 
sung Eleanor Bold.
'Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle, dum, dum, dum,' continued 
Mary Bold, taking up the second part in this concerted 
piece.
The only audience at the concert was the baby, who however 
gave such vociferous applause, that the performers presuming 
it to amount to an encore, commenced again.
'Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle, dum, dum, dum: hasn't he 
got lovely legs?' said the rapturous mother.
'H'm'm'm'm'm,' simmered Mary, burying her lips in the little 
fellow's fat neck, by way of kissing him.
'H'm'm'm'm'm,' simmered the mamma, burying her lips also in 
his fat round short legs. 'He's a dawty little bold darling, 
so he is; and he has the nicest little pink legs in all the 
world, so he has '; and the simmering and the kissing went 
on over again, and as though the ladies were very hungry, 
and determined to eat him.
'Well, then, he's his own mother's own darling: well, he 
shall - oh, oh - Mary, Mary - did you ever see? What am I to 
do? My naughty, naughty, naughty, naughty little Johnny.' 
All these energetic exclamations were elicited by the 
delight of the mother in finding that her son was strong 
enough, and mischievous enough, to pull all her hair out 
from under her cap. 'He's been and pulled down all mamma's 
hair, and he's the naughtiest, naughtiest, naughtiest little 
man that ever, ever, ever, ever, ever -'
A regular service of baby worship was going on. Mary Bold 
was sitting on a low easy chair, with the boy in her lap, 
and Eleanor was kneeling before the object of her idolatry. 
As she tried to cover up the little fellow's face with her 
long, glossy, dark brown locks, and permitted him to pull 
them hither and thither, as he would, she looked very 
beautiful in spite of the widow's cap which she still wore. 
There was a quiet, enduring, grateful sweetness about her 
face, which grew so strongly upon those who knew her, as to 
make the great praise of her beauty which came from her old 
friends appear marvellously exaggerated to those who were 
only slightly acquainted with her. Her loveliness was like 
that of many landscapes, which require to be often seen to 
be fully enjoyed. There was a depth of dark clear brightness 
in her eyes which was lost upon a quick observer, a 
character about her mouth which only showed itself to those 
with whom she familiarly conversed, a glorious form of head 
the perfect symmetry of which required the eye of an artist 
for its appreciation. She had none of that dazzling 
brilliancy, of that voluptuous Rubens beauty, of that pearly 
whiteness, and those vermilion tints, which immediately 
entranced with the power of a basilisk men who came within 
reach of Madeline Neroni. It was all but impossible to 
resist the signora, but no one was called upon for any 
resistance towards Eleanor. You might begin to talk to her 
as though she were your sister, and it would not be till 
your head was on your pillow that the truth and intensity of 
her beauty would flash upon you; that the sweetness of her 
voice would come upon your ear. A sudden half-hour with the 
Neroni was like falling into a pit; an evening spent with 
Eleanor like an unexpected ramble in some quiet fields of 
asphodel.
'We'll cover him up till there sha'n't be a morsel of his 
little 'ittle 'ittle 'ittle nose to be seen,' said the 
mother, stretching her streaming locks over the infant's 
face. The child screamed with delight, and kicked till Mary 
Bold was hardly able to hold him.
At this moment the door opened, and Mr Slope was announced. 
Up jumped Eleanor, and with a sudden quick motion of her 
hands pushed back her hair over her shoulders. It would have 
been perhaps better for her that she had not, for she thus 
showed more of her confusion than she would have done had 
she remained as she was. Mr Slope, however, immediately 
recognised her loveliness, and thought to himself, that 
irrespective of her fortune, she would be an inmate that a 
man might well desire for his house, a partner for his 
bosom's care very well qualified to make care lie easy. 
Eleanor hurried out of the room to readjust her cap, 
muttering some unnecessary apology about her baby. And while 
she is gone, we will briefly go back and state what had been 
hitherto the results of Mr Slope's meditations on his scheme 
of matrimony.
His inquiries as to the widow's income had at any rate been 
so far successful as to induce him to determine to go on 
with the speculation. As regarded Mr Harding, he had also 
resolved to do what he could without injury to himself. To 
Mrs Proudie he determined not to speak on the matter, at 
least not at present. His object was to instigate a little 
rebellion on the part of the bishop. He thought that such a 
state of things would be advisable not only in respect to 
Messrs Harding and Quiverful, but also in the affairs of the 
diocese generally. Mr Slope was by no means of opinion that 
Dr Proudie was fit to rule, but he conscientiously thought 
it wrong that his brother clergy should be subjected to 
petticoat government. He therefore made up his mind to 
infuse a little of his spirit into the bishop, sufficient to 
induce him to oppose his wife, though not enough to make him 
altogether insubordinate.
He had therefore taken an opportunity of again speaking to 
his lordship about the hospital, and had endeavoured to make 
it appear that after all it would be unwise to exclude Mr 
Harding from the appointment. Mr Slope, however, had a 
harder task than he had imagined. Mrs Proudie, anxious to 
assume to herself as much as possible of the merit of 
patronage, had written to Mrs Quiverful, requesting her to 
call at the palace; and had then explained to that matron, 
with much mystery, condescension, and dignity, the good that 
was in store for her and her progeny. Indeed Mrs Proudie had 
been so engaged at the very time that Mr Slope had been 
doing the same with the husband at Puddingdale Vicarage, and 
had thus in a measure committed herself. The thanks, the 
humility, the gratitude, the surprise of Mrs Quiverful had 
been very overpowering; she had all but embraced the knees 
of her patroness, and had promised that the prayers of 
fourteen unprovided babes (so Mrs Quiverful had described 
her own family, the eldest of which was a stout young woman 
of three-and-twenty) should be put up to heaven morning and 
evening for the munificent friend whom God had sent to them. 
Such incense as this was not unpleasing to Mrs Proudie, and 
she made the most of it. She offered her general assistance 
to the fourteen unprovided babes, if, as she had no doubt, 
she should find them worthy; expressed a hope that the 
eldest of them would be fit to undertake tuition in her 
Sabbath schools, and altogether made herself a very great 
lady in the estimation of Mrs Quiverful.
Having done this, she thought it prudent to drop a few words 
before the bishop, letting him know that she had acquainted 
the Puddingdale family with their good fortune; so that he 
might perceive that he stood committed to the appointment. 
The husband well understood the ruse of his wife, but he did 
not resent it. He knew that she was taking the patronage out 
of his hands; he was resolved to put an end to her 
interference, and reassume his powers.
But then he thought this was not the best time to do it. He 
put off the evil hour, as many a man in similar 
circumstances has done before him.
Such having been the case, Mr Slope naturally encountered a 
difficulty in talking over the bishop, a difficulty indeed 
which he found could not be overcome except at the cost of a 
general outbreak at the palace. A general outbreak at the 
present moment might be good policy, but it also might not. 
It was at any rate not a step to be lightly taken. He began 
by whispering to the bishop that he feared that public 
opinion would be against him if Mr Harding did not reappear 
at the hospital. The bishop answered with some warmth that 
Mr Quiverful had been promised the appointment on Mr Slope's 
advice. 'Not promised!' said Mr Slope. 'Yes, promised,' 
replied the bishop, 'and Mrs Proudie has seen Mrs Quiverful 
on the subject.' This was quite unexpected on the part of Mr 
Slope, but his presence of mind did not fail him, and he 
turned the statement to his own account.
'Ah, my lord,' said he, 'we shall all be in scrapes if the 
ladies interfere.'
This was too much in unison with my lord's feelings to be 
altogether unpalatable, and yet such an allusion to 
interference demanded a rebuke. My lord was somewhat 
astounded also, though not altogether made miserable, by 
finding that there was a point of difference between his 
wife and his chaplain.
'I don't know what you mean by interference,' said the 
bishop mildly. 'When Mrs Proudie heard that Mr Quiverful was 
to be appointed, it was not unnatural that she should wish 
to see Mrs Quiverful about the schools. I really cannot say 
that I see any interference.'
'I only speak, my lord, for your own comfort,' said Slope; 
'for your own comfort and dignity in the diocese. I can have 
no other motive. As far as personal feelings go, Mrs Proudie 
is the best friend I have. I must always remember that. But 
still, in my present position, my first duty is to your 
lordship.'
'I'm sure of that, Mr Slope, I am quite sure of that,' said 
the bishop, mollified: 'and you really think that Mr Harding 
should have the hospital?'
'Upon my word, I'm inclined to think so. I am quite prepared 
to take upon myself the blame of first suggesting Mr 
Quiverful's name. But since doing so, I have found that 
there is so strong a feeling in the diocese in favour of Mr 
Harding, that I think your lordship should give way. I hear 
also that Mr Harding has modified the objections he first 
felt to your lordship's propositions. And as to what has 
passed between Mrs Proudie and Mrs Quiverful, the 
circumstance may be a little inconvenient, but I really do 
not think that that should weigh in a matter of so much 
moment.'
And thus the poor bishop was left in a dreadfully undecided 
state as to what he should do. His mind, however, slightly 
inclined itself to the appointment of Mr Harding, seeing 
that by such a step, he should have the assistance of Mr 
Slope in opposing Mrs Proudie.
Such was the state of affairs at the palace, when Mr Slope 
called at Mrs Bold's house, and found her playing with her 
baby. When she ran out of the room, Mr Slope began praising 
the weather to Mary Bold, then he praised the baby and 
kissed him, and then he praised the mother, and then he 
praised Miss Bold herself. Mrs Bold, however, was not long 
before she came back.
'I have to apologise for calling at so very early an hour,' 
began Mr Slope, 'but I was really so anxious to speak to you 
that I hope you and Miss Bold will excuse me.'
Eleanor muttered something in which the words 'certainly,' 
and 'of course,' and 'not early at all,' were just audible, 
and then apologised for her own appearance, declaring with a 
smile, that her baby was becoming such a big boy that he was 
quite unmanageable.
'He's a great big naughty boy,' said she to the child; 'and 
we must send him away to a great big rough romping school, 
where they have great big rods, and do terrible things to 
naughty boys who don't do what their own mammas tell them'; 
and she then commenced another course of kissing, being 
actuated thereto by the terrible idea of sending her child 
away which her own imagination had depicted.
'And where the masters don't have such beautiful long hair 
to be dishevelled,' said Mr Slope, taking up the joke and 
paying a compliment at the same time.
Eleanor thought he might as well have left the compliment 
alone; but she said nothing and looked nothing, being 
occupied as she was with the baby.
'Let me take him,' said Mary. 'His clothes are nearly off 
his back with his romping,' and so saying she left the room 
with the child. Miss Bold had heard Mr Slope say he had 
something pressing to say to Eleanor, and thinking that she 
might be de trop, took this opportunity of getting herself 
out of the room.
'Don't be long, Mary,' said Eleanor, as Miss Bold shut the 
door. 'I am glad, Mrs Bold, to have the opportunity of 
having ten minutes' conversation with you alone,' began Mr 
Slope. 'Will you let me openly ask you a plain question?'
'Certainly,' said she.
'And I am sure you will give me a plain and open answer.'
'Either that or none at all,' said she, laughing.
'My question is this, Mrs Bold: is your father really 
anxious to go back to the hospital?'
'Why do you ask me?' said she. 'Why don't you ask himself?'
'My dear Mrs Bold, I'll tell you why. There are wheels 
within wheels, all of which I would explain to you, only I 
fear that there is not time. It is essentially necessary 
that I should have an answer to this question, otherwise I 
cannot know how to advance your father's wishes; and it is 
quite impossible that I should ask himself. No one can 
esteem your father more than I do, but I doubt if this 
feeling is reciprocal.' It certainly was not. 'I must be 
candid with you as the only means of avoiding ultimate 
consequences, which may be most injurious to Mr Harding. I 
fear there is a feeling, I will not even call it a 
prejudice, with regard to myself in Barchester, which is not 
in my favour. You remember that sermon -'
'Oh! Mr Slope, we need not go back to that,' said Eleanor.
'For one moment, Mrs Bold. It is not that I may talk of 
myself, but because it is so essential that you should 
understand how matters stand. That sermon may have been ill-
judged - it was certainly misunderstood; but I will say 
nothing about that now; only this, that it did give rise to 
a feeling against myself which your father shares with 
others. It may be that he has proper cause, but the result 
is that he is not inclined to meet me on friendly terms. I 
put it to yourself whether you do not know this to be the 
case.'
Eleanor made no answer, and Mr Slope, in the eagerness of 
his address, edged his chair a little nearer to the widow's 
seat, unperceived by her.
'Such being so,' continued Mr Slope, 'I cannot ask him this 
question as I can ask it of you. In spite of my 
delinquencies since I came to Barchester you have allowed me 
to regard you as a friend.' Eleanor made a little motion 
with her head which was hardly confirmatory, but Mr Slope if 
he noticed it, did not appear to do so. 'To you I can speak 
openly, and explain the feelings of my heart. This your 
father would not allow. Unfortunately the bishop has thought 
it right that this matter of the hospital should pass 
through my hands. There have been some details to get up 
with which he would not trouble himself, and thus it has 
come to pass that I was forced to have an interview with 
your father on the matter.'
'I am aware of that,' said Eleanor.
'Of course,' said he. 'In that interview Mr Harding left the 
impression on my mind that he did not wish to return to the 
hospital.'
'How could that be?' said Eleanor, at last stirred up to 
forget the cold propriety of demeanour which she had 
determined to maintain.
'My dear Mrs Bold, I give you my word that such was the 
case,' said he, again getting a little nearer to her. 'And 
what is more than that, before my interview with Mr Harding, 
certain persons at the palace, I do not mean the bishop, had 
told me that such was the fact. I own, I hardly believed it; 
I own, I thought that your father would wish on every 
account, for conscience' sake, for the sake of those old 
men, for old association, and the memory of dear days long 
gone by, on every account I thought that he would wish to 
resume his duties. But I was told that such was not his 
wish; and he certainly left me with the impression that I 
had been told the truth.'
'Well!' said Eleanor, now sufficiently roused on the matter.
'I hear Miss Bold's step,' said Mr Slope; 'would it be 
asking too great a favour to beg you to - I know you can 
manage anything with Miss Bold.'
Eleanor did not like the word manage, but still she went 
out, and asked Mary to leave them alone for another quarter 
of an hour.
'Thank you, Mrs Bold - I am so very grateful for this 
confidence. Well, I left your father with this impression. 
Indeed, I may say that he made me understand that he 
declined the appointment.'
'Not the appointment,' said Eleanor. 'I am sure he did not 
decline the appointment. But he said that he would not agree 
- that is, that he did not like the scheme about the schools 
and the services, and all that. I am quite sure he never 
said that he wished to refuse the place.'
'Oh, Mrs Bold!' said Mr Slope, in a manner almost 
impassioned. 'I would not, for the world, say to so good a 
daughter a word against so good a father. But you must, for 
his sake, let me show you exactly how the matter stands at 
present. Mr Harding was a little flurried when I told him of 
the bishop's wishes about the school. I did so, perhaps, 
with the less caution because you yourself had so perfectly 
agreed with me on the same subject. He was a little put out 
and spoke warmly. "Tell the bishop," said he, "that I quite 
disagree with him - and shall not return to the hospital as 
such conditions are attached to it." What he said was to 
that effect; indeed, his words were, if anything, stronger 
than those. I had no alternative but to repeat them to his 
lordship, who said that he could look on them in no other 
light than a refusal. He also had heard the report that your 
father did not wish for the appointment, and putting all 
these things together, he thought he had no choice but to 
look for someone else. He has consequently offered the place 
to Mr Quiverful.'
'Offered the place to Mr Quiverful!' repeated Eleanor, her 
eyes suffused with tears. 'Then, Mr Slope, there is an end 
of it.'
'No, my friend - not so,' said he. 'It is to prevent such 
being the end of it that I am now here. I may at any rate 
presume that I have got an answer to my question, and that 
Mr Harding is desirous of returning.'
'Desirous of returning - of course he is,' said Eleanor; 'of 
course he wishes to have back his house and his income, and 
his place in the world; to have back what he gave up with 
such self-denying honesty, if he can have them without 
restraints on his conduct to which at his age it would be 
impossible that he should submit. How can the bishop ask a 
man of his age to turn schoolmaster to a pack of children?'
'Out of the question,' said Mr Slope, laughing slightly; 'of 
course no such demand shall be made on your father. I can at 
any rate promise you that I will not be the medium of any so 
absurd a requisition. We wished your father to preach in the 
hospital, as the inmates may naturally be too old to leave 
it; but even that shall not be insisted on. We wished also 
to attach a Sabbath-day school to the hospital, thinking 
that such an establishment could not but be useful under the 
surveillance of so good a clergyman as Mr Harding, and also 
under your own. But, dear Mrs Bold; we won't talk of these 
things now. One thing is clear; we must do what we can to 
annul this rash offer the bishop has made to Mr Quiverful. 
Your father wouldn't see Quiverful, would he? Quiverful is 
an honourable man, and would not, for a moment, stand in 
your father's way.'
'What?' said Eleanor; 'ask a man with fourteen children to 
give up his preferment! I am quite sure he will do no such 
thing.'
'I suppose not,' said Slope; and he again drew near to Mrs 
Bold, so that now they were very close to each other. 
Eleanor did not think much about it, but instinctively moved 
away a little. How greatly would she have increased the 
distance could she have guessed what had been said about her 
at Plumstead! 'I suppose not. But it is out of the question 
that Quiverful should supersede your father - quite out of 
the question. The bishop has been too rash. An idea occurs 
to me, which may, perhaps, with God's blessing, put us 
right. My dear Mrs Bold, would you object to seeing the 
bishop yourself?'
'Why should not my father see him?' said Eleanor. She had 
once before in her life interfered in her father's affairs, 
and then not to much advantage. She was older now, and felt 
that she should take no step in a matter so vital to him 
without his consent.
'Why, to tell the truth,' said Mr Slope, with a look of 
sorrow, as though he greatly bewailed the want of charity in 
his patron, 'the bishop fancies that he has cause of anger 
against your father. I fear an interview would lead to 
further ill-will.'
'Why,' said Eleanor, 'my father is the mildest, the gentlest 
man living.'
'I only know,' said Slope, 'that he has the best of 
daughters. So you would not see the bishop? As to getting an 
interview, I could manage that for you without the slightest 
annoyance to yourself.'
'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 
sympathise 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 shell be Cock of the Walk?

All this time things were going on somewhat uneasily at the 
A 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 saying 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 despatch, he began to turn over in 
his mind what step he should next take.
Tomorrow 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 mersed 
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 for ever. 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 for ever 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 dotted 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 battle-field; 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 judgment 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 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.'
An angry spot showed itself on Mr Slope's cheeks, and it was 
with difficulty that he controlled himself. But he did do 
so, and sat quite silent while the lady went on.
'It is the fault of many young men in your position, and 
therefore the bishop is not inclined at present to resent 
it. You will, no doubt, soon learn what is required from 
you, and what is not. If you will take my advice, however, 
you will be careful not to obtrude advice upon the bishop in 
any matter touching patronage. If his lordship wants advice, 
he knows where to look for it.' And then having added to her 
counsel a string of platitudes as to what was desirable and 
what not desirable in the conduct of a strictly evangelical, 
unmarried young clergyman, Mrs Proudie retreated, leaving 
the chaplain to his thoughts.
The upshot of his thoughts was this, that there certainly 
was not room in the diocese for the energies of both himself 
and Mrs Proudie, and that it behoved him quickly to 
ascertain whether his energies or hers were to prevail.


Chapter 18

The Widow's Persecution

Early on the following morning Mr Slope was summoned to the 
bishop's dressing-room, and went there fully expecting that 
he should find his lordship very indignant, and spirited up 
by his wife to repeat the rebuke which she had administered 
on the previous day. Mr Slope had resolved that at any rate 
from him he would not stand it, and entered the dressing-
room in rather a combative disposition; but he found the 
bishop in the most placid and gentlest of humours. His 
lordship complained of being rather unwell, had a slight 
headache, and was not quite the thing in his stomach; but 
there was nothing the matter with his temper.
'Oh, Slope,' said he, taking the chaplain's proffered hand, 
'Archdeacon Grantly is to call on me this morning, and I 
really am not fit to see him. I fear I must trouble you, to 
see him for me '; and then Dr Proudie proceeded to explain 
what it was that must be said to Dr Grantly. He was to be 
told in fact in the civilest words in which the tidings 
could be conveyed, that Mr Harding having refused the 
wardenship, the appointment had been offered to Mr Quiverful 
and accepted by him.
Mr Slope again pointed out to his patron that he thought he 
was perhaps not quite wise in his decision, and this he did 
sotto voce. But even with this precaution it was not safe to 
say much, and during the little that he did say, the bishop 
made a very slight, but still a very ominous gesture with 
his thumb towards the door which opened from his dressing-
room to some inner sanctuary. Mr Slope at once took the 
hint, and said no more; but he perceived that there was to 
be confidence between him and his patron, that the league 
desired by him was to be made, and that this appointment of 
Mr Quiverful was to be the last sacrifice offered on the 
altar of conjugal obedience. All this Mr Slope read in the 
slight motion of the bishop's thumb, and he read it 
correctly. There was no need of parchments and seals, of 
attestations, explanations, and professions. The bargain was 
understood between them, and Mr Slope gave the bishop his 
hand upon it. The bishop understood the little extra 
squeeze, and an intelligible gleam of assent twinkled in his 
eye.
'Pray be civil to the archdeacon, Mr Slope,' said he out 
loud; 'but make him quite understand that in this matter Mr 
Harding has put it out of my power to oblige him.'
It would be a calumny on Mrs Proudie to suggest that she was 
sitting in her bedroom with her ear at the keyhole during 
this interview. She had within her a spirit of decorum which 
prevented her from descending to such baseness. To put her 
ear to a keyhole or to listen at a chink, was a trick for a 
housemaid.
Mrs Proudie knew this, and therefore she did not do it; but 
she stationed herself as near to the door as she well could, 
that she might, if possible, get the advantage which the 
housemaid would have had, without descending to the 
housemaid's artifice.
It was little, however, that she heard, and that little was 
only sufficient to deceive her. She saw nothing of that 
friendly pressure, perceived nothing of that concluded 
bargain; she did not even dream of the treacherous resolves 
which those two false men had made together to upset her in 
the pride of her station, to dash the cup from her lip 
before she had drank of it, to sweep away all her power 
before she had tasted its sweets! Traitors that they were; 
the husband of her bosom, and the outcast whom she had 
fostered and brought to the warmth of the world's brightest 
fireside! But neither of them had the magnanimity of this 
woman. Though two men have thus leagued themselves together 
against her, even yet the battle is not lost.
Mr Slope felt pretty sure that Dr Grantly would decline the 
honour of seeing him, and such turned out to be the case. 
The archdeacon, when the palace door was opened to him, was 
greeted by a note. Mr Slope presented his compliments, etc. 
etc. The bishop was ill in his room, and very greatly 
regretted, etc. etc. Mr Slope had been charged with the 
bishop's views, and if agreeable to the archdeacon, would do 
himself the honour, etc. etc. The archdeacon, however, was not 
agreeable, and having read his note in the hall, crumpled it 
up in his hand, and muttered something about sorrow for his 
lordship's illness, took his leave, without sending as much 
as a verbal message in answer to Mr Slope's note.
'Ill!' said the archdeacon to himself as he flung himself 
into his brougham. 'The man is absolutely a coward. He is 
afraid to see me. Ill, indeed!' The archdeacon was never ill 
himself, and did not therefore understand that anyone else 
could in truth be prevented by illness from keeping an 
appointment. He regarded all such excuses as subterfuges, 
and in the present instance he was not far wrong.
Dr Grantly desired to be driven to his father-in-law's 
lodgings in the High Street, and hearing from the servant 
that Mr Harding was at his daughter's, followed him to Mrs 
Bold's house, and there found him. The archdeacon was fuming 
with rage when he got into the drawing-room, and had by this 
time nearly forgotten the pusillanimity of the bishop in the 
villainy of the chaplain.
'Look at that,' said he, throwing Mr Slope's crumpled note 
to Mr Harding. 'I am to be told that if I choose I may have 
the honour of seeing Mr Slope, and that, too, after a 
positive engagement with the bishop.'
'But he says the bishop is ill,' said Mr Harding.
'Pshaw! You don't mean to say that you are deceived by such 
an excuse as that. He was well enough yesterday. Now I tell 
you what, I will see the bishop; and I will tell him also 
very plainly what I think of his conduct. I will see him, or 
else Barchester will soon be too hot to hold him.'
Eleanor was sitting in the room, but Dr Grantly had hardly 
noticed her in his anger. Eleanor now said to him, with the 
greatest innocence, 'I wish you had seen Mr Slope, Dr 
Grantly, because I think perhaps it might have done good.'
The archdeacon turned on her with almost brutal wrath. Had 
she at once owned that she had accepted Mr Slope for her 
second husband, he could hardly have felt more convinced of 
her belonging body and soul to the Slope and Proudie party 
than he now did on hearing her express such a wish as this. 
Poor Eleanor!
'See him!' said the archdeacon glaring at her; 'and why am I 
to be called on to lower myself in the world's esteem and my 
own by coming in contact with such a man as that? I have 
hitherto lived among gentlemen, and do not mean to be 
dragged into other company by anybody.'
Poor Mr Harding well knew what the archdeacon meant, but 
Eleanor was as innocent as her own baby. She could not 
understand how the archdeacon could consider himself to be 
dragged into bad company by condescending to speak to Mr 
Slope for a few minutes when the interests of her father 
might be served by his doing so.
'I was talking for a full hour yesterday to Mr Slope,' said 
she, with some little assumption of dignity, 'and I did not 
find myself lowered by it.'
'Perhaps not,' said he. 'But if you'll be good enough to 
allow me, I shall judge for myself in such matters. And I 
tell you what, Eleanor; it will be much better for you if 
you will allow yourself to be guided also by the advice of 
those who are your friends. If you do not you will be apt to 
find that you have no friends left who can advise you.'
Eleanor blushed up to the roots of her hair. But even now 
she had not the slightest idea of what was passing in the 
archdeacon's mind. No thought of love-making or love-
receiving had yet found its way to her heart since the death 
of poor John Bold; and if it were possible that such a 
thought should spring there, the man must be far different 
from Mr Slope that could give it birth.
Nevertheless Eleanor blushed deeply, for she felt she was 
charged with improper conduct, and she did so with the more 
inward pain because her father did not instantly rally to 
her side; that father for whose sake and love she had 
submitted to be the receptacle of Mr Slope's confidence. She 
had given a detailed account of all that had passed to her 
father; and though he had not absolutely agreed with her 
about Mr Slope's views touching the hospital, yet he had 
said nothing to make her think that she had been wrong in 
talking to him.
She was far too angry to humble herself before her brother-
in-law. Indeed, she had never accustomed herself to be very 
abject before him, and they had never been confidential 
allies. 'I do not the least understand what you mean, Dr 
Grantly,' said she. 'I do not know that I can accuse myself 
of doing anything that my friends should disapprove. Mr 
Slope called here expressly to ask what papa's wishes were 
about the hospital; and as I believe he called with friendly 
intentions I told him.'
'Friendly intentions!' sneered the archdeacon.
'I believe you greatly wrong Mr Slope,' continued Eleanor; 
'but I have explained this to papa already; and as you do 
not seem to approve of what I say, Dr Grantly, I will with 
your permission leave you and papa together,' and so saying 
she walked slowly out of the room.
All this made Mr Harding very unhappy. It was quite clear 
that the archdeacon and his wife had made up their minds 
that Eleanor was going to marry Mr Slope. Mr Harding could 
not really bring himself to think that she would do so, but 
yet he could not deny that circumstances made it appear that 
the man's company was not disagreeable to her. She was now 
constantly seeing him, and yet she received visits from no 
other unmarried gentleman. She always took his part when his 
conduct was canvassed, although she was aware how personally 
objectionable he was to her friends. Then, again, Mr Harding 
felt that if she should choose to become Mrs Slope, he had 
nothing that he could justly urge against her doing so. She 
had full right to please herself, and he, as a father, could 
not say that she would disgrace herself by marrying a 
clergyman who stood so well before the world as Mr Slope 
did. As for quarrelling with his daughter on account of such 
a marriage, and separating himself from her as the 
archdeacon had threatened to do, that, with Mr Harding, 
would be out of the question. If she should determine to 
marry this man, he must get over his aversion as best he 
could. His Eleanor, his own old companion in their old happy 
home, must still be the friend of his bosom, the child of 
his heart. Let who would cast her off, he would not. If it 
were fated that he should have to sit in his old age at the 
same table with that man whom of all men he disliked the 
most, he would meet his fate as best he might. Anything to 
him would be preferable to the loss of his daughter.
Such being his feelings, he hardly knew how to take part 
with Eleanor against the archdeacon, or with the archdeacon 
against Eleanor. It will be said that he should never have 
suspected her. Alas! he never should have done so. But Mr 
Harding was by no means a perfect character. In his 
indecision, his weakness, his proneness to be led by others, 
his want of self-confidence, he was very far from being 
perfect. And then it must be remembered that such a marriage 
as that which the archdeacon contemplated with disgust, 
which we who know Mr Slope so well would regard with equal 
disgust, did not appear so monstrous to Mr Harding, because 
in his charity he did not hate the chaplain as the 
archdeacon did, and as we do.
He was, however, very unhappy when his daughter left the 
room, and he had recourse to an old trick of his that was 
customary to him in his times of sadness. He began playing 
some slow tune upon an imaginary violoncello, drawing one 
hand slowly backwards and forwards as though he held a bow 
in it, and modulating the unreal chords with the other.
'She'll marry that man as sure as two and two make four,' 
said the practical archdeacon.
'I hope not, I hope not,' said the father. 'But if she does, 
what can I say to her? I have no right to object to him.'
'No right!' exclaimed Dr Grantly. 
'No right as her father. He is in my own profession, and for 
aught we know a good man.'
To this the archdeacon would by no means assent. It was not 
well, however, to argue the case against Eleanor in her own 
drawing-room, and so they both walked forth and discussed 
the matter in all its bearings under the elm trees of the 
close. Mr Harding also explained to his son-in-law what had 
been the purport, at any rate the alleged purport, of Mr 
Slope's last visit to the widow. He, however, stated that he 
could not bring himself to believe that Mr Slope had any 
real anxiety such as that he had pretended. 'I cannot forget 
his demeanour to myself,' said Mr Harding, 'and it is not 
possible that his ideas should have changed so soon.'
'I see it all,' said the archdeacon. 'The sly tarfufe! He 
thinks to buy the daughter by providing for the father. He 
means to show how powerful he is, how good he is, and how 
much he is willing to do for her beaux yeux; yes, I see it 
all now. But we'll be too many for him yet, Mr Harding,' he 
said, turning to his companion with some gravity, and 
pressing his hand upon the other's arm. 'It would, perhaps, 
be better for you to lose the hospital than get it on such 
terms.'
'Lose it!' said Mr Harding; 'why, I've lost it already. I 
don't want it. I've made up my mind to do without it. I'll 
withdraw altogether. I'll just go and write a line to the 
bishop and tell him that I withdraw my claim altogether.'
Nothing would have pleased him better than to be allowed to 
escape from the trouble and difficulty in such a manner. But 
he was now going too fast for the archdeacon.
'No - no - no! we'll do no such thing,' said Dr Grantly; 
'we'll still have the hospital. I hardly doubt but that 
we'll have it. But not by Mr Slope's assistance. If that be 
necessary we'll lose it; but we'll have it, spite of his 
teeth, if we can. Arabin will be at Plumstead tomorrow; you 
must come over and talk to him.'
The two now turned into the cathedral library, which was 
used by the clergymen of the close as a sort of 
ecclesiastical clubroom, for writing sermons and sometimes 
letters; also for reading theological works, and sometimes 
magazines and newspapers. The theological works were not 
disturbed, perhaps, quite as often as from the appearance of 
the building the outside public might have been led to 
expect. Here the two allies settled on their course of 
action. The archdeacon wrote a letter to the bishop, 
strongly worded, but still respectful, in which he put 
forward his father-in-law's claim to the appointment, and 
expressed his own regret that he had not been able to see 
his lordship when he called. Of Mr Slope he made no mention 
whatsoever. It was then settled that Mr Harding should go 
out to Plumstead on the following day; and after 
considerable discussion on the matter, the archdeacon 
proposed to ask Eleanor there also, so as to withdraw her, 
if possible, from Mr Slope's attentions. 'A week or two,' 
said he, 'may teach her what he is, and while she is there 
she will be out of harm's way. Mr Slope won't come there 
after her.'
Eleanor was not a little surprised when her brother-in-law 
came back and very civilly pressed her to go out to 
Plumstead with her father. She instantly perceived that her 
father had been fighting her battles for her behind her 
back. She felt thankful to him, and for his sake she would 
not show her resentment to the archdeacon by refusing his 
invitation. But she could not, she said, go on the morrow; 
she had an invitation to drink tea at the Stanhopes which 
she had promised to accept. She would, she added, go with 
her father on the next day, if he would wait; or she would 
follow him.
'The Stanhopes!' said Dr Grantly; 'I did not know you were 
so intimate with them.'
'I did not know it myself,' said she, 'till Miss Stanhope 
called yesterday. However, I like her very much, and I have 
promised to go and play chess with some of them.'
'Have they a party there?' said the archdeacon, still 
fearful of Mr Slope.
'Oh, no,' said Eleanor; 'Miss Stanhope said there was to be 
nobody at all. But she had heard that Mary had left me for a 
few weeks, and she had learnt from someone that I play 
chess, and so she came over on purpose to ask me to go in.'
'Well, that's very friendly,' said the ex-warden. 'They 
certainly do look more like foreigners than English people, 
but I dare say they are none the worse for that.'
The archdeacon was inclined to look upon the Stanhopes with 
favourable eyes, and had nothing to object on the matter. It 
was therefore arranged that Mr Harding should postpone his 
visit to Plumstead for one day, and then take with him 
Eleanor, the baby, and the nurse.
Mr Slope is certainly becoming of some importance in 
Barchester.


Chapter 19

Barchester by Moonlight

There was much cause for grief and occasional perturbation 
of spirits in the Stanhope family, but yet they rarely 
seemed to be grieved or to be disturbed. It was the peculiar 
gift of each of them that each was able to bear his or her 
own burden without complaint, and perhaps without sympathy. 
They habitually looked on the sunny side of the wall, if 
there was a gleam on either side for them to look at; and, 
if there was none, they endured the shade with an 
indifference which, if not stoical, answered the end at 
which the Stoics aimed. Old Stanhope could not but feel that 
he had ill-performed his duties as a father and a clergyman; 
and could hardly look forward to his own death without grief 
at the position in which he would leave his family. His 
income for many years had been as high as £3000 a year, and 
yet they had among them no other provision than their 
mother's fortune of £10,000. He had not only spent his 
income, but was in debt. Yet with all this, he seldom showed 
much outward sign of trouble.
It was the same with the mother. If she added little to the 
pleasures of her children she detracted still less: she 
neither grumbled at her lot, nor spoke much of her past or 
future sufferings; as long as she had a maid to adjust her 
dress, and had those dresses well made, nature with her was 
satisfied. It was the same with the children. Charlotte 
never rebuked her father with the prospect of their future 
poverty, nor did it seem to grieve her that she was becoming 
an old maid so quickly; her temper was rarely ruffled, and, 
if we might judge by her appearance, she was always happy. 
The signora was not so sweet-tempered, but she possessed 
much enduring courage; she seldom complained - never, 
indeed, to her family. Though she had a cause for affliction 
which would have utterly broken down the heart of most women 
as beautiful as she and as devoid of all religious support, 
yet she bore her suffering in silence, or alluded to it only 
to elicit the sympathy and stimulate the admiration of the 
men with whom she flirted. As to Bertie, one would have 
imagined from the sound of his voice and the gleam of his 
eye that he had not a sorrow nor a care in the world. Nor 
had he. He was incapable of anticipating tomorrow's griefs. 
The prospect of future want no more disturbed his appetite 
than does that of the butcher's knife disturb the appetite 
of the sheep.
Such was the usual tenour of their way; but there were rare 
exceptions. Occasionally the father would allow an angry 
glance to fall from his eye, and the lion would send forth a 
low dangerous roar as though he meditated some deed of 
blood. Occasionally also Madame Neroni would become bitter 
against mankind, more than usually antagonistic to the 
world's decencies, and would seem as though she was about to 
break from her moorings and allow herself to be carried 
forth by the tide of her feelings to utter ruin and 
shipwreck. She, however, like the rest of them, had no real 
feelings, could feel no true passion. In that was her 
security. Before she resolved on any contemplated escapade 
she would make a small calculation, and generally summed up 
that the Stanhope villa or even Barchester close was better 
than the world at large.
They were most irregular in their hours. The father was 
generally the earliest in the breakfast-parlour, and 
Charlotte would soon follow and give him his coffee; but the 
others breakfasted anywhere, anyhow, and at any time. On the 
morning after the archdeacon's futile visit to the palace, 
Dr Stanhope came downstairs with an ominously dark look 
about his eyebrows; his white locks were rougher than usual, 
and he breathed thickly and loudly as he took his seat in 
his arm-chair. He had open letters in his hand, and when 
Charlotte came into the room he was still reading them. She 
went up and kissed him as was her wont, but he hardly 
noticed her as she did so, and she knew at once that 
something was the matter.
'What's the meaning of that?' said he, throwing over the 
table a letter with a Milan post-mark. Charlotte was a 
little frightened as she took it up, but her mind was 
relieved when she saw that it was merely the bill of their 
Italian milliner. The sum total was certainly large, but not 
so large as to create an important row.
'It's for our clothes, papa, for six months before we came 
here. The three of us can't dress for nothing, you know.'
'Nothing, indeed!' said he, looking at the figures, which in 
Milanese denominations were certainly monstrous.
'The man should have sent it to me,' said Charlotte.
'I wish he had with all my heart - if you would have paid 
it. I see enough in it, to know that three quarters of it 
are for Madeline.'
'She has little else to amuse her, sir,' said Charlotte with 
true good nature.
'And I suppose he has nothing else to amuse him,' said the 
doctor, throwing over another letter to his daughter. It was 
from some member of the family of Sidonia, and politely 
requested the father to pay a small trifle Of £700, being 
the amount of a bill discounted in favour of Mr Ethelbert 
Stanhope, and now overdue for a period of nine months.
Charlotte read the letter, slowly folded it up, and put it 
under the edge of the tea-tray.
'I suppose he has nothing to amuse him but discounting bills 
with Jews. Does he think I'll pay that?'
'I am sure he thinks no such thing,' said she.
'And who does he think will pay it?'
'As far as honesty goes I suppose it won't much matter if it 
is never paid,' said she. 'I dare say he got very little of 
it.'
'I suppose it won't much matter either,' said the father, 
'if he goes to prison and rots there. It seems to me that 
that's the other alternative.'
Dr Stanhope spoke of the custom of his youth. But his 
daughter, though she had lived so long abroad, was much more 
completely versed in the ways of the English world. 'If the 
man arrests him,' said she, 'he must go through the court.'
It is thus, thou great family of Sidonia - it is thus that 
we Gentiles treat thee, when, in our extremest need, thou 
and thine have aided us with mountains of gold as big as 
lions - and occasionally with wine - warrants and orders for 
dozens of dressing-cases.
'What, and become an insolvent?' said the doctor.
'He's that already,' said Charlotte, wishing always to get 
over a difficulty.
'What a condition,' said the doctor, 'for the son of a 
clergyman of the Church of England.'
'I don't see why clergymen's sons should pay their debts 
more than other young men,' said Charlotte.
'He's had as much from me since he left school as is held 
sufficient for the eldest son of many a nobleman,' said the 
angry father.
'Well, sir,' said Charlotte, 'give him another chance.'
'What!' said the doctor, 'do you mean that I am to pay that 
Jew?'
'Oh no! I wouldn't pay him, he must take his chance; and if 
the worst comes to the worst, Bertie must go abroad. But I 
want you to be civil to Bertie, and let him remain here as 
long as we stop. He has a plan in his head, that may put him 
on his feet after all.'
'Has he any plan for following up his profession?'
'Oh, he'll do that too; but that must follow. He's thinking 
of getting married.'
Just at that moment the door opened, and Bertie came in 
whistling. The doctor immediately devoted himself to his 
egg, and allowed Bertie to whistle himself round to his 
sister's side without noticing him.
Charlotte gave a sign to him with her eye, first glancing at 
her father, and then at the letter, the corner of which 
peeped out from under the tea-tray. Bertie saw and 
understood, and with the quiet motion of a cat abstracted 
the letter, and made himself acquainted with its contents. 
The doctor, however, had seen him, deep as he appeared to be 
mersed in his egg-shell, and said in his harshest voice, 
'Well, sir, do you know that gentleman?'
'Yes, sir,' said Bertie. 'I have a sort of acquaintance with 
him, but none that can justify him in troubling you. If you 
will allow me, sir, I will answer this.'
'At any rate I sha'n't,' said the father, and then he added, 
after a pause, 'Is it true, sir, that you owe the man £700?'
'Well,' said Bertie, 'I think I should be inclined to 
dispute the amount, if I were in a condition to pay him such 
of it as I really do owe him.'
'Has he your bill for £700?' said the father, speaking very 
loudly and very angrily.
'Well, I believe he has,' said Bertie; 'but all the money I 
ever got from him was £I50.'
'And what became of the £500?'
'Why, sir; the commission was £100 or so, and I took the 
remainder in paving-stones and rocking-horses.'
'Paving-stones and rocking-horses!' said the doctor, 'where 
are they?'
'Oh, sir, I suppose they are in London somewhere - but I'll 
inquire if you wish for them.'
'He's an idiot,' said the doctor, 'and it's sheer folly to 
waste more money on him. Nothing can save him from ruin,' 
and so saying, the unhappy father walked out of the room.
'Would the governor like to have the paving-stones?' said 
Bertie to his sister.
'I'll tell you what,' said she. 'If you don't take care, you 
will find yourself loose upon the world without even a house 
over your head: you don't know him as well as I do. He's 
very angry.'
Bertie stroked his big beard, sipped his tea, chatted over 
his misfortunes in a half-comic, half-serious tone, and 
ended by promising his sister that he would do his very best 
to make himself agreeable to the widow Bold. Then Charlotte 
followed her father to his own room and softened down his 
wrath, and persuaded him to say nothing more about the Jew 
bill discounter, at any rate for a few weeks. He even went 
so far as to say he would pay the £700, or at any rate 
settle the bill, if he saw a certainty of his son's securing 
for himself anything like a decent provision in life. 
Nothing was said openly between them about poor Eleanor: but 
the father and the daughter understood each other.
They all met together in the drawing-room at nine o'clock, 
in perfect good humour with each other; and about that hour 
Mrs Bold was announced. She had never been in the house 
before, though she had of course called; and now she felt it 
strange to find herself there in her usual evening-dress, 
entering the drawing-room of these strangers in this 
friendly unceremonious way, as though she had known them all 
her life. But in three minutes they made her at home. 
Charlotte tripped downstairs and took her bonnet from her, 
and Bertie came to relieve her from her shawl, and the 
signora smiled on her as she could smile when she chose to 
be gracious, and the old doctor shook hands with her in a 
kind benedictory manner that went to her heart at once, and 
made her feel that he must be a good man.
She had not been seated for above five minutes when the door 
again opened, and Mr Slope was announced. She felt rather 
surprised, because she was told that nobody was to be there, 
and it was very evident from the manner of some of them, 
that Mr Slope was unexpected. But still there was not much 
in it. In such invitations a bachelor or two more or less 
are always spoken of as nobodies, and there was no reason 
why Mr Slope should not drink tea at Dr Stanhope's as well 
as Eleanor herself. He, however, was very much surprised and 
not very much gratified at finding that his own embryo 
spouse made one of the party. He had come there to gratify 
himself by gazing on Madame Neroni's beauty, and listening 
to and returning her flattery: and though he had not owned 
as much to himself he still felt that if he spent the 
evening as he had intended to do, he might probably not 
thereby advance his suit with Mrs Bold.
The signora, who had no idea of a rival, received Mr Slope 
with her usual marks of distinction. As he took her hand, 
she made some confidential communication to him in a low 
voice, declaring that she had a plan to communicate to him 
after tea, and was evidently prepared to go on with her work 
of reducing the chaplain to a state of captivity. Poor Mr 
Slope was rather beside himself. He thought that Eleanor 
could not but have learnt from his demeanour that he was an 
admirer of her own, and he had also flattered himself that 
the idea was not unacceptable to her. What would she think 
of him if he now devoted himself to a married woman!
But Eleanor was not inclined to be severe in her criticisms 
on him in this respect, and felt no annoyance of any kind 
when she found herself seated between Bertie and Charlotte 
Stanhope. She had no suspicion of Mr Slope's intentions; she 
had no suspicion even of the suspicion of other people; but 
still she felt well-pleased not to have Mr Slope too near to 
her.
And she was not ill-pleased to have Bertie Stanhope near 
her. It was rarely indeed that he failed to make an 
agreeable impression on strangers. With a bishop indeed who 
thought much of his own dignity it was possible that he 
might fail, but hardly with a young and pretty woman. He 
possessed the tact of becoming instantly intimate with women 
without giving rise to any fear of impertinence. He had 
about him somewhat of the propensities of a tame cat. It 
seemed quite natural that he should be petted, caressed, and 
treated with familiar good nature, and that in return he 
should purr, and be sleek and graceful, and above all never 
show his claws. Like other tame cats, however, he had his 
claws, and sometimes made them dangerous.
When tea was over Charlotte went to the open window and 
declared loudly that the full harvest moon was much too 
beautiful to be disregarded, and called them all to look at 
it. To tell the truth, there was but one there who cared 
much about the moon's beauty, and that one was not 
Charlotte; but she knew how valuable an aid to her purpose 
the chaste goddess might become, and could easily create a 
little enthusiasm for the purpose of the moment. Eleanor and 
Bertie were soon with her. The doctor was now quiet in his 
arm-chair, and Mrs Stanhope in hers, both prepared for 
slumber.
'Are you a Whewellite or a Brewsterite, or a t'othermanite, 
Mrs Bold?' said Charlotte, who knew a little about 
everything, and had read about a third of each of the books 
to which she alluded.
'Oh!' said Eleanor; 'I have not read any of the books, but I 
feel sure that there is one man in the moon at least, if not 
more.'
'You don't believe in the pulpy gelatinous matter?' said 
Bertie.
'I heard about that,' said Eleanor; 'and I really think it's 
almost wicked to talk in such a manner. How can we argue 
about God's power in the other stars from the laws which he 
has given for our rule in this one?'
'How indeed!' said Bertie. 'Why shouldn't there be a race of 
salamanders in Venus? and even if there be nothing but fish 
in Jupiter, why shouldn't the fish there be as wide awake as 
the men and women here?'
'That would be saying very little for them,' said Charlotte. 
'I am for Dr Whewell myself; for I do not think that men and 
women are worth being repeated in such countless worlds. 
There may be souls in other stars, but I doubt their having 
any bodies attached to them. But come, Mrs Bold, let us put 
our bonnets on and walk round the close. If we are to 
discuss sidereal questions, we shall do so much better under 
the towers of the cathedral, than stuck in this narrow 
window.'
Mrs Bold made no objection, and a party was made to walk 
out. Charlotte Stanhope well knew the rule as to three being 
no company, and she had therefore to induce her sister to 
allow Mr Slope to accompany them.
'Come, Mr Slope,' she said; 'I'm sure you'll join us. We 
shall be in again in a quarter of an hour, Madeline.'
Madeline read in her eye all that she had to say, knew her 
object, and as she had to depend on her sister for so many 
of her amusements, she felt that she must yield. It was hard 
to be left alone while others of her own age walked out to 
feel the soft influence of the bright night, but it would be 
harder still to be without the sort of sanction which 
Charlotte gave to all her flirtations and intrigues. 
Charlotte's eye told her that she must give up just at 
present for the good of the family, and so Madeline obeyed.
But Charlotte's eyes said nothing of the sort to Mr Slope. 
He had no objection at all to the tete-a-tete with the 
signora, which the departure of the other three would allow 
him, and gently whispered to her, 'I shall not leave you 
alone.'
'Oh, yes,' said she; 'go - pray go, pray go, for my sake. Do 
not think that I am so selfish. It is understood that nobody 
is kept within for me. You will understand this too when you 
know me better. Pray join them, Mr Slope, but when you come 
in speak to me for five minutes before you leave us.'
Mr Slope understood that he was to go, and he therefore 
joined the party in the hall. He would have had no objection 
at all to this arrangement, if he could have secured Mrs 
Bold's arm; but this of course was out of the question. 
Indeed, his fate was very soon settled, for no sooner had he 
reached the hall-door than Miss Stanhope put her hand within 
his arm, and Bertie walked off with Eleanor just as 
naturally as though she were already his own property.
And so they sauntered forth: first they walked round the 
close, according to their avowed intent; then they went 
under the old arched gateway below St Cuthbert's little 
church, and then they turned behind the grounds of the 
bishop's palace, and so on till they came to the bridge just 
at the edge of the town, from which passers-by can look down 
into the gardens of Hiram's Hospital; and here Charlotte and 
Mr Slope, who were in advance, stopped till the other two 
came up to them. Mr Slope knew that the gable-ends and old 
brick chimneys which stood up so prettily in the moonlight 
were those of Mr Harding's late abode, and would not have 
stopped on such a spot, in such company, if he could have 
avoided it; but Miss Stanhope would not take the hint which 
he tried to give.
'This is a very pretty place, Mrs Bold,' said Charlotte; 'by 
far the prettiest place near Barchester. I wonder your 
father gave it up.'
It was a very pretty place, and now by the deceitful light 
of the moon looked twice larger, twice prettier, twice more 
antiquely picturesque than it would have done in truth-
telling daylight. Who does not know the air of complex 
multiplicity and the mysterious interesting grace which the 
moon always lends to old gabled buildings half surrounded, 
as was the hospital, by fine trees! As seen from the bridge 
on the night of which we are speaking, Mr Harding's late 
abode did look very lovely; and though Eleanor did not 
grieve at her father's having left it, she felt at the 
moment an intense wish that he might be allowed to return.
'He is going to return to it almost immediately, is he not?' 
asked Bertie.
Eleanor made no immediate reply. Many such a question passes 
unanswered, without the notice of the questioner; but such 
was not now the case. They all remained silent as though 
expecting her to reply, and after a moment or two, Charlotte 
said, 'I believe it is settled that Mr Harding returns to 
the hospital, is it not?'
'I don't think anything about it is settled yet,' said 
Eleanor.
'But it must be a matter of course,' said Bertie; 'that is, 
if your father wishes it; who else on earth could hold it 
after what has occurred?'
Eleanor quietly made her companion understand that the 
matter was one which she could not discuss in the present 
company; and then they passed on; Charlotte said she would 
go a short way up the hill out of the town so as to look 
back upon the towers of the cathedral, and as Eleanor leant 
upon Bertie's arm for assistance in the walk, she told him 
how the matter stood between her father and the bishop.
'And, he,' said Bertie, pointing on to Mr Slope, 'what part 
does he take in it?'
Eleanor explained how Mr Slope had at first endeavoured to 
tyrannise over her father, but how he had latterly come 
round, and done all he could to talk the bishop over in Mr 
Harding's favour. 'But my father,' said she, 'is hardly 
inclined to trust him; they all say he is so arrogant to the 
old clergymen of the city.'
'Take my word for it,' said Bertie, 'your father is right. 
If I am not very much mistaken, that man is both arrogant 
and false.'
They strolled up to the top of the hill, and then returned 
through the fields by a footpath which leads by a small 
wooden bridge, or rather a plank with a rustic rail to it, 
over the river to the other side of the cathedral from that 
at which they had started. They had thus walked round the 
bishop's grounds, through which the river runs, and round 
the cathedral and adjacent fields, and it was past eleven 
before they reached the doctor's door.
'It is very late,' said Eleanor, 'it will be a shame to 
disturb your mother again at such an hour.'
'Oh,' said Charlotte, laughing, 'you won't disturb mamma; I 
dare say she is in bed by this time, and Madeline would be 
furious if you did not come in and see her. Come, Bertie, 
take Mrs Bold's bonnet from her.'
They went upstairs, and found the signora alone, reading. 
She looked somewhat sad and melancholy, but not more so 
perhaps than was sufficient to excite additional interest in 
the bosom of Mr Slope; and she was soon deep in whispered 
intercourse with that happy gentleman, who was allowed to 
find a resting-place on her sofa. The signora had a way of 
whispering that was peculiarly her own, and was exactly the 
reverse of that which prevails among great tragedians. The 
great tragedian hisses out a positive whisper, made with 
bated breath, and produced by inarticulated tongue-formed 
sounds, but yet he is audible through the whole house. The 
signora however used no hisses, and produced all her words 
in a clear silver tone, but they could only be heard by the 
ear into which they were poured.
Charlotte hurried and skurried about the room hither and 
thither, doing, or pretending to do many things; and then 
saying something about seeing her mother, ran upstairs. 
Eleanor was thus left alone with Bertie, and she hardly felt 
an hour fly by her. To give Bertie his due credit, he could 
not have played his cards better. He did not make love to 
her, nor sigh, nor look languishing; but he was amusing and 
familiar, yet respectful; and when he left Eleanor at her 
own door at one o'clock, which he did by the bye with the 
assistance of the now jealous Slope, she thought that he was 
one of the most agreeable men, and the Stanhopes decidedly 
the most agreeable family, that she had ever met.



Chapter 20

Mr Arabin

The Rev. Francis Arabin, fellow of Lazarus, late professor 
of poetry at Oxford, and present vicar of St Ewold, in the 
diocese of Barchester, must now be introduced personally to 
the reader. And as he will fill a conspicuous place in the 
volume, it is desirable that he should be made to stand 
before the reader's eye by the aid of such portraiture as 
the author is able to produce.
It is to be regretted that no mental method of daguerreotype 
or photography has yet been discovered, by which the 
characters of men can be reduced to writing and put into 
grammatical language with an unerring precision of truthful 
description. How often does the novelist feel, ay, and the 
historian also and the biographer, that he has conceived 
within his mind and accurately depicted on the tablet of his 
brain the full character and personage of a man, and that 
nevertheless, when he flies to pen and ink to perpetuate the 
portrait, his words forsake, elude, disappoint, and play the 
deuce with him, till at the end of a dozen pages the man 
described has no more resemblance to the man conceived than 
the signboard at the corner of the street has to the Duke of 
Cambridge?
And yet such mechanical descriptive skill would hardly give 
more satisfaction to the reader than the skill of the 
photographer does to the anxious mother desirous to possess 
an absolute duplicate of her beloved child. The likeness is 
indeed true; but it is a dull, dead, unfeeling, inauspicious 
likeness. The face is indeed there, and those looking at it 
will know at once whose image it is; but the owner of the 
face will not be proud of the resemblance.
There is no royal road to learning; no short cut to the 
acquirement of any valuable art. Let photographers and 
daguerreotypers do what they will, and improve as they may 
with further skill on that which skill has already done, 
they will never achieve a portrait of the human face divine. 
Let biographers, novelists, and the rest of us groan as we 
may under the burdens which we so often feel too heavy for 
our shoulders; we must either bear them up like men, or own 
ourselves too weak for the work we have undertaken. There is 
no way of writing well and also of writing easily.
Labor omnia vincit improbus. Such should be the chosen motto 
of every labourer, and it may be that labour, if adequately 
enduring, may suffice at last to produce even some not 
untrue resemblance of the Rev. Francis Arabin.
Of his doings in the world, and of the sort of fame which he 
has achieved, enough has been already said. It has also been 
said that he is forty years of age, and still unmarried. He 
was the younger son of a country gentleman of small fortune 
in the north of England. At an early age he went to 
Winchester, and was intended by his father for New College; 
but though studious as a boy, he was not studious within the 
prescribed limits; and at the age of eighteen he left school 
with a character for talent, but without a scholarship. All 
that he had obtained, over and above the advantage of his 
character, was a gold medal for English verse, and hence was 
derived a strong presumption on the part of his friends that 
he was destined to add another name to the imperishable list 
of English poets.
From Winchester he went to Oxford, and was entered as a 
commoner at Balliol. Here his special career very soon 
commenced. He utterly eschewed the society of fast men, gave 
no wine parties, kept no horses, rowed no boats, joined no 
rows, and was the pride of his college tutor. Such at least 
was his career till he had taken his littlego; and then he 
commenced a course of action which, though not less 
creditable to himself as a man, was hardly so much to the 
taste of the tutor. He became a member of a vigorous 
debating society, and rendered himself remarkable there for 
humorous energy. Though always in earnest, yet his 
earnestness was always droll. To be true in his ideas, 
unanswerable in his syllogisms, and just in his aspirations 
was not enough for him. He had failed, failed in his own 
opinion as well as that of others when others came to know 
him, if he could not reduce the arguments of his opponents 
to an absurdity, and conquer both by wit and reason. To say 
that his object was ever to raise a laugh, would be most 
untrue. He hated such common and unnecessary evidence of 
satisfaction on the part of his hearers. A joke that 
required to be laughed at was, with him, not worth uttering. 
He could appreciate by a keener sense than that of his ears 
the success of his wit, and would see in the eyes of his 
auditory whether or no he was understood and appreciated.
He had been a religious lad before he left school. That is, 
he had addicted himself to a party in religion, and having 
done so had received that benefit which most men do who 
become partisans in such a cause. We are much too apt to 
look at schism in our church as an unmitigated evil. 
Moderate schism, if there may be such a thing, at any rate 
calls attention to the subject, draws in supporters who 
would otherwise have been inattentive to the matter, and 
teaches men to think upon religion. How great an amount of 
good of this description has followed that movement in the 
Church of England which commenced with the publication of 
Froude's Remains!
As a boy young Arabin took up the cudgels on the side of the 
Tractarians, and at Oxford he sat for a while at the feet of 
the great Newman. To this cause he lent all his faculties. 
For it he concocted verses, for it he made speeches, for it 
he scintillated the brightest sparks of his quiet wit. For 
it he ate and drank and dressed, and had his being. In due 
process of time he took his degree, and wrote himself B.A., 
but he did not do so with any remarkable amount of 
academical eclat. He had occupied himself too much with high-
church matters, and the polemics, politics, and outward 
demonstrations usually concurrent with high-churchmanship, 
to devote himself with sufficient vigour to the acquisition 
of a double first. He was not a double first, nor even a 
first class man; but he revenged himself on the university 
by putting firsts and double firsts out of fashion for the 
year, and laughing down a species of pedantry which at the 
age of twenty-three leaves no room in a man's mind for 
graver subjects than conic sections or Greek accents.
Greek accents, however, and conic sections were esteemed 
necessaries at Balliol, and there was no admittance there 
for Mr Arabin within the list of its fellows. Lazarus, 
however, the richest and most comfortable abode of Oxford 
dons, opened its bosom to the young champion of a church 
militant. Mr Arabin was ordained, and became a fellow soon 
after taking his degree, and shortly after that was chosen 
professor of poetry.
And now came the moment of his great danger. After many 
mental struggles, and an agony of doubt which may be well 
surmised, the great prophet of the Tractarians confessed 
himself a Roman Catholic. Mr Newman left the Church of 
England, and with him carried many a waverer. He did not 
carry off Mr Arabin, but the escape which that gentleman had 
was a very narrow one. He left Oxford for a while that he 
might meditate in complete peace on the step which appeared 
to him to be all but unavoidable, and shut himself up in a 
little village on the seashore of one of our remotest 
counties, that he might learn by communing with his own soul 
whether or no he could with a safe conscience remain within 
the pale of his mother church.
Things would have gone badly with him there had he been left 
entirely to himself. Everything was against him: all his 
worldly interests required him to remain a Protestant; and 
he looked on his worldly interests as a legion of foes, to 
get the better of whom was a point of extremest honour. In 
his then state of ecstatic agony such a conquest would have 
cost him little; he could easily have thrown away all his 
livelihood; but it cost him much to get over the idea that 
by choosing the Church of England he should be open in his 
own mind to the charge that he had been led to such a choice 
by unworthy motives. Then his heart was against him: he 
loved with a strong and eager love the man who had hitherto 
been his guide, and yearned to follow his footsteps. His 
tastes were against him: the ceremonies and pomps of the 
Church of Rome, their august feasts and solemn fasts, 
invited his imagination and pleased his eye. His flesh was 
against him: how great an aid would it be to a poor, weak, 
wavering man to be constrained to high moral duties, self-
denial, obedience, and chastity by laws which were certain 
in their enactments, and not to be broken without loud, 
palpable, unmistakable sin! Then his faith was against him: 
he required to believe so much; panted so eagerly to give 
signs of his belief; deemed it so insufficient to wash 
himself simply in the waters of Jordan; that some great 
deed, such as that of forsaking everything for a true 
church, had for him allurements almost past withstanding.
Mr Arabin was at this time a very young man, and when he 
left Oxford for his far retreat was much too confident in 
his powers of fence, and too apt to look down on the 
ordinary sense of ordinary people, to expect aid in the 
battle that he had to fight from any chance inhabitants of 
the spot which he had selected. But Providence was good to 
him; and there, in that all but desolate place, on the storm-
beat shore of that distant sea, he met one who gradually 
calmed his mind, quieted his imagination, and taught him 
something of a Christian's duty. When Mr Arabin left Oxford, 
he was inclined to look upon the rural clergymen of most 
English parishes almost with contempt. It was his ambition, 
should he remain within the fold of their church, to do 
somewhat towards redeeming and rectifying their inferiority, 
and to assist in infusing energy and faith into the hearts 
of Christian ministers, who were, as he thought, too often 
satisfied to go through life without much show of either.
And yet it was from such a one that Mr Arabin in his 
extremest need received that aid which he so much required. 
It was from the poor curate of a small Cornish parish that 
he first learnt to know that the highest laws for the 
governance of a Christian's duty must act from within and 
not from without; that no man can become a serviceable 
servant solely by obedience to written edicts; and that the 
safety which he was about to seek within the gates of Rome 
was no other than the selfish freedom from personal danger 
which the bad soldier attempts to gain who counterfeits 
illness on the eve of battle.
Mr Arabin returned to Oxford a humbler but a better and a 
happier man; and from that time forth he put his shoulder to 
the wheel as a clergyman of the Church for which he had been 
educated. The intercourse of those among whom he familiarly 
lived kept him staunch to the principles of that system of 
the Church to which he had always belonged. Since his 
severance from Mr Newman, no one had had so strong an 
influence over him as the head of his college. During the 
time of his expected apostacy, Dr Gwynne had not felt much 
predisposition in favour of the young fellow. Though a High 
Churchman himself within moderate limits, Dr Gwynne felt no 
sympathy with men who could not satisfy their faiths with 
the Thirty-nine Articles. He regarded the enthusiasm of such 
as Newman as a state of mind more nearly allied to madness 
than to religion; and when he saw it evinced by very young 
men, was inclined to attribute a good deal of it to vanity. 
Dr Gwynne himself, though a religious man, was also a 
thoroughly practical man of the world, and he regarded with 
no favourable eye the tenets of anyone who looked on the two 
things as incompatible. When he found that Mr Arabin was a 
half Roman, he began to regret all he had done towards 
bestowing a fellowship on so unworthy a recipient; and when 
again he learnt that Mr Arabin would probably complete his 
journey to Rome, he regarded with some satisfaction the fact 
that in such case the fellowship would be again vacant.
When, however, Mr Arabin returned and professed himself a 
Confirmed Protestant, the master of Lazarus again opened his 
arms to him, and gradually he became the pet of the college. 
For some little time he was saturnine, silent, and unwilling 
to take any prominent part in university broils; but 
gradually his mind recovered, or rather made its tone, and 
he became known as a man always ready at a moment's notice 
to take up the cudgels in opposition to anything that 
savoured of an evangelical bearing. He was great in sermons, 
great on platforms, great at after-dinner conversations, and 
always pleasant as well as great. He took delight in 
elections, served on committees, opposed tooth and nail all 
projects of university reform, and talked jovially over his 
glass of port of the ruin to be anticipated by the Church, 
and of the sacrilege daily committed by the Whigs. The 
ordeal through which he had gone, in resisting the 
blandishments of the lady of Rome, had certainly done much 
towards the strengthening of his character. Although in 
small and outward matters he was self-confident enough, 
nevertheless in things affecting the inner man he aimed at a 
humility of spirit which would never have been attractive to 
him but for that visit to the coast of Cornwall. This visit 
he now repeated every year.
Such is an interior view of Mr Arabin at the time when he 
accepted the living of St Ewold. Exteriorly, he was not a 
remarkable person. He was above the middle height, well 
made, and very active. His hair which had been jet black, 
was now tinged with grey, but his face bore no sign of 
years. It would perhaps be wrong to say that he was 
handsome, but his face was, nevertheless, pleasant to look 
upon. The cheek bones were rather too high for beauty, and 
the formation of the forehead too massive and heavy: but the 
eyes, nose, and mouth were perfect. There was a continual 
play of lambent fire about his eyes, which gave promise of 
either pathos or humour whenever he essayed to speak, and 
that promise was rarely broken. There was a gentle play 
about his mouth which declared that his wit never descended 
to sarcasm, and that there was no ill-nature in his 
repartee.
Mr Arabin was a popular man among women, but more so as a 
general than a special favourite. Living as a fellow at 
Oxford, marriage with him had been out of the question, and 
it may be doubted whether he had ever allowed his heart to 
be touched. Though belonging to a Church in which celibacy 
is not the required lot of its ministers, he had come to 
regard himself as one of those clergymen to whom to be a 
bachelor is almost a necessity. He had never looked for 
parochial duty, and his career at Oxford was utter]y 
incompatible with such domestic joys as a wife and nursery. 
He looked upon women, therefore, in the same light that one 
sees them regarded by many Romish priests. He liked to have 
near him that which was pretty and amusing, but women 
generally were little more to him than children. He talked 
to them without putting out all his powers, and listened to 
them without any idea that what he should hear from them 
could either actuate his conduct or influence his opinion.
Such was Mr Arabin, the new vicar of St Ewold, who is going 
to stay with the Grantlys, at Plumstead Episcopi.
Mr Arabin reached Plumstead the day before Mr Harding and 
Eleanor, and the Grantly family were thus enabled to make 
his acquaintance and discuss his qualifications before the 
arrival of the other guests. Griselda was surprised to find 
that he looked so young; but she told Florinda her younger 
sister, when they had retired for the night, that he did not 
talk at all like a young man: and she decided with the 
authority that seventeen has over sixteen, that he was not 
at all nice, although his eyes were lovely. As usual, 
sixteen implicitly acceded to the dictum of seventeen in 
such a matter, and said that he certainly was not nice. They 
then branched off on the relative merits of other clerical 
bachelors in the vicinity, and both determined without any 
feeling of jealousy between them that a certain Rev. 
Augustus Green was by many degrees the most estimable of the 
lot. The gentleman in question had certainly much in his 
favour, as, having a comfortable allowance from his father, 
he could devote the whole proceeds of his curacy to violet 
gloves and unexceptionable neckties. Having thus fixedly 
resolved that the new-comer had nothing about him to shake 
the pre-eminence of the exalted Green, the two girls went to 
sleep in each other's arms, contented with themselves and 
the world.
Mrs Grantly at first sight came to much the same conclusion 
about her husband's favourite as her daughters had done, 
though, in seeking to measure his relative value, she did 
not compare him to Mr Green; indeed, she made no comparison 
by name between him and anyone else; but she remarked to her 
husband that one person's swans were very often another 
person's geese, thereby clearly showing that Mr Arabin had 
not yet proved his qualifications in swanhood to her 
satisfaction.
'Well, Susan,' said he, rather offended at hearing his 
friend spoken of so disrespectfully, 'if you take Mr Arabin 
for a goose, I cannot say that I think very highly of your 
discrimination.'
'A goose! No of course, he's not a goose. I've no doubt he's 
a very clever man. But you're so matter-of-fact, archdeacon, 
when it suits your purpose, that one can't trust oneself to 
any faÁon de parler. I've no doubt Mr Arabin is a very 
valuable man - at Oxford, and that he'll be a good vicar at 
St Ewold. All I mean is, that having passed one evening with 
him, I don't find him to be absolutely a paragon. In the 
first place, if I am not mistaken, he is a little inclined 
to be conceited.'
'Of all the men that I know intimately,' said the 
archdeacon, 'Arabin is, in my opinion, the most free from 
any taint of self-conceit. His fault is that he's too 
diffident.'
'Perhaps so,' said the lady; 'only I must own I did not find 
it out this evening.'
Nothing further was said about him. Dr Grantly thought that 
his wife was abusing Mr Arabin merely because he had praised 
him; and Mrs Grantly knew that it was useless arguing for or 
against any person in favour of or in opposition to whom the 
archdeacon had already pronounced a strong opinion.
In truth they were both right. Mr Arabin was a diffident man 
in social intercourse with those whom he did not intimately 
know, when placed in situations which it was his business to 
fill, and discussing matters with which it was his duty to 
be conversant, Mr Arabin was from habit brazen-faced enough. 
When standing on a platform in Exeter Hall, no man would be 
less mazed than he by the eyes of the crowd before him; for 
such was the work which his profession had called on him to 
perform; but he shrank from a strong expression of opinion 
in general society, and his doing so not uncommonly made it 
appear that he considered the company not worth the trouble 
of his energy. He was averse to dictate when the place did 
not seem to him to justify dictation; and as those subjects 
on which people wished to hear him speak were such as he was 
accustomed to treat with decision, he generally shunned the 
traps there were laid to allure him into discussion, and, by 
doing so, not unfrequently subjected himself to such charges 
as those brought against him by Mrs Grantly.
Mr Arabin, as he sat at his open window, enjoying the 
delicious moonlight and gazing at the grey towers of the 
church, which stood almost within the rectory grounds, 
little dreamed that he was the subject of so many friendly 
or unfriendly criticisms. Considering how much we are all 
given to discuss the characters of others, and discuss them 
often not in the strictest spirit of charity, it is singular 
how little we are inclined to think that others can speak 
ill-naturedly of us, and how angry and hurt we are when 
proof reaches us that they have done so. It is hardly too 
much to say that we all of us occasionally speak of our 
dearest friends in a manner in which those dearest friends 
would very little like to hear themselves mentioned; and 
that we nevertheless expect that our dearest friends shall 
invariably speak of us as though they were blind to all our 
faults, but keenly alive to every shade of our virtues.
It did not occur to Mr Arabin that he was spoken of at all. 
It seemed to him, when he compared himself with his host, 
that he was a person of so little consequence to any, that 
he was worth no one's words or thoughts. He was utterly 
alone in the world as regarded domestic ties and those inner 
familiar relations which are hardly possible between others 
than husbands and wives, parents and children, or brothers 
and sisters. He had often discussed with himself the 
necessity of such bonds for a man's happiness in this world, 
and had generally satisfied himself with the answer that 
happiness in this world is not a necessity. Herein he 
deceived himself, or rather tried to do so. He, like others, 
yearned for the enjoyment of whatever he saw enjoyable; and 
though he attempted, with the modern stoicism of so many 
Christians, to make himself believe that joy and sorrow were 
matters which here should be held as perfectly indifferent, 
these things were not indifferent to him. He was tired of 
his Oxford rooms and his college life. He regarded the wife 
and children of his friend with something like envy; he all 
but coveted the pleasant drawing-room, with its pretty 
windows opening on to lawns and flower-beds, the apparel of 
the comfortable house, and - above all - the air of home 
which encompassed it all.
It will be said that no time can have been so fitted for 
such desires on his part as this, when he had just possessed 
himself of a country parish, of a living among fields and 
gardens, of a house which a wife would grace. It is true 
there was a difference between the opulence of Plumstead and 
the modest economy of St Ewold; but surely Mr Arabin was not 
a man to sigh after wealth! Of all men, his friends would 
have unanimously declared he was the last to do so. But how 
little our friends know us! In his period of stoical 
rejection of this world's happiness, he had cast from him as 
utter dross all anxiety as to fortune. He had, as it were, 
proclaimed himself to be indifferent to promotion, and those 
who chiefly admired his talents, and would mainly have 
exerted themselves to secure to them their deserved reward, 
had taken him at his word. And now, if the truth must out, 
he felt himself disappointed - disappointed not by them but 
by himself. The day-dream of his youth was over, and at the 
age of forty he felt that he was not fit to work in the 
spirit of an apostle. He had mistaken himself, and learned 
his mistake when it was past remedy. He had professed 
himself indifferent to mitres and diaconal residences, to 
rich livings and pleasant glebes, and now he had to own to 
himself that he was sighing for the good things of other 
men, on whom in his pride he had ventured to look down.
Not for wealth, in its vulgar sense, had he ever sighed; not 
for the enjoyment of rich things had he ever longed; but for 
the allotted share of worldly bliss, which a wife, and 
children, and happy home could give him, for that usual 
amount of comfort which he had ventured to reject as 
unnecessary for him, he did now feel that he would have been 
wiser to have searched.
He knew that his talents, his position, and his friends 
would have won for him promotion, had he put himself in the 
way of winning it. Instead of doing so, he had allowed 
himself to be persuaded to accept a living which would give 
him an income of some £300 a year, should he, by marrying, 
throw up his fellowship. Such, at the age of forty, was the 
worldly result of labour, which the world had chosen to 
regard as successful. The world also thought that Mr Arabin 
was, in his own estimation, sufficiently paid. Alas! alas! 
the world was mistaken; and Mr Arabin was beginning to 
ascertain that such was the case.
And here, may I beg the reader not to be hard in his 
judgment upon this man. Is not the state at which he has 
arrived, the natural result of efforts to reach that which 
is not the condition of humanity? Is not modern stoicism, 
built though it be on Christianity, as great an outrage on 
human nature as was the stoicism of the ancients? The 
philosophy of Zeno was built on true laws, but on true laws 
misunderstood, and therefore misapplied. It is the same with 
our Stoics here, who would teach us that wealth and worldly 
comfort and happiness on earth are not worth the search. 
Alas, for a doctrine which can find no believing pupils and 
no true teachers!
The case of Mr Arabin was the more singular, as he belonged 
to a branch of the Church of England well inclined to regard 
its temporalities with avowed favour, and had habitually 
lived with men who were accustomed to much worldly comfort. 
But such was his idiosyncrasy, that these very facts had 
produced within him, in early life, a state of mind that was 
not natural to him. He was content to be a High Churchman, 
if he could be so on principles of his own, and could strike 
out a course showing a marked difference from those with 
whom he consorted. He was ready to be a partisan as long as 
he was allowed to have a course of action and of thought 
unlike that of his party. His party had indulged him, and he 
began to feel that his party was right and himself wrong, 
just when such a conviction was too late to be of service to 
him. He discovered, when such discovery was no longer 
serviceable, that it would have been worth his while to have 
worked for the usual pay assigned to work in this world, and 
have earned a wife and children, with a carriage for them to 
sit in; to have earned a pleasant dining-room, in which his 
friends could drink his wine, and the power of walking up 
the High Street of his country town, with the knowledge that 
all its tradesmen would have gladly welcomed him within 
their doors. Other men arrived at those convictions in their 
start in life, and so worked up to them. To him they had 
come when they were too late to be of use.
It has been said that Mr Arabin was a man of pleasantry and 
it may be thought that such a state of mind as that 
described, would be antagonistic to humour. But surely such 
is not the case. Wit is the outward mental casing of the 
man, and has no more to do with the inner mind of thoughts 
and feelings than have the rich brocaded garments of the 
priest at the altar with the asceticism of the anchorite 
below them, whose skin is tormented with sackcloth, and 
whose body is half flayed with rods. Nay, will not such a 
one often rejoice more than any other in the rich show of 
his outer apparel? Will it not be food for his pride to feel 
that he groans inwardly, while he shines outwardly? So it is 
with the mental efforts which men make. Those which they 
show forth daily to the world are often the opposites of the 
inner workings of the spirit.
In the archdeacon's drawing-room, Mr Arabin had sparkled 
with his usual unaffected brilliancy, but when he retired to 
his bedroom, he sat there sad, at his open window, repining 
within himself that he also had no wife, no bairns, no soft 
sward of lawn duly mown for him to lie on, no herb of 
attendant curates, no bowings from the banker's clerks, no 
rich rectory. That apostleship that he had thought of had 
evaded his grasp, and he was now only vicar of St Ewold's, 
with a taste for a mitre. Truly he had fallen between two 
stools.


Chapter 21

St Ewold's Parsonage

When Mr Harding and Mrs Bold reached the rectory on the 
following morning, the archdeacon and his friend were at St 
Ewold's. They had gone over that the new vicar might inspect 
his church, and be introduced to the squire, and were not 
expected back before dinner. Mr Harding rambled out by 
himself, and strolled, as was his wont at Plumstead, about 
the lawn and round the church; and as he did so, the two 
sisters naturally fell into conversation about Barchester.
There was not much sisterly confidence between them. Mrs 
Grantly was ten years older than Eleanor, and had been 
married while Eleanor was yet a child. They had never, 
therefore, poured into each other's ears their hopes and 
loves; and now that one was a wife and the other a widow, it 
was not probable that they would begin to do so. They lived 
too much asunder to be able to fall into that kind of 
intercourse which makes confidence between sisters almost a 
necessity; and, moreover, that which is so easy at eighteen 
is often very difficult at twenty-eight. Mrs Grantly knew 
this, and did not, therefore, expect confidence from her 
sister; and yet she longed to ask her whether in real truth 
Mr Slope was agreeable to her.
It was by no means difficult to turn the conversation to Mr 
Slope. That gentleman had become so famous at Barchester, 
had so much to do with all clergymen connected with the 
city, and was so specially concerned in the affairs of Mr 
Harding, that it would have been odd if Mr Harding's 
daughters had not talked about him. Mrs Grantly was soon 
abusing him, which she did with her whole heart; and Mrs 
Bold was nearly as eager to defend him. She positively 
disliked the man, would have been delighted to learn that he 
had taken himself off so that she should never see him 
again, had indeed almost a fear of him, and yet she 
constantly found herself taking his part. The abuse of other 
people, and abuse of a nature that she felt to be unjust, 
imposed this necessity on her, and at last made Mr Slope's 
defence an habitual course of argument with her.
From Mr Slope the conversation turned to the Stanhopes, and 
Mrs Grantly was listening with some interest to Eleanor's 
account of the family, when it dropped out that Mr Slope 
made one of the party.
'What!' said the lady of the rectory, 'was Mr Slope there 
too?'
Eleanor merely replied that such had been the case.
'Why, Eleanor, he must be very fond of you, I think; he 
seems to follow you everywhere.'
Even this did not open Eleanor's eyes. She merely laughed, 
and said that she imagined Mr Slope found other attraction 
at Dr Stanhope's. And so they parted. Mrs Grantly felt quite 
convinced that the odious match would take place; and Mrs 
Bold as convinced that that unfortunate chaplain, 
disagreeable as he must be allowed to be, was more sinned 
against than sinning.
The archdeacon of course heard before dinner that Eleanor 
had remained the day before in Barchester with the view of 
meeting Mr Slope, and that she had so met him. He remembered 
how she had positively stated that there were to be no 
guests at the Stanhopes, and he did not hesitate to accuse 
her of deceit. Moreover, the fact, or rather presumed fact, 
of her being deceitful on such a matter, spoke but too 
plainly in evidence against her as to her imputed crime of 
receiving Mr Slope as a lover.
'I am afraid that anything we can do will be too late,' said 
the archdeacon. 'I own I am fairly surprised. I never liked 
your sister's taste with regard to men; but still I did not 
give her credit for - ugh!'
'And so soon, too,' said Mrs Grantly, who thought more, 
perhaps, of her sister's indecorum in having a lover before 
she had put off her weeds, than her bad taste in having such 
a lover as Mr Slope.
'Well, my dear, I shall be sorry to be harsh, or to do 
anything that can hurt your father; but, positively, neither 
that man nor his wife shall come within my doors.'
Mrs Grantly sighed, and then attempted to console herself 
and her lord by remarking that, after all, the thing was not 
accomplished yet. Now that Eleanor was at Plumstead, much 
might be done to wean her from her fatal passion. Poor 
Eleanor!
The evening passed off without anything to make it 
remarkable. Mr Arabin discussed the parish of St Ewold with 
the archdeacon, and Mrs Grantly and Mr Harding, who knew the 
personages of the parish, joined in. Eleanor also knew them, 
but she said little. Mr Arabin did not apparently take much 
notice of her, and she was not in a humour to receive at 
that time with any special grace any special favourite of 
her brother-in-law. Her first idea on reaching her bedroom 
was that a much pleasanter family party might be met at Dr 
Stanhope's than at the rectory. She began to think that she 
was getting tired of clergymen and their respectable humdrum 
wearisome mode of living, and that after all, people in the 
outer world, who had lived in Italy, London, or elsewhere, 
need not necessarily be regarded as atrocious and 
abominable. The Stanhopes, she had thought, were a giddy, 
thoughtless, extravagant set of people; but she had seen 
nothing wrong about them, and had, on the other hand, found 
that they thoroughly knew how to make their house agreeable. 
It was a thousand pities, she thought, that the archdeacon 
should not have a little of the same savoir-vivre. Mr 
Arabin, as we have said, did not apparently take much notice 
of her; but yet he did not go to bed without feeling that he 
had been in company with a very pretty woman; and as is the 
case with most bachelors, and some married men, regarded the 
prospect of his month's visit at Plumstead in a pleasanter 
light, when he learnt that a very pretty woman was to share 
it with him.
Before they all retired it was settled that the whole party 
should drive over on the following day to inspect the 
parsonage at St Ewold. The three clergymen were to discuss 
dilapidations, and the two ladies were to lend their 
assistance in suggesting such changes as might be necessary 
for a bachelor's abode. Accordingly, soon after breakfast, 
the carriage was at the door. There was only room for four 
inside, and the archdeacon got upon the box. Eleanor found 
herself opposite to Mr Arabin, and was, therefore, in a 
manner forced into conversation with him. They were soon on 
comfortable terms together; and had she thought about it, 
she would have thought that, in spite of his black cloth, Mr 
Arabin would not have been a bad addition to the Stanhope 
family party.
Now that the archdeacon was away, they could all trifle. Mr 
Harding began by telling them in the most innocent manner 
imaginable an old legend about Mr Arabin's new parish. There 
was, he said, in days of yore, an illustrious priestess of 
St Ewold, famed through the whole country for curing all 
manner of diseases. She had a well, as all priestesses have 
ever had, which well was extant to this day, and shared in 
the minds of many of the people the sanctity which belonged 
to the consecrated ground of the parish church. Mr Arabin 
declared that he should look on such tenets on the part of 
his parishioners as anything but orthodox. And Mrs Grantly 
replied that she so entirely disagreed with him as to think 
that no parish was in a proper state that had not its 
priestess as well as its priest. 'The duties are never well 
done,' said she, 'unless they are so divided.'
'I suppose, papa,' said Eleanor, 'that in the olden times 
the priestess bore all the sway herself. Mr Arabin, perhaps, 
thinks that such might be too much the case now if a sacred 
lady were admitted within the parish.'
'I think, at any rate,' said he, 'that it is safer to run no 
such risk. No priestly pride has ever exceeded that of 
sacerdotal females. A very lowly curate I might, perhaps, 
essay to rule; but a curatess would be sure to get the 
better of me.'
'There are certainly examples of such accidents happening,' 
said Mrs Grantly. 'They do say that there is a priestess at 
Barchester who is very imperious in all things touching the 
altar. Perhaps the fear of such a fate as that is before 
your eyes.'
When they were joined by the archdeacon on the gravel before 
the vicarage, they descended again to grave dullness. Not 
that Archdeacon Grantly was a dull man; but his frolic 
humours were of a cumbrous kind; and his wit, when he was 
witty, did not generally extend itself to his auditory. On 
the present occasion he was soon making speeches about 
wounded roofs and walls, which he declared to be in want of 
some surgeon's art. There was not a partition that he did 
not tap, nor a block of chimneys that he did not narrowly 
examine; all water-pipes, flues, cisterns, and sewers 
underwent an investigation; and he even descended, in the 
care of his friend, so far as to bore sundry boards in the 
floors with a bradawl.
Mr Arabin accompanied him through the rooms, trying to look 
wise in such domestic matters, and the other three also 
followed. Mrs Grantly showed that she had not herself been 
priestess of a parish twenty years for nothing, and examined 
the bells and windowpanes in a very knowing way.
'You will, at any rate, have a beautiful prospect out of 
your own window, if this is to be your private sanctum,' 
said Eleanor. She was standing at the lattice of a little 
room upstairs, from which the view certainly was very 
lovely. It was from the back of the vicarage, and there was 
nothing to interrupt the eye between the house and the 
glorious grey pile of the cathedral. The intermediate 
ground, however, was beautifully studded with timber. In the 
immediate foreground ran the little river which afterwards 
skirted the city; and,
just to the right of the cathedral, the pointed gables and 
chimneys of Hiram's Hospital peeped out of the elms which 
encompass it.
'Yes,' said he, joining her. 'I shall have a beautifully 
complete view of my adversaries. I shall sit down before the 
hostile town, and fire away at them at a very pleasant 
distance. I shall just be able to lodge a shot in the 
hospital, should the enemy ever get possession of it; and as 
for the palace, I have it within full range.'
'I never saw anything like you clergymen,' said Eleanor; 
'you are always thinking of fighting each other.'
'Either that,' said he, 'or else supporting each other. The 
pity is that we cannot do the one without the other. But are 
we not here to fight? Is not ours a church militant? What is 
all our work but fighting, and hard fighting, if it be well 
done?'
'But not with each other.'
'That's as it may be. The same complaint which you make of 
me for battling with another clergyman of our own church, 
the Mohammedan would make against me for battling with the 
error of a priest of Rome. Yet, surely, you would not be 
inclined to say that I should be wrong to do battle with 
such as him. A pagan, too, with his multiplicity of gods, 
would think it equally odd that the Christian and the 
Mohammedan should disagree.'
'Ah! but you wage your wars about trifles so bitterly.'
'Wars about trifles,' said he, 'are always bitter, 
especially among neighbours. When the differences are great, 
and the parties comparative strangers, men quarrel with 
courtesy. What combatants are ever so eager as two 
brothers?'
'But do not such contentions bring scandal on the church?'
'More scandal would fall on the church if there were no such 
contentions. We have but one way to avoid them - that of 
acknowledging a common head of our church, whose word on all 
points of doctrine shall be authoritative. Such a 
termination of our difficulties is alluring enough. It has 
charms which are irresistible to many, and all but 
irresistible, I own, to me.'
'You speak now of the Church of Rome?' said Eleanor.
'No,' said he, 'not necessarily of the Church of Rome; but 
of a church with a head. Had it pleased God to vouchsafe to 
us such a church our path would have been easy. But easy 
paths have not been thought good for us.' He paused and 
stood silent for a while, thinking of the time when he had 
so nearly sacrificed all he had, his powers of mind, his 
free agency, the fresh running waters of his mind's 
fountain, his very inner self, for an easy path in which no 
fighting would be needed; and then he continued: 'What you 
say is partly true; our contentions do bring on us some 
scandal. The outer world, though it constantly reviles us 
for our human infirmities, and throws in our teeth the fact 
that being clergymen we are still no more than men, demands 
of us that we should do our work with godlike perfection. 
There is nothing godlike about us: we differ from each other 
with the acerbity common to man - we triumph over each other 
with human frailty - we allow differences on subjects of 
divine origin to produce among us antipathies and enmities 
which are anything but divine. This is all true. But what 
would you have in place of it? There is no infallible head 
for a church on earth. This dream of believing man has been 
tried, and we see in Italy and in Spain what has come of it. 
Grant that there are and have been no bickerings within the 
pale of the Pope's Church. Such an assumption would be 
utterly untrue; but let us grant it, and then let us say 
which church has incurred the heavier scandals.'
There was a quiet earnestness about Mr Arabin, as he half 
acknowledged and half defended himself from the charge 
brought against him, which surprised Eleanor. She had been 
used all her life to listen to clerical discussion; but the 
points at issue between the disputants had so seldom been of 
more than temporal significance as to have left on her mind 
no feeling of reverence for such subjects. There had always 
been a hard worldly leaven of the love either of income or 
of power in the strains she had heard; there had been no 
panting for the truth; no aspirations after religious 
purity. It had always been taken for granted by those around 
her that they were indubitably right, and there was no 
ground for doubt, that the hard uphill work of ascertaining 
what the duty of a clergyman should be had been already 
accomplished in full; and that what remained for an active 
militant parson to do, was to hold his own against all 
comers. Her father, it is true, was an exception to this; 
but then he was so essentially anti-militant in all things, 
that she classed him in her own mind apart from all others. 
She had never argued the matter within herself, or 
considered whether this common tone was or was not faulty; 
but she was sick of it without knowing that she was so. And 
now she found to her surprise and not without a certain 
pleasurable excitement, that this newcomer among them spoke 
in a manner very different from that to which she was 
accustomed.
'It is so easy to condemn,' said he, continuing the thread 
of his thoughts. 'I know no life that must be so delicious 
as that of a writer for newspapers, or a leading member of 
the opposition - to thunder forth accusations against men in 
power; show up the worst side of everything that is 
produced; to pick holes in every coat; to be indignant, 
sarcastic, jocose, moral, or supercilious; to damn with 
faint praise, or crush with open calumny! What can be so 
easy as this when the critic has to be responsible for 
nothing? You condemn what I do; but put yourself in my 
position and do the reverse, and then see if I cannot 
condemn you.'
'Oh! Mr Arabin, I do not condemn you.'
'Pardon me, you do, Mrs Bold - you as one of the world; you 
are now the opposition member; you are now composing your 
leading article, and well and bitterly you do it. "Let dogs 
delight to bark and bite"; you fitly begin with an elegant 
quotation; "but if we are to have a church at all, in 
heaven's name let the pastors who preside over it keep their 
hands from each other's throats. Lawyers can live without 
befouling each other's names; doctors do not fight duels. 
Why is it that clergymen alone should indulge themselves in 
such unrestrained liberty of abuse against each other?" and 
so you go on reviling us for our ungodly quarrels, our 
sectarian propensities, and scandalous differences. It will, 
however, give you no trouble to write another article next 
week in which we, or some of us, shall be twitted with an 
unseemly apathy in matters of our vocation. It will not fall 
on you to reconcile the discrepancy; your readers will never 
ask you how the poor parson is to be urgent in season and 
out of season, and yet never come in contact with men who 
think widely differently from him. You, when you condemn 
this foreign treaty, or that official arrangement, will have 
to incur no blame for the graver faults of any different 
measure. It is so easy to condemn; and so pleasant too; for 
eulogy charms no listeners as detraction does.'
Eleanor only half followed him in his raillery, but she 
caught his meaning. 'I know I ought to apologise for 
presuming to criticise you,' she said; 'but I was thinking 
with sorrow of the ill-will that has lately come among us at 
Barchester, and I spoke more freely than I should have 
done.'
'Peace on earth and goodwill among men, are, like heaven, 
promises for the future,' said he, following rather his own 
thoughts than hers. 'When that prophecy is accomplished, 
there will no longer be any need for clergymen.'
Here they were interrupted by the archdeacon, whose voice 
was heard from the cellar shouting to the vicar.
'Arabin, Arabin' - and then turning to his wife, who was 
apparently at his elbow - 'where has he gone to? This cellar 
is perfectly abominable. It would be murder to put a bottle 
of wine into it till it has been roofed, walled, and 
floored. How on earth old Goodenough ever got on with it, I 
cannot guess. But then Goodenough never had a glass of wine 
that any man could drink.'
'What is it, archdeacon?' said the vicar, running 
downstairs, and leaving Eleanor above to her meditations.
'This cellar must be roofed, walled, and floored,' repeated 
the archdeacon. 'Now mind what I say, and don't let the 
architect persuade you that it will do; half of these 
fellows know nothing about wine. This place as it is now 
would be damp and cold in winter, and hot and muggy in 
summer. I wouldn't give a straw for the best wine that ever 
was vinted, after it had lain here a couple of years.'
Mr Arabin assented, and promised that the cellar should be 
reconstructed according to the archdeacon's receipt.
'And, Arabin, look here; was such an attempt at a kitchen 
grate ever seen?'
'The grate is really very bad,' said Mrs Grantly; 'I am sure 
the priestess won't approve of it, when she is brought home 
to the scene of her future duties. Really, Mr Arabin, no 
priestess accustomed to such an excellent well as that above 
could put up with such a grate as this.'
'If there must be a priestess at St Ewold's at all, Mrs 
Grantly, I think we will leave her to her well, and not call 
down her divine wrath on any of the imperfections rising 
from our human poverty. However, I own I am amenable to the 
attractions of a well-cooked dinner, and the grate shall 
certainly be changed.'
By this time the archdeacon had again ascended, and was now 
in the dining-room. 'Arabin,' said he, speaking in his usual 
loud clear voice, and with that tone of dictation which was 
so common to him; 'you must positively alter this dining-
room, that is, remodel it altogether; look here, it is just 
sixteen feet by fifteen; did anybody ever hear of a dining-
room of such proportions!' and the archdeacon stepped the 
room longways and crossways with ponderous steps, as though 
a certain amount of ecclesiastical dignity could be imparted 
even to such an occupation as that by the manner of doing 
it. 'Barely sixteen; you may call it a square.'
'It would do very well for a round table,' suggested the ex-
warden.
Now there was something peculiarly unorthodox in the 
archdeacon's estimation in the idea of a round table. He had 
always been accustomed to a goodly board of decent length, 
comfortably elongating itself according to the number of the 
guests, nearly black with perpetual rubbing, and as bright 
as a mirror. Now round dinner-tables are generally of oak, 
or else of such new construction as not to have acquired the 
peculiar hue which was so pleasing to him. He connected them 
with what he called the nasty new-fangled method of leaving 
a cloth on the table, as though to warn people that they 
were not to sit long. In his eyes there was something 
democratic and parvenue in a round table. He imagined that 
dissenters and calico-printers chiefly used them, and 
perhaps a few literary lions more conspicuous for their wit 
than their gentility. He was a little flurried at the idea 
of such an article being introduced into the diocese by a 
protege of his own, and at the instigation of his father-in-
law.
'A round dinner-table,' said he, with some heat, 'is the 
most abominable article of furniture that ever was invented. 
I hope that Arabin has more taste than to allow such a thing 
in his house.'
Poor Mr Harding felt himself completely snubbed, and of 
course said nothing further; but Mr Arabin, who had yielded 
submissively in the small matters of the cellar and kitchen 
grate, found himself obliged to oppose reforms which might 
be of a nature too expensive for his pocket.
'But it seems to me, archdeacon, that I can't very well 
lengthen the room without pulling down the wall, and if I 
pull down the wall, I must build it up again; then if I 
throw out a bow on this side, I must do the same on the 
other, then if I do it for the ground floor, I must carry it 
up to the floor above. That will be putting a new front to 
the house, and will cost, I suppose, a couple of hundred 
pounds. The ecclesiastical commissioners will hardly assist 
me when they hear that my grievance consists in having a 
dining-room only sixteen feet long.'
The archdeacon proceeded to explain that nothing would be 
easier than adding six feet to the front of the dining-room, 
without touching any other in the house. Such irregularities 
of construction in small country houses were, he said, 
rather graceful than otherwise, and he offered to pay for 
the whole thing out of his own pocket if it cost more than 
forty pounds. Mr Arabin, however, was firm, and, although 
the archdeacon fussed and fumed about it, would not give 
way.
Forty pounds, he said, was a matter of serious moment to 
him, and his friends, if under such circumstances they would 
be good-natured enough to come to him at all, must put up 
with the misery of a square room. He was willing to 
compromise matters by disclaiming any intention of having a 
round table.
'But,' said Mrs Grantly, 'what if the priestess insists on 
having both the rooms enlarged?'
'The priestess in that case must do it for herself, Mrs 
Grantly.'
'I have no doubt she will be well able to do so,' replied 
the lady; 'to do that and many more wonderful things. I am 
quite sure that the priestess of St Ewold, when she does 
come, won't come empty-handed.'
Mr Arabin, however, did not appear well inclined to enter 
into speculative expenses on such a chance as this, and 
therefore, any material alterations in the house, the cost 
of which could not fairly be made to lie at the door either 
of the ecclesiastical commissioners or of the estate of the 
late incumbent, were tabooed. With this essential exception, 
the archdeacon ordered, suggested, and carried all points 
before him in a manner very much to his own satisfaction. A 
close observer, had there been one there, might have seen 
that his wife had been quite as useful in the matter as 
himself. No one knew better than Mrs Grantly the 
appurtenances necessary to a comfortable house. She did not, 
however, think it necessary to lay claim to any of the glory 
which her lord and master was so ready to appropriate as his 
own.
Having gone through their work effectually and 
systematically, the party returned to Plumstead well 
satisfied with their expedition.


Chapter 22

The Thornes of Ullathorne

On the following Sunday Mr Arabin was to read himself in at 
his new church. It was agreed at the rectory that the 
archdeacon should go over with him and assist at the reading-
desk, and that Mr Harding should take the archdeacon's duty 
at Plumstead Church. Mrs Grantly had her school and her buns 
to attend to, and professed that she could not be spared; 
but Mrs Bold was to accompany them. It was further agreed 
also, that they would lunch at the squire's house, and 
return home after the afternoon service.
Wilfred Thorne, Esq., of Ullathorne, was the squire of St 
Ewold's; or rather the squire of Ullathorne; for the domain 
of the modern landlord was of wider notoriety than the fame 
of the ancient saint. He was a fair specimen of what that 
race has come to in our days, which a century ago was, as we 
are told, fairly represented by Squire Western. If that 
representation be a true one, few classes of men can have 
made faster strides in improvement. Mr Thorne, however, was 
a man possessed of quite a sufficient number of foibles to 
lay him open to much ridicule. He was still a bachelor, 
being about fifty, and was not a little proud of his person. 
When living at home at Ullathorne there was not much room 
for such pride, and there therefore he always looked like a 
gentleman, and like that which he certainly was, the first 
man in his parish. But during the month or six weeks which 
he annually spent in London, he tried so hard to look like a 
great man there also, which he certainly was not, that he 
was put down as a fool by many at his club. He was a man of 
considerable literary attainment in a certain way and on 
certain subjects. His favourite authors were Montaigne and 
Burton, and he knew more perhaps than any other man in his 
own county, and the next to it, of the English essayists of 
the two last centuries. He possessed complete sets of the 
Idler, the Spectator, the Tatler, the Guardian, and the 
Rambler; and would discourse by hours together on the 
superiority of such publications to anything which has since 
been produced in our Edinburghs and Quarterlies. He was a 
great proficient in all questions of genealogy, and knew 
enough of almost every gentleman's family in England to say 
of what blood and lineage were descended all those who had 
any claim to be considered as possessors of any such 
luxuries. For blood and lineage he himself had a most 
profound respect. He counted back his own ancestors to some 
period long antecedent to the Conquest; and could tell you, 
if you would listen to him, how it had come to pass that 
they, like Cedric the Saxon, had been permitted to hold 
their own among the Norman barons. It was not, according to 
his showing, on account of any weak complaisance on the part 
of his family towards their Norman neighbours. Some Ealfried 
of Ullathorne once fortified his own castle, and held out, 
not only that, but the then existing cathedral of Barchester 
also, against one Geoffrey De Burgh, in the time of King 
John; and Mr Thorne possessed the whole history of the siege 
written on vellum, and illuminated in a most costly manner. 
It little signified that no one could read the writing, as, 
had that been possible, no one could have understood the 
language. Mr Thorne could, however, give you all the 
particulars in good English, and had no objection to do so.
It would be unjust to say that he looked down on men whose 
families were of recent date. He did not do so. He 
frequently consorted with such, and had chosen many of his 
friends from among them. But he looked on them as great 
millionaires are apt to look on those who have small 
incomes; as men who have Sophocles at their fingers' ends 
regard those who know nothing of Greek. They might doubtless 
be good sort of people, entitled to much praise for virtue, 
very admirable for talent, highly respectable in every way; 
but they were without the one great good gift. Such was Mr 
Thorne's way of thinking on this matter; nothing could atone 
for the loss of good blood; nothing could neutralise its 
good effects. Few indeed were now possessed of it, but the 
possession was on that account the more precious. It was 
very pleasant to hear Mr Thorne descant on this matter. Were 
you in your ignorance to surmise that such a one was of a 
good family because the head of his family was a baronet of 
an old date, he would open his eyes with a delightful look 
of affected surprise, and modestly remind you that 
baronetcies only dated from James I. He would gently sigh if 
you spoke of the blood of the Fitzgeralds and De Burghs; 
would hardly allow the claims of the Howards and Lowthers; 
and has before now alluded to the Talbots as a family who 
had hardly yet achieved the full honours of a pedigree.
In speaking once of a widespread race whose name had 
received the honours of three coronets, scions from which 
sat for various constituencies, someone of whose members had 
been in almost every cabinet formed during the present 
century, a brilliant race such as there are few in England, 
Mr Thorne had called them all 'dirt.' He had not intended 
any disrespect to these men. He admired them in many senses, 
and allowed them their privileges without envy. He had 
merely meant to express his feeling that the streams which 
ran through their veins were not yet purified by time to 
that perfection, had not become so genuine an ichor, as to 
be worthy of being called blood in the genealogical sense.
When Mr Arabin was first introduced to him, Mr Thorne had 
immediately suggested that he was one of the Arabins of 
Uphill Stanton. Mr Arabin replied that he was a very distant 
relative of the family alluded to. To this Mr Thorne 
surmised that the relationship could not be very distant. Mr 
Arabin assured him that it was so distant that the families 
knew nothing of each other. Mr Thorne laughed his gentle 
laugh at this, and told Mr Arabin that there was now 
existing no branch of his family separated from the parent 
stock at an earlier date than the reign of Elizabeth; and 
that therefore Mr Arabin could not call himself distant. Mr 
Arabin himself was quite clearly an Arabin of Uphill 
Stanton.
'But,' said the vicar, 'Uphill Stanton has been sold to the 
De Greys, and has been in their hands for the last fifty 
years.'
'And when it has been there one hundred and fifty, if it 
unluckily remain there so long,' said Mr Thorne, 'your 
descendants will not be a whit the less entitled to describe 
themselves as being of the family of Uphill Stanton. Thank 
God, no De Grey can buy that - and, thank God - no Arabin, 
and no Thorne, can sell it.'
In politics, Mr Thorne was an unflinching conservative. He 
looked on those fifty-three Trojans, who, as Mr Dod tells 
us, censured free trade in November, 1852, as the only 
patriots left among the public men of England. When that 
terrible crisis of free trade had arrived, when the repeal 
of the corn laws was carried by those very men whom Mr 
Thorne had hitherto regarded as the only possible saviours 
of his country, he was for a time paralysed. His country was 
lost; but that was comparatively a small thing. Other 
countries had flourished and fallen, and the human race 
still went on improving under God's providence. But now all 
trust in human faith must for ever be at an end. Not only 
must ruin come, but it must come through the apostacy of 
those who had been regarded as the truest of true believers. 
Politics in England, as a pursuit for gentlemen, must be at 
an end. Had Mr Thorne been trodden underfoot by a Whig, he 
could have borne it as a Tory and a martyr; but to be so 
utterly thrown over and deceived by those he had so 
earnestly supported, so thoroughly trusted, was more than he 
could endure and live. He therefore ceased to live as a 
politician, and refused to hold any converse with the world 
at large on the state of the country.
Such were Mr Thorne's impressions for the first two or three 
years after Sir Robert Peel's apostacy; but by degrees his 
temper, as did that of others, cooled down. He began once 
more to move about, to frequent the bench and the market, 
and to be seen at dinners, shoulder to shoulder with some of 
those who had so cruelly betrayed him. It was a necessity 
for him to live, and that plan of his for avoiding the world 
did not answer. He, however, and others around him who still 
maintained the same staunch principles of protection - men 
like himself, who were too true to flinch at the cry of a 
mob - had their own way of consoling themselves. They were, 
and felt themselves to be, the only true depositaries left 
of certain Eleusinian mysteries, of certain deep and 
wondrous services of worship by which alone the gods could 
be rightly approached. To them and them only was it now 
given to know these things, and to perpetuate them, if that 
might still be done, by the careful and secret education of 
their children.
We have read how private and peculiar forms of worship have 
been carried on from age to age in families, which to the 
outer world have apparently adhered to the services of some 
ordinary church. And so by degrees it was with Mr Thorne. He 
learnt at length to listen calmly while protection was 
talked of as a thing dead, although he knew within himself 
that it was still quick with a mystic life. Nor was he 
without a certain pleasure that such knowledge though given 
to him should be debarred from the multitude. He became 
accustomed to hear, even among country gentlemen, that free 
trade was after all not so bad, and to hear this without 
dispute, although conscious within himself that everything 
good in England had gone with his old palladium. He had 
within him something of the feeling of Cato, who gloried 
that he could kill himself because Romans were no longer 
worthy of their name. Mr Thorne had no thought of killing 
himself, being a Christian, and still possessing his £4000 a 
year; but the feeling was not on that account the less 
comfortable.
Mr Thorne was a sportsman, and had been active though not 
outrageous in his sports. Previous to the great downfall of 
politics in his country, he had supported the hunt by every 
means in his power. He had preserved game till no goose or 
turkey could show a tail in the parish of St Ewold's. He had 
planted gorse covers with more care than oaks and larches. 
He had been more anxious for the comfort of his foxes than 
of his ewes and lambs. No meet had been more popular than 
Ullathorne; no man's stables had been more liberally open to 
the horses of distant men than Mr Thorne's; no man had said 
more, written more, or done more to keep the club up. The 
theory of protection could expand itself so thoroughly in 
the practices of a country hunt! But when the great ruin 
came; when the noble master of the Barsetshire hounds 
supported the recreant minister in the House of Lords, and 
basely surrendered his truth, his manhood, his friends, and 
his honour for the hope of a garter, then Mr Thorne gave up 
the hunt. He did not cut his covers, for that would not have 
been the act of a gentleman. He did not kill his foxes, for 
that according to his light would have been murder. He did 
not say that his covers should not be drawn, or his earths 
stopped, for that would have been illegal according to the 
by-laws prevailing among country gentlemen. But he absented 
himself from home on the occasion of every meet at 
Ullathorne, left the covers to their fate, and could not be 
persuaded to take his pink coat out of the press, or his 
hunters out of the stable. This lasted for two years, and 
then by degrees he came round. He first appeared at a 
neighbouring meet on a pony, dressed in his shooting coat, 
as though he had trotted in by accident; then he walked up 
one morning on foot to see his favourite gorse drawn, and 
when his groom brought his mare out by chance, he did not 
refuse to mount her. He was next persuaded, by one of the 
immortal fifty-three, to bring his hunting materials over to 
the other side of the county, and take a fortnight with the 
hounds there; and so gradually he returned to his old life. 
But in hunting as in other things he was only supported by 
an inward feeling of mystic superiority to those with whom 
he shared the common breath of outer life.
Mr Thorne did not live in solitude at Ullathorne. He had a 
sister, who was ten years older than himself, and who 
participated in his prejudices and feelings so strongly, 
that she was a living caricature of all his foibles. She 
would not open a modern quarterly, did not choose to see a 
magazine in her drawing-room, and would not have polluted 
her fingers with a shred of the Times for any consideration. 
She spoke of Addison, Swift, and Steele, as though they were 
still living, regarded Defoe as the best known novelist of 
his country, and thought of Fielding as a young but 
meritorious novice in the fields of romance. In poetry, she 
was familiar with names as late as Dryden, and had once been 
seduced into reading the 'Rape of the Lock'; but she 
regarded Spenser as the purest type of her country's 
literature in this line. Genealogy was her favourite 
insanity. Those things which are the pride of most 
genealogists were to her contemptible. Arms and mottoes set 
her beside herself. Ealfried of Ullathorne had wanted no 
motto to assist him in cleaving to the brisket Geoffrey De 
Burgh; and Ealfried's great-grandfather, the gigantic 
Ullafrid, had required no other arms than those which nature 
gave him to hurl from the top of his own castle a cousin of 
the base invading Norman. To her all modern English names 
were equally insignificant: Hengist, Horsa, and such like, 
had for her ears the only true savour of nobility. She was 
not contented unless she could go beyond the Saxons; and 
would certainly have christened her children, had she had 
children, by the names of the ancient Britons. In some 
respects she was not unlike Scott's Ulrica, and had she been 
given to cursing, she would certainly have done so in the 
names of Mista, Skogula, and Zernebock. Not having submitted 
to the embraces of any polluting Norman, as poor Ulrica had 
done, and having assisted no parricide, the milk of human 
kindness was not curdled in her bosom. She never cursed, 
therefore, but blessed rather. This, however, she did in a 
strange uncouth Saxon manner that would have been 
unintelligible to any peasants but her own.
As a politician, Miss Thorne had been so thoroughly 
disgusted with public life by base deeds long antecedent to 
the Corn Law question, that that had but little moved her. 
In her estimation her brother had been a fast young man, 
hurried away by a too ardent temperament into democratic 
tendencies. Now happily he was brought to sounder views by 
seeing the iniquity of the world. She had not yet reconciled 
herself to the Reform Bill, and still groaned in spirit over 
the defalcations of the Duke as touching the Catholic 
Emancipation. If asked whom she thought the Queen should 
take as her counsellor, she would probably have named Lord 
Eldon; and when reminded that that venerable man was no 
longer present in the flesh to assist us, she would probably 
have answered with a sigh that none now could help us but 
the dead.
In religion, Miss Thorne was a pure Druidess. We would not 
have it understood by that, that she did actually in these 
latter days assist at any human sacrifices, or that she was 
in fact hostile to the Church of Christ. She had adopted the 
Christian religion as a milder form of the worship of her 
ancestors, and always appealed to her doing so as evidence 
that she had no prejudices against reform, when it could be 
shown that reform was salutary. This reform was the most 
modern of any to which she had as yet acceded, it being 
presumed that British ladies had given up their paint and 
taken to some sort of petticoats before the days of St 
Augustine. That further feminine step in advance which 
combines paint and petticoats together, had not found a 
votary in Miss Thorne.
But she was a Druidess in this, that she regretted she knew 
not what in the usages and practices of her Church. She 
sometimes talked and constantly thought of good things gone 
by, though she had but the faintest idea of what those good 
things had been. She imagined that a purity had existed 
which was now gone; that a piety had adorned our pastors and 
a simple docility our people, for which it may be feared 
history gave her but little true warrant. She was accustomed 
to speak of Cranmer as though he had been the firmest and 
most simple-minded of martyrs, and of Elizabeth as though 
the pure Protestant faith of her people had been the one 
anxiety of her life. It would have been cruel to undeceive 
her, had it been possible; but it would have been impossible 
to make her believe that the one was a time-serving priest, 
willing to go any length to keep his place, and that the 
other was in heart a papist, with this sole proviso, that 
she should be her own pope.
And so Miss Thorne went on sighing and regretting, looking 
back to the divine right of kings as the ruling axiom of a 
golden age, and cherishing, low down in the bottom of her 
heart of hearts, a dear unmentioned wish for the restoration 
of some exiled Stuart. Who would deny her the luxury of her 
sighs, or the sweetness of her soft regrets!
In her person and her dress she was perfect, and well she 
knew her own perfection. She was a small elegantly made old 
woman, with a face from which the glow of her youth had not 
departed without leaving some streaks of a roseate hue. She 
was proud of her colour, proud of her grey hair which she 
wore in short crisp curls peering out all around her face 
from the dainty white lace cap. To think of all the money 
that she spent in lace used to break the heart of poor Mrs 
Quiverful with her seven daughters. She was proud of her 
teeth, which were still white and numerous, proud of her 
bright cheery eye, proud of her short jaunty step, and very 
proud of the neat, precise, small feet with which those 
steps were taken. She was proud also, ay, very proud, of the 
rich brocaded silk in which it was her custom to ruffle 
through her drawing-room.
We know what was the custom of the lady of Branksome -

Nine-and-twenty knights of fame
Hung their shields in Branksome Hall.

The lady of Ullathorne was not so martial in her habits, but 
hardly less costly. She might have boasted that nine-and-
twenty silken skirts might have been produced in her 
chamber, each fit to stand alone. The nine-and-twenty 
shields of the Scottish heroes were less independent, and 
hardly more potent to withstand any attack that might be 
made on them. Miss Thorne when fully dressed might be said 
to have been armed cap-a-pie, and she was always fully 
dressed, as far as was ever known to mortal man.
For all this rich attire Miss Thorne was not indebted to the 
generosity of her brother. She had a very comfortable 
independence of her own, which she divided among juvenile 
relatives, the milliners and the poor, giving much the 
largest share to the latter. It may be imagined, therefore, 
that with all her little follies she was not unpopular. All 
her follies have, we believe, been told. Her virtues were 
too numerous to describe, and not sufficiently interesting 
to deserve description.
While we are on the subject of the Thornes, one word must be 
said of the house they lived in. It was not a large house, 
nor a fine house, nor perhaps to modern ideas a very 
commodious house; but by those who love the peculiar colour 
and peculiar ornaments of genuine Tudor architecture it was 
considered a perfect gem. We beg to own ourselves among the 
number, and therefore take this opportunity to express our 
surprise that so little is known by English men and women of 
the beauties of English architecture. The ruins of the 
Colosseum, the Campanile at Florence, St Mark's, Cologne, 
the Bourse and Notre Dame, are with our tourists as familiar 
as household words; but they know nothing of the glories of 
Wiltshire, Dorsetshire, and Somersetshire. Nay, we much 
question whether many noted travellers, men who have pitched 
their tents perhaps under Mount Sinai, are not still 
ignorant that there are glories in Wiltshire, Dorsetshire, 
and Somersetshire. We beg that they will go and see.
Mr Thorne's house was called Ullathorne Court, and was 
properly so called; for the house itself formed two sides of 
a quadrangle, which was completed on the other two sides by 
a wall about twenty feet high. This wall was built of cut 
stone, rudely cut indeed, and now much worn, but of a 
beautiful rich tawny yellow colour, the effect of that 
stonecrop of minute growth, which it had taken three 
centuries to produce. The top of this wall was ornamented by 
huge round stone balls of the same colour as the wall 
itself. Entrance into the court was had through a pair of 
iron gates, so massive that no one could comfortably open or 
close them, consequently they were rarely disturbed. From 
the gateway two paths led obliquely across the court; that 
to the left reaching the hall-door, which was in the corner 
made by the angle of the house, and that to the right 
leading to the back entrance, which was at the further end 
of the longer portion of the building.
With those who are now adepts in contriving house 
accommodation, it will militate much against Ullathorne 
Court, that no carriage could be brought to the hall-door. 
If you enter Ullathorne at all, you must do so, fair reader, 
on foot, or at least in a bath-chair. No vehicle drawn by 
horses ever comes within that iron gate. But this is nothing 
to the next horror that will encounter you. On entering the 
front door, which you do by no very grand portal, you find 
yourself immediately in the dining-room. What - no hall? 
exclaims my luxurious friend, accustomed to all the 
comfortable appurtenances of modern life. Yes, kind sir; a 
noble hall, if you will but observe it; a true old English 
hall of excellent dimensions for a country gentleman's 
family; but, if you please, no dining-parlour.
Both Mr and Miss Thorne were proud of this peculiarity of 
their dwelling, though the brother was once all but tempted 
by his friends to alter it. They delighted in the knowledge 
that they, like Cedric, positively dined in their true hall, 
even though they so dined tete-a-tete. But though they had 
never owned, they had felt and endeavoured to remedy the 
discomfort of such an arrangement. A huge screen partitioned 
off the front door and a portion of the hall, and from the 
angle so screened off a second door led into a passage, 
which ran along the larger side of the house next to the 
courtyard. Either my reader or I must be a bad hand at 
topography, if it be not clear that the great hall forms the 
ground-floor of the smaller portion of the mansion, that 
which was to your left as you entered the iron gate, and 
that it occupies the whole of this wing of the building. It 
must be equally clear that it looks out on a trim mown lawn, 
through three quadrangular windows with stone mullions, each 
window divided into a larger portion at the bottom, and a 
smaller portion at the top, and each portion again divided 
into five by perpendicular stone supporters. There may be 
windows which give a better light than such as these, and it 
may be, as my utilitarian friend observes, that the giving 
of light is the desired object of a window. I will not argue 
the point with him. Indeed I cannot. But I shall not the 
less die in the assured conviction that no sort of 
description of window is capable of imparting half so much 
happiness to mankind as that which had been adopted at 
Ullathorne Court. What - not an oriel? says Miss Diana de 
Midellage. No, Miss Diana; not even an oriel, beautiful as 
is an oriel window. It has not about it so perfect a feeling 
of quiet English homely comfort. Let oriel windows grace a 
college, or the half public mansion of a potent peer; but 
for the sitting-room of quiet country ladies, of ordinary 
homely folk, nothing can equal the square mullioned windows 
of the Tudor architects.
The hall was hung round with family female insipidities by 
Lely, and unprepossessing male Thornes in red coats by 
Kneller; each Thorne having been let into a panel in the 
wainscoting, in the proper manner. At the further end of the 
room was a huge fire-place, which afforded much ground of 
difference between the brother and sister. An antiquated 
grate that would hold about a hundredweight of coal, had 
been stuck on to the hearth, by Mr Thorne's father. This 
hearth had of course been intended for the consumption of 
wood fagots, and the iron dogs for the purpose were still 
standing, though half buried in the masonry of the grate. 
Miss Thorne was very anxious to revert to the dogs. The dear 
good old creature was always glad to revert to anything, and 
had she been systematically indulged, would doubtless in 
time have reflected that fingers were made before forks, and 
have reverted accordingly. But in the affairs of the fire-
place, Mr Thorne would not revert. Country gentlemen around 
him, all had comfortable grates in their dining-rooms. He 
was not exactly the man to have suggested a modern usage; 
but he was not so far prejudiced as to banish those which 
his father had prepared for his use. Mr Thorne had, indeed, 
once suggested that with very little contrivance the front 
door might have been so altered as to open at least into the 
passage; but on hearing this, his sister Monica, such was 
Miss Thorne's name, had been taken ill, and had remained so 
for a week. Before she came downstairs she received a pledge 
from her brother that the entrance should never be changed 
in her lifetime.
At the end of the hall opposite to the fire-place a door led 
into the drawing-room, which was of equal size, and lighted 
with precisely similar windows. But yet the aspect of the 
room was very different. It was papered, and the ceiling, 
which in the hall showed the old rafters, was whitened and 
finished with a modern cornice. Miss Thorne's drawing-room, 
or, as she always called it, withdrawing-room, was a 
beautiful apartment. The windows opened on to the full 
extent of the lovely trim garden; immediately before the 
windows were plots of flowers in stiff, stately, stubborn 
little beds, each bed surrounded by a stone coping of its 
own; beyond, there was a low parapet wall, on which stood 
urns and images, fauns, nymphs, satyrs, and a whole tribe of 
Pan's followers; and then again, beyond that, a beautiful 
lawn sloped away to a sunk fence which divided the garden 
from the park. Mr Thorne's study was at the end of the 
drawing-room, and beyond that were the kitchen and the 
offices. Doors opened into both Miss Thorne's withdrawing-
room and Mr Thorne's sanctum from the passage above alluded 
to; which, as it came to the latter room, widened itself so 
as to make space for the huge black oak stairs, which led to 
the upper regions.
Such was the interior of Ullathorne Court. But having thus 
described it, perhaps somewhat too tediously, we beg to say 
that it is not the interior to which we wish to call the 
English tourist's attention, though we advise him to lose no 
legitimate opportunity of becoming acquainted with it in a 
friendly manner. It is the outside of Ullathorne that is so 
lovely. Let the tourist get admission at least into the 
garden, and fling himself on that soft sward just opposite 
to the exterior angle of the house. He will there get the 
double frontage, and enjoy that which is so lovely - the 
expanse of architectural beauty without the formal dullness 
of one long line.
It is the colour of Ullathorne that is so remarkable. It is 
all of that delicious tawny hue which no stone can give, 
unless it has on it the vegetable richness of centuries. 
Strike the wall with your hand, and you will think that the 
stone has on it no covering, but rub it carefully, and you 
will find that the colour comes off upon your finger. No 
colourist that ever yet worked from a palette has been able 
to come up to this rich colouring of years crowding 
themselves on years.
Ullathorne is a high building for a country house, for it 
possesses three stories; and in each story, the windows are 
of the same sort as that described, though varying in size, 
and varying also in their lines athwart the house. Those of 
the ground floor are all uniform in size and position. But 
those above are irregular both in size and place, and this 
irregularity gives a bizarre and not unpicturesque 
appearance to the building. Along the top, on every side, 
runs a low parapet, which nearly hides the roof, and at the 
corners are more figures of fauns and satyrs.
Such is Ullathorne House. But we must say one word of the 
approach to it, which shall include all the description 
which we mean to give of the church also. The picturesque 
old church of St Ewold's stands immediately opposite to the 
iron gates which open into the court, and is all but 
surrounded by the branches of the lime trees, which form the 
avenue leading up to the house from both sides. This avenue 
is magnificent, but it would lose much of its value in the 
eyes of many proprietors, by the fact that the road through 
it is not private property. It is a public lane between 
hedgerows, with a broad grass margin on each side of the 
road, from which the lime trees spring. Ullathorne Court, 
therefore, does not stand absolutely surrounded by its own 
grounds, though Mr Thorne is owner of all the adjacent land. 
This, however, is the source of very little annoyance to 
him. Men, when they are acquiring property, think much of 
such things, but they who live where their ancestors have 
lived for years, do not feel the misfortune. It never 
occurred either to Mr or Miss Thorne that they were not 
sufficiently private, because the world at large might, if 
it so wished, walk or drive by their iron gates. That part 
of the world which availed itself of the privilege was 
however very small.
Such a year or two since were the Thornes of Ullathorne. 
Such, we believe, are the inhabitants of many an English 
country home. May it be long before their number diminishes.


Chapter 23

Mr Arabin reads himself in at St Ewold's

On the Sunday morning the archdeacon with his sister-in-law 
and Mr Arabin drove over to Ullathorne, as had been 
arranged. On their way thither the new vicar declared 
himself to be considerably disturbed in his mind at the idea 
of thus facing his parishioners for the first time. He had, 
he said, been always subject to mauvaise honte and an 
annoying degree of bashfulness, which often unfitted him for 
any work of a novel description; and now he felt this so 
strongly that he feared he should acquit himself badly in St 
Ewold's reading-desk. He knew, he said, that those sharp 
little eyes of Miss Thorne would be on him, and that they 
would not approve. All this the archdeacon greatly 
ridiculed. He himself knew not, and had never known, what it 
was to be shy. He could not conceive that Miss Thorne, 
surrounded as she would be by the peasants of Ullathorne, 
and a few of the poorer inhabitants of the suburbs of 
Barchester, could in any way affect the composure of a man 
well accustomed to address the learned congregation of St 
Mary's at Oxford, and he laughed accordingly at the idea of 
Mr Arabin's modesty.
Thereupon Mr Arabin commenced to subtilise. The change, he 
said, from St Mary's to St Ewold's was quite as powerful on 
the spirits as would be that from St Ewold's to St Mary's. 
Would not a peer who, by chance of fortune, might suddenly 
be driven to herd among navvies be as afraid of the jeers of 
his companions, as would any navvy, suddenly exalted to a 
seat among the peers? Whereupon the archdeacon declared with 
a loud laugh that he would tell Miss Thorne that her new 
minister had likened her to a navvy. Eleanor, however, 
pronounced such a conclusion to be unfair; a comparison 
might be very just in its proportions which did not at all 
assimilate the things compared. But Mr Arabin went on 
subtilising, regarding neither the archdeacon's raillery nor 
Eleanor's defence. A young lady, he said, would execute with 
most perfect self-possession a difficult piece of music in a 
room crowded with strangers, who would not be able to 
express herself in intelligible language, even on any 
ordinary subject and among her most intimate friends, if she 
were required to do so standing on a box somewhat elevated 
among them. It was all an affair of education, and he at 
forty found it difficult to educate himself anew.
Eleanor dissented on the matter of the box; and averred she 
could speak very well about dresses, or babies, or legs of 
mutton from any box, provided it were big enough for her to 
stand upon without fear, even though all her friends were 
listening to her. The archdeacon was sure she would not be 
able to say a word; but this proved nothing in favour of Mr 
Arabin. Mr Arabin said that he would try the question out 
with Mrs Bold, and get her on a box some day when the 
rectory might be full of visitors. To this Eleanor assented, 
making condition that the visitors should be of their own 
set, and the archdeacon cogitated in his mind, whether by 
such a condition it was intended that Mr Slope should be 
included, resolving also that, if so, the trial would 
certainly never take place in the rectory drawing-room at 
Plumstead.
And so arguing, they drove up to the iron gates of 
Ullathorne Court.
Mr and Miss Thorne were standing ready dressed for church in 
the hall, and greeted their clerical visitors with 
cordiality. The archdeacon was an old favourite. He was a 
clergyman of the old school, and this recommended him to the 
lady. He had always been an opponent of free trade as long 
as free trade was an open question; and now that it was no 
longer so, he, being a clergyman, had not been obliged, like 
most of his lay Tory companions, to read his recantation. He 
could therefore be regarded as a supporter of the immaculate 
fifty-three, and was on this account a favourite with Mr 
Thorne. The little bell was tinkling, and the rural 
population of the parish were standing about the lane, 
leaning on the church stile, and against the walls of the 
old court, anxious to get a look at their new minister as he 
passed from the house to the rectory. The archdeacon's 
servant had already preceded them thither with the 
vestments.
They all went forth together; and when the ladies passed 
into the church the three gentlemen tarried a moment in the 
lane, that Mr Thorne might name to the vicar with some kind 
of one-sided introduction, the most leading among his 
parishioners.
'Here are our churchwardens, Mr Arabin; Farmer Greenacre and 
Mr Stiles. Mr Stiles has the mill as you go into Barchester; 
and very good churchwardens they are.'
'Not very severe, I hope,' said Mr Arabin: the two 
ecclesiastical officers touched their hats, and each made a 
leg in the approved rural fashion, assuring the vicar that 
they were very glad to have the honour of seeing him, and 
adding that the weather was very good for the harvest. Mr 
Stiles being a man somewhat versed in town life, had an 
impression of his own dignity, and did not quite like 
leaving his pastor under the erroneous idea that he being a 
churchwarden kept the children in order during church time. 
'Twas thus he understood Mr Arabin's allusion to his 
severity, and hastened to put matters right by observing 
that 'Sexton Clodheve looked to the young 'uns, and perhaps 
sometimes there may be a thought too much stick going on 
during the sermon.' Mr Arabin's bright eye twinkled as he 
caught that of the archdeacon's; and he smiled to himself as 
he observed how ignorant his omcers were of the nature of 
their authority, and of the surveillance which it was their 
duty to keep even over himself.
Mr Arabin read the lessons and preached. It was enough to 
put a man a little out, let him have been ever so used to 
pulpit reading, to see the knowing way in which the farmers 
cocked their ears, and set about a mental criticism as to 
whether their new minister did or did not fall short of the 
excellence of him who had lately departed from them. A 
mental and silent criticism it was for the existing moment, 
but soon to be made public among the elders of St Ewold's 
over the green graves of their children and forefathers. The 
excellence, however, of poor old Mr Goodenough had not been 
wonderful, and there were few there who did not deem that Mr 
Arabin did his work sufficiently well, in spite of the 
slightly nervous affection which at first impeded him, and 
which nearly drove the archdeacon beside himself.
But the sermon was the thing to try the man. It often 
surprises us that very young men can muster courage to 
preach for the first time to a strange congregation. Men who 
are as yet but little more than boys, who have but just 
left, what indeed we may not call a school, but a seminary 
intended for their tuition as scholars, whose thoughts have 
been mostly of boating, cricketing, and wine parties, ascend 
a rostrum high above the heads of the submissive crowd, not 
that they may read God's word to those below, but that they 
may preach their own word for the edification of their 
hearers. It seems strange to us that they are not stricken 
dumb by the new and awful solemnity of their position. How 
am I, just turned twenty-three, who have never yet passed 
ten thoughtful days since the power of thought first came to 
me, how am I to instruct these greybeards, who with the 
weary thinking of so many years have approached so near the 
grave? Can I teach them their duty? Can I explain to them 
that which I so imperfectly understand, that which years of 
study may have made so plain to them? Has my newly acquired 
privilege, as one of God's ministers, imparted to me as yet 
any fitness for the wonderful work of a preacher?
It must be supposed that such ideas do occur to young 
clergymen, and yet they overcome, apparently with ease, this 
difficulty which to us appears to be all but insurmountable. 
We have never been subjected in the way of ordination to the 
power of a bishop's hands. It may be that there is in them 
something that sustains the spirit and banishes the natural 
modesty of youth. But for ourselves we must own that the 
deep affection which Dominie Sampson felt for his young 
pupils has not more endeared him to us than the bashful 
spirit which sent him mute and inglorious from the pulpit 
when he rose there with the futile attempt to preach God's 
gospel.
There is a rule in our church which forbids the younger 
order of our clergymen to perform a certain portion of the 
service. The absolution must be read by a minister in 
priest's orders. If there be no such minister present, the 
congregation can have the benefit of no absolution but that 
which each may succeed in administering to himself. The rule 
may be a good one, though the necessity for it hardly comes 
home to the general understanding. But this forbearance on 
the part of youth would be much more appreciated if it were 
extended likewise to sermons. The only danger would be that 
congregations would be too anxious to prevent their young 
clergymen from advancing themselves in the ranks of the 
ministry. Clergymen who could not preach would be such 
blessings that they would be bribed to adhere to their 
incompetence.
Mr Arabin, however, had not the modesty of youth to impede 
him, and he succeeded with his sermon even better than with 
the lessons. He took for his text two verses out of the 
second epistle of St John, 'Whosoever transgresseth, and 
abideth not in the doctrine of Christ, hath not God. He that 
abideth in the doctrine of Christ he hath both the Father 
and Son. If there come any unto you and bring not this 
doctrine, receive him not into your house, neither bid him 
God speed.' He told them that the house of theirs to which 
he alluded was this their church in which he now addressed 
them for the first time; that their most welcome and proper 
manner of bidding him God speed would be their patient 
obedience to his teaching of the gospel; but that he could 
put forward no claim to such conduct on their part unless he 
taught them the great Christian doctrine of works and faith 
combined. On this he enlarged, but not very amply, and after 
twenty minutes succeeded in sending his new friends home to 
their baked mutton and pudding well pleased with their new 
minister.
Then came the lunch at Ullathorne. As soon as they were in 
the hall Miss Thorne took Mr Arabin's hand, and assured him 
that she received him into her house, into the temple, she 
said, in which she worshipped, and bade him God speed with 
all her heart. Mr Arabin was touched, and squeezed the 
spinster's hand without uttering a word in reply. Then Mr 
Thorne expressed a hope that Mr Arabin found the church easy 
to fill, and Mr Arabin having replied that he had no doubt 
he should do so as soon as he had learnt to pitch his voice 
to the building, they all sat down to the good things before 
them.
Miss Thorne took special care of Mrs Bold. Eleanor still 
wore her widow's weeds, and therefore had about her that air 
of grave and sad maternity which is the lot of recent 
widows. This opened the soft heart of Miss Thorne, and made 
her look on her young guest as though too much could not be 
done for her. She heaped chicken and ham upon her plate, and 
poured out for her a full bumper of port wine. When Eleanor, 
who was not sorry to get it, had drunk a little of it, Miss 
Thorne at once essayed to fill it again. To this Eleanor 
objected, but in vain. Miss Thorne winked and nodded and 
whispered, saying that it was the proper thing and must be 
done, and that she knew all about it; and so she desired Mrs 
Bold to drink it up, and not mind anybody.
'It is your duty, you know, to support yourself,' she said 
into the ear of the young mother; 'there's more than 
yourself depending on it '; and thus she coshered up Eleanor 
with cold fowl and port wine. How it is that poor men's 
wives, who have no cold fowl and port wine on which to be 
coshered up, nurse their children without difficulty, 
whereas the wives of rich men, who eat and drink everything 
that is good, cannot do so, we will for the present leave to 
the doctors and the mothers to settle between them.
And then Miss Thorne was great about teeth. Little Johnny 
Bold had been troubled for the last few days with his first 
incipient masticator, and with that freemasonry which exists 
among ladies, Miss Thorne became aware of the fact before 
Eleanor had half finished her wing. The old lady prescribed 
at once a receipt which had been much in vogue in the young 
days of her grandmother, and warned Eleanor with solemn 
voice against the fallacies of modern medicine.
'Take his coral, my dear,' said she, 'and rub it well with 
carrot-juice; rub it till the juice dries on it, and then 
give it him to play with -'
'But he hasn't got a coral,' said Eleanor.
'Not got a coral!' said Miss Thorne, with almost angry 
vehemence. 'Not got a coral - how can you expect that he 
should cut his teeth? Have you got Daffy's Elixir?'
Eleanor explained that she had not. It had not been ordered 
by Mr Rerechild, the Barchester doctor whom she employed; 
and then the young mother mentioned some shockingly modern 
succedaneum, which Mr Rerechild's new lights had taught him 
to recommend.
Miss Thorne looked awfully severe. 'Take care, my dear,' 
said she, 'that the man knows what he's about; take care he 
doesn't destroy your little boy. But' - and she softened 
into sorrow as she said it, and spoke more in pity than in 
anger - 'but I don't know who there is in Barchester now 
that you can trust. Poor dear old Doctor Bumpwell, indeed -'
'Why, Miss Thorne, he died when I was a little girl.'
'Yes, my dear, he did, and an unfortunate day it was for 
Barchester. As to those young men that have come up since' 
(Mr Rerechild, by the bye, was quite as old as Miss Thorne 
herself), 'one doesn't know where they came from or who they 
are, or whether they know anything about their business or 
not.'
'I think there are very clever men in Barchester,' said 
Eleanor.
'Perhaps there may be; only I don't know them; and it's 
admitted on all sides that medical men arn't now what they 
used to be. They used to be talented, observing, educated 
men. But now any whipper-snapper out of an apothecary's shop 
can call himself a doctor. I believe no kind of education is 
now thought necessary.'
Eleanor was herself the widow of a medical man, and felt a 
little inclined to resent all these hard sayings. But Miss 
Thorne was so essentially good-natured that it was 
impossible to resent anything she said. She therefore sipped 
her wine and finished her chicken.
'At any rate, my dear, don't forget the carrot-juice, and by 
all means get him a coral at once. My grandmother Thorne had 
the best teeth in the county, and carried them to the grave 
with her at eighty. I have heard her say it was all the 
carrot-juice. She couldn't bear the Barchester doctors. Even 
poor old Dr Bumpwell didn't please her.' It clearly never 
occurred to Miss Thorne that some fifty years ago Dr 
Bumpwell was only a rising man, and therefore as much in 
need of character in the eyes of the then ladies of 
Ullathorne, as the present doctors were in her own.
The archdeacon made a very good lunch, and talked to his 
host about turnip-drillers and new machines for reaping; 
while the host, thinking it only polite to attend to a 
stranger, and fearing that perhaps he might not care about 
turnip crops on a Sunday, mooted all manner of 
ecclesiastical subjects.
'I never saw a heavier lot of wheat, Thorne, than you've got 
there in that field beyond the copse. I suppose that's 
guano,' said the archdeacon.
'Yes, guano. I get it from Bristol myself. You'll find you 
often have a tolerable congregation of Barchester people out 
here, Mr Arabin. They are very fond of St Ewold's, 
particularly of an afternoon, when the weather is not too 
hot for the walk.'
'I am under an obligation to them for staying away today, at 
any rate,' said the vicar. 'The congregation can never be 
too small for a maiden sermon.'
'I got a ton and a half at Bradley's in High Street,' said 
the archdeacon, 'and it was a complete take-in. I don't 
believe there was five hundredweight of guano in it.'
'That Bradley never has anything good,' said Miss Thorne, 
who had just caught the name during her whisperings with 
Eleanor. 'And such a nice shop as there used to be in that 
very house before he came. Wilfred, don't you remember what 
good things old Ambleoff used to have?'
'There have been three men since Ambleoff's time,' said the 
archdeacon, 'and each as bad as the other. But who gets it 
for you at Bristol, Thorne?'
'I ran up myself this year and bought it out of the ship. I 
am afraid as the evenings get shorter, Mr Arabin, you'll 
find the reading-desk too dark. I must send a fellow with an 
axe and make him lop off some of those branches.'
Mr Arabin declared that the morning light at any rate was 
perfect, and deprecated any interference with the lime 
trees. And then they took a stroll out among the trim 
parterres, and Mr Arabin explained to Mrs Bold the 
difference between a naiad and a dryad, and dilated on vases 
and the shapes of urns. Miss Thorne busied herself among her 
pansies; and her brother, finding it quite impracticable to 
give anything of a peculiarly Sunday tone to the 
conversation, abandoned the attempt, and had it out with the 
archdeacon about the Bristol guano.
At three o'clock they again went into church; and now Mr 
Arabin read the service and the archdeacon preached. Nearly 
the same congregation was present, with some adventurous 
pedestrians from the city, who had not thought the heat of 
the mid-day August sun too great to deter them. The 
archdeacon took his text from the Epistle of Philemon. 'I 
beseech thee for my son Onesimus, whom I have begotten in my 
bonds.' From such a text it may be imagined the kind of 
sermon which Dr Grantly preached, and on the whole it was 
neither dull, nor bad, nor out of place.
He told them that it had become his duty to look about for a 
pastor for them, to supply the place of one who had been 
long among them; and that in this manner he regarded as a 
son him whom he had selected, as St Paul had regarded the 
young disciple whom he sent forth. Then he took a little 
merit to himself for having studiously provided the best man 
he could without reference to patronage or favour; but he 
did not say that the best man according to his views was he 
who was best able to subdue Mr Slope, and make that 
gentleman's situation in Barchester too hot to be 
comfortable. As to the bonds, they had consisted in the 
exceeding struggle which he had made to get a good clergyman 
for them. He deprecated any comparison between himself and 
St Paul, but said that he was entitled to beseech them for 
their goodwill towards Mr Arabin, in the same manner that 
the apostle had besought Philemon and his household with 
regard to Onesimus.
The archdeacon's sermon, text, blessing and all, was 
concluded within the half hour. Then they shook hands with 
their Ullathorne friends, and returned to Plumstead. 'Twas 
thus that Mr Arabin read himself in at St Ewold's.



Chapter 24

Mr Slope manages matters very cleverly at Puddingdale

The next two weeks passed pleasantly enough at Plumstead. 
The whole party there assembled seemed to get on well 
together. Eleanor made the house agreeable, and the 
archdeacon and Mrs Grantly seemed to have forgotten her 
iniquity as regarded Mr Slope. Mr Harding had his 
violoncello, and played to them while his daughters 
accompanied him. Johnny Bold, by the help either of Mr 
Rerechild or else by that of his coral and carrot-juice, got 
through his teething troubles. There had been gaieties too 
of all sorts. They had dined at Ullathorne, and the Thornes 
had dined at the Rectory. Eleanor had been duly put to stand 
on her box, and in that position had found herself quite 
unable to express her opinion on the merits of flounces, 
such having been the subject given to try her elocution. Mr 
Arabin had of course been much in his own parish, looking to 
the doings at his vicarage, calling on his parishioners, and 
taking on himself the duties of his new calling. But still 
he had been every evening at Plumstead, and Mrs Grantly was 
partly willing to agree with her husband that he was a 
pleasant inmate in a house.
They had also been at a dinner party at Dr Stanhope's, of 
which Mr Arabin had made one. He also, moth-like, burnt his 
wings in the flames of the signora's candle. Mrs Bold, too, 
had been there, and had felt somewhat displeased with the 
taste, want of taste she called it, shown by Mr Arabin in 
paying so much attention to Madame Neroni. It was as 
infallible that Madeline should displease and irritate the 
women, as that she should charm and captivate the men. The 
one result followed naturally on the other. It was quite 
true that Mr Arabin had been charmed. He thought her a very 
clever and a very handsome woman; he thought also that her 
peculiar affliction entitled her to the sympathy of all. He 
had never, he said, met so much suffering joined to such 
perfect beauty and so clear a mind. 'Twas thus he spoke of 
the signora coming home in the archdeacon's carriage; and 
Eleanor by no means liked to hear the praise. It was, 
however, exceedingly unjust of her to be angry with Mr 
Arabin, as she had herself spent a very pleasant evening 
with Bertie Stanhope, who had taken her down to dinner, and 
had not left her side for one moment after the gentlemen 
came out of the dining-room. It was unfair that she should 
amuse herself with Bertie and yet begrudge her new friend 
his license of amusing himself with Bertie's sister. And yet 
she did so. She was half angry with him in the carriage, and 
said something about meretricious manners. Mr Arabin did not 
understand the ways of women very well, or else he might 
have flattered himself that Eleanor was in love with him.
But Eleanor was not in love with him. How many shades there 
are between love and indifference, and how little the 
graduated scale is understood! She had now been nearly three 
weeks in the same house with Mr Arabin, and had received 
much of his attention, and listened daily to his 
conversation. He had usually devoted at least some portion 
of his evening to her exclusively. At Dr Stanhope's he had 
devoted himself exclusively to another. It does not require 
that a woman should be in love to be irritated at this; it 
does not require that she should even acknowledge to herself 
that it is unpleasant to her. Eleanor had no such self-
knowledge. She thought in her own heart that it was only on 
Mr Arabin's account that she regretted that he could 
condescend to be amused by the signora. 'I thought he had 
more mind,' she said to herself, as she sat watching her 
baby's cradle on her return from the party. 'After all, I 
believe Mr Stanhope is the pleasanter man of the two.' Alas 
for the memory of poor John Bold! Eleanor was not in love 
with Bertie Stanhope, nor was she in love with Mr Arabin. 
But her devotion to her late husband was fast fading, when 
she could revolve in her mind, over the cradle of his 
infant, the faults and failings of other aspirants to her 
favour.
Will anyone blame my heroine for this? Let him or her rather 
thank God for all His goodness - for His mercy endureth for 
ever.
Eleanor, in truth, was not in love; neither was Mr Arabin. 
Neither indeed was Bertie Stanhope, though he had already 
found occasion to say nearly as much as that he was. The 
widow's cap had prevented him from making a positive 
declaration, when otherwise he would have considered himself 
entitled to do so on a third or fourth interview. It was, 
after all, but a small cap now, and had but little of the 
weeping-willow left in its construction. It is singular how 
these emblems of grief fade away by unseen gradations. Each 
pretends to be the counterpart of the forerunner, and yet 
the last little bit of crimped white crape that sits so 
jauntily on the back of the head, is as dissimilar to the 
first huge mountain of woe which disfigured the face of the 
weeper, as the state of the Hindoo is to the jointure of the 
English dowager.
But let it be clearly understood that Eleanor was in love 
with no one, and that no one was in love with Eleanor. Under 
these circumstances her anger against Mr Arabin did not last 
long, and before two days were over they were both as good 
friends as ever. She could not but like him, for every hour 
spent in his company was spent pleasantly. And yet she could 
not quite like him, for there was always apparent in his 
conversation a certain feeling on his part that he hardly 
thought it worth his while to be in earnest. It was almost 
as though he were playing with a child. She knew well enough 
that he was in truth a sober thoughtful man, who in some 
matters and on some occasions could endure an agony of 
earnestness. And yet to her he was always gently playful. 
Could she have seen his brow once clouded she might have 
learnt to love him.
So things went on at Plumstead, and on the whole not 
unpleasantly, till a huge storm darkened the horizon, and 
came down upon the inhabitants of the rectory with all the 
fury of a water-spout. It was astonishing how in a few 
minutes the whole face of the heavens was changed. The party 
broke up from breakfast in perfect harmony; but fierce 
passions had arisen before the evening, which did not admit 
of their sitting at the same board for dinner. To explain 
this, it will be necessary to go back a little.
It will be remembered that the bishop expressed to Mr Slope 
in his dressing-room, his determination that Mr Quiverful 
should be confirmed in his appointment to the hospital, and 
that his lordship requested Mr Slope to communicate this 
decision to the archdeacon. It will also be remembered that 
the archdeacon had indignantly declined seeing Mr Slope, and 
had, instead, written a strong letter to the bishop, in 
which he all but demanded the situation of warden for Mr 
Harding. To this letter the archdeacon received an immediate 
formal reply from Mr Slope, in which it was stated, that the 
bishop had received and would give his best consideration to 
the archdeacon's letter.
The archdeacon felt himself somewhat checkmated by this 
reply. What could he do with a man who would neither see 
him, nor argue with him by letter, and who had undoubtedly 
the power of appointing any clergyman he pleased? He had 
consulted with Mr Arabin, who had suggested the propriety of 
calling in the aid of the master of Lazarus. 'If,' said he, 
'you and Dr Gwynne formally declare your intention of 
waiting upon the bishop, the bishop will not dare to refuse 
to see you; and if two such men as you are see him together, 
you will probably not leave him without carrying your 
point.'
The archdeacon did not quite like admitting the necessity of 
his being backed by the master of Lazarus before he could 
obtain admission into the episcopal palace of Barchester; 
but still he felt that the advice was good, and he resolved 
to take it. He wrote again to the bishop, expressing a hope 
that nothing further would be done in the matter of the 
hospital, till the consideration promised by his lordship 
had been given, and then sent off a warm appeal to his 
friend the master, imploring him to come to Plumstead and 
assist in driving the bishop into compliance. The master had 
rejoined, raising some difficulty, but not declining; and 
the archdeacon had again pressed his point, insisting on the 
necessity for immediate action. Dr Gwynne unfortunately had 
the gout, and could therefore name no immediate day, but 
still agreed to come, if it should be finally found 
necessary. So the matter stood, as regarded the party at 
Plumstead.
But Mr Harding had another friend fighting his battle for 
him, quite as powerful as the master of Lazarus, and this 
was Mr Slope. Though the bishop had so pertinaciously 
insisted on giving way to his wife in the matter of the 
hospital, Mr Slope did not think it necessary to abandon his 
object. He had, he thought, daily more and more reason to 
imagine that the widow would receive his overtures 
favourably, and he could not but feel that Mr Harding at the 
hospital, and placed there by his means, would be more 
likely to receive him as a son-in-law, than Mr Harding 
growling in opposition and disappointment under the 
archdeacon's wing at Plumstead. Moreover, to give Mr Slope 
due credit, he was actuated by greater motives even than 
these. He wanted a wife, and he wanted money, but he wanted 
power more than either. He had fully realised the fact that 
he must come to blows with Mrs Proudie. He had no desire to 
remain in Barchester as her chaplain. Sooner than do so, he 
would risk the loss of his whole connection with the 
diocese. What! was he to feel within him the possession of 
no ordinary talents; was he to know himself to be 
courageous, firm, and, in matters where his conscience did 
not interfere, unscrupulous; and yet be contented to be the 
working factotum of a woman-prelate? Mr Slope had higher 
ideas of his own destiny. Either he or Mrs Proudie must go 
to the wall; and now had come the time when he would try 
which it should be.
The bishop had declared that Mr Quiverful should be the new 
warden. As Mr Slope went downstairs prepared to see the 
archdeacon if necessary, but fully satisfied that no such 
necessity would arise, he declared to himself that Mr 
Harding should be warden. With the object of carrying this 
point, he rode over to Puddingdale, and had a further 
interview with the worthy expectant of clerical good things. 
Mr Quiverful was on the whole a worthy man. The impossible 
task of bringing up as ladies and gentlemen fourteen 
children on an income which was insufficient to give them 
with decency the common necessaries of life, had had an 
effect upon him not beneficial either to his spirit, or his 
keen sense of honour. Who can boast that he would have 
supported such a burden with a different result? Mr 
Quiverful was an honest, painstaking, drudging man; anxious, 
indeed, for bread and meat, anxious for means to quiet his 
butcher and cover with returning smiles the now sour 
countenance of the baker's wife, but anxious also to be 
right with his own conscience. He was not careful, as 
another might be who sat on an easier worldly seat, to stand 
well with those around him, to shun a breath which might 
sully his name, or a rumour which might affect his honour. 
He could not afford such niceties of conduct, such moral 
luxuries. It must suffice for him to be ordinarily honest 
according to the ordinary honesty of the world's ways, and 
to let men's tongues wag as they would.
He had felt that his brother clergymen, men whom he had 
known for the last twenty years, looked coldly on him from 
the first moment that he had shown himself willing to sit at 
the feet of Mr Slope; he had seen that their looks grew 
colder still, when it became bruited about that he was to be 
the bishop's new warden at Hiram's Hospital. This was 
painful enough; but it was the cross which he was doomed to 
bear. He thought of his wife, whose last new silk dress was 
six years in wear. He thought of all his young flock, whom 
he could hardly take to church with him on Sundays, for 
there were not decent shoes and stockings for them all to 
wear. He thought of the well-worn sleeves of his own black 
coat, and of the stern face of the draper from whom he would 
fain ask for cloth to make another, did he not know that the 
credit would be refused him. Then he thought of the 
comfortable house in Barchester, of the comfortable income, 
of his boys sent to school, of his girls with books in their 
hands instead of darning needles, of his wife's face again 
covered with smiles, and of his daily board again covered 
with plenty. He thought of these things; and do thou also, 
reader, think of them, and then wonder, if thou canst, that 
Mr Slope had appeared to him to possess all those good gifts 
which could grace a bishop's chaplain. 'How beautiful upon 
the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good 
tidings.'
Why, moreover, should the Barchester clergy have looked 
coldly on Mr Quiverful? Had they not all shown that they 
regarded with complacency the loaves and fishes of their 
mother church? Had they not all, by some hook or crook, done 
better for themselves than he had done? They were not 
burdened as he was burdened. Dr Grantly had five children, 
and nearly as many thousands a year on which to feed them. 
It was very well for him to turn up his nose at a new bishop 
who could do nothing for him, and a chaplain who was beneath 
his notice; but it was cruel in a man so circumstanced to 
set the world against the father of fourteen children 
because he was anxious to obtain for them an honourable 
support! He, Mr Quiverful, had not asked for the wardenship; 
he had not even accepted it till he had been assured that Mr 
Harding had refused it. How hard then that he should be 
blamed for doing that which not to have done would have 
argued a most insane imprudence?
Thus in this matter of the hospital poor Mr Quiverful had 
his trials; and he had also his consolations. On the whole 
the consolations were the more vivid of the two. The stern 
draper heard of the coming promotion, and the wealth of his 
warehouse was at Mr Quiverful's disposal. Coming events cast 
their shadows before, and the coming event of Mr Quiverful's 
transference to Barchester produced a delicious shadow in 
the shape of a new outfit for Mrs Quiverful and her three 
elder daughters. Such consolations come home to the heart of 
a man, and quite home to the heart of a woman. Whatever the 
husband might feel, the wife cared nothing for frowns of 
dean, archdeacon, or prebendary. To her the outsides and 
insides of her husband and fourteen children were 
everything. In her bosom every other ambition had been 
swallowed up in that maternal ambition of seeing them and 
him and herself duly clad and properly fed. It had come to 
that with her that life had now no other purpose. She recked 
nothing of the imaginary rights of others. She had no 
patience with her husband when he declared to her that he 
could not accept the hospital unless he knew that Mr Harding 
had refused it. Her husband had no right to be Quixotic at 
the expense of fourteen children. The narrow escape of 
throwing away his good fortune which her lord had had, 
almost paralysed her. Now, indeed, they had received the 
full promise not only from Mr Slope, but also from Mrs 
Proudie. Now, indeed, they might reckon with safety on their 
good fortune. But what if all had been lost? What if her 
fourteen bairns had been resteeped to the hips in poverty by 
the morbid sentimentality of their father? Mrs Quiverful was 
just at present a happy woman, but yet it nearly took her 
breath away when she thought of the risk they had run.
'I don't know what your father means when he talks so much 
of what is due to Mr Harding,' she said to her eldest 
daughter. 'Does he think that Mr Harding would give him £450 
a year out of fine feeling? And what signifies it whom he 
offends, as long as he gets the place? He does not expect 
anything better. It passes me to think how your father can 
be so soft, while everybody around him is so griping.'
Thus, while the outer world was accusing Mr Quiverful of 
rapacity for promotion and of disregard to his honour, the 
inner world of his own household was falling foul of him, 
with equal vehemence, for his willingness to sacrifice their 
interest to a false feeling of sentimental pride. It is 
astonishing how much difference the point of view makes in 
the aspect of all that we look at!
Such were the feelings of the different members of the 
family at Puddingdale on the occasion of Mr Slope's second 
visit. Mrs Quiverful, as soon as she saw his horse coming up 
the avenue from the vicarage gate, hastily packed up her 
huge basket of needlework, and hurried herself and her 
daughter out of the room in which she was sitting with her 
husband. 'It's Mr Slope,' she said. 'He's come to settle 
with you about the hospital. I do hope we shall now be able 
to move at once.' And she hastened to bid the maid of all 
work go to the door, so that the welcome great man might not 
be kept waiting.
Mr Slope thus found Mr Quiverful alone. Mrs Quiverful went 
off to her kitchen and back settlements with anxious beating 
heart, almost dreading that there might be some slip between 
the cup of her happiness and the lip of her fruition, but 
yet comforting herself with the reflection that after what 
had taken place, any such slip could hardly be possible.
Mr Slope was all smiles as he shook his brother clergyman's 
hand, and said that he had ridden over because he thought it 
right at once to put Mr Quiverful in possession of the facts 
of the matter regarding the wardenship of the hospital. As 
he spoke, the poor expectant husband and father saw at a 
glance that his brilliant hopes were to be dashed to the 
ground, and that his visitor was now there for the purpose 
of unsaying what on his former visit he had said. There was 
something in the tone of the voice, something in the glance 
of the eye, which told the tale. Mr Quiverful knew it all at 
once. He maintained his self-possession, however, smiled 
with a slight unmeaning smile, and merely said that he was 
obliged to Mr Slope for the trouble he was taking.
'It has been a troublesome matter from first to last,' said 
Mr Slope; 'and the bishop has hardly known how to act. 
Between ourselves - but mind this of course must go no 
further, Mr Quiverful.'
Mr Quiverful said that of course it should not. 'The truth 
is, that poor Mr Harding has hardly known his own mind. You 
remember our last conversation, no doubt.'
Mr Quiverful assured him that he remembered it very well 
indeed.
'You will remember that I told you that Mr Harding had 
refused to return to the hospital.'
Mr Quiverful declared that nothing could be more distinct on 
his memory.
'And acting on this refusal, I suggested that you should 
take the hospital,' continued Mr Slope.
'I understood you to say that the bishop had authorised you 
to offer it to me.'
'Did I? did I go so far as that? Well, perhaps it may be, 
that in my anxiety in your behalf I did commit myself 
further than I should have done. So far as my own memory 
serves me, I don't think I did go quite so far as that. But 
I own I was very anxious that you should get it; and I may 
have said more than was quite prudent.'
'But,' said Mr Quiverful, in his deep anxiety to prove his 
case, 'my wife received as distinct a promise from Mrs 
Proudie as one human being could give to another.'
Mr Slope smiled, and gently shook his head. He meant that 
smile for a pleasant smile, but it was diabolical in the 
eyes of the man he was speaking to. 'Mrs Proudie!' he said. 
'If we are to go to what passes between the ladies in these 
matters, we shall really be in a nest of troubles from which 
we shall never extricate ourselves. Mrs Proudie is a most 
excellent lady, kind-hearted, charitable, pious, and in 
every way estimable. But, my dear Mr Quiverful, the 
patronage of the diocese is not in her hands.'
Mr Quiverful for a moment sat panic-stricken and silent. 'Am 
I to understand, then, that I have received no promise?' he 
said, as soon as he had sufficiently collected his thoughts.
'If you will allow me, I will tell you exactly how the 
matter rests. You certainly did receive a promise 
conditional on Mr Harding's refusal. I am sure you will do 
me the justice to remember that you yourself declared that 
you could accept the appointment on no other condition than 
the knowledge that Mr Harding had declined it.'
'Yes,' said Mr Quiverful; 'I did say that, certainly.'
'Well; it now appears that he did not refuse it.'
'But surely you told me, and repeated it more than once, 
that he had done so in your own hearing.'
'So I understood him. But it seems I was in error. But don't 
for a moment, Mr Quiverful, suppose that I mean to throw you 
over. No. Having held out my hand to a man in your position, 
with your large family and pressing claims, I am not now 
going to draw it back again. I only want you to act with me 
fairly and honestly.'
'Whatever I do, I shall endeavour at any rate to act 
fairly,' said the poor man, feeling that he had to fall back 
for support on the spirit of martyrdom within him.
'I am sure you will,' said the other. 'I am sure you have no 
wish to obtain possession of an income which belongs by all 
right to another. No man knows better than you do Mr 
Harding's history, or can better appreciate his character. 
Mr Harding is very desirous of returning to his old 
position, and the bishop feels that he is at the present 
moment somewhat hampered, though of course he is not bound, 
by the conversation which took place on the matter between 
you and me.'
'Well,' said Mr Quiverful, dreadfully doubtful as to what 
his conduct under such circumstances should be, and 
fruitlessly striving to harden his nerves with some of that 
instinct of self-preservation which made his wife so bold.
'The wardenship of this little hospital is not the only 
thing in the bishop's gift, Mr Quiverful, nor is it by many 
degrees the best. And his lordship is not the man to forget 
anyone whom he has once marked with approval. If you would 
allow me to advise you as a friend -'
'Indeed I shall be most grateful to you,' said the poor 
vicar of Puddingdale.
'I should advise you to withdraw from any opposition to Mr 
Harding's claims. If you persist in your demand, I do not 
think you will ultimately succeed. Mr Harding has all but a 
positive right to the place. But if you will allow me to 
inform the bishop that you decline to stand in Mr Harding's 
way, I think I may promise you - though, by the bye, it must 
not be taken as a formal promise that the bishop will not 
allow you to be a poorer man than you would have been had 
you become warden.'
Mr Quiverful sat in his arm-chair silent, gazing at vacancy. 
What was he to say? All this that came from Mr Slope was so 
true. Mr Harding had a right to the hospital. The bishop had 
a great many good things to give away. Both the bishop and 
Mr Slope would be excellent friends and terrible enemies to 
a man in his position. And then he had no proof of any 
promise; he could not force the bishop to appoint him.
'Well, Mr Quiverful, what do you say about it?'
'Oh, of course, whatever you think fit, Mr Slope. It's a 
great disappointment, a very great disappointment. I won't 
deny that I am a very poor man, Mr Slope.'
'In the end, Mr Quiverful, you will find that it will have 
been better for you.'
The interview ended in Mr Slope receiving a full 
renunciation from Mr Quiverful of any claim he might have to 
the appointment in question. It was only given verbally and 
without witnesses; but then the original promise was made in 
the same way.
Mr Slope again assured him that he should not be forgotten, 
and then rode back to Barchester, satisfied that he would 
now be able to mould the bishop to his wishes.



Chapter 25

Fourteen Arguments in Favour of Mr Quiverful's Claims

We have most of us heard of the terrible anger of a lioness 
when, surrounded by her cubs, she guards her prey. Few of us 
wish to disturb the mother of a litter of puppies when 
mouthing a bone in the midst of her young family. Medea and 
her children are familiar to us, and so is the grief of 
Constance. Mrs Quiverful, when she first heard from her 
husband the news which he had to impart, felt within her 
bosom all the rage of a lioness, the rapacity of the hound, 
the fury of the tragic queen, and the deep despair of the 
bereaved mother.
Doubting, but yet hardly fearing, what might have been the 
tenour of Mr Slope's discourse, she rushed back to her 
husband as soon as the front door was closed behind the 
visitor. It was well for Mr Slope that he so escaped - the 
anger of such a woman, at such a moment, would have cowed 
even him. As a general rule, it is highly desirable that 
ladies should keep their temper; a woman when she storms 
always makes herself ugly, and usually ridiculous also. 
There is nothing so odious to man as a virago. Though 
Theseus loved an Amazon, he showed his love but roughly; and 
from the time of Theseus downward, no man ever wished to 
have his wife remarkable rather for forward prowess than 
retiring gentleness. A low voice 'is an excellent thing in 
woman.'
Such may be laid down as a very general rule; and few women 
should allow themselves to deviate from it, and then only on 
rare occasions. But if there be a time when a woman may let 
her hair to the winds, when she may loose her arms, and 
scream out trumpet-tongued to the ears of men, it is when 
nature calls out within her not for her own wants, but for 
the wants of those whom her womb has borne, whom her breasts 
have suckled, for those who look to her for their daily 
bread as naturally as man looks to his Creator.
There was nothing poetic in the nature of Mrs Quiverful. She 
was neither a Medea nor a Constance. When angry, she spoke 
out her anger in plain words, and in a tone which might have 
been modulated with advantage; but she did so, at any rate, 
without affectation. Now, without knowing it, she rose to a 
tragic vein.
'Well, my dear; we are not to have it.' Such were the words 
with which her ears were greeted when she entered the 
parlour, still hot from the kitchen fire. And the face of 
her husband spoke even more plainly than his words: 

E'en such a man, so faint, so spiritless,
So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone,
Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night.

What!' said she - and Mrs Siddons could not have put more 
passion into a single syllable - 'What! not have it? who 
says so?' And she sat opposite to her husband, with her 
elbows on the table, her hands clasped together, and her 
coarse, solid, but once handsome face stretched over it 
towards him.
She sat as silent as death while he told his story, and very 
dreadful to him her silence was. He told it very lamely and 
badly, but still in such a manner that she soon understood 
the whole of it.
'And so you have resigned it?' said she.
'I have had no opportunity of accepting it,' he replied. 'I 
had no witnesses to Mr Slope's offer, even if that offer 
would bind the bishop. It was better for me, on the whole, 
to keep on good terms with such men than to fight for what I 
should never get!'
'Witnesses!' she screamed, rising quickly to her feet, and 
walking up and down the room. 'Do clergymen require 
witnesses to their words? He made the promise in the 
bishop's name, and if it is to be broken I'll know the 
reason why. Did he not positively say that the bishop had 
sent him to offer you the place?'
'He did, my dear. But that is now nothing to the purpose.'
'It is everything to the purpose, Mr Quiverful. Witnesses 
indeed! and then to talk of your honour being questioned, 
because you wish to provide for fourteen children. It is 
everything to the purpose; and so they shall know, if I 
scream it into their ears from the town cross of 
Barchester.'
'You forget, Letitia, that the bishop has so many things in 
his gift. We must wait a little longer. That is all.'
'Wait! Shall we feed the children by waiting? Will waiting 
put George, and Tom, and Sam, out into the world? Will it 
enable my poor girls to give up some of their drudgery? Will 
waiting make Bessy and Jane fit even to be governesses? Will 
waiting pay for the things we got in Barchester last week?'
'It is all we can do, my dear. The disappointment is as much 
to me as to you; and yet, God knows, I feel it more for your 
sake than my own.'
Mrs Quiverful was looking full into her husband's face, and 
saw a small hot tear appear on each of those furrowed 
cheeks. This was too much for her woman's heart. He also had 
risen, and was standing with his back to the empty grate. 
She rushed towards him, and, seizing him in her arms, sobbed 
aloud upon his bosom.
'You are too good, too soft, too yielding,' she said at 
last. 'These men, when they want you, they use you like a 
cat's-paw; and when they want you no longer, they throw you 
aside like an old shoe. This ;s twice they have treated you 
so.'
'In one way this will be all for the better,' argued he. 'It 
will make the bishop feel that he is bound to do something 
for me.'
'At any rate, he shall hear of it,' said the lady, again 
reverting to her more angry mood. 'At any rate he shall hear 
of it, and that loudly; and so shall she. She little knows 
Letitia Quiverful, if she thinks I will sit down quietly 
with the loss after all that passed between us at the 
palace. If there's any feeling within her, I'll make her 
ashamed of herself' - and she paced the room again, stamping 
the floor as she went with her fat heavy foot. 'Good 
heavens! what a heart she must have within her to treat in 
such a way as this the father of fourteen unprovided 
children!'
Mr Quiverful proceeded to explain that he didn't think that 
Mrs Proudie had had anything to do with it.
'Don't tell me,' said Mrs Quiverful; 'I know more about it 
than that. Doesn't all the world know that Mrs Proudie is 
bishop of Barchester, and that Mr Slope is merely her 
creature? Wasn't it she that made me the promise, just as 
though the thing was in her own particular gift? I tell you, 
it was that woman who sent him over here today, because, for 
some reason of her own, she wants to go back from her word.'
'My dear, you're wrong -'
'Now, Q., don't be so soft,' she continued. 'Take my word 
for it, the bishop knows no more about it than Jemima does.' 
Jemima was the two-year-old. 'And if you'll take my advice, 
you'll lose no time in going over and seeing him yourself.'
Soft, however, as Mr Quiverful might be, he would not allow 
himself to be talked out of his opinion on this occasion; 
and proceeded with much minuteness to explain to his wife 
the tone in which Mr Slope had spoken of Mrs Proudie's 
interference in diocesan matters. As he did so, a new idea 
gradually instilled itself into the matron's head, and a new 
course of conduct presented itself to her judgment.
What if, after all, Mrs Proudie knew nothing of this visit 
of Mr Slope's? In that case, might it not be possible that 
that lady would still be staunch to her in this matter, 
still stand her friend, and, perhaps, possibly carry her 
through in opposition to Mr Slope? Mrs Quiverful said 
nothing as this vague hope occurred to her, but listened 
with more than ordinary patience to what her husband had to 
say. While he was still explaining that in all probability 
the world was wrong in its estimation of Mrs Proudie's power 
and authority, she had fully made up her mind as to her 
course of action. She did not, however, proclaim her 
intention. She shook her head ominously as he continued his 
narration; and when he had completed she rose to go, merely 
observing that it was cruel, cruel treatment. She then asked 
him if he would mind waiting for a late dinner instead of 
dining at their usual hour of three, and, having received 
from him a concession on this point, she proceeded to carry 
her purpose into execution.
She determined that she would at once go to the palace; that 
she would do so, if possible, before Mrs Proudie could have 
had an interview with Mr Slope; and that she would be either 
submissive, piteous and pathetic, or else indignant, violent 
and exacting, according to the manner in which she was 
received.
She was quite confident in her own power. Strengthened as 
she was by the pressing wants of fourteen children, she felt 
that she could make her way through legions of episcopal 
servants, and force herself, if need be, into the presence 
of the lady who had so wronged her. She had no shame about 
it, no mauvaise honte, no dread of archdeacons. She would, 
as she declared to her husband, make her wail heard in the 
market-place if she did not get redress and justice. It 
might be very well for an unmarried young curate to be 
shamefaced in such matters; it might be all right that a 
snug rector, really in want of nothing, but still looking 
for better preferment, should carry on his affairs decently 
under the rose. But Mrs Quiverful, with fourteen children, 
had given over being shamefaced, and, in some things, had 
given over being decent. If it were intended that she should 
be ill used in the manner proposed by Mr Slope, it should 
not be done under the rose. All the world should know of it.
In her present mood, Mrs Quiverful was not over careful 
about her attire. She tied her bonnet under her chin, threw 
her shawl over her shoulders, armed herself with the old 
family cotton umbrella, and started for Barchester. A 
journey to the palace was not quite so easy a thing for Mrs 
Quiverful as for our friend at Plumstead. Plumstead is nine 
miles from Barchester, and Puddingdale is but four. But the 
archdeacon could order round his brougham, and his high-
trotting fast bay gelding would take him into the city 
within the hour. There was no brougham in the coach-house of 
Puddingdale Vicarage, no bay horse in the stables. There was 
no method of locomotion for its inhabitants but that which 
nature had assigned to man.
Mrs Quiverful was a broad heavy woman, not young, nor given 
to walking. In her kitchen, and in the family dormitories, 
she was active enough; but her pace and gait were not 
adapted for the road. A walk into Barchester and back in the 
middle of an August day would be to her a terrible task, if 
not altogether impracticable. There was living in the 
parish, about half a mile from the vicarage on the road to 
the city, a decent, kindly farmer, well-to-do as regards 
this world, and so far mindful of the next that he attended 
his parish church with decent regularity. To him Mrs 
Quiverful had before now appealed in some of her more 
pressing family troubles, and had not appealed in vain. At 
his door she now presented herself, and, having explained to 
his wife that most urgent business required her to go at 
once to Barchester, begged that Farmer Subsoil would take 
her thither in his tax-cart. The farmer did not reject her 
plan; and, as soon as Prince could be got into his collar, 
they started on their Journey.
Mrs Quiverful did not mention the purpose of her business, 
nor did the farmer alloy his kindness by any unseemly 
questions. She merely begged to be put down at the bridge 
going into the city, and to be taken up again at the same 
place in the course of two hours. The farmer promised to be 
punctual to his appointment, and the lady, supported by her 
umbrella, took the short cut to the close, and in a few 
minutes was at the bishop's door.
Hitherto she had felt no dread with regard to the coming 
interview. She had felt nothing but an indignant longing to 
pour forth her claims, and declare her wrongs, if those 
claims were not fully admitted. But now the difficulty of 
her situation touched her a little. She had been at the 
palace once before, but then she went to give grateful 
thanks. Those who have thanks to return for favours received 
find easy admittance to the halls of the great. Such is not 
always the case with men, or even with women, who have 
favours to beg. Still less easy is access for those who 
demand the fulfilment of promises already made.
Mrs Quiverful had not been slow to learn the ways of the 
world. She knew all this, and she knew also that her cotton 
umbrella and all but ragged shawl would not command respect 
in the eyes of the palatial servants. If she were too 
humble, she knew well that she would never succeed. To 
overcome by imperious overbearing with such a shawl as hers 
upon her shoulders, and such a bonnet on her head, would 
have required a personal bearing very superior to that with 
which nature had endowed her. Of this also Mrs Quiverful was 
aware. She must make it known that she was the wife of a 
gentleman and a clergyman, and must yet condescend to 
conciliate.
The poor lady knew but one way to overcome these 
difficulties at the very threshold of her enterprise, and to 
this she resorted. Low as were the domestic funds at 
Puddingdale, she still retained possession of half-a-crown, 
and this she sacrificed to the avarice of Mrs Proudie's 
metropolitan sesquipedalian serving-man. She was, she said, 
Mrs Quiverful of Puddingdale, the wife of the Rev. Mr 
Quiverful. She wished to see Mrs Proudie. It was indeed 
quite indispensable that she should see Mrs Proudie. James 
Fitzplush looked worse than dubious, did not know whether 
his lady were out, or engaged, or in her bedroom; thought it 
was most probable she was subject to one of these or to some 
other cause that would make her invisible; but Mrs Quiverful 
could sit down in the waiting-room while inquiry was being 
made of Mrs Proudie's maid.
'Look here, my man,' said Mrs Quiverful; 'I must see her '; 
and she put her card and half-a-crown - think of it, my 
reader, think of it; her last half-crown - into the man's 
hand, and sat herself down on a chair in the waiting-room.
Whether the bribe carried the day, or whether the bishop's 
wife really chose to see the vicar's wife, it boots not now 
to inquire. The man returned, and begging Mrs Quiverful to 
follow him, ushered her into the presence of the mistress of 
the diocese.
Mrs Quiverful at once saw that her patroness was in a 
smiling humour. Triumph sat throned upon her brow, and all 
the joys of dominion hovered about her curls. Her lord had 
that morning contested with her a great point. He had 
received an invitation to spend a couple of days with the 
archbishop. His soul longed for the gratification. Not a 
word, however, in his grace's note alluded to the fact of 
his being a married man; and, if he went at all, he must go 
alone. This necessity would have presented no insurmountable 
bar to the visit, or have militated much against the 
pleasure, had he been able to go without any reference to 
Mrs Proudie. But this he could not do. He could not order 
his portmanteau to be packed, and start with his own man, 
merely telling the lady of his heart that he would probably 
be back on Saturday. There are men - may we not rather say 
monsters? - who do such things; and there are wives - may we 
not rather say slaves? - who put up with such usage. But 
Doctor and Mrs Proudie were not among the number.
The bishop, with some beating about the bush, made the lady 
understand that he very much wished to go. The lady, without 
any beating about the bush, made the bishop understand that 
she wouldn't hear of it. It would be useless here to repeat 
the arguments that were used on each side, and needless to 
record the result. Those who are married will understand 
very well how the battle was lost and won; and those who are 
single will never understand it till they learn the lesson 
which experience alone can give. When Mrs Quiverful was 
shown into Mrs Proudie's room, that lady had only returned a 
few minutes from her lord. But before she left him she had 
seen the answer to the archbishop's note written and sealed. 
No wonder that her face was wreathed with smiles as she 
received Mrs Quiverful.
She instantly spoke of the subject which was so near the 
heart of her visitor. 'Well, Mrs Quiverful,' said she, 'is 
it decided yet when you are to move into Barchester?'
'That woman,' as she had an hour or two since been called, 
became instantly re-endowed with all the graces that can 
adorn a bishop's wife. Mrs Quiverful immediately saw that 
her business was to be piteous, and that nothing was to be 
gained by indignation; nothing, indeed, unless she could be 
indignant in company with her patroness.
'Oh, Mrs Proudie,' she began, 'I fear we are not to move to 
Barchester at all.'
'Why not?' said that lady sharply, dropping at a moment's 
notice her smiles and condescension, and turning with her 
sharp quick way to business which she saw at a glance was 
important.
And then Mrs Quiverful told her tale. As she progressed in 
the history of her wrongs she perceived that the heavier she 
lent upon Mr Slope the blacker became Mrs Proudie's brow, 
but that such blackness was not injurious to her own cause. 
When Mr Slope was at Puddingdale Vicarage that morning she 
had regarded him as the creature of the lady-bishop; now she 
perceived that they were enemies. She admitted her mistake 
to herself without any pain or
"IS
humiliation. She had but one feeling, and that was confined 
to her family. She cared little how she twisted and turned 
among these new-comers at the bishop's palace so long as she 
could twist her husband into the warden's house. She cared 
not which was her friend or which was her enemy, if only she 
could get this preferment which she so sorely wanted.
She told her tale, and Mrs Proudie listened to it almost in 
silence. She told how Mr Slope had cozened her husband into 
resigning his claim, and had declared that it was the 
bishop's will that none but Mr Harding should be warden. Mrs 
Proudie's brow became blacker and blacker. At last she 
started from her chair, and begging Mrs Quiverful to sit and 
wait for her return, marched out of the room.
'Oh, Mrs Proudie, it's for fourteen children - for fourteen 
children.' Such was the burden that fell on her ear as she 
closed the door behind her.


Chapter 26

Mrs Proudie Wrestles and Gets a Fall

It was hardly an hour since Mrs Proudie had left her 
husband's apartment victorious, and yet so indomitable was 
her courage that she now returned thither panting for 
another combat. She was greatly angry with what she thought 
was his duplicity. He had so clearly given her a promise on 
this matter of the hospital. He had been already so 
absolutely vanquished on that point. Mrs Proudie began to 
feel that if every affair was to be thus discussed and 
battled about twice and even thrice, the work of the diocese 
would be too much even for her.
Without knocking at the door she walked quickly into her 
husband's room, and found him seated at his office table, 
with Mr Slope opposite to him. Between his fingers was the 
very note which he had written to the archbishop in her 
presence - and it was open! Yes, he had absolutely violated 
the seal which had been made sacred by her approval. They 
were sitting in deep conclave, and it was too clear that the 
purport of the archbishop's invitation had been absolutely 
canvassed again, after it had been already debated and 
decided on in obedience to her behests! Mr Slope rose from 
his chair, and bowed slightly. The two opposing spirits 
looked each other fully in the face, and they knew that they 
were looking each at an enemy.
'What is this, bishop, about Mr Quiverful?' said she, coming 
to the end of the table and standing there.
Mr Slope did not allow the bishop to answer, but replied 
himself. 'I have been out to Puddingdale this morning, 
ma'am, and have seen Mr Quiverful. Mr Quiverful has 
abandoned his claim to the hospital, because he is now aware 
that Mr Harding is desirous to fill his old place. Under 
these circumstances I have strongly advised his lordship to 
nominate Mr Harding.'
'Mr Quiverful has not abandoned anything,' said the lady, 
with a very imperious voice. 'His lordship's word has been 
pledged to him, and it must be respected.'
The bishop still remained silent. He was anxiously desirous 
of making his old enemy bite the dust beneath his feet. His 
new ally had told him that nothing was more easy for him 
than to do so. The ally was there now at his elbow to help 
him, and yet his courage failed him. It is so hard to 
conquer when the prestige of former victories is all against 
one. It is so hard for the cock who has once been beaten out 
of his yard to resume his courage and again take a proud 
place upon a dunghill.
'Perhaps I ought not to interfere,' said Mr Slope, 'but yet -
'
'Certainly you ought not,' said the infuriated dame.
'But yet,' continued Mr Slope, not regarding the 
interruption, 'I have thought it my imperative duty to 
recommend the bishop not to slight Mr Harding's claims.'
'Mr Harding should have known his own mind,' said the lady.
'If Mr Harding be not replaced at the hospital, his lordship 
will have to encounter much ill-will, not only in the 
diocese, but in the world at large. Besides, taking a higher 
ground, his lordship, as I understood, feels it to be his 
duty to gratify, in this matter, so very worthy a man and so 
good a clergyman as Mr Harding.'
'And what is to become of the Sabbath-day school, and of the 
Sunday services in the hospital?' said Mrs Proudie, with 
something very nearly approaching to a sneer on her face.
'I understand that Mr Harding makes no objection to the 
Sabbath-day school,' said Mr Slope. 'And as to the hospital 
services, that matter will be best discussed after his 
appointment. If he has any permanent objection, then, I 
fear, the matter must rest.'
'You have a very easy conscience in such matters, Mr Slope,' 
said she.
'I should not have an easy conscience,' he rejoined, 'but a 
conscience very far from being easy, if anything said or 
done by me should lead the bishop to act unadvisedly in this 
matter. It is clear that in the interview I had with Mr 
Harding, I misunderstood him -'
'And it is equally clear that you have misunderstood Mr 
Quiverful,' said she, now at the top of her wrath. 'What 
business have you at all with these interviews? Who desired 
you to go to Mr Quiverful this morning? Who commissioned you 
to manage this affair? Will you answer me, sir? - who sent 
you to Mr Quiverful this morning?'
There was a dead pause in the room. Mr Slope had risen from 
his chair, and was standing with his hand on the back of it, 
looking at first very solemn and now very black. Mrs Proudie 
was standing as she had at first placed herself, at the end 
of the table, and as she interrogated her foe she struck her 
hand upon it with almost more than feminine vigour. The 
bishop was sitting in his easy-chair twiddling his thumbs, 
turning his eyes now to his wife, and now to his chaplain, 
as each took up the cudgels. How comfortable it would be if 
they could fight it out between them without the necessity 
of any interference on his part; fight it out so that one 
should kill the other utterly, as far as diocesan life was 
concerned, so that he, the bishop, might know clearly by 
whom it behoved him to be led. There would be the comfort of 
quiet in either case; but if the bishop had a wish as to 
which might prove the victor, that wish was certainly not 
antagonistic to Mr Slope.
'Better the d- you know than the d- you don't know,' is an 
old saying, and perhaps a true one; but the bishop had not 
yet realised the truth of it.
'Will you answer me, sir?' she repeated. 'Who instructed you 
to call on Mr Quiverful this morning?' There was another 
pause. 'Do you intend to answer me, sir?'
'I think, Mrs Proudie, that under all the circumstances it 
will be better for me not to answer such a question,' said 
Mr Slope. Mr Slope had many tones in his voice, all duly 
under his command; among them was a sanctified low tone, and 
a sanctified loud tone; and he now used the former.
'Did anyone send you, sir?'
'Mrs Proudie,' said Mr Slope, 'I am quite aware how much I 
owe to your kindness. I am aware also what is due by 
courtesy from a gentleman to a lady. But there are higher 
considerations than either of those, and I hope I shall be 
forgiven if I now allow myself to be actuated solely by 
them. My duty in this matter is to his lordship, and I can 
admit of no questioning but from him. He has approved of 
what I have done, and you must excuse me if I say, that 
having that approval and my own, I want none other.'
What horrid words were these which greeted the ear of Mrs 
Proudie? The matter was indeed too clear. There was 
premeditated mutiny in the camp. Not only had ill-
conditioned minds become insubordinate by the fruition of a 
little power, but sedition had been overtly taught and 
preached. The bishop had not yet been twelve months in his 
chair, and rebellion had already reared her hideous head 
within the palace. Anarchy and misrule would quickly follow, 
unless she took immediate and strong measures to put down 
the conspiracy which she had detected.
'Mr Slope,' she said, with slow and dignified voice, 
differing much from that which she had hitherto used, 'Mr 
Slope, I will trouble you, if you please, to leave the 
apartment. I wish to speak to my lord alone.'
Mr Slope also felt that everything depended on the present 
interview. Should the bishop now be repetticoated, his 
thraldom would be complete and for ever. The present moment 
was peculiarly propitious for rebellion. The bishop had 
clearly committed himself by breaking the seal of the answer 
to the archbishop; he had therefore fear to influence him. 
Mr Slope had told him that no consideration ought to induce 
him to refuse the archbishop's invitation; he had therefore 
hope to influence him. He had accepted Mr Quiverful's 
resignation, and therefore dreaded having to renew that 
matter with his wife. He had been screwed up to the pitch of 
asserting a will of his own, and might possibly be carried 
on till by an absolute success he should have been taught 
how possible it was to succeed. Now was the moment for 
victory or rout. It was now that Mr Slope must make himself 
master of the diocese, or else resign his place and begin 
his search for fortune again. He saw all this plainly. After 
what had taken place any compromise between him and the lady 
was impossible. Let him once leave the room at her bidding, 
and leave the bishop in her hands, and he might at once pack 
up his portmanteau and bid adieu to episcopal honours, Mrs 
Bold, and the Signora Neroni.
And yet it was not so easy to keep his ground when he was 
bidden by a lady to go; or to continue to make a third in a 
party between a husband and wife when the wife expressed a 
wish for a tete-a-tete with her husband.
'Mr Slope,' she repeated, 'I wish to be alone with my lord.'
'His lordship has summoned me on most important diocesan 
business,' said Mr Slope, glancing with uneasy eye at Dr 
Proudie. He felt that he must trust something to the bishop, 
and yet that trust was so woefully ill-placed. 'My leaving 
him at the present moment is, I fear, impossible.'
'Do you bandy words with me, you ungrateful man?' said she. 
'My lord, will you do me the favour to beg Mr Slope to leave 
the room?'
My lord scratched his head, but for the moment said nothing. 
This was as much as Mr Slope expected from him, and was on 
the whole, for him, an active exercise of marital rights.
'My lord,' said the lady, 'is Mr Slope to leave this room, 
or am I?'
Here Mrs Proudie made a false step. She should not have 
alluded to the possibility of retreat on her part. She 
should not have expressed the idea that her order for Mr 
Slope's expulsion could be treated otherwise than by 
immediate obedience. In answer to such a question the bishop 
naturally said in his own mind, that as it was necessary 
that one should leave the room, perhaps it might be as well 
that Mrs Proudie did so. He did say so in his own mind, but 
externally he again scratched his head and again twiddled 
his thumbs.
Mrs Proudie was boiling over with wrath. Alas, alas! could 
she but have kept her temper as her enemy did, she would 
have conquered as she had ever conquered. But divine anger 
got the better of her, as it has done of other heroines, and 
she fell.
'My lord,' said she, 'am I to be vouchsafed an answer or am 
I not?'
At last he broke his deep silence and proclaimed himself a 
Slopeite. 'Why, my dear,' said he, 'Mr Slope and I are very 
busy.'
That was all. There was nothing more necessary. He had gone 
to the battle-field, stood the dust and heat of the day, 
encountered the fury of the foe, and won the victory. How 
easy is success to those who will only be true to 
themselves!
Mr Slope saw at once the full amount of his gain, and turned 
on the vanquished lady a look of triumph which she never 
forgot and never forgave. Here he was wrong. He should have 
looked humbly at her, and with meek entreating eye have 
deprecated her anger. He should have said by his glance that 
he asked pardon for his success, and that he hoped 
forgiveness for the stand which he had been forced to make 
in the cause of duty. So might he perchance have somewhat 
mollified that imperious bosom, and prepared the way for 
future terms. But Mr Slope meant to rule without terms. Ah, 
forgetful, inexperienced man! Can you cause that little 
trembling victim to be divorced from the woman that 
possesses him? Can you provide that they shall be separated 
at bed and board? Is he not flesh of her flesh and bone of 
her bone, and must he not so continue? It is very well now 
for you to stand your ground, and triumph as she is driven 
ignominiously from the room; but can you be present when 
those curtains are drawn, when that awful helmet of proof 
has been tied beneath the chin, when the small remnants of 
the bishop's prowess shall be cowed by the tassel above his 
head? Can you then intrude yourself when the wife wishes 'to 
speak to my lord alone'?
But for the moment Mr Slope's triumph was complete; for Mrs 
Proudie without further parley left the room, and did not 
forget to shut the door after her. Then followed a close 
conference between the new allies, in which was said much 
which it astonished Mr Slope to say and the bishop to hear. 
And yet the one said it and the other heard it without ill-
will. There was no mincing of matters now. The chaplain 
plainly told the bishop that the world gave him credit for 
being under the governance of his wife; that his credit and 
character in the diocese were suffering; that he would 
surely get himself into hot water if he allowed Mrs Proudie 
to interfere in matters which were not suitable for a 
woman's powers; and in fact that he would become 
contemptible if he did not throw off the yoke under which he 
groaned. The bishop at first hummed and hawed, and affected 
to deny the truth of what was said. But his denial was not 
stout and quickly broke down. He soon admitted by silence 
his state of vassalage, and pledged himself, with Mr Slope's 
assistance, to change his courses. Mr Slope also did not 
make out a bad case for himself. He explained how it grieved 
him to run counter to a lady who had always been his 
patroness, who had befriended him in so many ways, who had, 
in fact, recommended him to the bishop's notice; but, as he 
stated, his duty was now imperative; he held a situation of 
peculiar confidence, and was immediately and especially 
attached to the bishop's person. In such a situation his 
conscience required that he should regard solely the 
bishop's interests, and therefore he had ventured to speak 
out.
The bishop took this for what it was worth, and Mr Slope 
only intended that he should do so. It gilded the pill which 
Mr Slope had to administer, and which the bishop thought 
would be less bitter than that other pill which he had so 
long been taking.
'My lord,' had his immediate reward, like a good child. He 
was instructed to write and at once did write another note 
to the archbishop accepting his grace's invitation. This 
note Mr Slope, more prudent than the lady, himself took away 
and posted with his own hands. Thus he made sure that this 
act of self jurisdiction should be as nearly as possible a 
fait accompli. He begged, and coaxed, and threatened the 
bishop with a view of making him also write at once to Mr 
Harding; but the bishop, though temporarily emancipated from 
his wife, was not yet enthralled to Mr Slope. He said, and 
probably said truly, that such an offer must be made in some 
official form; that he was not yet prepared to sign the 
form; and that he should prefer seeing Mr Harding before he 
did so. Mr Slope might, however, beg Mr Harding to call upon 
him. Not disappointed with his achievement Mr Slope went his 
way. He first posted the precious note which he had in his 
pocket, and then pursued other enterprises in which we must 
follow him in other chapters.
Mrs Proudie, having received such satisfaction as was to be 
derived from slamming her husband's door, did not at once 
betake herself to Mrs Quiverful. Indeed for the first few 
moments after her repulse she felt that she could not again 
see that lady. She would have to own that she had been 
beaten, to confess that the diadem had passed from her brow, 
and the sceptre from her hand! No, she would send a message 
to her with the promise of a letter on the next day or the 
day after. Thus resolving, she betook herself to her 
bedroom; but here she again changed her mind. The air of 
that sacred enclosure somewhat restored her courage, and 
gave her more heart. As Achilles warmed at the sight of his 
armour, as Don Quixote's heart grew strong when he grasped 
his lance, so did Mrs Proudie look forward to fresh laurels, 
as her eye fell on her husband's pillow. She would not 
despair. Having so resolved, she descended with dignified 
mien and refreshed countenance to Mrs Quiverful.
This scene in the bishop's study took longer in the acting 
than in the telling. We have not, perhaps, had the whole of 
the conversation. At any rate Mrs Quiverful was beginning to 
be very impatient, and was thinking that Farmer Subsoil 
would be tired of waiting for her, when Mrs Proudie 
returned. Oh! who can tell the palpitations of that maternal 
heart, as the suppliant looked into the face of the great 
lady to see written there either a promise of house, income, 
comfort and future competence, or else the doom of continued 
and ever-increasing poverty. Poor mother! poor wife! there 
was little there to comfort you!
'Mrs Quiverful,' thus spoke the lady with considerable 
austerity, and without sitting down herself, 'I find that 
your husband has behaved in this matter in a very weak and 
foolish manner.'
Mrs Quiverful immediately rose upon her feet, thinking it 
disrespectful to remain sitting while the wife of the bishop 
stood. But she was desired to sit down again, and made to do 
so, so that Mrs Proudie might stand and preach over her. It 
is generally considered an offensive thing for a gentleman 
to keep his seat while another is kept standing before him, 
and we presume the same law holds with regard to ladies. It 
often is so felt; but we are inclined to say that it never 
produces half the discomfort or half the feeling of implied 
inferiority that is shown by a great man who desires his 
visitor to be seated while he himself speaks from his legs. 
Such a solecism in good breeding, when construed into 
English, means this: 'The accepted rules of courtesy in the 
world require that I should offer you a seat; if I did not 
do so, you would bring a charge against me in the world of 
being arrogant and ill-mannered; I will obey the world; but, 
nevertheless, I will not put myself on an equality with you. 
You may sit down, but I won't sit with you. Sit, therefore, 
at my bidding, and I'll stand and talk at you!'
This was just what Mrs Proudie meant to say; and Mrs 
Quiverful, though she was too anxious and too flurried thus 
to translate the full meaning of the manoeuvre, did not fail 
to feel its effect. She was cowed and uncomfortable, and a 
second time essayed to rise from her chair.
'Pray be seated, Mrs Quiverful, pray keep your seat. Your 
husband, I say, has been most weak and most foolish. It is 
impossible, Mrs Quiverful, to help people who will not help 
themselves. I much fear that I can now do nothing for you in 
this matter.'
'Oh! Mrs Proudie - don't say so,' said the poor woman, again 
Jumping up.
'Pray be seated, Mrs Quiverful. I much fear that I can do 
nothing further for you in this matter. Your husband has, in 
a most unaccountable manner, taken upon himself to resign 
that which I was empowered to offer him. As a matter of 
course, the bishop expects that his clergy shall know their 
own minds. What he may ultimately do - what we may finally 
decide on doing - I cannot now say. Knowing the extent of 
your family -'
'Fourteen children, Mrs Proudie, fourteen of them! and 
barely bread - barely, bread! It's hard for the children of 
a clergyman, it's hard for one who has always done his duty 
respectably!' Not a word fell from her about herself; but 
the tears came streaming down her big coarse cheeks, on 
which the dust of the August road had left its traces.
Mrs Proudie has not been portrayed in these pages as an 
agreeable or an amiable lady. There has been no intention to 
impress the reader much in her favour. It is ordained that 
all novels should have a male and a female angel, and a male 
and a female devil. If it be considered that this rule is 
obeyed in these pages, the latter character must be supposed 
to have fallen to the lot of Mrs Proudie. But she was not 
all devil. There was a heart inside that stiff-ribbed 
bodice, though not, perhaps, of large dimensions, and 
certainly not easily accessible. Mrs Quiverful, however, did 
gain access, and Mrs Proudie proved herself a woman. Whether 
it was the fourteen children with their probable bare bread 
and their possible bare backs, or the respectability of the 
father's work, or the mingled dust and tears on the mother's 
face, we will not pretend to say. But Mrs Proudie was 
touched.
She did not show it as other women might have done. She did 
not give Mrs Quiverful eau-de-cologne, or order her a glass 
of wine. She did not take her to her toilet table, and offer 
her the use of brushes and combs, towels and water. She did 
not say soft little speeches and coax her kindly back to 
equanimity. Mrs Quiverful, despite her rough appearance, 
would have been as amenable to such little tender cares as 
any lady in the land. But none such were forthcoming. 
Instead of this, Mrs Proudie slapped one hand upon the 
other, and declared - not with an oath; for as a lady and a 
Sabbatarian and a she-bishop, she could not swear - but with 
an adjuration, that 'she wouldn't have it done.'
The meaning of this was that she wouldn't have Mr 
Quiverful's promised appointment cozened away by the 
treachery of Mr Slope and the weakness of her husband. This 
meaning she very soon explained to Mrs Quiverful.
'Why was your husband such a fool,' said she, now dismounted 
from her high horse and sitting confidentially down close to 
her visitor, 'as to take the bait which that man threw to 
him? If he had not been so utterly foolish, nothing could 
have prevented your going to the hospital.'
Poor Mrs Quiverful was ready enough with her own tongue in 
accusing her husband to his face of being soft, and perhaps 
did not always speak of him to her children quite so 
respectfully as she might have done. But she did not at all 
like to hear him abused by others, and began to vindicate 
him, and to explain that of course he had taken Mr Slope to 
be an emissary from Mrs Proudie herself; that Mr Slope was 
thought to be peculiarly her friend; and that, therefore, Mr 
Quiverful would have been failing in respect to her had he 
assumed to doubt what Mr Slope had said.
Thus mollified Mrs Proudie again declared that 'she would 
not have it done,' and at last sent Mrs Quiverful home with 
an assurance that, to the furthest stretch of her power and 
influence in the palace, the appointment of Mr Quiverful 
should be insisted on. As she repeated the word 'insisted,' 
she thought of the bishop in his night-cap, and with 
compressed lips slightly shook her head. Oh! my aspiring 
pastors, divines to whose ears nolo episcopari are the 
sweetest of words, which of you would be a bishop on such 
terms as these?
Mrs Quiverful got home in the farmer's cart, not indeed with 
a light heart, but satisfied that she had done right in 
making her visit.



Chapter 27

A Love Scene

Mr Slope, as we have said, left the palace with a feeling of 
considerable triumph. Not that he thought that his 
difficulties were all over; he did not so deceive himself; 
but he felt that he had played his first move well, as well 
as the pieces on the board would allow; and that he had 
nothing with which to reproach himself. He first of all 
posted the letter to the archbishop, and having made that 
sure he proceeded to push the advantage which he had gained. 
Had Mrs Bold been at home, he would have called on her; but 
he knew that she was at Plumstead, so he wrote the following 
note. It was the beginning of what, he trusted, might be a 
long and tender series of epistles.

'My dear Mrs Bold, - You will understand perfectly that I 
cannot at present correspond with your father. I heartily 
wish that I could, and hope the day may be not long distant 
when mists shall have cleared away, and we may know each 
other. But I cannot preclude myself from the pleasure of 
sending you these few lines to say that Mr Q. has today, in 
my presence, resigned any title that he ever had to the 
wardenship of the hospital, and that the bishop has assured 
me that it is his intention to offer it to your esteemed 
father.
	'Will you, with my respectful compliments, ask him, who I 
believe is now a fellow-visitor with you, to call on the 
bishop either on Wednesday or Thursday, between ten and one. 
This is by the bishop s desire. If you will so far oblige me 
as to let me have a line naming either day, and the hour 
which will suit Mr Harding, I will take care that the 
servants shall have orders to show him in without delay. 
Perhaps I should say no more - but still I wish you could 
make your father understand that no subject will be mooted 
between his lordship and him, which will refer at all to the 
method in which he may choose to perform his duty. I for 
one, am persuaded that no clergyman could perform it more 
satisfactorily than he did, or than he will do again.
	'On a former occasion I was indiscreet and much too 
impatient, considering your father's age and my own. I hope 
he will not now refuse my apology. I still hope also that 
with your aid and sweet pious labours, we may live to attach 
such a Sabbath school to the old endowment, as may, by God's 
grace and furtherance, be a blessing to the poor of this 
city.
	'You will see at once that this letter is confidential. The 
subject, of course, makes it so. But, equally of course, it 
is for your parent's eye as well as for your own, should you 
think proper to show it to him.
	'I hope my darling little friend Johnny is as strong as 
ever - dear little fellow. Does he still continue his rude 
assaults on those beautiful long silken tresses?
'I can assure you your friends miss you from Barchester 
sorely; but it would be cruel to begrudge you your sojourn 
among flowers and fields during this truly sultry weather.
'Pray believe me, my dear Mrs Bold,
		'Yours most sincerely,
				OBADIAH SLOPE
Barchester, Friday

Now this letter, taken as a whole, and with the 
consideration that Mr Slope wished to assume a great degree 
of intimacy with Eleanor, would not have been bad, but for 
the allusion to the tresses. Gentlemen do not write to 
ladies about their tresses, unless they are on very intimate 
terms indeed. But Mr Slope could not be expected to be aware 
of this. He longed to put a little affection into his 
epistle, and yet he thought it injudicious, as the letter 
would, he knew, be shown to Mr Harding. He would have 
insisted that the letter should be strictly private and seen 
by no eyes but Eleanor's own, had he not felt that such an 
injunction would have been disobeyed. He therefore 
restrained his passion, did not sign himself 'yours 
affectionately,' and contented himself instead with the 
compliment to the tresses.
Having finished his letter, he took it to Mrs Bold's house, 
and learning there, from the servant, that things were to be 
sent out to Plumstead that afternoon, left it, with many 
injunctions, in her hands.
We will now follow Mr Slope so as to complete the day with 
him, and then return to his letter and its momentous fate in 
the next chapter.
There is an old song which gives us some very good advice 
about courting:

	It's gude to be off with the auld luve
	Before ye be on wi' the new.

Of the wisdom of this maxim Mr Slope was ignorant, and 
accordingly, having written his letter to Mrs Bold, he 
proceeded to call upon the Signora Neroni. Indeed it was 
hard to say which was the old love and which the new, Mr 
Slope having been smitten with both so nearly at the same 
time. Perhaps he thought it not amiss to have two strings to 
his bow. But two strings to Cupid's bow are always dangerous 
to him on whose behalf they are to be used. A man should 
remember that between two stools he may fall to the ground.
But in sooth Mr Slope was pursuing Mrs Bold in obedience to 
his better instincts, and the signora in obedience to his 
worser. Had he won the widow and worn her, no one could have 
blamed him. You, O reader, and I, and Eleanor's other 
friends would have received the story of such a winning with 
much disgust and disappointment; but we should have been 
angry with Eleanor, not with Mr Slope. Bishop, male and 
female, dean and chapter and diocesan clergy in full 
congress, could have found nothing to disapprove of in such 
an alliance. Convocation itself, that mysterious and mighty 
synod, could in nowise have fallen foul of it. The 
possession of £1000 a year and a beautiful wife would not at 
all have hurt the voice of the pulpit charmer, or lessened 
the grace and piety of the exemplary clergyman.
But not of such a nature were likely to be his dealings with 
the Signora Neroni. In the first place he knew that her 
husband was living, and therefore he could not woo her 
honestly. Then again she had nothing to recommend her to his 
honest wooing had such been possible. She was not only 
portionless, but also from misfortune unfitted to be chosen 
as the wife of any man who wanted a useful mate. Mr Slope 
was aware that she was a helpless hopeless cripple.
But Mr Slope could not help himself. He knew that he was 
wrong in devoting his time to the back drawing-room in Dr 
Stanhope's house. He knew that what took place there would, 
if divulged, utterly ruin him with Mrs Bold. He knew that 
scandal would soon come upon his heels and spread abroad 
among the black coats of Barchester some tidings, 
exaggerated tidings, of the sighs which he poured into the 
lady's ears. He knew that he was acting against the 
recognised principles of his life, against those laws of 
conduct by which he hoped to achieve much higher success. 
But as we have said, he could not help himself. Passion, for 
the first time in his life, passion was too strong for him.
As for the signora, no such plea can be put forward for her, 
for in truth she cared no more for Mr Slope than she did for 
twenty others who had been at her feet before him. She 
willingly, nay greedily, accepted his homage. He was the 
finest fly that Barchester had hitherto afforded to her web; 
and the signora was a powerful spider that made wondrous 
webs, and could in no way live without catching flies. Her 
taste in this respect was abominable, for she had no use for 
the victims when caught. She could not eat them 
matrimonially, as young lady-flies do whose webs are most 
frequently of their mothers' weaving. Nor could she devour 
them by any escapade of a less legitimate description. Her 
unfortunate affliction precluded her from all hope of 
levanting with a lover. It would be impossible to run away 
with a lady who required three servants to move her from a 
sofa.
The signora was subdued by no passion. Her time for love was 
gone. She had lived out her heart, such heart as she had 
ever had, in her early years, at an age when Mr Slope was 
thinking of the second book of Euclid and his unpaid bill at 
the buttery hatch. In age the lady was younger than the 
gentleman; but in feelings, in knowledge of the affairs of 
love, in intrigue, he was immeasurably her junior. It was 
necessary to her to have some man at her feet. It was the 
one customary excitement of her life. She delighted in the 
exercise of power which this gave her; it was now nearly the 
only food for her ambition; she would boast to her sister 
that she could make a fool of any man, and the sister, as 
little imbued with feminine delicacy as herself, good-
naturedly thought it but fair that such amusement should be 
afforded to a poor invalid who was debarred from the 
ordinary pleasures of life.
Mr Slope was madly in love, but hardly knew it. The signora 
spitted him, as a boy does a cockchafer on a cork, that she 
might enjoy the energetic agony of his gyrations. And she 
knew very well what she was doing.
Mr Slope having added to his person all such adornments as 
are possible to a clergyman making a morning visit, such as 
a clean necktie, clean handkerchief, new gloves, and a 
soupÁon of not unnecessary scent, called about three o'clock 
at the doctor's door. At about this hour the signora was 
almost always alone in the back drawing-room. The mother had 
not come down. The doctor was out or in his own room. Bertie 
was out, and Charlotte at any rate left the room if anyone 
called whose object was specially with her sister. Such was 
her idea of being charitable and sisterly.
Mr Slope, as was his custom, asked for Mr Stanhope, and was 
told, as was the servant's custom, that the signora was in 
the drawing. room. Upstairs he accordingly went. He found 
her, as he always did, lying on her sofa with a French 
volume before her, and a beautiful little inlaid writing-
case open on her table. At the moment of his entrance she 
was in the act of writing.
'Ah, my friend,' said she, putting out her left hand to him 
across her desk, 'I did not expect you today and was this 
very instant writing to you -'
Mr Slope, taking the soft fair delicate hand in his, and 
very soft and fair and delicate it was, bowed over it his 
huge red head and kissed it. It was a sight to see, a deed 
to record if the author could fitly do it, a picture to put 
on canvas. Mr Slope was big, awkward, cumbrous, and having 
his heart in his pursuit was ill at ease. The lady was fair, 
as we have said, and delicate; everything about her was fine 
and refined; her hand in his looked like a rose lying among 
carrots, and when he kissed it he looked as a cow might do 
on finding such a flower among her food. She was graceful as 
a couchant goddess, and, moreover, as self-possessed as 
Venus must have been when courting Adonis.
Oh, that such grace and such beauty should have condescended 
to waste itself on such a pursuit!
'I was in the act of writing to you,' said she, 'but now my 
scrawl may go into the basket'; and she raised the sheet of 
gilded notepaper from off her desk as though to tear it.
'Indeed it shall not,' said he, laying the embargo of half a 
stone weight of human flesh and blood upon the devoted 
paper. 'Nothing that you write for my eyes, signora, shall 
be so desecrated,' and he took up the letter, put that also 
among the carrots and fed on it, and then proceeded to read 
it.
'Gracious me! Mr Slope,' said she, 'I hope you don't mean to 
say that you keep all the trash I write to you. Half my time 
I don't know what I write, and when I do, I know it is only 
fit for the back of the fire. I hope you have not that ugly 
trick of keeping letters.'
'At any rate, I don't throw them into a waste-paper basket. 
If destruction is their doomed lot, they perish worthily, 
and are burnt on a pyre, as Dido was of old.'
'With a steel pen stuck through them, of course,' said she, 
'to make the simile more complete. Of all the ladies of my 
acquaintance I think Lady Dido was the most absurd. Why did 
she not do as Cleopatra did? Why did she not take out her 
ships and insist on going with him? She could not bear to 
lose the land she had got by a swindle; and then she could 
not bear the loss of her lover. So she fell between two 
stools. Mr Slope, whatever you do, never mingle love and 
business.'
Mr Slope blushed up to his eyes, and over his mottled 
forehead to the very roots of his hair. He felt sure that 
the signora knew all about his intentions with reference to 
Mrs Bold. His conscience told him that he was detected. His 
doom was to be spoken; he was to be punished for his 
duplicity, and rejected by the beautiful creature before 
him. Poor man. He little dreamt that had all his intentions 
with reference to Mrs Bold been known to the signora, it 
would only have added zest to that lady's amusement. It was 
all very well to have Mr Slope at her feet, to show her 
power by making an utter fool of a clergyman, to gratify her 
own infidelity by thus proving the little strength which 
religion had in controlling the passions even of a religious 
man; but it would be an increased gratification if she could 
be made to understand that she was at the same time alluring 
her victim away from another, whose love if secured would be 
in every way beneficent and salutary.
The signora had indeed discovered with the keen instinct of 
such a woman, that Mr Slope was bent on matrimony with Mrs 
Bold, but in alluding to Dido she had not thought of it. She 
instantly perceived, however, from her lover's blushes, what 
was on his mind, and was not slow in taking advantage of it.
She looked him full in the face, not angrily, nor yet with a 
smile, but with an intense and overpowering gaze; and then 
holding up her forefinger, and slightly shaking her head, 
she said:
'Whatever you do, my friend, do not mingle love and 
business. Either stick to your treasure and your city of 
wealth, or else follow your love like a true man. But never 
attempt both. If you do, you'll have to die with a broken 
heart as did poor Dido. Which is it to be with you, Mr 
Slope, love or money?'
Mr Slope was not so ready with a pathetic answer as he 
usually was with touching episodes in his extempore sermons. 
He felt that he ought to say something pretty, something 
also that should remove the impression on the mind of his 
lady-love. But he was rather put about how to do it.
'Love,' said he, 'true overpowering love, must be the 
strongest passion a man can feel; it must control every 
other wish, and put aside every other pursuit. But with me 
love will never act in that way unless it be returned '; and 
he threw upon the signora a look of tenderness which was 
intended to make up for all the deficiencies of his speech.
'Take my advice,' said she. 'Never mind love. After all, 
what is it? The dream of a few weeks. That is all its joy. 
The disappointment of a life is its Nemesis. Who was ever 
successful in true love? Success in love argues that the 
love is false. True love is always despondent or tragical. 
Juliet loved, Haidee loved, Dido loved, and what came of it? 
Troilus loved and ceased to be a man.'
'Troilus loved and was fooled,' said the more manly 
chaplain. 'A man may love and yet not be a Troilus. All 
women are not Cressids.'
'No; all women are not Cressids. The falsehood is not always 
on the woman's side. Imogen was true, but how was she 
rewarded? Her lord believed her to be the paramour of the 
first he who came near her in his absence. Desdemona was 
true and was smothered. Ophelia was true and went mad. There 
is no happiness in love, except at the end of an English 
novel. But in wealth, money, houses, lands, goods and 
chattels, in the good things of this world, yes, in them 
there is something tangible, something that can be retained 
and enjoyed.'
'Oh, no,' said Mr Slope, feeling himself bound to enter some 
protest against so very unorthodox a doctrine, 'this world's 
wealth will make no one happy.'
'And what will make you happy - you - you?' said she raising 
herself up, and speaking to him with energy across the 
table. 'From what source do you look for happiness? Do not 
say that you look for none? I shall not believe you. It is a 
search in which every human being spends an existence.'
'And the search is always in vain,' said Mr Slope. 'We look 
for happiness on earth, while we ought to be content to hope 
for it in heaven.'
'Pshaw! you preach a doctrine which you know you don't 
believe. It is the way with you all. If you know that there 
is no earthly happiness, why do you long to be a bishop or a 
dean? Why do you want lands and income?'
'I have the natural ambition of a man,' said he.
'Of course you have, and the natural passions; and therefore 
I say that you don't believe the doctrine you preach. St 
Paul was an enthusiast. He believed so that his ambition and 
passions did not war against his creed. So does the Eastern 
fanatic who passes half his life erect upon a pillar. As for 
me, I will believe in no belief that does not make itself 
manifest by outward signs. I will think no preaching sincere 
that is not recommended by the practice of the preacher.'
Mr Slope was startled and horrified, but he felt that he 
could not answer. How could he stand up and preach the 
lessons of his Master, being there as he was, on the devil's 
business? He was a true believer, otherwise this would have 
been nothing to him. He had audacity for most things, but he 
had not audacity to make a plaything of the Lord's word. All 
this the signora understood, and felt much interest as she 
saw her cockchafer whirl round upon her pin.
'Your wit delights in such arguments,' said he, 'but your 
heart and your reason do not go along with them.'
'My heart!' said she; 'you quite mistake the principles of 
my composition if you imagine that there is such a thing 
about me.' After all, there was very little that was false 
in anything that the signora said. If Mr Slope allowed 
himself to be deceived it was his own fault. Nothing could 
have been more open than her declarations about herself.
The little writing-table with her desk was still standing 
before her, a barrier, as it were, against the enemy. She 
was sitting as nearly upright as she ever did, and he had 
brought a chair close to the sofa, so that there was only 
the corner of the table between him and her. It so happened 
that as she spoke her hand lay upon the table, and as Mr 
Slope answered her he put his hand upon hers.
'No heart!' said he. 'That is a heavy charge which you bring 
against yourself, and one of which I cannot find you guilty -
'
She withdrew her hand, not quickly and angrily, as though 
insulted by his touch, but gently and slowly.
'You are in no condition to give a verdict on the matter,' 
said she, 'as you have not tried me. No; don't say that you 
intend doing so, for you know you have no intention of the 
kind; nor indeed have I either. As for you, you will take 
your vows where they will result in something more 
substantial than the pursuit of such a ghostlike, ghastly 
love as mine -'
'Your love should be sufficient to satisfy the dream of a 
monarch,' said Mr Slope, not quite clear as to the meaning 
of his words.
'Say an archbishop, Mr Slope,' said she. Poor fellow! she 
was very cruel to him. He went round again upon his cork on 
this allusion to his profession. He tried, however, to 
smile, and gently accused her of joking on a matter, which 
was, he said, to him of such vital moment.
'Why - what gulls do you men make of us,' she replied. 'How 
you fool us to the top of our bent; and of all men you 
clergymen are the most fluent of your honeyed caressing 
words. Now look me in the face, Mr Slope, boldly and 
openly.'
Mr Slope did look at her with a languishing loving eye, and 
as he did so, he again put forth his hand to get hold of 
hers.
'I told you to look at me boldly, Mr Slope; but confine your 
boldness to your eyes.'
'Oh, Madeline!' he sighed.
'Well, my name is Madeline,' said she; 'but none except my 
own family usually call me so. Now look me in the face, Mr 
Slope. Am I to understand that you say you love me?'
Mr Slope never had said so. If he had come there with any 
formed plan at all, his intention was to make love to the 
lady without uttering any such declaration. It was, however, 
quite impossible that he should now deny his love. He had, 
therefore, nothing for it, but to go down on his knees 
distractedly against the sofa, and swear that he did love 
her with a love passing the love of man.
The signora received the assurance with very little 
palpitation or appearance of surprise. 'And now answer me 
another question,' said she; 'when are you to be married to 
my dear friend Eleanor Bold?'
Poor Mr Slope went round and round in mortal agony. In such 
a condition as his it was really very hard for him to know 
what answer to give. And yet no answer would be his surest 
condemnation. He might as well at once plead guilty to the 
charge brought against him.
'And why do you accuse me of such dissimulation?' said he.
'Dissimulation! I said nothing of dissimulation. I made no 
charge against you, and make none. Pray don't defend 
yourself to me. You swear that you are devoted to my beauty, 
and yet you are on the eve of matrimony with another. I feel 
this to be rather a compliment. It is to Mrs Bold that you 
must defend yourself. That you may find difficult; unless, 
indeed, you can keep her in the dark. You clergymen are 
cleverer than other men.'
'Signora, I have told you that I loved you, and now you rail 
at me?'
'Rail at you. God bless the man; what would he have? Come, 
answer me this at your leisure - not without thinking now, 
but leisurely and with consideration. Are you not going to 
be married to Mrs Bold?'
'I am not,' said he. And as he said it, he almost hated, 
with an exquisite hatred, the woman whom he could not help 
loving with an exquisite love.
'But surely you are a worshipper of hers?'
'I am not,' said Mr Slope, to whom the word worshipper was 
peculiarly distasteful. The signora had conceived that it 
would be so.
'I wonder at that,' said she. 'Do you not admire her? To my 
eye she is the perfection of English beauty. And then she is 
rich too. I should have thought she was just the person to 
attract you. Come, Mr Slope, let me give you advice on this 
matter. Marry the charming widow! she will be a good mother 
to your children, and an excellent mistress of a clergyman's 
household.'
'Oh, signora, how can you be so cruel?'
'Cruel,' said she, changing the voice of banter which she 
had been using for one which was expressively earnest in its 
tone; 'is that cruelty?'
'How can I love another, while my heart is entirely your 
own?'
'If that were cruelty, Mr Slope, what might you say of me if 
I were to declare that I returned your passion? What would 
you think if I bound you even by a lover's oath to do daily 
penance at this couch of mine? What can I give in return for 
a man's love? Ah, dear friend, you have not realised the 
conditions of my fate.'
Mr Slope was not on his knees all this time. After his 
declaration of love he had risen from them as quickly as he 
thought consistent with the new position which he now 
filled, and as he stood was leaning on the back of his 
chair. This outburst of tenderness on the Signora's part 
quite overcame him, and made him feel for the moment that he 
could sacrifice everything to be assured of the love of the 
beautiful creature before him, maimed, lame, and already 
married as she was.
'And can I not sympathise with your lot?' said he, now 
seating himself on her sofa, and pushing away the table with 
his foot.
'Sympathy is so near to pity!' said she. 'If you pity me, 
cripple as I am, I shall spurn you from me.'
'Oh, Madeline, I will only love you,' and again he caught 
her hand and devoured it with kisses. Now she did not draw 
it from him, but sat there as he kissed it, looking at him 
with her great eyes, just as a great spider would look at a 
great fly that was quite securely caught.
'Suppose Signor Neroni were to come to Barchester,' said 
she, 'would you make his acquaintance?'
'Signor Neroni!' said he.
'Would you introduce him to the bishop, and Mrs Proudie, and 
the young ladies?' said she, again having recourse to that 
horrid quizzing voice which Mr Slope so particularly hated.
'Why do you ask such a question?' said he.
'Because it is necessary that you should know that there is 
a Signor Neroni. I think you had forgotten it.'
'If I thought that you retained for that wretch one particle 
of the love of which he was never worthy, I would die before 
I would distract you by telling you what I feel. No! were 
your husband the master of your heart, I might perhaps love 
you; but you should never know it.'
'My heart again! how you talk. And you consider, then, that 
if a husband be not master of his wife's heart, he has no 
right to her fealty; if a wife ceases to love, she may cease 
to be true. Is that your doctrine on this matter, as a 
minister of the Church of England?'
Mr Slope tried hard within himself to cast off the pollution 
with which he felt that he was defiling his soul. He strove 
to tear himself away from the noxious siren that had 
bewitched him. But he could not do it. He could not be again 
heart-free. He had looked for rapturous joy in loving this 
lovely creature, and he already found that he met with 
little but disappointment and self-rebuke. He had come 
across the fruit of the Dead Sea, so sweet and delicious to 
the eye, so bitter and nauseous to the taste. He had put the 
apple to his mouth, and it had turned to ashes between his 
teeth. Yet he could not tear himself away. He knew, he could 
not but know, that she jeered at him, ridiculed his love, 
and insulted the weakness of his religion. But she half 
permitted his adoration, and that half permission added such 
fuel to his fire that all the fountain of his piety could 
not quench it. He began to feel savage, irritated, and 
revengeful. He meditated some severity of speech, some taunt 
that should cut her, as her taunts cut him. He reflected as 
he stood there for a moment, silent before her, that if he 
desired to quell her proud spirit, he should do so by being 
prouder even than herself; that if he wished to have her at 
his feet suppliant for his love it behoved him to conquer 
her by indifference. All this passed through his mind. As 
far as dead knowledge went, he knew, or thought he knew, how 
a woman should be tamed. But when he essayed to bring his 
tactics to bear, he failed like a child. What chance has 
dead knowledge with experience in any of the transactions 
between man and man? What possible chance between man and 
woman? Mr Slope loved furiously, insanely, and truly; but he 
had never played the game of love. The signora did not love 
at all, but she was up to every move on the board. It was 
Philidor pitted against a schoolboy.
And so she continued to insult him, and he continued to bear 
it.
'Sacrifice the world for love!' said she, in answer to some 
renewed vapid declaration of his passion, 'how often has the 
same thing been said, and how invariably with the same 
falsehood!'
'Falsehood,' said he. 'Do you say that I am false to you? do 
you say that my love is not real?'
'False? of course it is false, false as the father of 
falsehood - if indeed falsehoods need a sire and are not 
self-begotten since the world began. You are ready to 
sacrifice the world for love? Come let us see what you will 
sacrifice. I care nothing for nuptial vows. The wretch, I 
think you were kind enough to call him so, whom I swore to 
love and obey, is so base that he can only be thought of 
with repulsive disgust. In the council chamber of my heart I 
have divorced him. To me that is as good as though aged 
lords had gloated for months over the details of his 
licentious life. I care nothing for what the world can say. 
Will you be as frank? Will you take me to your home as your 
wife? Will you call me Mrs Slope before bishop, dean, and 
prebendaries?' The poor tortured wretch stood silent, not 
knowing what to say. 'What! you won't do that. Tell me, 
then, what part of the world is it that you will sacrifice 
for my charms?'
'Were you free to marry, I would take you to my house 
tomorrow and wish no higher privilege.'
'I am free,' said she, almost starting up in her energy. For 
though there was no truth in her pretended regard for her 
clerical admirer, there was a mixture of real feeling in the 
scorn and satire with which she spoke of love and marriage 
generally. 'I am free; free as the winds. Come; will you 
take me as I am? Have your wish, sacrifice the world, and 
prove yourself a true man.'
Mr Slope should have taken her at her word. She would have 
drawn back, and he would have had the full advantage of the 
offer. But he did not. Instead of doing so, he stood rapt in 
astonishment, passing his fingers through his lank red hair, 
and thinking as he stared upon her animated countenance that 
her wondrous beauty grew more and more wonderful as he gazed 
on it. 'Ha! ha! ha!' she laughed out loud. 'Come, Mr Slope; 
don't talk of sacrificing the world again. People beyond one-
and-twenty should never dream of such a thing. You and I, if 
we have the dregs of any love left in us, if we have the 
remnants of a passion remaining in our hearts, should 
husband our resources better. We are not in our premiere 
jeunesse. The world is a very nice place. Your world, at any 
rate, is so. You have all manner of fat rectories to get, 
and possible bishoprics to enjoy. Come, confess; on second 
thoughts you would not sacrifice such things for the smiles 
of a lame lady?'
It was impossible for him to answer this. In order to be in 
any way dignified, he felt that he must be silent.
'Come,' said she - 'don't boody with me: don't be angry 
because I speak out some home truths. Alas, the world, as I 
have found it, has taught me bitter truths. Come, tell me 
that I am forgiven. Are we not to be friends?' and she again 
put out her hand to him.
He sat himself down in the chair beside her, and took her 
proffered hand and leant over her.
'There,' said she, with her sweetest softest smile - a smile 
to withstand which a man should be cased in triple steel - 
'there; seal your forgiveness on it,' and she raised it 
towards his face. He kissed it again and again, and 
stretched over her as though desirous of extending the 
charity of his pardon beyond the hand that was offered to 
him. She managed, however, to check his ardour. For one so 
easily allured as this poor chaplain, her hand was surely 
enough.
'Oh, Madeline!' said he, 'tell me that you love me - do you -
 do you love me?'
'Hush,' said she. 'There is my mother's step. Our tete-a-
tete has been of monstrous length. Now you had better go. 
But we shall see you soon again, shall we not?'
Mr Slope promised that he would call again on the following 
day.
'And, Mr Slope,' she continued, 'pray answer my note. You 
have it in your hand, though I declare during these two 
hours you have not been gracious enough to read it. It is 
about the Sabbath-school and the children. You know how 
anxious I am to have them here. I have been learning the 
catechism myself, on purpose. You must manage it for me next 
week. I will teach them, at any rate, to submit themselves 
to their spiritual pastors and masters.'
Mr Slope said but little on the subject of Sabbath-schools, 
but he made his adieu, and betook himself home with a sad 
heart, troubled mind, and uneasy conscience.



Chapter 28

Mrs Bold is Entertained by Dr and Mrs Grantly at Plumstead

It will be remembered that Mr Slope, when leaving his billet 
doux at the house of Mrs Bold, had been informed that it 
would be sent out to her at Plumstead that afternoon. The 
archdeacon and Mr Harding had in fact come into town 
together in the brougham, and it had been arranged that they 
should call for Eleanor's parcels as they left on their way 
home. Accordingly they did so call, and the maid, as she 
handed to the coachman a small basket and large bundle 
carefully and neatly packed, gave in at the carriage window 
Mr Slope's epistle. The archdeacon, who was sitting next to 
the window, took it, and immediately recognised the hand-
writing of his enemy.
'Who left this?' said he.
'Mr Slope called with it himself, your reverence,' said the 
girl; 'and was very anxious that missus should have it 
today.'
So the brougham drove off, and the letter was left in the 
archdeacon's hand. He looked at it as though he held a 
basket of adders. He could not have thought worse of the 
document had he read it and discovered it to be licentious 
and atheistical. He did, moreover, what so many wise people 
are accustomed to do in similar circumstances; he 
immediately condemned the person to whom the letter was 
written, as though she were necessarily a particeps 
criminis.
Poor Mr Harding, though by no means inclined to forward Mr 
Slope's intimacy with his daughter, would have given 
anything to have kept the letter from his son-in-law. But 
that was now impossible. There it was in his hand; and he 
looked as thoroughly disgusted as though he were quite sure 
that it contained all the rhapsodies of a favoured lover.
'It's very hard on me,' said he, after a while, 'that this 
should go on under my roof.'
Now here the archdeacon was certainly most unreasonable. 
Having invited his sister-in-law to his house, it was a 
natural consequence that she should receive her letters 
there. And if Mr Slope chose to write to her, his letter 
would, as a matter of course, be sent after her. Moreover, 
the very fact of an invitation to one's house implies 
confidence on the part of the inviter. He had shown that he 
thought Mrs Bold to be a fit person to stay with him by his 
asking her to do so, and it was most cruel to her that he 
should complain of her violating the sanctity of his roof-
tree, when the laches committed were none of her committing.
Mr Harding felt this; and felt also that when the archdeacon 
talked thus about his roof, what he said was most offensive 
to himself as Eleanor's father. If Eleanor did receive a 
letter from Mr Slope, what was there in that to pollute the 
purity of Dr Grantly's household? He was indignant that his 
daughter should be so judged and so spoken of; and he made 
up his mind that even as Mrs Slope she must be dearer to him 
than any other creature on God's earth. He almost broke out, 
and said as much; but for the moment he restrained himself.
'Here,' said the archdeacon, handing the offensive missile 
to his father-in-law; 'I am not going to be the bearer of 
his love-letters. You are her father, and may do as you 
think fit with it.'
By doing as he thought fit with it, the archdeacon certainly 
meant that Mr Harding would be justified in opening and 
reading the letter, and taking any steps which might in 
consequence be necessary. To tell the truth, Dr Grantly did 
feel rather a stronger curiosity than was justified by his 
outraged virtue, to see the contents of the letter. Of 
course he could not open it himself, but he wished to make 
Mr Harding understand that he, as Eleanor's father, would be 
fully justified in doing so. The idea of such a proceeding 
never occurred to Mr Harding. His authority over Eleanor 
ceased when she became the wife of John Bold. He had not the 
slightest wish to pry into her correspondence. He 
consequently put the letter into his pocket, and only wished 
that he had been able to do so without the archdeacon's 
knowledge. They both sat silent during the journey home, and 
then Dr Grantly said, 'Perhaps Susan had better give it to 
her. She can explain to her sister, better than either you 
or I can do, how deep is the disgrace of such an 
acquaintance.'
'I think you are very hard upon Eleanor,' replied Mr 
Harding. 'I will not allow that she has disgraced herself, 
nor do I think it likely that she will do so. She has a 
right to correspond with whom she pleases, and I shall not 
take upon myself to blame her because she gets a letter from 
Slope.'
'I suppose,' said Dr Grantly, 'you don't wish her to marry 
the man. I suppose you'll admit that she would disgrace 
herself if she did do so.'
'I do not wish her to marry him,' said the perplexed father; 
'I do not like him, and do not think he would make a good 
husband. But if Eleanor chooses to do so, I shall certainly 
not think that she disgraces herself.'
'Good heavens!' exclaimed Dr Grantly, and threw himself back 
into the corner of his brougham. Mr Harding said nothing 
more, but commenced playing a dirge, with an imaginary 
fiddle bow upon an imaginary violoncello, for which there 
did not appear to be quite room enough in the carriage; and 
he continued the tune, with sundry variations, till he 
arrived at the rectory door.
The archdeacon had been meditating sad things in his mind. 
Hitherto he had always looked on his father-in-law as a true 
partisan, though he knew him to be a man devoid of all the 
combative qualifications for that character. He had felt no 
fear that Mr Harding would go over to the enemy, though he 
had never counted much on the ex-warden's prowess in 
breaking the hostile ranks. Now, however, it seemed that 
Eleanor, with her wiles, had completely trepanned and 
bewildered her father, cheated him out of his judgment, 
robbed him of the predilections and tastes of his life, and 
caused him to be tolerant of a man whose arrogance and 
vulgarity would, a few years since, have been unendurable to 
him. That the whole thing was as good as arranged between 
Eleanor and Mr Slope there was no longer any room to doubt. 
That Mr Harding knew that such was the case, even this could 
hardly be doubted. It was too manifest that he at any rate 
suspected it, and was prepared to sanction it.
And to tell the truth, such was the case. Mr Harding 
disliked Mr Slope as much as it was in his nature to dislike 
any man. Had his daughter wished to do her worst to 
displease him by a second marriage, she could hardly have 
succeeded better than by marrying Mr Slope. But, as he said 
to himself now very often, what right had he to condemn her 
if she did nothing that was really wrong? If she liked Mr 
Slope it was her affair. It was indeed miraculous to him 
that a woman with such a mind, so educated, so refined, so 
nice in her tastes, should like such a man. Then he asked 
himself whether it was possible that she did so?
Ah, thou weak man; most charitable, most Christian, but 
weakest of men! Why couldst thou not have asked herself? Was 
she not the daughter of thy loins, the child of thy heart, 
the best beloved to thee of all humanity? Had she not proved 
to thee, by years of closest affection, her truth and 
goodness and filial obedience? And yet, knowing and feeling 
all this, thou couldst endure to go groping in darkness, 
hearing her named in strains which wounded thy loving heart, 
and being unable to defend her as thou shouldst have done!
Mr Harding had not believed, did not believe, that his 
daughter meant to marry this man; but he feared to commit 
himself to such an opinion. If she did do it there would be 
then no means of retreat. The wishes of his heart were - 
First, that there should be no truth in the archdeacon's 
surmises; and in this wish he would have fain trusted 
entirely, had he dared so to do; Secondly, that the match 
might be prevented, if, unfortunately, it had been 
contemplated by Eleanor; Thirdly, that should she be so 
infatuated as to marry this man, he might justify his 
conduct, and declare that no cause existed for his 
separating himself from her.
He wanted to believe her incapable of such a marriage; he 
wanted to show that he so believed of her; but he wanted 
also to be able to say hereafter, that she had done nothing 
amiss, if she should unfortunately prove herself to be 
different from what he thought her to be.
Nothing but affection could justify such fickleness; but 
affection did justify it. There was but little of the Roman 
about Mr Harding. He could not sacrifice his Lucretia even 
though she should be polluted by the accepted addresses of 
the clerical Tarquin at the palace. If Tarquin could be 
prevented, well and good; but if not, the father would still 
open his heart to his daughter, and accept her as she 
presented herself, Tarquin and all.
Dr Grantly's mind was of a stronger calibre, and he was by 
no means deficient in heart. He loved with an honest genuine 
love his wife and children and friends. He loved his father-
in-law; and was quite prepared to love Eleanor too, if she 
would be one of his party, if she would be on his side, if 
she would regard the Slopes and the Proudies as the enemies 
of mankind, and acknowledge and feel the comfortable merits 
of the Gwynnes and Arabins. He wished to be what he called 
'safe' with all those whom he had admitted to the penetralia 
of his house and heart. He could luxuriate in no society 
that was deficient in a certain feeling of faithful staunch 
high-churchism, which to him was tantamount to freemasonry. 
He was not strict in his lines of definition. He endured 
without impatience many different shades of Anglo-church 
conservatism; but with the Slopes and Proudies he could not 
go on all fours.
He was wanting in, moreover, or perhaps it would be more 
correct to say, he was not troubled by that womanly 
tenderness which was so peculiar to Mr Harding. His feelings 
towards his friends were, that while they stuck to him he 
would stick to them; that he would work with them shoulder 
and shoulder; that he would be faithful to the faithful. He 
knew nothing of that beautiful love which can be true to a 
false friend.
And thus these two men, each miserable enough in his own 
way, returned to Plumstead.
It was getting late when they arrived there, and the ladies 
had already gone up to dress. Nothing more was said as the 
two parted in the hall. As Mr Harding passed to his own room 
he knocked at Eleanor's door and handed in the letter. The 
archdeacon hurried to his own territory, there to unburden 
his heart to his faithful partner.
What colloquy took place between the marital chamber and the 
adjoining dressing-room shall not be detailed. The reader, 
now intimate with the persons concerned, can well imagine 
it. The whole tenour of it also might be read in Mrs 
Grantly's brow as she came down to dinner.
Eleanor, when she received the letter from her father's 
hand, had no idea from whom it came. She had never seen Mr 
Slope's handwriting, or if so had forgotten it; and did not 
think of him as she twisted the letter as people do twist 
letters when they do not immediately recognise their 
correspondents either by the writing or the seal. She was 
sitting at her glass brushing her hair, and rising every 
other minute to play with her boy who was sprawling on the 
bed, and who engaged pretty nearly the whole attention of 
the maid as well as of his mother.
At last, sitting before her toilet table, she broke the 
seal, and turning over the leaf saw Mr Slope's name. She 
first felt surprised, and then annoyed, and then anxious. As 
she read it she became interested. She was so delighted to 
find that all obstacles to her father's return to the 
hospital were apparently removed that she did not observe 
the fulsome language in which the tidings were conveyed. She 
merely perceived that she was commissioned to tell her 
father that such was the case, and she did not realise the 
fact that such a communication should not have been made, in 
the first instance, to her by an unmarried young clergyman. 
She felt, on the whole, grateful to Mr Slope, and anxious to 
get on her dress that she might run with the news to her 
father. Then she came to the allusion to her own pious 
labours, and she said in her heart that Mr Slope was an 
affected ass. Then she went on again and was offended by her 
boy being called Mr Slope's darling - he was nobody's 
darling but her own; or at any rate not the darling of a 
disagreeable stranger like Mr Slope. Lastly she arrived at 
the tresses and felt a qualm of disgust. She looked up in 
the glass, and there they were before her, long and silken, 
certainly, and very beautiful. I will not say but that she 
knew them to be so, but she felt angry with them and brushed 
them roughly and carelessly. She crumpled the letter up with 
angry violence, and resolved, almost without thinking of it, 
that she would not show it to her father. She would merely 
tell him the contents of it. She then comforted herself 
again with her boy, had her dress fastened, and went down to 
dinner.
As she tripped down the stairs she began to ascertain that 
there was some difficulty in her situation. She could not 
keep from her father the news about the hospital, nor could 
she comfortably confess the letter from Mr Slope before the 
Grantlys. Her father had already gone down. She had heard 
his step upon the lobby. She resolved therefore to take him 
aside, and tell him her little bit of news. Poor girl! she 
had no idea how severely the unfortunate letter had already 
been discussed.
When she entered the drawing-room the whole party were 
there, including Mr Arabin, and the whole party looked glum 
and sour. The two girls sat silent and apart as though they 
were aware that something was wrong. Even Mr Arabin was 
solemn and silent. Eleanor had not seen him since breakfast. 
He had been the whole day at St Ewold's, and such having 
been the case it was natural that he should tell how matters 
were going on there. He did nothing of the kind, however, 
but remained solemn and silent. They were all solemn and 
silent. Eleanor knew in her heart that they had been talking 
about her, and her heart misgave her as she thought of Mr 
Slope and his letter. At any rate she felt it to be quite 
impossible to speak to her father alone while matters were 
in this state.
Dinner was soon announced, and Dr Grantly, as was his wont, 
gave Eleanor his arm. But he did so as though the doing it 
were an outrage on his feelings rendered necessary by 
sternest necessity. With quick sympathy Eleanor felt this, 
and hardly put her fingers on his coat sleeve. It may be 
guessed in what way the dinner-hour was passed. Dr Grantly 
said a few words to Mr Arabin, Mr Arabin said a few words to 
Mrs Grantly, she said a few words to her father, and he 
tried to say a few words to Eleanor. She felt that she had 
been tried and found guilty of something, though she knew 
not what.
She longed to say out to them all, 'Well, what is it that I 
have done; out with it, and let me know my crime; for 
heaven's sake let me hear the worst of it '; but she could 
not. She could say nothing, but sat there silent, half 
feeling that she was guilty, and trying in vain to pretend 
even to eat her dinner.
At last the cloth was drawn, and the ladies were not long 
following it. When they were gone the gentlemen were 
somewhat more sociable but not much so. They could not of 
course talk over Eleanor's sins. The archdeacon had indeed 
so far betrayed his sister-in-law as to whisper into Mr 
Arabin's ear in the study, as they met there before dinner, 
a hint of what he feared. He did so with the gravest and 
saddest of fears, and Mr Arabin became grave and apparently 
sad enough as he heard it. He opened his eyes and his mouth 
and said in a sort of whisper 'Mr Slope!' in the same way as 
he might have said 'The Cholera!' had his friend told him 
that that horrid disease was in his nursery. 'I fear so, I 
fear so,' said the archdeacon, and then together they left 
the room.
We will not accurately analyse Mr Arabin's feelings on 
receipt of such astounding tidings. It will suffice to say 
that he was surprised, vexed, sorrowful, and ill at ease. He 
had not perhaps thought very much about Eleanor, but he had 
appreciated her influence, and had felt that close intimacy 
with her in a country house was pleasant to him, and also 
beneficial. He had spoken highly of her intelligence to the 
archdeacon, and had walked about the shrubberies with her, 
carrying her boy on his back. When Mr Arabin had called 
Johnny his darling, Eleanor was not angry.
Thus the three men sat over their wine, all thinking of the 
same subject, but unable to speak of it to each other. So we 
will leave them, and follow the ladies into the drawing-
room.
Mrs Grantly had received a commission from her husband, and 
had undertaken it with some unwillingness. He had desired 
her to speak gravely to Eleanor, and to tell her that, if 
she persisted in her adherence to Mr Slope, she could no 
longer look for the countenance of her present friends. Mrs 
Grantly probably knew her sister better than the doctor did, 
and assured him that it would be in vain to talk to her. The 
only course likely to be of any service in her opinion was 
to keep Eleanor away from Barchester. Perhaps she might have 
added, for she had a very keen eye in such things, that 
there might also be ground for hope in keeping Eleanor near 
Mr Arabin. Of this, however, she said nothing. But the 
archdeacon would not be talked over; he spoke much of his 
conscience, and declared that if Mrs Grantly would not do it 
he would. So instigated, the lady undertook the task, 
stating, however, her full conviction that her interference 
would be worse than useless. And so it proved.
As soon as they were in the drawing-room Mrs Grantly found 
some excuse for sending her girls away, and then began her 
task. She knew well that she could exercise but very slight 
authority over her sister. Their various modes of life, and 
the distance between their residences, had prevented any 
very close confidence. They had hardly lived together since 
Eleanor was a child. Eleanor had moreover, especially in 
latter years, resented in a quiet sort of way the 
dictatorial authority which the archdeacon seemed to 
exercise over her father, and on this account had been 
unwilling to allow the archdeacon's wife to exercise 
authority over herself.
'You got a note just before dinner, I believe,' began the 
eldest sister.
Eleanor acknowledged that she had done so, and felt that she 
turned red as she acknowledged it. She would have given 
anything to have kept her colour, but the more she tried to 
do so the more signally she failed.
'Was it not from Mr Slope?'
Eleanor said that the letter was from Mr Slope.
'Is he a regular correspondent of yours, Eleanor?'
'Not exactly,' said she, already beginning to feel angry at 
the cross-examination. She determined, and why it would be 
difficult to say, that nothing should induce her to tell her 
sister Susan what was the subject of the letter. Mrs 
Grantly, she knew, was instigated by the archdeacon, and she 
would not plead to any arraignment made against her by him.
'But, Eleanor dear, why do you get letters from Mr Slope at 
all, knowing, as you do, he is a person so distasteful to 
papa, and to the archdeacon, and indeed to all your 
friends?'
'In the first place, Susan, I don't get letters from him; 
and in the next place, as Mr Slope wrote the one letter 
which I have got, and as I only received it, which I could 
not very well help doing, as papa handed it to me, I think 
you had better ask Mr Slope instead of me.'
'What was his letter about, Eleanor?'
'I cannot tell you,' said she, 'because it was confidential. 
It was on business respecting a third person.'
'It was in no way personal to yourself, then?'
'I won't exactly say that, Susan,' said she, getting more 
and more angry at her sister's questions.
'Well, I must say it's rather singular,' said Mrs Grantly, 
affecting to laugh, 'that a young lady in your position 
should receive a letter from an unmarried gentleman of which 
she will not tell the contents, and which she is ashamed to 
show to her sister.'
'I am not ashamed,' said Eleanor blazing up; 'I am not 
ashamed of anything in the matter; only I do not choose to 
be cross-examined as to my letters by anyone.'
'Well, dear,' said the other, 'I cannot but tell you that I 
do not think Mr Slope a proper correspondent for you.'
'If he be ever so improper, how can I help his having 
written to me? But you are all prejudiced against him to 
such an extent, that that which would be kind and generous 
in another man is odious and impudent in him. I hate a 
religion that teaches one to be so one-sided in one's 
charity.'
'I am sorry, Eleanor, that you hate the religion you find 
here; but surely you should remember that in such matters 
the archdeacon must know more of the world than you do. I 
don't ask you to respect or comply with me, although I am, 
unfortunately, so many years your senior; but surely, in 
such a matter as this, you might consent to be guided by the 
archdeacon. He is most anxious to be your friend if you will 
let him.'
'In such a matter as what?' said Eleanor very testily. 'Upon 
my word I don't know what this is all about.'
'We all want you to drop Mr Slope.'
'You all want me to be as illiberal as yourselves. That I 
shall never be. I see no harm in Mr Slope's acquaintance, 
and I shall not insult the man by telling him that I do. He 
has thought it necessary to write to me, and I do not want 
the archdeacon's advice about the letter. If I did I would 
ask it.'
'Then, Eleanor, it is my duty to tell you,' and now she 
spoke with a tremendous gravity, 'that the archdeacon thinks 
that such a correspondence is disgraceful, and that he 
cannot allow it to go on in his house.'
Eleanor's eyes flashed fire as she answered her sister, 
jumping up from her seat as she did so. 'You may tell the 
archdeacon that wherever I am I shall receive what letters I 
please and from whom I please. And as for the word 
disgraceful, if Dr Grantly has used it of me he has been 
unmanly and inhospitable,' and she walked off to the door. 
'When papa comes from the dining-room I will thank you to 
ask him to step up to my bedroom. I will show him Mr Slope's 
letter, but I will show it to no one else.' And so saying 
she retreated to her baby.
She had no conception of the crime with which she was 
charged. The idea that she could be thought by her friends 
to regard Mr Slope as a lover, had never flashed upon her. 
She conceived that they were all prejudiced and illiberal in 
their persecution of him, and therefore she would not join 
in the persecution, even though she greatly disliked the 
man.
Eleanor was very angry as she seated herself in a low chair 
by her open window at the foot of her child's bed. 'To dare 
to say I have disgraced myself,' she repeated to herself 
more than once. 'How papa can put up with that man's 
arrogance! I will certainly not sit down to dinner in his 
house again unless he begs my pardon for that word.' And 
then a thought struck her that Mr Arabin might perchance 
hear of her 'disgraceful' correspondence with Mr Slope, and 
she turned crimson with pure vexation. Oh, if she had known 
the truth? If she could have conceived that Mr Arabin had 
been informed as a fact that she was going to marry Mr 
Slope!
She had not been long in her room before her father joined 
her. As he left the drawing-room Mrs Grantly took her 
husband into the recess of the window, and told him how 
signally she had failed.
'I will speak to her myself before I go to bed,' said the 
archdeacon.
'Pray do no such thing,' said she; 'you can do no good and 
will only make an unseemly quarrel in the house. You have no 
idea how headstrong she can be.'
The archdeacon declared that as to that he was quite 
indifferent. He knew his duty and would do it. Mr Harding 
was weak in the extreme in such matters. He would not have 
it hereafter on his conscience that he had not done all that 
in him lay to prevent so disgraceful an alliance. It was in 
vain that Mrs Grantly assured him that speaking to Eleanor 
angrily would only hasten such a crisis, and render it 
certain if at present there were any doubt. He was angry, 
self-willed, and sore. The fact that a lady of his household 
had received a letter from Mr Slope had wounded his pride in 
the sorest place, and nothing could control him.
Mr Harding looked worn and woebegone as he entered his 
daughter's room. These sorrows worried him sadly. He felt 
that if they were continued he must go to the wall in the 
manner so kindly prophesied to him by the chaplain. He 
knocked gently at his daughter's door, waited till he was 
distinctly bade to enter, and then appeared as though he and 
not she were the suspected criminal.
Eleanor's arm was soon within his, and she had soon kissed 
his forehead and caressed him, not with joyous but with 
eager love. 'Oh, papa,' she said, 'I do so want to speak to 
you. They have been talking about me downstairs tonight; 
don't you know they have, papa?'
Mr Harding confessed with a sort of murmur that the 
archdeacon had been speaking of her.
'I shall hate Dr Grantly soon -'
'Oh my dear!'
'Well; I shall. I cannot help it. He is so uncharitable, so 
unkind, so suspicious of everyone that does not worship 
himself: and then he is so monstrously arrogant to other 
people who have a right to their opinions as well as he has 
to his own.'
'He is an earnest eager man, my dear: but he never means to 
be unkind.'
'He is unkind, papa, most unkind. There, I got that letter 
from Mr Slope before dinner. It was you yourself who gave it 
to me. There; pray read it. It is all for you. It should 
have been addressed to you. You know how they have been 
talking about it downstairs. You know how they behaved to me 
at dinner. And since dinner Susan has been preaching to me, 
till I could not remain in the room with her. Read it, papa; 
and then say whether that is a letter that need make Dr 
Grantly so outrageous.'
Mr Harding took his arm from his daughter's waist, and 
slowly read the letter. She expected to see his countenance 
lit with joy as he learnt that his path back to the hospital 
was made so smooth; but she was doomed to disappointment, as 
had once been the case before on a somewhat similar 
occasion. His first feeling was one of unmitigated disgust 
that Mr Slope should have chosen to interfere in his behalf. 
He had been anxious to get back to the hospital, but he 
would have infinitely sooner resigned all pretensions to the 
place, than have owed it in any manner to Mr Slope's 
influence in his favour. Then he thoroughly disliked the 
tone of Mr Slope's letter; it was unctuous, false, and 
unwholesome, like the man. He saw, which Eleanor had failed 
to see, that much more had been intended than was expressed. 
The appeal to Eleanor's pious labours as separate from his 
own grated sadly against his feelings as a father.
And then when he came to the 'darling boy' and the 'silken 
tresses,' he slowly closed and folded the letter in despair. 
It was impossible that Mr Slope should so write unless he 
had been encouraged. It was impossible Eleanor should have 
received such a letter, and have received it without 
annoyance, unless she were willing to encourage him. So at 
least Mr Harding argued to himself.
How hard it is to judge accurately of the feelings of 
others. Mr Harding, as he came to the close of the letter, 
in his heart condemned his daughter for indelicacy, and it 
made him miserable to do so. She was not responsible for 
what Mr Slope might write. True. But then she expressed no 
disgust at it. She had rather expressed approval of the 
letter as a whole. She had given it to him to read, as a 
vindication for herself and also for him. The father's 
spirits sank within him as he felt that he could not acquit 
her.
And yet it was the true feminine delicacy of Eleanor's mind 
which brought her on this condemnation. Listen to me, 
ladies, and I beseech you to acquit her. She thought of this 
man, this lover of whom she was so unconscious, exactly as 
her father did, exactly as the Grantlys did. At least she 
esteemed him personally as they did. But she believed him to 
be in the main an honest man, and one truly inclined to 
assist her father. She felt herself bound, after what had 
passed, to show this letter to Mr Harding. She thought it 
necessary that he should know what Mr Slope had to say. But 
she did not think it necessary to apologise for, or condemn, 
or even allude to the vulgarity of the man's tone, which 
arose, as does all vulgarity, from ignorance. It was 
nauseous to her to have a man like Mr Slope commenting on 
her personal attractions; and she did not think it necessary 
to dilate with her father upon what was nauseous. She never 
supposed they could disagree on such a subject. It would 
have been painful for her to point it out, painful for her 
to speak strongly against a man of whom, on the whole, she 
was anxious to think and speak well. In encountering such a 
man she had encountered what was disagreeable, as she might 
do in walking the streets. But in such encounters she never 
thought it necessary to dwell on what disgusted her.
And he, foolish weak loving man, would not say one word, 
though one word would have cleared up everything. There 
would have been a deluge of tears, and in ten minutes 
everyone in the house would have understood how matters 
really were. The father would have been delighted. The 
sister would have kissed her sister and begged a thousand 
pardons. The archdeacon would have apologised and wondered, 
and raised his eyebrows, and gone to bed a happy man. And Mr 
Arabin - Mr Arabin would have dreamt of Eleanor, have awoke 
in the morning with ideas of love, and retired to rest the 
next evening with schemes of marriage. But, alas! all this 
was not to be.
Mr Harding slowly folded the letter, handed it back to her, 
kissed her forehead and bade God bless her. He then crept 
slowly away to his own room.
As soon as he had left the passage another knock was given 
at Eleanor's door, and Mrs Grantly's very demure own maid, 
entering on tiptoe, wanted to know would Mrs Bold be so kind 
as to speak to the archdeacon for two minutes, in the 
archdeacon's study, if not disagreeable. The archdeacon's 
compliments, and he wouldn't detain her two minutes.
Eleanor thought it was very disagreeable; she was tired and 
fagged and sick at heart; her present feelings towards Dr 
Grantly were anything but those of affection. She was, 
however, no coward, and therefore promised to be in the 
study in five minutes. So she arranged her hair, tied on her 
cap, and went down with a palpitating heart.



Chapter 29

A Serious Interview

There are people who delight in serious interviews, 
especially when to them appertains the part of offering 
advice or administering rebuke, and perhaps the archdeacon 
was one of these. Yet on this occasion he did not prepare 
himself for the coming conversation with much anticipation 
of pleasure. Whatever might be his faults he was not an 
inhospitable man, and he almost felt that he was sinning 
against hospitality in upbraiding Eleanor in his own house. 
Then, also he was not quite sure that he would get the best 
of it. His wife had told him that he decidedly would not, 
and he usually gave credit to what his wife said. He was, 
however, so convinced of what he considered to be the 
impropriety of Eleanor's conduct, and so assured also of his 
own duty in trying to check it, that his conscience would 
not allow him to take his wife's advice and go to bed 
quietly.
Eleanor's face as she entered the room was not such as to 
reassure him. As a rule she was always mild in manner and 
gentle in conduct; but there was that in her eye which made 
it not an easy task to scold her. In truth she had been 
little used to scolding. No one since her childhood had 
tried it but the archdeacon, and he had generally failed 
when he did try it. He had never done so since her marriage; 
and now, when he saw her quiet easy step, as she entered his 
room, he almost wished that he had taken his wife's advice.
He began by apologising for the trouble he was giving her. 
She begged him not to mention it, assured him that walking 
downstairs was no trouble to her at all, and then took a 
seat and waited patiently for him to begin his attack.
'My dear Eleanor,' he said, 'I hope you believe me when I 
assure you that you have no sincerer friend than I am.' To 
this Eleanor answered nothing, and therefore he proceeded. 
'If you had a brother of your own I should not probably 
trouble you with what I am going to say. But as it is I 
cannot but think that it must be a comfort to you to know 
that you have near you one who is as anxious for your 
welfare as any brother of your own could be.'
'I never had a brother,' said she.
'I know you never had, and it is therefore that I speak to 
you.'
'I never had a brother,' she repeated; 'but I have hardly 
felt the want. Papa has been to me both father and brother.'
'Your father is the fondest and most affectionate of men. 
But -'
'He is the fondest and most affectionate of men, and the 
best of counsellors. While he lives I can never want 
advice.'
This rather put the archdeacon out. He could not exactly 
contradict what his sister-in-law said about her father; and 
yet he did not at all agree with her. He wanted her to 
understand that he tendered his assistance because her 
father was a soft good-natured gentleman, not sufficiently 
knowing in the ways of the world; but he could not say this 
to her. So he had to rush into the subject-matter of his 
proffered counsel without any acknowledgment on her part 
that she could need it, or would be grateful for it.
'Susan tells me that you received a letter this evening from 
Mr Slope.'
'Yes; papa brought it in the brougham. Did he not tell you?'
'And Susan says that you objected to let her know what it 
was about.'
'I don't think she asked me. But had she done so I should 
not have told her. I don't think it nice to be asked about 
one's letters. If one wishes to show them one does so 
without being asked.'
'True. Quite so. What you say is quite true. But is not the 
fact of your receiving letters from Mr Slope, which you do 
not wish to show to your friends, a circumstance which must 
excite some - some surprise - some suspicion -'
'Suspicion!' said she, not speaking above her usual voice, 
speaking still in a soft womanly tone, but yet with 
indignation; 'suspicion! and who suspects me, and of what?' 
And then there was a pause, for the archdeacon was not quite 
ready to explain the ground of his suspicion. 'No, Dr 
Grantly, I did not choose to show Mr Slope's letter to 
Susan. I could not show it to anyone till papa had seen it. 
If you have any wish to read it now, you can do so,' and she 
handed the letter to him over the table.
This was an amount of compliance which he had not at all 
expected, and which rather upset him in his tactics. 
However, he took the letter, perused it carefully, and then 
refolding it, kept it on the table under his hand. To him it 
appeared to be in almost every respect the letter of a 
declared lover; it seemed to corroborate his worst 
suspicions; and the fact of Eleanor's showing it to him was 
all but tantamount to a declaration on her part, that it was 
her pleasure to receive love-letters from Mr Slope. He 
almost entirely overlooked the real subject-matter of the 
epistle; so intent was he on the forthcoming courtship and 
marriage.
'I'll thank you to give it me back, if you please, Dr 
Grantly.'
He took it in his hand and held it up, but made no immediate 
overture to return it. 'And Mr Harding has seen this?' said 
he.
'Of course he has,' said she; 'it was written that he might 
see it. It refers solely to his business - of course I 
showed it to him.'
'And, Eleanor, do you think that that is a proper letter for 
you - for a person in your condition - to receive from Mr 
Slope?'
'Quite a proper letter,' said she, speaking, perhaps, a 
little out of obstinacy; probably forgetting at the moment 
the objectionable mention of her silken curls.
'Then, Eleanor, it is my duty to tell you that I wholly 
differ from you.'
'So I suppose,' said she, instigated now by sheer opposition 
and determination not to succumb. 'You think Mr Slope is a 
messenger direct from Satan. I think he is an industrious, 
well-meaning clergyman. It's a pity that we differ as we do. 
But, as we do differ, we had probably better not talk about 
it.'
Here Eleanor undoubtedly put herself in the wrong. She might 
probably have refused to talk to Dr Grantly on the matter in 
dispute without any impropriety; but having consented to 
listen to him, she had no business to tell him that he 
regarded Mr Slope as an emissary from the evil one; nor was 
she justified in praising Mr Slope, seeing that in her heart 
of hearts she did not think well of him. She was, however, 
wounded in spirit, and angry and bitter. She had been 
subjected to contumely and cross-questioning and ill-usage 
through the whole evening. No one, not even Mr Arabin, not 
even her father, had been kind to her. All this she 
attributed to the prejudice and conceit of the archdeacon, 
and therefore she resolved to set no bounds to her 
antagonism to him. She would neither give nor take quarter. 
He had greatly presumed in daring to question her about her 
correspondence, and she was determined to show that she 
thought so.
'Eleanor, you are forgetting yourself,' said he, looking 
very sternly at her. 'Otherwise you would never tell me that 
I conceive any man to be a messenger from Satan.'
'But you do,' said she. 'Nothing is too bad for him. Give me 
that letter, if you please '; and she stretched out her hand 
and took it from him. 'He has been doing his best to serve 
papa, doing more than any of papa's friends could do; and 
yet, because he is the chaplain of a bishop whom you don't 
like, you speak of him as though he had no right to the 
usage of a gentleman.'
'He has done nothing for your father.'
'I believe that he has done a great deal; and, as far as I 
am concerned, I am grateful to him. Nothing that you can say 
can prevent my being so. I judge people by their acts, and 
his, as far as I can see them, are good.' She then paused 
for a moment. 'If you have nothing further to say, I shall 
be obliged by being permitted to say good night - I am very 
tired.'
Dr Grantly had, as he thought, done his best to be gracious 
to his sister-in-law. He had endeavoured not to be harsh to 
her, and had striven to pluck the sting from his rebuke. But 
he did not intend that she should leave him without hearing 
him.
'I have something to say, Eleanor; and I fear I must trouble 
you to hear it. You profess that it is quite proper that you 
should receive from Mr Slope such letters as that you have 
in your hand. Susan and I think very differently. You are, 
of course, your own mistress, and much as we both must 
grieve should anything separate you from us, we have no 
power to prevent you from taking steps which may lead to 
such a separation. If you are so wilful as to reject the 
counsel of your friends, you must be allowed to cater for 
yourself. But, Eleanor, I may at any rate ask you this. Is 
it worth your while to break away from all those you have 
loved - from all who love you - for the sake of Mr Slope?'
'I don't know what you mean, Dr Grantly; I don't know what 
you're talking about. I don't want to break away from 
anybody.'
'But you will do so if you connect yourself with Mr Slope. 
Eleanor, I must speak out to you. You must choose between 
your sister and myself and our friends, and Mr Slope and his 
friends. I say nothing of your father, as you may probably 
understand his feelings better than I do.'
'What do you mean, Dr Grantly? What am I to understand? 
never heard such wicked prejudice in my life.'
'It is no prejudice, Eleanor. I have known the world longer 
than you have done. Mr Slope is altogether beneath you. You 
ought to know and feel that he is so. Pray - pray think of 
this before it is too late.'
'Too late!'
'Or if you will not believe me, ask Susan; you cannot think 
she is prejudiced against you. Or even consult your father, 
he is not prejudiced against you. Ask Mr Arabin -'
'You haven't spoken to Mr Arabin about this!' said she, 
jumping up and standing before him.
'Eleanor, all the world in and about Barchester will be 
speaking of it soon.'
'But have you spoken to Mr Arabin about me and Mr Slope?'
'Certainly I have, and he quite agrees with me.'
'Agrees with what?' said she. 'I think you are trying to 
drive me mad.'
'He agrees with me and Susan that it is quite impossible you 
should be received at Plumstead as Mrs Slope.'
Not being favourites with the tragic muse we do not dare to 
attempt any description of Eleanor's face when she first 
heard the name of Mrs Slope pronounced as that which would 
or should or might at some time appertain to herself. The 
look, such as it was, Dr Grantly did not soon forget. For a 
moment or two she could find no words to express her deep 
anger and deep disgust; and, indeed, at this conjuncture, 
words did not come to her very freely.
'How dare you be so impertinent?' at last she said; and then 
hurried out of the room, without giving the archdeacon the 
opportunity of uttering another word. It was with difficulty 
she contained herself till she reached her own room; and 
then locking the door, she threw herself on her bed and 
sobbed as though her heart would break.
But even yet she had no conception of the truth. She had no 
idea that her father and her sister had for days past 
conceived in sober earnest the idea that she was going to 
marry this man. She did not even then believe that the 
archdeacon thought that she would do so. By some manoeuvre 
of her brain, she attributed the origin of the accusation to 
Mr Arabin, and as she did so her anger against him was 
excessive, and the vexation of her spirit almost 
unendurable. She could not bring herself to think that the 
charge was made seriously. It appeared to her most probable 
that the archdeacon and Mr Arabin had talked over her 
objectionable acquaintance with Mr Slope; that Mr Arabin, in 
his jeering, sarcastic way, had suggested the odious match 
as being the severest way of treating with contumely her 
acquaintance with his enemy; and that the archdeacon, taking 
the idea from him, thought proper to punish her by the 
allusion. The whole night she lay awake thinking of what had 
been said, and this appeared to be the most probable 
solution.
But the reflection that Mr Arabin should have in any way 
mentioned her name in connection with that of Mr Slope was 
overpowering; and the spiteful ill-nature of the archdeacon, 
in repeating the charge to her, made her wish to leave his 
house almost before the day had broken. One thing was 
certain: nothing should make her stay there beyond the 
following morning, and nothing should make her sit down to 
breakfast in company with Dr Grantly. When she thought of 
the man whose name had been linked with her own, she cried 
from sheer disgust. It was only because she would be thus 
disgusted, thus pained and shocked and cut to the quick, 
that the archdeacon had spoken the horrid word. He wanted to 
make her quarrel with Mr Slope, and therefore he had 
outraged her by his abominable vulgarity. She determined 
that at any rate he should know that she appreciated it.
Nor was the archdeacon a bit better satisfied with the 
result of his serious interview than was Eleanor. He 
gathered from it, as indeed he could hardly fail to do, that 
she was very angry with him; but he thought that she was 
thus angry, not because she was suspected of an intention to 
marry Mr Slope, but because such an intention was imputed to 
her as a crime. Dr Grantly regarded this supposed union with 
disgust; but it never occurred to him that Eleanor was 
outraged, because she looked at it exactly in the same 
light.
He returned to his wife vexed and somewhat disconsolate, 
but, nevertheless, confirmed in his wrath against his sister-
in-law. 'Her whole behaviour,' said he, 'has been most 
objectionable. She handed me his love-letter to read as 
though she were proud of it. And she is proud of it. She is 
proud of having this slavering, greedy man at her feet. She 
will throw herself and John Bold's money into his lap; she 
will ruin her boy, disgrace her father and you, and be a 
wretched miserable woman.'
His spouse, who was sitting at her toilet table, continued 
her avocations, making no answer to all this. She had known 
that the archdeacon would gain nothing by interfering; but 
she was too charitable to provoke him by saying so while he 
was in such deep sorrow.
'This comes of a man making such a will as that of Bold's,' 
he continued. 'Eleanor is no more fitted to be trusted with 
such an amount of money in her own hands than is a charity-
school girl.' Still Mrs Grantly made no reply. 'But I have 
done my duty; I can do nothing further. I have told her 
plainly that she cannot be allowed to form a link of 
connection between me and that man. From henceforward it 
will not be in my power to make her welcome at Plumstead. I 
cannot have Mr Slope's love-letters coming here. Susan, I 
think you had better let her understand that as her mind on 
this subject seems to be irrevocably fixed, it will be 
better for all parties that she should return to 
Barchester.'
Now Mrs Grantly was angry with Eleanor, nearly as angry as 
her husband; but she had no idea of turning her sister out 
of the house. She, therefore, at length spoke out, and 
explained to the archdeacon in her own mild seducing way, 
that he was fuming and fussing and fretting himself very 
unnecessarily. She declared that things, if left alone, 
would arrange themselves much better than he could arrange 
them; and at last succeeded in inducing him to go to bed in 
a somewhat less inhospitable state of mind.
On the following morning Eleanor's maid was commissioned to 
send word into the dining-room that her mistress was not 
well enough to attend prayers, and that she would breakfast 
in her own room. Here she was visited by her father and 
declared to him her intention of returning immediately to 
Barchester. He was hardly surprised by the announcement. All 
the household seemed to be aware that something had gone 
wrong. Everyone walked about with subdued feet, and people's 
shoes seemed to creak more than usual. There was a look of 
conscious intelligence on the faces of the women: and the 
men attempted, but in vain, to converse as though nothing 
were the matter. All this had weighed heavily on the heart 
of Mr Harding; and when Eleanor told him that her immediate 
return to Barchester was a necessity, he merely sighed 
piteously, and said that he would be ready to accompany her.
But here she objected strenuously. She had a great wish, she 
said, to go alone; a great desire that it might be seen that 
her father was not implicated in her quarrel with Dr 
Grantly. To this at last he gave way; but not a word passed 
between them about Mr Slope - not a word was said, not a 
question asked as to the serious interview on the preceding 
evening. There was, indeed, very little confidence between 
them, though neither of them knew why it should be so. 
Eleanor once asked him whether he would not call upon the 
bishop; but he answered rather tartly that he did not know - 
he did not think he should, but he could not say just at 
present. And so they parted. Each was miserably anxious for 
some show of affection, for some return of confidence, for 
some sign of the feeling that usually bound them together. 
But none was given. The father could not bring himself to 
question his daughter about her supposed lover; and the 
daughter would not sully her mouth by repeating the odious 
word with which Dr Grantly had roused her wrath. And so they 
parted.
There was some trouble in arranging the method of Eleanor's 
return. She begged her father to send for a postchaise; but 
when Mrs Grantly heard of this, she objected strongly. If 
Eleanor would go away in dudgeon with the archdeacon, why 
should she let all the servants and all the neighbourhood 
know that she had done so? So at last Eleanor consented to 
make use of the Plumstead carriage; and as the archdeacon 
had gone out immediately after breakfast and was not to 
return till dinner-time, she also consented to postpone her 
journey till after lunch, and to join the family at that 
time. As to the subject of the quarrel not a word was said 
by anyone. The affair of the carriage was arranged by Mr 
Harding, who acted as Mercury between the two ladies; they, 
when they met, kissed each other very lovingly, and then sat 
down each to her crochet work as though nothing was amiss in 
all the world.



Chapter 30

Another Love Scene

But there was another visitor at the rectory whose feelings 
in this unfortunate matter must be somewhat strictly 
analysed. Mr Arabin had heard from his friend of the 
probability of Eleanor's marriage with Mr Slope with 
amazement, but not with incredulity. It has been said that 
he was not in love with Eleanor, and up to this period this 
certainly had been true. But as soon as he heard that she 
loved someone else, he began to be very fond of her himself. 
He did not make up his mind that he wished to have her for 
his wife; he had never thought of her, and did not now think 
of her, in connection with himself; but he experienced an 
inward indefinable feeling of deep regret, a gnawing sorrow, 
an unconquerable depression of spirits, and also a species 
of self-abasement that he - he Mr Arabin - had not done 
something to prevent that other he, that vile he, whom he so 
thoroughly despised, from carrying off this sweet prize.
Whatever man may have reached the age of forty unmarried 
without knowing something of such feelings must have been 
very successful or else very cold-hearted.
Mr Arabin had never thought of trimming the sails of his 
bark so that he might sail as convoy to this rich argosy. He 
had seen that Mrs Bold was beautiful, but he had not dreamt 
of making her beauty his own. He knew that Mrs Bold was 
rich, but he had had no more idea of appropriating her 
wealth than that of Dr Grantly. He had discovered that Mrs 
Bold was intelligent, warm-hearted, agreeable, sensible, 
all, in fact, that a man could wish his wife to be; but the 
higher were her attractions, the greater her claims to 
consideration, the less had he imagined that he might 
possibly become the possessor of them. Such had been his 
instinct rather than his thoughts, so humble and so 
diffident. Now his diffidence was to be rewarded by his 
seeing this woman, whose beauty was to his eyes perfect, 
whose wealth was such as to have deterred him from thinking 
of her, whose widowhood would have silenced him had he not 
been so deterred, by his seeing her become the prey of - 
Obadiah Slope!
On the morning of Mrs Bold's departure he got on his horse 
to ride over to St Ewold's. As he rode he kept muttering to 
himself a line from Van Artevelde:

How little flattering is woman's love.

And then he strove to recall his mind and to think of other 
affairs, his parish, his college, his creed - but his 
thoughts would revert to Mr Slope and the Flemish chieftain:

When we think upon it,
How little flattering is woman's love,
Given commonly to whosoe'er is nearest
And propped with most advantage.

It was not that Mrs Bold should marry anyone but him; he had 
not put himself forward as a suitor; but that she should 
marry Mr Slope - and so he repeated over again:
Outward grace
Nor inward light is needful - day by day
Men wanting both are mated with the best
And loftiest of God's feminine creation,
Whose love takes no distinction but of gender,
And ridicules the very name of choice.

And so he went on, troubled much in his mind.
He had but an uneasy ride of it that morning, and little 
good did he do at St Ewold's.
The necessary alterations in his house were being fast 
completed, and he walked through the rooms, and went up and 
down the stairs and rambled through the garden; but he could 
not wake himself to much interest about them. He stood still 
at every window to look out and think upon Mr Slope. At 
almost every window he had before stood and chatted with 
Eleanor. She and Mrs Grantly had been there continually, and 
while Mrs Grantly had been giving orders, and seeing that 
orders had been complied with, he and Eleanor had conversed 
on all things appertaining to a clergyman's profession. He 
thought how often he had laid down the law to her, and how 
sweetly she had borne with his somewhat dictatorial decrees. 
He remembered her listening intelligence, her gentle but 
quick replies, her interest in all that concerned the 
church, in all that concerned him; and then he struck his 
riding-whip against the window-sill and declared to himself 
that it was impossible that Eleanor Bold should marry Mr 
Slope.
And yet he did not really believe, as he should have done, 
that it was impossible. He should have known her well enough 
to feel that it was truly impossible. He should have been 
aware that Eleanor had that within her which would surely 
protect her from such degradation. But he, like so many 
others, was deficient in confidence in woman. He said to 
himself over and over again that it was impossible that 
Eleanor Bold should become Mrs Slope, and yet he believed 
that she would do so. And so he rambled about, and could do 
and think of nothing. He was thoroughly uncomfortable, 
thoroughly ill at ease, cross with himself and everybody 
else, and feeding in his heart on animosity towards Mr 
Slope. This was not as it should be, as he knew and felt; 
but he could not help himself. In truth Mr Arabin was now in 
love with Mrs Bold, though ignorant of the fact himself. He 
was in love, and, though forty years old, was in love 
without being aware of it. He fumed and fretted, and did not 
know what was the matter, as a youth might do at one-and-
twenty. And so having done no good at St Ewold's, he rode 
back much earlier than was usual with him, instigated by 
some inward unacknowledged hope that he might see Mrs Bold 
before she left.
Eleanor had not passed a pleasant morning. She was irritated 
with everyone, and not least with herself. She felt that she 
had been hardly used, but she felt also that she had not 
played her own cards well. She should have held herself so 
far above suspicion as to have received her sister's 
innuendoes and the archdeacon's lecture with indifference. 
She had not done this, but had shown herself angry and sore, 
and was now ashamed of her own petulance, and yet unable to 
discontinue it.
The greater part of the morning she had spent alone; but 
after a while her father joined her. He had fully made up 
his mind that, come what come might, nothing should separate 
him from his younger daughter. It was a hard task for him to 
reconcile himself to the idea of seeing her at the head of 
Mr Slope's table; but he got through it. Mr Slope, as he 
argued to himself, was a respectable man and a clergyman; 
and he, as Eleanor's father, had no right even to endeavour 
to prevent her from marrying such a one. He longed to tell 
her how he had determined to prefer her to all the world, 
how he was prepared to admit that she was not wrong, how 
thoroughly he differed from Dr Grantly; but he could not 
bring himself to mention Mr Slope's name. There was yet a 
chance that they were all wrong in their surmise! and, being 
thus in doubt, he could not bring himself to speak openly to 
her on the subject.
He was sitting with her in the drawing-room, with his arm 
round her waist, saying every now and then some little soft 
words of affection, and working hard with his imaginary 
fiddle-bow, when Mr Arabin entered the room. He immediately 
got up, and the two made some trite remarks to each other, 
neither thinking of what he was saying, while Eleanor kept 
her seat on the sofa mute and moody. Mr Arabin was included 
in the list of those against whom her anger was excited. He, 
too, had dared to talk about her acquaintance with Mr Slope; 
he, too, had dared to blame her for not making an enemy of 
his enemy. She had not intended to see him before her 
departure, and was now but little inclined to be gracious.
There was a feeling through the whole house that something 
was wrong. Mr Arabin, when he saw Eleanor, could not succeed 
in looking or in speaking as though he knew nothing of all 
this. He could not be cheerful and positive and 
contradictory with her, as was his wont. He had not been two 
minutes in the room before he felt that he had done wrong to 
return; and the moment he heard her voice, he thoroughly 
wished himself back at St Ewold's. Why, indeed, should he 
have wished to have aught further to say to the future wife 
of Mr Slope?
'I am sorry to hear that you are to leave us so soon,' said 
he, striving in vain to use his ordinary voice. In answer to 
this she muttered something about the necessity of her being 
in Barchester, and betook herself most industriously to her 
crochet work.
Then there was a little more trite conversation between Mr 
Arabin and Mr Harding; trite, and hard, and vapid, and 
senseless. Neither of them had anything to say to the other, 
and yet neither at such a moment liked to remain silent. At 
last Mr Harding, taking advantage of a pause, escaped out of 
the room, and Eleanor and Mr Arabin were left together.
'Your going will be a great break-up to our party,' said he.
She again muttered something which was all but inaudible; 
but kept her eyes fixed upon her work.
'We have had a very pleasant month here,' said he; 'at least 
I have; and I am sorry it should be so soon over.'
'I have already been from home longer than I intended,' said 
she; 'and it is time that I should return.'
'Well, pleasant hours and pleasant days must come to an end. 
It is a pity that so few of them are pleasant; or perhaps, 
rather -'
'It is a pity, certainly, that men and women do so much to 
destroy the pleasantness of their days,' said she, 
interrupting him. 'It is a pity that there should be so 
little charity abroad.'
'Charity should begin at home,' said he; and he was 
proceeding to explain that he as a clergyman could not be 
what she would call charitable at the expense of those 
principles which he considered it his duty to teach, when he 
remembered that it would be worse than vain to argue on such 
a matter with the future wife of Mr Slope. 'But you are just 
leaving us,' he continued, 'and I will not weary your last 
hour with another lecture. As it is, I fear I have given you 
too many.'
'You should practise as well as preach, Mr Arabin?'
'Undoubtedly I should. So should we all. All of us who 
presume to teach are bound to do our utmost towards 
fulfilling our own lessons. I thoroughly allow my deficiency 
in doing so: but I do not quite know now to what you allude. 
Have you any special reason for telling me now that I should 
practise as well as preach?'
Eleanor made no answer. She longed to let him know the cause 
of her anger, to upbraid him for speaking of her 
disrespectfully, and then at last to forgive him, and so 
part friends. She felt that she would be unhappy to leave 
him in her present frame of mind; but yet she could hardly 
bring herself to speak to him of Mr Slope. And how could she 
allude to the innuendo thrown out by the archdeacon, and 
thrown out, as she believed, at the instigation of Mr 
Arabin? She wanted to make him know that he was wrong, to 
make him aware that he had ill-treated her, in order that 
the sweetness of her forgiveness might be enhanced. She felt 
that she liked him too well to be contented to part with him 
in displeasure; and yet she could not get over her deep 
displeasure without some explanation, some acknowledgment on 
his part, some assurance that he would never again so sin 
against her.
'Why do you tell me that I should practise what I preach?' 
continued he.
'All men should do so.'
'Certainly. That is as it were understood and acknowledged. 
But you do not say so to all men, or to all clergymen. The 
advice, good as it is, is not given except in allusion to 
some special deficiency. If you will tell me my special 
deficiency, I will endeavour to profit by the advice.'
She paused for a while, and then looking full in his face, 
she said, 'You are not bold enough, Mr Arabin, to speak out 
to me openly and plainly, and yet you expect me, a woman, to 
speak openly to you. Why did you speak calumny of me to Dr 
Grantly behind my back?'
'Calumny!' said he, and his whole face became suffused with 
blood; 'what calumny? If I have spoken calumny of you, I 
will beg your pardon, and his to whom I spoke it, and God's 
pardon also. But what calumny have I spoken of you to Dr 
Grantly?'
She also blushed deeply. She could not bring herself to ask 
him whether he had not spoken of her as another man's wife. 
'You know that best yourself,' said she; 'but I ask you as a 
man of honour, if you have not spoken of me as you would not 
have spoken of your own sister; or rather I will not ask 
you,' she continued, finding that he did not immediately 
answer her. 'I will not put you to the necessity of 
answering such a question. Dr Grantly has told me what you 
said.'
'Dr Grantly certainly asked me for my advice, and I gave it. 
He asked me -'
'I know he did, Mr Arabin. He asked you whether he would be 
doing right to receive me at Plumstead, if I continued my 
acquaintance with a gentleman who happens to be personally 
disagreeable to yourself and to him?'
'You are mistaken, Mrs Bold. I have no personal knowledge of 
Mr Slope; I never met him in my life.'
'You are not the less individually hostile to him. It is not 
for me to question the propriety of your enmity; but I had a 
right to expect that my name should not have been mixed up 
in your hostilities. This has been done, and been done by 
you in a manner the most injurious and the most distressing 
to me as a woman. I must confess, Mr Arabin, that from you I 
expected a different sort of usage.'
As she spoke she with difficulty restrained her tears; but 
she did restrain them. Had she given way and sobbed aloud, 
as in such cases a woman should do, he would have melted at 
once, implored her pardon, perhaps knelt at her feet and 
declared his love. Everything would have been explained, and 
Eleanor would have gone back to Barchester with a contented 
mind. How easily would she have forgiven and forgotten the 
archdeacon's suspicions had she but heard the whole truth 
from Mr Arabin. But then where would have been my novel? She 
did not cry, and Mr Arabin did not melt.
'You do me an injustice,' said he. 'My advice was asked by 
Dr Grantly, and I was obliged to give it.'
'Dr Grantly has been most officious, most impertinent. I 
have as complete a right to form my acquaintance as he has 
to form his. What would you have said, had I consulted you 
as to the propriety of my banishing Dr Grantly from my house 
because he knows Lord Tattenham Corner? I am sure Lord 
Tattenham is quite as objectionable an acquaintance for a 
clergyman as Mr Slope is for a clergyman's daughter.'
'I do not know Lord Tattenham Corner.'
'No; but Dr Grantly does. It is nothing to me if he knows 
all the young lords on every racecourse in England. I shall 
not interfere with him; nor shall he with me.'
'I am sorry to differ with you, Mrs Bold; but as you have 
spoken to me on this matter, and especially as you blame me 
for what little I said on the subject, I must tell you that 
I do differ from you. Dr Grantly's position as a man in the 
world gives him a right to choose his own acquaintances, 
subject to certain influences. If he chooses them badly, 
those influences will be used. If he consorts with persons 
unsuitable to him, his bishop will interfere. What the 
bishop is to Dr Grantly, Dr Grantly is to you.
'I deny it. I utterly deny it,' said Eleanor, jumping from 
her seat, and literally flashing before Mr Arabin, as she 
stood on the drawing-room floor. He had never seen her so 
excited, he had never seen her look half so beautiful.
'I utterly deny it,' said she. 'Dr Grantly has no sort of 
jurisdiction over me whatsoever. Do you and he forget that I 
am not altogether alone in the world? Do you forget that I 
have a father? Dr Grantly, I believe, always has forgotten 
it.
'From you, Mr Arabin,' she continued, 'I would have listened 
to advice because I should have expected it to have been 
given as one friend may advise another; not as a 
schoolmaster gives an order to a pupil. I might have 
differed from you; on this matter I should have done so; but 
had you spoken to me in your usual manner and with your 
usual freedom I should not have been angry. But now - was it 
manly of you, Mr Arabin, to speak of me in this way - so 
disrespectful - so - ? I cannot bring myself to repeat what 
you said. You must understand what I feel. Was it just of 
you to speak of me in such a way, and to advise my sister's 
husband to turn me out of my sister's house, because I chose 
to know a man of whose doctrine you disapprove?'
'I have no alternative left to me, Mrs Bold,' said he, 
standing with his back to the fire-place, looking down 
intently at the carpet pattern, and speaking with a slow 
measured voice, 'but to tell you plainly what did take place 
between me and Dr Grantly.'
'Well,' said she, finding that he paused for a moment.
'I am afraid that what I may say may pain you.'
'It cannot well do so more than what you have already done,' 
said she.
'Dr Grantly asked me whether I thought it would be prudent 
for him to receive you in his house as the wife of Mr Slope, 
and I told him that I thought it would be imprudent. 
Believing it to be utterly impossible that Mr Slope and -'
'Thank you, Mr Arabin, that is sufficient. I do not want to 
know your reasons,' said she, speaking with a terribly calm 
voice. 'I have shown to this gentleman the commonplace 
civility of a neighbour; and because I have done so, because 
I have not indulged against him in all the rancour and 
hatred which you and Dr Grantly consider due to all 
clergymen who do not agree with yourselves, you conclude 
that I am to marry him; - or rather you do not conclude so - 
no rational man could really come to such an outrageous 
conclusion without better ground; - you have not thought so -
 but, as I am in a position in which such an accusation must 
be peculiarly painful, it is made in order that I may be 
terrified into hostility against this enemy of yours.'
As she finished speaking, she walked to the drawing-room 
window and stepped out into the garden. Mr Arabin was left 
in the room, still occupied in counting the pattern on the 
carpet. He had, however, distinctly heard and accurately 
marked every word that she had spoken. Was it not clear from 
what she had said, that the archdeacon had been wrong in 
imputing to her any attachment to Mr Slope? Was it not clear 
that Eleanor was still free to make another choice? It may 
seem strange that he should for a moment have had a doubt; 
and yet he did doubt. She had not absolutely denied the 
charge; she had not expressly said that it was untrue. Mr 
Arabin understood little of the nature of a woman's 
feelings, or he would have known how improbable it was that 
she should make any clearer declaration than she had done. 
Few men do understand the nature of a woman's heart, till 
years have robbed such understanding of its value. And it is 
well that it should be so, or men would triumph too easily.
Mr Arabin stood counting the carpet, unhappy, wretchedly 
unhappy, at the hard words that had been spoken to him; and 
yet happy, exquisitely happy, as he thought that after all 
the woman whom he so regarded was not to become the wife of 
the man whom he so much disliked. As he stood there he began 
to be aware that he was himself in love. Forty years had 
passed over his head, and as yet woman's beauty had never 
given him an uneasy hour. His present hour was very uneasy.
Not that he remained there for half or a quarter of that 
time. In spite of what Eleanor had said, Mr Arabin was, in 
truth, a manly man. Having ascertained that he loved this 
woman, and having now reason to believe that she was free to 
receive his love, at least if she pleased to do so, he 
followed her into the garden to make such wooing as he 
could.
He was not long in finding her. She was walking to and fro 
beneath the avenue of elms that stood in the archdeacon's 
grounds, skirting the churchyard. What had passed between 
her and Mr Arabin, had not, alas, tended to lessen the 
acerbity of her spirit. She was very angry; more angry with 
him than with anyone. How could he have so misunderstood 
her? She had been so intimate with him, had allowed him such 
latitude in what he had chosen to say to her, had complied 
with his ideas, cherished his views, fostered his precepts, 
cared for his comforts, made much of him in every way in 
which a pretty woman can make much of an unmarried man 
without committing herself or her feelings! She had been 
doing this, and while she had been doing it he had regarded 
her as the affianced wife of another man.
As she passed along the avenue, every now and then an 
unbidden tear would force itself on her cheek, and as she 
raised her hand to brush it away she stamped with her little 
foot upon the sward with very spite to think that she had 
been so treated.
Mr Arabin was very near to her when she first saw him, and 
she turned short round and retraced her steps down the 
avenue, trying to rid her cheeks of all trace of the tell-
tale tears. It was a needless endeavour, for Mr Arabin was 
in a state of mind that hardly allowed him to observe such 
trifles. He followed her down the walk, and overtook her 
just as she reached the end of it.
He had not considered how he would address her; he had not 
thought what he would say. He had only felt that it was 
wretchedness to him to quarrel with her, and that it would 
be happiness to be allowed to love her. And yet he could not 
lower himself by asking her pardon. He had done her no 
wrong. He had not calumniated her, not injured her, as she 
had accused him of doing. He could not confess sins of which 
he had not been guilty. He could only let the past be past, 
and ask her as to her and his hopes for the future.
'I hope we are not to part as enemies?' said he.
'There shall be no enmity on my part,' said Eleanor; 'I 
endeavour to avoid all enmities. It would be a hollow 
pretence were I to say that there can be true friendship 
between us after what has just passed. People cannot make 
their friends of those whom they despise.'
'And am I despised?'
'I must have been so before you could have spoken of me as 
yon did. And I was deceived, cruelly deceived. I believed 
that you thought well of me; I believed that you esteemed 
me.'
'Thought well of you and esteemed you!' said he. 'In 
justifying myself before you, I must use stronger words than 
those.' He paused for a moment, and Eleanor's heart beat 
with painful violence within her bosom as she waited for him 
to go on. 'I have esteemed, do esteem you, as I never yet 
esteemed any woman. Think well of you! I never thought to 
think so well, so much of any human creature. Speak calumny 
of you! Insult you! Wilfully injure you! I wish it were my 
privilege to shield you from calumny, insult, and injury. 
Calumny! ah, me. 'Twere almost better that it were so. 
Better than to worship with a sinful worship; sinful and 
vain also.' And then he walked along beside her, with his 
hands clasped behind his back, looking down on the grass 
beneath his feet, and utterly at a loss how to express his 
meaning. And Eleanor walked beside him determined at least 
to give him no assistance.
'Ah me!' he uttered at last, speaking rather to himself than 
to her. 'Ah me! these Plumstead walks were pleasant enough, 
if one could have but heart's ease; but without that the 
dull dead stones of Oxford were far preferable; and St 
Ewold's too; Mrs Bold, I am beginning to think that I 
mistook myself when I came hither. A Romish priest now would 
have escaped all this. Oh, Father of heaven! how good for us 
would it be, if thou couldest vouchsafe to us a certain 
rule.'
'And have we not a certain rule, Mr Arabin?'
'Yes - yes, surely: "Lead us not into temptation but deliver 
us from evil." But what is temptation? what is evil? Is this 
evil - is this temptation?'
Poor Mr Arabin! It would not come out of him, that deep true 
love of his. He could not bring himself to utter it in plain 
language that would require and demand an answer. He knew 
not how to say to the woman by his side, 'Since the fact is 
that you do not love that other man, that you are not to be 
his wife, can you love me, will you be my wife?' These were 
the words which were in his heart, but with all his sighs he 
could not draw them to his lips. He would have given 
anything, everything for power to ask this simple question; 
but glib as was his tongue in pulpits and on platforms, now 
he could not find a word wherewith to express the plain wish 
of his heart.
And yet Eleanor understood him as thoroughly as though he 
had declared his passion with all the elegant fluency of a 
practised Lothario. With a woman's instinct she followed 
every bend of his mind, as he spoke of the pleasantness of 
Plumstead and the stones of Oxford, as he alluded to the 
safety of the Romish priest and the hidden perils of 
temptation. She knew that it all meant love. She knew that 
this man at her side, this accomplished scholar, this 
practised orator, this great polemical combatant, was 
striving and striving in vain to tell her that his heart was 
no longer his own.
She knew this, and felt a sort of joy in knowing it; and yet 
she would not come to his aid. He had offended her deeply, 
had treated her unworthily, the more unworthily seeing that 
he had learnt to love her, and Eleanor could not bring 
herself to abandon her revenge. She did not ask herself 
whether or no she would ultimately accept his love. She did 
not even acknowledge to herself that she now perceived it 
with pleasure. At the present moment it did not touch her 
heart; it merely appeased her pride and flattered her 
vanity. Mr Arabin had dared to associate her name with that 
of Mr Slope, and now her spirit was soothed by finding that 
he would fain associate it with his own. And so she walked 
on beside him inhaling incense, but giving out no sweetness 
in return.
'Answer me this,' said Mr Arabin, stopping suddenly in his 
walk, and stepping forward so that he faced his companion. 
'Answer me this one question. You do not love Mr Slope? you 
do not intend to be his wife?'
Mr Arabin certainly did not go the right way to win such a 
woman as Eleanor Bold. Just as her wrath was evaporating, as 
it was disappearing before the true warmth of his untold 
love, he rekindled it by a most useless repetition of his 
original sin. Had he known what he was about he should never 
have mentioned Mr Slope's name before Eleanor Bold, till he 
had made her all his own. Then, and not till then, he might 
have talked of Mr Slope with as much triumph as he chose.
'I shall answer no such question,' said she; 'and what is 
more, I must tell you that nothing can justify your asking 
it. Good morning!'
And so saying she stepped proudly across the lawn, and 
passing through the drawing-room window joined her father 
and sister at lunch in the dining-room. Half an hour 
afterwards she was in the carriage, and so she left 
Plumstead without again seeing Mr Arabin.
His walk was long and sad among the sombre trees that 
overshadowed the churchyard. He left the archdeacon's 
grounds that he might escape attention, and sauntered among 
the green hillocks under which lay at rest so many of the 
once loving swains and forgotten beauties of Plumstead. To 
his ears Eleanor's last words sounded like a knell never to 
be reversed. He could not comprehend that she might be angry 
with him; indignant with him, remorseless with him, and yet 
love him. He could not make up his mind whether or no Mr 
Slope was in truth a favoured rival. If not, why should she 
not have answered his question?
Poor Mr Arabin - untaught, illiterate, boorish, ignorant 
man! That at forty years of age you should know so little of 
the workings of a woman's heart!



Chapter 31

The Bishop's Library

And thus the pleasant party at Plumstead was broken up. It 
had been a very pleasant party as long as they had all 
remained in good humour with one another. Mrs Grantly had 
felt her house to be gayer and brighter than it had been for 
many a long day, and the archdeacon had been aware that the 
month had passed pleasantly without attributing the pleasure 
to any other special merits than those of his own 
hospitality. Within three or four days of Eleanor's 
departure Mr Harding had also returned, and Mr Arabin had 
gone to Oxford to spend one week there previous to his 
settling at the vicarage of St Ewold's. He had gone laden 
with many messages to Dr Gwynne touching the iniquity of the 
doings in Barchester palace, and the peril in which it was 
believed the hospital still stood in spite of the assurances 
contained in Mr Slope's inauspicious letter.
During Eleanor's drive into Barchester she had not much 
opportunity of reflecting on Mr Arabin. She had been 
constrained to divert her mind both from his sins and his 
love by the necessity of conversing with her sister, and 
maintaining the appearance of parting with her on good 
terms. When the carriage reached her own door, and while she 
was in the act of giving her last kiss to her sister and 
nieces, Mary Bold ran out and exclaimed,
'Oh! Eleanor - have you heard? - oh! Mrs Grantly, have you 
heard what has happened? The poor dean!'
'Good heavens!' said Mrs Grantly; 'what - what has 
happened?'
'This morning at nine he had a fit of apoplexy, and he has 
not spoken since. I very much fear that by this time he is 
no more.'
Mrs Grantly had been very intimate with the dean, and was 
therefore much shocked. Eleanor had not known him so well; 
nevertheless she was sufficiently acquainted with his person 
and manners to feel startled and grieved also at the tidings 
she now received. 'I will go at once to the deanery,' said 
Mrs Grantly; 'the archdeacon, I am sure, will be there. If 
there is any news to send you I will let Thomas call before 
he leaves town.' And so the carriage drove off, leaving 
Eleanor and her baby with Mary Bold.
Mrs Grantly had been quite right. The archdeacon was at the 
deanery. He had come into Barchester that morning by 
himself, not caring to intrude himself upon Eleanor, and he 
also immediately on his arrival had heard of the dean's fit. 
There was, as we have before said, a library or reading-room 
connecting the cathedral with the dean's house. This was 
generally called the bishop's library, because a certain 
bishop of Barchester was supposed to have added it to the 
cathedral. It was built immediately over a portion of the 
cloisters, and a flight of stairs descended from it into the 
room in which the cathedral clergymen put their surplices on 
and off. As it also opened directly into the dean's house, 
it was the passage through which that dignitary usually went 
to his public devotions. Who had or had not the right of 
entry into it, it might be difficult to say; but the people 
of Barchester believed that it belonged to the dean, and the 
clergymen of Barchester believed that it belonged to the 
chapter.
On the morning in question most of the resident clergymen 
who constituted the chapter, and some few others, were here 
assembled, and among them as usual the archdeacon towered 
with high authority. He had heard of the dean's fit before 
he was over the bridge which led into the town, and had at 
once come to the well-known clerical trysting-place. He had 
been there by eleven o'clock, and had remained ever since. 
From time to time the medical men who had been called in 
came through from the deanery into the library, uttered 
little bulletins, and then returned. There was it appears 
very little hope of the old man's rallying, indeed no hope 
of anything like a final recovery. The only question was 
whether he must die at once speechless, unconscious, 
stricken to death by his first heavy fit; or whether by due 
aid of medical skill he might not be so far brought back to 
this world as to become conscious of his state, and enabled 
to address one prayer to his Maker before he was called to 
meet Him face to face at the judgment seat.
Sir Omicron Pie had been sent for from London. That great 
man had shown himself a wonderful adept at keeping life 
still moving within an old man's heart in the case of good 
old Bishop Grantly, and it might be reasonably expected that 
he would be equally successful with a dean. In the meantime 
Dr Fillgrave and Mr Rerechild were doing their best; and 
poor Miss Trefoil sat at the head of her father's bed, 
longing, as in such cases daughters do long, to be allowed 
to do something to show her love; if it were only to chafe 
his feet with her hands, or wait in menial offices on those 
autocratic doctors; anything so that now in the time of need 
she might be of use.
The archdeacon alone of the attendant clergy had been 
admitted for a moment into the sick man's chamber. He had 
crept in with creaking shoes, had said with smothered voice 
a word of consolation to the sorrowing daughter, had looked 
on the distorted face of his old friend with solemn but yet 
eager scrutinising eye, as though he said in his heart 'and 
so some day it will probably be with me'; and then, having 
whispered an unmeaning word or two to the doctors, had 
creaked his way back again into the library.
'He'll never speak again, I fear,' said the archdeacon as he 
noiselessly closed the door, as though the unconscious dying 
man, from whom all sense had fled, would have heard in his 
distant chamber the spring of the lock which was now so 
carefully handled.
'Indeed! indeed! is he so bad?' said the meagre little 
prebendary, turning over in his own mind all the probable 
candidates for the deanery, and wondering whether the 
archdeacon would think it worth his while to accept it. 'The 
fit must have been very violent.'
'When a man over seventy has a stroke of apoplexy, it seldom 
comes very lightly,' said the burly chancellor.
'He was an excellent, sweet-tempered man,' said one of the 
vicars choral. 'Heaven knows how we shall repair his loss.'
'He was indeed,' said a minor canon; 'and a great blessing 
to all those privileged to take a share of the services of 
our cathedral. I suppose the government will appoint, Mr 
Archdeacon. I trust we may have no stranger.'
'We will not talk about his successor,' said the archdeacon, 
'while there is yet hope.'
'Oh no, of course not,' said the minor canon. 'It would be 
exceedingly indecorous, but -'
'I know of no man,' said the meagre little prebendary, 'who 
has better interest with the present government than Mr 
Slope.'
'Mr Slope,' said two or three at once almost sotto voce. 'Mr 
Slope dean of Barchester!'
'Pooh!' exclaimed the burly chancellor.
'The bishop would do anything for him,' said the little 
prebendary.
'And so would Mrs Proudie,' said the vicar choral.
'Pooh!' said the chancellor.
The archdeacon had almost turned pale at the idea. What if 
Mr Slope should become dean of Barchester? To be sure there 
was no adequate ground, indeed no ground at all, for 
presuming that such a desecration could even be 
contemplated. But nevertheless it was on the cards. Dr 
Proudie had interest with the govermnent, and the man 
carried as it were Dr Proudie in his pocket. How should they 
all conduct themselves if Mr Slope were to become dean of 
Barchester? The bare idea for a moment struck even Dr 
Grantly dumb.
'It would certainly not be very pleasant for us to have Mr 
Slope at the deanery,' said the little prebendary, chuckling 
inwardly at the evident consternation which his surmise had 
created.
'About as pleasant and as probable as having you in the 
palace,' said the chancellor.
'I should think such an appointment highly improbable,' said 
the minor canon, 'and, moreover, extremely injudicious. 
Should not you, Mr Archdeacon?'
'I should presume such a thing to be quite out of the 
question,' said the archdeacon; 'but at the present moment I 
am thinking rather of our poor friend who is lying so near 
us than of Mr Slope.'
'Of course, of course,' said the vicar choral with a very 
solemn air; 'of course you are. So are we all. Poor Dr 
Trefoil; the best of men, but -'
'It's the most comfortable dean's residence in England,' 
said a second prebendary. 'Fifteen acres in the grounds. It 
is better than many of the bishops' palaces.'
'And full two thousand a year,' said the meagre doctor.
'It is cut down to £1200,' said the chancellor.
'No,' said the second prebendary. 'It is to be fifteen. A 
special case was made.'
'No such thing,' said the chancellor.
'You'll find I'm right,' said the prebendary.
'I'm sure I read it in the report,' said the minor canon.
'Nonsense,' said the chancellor. 'They couldn't do it. There 
were to be no exceptions but London and Durham.'
'And Canterbury and York,' said the vicar choral, modestly.
'What do you say, Grantly?' said the meagre little doctor.
'Say about what?' said the archdeacon, who had been looking 
as though he were thinking about his friend the dean, but 
who had in reality been thinking about Mr Slope.
'What is the next dean to have, twelve or fifteen?'
'Twelve,' said the archdeacon authoritatively, thereby 
putting an end at once to all doubt and dispute among his 
subordinates as far as that subject was concerned.
'Well, I certainly thought it was fifteen,' said the minor 
canon.
'Pooh!' said the burly chancellor. At this moment the door 
opened, and in came Dr Fillgrave.
'How is he?' 'Is he conscious?' 'Can he speak?' 'I hope not 
dead?' 'No worse news, doctor, I trust?' 'I hope, I trust, 
something better, doctor?' said half a dozen voices all at 
once, each in a tone of extremest anxiety. It was pleasant 
to see how popular the good old dean was among his clergy.
'No change, gentlemen; not the slightest change - but a 
telegraphic message has arrived - Sir Omicron Pie will be 
here by the 9.15 P.M. train. If any man can do anything Sir 
Omicron Pie will do it. But all that skill can do has been 
done.'
'We are sure of that, Dr Fillgrave,' said the archdeacon; 
'we arc quite sure of that. But yet you know -'
'Oh! quite right,' said the doctor, 'quite right - I should 
have done just the same - I advised it at once. I said to 
Rerechild at once that with such a life and such a man, Sir 
Omicron should be summoned - of course I knew the expense 
was nothing - so distinguished, you know, and so popular. 
Nevertheless, all that human skill can do has been done.'
Just at this period Mrs Grantly's carriage drove into the 
close, and the archdeacon went down to confirm the news 
which she had heard before.
By the 9.15 P.M. train Sir Omicron Pie did arrive. And in 
the course of the night a sort of consciousness returned to 
the poor dean. Whether this was due to Sir Omicron Pie is a 
question on which it may be well not to offer an opinion. Dr 
Fillgrave was very clear in his own mind, but Sir Omicron 
himself is thought to have differed from that learned 
doctor. At any rate Sir Omicron expressed an opinion that 
the dean had yet some days to live.
For the eight or ten next days, accordingly, the poor dean 
remained in the same state, half conscious and half 
comatose, and the attendant clergy began to think that no 
new appointment would be necessary for some few months to 
come.



Chapter 32

A New Candidate for Ecclesiastical Honours

The dean's illness occasioned much mental turmoil in other 
places besides the deanery and adjoining library; and the 
idea which occurred to the meagre little prebendary about Mr 
Slope did not occur to him alone.
The bishop was sitting listlessly in his study when the news 
reached him of the dean's illness. It was brought to him by 
Mr Slope, who of course was not the last person in 
Barchester to hear it. It was also not slow in finding its 
way to Mrs Proudie's ears. It may be presumed that there was 
not just then much friendly intercourse between these two 
rival claimants for his lordship's obedience. Indeed, though 
living in the same house, they had not met since the stormy 
interview between them in the bishop's study on the 
preceding day.
On that occasion Mrs Proudie had been defeated. That the 
prestige of continual victory should have been torn from her 
standards was a subject of great sorrow to that militant 
lady; but though defeated, she was not overcome. She felt 
that she might yet recover her lost ground, that she might 
yet hurl Mr Slope down to the dust from which she had picked 
him, and force her sinning lord to sue for pardon in 
sackcloth and ashes.
On that memorable day, memorable for his mutiny and 
rebellion against her high behests, he had carried his way 
with a high hand, and had really begun to think it possible 
that the days of his slavery were counted. He had begun to 
hope that he was now about to enter into a free land, a land 
delicious with milk which he himself might quaff, and honey 
which would not tantalise him by being only honey to the 
eye. When Mrs Proudie banged the door, as she left his room, 
he felt himself every inch a bishop. To be sure his spirit 
had been a little cowed by his chaplain's subsequent 
lecture; but on the whole he was highly pleased with 
himself, and flattered himself that the worst was over. 'Ce 
n'est que le premier pas qui coute,' he reflected; and now 
that the first step had been so magnanimously taken, all the 
rest would follow easily.
He met his wife as a matter of course at dinner, where 
little or nothing was said that could ruffle the bishop's 
happiness. His daughters and the servants were present and 
protected him.
He made one or two trifling remarks on the subject of his 
projected visit to the archbishop, in order to show to all 
concerned that he intended to have his own way; and the very 
servants perceiving the change transferred a little of their 
reverence from their mistress to their master. All which the 
master perceived; and so also did the mistress. But Mrs 
Proudie bided her time.
After dinner he returned to his study where Mr Slope soon 
found him, and there they had tea together and planned many 
things. For some few minutes the bishop was really happy; 
but as the clock on the chimney-piece warned him that the 
stilly hours of night were drawing on, as he looked at his 
chamber candlestick and knew that he must use it, his heart 
sank within him again. He was as a ghost, all whose power of 
wandering free through these upper regions ceases at cock-
crow; or rather he was the opposite of the ghost, for till 
cockcrow he must again be a serf. And would that be all? 
Could he trust himself to come down to breakfast a free man 
in the morning.
He was nearly an hour later than usual, when he betook 
himself to his rest. Rest! what rest? However, he took a 
couple of glasses of sherry, and mounted the stairs. Far be 
it from us to follow him thither. There are some things 
which no novelist, no historian, should attempt; some few 
scenes in life's drama which even no poet should dare to 
paint. Let that which passed between Dr Proudie and his wife 
on this night be understood to be among them.
He came down the following morning a sad and thoughtful man. 
He was attenuated in appearance; one might almost say 
emaciated. I doubt whether his now grizzled locks had not 
palpably become more grey than on the preceding evening. At 
any rate he had aged materially. Years do not make a man old 
gradually and at an even pace. Look through the world and 
see if this is not so always, except in those rare cases in 
which the human being lives and dies without joys and 
without sorrows, like a vegetable. A man shall be possessed 
of florid youthful blooming health till, it matters not what 
age. Thirty - forty - fifty, then comes some nipping frost, 
some period of agony, that robs the fibres of the body of 
their succulence, and the hale and hearty man is counted 
among the old.
He came down and breakfasted alone; Mrs Proudie being 
indisposed took her coffee in her bedroom, and her daughters 
waited upon her there. He ate his breakfast alone, and then, 
hardly knowing what he did, he betook himself to his usual 
seat in his study. He tried to solace himself with his 
coming visit to the archbishop. That effort of his own free 
will at any rate remained to him as an enduring triumph. But 
somehow, now that he had achieved it, he did not seem to 
care so much about it. It was his ambition that had prompted 
him to take his place at the archi-episcopal table, and his 
ambition was now quite dead within him.
He was thus seated when Mr Slope made his appearance, with 
breathless impatience.
'My lord, the dean is dead.'
'Good heavens!' exclaimed the bishop, startled out of his 
apathy by an announcement so sad and so sudden.
'He is either dead or now dying. He has had an apoplectic 
fit, and I am told that there is not the slightest hope; 
indeed, I do not doubt that by this time he is no more.'
Bells were rung, and servants were immediately sent to 
inquire. In the course of the morning, the bishop, leaning 
on his chaplain's arm, himself called at the deanery door. 
Mrs Proudie sent to Miss Trefoil all manner of offers of 
assistance. The Miss Proudies sent also, and there was 
immense sympathy between the palace and the deanery. The 
answer to all inquiries was unvaried. The dean was just the 
same; and Sir Omicron Pie was expected down by the 9.15 P.M. 
train.
And then Mr Slope began to meditate, as others also had 
done, as to who might possibly be the new dean; and it 
occurred to him, as it had also occurred to others, that it 
might be possible that he should be the new dean himself. 
And then the question as to the twelve hundred, or fifteen 
hundred, or two thousand, ran in his mind, as it had run 
through those of the other clergymen in the cathedral 
library.
Whether it might be two thousand, or fifteen or twelve 
hundred, it would in any case undoubtedly be a great thing 
for him, if he could get it. The gratification to his 
ambition would be greater even than that of his 
covetousness. How glorious to out-top the archdeacon in his 
own cathedral city; to sit above prebendaries and canons, 
and have the cathedral pulpit and all the cathedral services 
altogether at his own disposal!
But it might be easier to wish for this than to obtain it. 
Mr Slope, however, was not without some means of forwarding 
his views, and he at any rate did not let the grass grow 
under his feet. In the first place he thought - and not 
vainly - that he could count upon what assistance the bishop 
could give him. He immediately changed his views with regard 
to his patron; he made up his mind that if he became dean, 
he would hand his lordship back again to his wife's 
vassalage; and he thought it possible that his lordship 
might not be sorry to rid himself of one of his mentors. Mr 
Slope had also taken some steps towards making his name 
known to other men in power. There was a certain chief-
commissioner of national schools who at the present moment 
was presumed to stand especially high in the good graces of 
the government big-wigs, and with him Mr Slope had contrived 
to establish a sort of epistolary intimacy. He thought that 
he might safely apply to Sir Nicholas Fitzwhiggin; and he 
felt sure that if Sir Nicholas chose to exert himself, the 
promise of such a piece of preferment would be had for the 
asking for.
Then he also had the press at his bidding, or flattered 
himself that he had so. The daily Jupiter had taken his part 
in a very thorough manner in those polemical contests of his 
with Mr Arabin; he had on more than one occasion absolutely 
had an interview with a gentleman on the staff of that 
paper, who, if not the editor, was as good as the editor; 
and had long been in the habit of writing telling letters on 
all manner of ecclesiastical abuses, which he signed with 
his initials, and sent to his editorial friend with private 
notes signed in his own name. Indeed, he and Mr Towers - 
such was the name of the powerful gentleman of the press 
with whom he was connected - were generally very amiable 
with each other. Mr Slope's little productions were always 
printed and occasionally commented upon; and thus, in a 
small sort of way, he had become a literary celebrity. This 
public life had great charms for him, though it certainly 
also had its drawbacks. On one occasion, when speaking in 
the presence of reporters, he had failed to uphold and 
praise and swear by that special line of conduct which had 
been upheld and praised and sworn by in The Jupiter, and 
then he had been much surprised and at the moment not a 
little irritated to find himself lacerated most unmercifully 
by his old ally. He was quizzed and bespattered and made a 
fool of, just as though, or rather worse than if, he had 
been a constant enemy instead of a constant friend. He had 
hitherto not learnt that a man who aspires to be on the 
staff of The Jupiter must surrender all individuality. But 
ultimately this little castigation had broken no bones 
between him and his friend Mr Towers. Mr Slope was one of 
those who understood the world too well to show himself 
angry with such a potentate as The Jupiter. He had kissed 
the rod that scourged him, and now thought that he might 
fairly look for his reward. He determined that he would at 
once let Mr Towers know that he was a candidate for the 
place which was about to become vacant. More than one piece 
of preferment had lately been given away much in accordance 
with advice tendered to the government in the columns of The 
Jupiter.
But it was incumbent on Mr Slope first to secure the bishop. 
He specially felt that it behoved him to do this before the 
visit to the archbishop was made. It was really quite 
providential that the dean should have fallen ill just at 
the very nick of time. If Dr Proudie could be instigated to 
take the matter up warmly, he might manage a good deal while 
staying at the archbishop's palace. Feeling this very 
strongly Mr Slope determined to sound the bishop that very 
afternoon. He was to start on the following morning to 
London, and therefore not a moment could be lost with 
safety.
He went into the bishop's study about five o'clock, and 
found him still sitting alone. It might have been supposed 
that he had hardly moved since the little excitement 
occasioned by his walk to the dean's door. He still wore on 
his face that dull dead look of half-unconscious suffering. 
He was doing nothing, reading nothing, thinking of nothing, 
but simply gazing on vacancy when Mr Slope for the second 
time that day entered his room.
'Well, Slope,' said he, somewhat impatiently; for, to tell 
the truth, he was not anxious just at present to have much 
conversation with Mr Slope.
'Your lordship will be sorry to hear that as yet the poor 
dean has shown no sign of amendment.'
'Oh - ah - hasn't he? Poor man! I'm sure I'm very sorry. I 
suppose Sir Omicron has not arrived yet?'
'No; not till the 9.15 P.M. train.'
'I wonder they didn't have a special. They say Dr Trefoil is 
very rich.'
'Very rich, I believe,' said Mr Slope. 'But the truth is, 
all the doctors in London can do no good; no other good than 
to show that every possible care has been taken. Poor Dr 
Trefoil is not long for this world, my lord.'
'I suppose not - I suppose not.'
'Oh no; indeed, his best friends could not wish that he 
should outlive such a shock, for his intellects cannot 
possibly survive it.'
'Poor man! poor man!' said the bishop.
'It will naturally be a matter of much moment to your 
lordship who is to succeed him,' said Mr Slope. 'It would be 
a great thing if you could secure the appointment for some 
person of your own way of thinking on important points. The 
party hostile to us are very strong here in Barchester - 
much too strong.'
'Yes, yes. If poor Dr Trefoil is to go, it will be a great 
thing to get a good man in his place.'
'It will be everything to your lordship to get a man on 
whose co-operation you can reckon. Only think what trouble 
we might have if Dr Grantly, or Dr Hyandry, or any of that 
way of thinking, were to get it.'
'It is not very probable that Lord will give it to any of 
that school; why should he?'
'No. Not probable; certainly not; but it's possible. Great 
interest will probably be made. If I might venture to advise 
your lordship, I would suggest that you should discuss the 
matter with his grace next week. I have no doubt that your 
wishes, if made known and backed by his grace, would be 
paramount with Lord --.'
'Well, I don't know that; Lord -- has always been very kind 
to me, very kind. But I am unwilling to interfere in such 
matters unless asked. And indeed if asked, I don't know 
whom, at this moment, I should recommend.'
Mr Slope, even Mr Slope, felt at the present rather abashed. 
He hardly knew how to frame his little request in language 
sufficiently modest. He had recognised and acknowledged to 
himself the necessity of shocking the bishop in the first 
instance by the temerity of his application, and his 
difficulty was how best to remedy that by his adroitness and 
eloquence. 'I doubted myself,' said he, 'whether your 
lordship would have anyone immediately in your eye, and it 
is on this account that I venture to submit to you an idea 
that I have been turning over in my own mind. If poor Dr 
Trefoil must go, I really do not see why, with your 
lordship's assistance, I should not hold the preferment 
myself.'
'You!' exclaimed the bishop, in a manner that Mr Slope could 
hardly have considered complimentary.
The ice was now broken, and Mr Slope became fluent enough. 
'I have been thinking of looking for it. If your lordship 
will press the matter on the archbishop, I do not doubt but 
I shall succeed. You see I shall be the first to move, which 
is a great matter. Then I can count upon assistance from the 
public press: my name is known, I may say, somewhat 
favourably known to that portion of the press which is now 
most influential with the government, and I have friends 
also in the government. But, nevertheless, it is to you, my 
lord, that I look for assistance. It is from your hands that 
I would most willingly receive the benefit. And, which 
should ever be the chief consideration in such matters, you 
must know better than any other person whatsoever what 
qualifications I possess.'
The bishop sat for a while dumbfounded. Mr Slope dean of 
Barchester! The idea of such a transformation of character 
would never have occurred to his own unaided intellect. At 
first he went on thinking why, for what reasons, on what 
account, Mr Slope should be dean of Barchester. But by 
degrees the direction of his thoughts changed, and he began 
to think why, for what reasons, on what account, Mr Slope 
should not be dean of Barchester. As far as he himself, the 
bishop, was concerned, he could well spare the services of 
his chaplain. That little idea of using Mr Slope as a 
counterpoise to his wife had well nigh evaporated. He had 
all but acknowledged the futility of the scheme. If indeed 
he could have slept in his chaplain's bedroom instead of his 
wife's there might have been something in it. But - And thus 
as Mr Slope was speaking, the bishop began to recognise the 
idea that that gentleman might become dean of Barchester 
without impropriety; not moved, indeed, by Mr Slope's 
eloquence, for he did not follow the tenour of his speech; 
but led thereto by his own cogitations.
'I need not say,' continued Mr Slope, 'that it would be my 
chief desire to act in all matters connected with the 
cathedral as far as possible in accordance with your views. 
I know your lordship so well (and I hope you know me well 
enough to have the same feelings), that I am satisfied that 
my being in that position would add materially to your own 
comfort, and enable you to extend the sphere of your useful 
influence. As I said before, it is most desirable that there 
should be but one opinion among the dignitaries of the same 
diocese. I doubt much whether I would accept such an 
appointment in any diocese in which I should be constrained 
to differ much from the bishop. In this case there would be 
a delightful uniformity of opinion.'
Mr Slope perfectly well perceived that the bishop did not 
follow a word that he said, but nevertheless he went on 
talking. He knew it was necessary that Dr Proudie should 
recover from his surprise, and he knew also that he must 
give him the opportunity of appearing to have been persuaded 
by argument. So he went on, and produced a multitude of 
fitting reasons all tending to show that no one on earth 
could make so good a dean of Barchester as himself, that the 
government and the public would assuredly coincide in 
desiring that he, Mr Slope, should be dean of Barchester; 
but that for high considerations of ecclesiastical polity it 
would be especially desirable that this piece of preferment 
should be so bestowed through the instrumentality of the 
bishop of the diocese.
'But I really don't know what I could do in the matter,' 
said the bishop.
'If you would mention it to the archbishop; if you could 
tell his grace that you consider such an appointment very 
desirable, that you have it much at heart with a view to 
putting an end to schism in the diocese; if you did this 
with your usual energy, you would probably find no 
difficulty in inducing his grace to promise that he would 
mention it to Lord --. Of course you would let the 
archbishop know that I am not looking for the preferment 
solely through his intervention; that you do not exactly 
require him to ask it as a favour; that you expect that I 
shall get it through other sources, as is indeed the case; 
but that you are very anxious that his grace should express 
his approval of such an arrangement to Lord --.'
It ended in the bishop promising to do as he was bid. Not 
that he so promised without a stipulation. 'About that 
hospital,' he said, in the middle of the conference. 'I was 
never so troubled in my life'; which was about the truth. 
'You haven't spoken to Mr Harding since I saw you?'
Mr Slope assured his patron that he had not.
'Ah well, then - I think upon the whole it will be better to 
let Quiverful have it. It has been half promised to him, and 
he has a large family and is very poor. I think on the whole 
it will be better to make out the nomination for Mr 
Quiverful.'
'But, my lord,' said Mr Slope, still thinking that he was 
bound to make a fight for his own view on this matter, and 
remembering that it still behoved him to maintain his lately 
acquired supremacy over Mrs Proudie, lest he should fail in 
his views regarding the deanery - 'but my lord, I am really 
much afraid -'
'Remember, Mr Slope,' said the bishop, 'I can hold out no 
sort of hope to you in this matter of succeeding poor Dr 
Trefoil. I will certainly speak to the archbishop, as you 
wish it, but I cannot think -'
'Well, my lord,' said Mr Slope, fully understanding the 
bishop, and in his turn interrupting him, 'perhaps your 
lordship is right about Mr Quiverful. I have no doubt I can 
easily arrange matters with Mr Harding, and I will make out 
the nomination for your signature as you direct.'
'Yes, Slope, I think that will be best; and you may be sure 
that any little that I can do to forward your views shall be 
done.'
And so they parted.
Mr Slope had now much business on his hands. He had to make 
his daily visit to the signora. This, common prudence should 
have now induced him to omit, but he was infatuated; and 
could not bring himself to be commonly prudent. He 
determined therefore that he would drink tea at the 
Stanhopes'; and he determined also, or thought that he 
determined, that having done so he would go thither no more. 
He had also to arrange his matters with Mrs Bold. He was of 
opinion that Eleanor would grace the deanery as perfectly as 
she would the chaplain's cottage; and he thought, moreover, 
that Eleanor's fortune would excellently repair any 
dilapidations and curtailments in the dean's stipend which 
might have been made by that ruthless ecclesiastical 
commission.
Touching Mrs Bold his hopes now soared high. Mr Slope was 
one of that numerous multitude of swains who think that all 
is fair in love, and he had accordingly not refrained from 
using the services of Mrs Bold's own maid. From her he had 
learnt much of what had taken place at Plumstead; not 
exactly with truth, for 'the own maid' had not been able to 
divine the exact truth, but with some sort of similitude to 
it. He had been told that the archdeacon and Mrs Grantly and 
Mr Harding and Mr Arabin had all quarrelled with 'missus' 
for having received a letter from Mr Slope; that 'missus' 
had positively refused to give the letter up; that she had 
received from the archdeacon the option of giving up either 
Mr Slope and his letter, or else the society of Plumstead 
rectory; and that 'missus' had declared with much 
indignation, that 'she didn't care a straw for the society 
of Plumstead rectory,' and that she wouldn't give up Mr 
Slope for any of them.
Considering the source from whence this came, it was not 
quite so untrue as might have been expected. It showed 
pretty plainly what had been the nature of the conversation 
in the servants' hall; and coupled as it was with the 
certainty of Eleanor's sudden return, it appeared to Mr 
Slope to be so far worthy of credit as to justify him in 
thinking that the fair widow would in all human probability 
accept his offer.
All this work was therefore to be done. It was desirable he 
thought that he should make his offer before it was known 
that Mr Quiverful was finally appointed to the hospital. In 
his letter to Eleanor he had plainly declared that Mr 
Harding was to have the appointment. It would be very 
difficult to explain this away; and were he to write another 
letter to Eleanor, telling the truth and throwing the blame 
on the bishop, it would naturally injure him in her 
estimation. He determined therefore to let that matter 
disclose itself as it would, and to lose no time in throwing 
himself at her feet.
Then he had to solicit the assistance of Sir Nicholas 
Fitzwhiggin and Mr Towers, and he went directly from the 
bishop's presence to compose his letters to those gentlemen. 
As Mr Slope was esteemed an adept at letter-writing, they 
shall be given in full.

'(Private) 'Palace, Barchester, Sept. 185-
	'My dear Sir Nicholas, - I hope that the intercourse which 
has been between us will preclude you from regarding my 
present application as an intrusion. You cannot I imagine 
have yet heard that poor dear old Dr Trefoil has been seized 
with apoplexy. It is a subject of profound grief to everyone 
in Barchester, for he has always been an excellent man - 
excellent as a man and as a clergyman. He is, however, full 
of years, and his life could not under any circumstances 
have been much longer spared. You may probably have known 
him.
	'There is, it appears, no probable chance of his recovery. 
Sir Omicron Pie is, I believe, at present with him. At any 
rate the medical men here have declared that one or two days 
more must limit the tether of his mortal coil. I sincerely 
trust that his soul may wing its flight to that haven where 
it may for ever be at rest and for ever be happy.
	'The bishop has been speaking to me about the preferment, 
and he is anxious that it should be conferred on me. I 
confess that I can hardly venture, at my age, to look for 
such advancement; but I am so far encouraged by his 
lordship, that I believe I shall be induced to do so. His 
lordship goes to -- tomorrow, and is intent on mentioning 
the subject to the archbishop.
	'I know well how deservedly great is your weight with the 
present government. In any matter touching church preferment 
you would of course be listened to. Now that the matter has 
been put into my head, I am of course anxious to be 
successful. If you can assist me by your good word, you will 
confer on me one additional favour.
	'I had better add, that Lord -- cannot as yet know of this 
piece of preferment having fallen in, or rather of its 
certainty of falling (for poor dear Dr Trefoil is past 
hope). Should Lord -- first hear it from you, that might 
probably be thought to give you a fair claim to express your 
opinion.
	'Of course our grand object is, that we should all be of 
one opinion in church matters. This is most desirable at 
Barchester; it is this that makes our good bishop so anxious 
about it. You may probably think it expedient to point this 
out to Lord -- if it shall be in your power to oblige me by 
mentioning the subject to his lordship.
'Believe me, my dear Sir Nicholas,
	'Your most faithful servant,
			OBADIAH SLOPE'

His letter to Mr Towers was written in quite a different 
strain. Mr Slope conceived that he completely understood the 
difference in character and position of the two men whom he 
addressed. He knew that for such a man as Sir Nicholas 
Fitzwhiggin a little flummery was necessary, and that it 
might be of the easy everyday description. Accordingly his 
letter to Sir Nicholas was written currente calamo, with 
very little trouble. But to such a man as Mr Towers it was 
not so easy to write a letter that should be effective and 
yet not offensive, that should carry its point without undue 
interference. It was not difficult to flatter Dr Proudie or 
Sir Nicholas Fitzwhiggin, but very difficult to flatter Mr 
Towers without letting the flattery declare itself. This, 
however, had to be done. Moreover, this letter must, in 
appearance at least, be written without effort, and be 
fluent, unconstrained, and demonstrative of no doubt or fear 
on the part of the writer. Therefore the epistle to Mr 
Towers was studied, and recopied, and elaborated at the cost 
of so many minutes, that Mr Slope had hardly time to dress 
himself and reach Dr Stanhope's that evening.
When despatched it ran as follows:

'(Private) 'Barchester. Sept. 185-

(He purposely omitted any allusion to the 'palace,' thinking 
that Mr Towers might not like it. A great man, he 
remembered, had been once much condemned for dating a letter 
from Windsor Castle.)

'My dear Sir, - We were all a good deal shocked here this 
morning by hearing that poor old Dean Trefoil had been 
stricken with apoplexy. The fit took him about 9 A.M. I am 
writing now to save the post, and he is still alive, but 
past all hope, or possibility I believe, of living. Sir 
Omicron Pie is here, or will be very shortly; but all that 
even Sir Omicron can do is to ratify the sentence of his 
less distinguished brethren that nothing can be done. Poor 
Dr Trefoil's race on this side the grave is run. I do not 
know whether you knew him. He was a good, quiet, charitable 
man, of the old school of course, as any clergyman over 
seventy years of age must necessarily be.
	'But I do not write merely with the object of sending you 
such news as this: doubtless some one of your Mercuries will 
have seen and heard and reported so much; I write, as you 
usually do yourself, rather with a view to the future than 
to the past.
	'Rumour is already rife here as to Dr Trefoil's successor, 
and among those named as possible future deans your humble 
servant is, I believe, not the least frequently spoken of; 
in short I am looking for the preferment. You may probably 
know that since Bishop Proudie came to this diocese I have 
exerted myself here a good deal; and I may certainly say not 
without some success. He and I are nearly always of the same 
opinion on points of doctrine as well as church discipline, 
and therefore I have had, as his confidential chaplain, very 
much in my own hands; but I confess to you that I have a 
higher ambition than to remain the chaplain of any bishop.
	'There are no positions in which more energy is now needed 
than those of our deans. The whole of our enormous cathedral 
establishments have been allowed to go to sleep - nay, they 
are all but dead and ready for the sepulchre! And yet of 
what prodigious moment they might be made, if, as was 
intended, they were so managed as to lead the way and show 
an example for all our parochial clergy!
	'The bishop here is most anxious for my success; indeed, he 
goes tomorrow to press the matter on the archbishop. I 
believe also I may count on the support of at least one most 
effective member of the government. But I confess that the 
support of The Jupiter, if I be thought worthy of it, would 
be more gratifying to me than any other; more gratifying if 
by it I should be successful; and more gratifying also, if, 
although so supported, I should be unsuccessful.
	'The time has, in fact, come in which no government can 
venture to fill up the high places of the Church in defiance 
of the public press. The age of honourable bishops and noble 
deans has gone by; and any clergyman however humbly born can 
now hope for success, if his industry, talent, and character 
be sufficient to call forth the manifest opinion of the 
public in his favour.
	'At the present moment we all feel that any counsel given 
in such matters by The Jupiter has the greatest weight - is, 
indeed, generally followed; and we feel also - I am speaking 
of clergymen of my own age and standing - that it should be 
so. There can be no patron less interested than The Jupiter, 
and none that more thoroughly understands the wants of the 
people.
	'I am sure you will not suspect me of asking from you any 
support which the paper with which you are connected cannot 
conscientiously give me. My object in writing is to let you 
know that I am a candidate for the appointment. It is for 
you to judge whether or no you can assist my views. I should 
not, of course, have written to you on such a matter had I 
not believed (and I have had good reason so to believe) that 
The Jupiter approves of my views on ecclesiastical polity.
	'The bishop expresses a fear that I may be considered too 
young for such a station, my age being thirty-six. I cannot 
think that at the present day any hesitation need be felt on 
such a point. The public has lost its love for antiquated 
servants. If a man will ever be fit to do good work he will 
be fit at thirty-six years of age. 
	'Believe me very faithfully yours,
			'OBADIAH SLOPE
'T. TOWERS, ESQ.
	'-- Court,
		'Middle Temple'

Having thus exerted himself, Mr Slope posted his letters, 
and passed the remainder of the evening at the feet of his 
mistress.
Mr Slope will be accused of deceit in his mode of 
canvassing. It will be said that he lied in the application 
he made to each of his three patrons. I believe it must be 
owned that he did so. He could not hesitate on account of 
his youth, and yet be quite assured that he was not too 
young. He could not count chiefly on the bishop's support, 
and chiefly also on that of the newspaper. He did not think 
that the bishop was going to press the matter on the 
archbishop. It must be owned that in his canvassing Mr Slope 
was as false as he well could be.
Let it, however, be asked of those who are conversant with 
such matters, whether he was more false than men usually are 
on such occasions. We English gentlemen hate the name of a 
lie; but how often do we find public men who believe each 
other's words?



Chapter 33

Mrs Proudie Victrix

The next week passed over at Barchester with much apparent 
tranquillity. The hearts, however, of some of the 
inhabitants were not so tranquil as the streets of the city. 
The poor old dean still continued to live, just as Sir 
Omicron Pie had prophesied that he would do, much to the 
amazement, and some thought disgust, of Dr Fillgrave. The 
bishop still remained away. He had stayed a day or two in 
town, and had also remained longer at the archbishop's than 
he had intended. Mr Slope had as yet received no line in 
answer to either of his letters; but he had learnt the cause 
of this. Sir Nicholas was stalking a deer, or attending the 
Queen, in the Highlands; and even the indefatigable Mr 
Towers had stolen an autumn holiday, and had made one of the 
yearly tribe who now ascend Mont Blanc. Mr Slope learnt that 
he was not expected back till the last day of September.
Mrs Bold was thrown much with the Stanhopes, of whom she 
became fonder and fonder. If asked, she would have said that 
Charlotte Stanhope was her especial friend, and so she would 
have thought. But, to tell the truth, she liked Bertie 
nearly as well; she had no more idea of regarding him as a 
lover than she would have had of looking at a big tame dog 
in such a light. Bertie had become very intimate with her, 
and made little speeches to her, and said little things of a 
sort very different from the speeches and sayings of other 
men. But then this was almost always done before his 
sisters; and he, with his long silken beard, his light blue 
eyes and strange dress, was so unlike other men. She 
admitted him to a kind of familiarity which she had never 
known with anyone else, and of which she by no means 
understood the danger. She blushed once at finding that she 
had called him Bertie, and on the same day only barely 
remembered her position in time to check herself from 
playing upon him some personal practical joke to which she 
was instigated by Charlotte.
In all this Eleanor was perfectly innocent, and Bertie 
Stanhope could hardly be called guilty. But every 
familiarity into which Eleanor was entrapped was 
deliberately planned by his sister. She knew well how to 
play her game, and played it without mercy; she knew, none 
so well, what was her brother's character, and she would 
have handed over to him the young widow, and the young 
widow's money, and the money of the widow's child, without 
remorse. With her pretended friendship and warm cordiality, 
she strove to connect Eleanor so closely with her brother as 
to make it impossible that she should go back even if she 
wished it. But Charlotte Stanhope knew really nothing of 
Eleanor's character; did not even understand that there were 
such characters. She did not comprehend that a young and 
pretty woman could be playful and familiar with a man such 
as Bertie Stanhope, and yet have no idea in her head, no 
feeling in her heart that she would have been ashamed to own 
to all the world. Charlotte Stanhope did not in the least 
conceive that her new friend was a woman whom nothing could 
entrap into an inconsiderate marriage, whose mind would have 
revolted from the slightest impropriety had she been aware 
that any impropriety existed.
Miss Stanhope, however, had tact enough to make herself and 
her father's house very agreeable to Mrs Bold. There was 
with them all an absence of stiffness and formality which 
was peculiarly agreeable to Eleanor after the great dose of 
clerical arrogance which she had lately been constrained to 
take. She played chess with them, walked with them, and 
drank tea with them; studied or pretended to study 
astronomy; assisted them in writing stories in rhyme, in 
turning prose tragedy into comic verse, or comic stories 
into would-be tragic poetry. She had no idea before that she 
had any such talents. She had not conceived the possibility 
of her doing such things as she now did. She found with the 
Stanhopes new amusements and employments, new pursuits, 
which in themselves could not be wrong, and which were 
exceedingly alluring.
Is it not a pity that people who are bright and clever 
should so often be exceedingly improper? and that those who 
are never improper should so often be dull and heavy? Now 
Charlotte Stanhope was always bright, and never heavy: but 
her propriety was doubtful.
But during all this time Eleanor by no means forgot Mr 
Arabin, nor did she forget Mr Slope. She had parted from Mr 
Arabin in her anger. She was still angry at what she 
regarded as his impertinent interference; but nevertheless 
she looked forward to meeting him again, and also looked 
forward to forgiving him. The words that Mr Arabin had 
uttered still sounded in her ears. She knew that if not 
intended for a declaration of love, they did signify that he 
loved her; and she felt also that if he ever did make such a 
declaration, it might be that she should not receive it 
unkindly. She was still angry with him, very angry with him; 
so angry that she would bite her lip and stamp her foot as 
she thought of what he had said and done. But nevertheless 
she yearned to let him know that he was forgiven; all that 
she required was that he should own that he had sinned.
She was to meet him at Ullathorne on the last day of the 
present month. Miss Thorne had invited all the country round 
to a breakfast on the lawn. There were to be tents, and 
archery, and dancing for the ladies on the lawn, and for the 
swains and girls in the paddock. There were to be fiddlers 
and fifers, races for the boys, poles to be climbed, ditches 
full of water to be jumped over, horse-collars to be grinned 
through (this latter amusement was an addition of the 
stewards, and not arranged by Miss Thorne in the original 
programme), and every game to be played which, in a long 
course of reading, Miss Thorne could ascertain to have been 
played in the good days of Queen Elizabeth. Everything of 
more modern growth was to be tabooed, if possible. On one 
subject Miss Thorne was very unhappy. She had been turning 
in her mind the matter of a bull ring, but could not succeed 
in making anything of it. She would not for the world have 
done, or allowed to be done, anything that was cruel; as to 
the promoting the torture of a bull for the amusement of her 
young neighbours, it need hardly be said that Miss Thorne 
would be the last to think of it. And yet there was 
something so charming in the name. A bull-ring, however, 
without a bull would only be a memento of the decadence of 
the times, and she felt herself constrained to abandon the 
idea. Quintains, however, she was determined to have, and 
had poles and swivels and bags of flour prepared 
accordingly. She would no doubt have been anxious for 
something small in the way of a tournament; but, as she said 
to her brother, that had been tried, and the age had proved 
itself too decidedly inferior to its forerunners to admit of 
such a pastime. Mr Thorne did not seem to participate much 
in her regret, feeling perhaps that a full suit of chain-
armour would have added but little to his own personal 
comfort.
This party at Ullathorne had been planned in the first place 
as a sort of welcoming to Mr Arabin on his entrance into St 
Ewold's parsonage; an intended harvest-home gala for the 
labourers and their wives and children had subsequently been 
amalgamated with it, and thus it had grown to its present 
dimensions. All the Plumstead party had of course been 
asked, and at the time of the invitation Eleanor had 
intended to have gone with her sister. Now her plans were 
altered, and she was going with the Stanhopes. The Proudies 
were also to be there; and as Mr Slope had not been included 
in the invitation to the palace, the signora, whose 
impudence never deserted her, asked permission of Miss 
Thorne to bring him.
This permission Miss Thorne gave, having no other 
alternative; but she did so with a trembling heart, fearing 
Mr Arabin would be offended. Immediately on his return she 
apologised, almost with tears, so dire an enmity was 
presumed to rage between the two gentlemen. But Mr Arabin 
comforted her by an assurance that he should meet Mr Slope 
with the greatest pleasure imaginable, and made her promise 
that she would introduce them to each other.
But this triumph of Mr Slope's was not so agreeable to 
Eleanor, who since her return to Barchester had done her 
best to avoid him. She would not give way to the Plumstead 
folk when they so ungenerously accused her of being in love 
with this odious man; but, nevertheless, knowing that she 
was so accused, she was fully alive to the expediency of 
keeping out of his way and dropping him by degrees. She had 
seen very little of him since her return. Her servant had 
been instructed to say to all visitors that she was out. She 
could not bring herself to specify Mr Slope particularly, 
and in order to avoid him she had thus debarred herself from 
all her friends. She had excepted Charlotte Stanhope, and by 
degrees a few others also. Once she had met him at the 
Stanhopes'; but, as a rule, Mr Slope's visits there were 
made in the morning, and hers in the evening. On that one 
occasion Charlotte had managed to preserve her from any 
annoyance. This was very good-natured on the part of 
Charlotte, as Eleanor thought, and also very sharp-witted, 
as Eleanor had told her friend nothing of her reasons for 
wishing to avoid that gentleman. The fact, however, was, 
that Charlotte had learnt from her sister that Mr Slope 
would probably put himself forward as a suitor for the 
widow's hand, and she was consequently sufficiently alive to 
the expediency of guarding Bertie's future wife from any 
danger in that quarter.
Nevertheless the Stanhopes were pledged to take Mr Slope 
with them to Ullathorne. An arrangement was therefore 
necessarily made, which was very disagreeable to Eleanor. Dr 
Stanhope, with herself, Charlotte, and Mr Slope, were to go 
together, and Bertie was to follow with his sister Madeline. 
It was clearly visible by Eleanor's face that this 
assortment was very disagreeable to her; and Charlotte, who 
was much encouraged thereby in her own little plan, made a 
thousand apologies.
'I see you don't like it, my dear,' said she, 'but we could 
not manage otherwise. Bertie would give his eyes to go with 
you, but Madeline cannot possibly go without him. Nor could 
we possibly put Mr Slope and Madeline in the same carriage 
without anyone else. They'd both be ruined for ever, you 
know, and not admitted inside Ullathorne gates, I should 
imagine, after such an impropriety.'
'Of course that wouldn't do,' said Eleanor; 'but couldn't I 
go in the carriage with the signora and your brother?'
'Impossible!' said Charlotte. 'When she is there, there is 
only room for two.' The signora, in truth, did not care to 
do her travelling in the presence of strangers.
'Well, then,' said Eleanor, 'you are all so kind, Charlotte, 
and so good to me, that I am sure you won't be offended; but 
I think I'll not go at all.'
'Not go at all! - what nonsense! - indeed you shall.' It had 
been absolutely determined in family council that Bertie 
should propose on that very occasion.
'Or I can take a fly,' said Eleanor. 'You know I am not 
embarrassed by so many difficulties as you young ladies; I 
can go alone.'
'Nonsense! my dear. Don't think of such a thing; after all 
it is only for an hour or so; and, to tell the truth, I 
don't know what it is you dislike so. I thought you and Mr 
Slope were great friends. What is it you dislike?'
'Oh! nothing particular,' said Eleanor; 'only I thought it 
would be a family party.'
'Of course it would be much nicer, much more snug, if Bertie 
could go with us. It is he that is badly treated. I can 
assure you he is much more afraid of Mr Slope than you are. 
But you see Madeline cannot go out without him - and she, 
poor creature, goes out so seldom! I am sure you don't 
begrudge her this, though her vagary does knock about our 
own party a little.'
Of course Eleanor made a thousand protestations, and uttered 
a thousand hopes that Madeline would enjoy herself. And of 
course she had to give way, and undertake to go in the 
carriage with Mr Slope. In fact, she was driven either to do 
this, or to explain why she would not do so. Now she could 
not bring herself to explain to Charlotte Stanhope all that 
had passed at Plumstead.
But it was to her a sore necessity. She thought of a 
thousand little schemes for avoiding it; she would plead 
illness, and not go at all; she would persuade Mary Bold to 
go although not asked, and then make a necessity of having a 
carriage of her own to take her sister-in-law; anything, in 
fact, she could do rather than be seen by Mr Arabin getting 
out of the same carriage with Mr Slope. However, when the 
momentous morning came she had no scheme matured, and then 
Mr Slope handed her into Dr Stanhope's carriage, and 
following her steps, sat opposite to her.
The bishop returned on the eve of the Ullathorne party, and 
was received at home with radiant smiles by the partner of 
all his cares. On his arrival he crept up to his dressing-
room with somewhat of a palpitating heart; he had overstayed 
his allotted time by three days, and was not without much 
fear of penalties. Nothing, however, could be more 
affectionately cordial than the greeting he received: the 
girls came out and kissed him in a manner that was quite 
soothing to his spirit; and Mrs Proudie, 'albeit, unused to 
the melting mood,' squeezed him in her arms, and almost in 
words called him her dear, darling, good, pet, little 
bishop. All this was a very pleasant surprise.
Mrs Proudie had somewhat changed her tactics; not that she 
had seen any cause to disapprove of her former line of 
conduct, but she had now brought matters to such a point 
that she calculated that she might safely do so. She had got 
the better of Mr Slope, and she now thought well to show her 
husband that when allowed to get the better of everybody, 
when obeyed by him and permitted to rule over others, she 
would take care that he should have his reward. Mr Slope had 
not a chance against her; not only could she stun the poor 
bishop by her midnight anger, but she could assuage and 
soothe him, if she so willed, by daily indulgences. She 
could furnish his room for him, turn him out as smart a 
bishop as any on the bench, give him good dinners, warm 
fires, and an easy life; all this she would do if he would 
but be quietly obedient. But if not - ! To speak sooth, 
however, his sufferings on that dreadful night had been so 
poignant, as to leave him little spirit for further 
rebellion.
As soon as he had dressed himself she returned to his room. 
'I hope you enjoyed yourself at --,' said she, seating 
herself on one side of the fire while he remained in his arm-
chair on the other, stroking the calves of his legs. It was 
the first time he had had a fire in his room since the 
summer, and it pleased him; for the good bishop loved to be 
warm and cosy. Yes, he said, he had enjoyed himself very 
much. Nothing could be more polite than the archbishop; and 
Mrs Archbishop had been equally charming.
Mrs Proudie was delighted to hear it; nothing, she declared, 
pleased her so much as to think

				Her bairn respectit like the lave.

She did not put it precisely in these words, but what she 
said came to the same thing; and then, having petted and 
fondled her little man sufficiently, she proceeded to 
business.
'The poor dean is still alive,' said she.
'So I hear, so I hear,' said the bishop. 'I'll go to the 
deanery directly after breakfast tomorrow.'
'We are going to this party at Ullathorne tomorrow morning, 
my dear; we must be there early, you know - by twelve 
o'clock I suppose.'
'Oh - ah!' said the bishop; 'then I'll certainly call the 
next day.'
'Was much said about it at -- ?' asked Mrs Proudie.
'About what?' said the bishop.
'Filling up the dean's place,' said Mrs Proudie. As she 
spoke a spark of the wonted fire returned to her eye, and 
the bishop felt himself to be a little less comfortable than 
before.
'Filling up the dean's place; that is, if the dean dies? - 
very little, my dear. It was mentioned, just mentioned.'
'And what did you say about it, bishop?'
'Why, I said that I thought that if, that is, should - 
should the dean die, that is, I said I thought -' As he went 
on stammering and floundering, he saw that his wife's eye 
was fixed sternly on him. Why should he encounter such evil 
for a man whom he loved so slightly as Mr Slope? Why should 
he give up his enjoyments and his ease, and such dignity as 
might be allowed to him, to fight a losing battle for a 
chaplain? The chaplain after all, if successful, would be as 
great a tyrant as his wife. Why fight at all? why contend? 
why be uneasy? From that moment he determined to fling Mr 
Slope to the winds, and take the goods the gods provided.
'I am told,' said Mrs Proudie, speaking very slowly, 'that 
Mr Slope is looking to be the new dean.'
'Yes - certainly, I believe he is,' said the bishop.
'And what does the archbishop say about that?' asked Mrs 
Proudie.
'Well, my dear, to tell the truth, I promised Mr Slope to 
speak to the archbishop. Mr Slope spoke to me about it. It 
is very arrogant of him, I must say - but that is nothing to 
me.'
'Arrogant!' said Mrs Proudie; 'it is the most impudent piece 
of pretension I ever heard of in my life. Mr Slope dean of 
Barchester, indeed! And what did you do in the matter, 
bishop?'
'Why, my dear, I did speak to the archbishop.'
'You don't mean to tell me,' said Mrs Proudie, 'that you are 
going to make yourself ridiculous by lending your name to 
such a preposterous attempt as this? Mr Slope dean of 
Barchester, indeed!' And she tossed her head, and put her 
arms akimbo, with an air of confident defiance that made her 
husband quite sure that Mr Slope never would be Dean of 
Barchester. In truth, Mrs Proudie was all but invincible; 
had she married Petruchio, it may be doubted whether that 
arch wife-tamer would have been able to keep her legs out of 
those garments which are presumed by men to be peculiarly 
unfitted for feminine use.
'It is preposterous, my dear.'
'Then why have you endeavoured to assist him?'
'Why, my dear, I haven't assisted him - much.'
'But why have you done it at all? why have you mixed your 
name up in anything so ridiculous? What was it you did say 
to the archbishop?'
'Why, L just did mention it; I just did say that - that in 
the event of the poor dean's death, Mr Slope would - would -
'
'Would what?'
'I forget how I put it - would take it if he could get it; 
something of that sort. I didn't say much more than that.'
'You shouldn't have said anything at all. And what did the 
archbishop say?'
'He didn't say anything; he just bowed and rubbed his hands. 
Somebody else came up at the moment, and as we were 
discussing the new parochial universal school committee, the 
matter of the new dean dropped; after that I didn't think it 
wise to renew it.'
'Renew it! I am very sorry you ever mentioned it. What will 
the archbishop think of you?'
'You may be sure, my dear, the archbishop thought very 
little about it.'
'But why did you think about it, bishop? how could you think 
of making such a creature as that Dean of Barchester? - Dean 
of Barchester! I suppose he'll be looking for a bishopric 
some of these days - a man that hardly knows who his own 
father was; a man that I found without bread to his mouth, 
or a coat to his back. Dean of Barchester, indeed! I'll Dean 
him.'
Mrs Proudie considered herself to be in politics a pure 
Whig; all her family belonged to the Whig party. Now among 
all ranks of Englishmen and Englishwomen (Mrs Proudie 
should, I think, be ranked among the former, on the score of 
her great strength of mind) no one is so hostile to lowly 
born pretenders to high station as the pure Whig.
The bishop thought it necessary to exculpate himself. 'Why, 
my dear,' said he, 'it appeared to me that you and Mr Slope 
did not get on quite so well as you used to do.'
'Get on!' said Mrs Proudie, moving her foot uneasily on the 
hearth-rug, and compressing her lips in a manner that 
betokened much danger to the subject of their discourse.
'I began to find that he was objectionable to you' - Mrs 
Proudie's foot worked on the hearth-rug with great rapidity -
 'and that you would be more comfortable if he was out of 
the palace' - Mrs Proudie smiled, as a hyena may probably 
smile before he begins his laugh - 'and therefore I thought 
that if he got this place, and so ceased to be my chaplain, 
you might be pleased at such an arrangement.'
And then the hyena laughed out. Pleased at such an 
arrangement! pleased at having her enemy converted into a 
dean with twelve hundred a year! Medea, when she describes 
the customs of her native country (I am quoting from 
Robson's edition), assures her astonished auditor that in 
her land captives, when taken, are eaten. 'You pardon them?' 
says Medea. 'We do indeed,' says the mild Grecian. 'We eat 
them!' says she of Colchis, with terrific energy. Mrs 
Proudie was the Medea of Barchester; she had no idea of not 
eating Mr Slope. Pardon him! merely get rid of him! make a 
dean of him! It was not so they did with their captives in 
her country, among people of her sort! Mr Slope had no such 
mercy to expect; she would pick him to the very last bone.
'Oh, yes, my dear, of course he'll cease to be your 
chaplain,' said she. 'After what has passed, that must be a 
matter of course. I couldn't for a moment think of living in 
the same house with such a man. Besides, he has shown 
himself quite unfit for such a situation; making broils and 
quarrels among the clergy, getting you, my dear, into 
scrapes, and taking upon himself as though he were as good 
as bishop himself. Of course he'll go. But because he leaves 
the palace, that is no reason why he should get into the 
deanery.'
'Oh, of course not!' said the bishop; 'but to save 
appearances you know, my dear -'
'I don't want to save appearances; I want Mr Slope to appear 
just what he is - a false, designing, mean, intriguing man. 
I have my eye on him; he little knows what I see. He is 
misconducting himself in the most disgraceful way with that 
lame Italian woman. That family is a disgrace to Barchester, 
and Mr Slope is a disgrace to Barchester! If he doesn't look 
well to it, he'll have his gown stripped off his back 
instead of having a dean's hat on his head. Dean, indeed! 
The man has gone mad with arrogance.'
The bishop said nothing further to excuse either himself or 
his chaplain, and having shown himself passive and docile 
was again taken into favour. They soon went to dinner, and 
he spent the pleasantest evening he had had in his own house 
for a long time. His daughter played and sang to him as he 
sipped his coffee and read his newspaper, and Mrs Proudie 
asked good-natured little questions about the archbishop; 
and then he went happily to bed, and slept as quietly as 
though Mrs Proudie had been Griselda herself. While shaving 
himself in the morning and preparing for the festivities of 
Ullathorne, he fully resolved to run no more tilts against a 
warrior so fully armed at all points as was Mrs Proudie.


Chapter 34

Oxford - The Master and Tutor of Lazarus

Mr Arabin, as we have said, had but a sad walk of it under 
the trees of Plumstead churchyard. He did not appear to any 
of the family till dinner time, and then he seemed, as far 
as their judgment went, to be quite himself. He had, as was 
his wont, asked himself a great many questions, and given 
himself a great many answers; and the upshot of this was 
that he had set himself down for an ass. He had determined 
that he was much too old and much too rusty to commence the 
manoeuvres of love-making; that he had let the time slip 
through his hands which should have been used for such 
purposes; and that now he must lie on his bed as he had made 
it. Then he asked himself whether in truth he did love this 
woman; and he answered himself, not without a long struggle, 
but at last honestly, that he certainly did love her. He 
then asked himself whether he did not also love her money; 
and he again answered himself that he did so. But here he 
did not answer honestly. It was and ever had been his 
weakness to look for impure motives for his own conduct. No 
doubt, circumstanced as he was, with a small living and a 
fellowship, accustomed as he had been to collegiate luxuries 
and expensive comforts, he might have hesitated to marry a 
penniless woman had he felt ever so strong a predilection 
for the woman herself; no doubt Eleanor's fortune put all 
such difficulties out of the question; but it was equally 
without doubt that his love for her had crept upon him 
without the slightest idea on his part that he could ever 
benefit his own condition by sharing her wealth.
When he had stood on the hearth-rug, counting the pattern, 
and counting also the future chances of his own life, the 
remembrances of Mrs Bold's comfortable income had not 
certainly damped his first assured feeling of love for her. 
And why should it have done so? Need it have done so with 
the purest of men? Be that as it may, Mr Arabin decided 
against himself; he decided that it had done so in his case, 
and that he was not the purest of men.
He also decided, which was more to his purpose, that Eleanor 
did not care a straw for him, and that very probably she did 
care a straw for his rival. Then he made up his mind not to 
think of her any more, and went on thinking of her till he 
was almost in a state to drown himself in the little brook 
which ran at the bottom of the archdeacon's grounds.
And ever and again his mind would revert to the Signora 
Neroni, and he would make comparisons between her and 
Eleanor Bold, not always in favour of the latter. The 
signora had listened to him, and flattered him, and believed 
in him; at least she had told him so. Mrs Bold had also 
listened to him, but had never flattered him; had not always 
believed in him: and now had broken from him in violent 
rage. The signora, too, was the more lovely woman of the 
two, and had also the additional attraction of her 
affliction; for to him it was an attraction.
But he never could have loved the Signora Neroni as he felt 
that he now loved Eleanor! and so he flung stones into the 
brook, instead of flinging in himself, and sat down on its 
margin as sad a gentleman as you shall meet in a summer's 
day.
He heard the dinner-bell ring from the churchyard, and he 
knew that it was time to recover his self-possession. He 
felt that he was disgracing himself in his own eyes, that he 
had been idling his time and neglecting the high duties 
which he had taken upon himself to perform. He should have 
spent this afternoon among the poor at St Ewold's, instead 
of wandering about at Plumstead, an ancient love-lorn swain, 
dejected and sighing, full of imaginary sorrows and 
Wertherian grief. He was thoroughly ashamed of himself, and 
determined to lose no time in retrieving his character, so 
damaged in his own eyes. Thus when he appeared at dinner he 
was as animated as ever, and was the author of most of the 
conversation which graced the archdeacon's board on that 
evening. Mr Harding was ill at ease and sick at heart, and 
did not care to appear more comfortable than he really was; 
what little he did say was said to his daughter. He thought 
that the archdeacon and Mr Arabin had leagued together 
against Eleanor's comfort; and his wish now was to break 
away from the pair, and undergo in his Barchester lodgings 
whatever Fate had in store for him. He hated the name of the 
hospital; his attempt to regain his lost inheritance there 
had brought upon him so much suffering. As far as he was 
concerned, Mr Quiverful was now welcome to the place.
And the archdeacon was not very lively. The poor dean's 
illness was of course discussed in the first place. Dr 
Grantly did not mention Mr Slope's name in connection with 
the expected event of Dr Trefoil's death; he did not wish to 
say anything about Mr Slope just at present, nor did he wish 
to make known his sad surmises; but the idea that his enemy 
might possibly become Dean of Barchester made him very 
gloomy. Should such an event take place, such a dire 
catastrophe come about, there would be an end to his life as 
far as his life was connected with the city of Barchester. 
He must give up all his old haunts, all his old habits, and 
live quietly as a retired rector at Plumstead. It had been a 
severe trial for him to have Dr Proudie in the palace; but 
with Mr Slope also in the deanery, he felt that he should be 
unable to draw his breath in Barchester close.
Thus it came to pass that in spite of the sorrow at his 
heart, Mr Arabin was apparently the gayest of the party. 
Both Mr Harding and Mrs Grantly were in a slight degree 
angry with him on account of his want of gloom. To the one 
it appeared as though he were triumphing at Eleanor's 
banishment, and to the other that he was not affected as he 
should have been by all the sad circumstances of the day, 
Eleanor's obstinacy, Mr Slope's success, and the poor dean's 
apoplexy. And so they were all at cross-purposes.
Mr Harding left the room almost together with the ladies, 
and then the archdeacon opened his heart to Mr Arabin. He 
still harped upon the hospital. 'What did that fellow mean,' 
said he, 'by saying in his letter to Mrs Bold, that if Mr 
Harding would call on the bishop it would be all right? Of 
course I would not be guided by anything he might say; but 
still it may be well that Mr Harding should see the bishop. 
It would be foolish to let the thing slip through our 
fingers because Mrs Bold is determined to make a fool of 
herself.'
Mr Arabin hinted that he was not quite so sure that Mrs Bold 
would make a fool of herself. He said that he was not 
convinced that she did regard Mr Slope so warmly as she was 
supposed to do. The archdeacon questioned and cross-
questioned him about this, but elicited nothing; and at last 
remained firm in his own conviction that he was destined, 
malgre lui, to be the brother-in-law of Mr Slope. Mr Arabin 
strongly advised that Mr Harding should take no step 
regarding the hospital in connection with, or in consequence 
of, Mr Slope's letter. 'If the bishop really means to confer 
the appointment on Mr Harding,' argued Mr Arabin, 'he will 
take care to let him have some other intimation than a 
message conveyed through a letter to a lady. Were Mr Harding 
to present himself at the palace he might merely be playing 
Mr Slope's game'; and thus it was settled that nothing 
should be done till the great Dr Gwynne's arrival, or at any 
rate without that potentate's sanction.
It was droll to observe how these men talked of Mr Harding 
as though he were a puppet, and planned their intrigues and 
small ecclesiastical manoeuvres in reference to Mr Harding's 
future position, without dreaming of taking him into their 
confidence. There was a comfortable house and income in 
question, and it was very desirable, and certainly very 
just, that Mr Harding should have them; but that, at 
present, was not the main point; it was expedient to beat 
the bishop, and if possible to smash Mr Slope. Mr Slope had 
set up, or was supposed to have set up, a rival candidate. 
Of all things the most desirable would have been to have had 
Mr Quiverful's appointment published to the public, and then 
annulled by the clamour of an indignant world, loud in the 
defence of Mr Harding's rights. But of such an event the 
chance was small; a slight fraction only of the world would 
be indignant, and that fraction would be one not accustomed 
to loud speaking. And then the preferment had in a sort of 
way been offered to Mr Harding, and had in a sort of way 
been refused by him.
Mr Slope's wicked, cunning hand had been peculiarly 
conspicuous in the way in which this had been brought to 
pass, and it was the success of Mr Slope's cunning which was 
so painfully grating to the feelings of the archdeacon. That 
which of all things he most dreaded was that he should be 
out-generalled by Mr Slope: and just at present it appeared 
probable that Mr Slope would turn his flank, steal a march 
on him, cut off his provisions, carry his strong town by a 
coup de main, and at last beat him thoroughly in a regular 
pitched battle. The archdeacon felt that his flank had been 
turned when desired to wait on Mr Slope instead of the 
bishop, that a march had been stolen when Mr Harding was 
induced to refuse the bishop's offer, that his provisions 
would be cut off when Mr Quiverful got the hospital, that 
Eleanor was the strong town doomed to be taken, and that Mr 
Slope, as Dean of Barchester, would be regarded by all the 
world as the conqueror in the final conflict.
Dr Gwynne was the Deus ex machina who was to come down upon 
the Barchester stage, and bring about deliverance from these 
terrible evils. But how can melodramatic denouements be 
properly brought about, how can vice and Mr Slope be 
punished, and virtue and the archdeacon be rewarded, while 
the avenging god is laid up with the gout? In the meantime 
evil may be triumphant, and poor innocence, transfixed to 
the earth by an arrow from Dr Proudie's quiver, may lie dead 
upon the ground, not to be resuscitated even by Dr Gwynne.
Two or three days after Eleanor's departure, Mr Arabin went 
to Oxford, and soon found himself closeted with the august 
head of his college. It was quite clear that Dr Gwynne was 
not very sanguine as to the effects of his journey to 
Barchester, and not over-anxious to interfere with the 
bishop. He had had the gout but was very nearly 
convalescent, and Mr Arabin at once saw that had the mission 
been one of which the master thoroughly approved, he would 
before this have been at Plumstead.
As it was, Dr Gwynne was resolved on visiting his friend, 
and willingly promised to return to Barchester with Mr 
Arabin. He could not bring himself to believe that there was 
any probability that Mr Slope would be made Dean of 
Barchester. Rumour, he said, had reached even his ears, not 
at all favourable to that gentleman's character, and he 
expressed himself strongly of opinion that any such 
appointment was quite out of the question. At this stage of 
the proceedings, the master's right-hand man, Tom Staple, 
was called in to assist at the conference. Tom Staple was 
the Tutor of Lazarus, and moreover a great man at Oxford. 
Though universally known by a species of nomenclature so 
very undignified, Tom Staple was one who maintained a high 
dignity in the University. He was, as it were, the leader of 
the Oxford tutors, a body of men who consider themselves 
collectively as being by very little, if at all, second in 
importance to the heads themselves. It is not always the 
case that the master, or warden, or provost, or principal 
can hit it off exactly with his tutor. A tutor is by no 
means indisposed to have a will of his own. But at Lazarus 
they were great friends and firm allies at the time of which 
we are writing.
Tom Staple was a hale strong man of about forty-five; short 
in stature, swarthy in face, with strong sturdy black hair, 
and crisp black beard, of which very little was allowed to 
show itself in shape of whiskers. He always wore a white 
neck-cloth, clean indeed, but not tied with that scrupulous 
care which now distinguishes some of our younger clergy. He 
was, of course, always clothed in a seemly suit of solemn 
black. Mr Staple was a decent cleanly liver, not 
overaddicted to any sensuality; but nevertheless a somewhat 
warmish hue was beginning to adorn his nose, the peculiar 
effect, as his friends averred, of a certain pipe of port 
introduced into the cellars of Lazarus the very same year in 
which the tutor entered it as a freshman. There was also, 
perhaps, a little redolence of port wine, as it were the 
slightest possible twang, in Mr Staple's voice.
In these latter days Tom Staple was not a happy man; 
University reform had long been his bugbear, and now was his 
bane. It was not with him as with most others, an affair of 
politics, respecting which, when the need existed, he could, 
for parties' sake or on behalf of principle, maintain a 
certain amount of necessary zeal; it was not with him a 
subject for dilettante warfare, and courteous commonplace 
opposition. To him it was life and death. The status quo of 
the University was his only idea of life, and any 
reformation was as bad to him as death. He would willingly 
have been a martyr in the cause, had the cause admitted of 
martyrdom.
At the present day, unfortunately, public affairs will allow 
of no martyrs, and therefore it is that there is such a 
deficiency of zeal. Could gentlemen of £10,000 a year have 
died on their own doorsteps in defence of protection, no 
doubt some half-dozen glorious old baronets would have so 
fallen, and the school of protection would at this day have 
been crowded with scholars. Who can fight strenuously in any 
combat in which there is no danger? Tom Staple would have 
willingly been impaled before a Committee of the House, 
could he by such self-sacrifice have infused his own spirit 
into the component members of the hebdomadal board.
Tom Staple was one of those who in his heart approved of the 
credit system which had of old been in vogue between the 
students and tradesmen of the University. He knew and 
acknowledged to himself that it was useless in these 
degenerate days publicly to contend with The Jupiter on such 
a subject. The Jupiter had undertaken to rule the 
University, and Tom Staple was well aware that The Jupiter 
was too powerful for him. But in secret, and among his safe 
companions, he would argue that the system of credit was an 
ordeal good for young men to undergo.
The bad men, said he, the weak and worthless, blunder into 
danger and burn their feet; but the good men, they who have 
any character, they who have that within them which can 
reflect credit on their Alma Mater, they come through 
scatheless. What merit will there be to a young man to get 
through safely, if he be guarded and protected and 
restrained like a schoolboy? By so doing, the period of the 
ordeal is only postponed, and the manhood of the man will be 
deferred from the age of twenty to that of twenty-four. If 
you bind him with leading-strings at college, he will break 
loose while eating for the bar in London; bind him there, 
and he will break loose afterwards, when he is a married 
man. The wild oats must be sown somewhere. 'Twas thus that 
Tom Staple would argue of young men; not, indeed, with much 
consistency, but still with some practical knowledge of the 
subject gathered from long experience.
And now Tom Staple proffered such wisdom as he had for the 
assistance of Dr Gwynne and Mr Arabin.
'Quite out of the question,' said he, arguing that Mr Slope 
could not possibly be made the new Dean of Barchester.
'So I think,' said the master. 'He has no standing, and, if 
all I hear be true, very little character.'
'As to character,' said Tom Staple, 'I don't think much of 
that. They rather like loose parsons for deans; a little 
fast living, or a dash of infidelity, is no bad 
recommendation to a cathedral close. But they couldn't make 
Mr Slope; the last two deans have been Cambridge men; you'll 
not show me an instance of their making three men running 
from the same University. We don't get our share, and never 
shall, I suppose; but we must at least have one out of 
three.'
'Those sort of rules are all gone by now,' said Mr Arabin.
'Everything has gone by, I believe,' said Tom Staple. 'The 
cigar has been smoked out, and we are the ashes.'
'Speak for yourself, Staple,' said the master.
'I speak for all,' said the tutor, stoutly. 'It is coming to 
that, that there will be no life left anywhere in the 
country. No one is any longer fit to rule himself, or those 
belonging to him. The Government is to find us all in 
everything, and the press is to find the Government. 
Nevertheless, Mr Slope won't be Dean of Barchester.'
'And who will be warden of the hospital?' said Mr Arabin.
'I hear that Mr Quiverful is already appointed,' said Tom 
Staple.
'I think not,' said the master. 'And I think, moreover, that 
Dr Proudie will not be so short-sighted as to run against 
such a rock: Mr Slope should himself have sense enough to 
prevent it.'
'But perhaps Mr Slope may have no objection to see his 
patron on a rock,' said the suspicious tutor.
'What could he get by that?' asked Mr Arabin.
'It is impossible to see the doubles of such a man,' said Mr 
Staple. 'It seems quite clear that Bishop Proudie is 
altogether in his hands, and it is equally clear that he has 
been moving heaven and earth to get this Mr Quiverful into 
the hospital, although he must know that such an appointment 
would be most damaging to the bishop. It is impossible to 
understand such a man, and dreadful to think,' added Tom 
Staple, sighing deeply, 'that the welfare and fortunes of 
good men may depend on his intrigues.'
Dr Gwynne or Mr Staple were not in the least aware, nor even 
was Mr Arabin, that this Mr Slope, of whom they were 
talking, had beer using his utmost efforts to put their own 
candidate into the hospital; and that in lieu of being 
permanent in the palace, his own expulsion therefrom had 
been already decided on by the high powers of the diocese.
'I'll tell you what,' said the tutor, 'if this Quiverful is 
thrust into the hospital and Dr Trefoil does die, I should 
not wonder if the Government were to make Mr Harding Dean of 
Barchester. They would feel bound to do something for him 
after all that was said when he resigned.'
Dr Gwynne at the moment made no reply to this suggestion; 
but it did not the less impress itself on his mind. If Mr 
Harding could not be warden of the hospital, why should he 
not be Dean of Barchester?
And so the conference ended without any very fixed 
resolution, and Dr Gwynne and Mr Arabin prepared for their 
journey to Plumstead on the morrow.



Chapter 35

Miss Thorne's Fete Champetre

The day of the Ullathorne party arrived, and all the world 
were there; or at least so much of the world as had been 
included in Miss Thorne's invitation. As we have said, the 
bishop returned home on the previous evening, and on the 
same evening, and by the same train, came Dr Gwynne and Mr 
Arabin from Oxford. The archdeacon with his brougham was in 
waiting for the Master of Lazarus, so that there was a 
goodly show of church dignitaries on the platform of the 
railway.
The Stanhope party was finally arranged in the odious manner 
already described, and Eleanor got into the doctor's 
carriage full of apprehension and presentiment of further 
misfortune, whereas Mr Slope entered the vehicle elate with 
triumph.
He had received that morning a very civil note from Sir 
Nicholas Fitzwhiggin; not promising much indeed; but then Mr 
Slope knew, or fancied that he knew, that it was not 
etiquette for government officers to make promises. Though 
Sir Nicholas promised nothing he implied a good deal; 
declared his conviction that Mr Slope would make an 
excellent dean, and wished him every kind of success. To be 
sure he added that, not being in the cabinet, he was never 
consulted on such matters, and that even if he spoke on the 
subject his voice would go for nothing. But all this Mr 
Slope took for the prudent reserve of official life. To 
complete his anticipated triumphs, another letter was 
brought to him just as he was about to start to Ullathorne.
Mr Slope also enjoyed the idea of handing Mrs Bold out of Dr 
Stanhope's carriage before the multitude at Ullathorne gate, 
as much as Eleanor dreaded the same ceremony. He had fully 
made up his mind to throw himself and his fortune at the 
widow's feet, and had almost determined to select the 
present propitious morning for doing so. The signora had of 
late been less than civil to him. She had indeed admitted 
his visits, and listened, at any rate without anger, to his 
love; but she had tortured him and reviled him, jeered at 
him and ridiculed him, while she allowed him to call her the 
most beautiful of living women, to kiss her hand, and to 
proclaim himself with reiterated oaths her adorer, her 
slave, and worshipper. Miss Thorne was in great 
perturbation, yet in great glory, on the morning of the gala 
day. Mr Thorne also, though the party was none of his 
giving, had much heavy work on his hands. But perhaps the 
most overtasked, the most anxious, and the most effective of 
all the Ullathorne household was Mr Plomacy, the steward. 
This last personage had, in the time of Mr Thorne's father, 
when the Directory held dominion in France, gone over to 
Paris with letters in his boot heel for some of the royal 
party; and such had been his good luck that he had returned 
safe. He had then been very young and was now very old, but 
the exploit gave him a character for political enterprise 
and secret discretion which still availed him as thoroughly 
as it had done in its freshest gloss. Mr Plomacy had been 
steward of Ullathorne for more than fifty years, and a very 
easy life he had had of it. Who could require much absolute 
work from a man who had carried safely at his heel that 
which if discovered would have cost him his head? 
Consequently Mr Plomacy had never worked hard, and of latter 
years had never worked at all. He had a taste for timber, 
and therefore he marked the trees that were to be cut down; 
he had a taste for gardening, and would therefore allow no 
shrub to be planted or bed to be made without his express 
sanction. In these matters he was sometimes driven to run 
counter to his mistress, but he rarely allowed his mistress 
to carry the point against him.
But on occasions such as the present Mr Plomacy came out 
strong. He had the honour of the family at heart; he 
thoroughly appreciated the duties of hospitality; and 
therefore, when gala doings were going on, always took the 
management into his own hands and reigned supreme over 
master and mistress.
To give Mr Plomacy his due, old as he was, he thoroughly 
understood such work as he had in hand, and did it well.
The order of the day was to be as follows. The quality, as 
the upper classes in rural districts are designated by the 
lower with so much true discrimination, were to eat a 
breakfast, and the non-quality were to eat a dinner. Two 
marquees had been erected for these two banquets, that for 
the quality on the esoteric or garden side of a certain deep 
ha-ha; and that for the non-quality on the esoteric or 
paddock side of the same. Both were of huge dimensions; that 
on the outer side was, one may say, on an egregious scale; 
but Mr Plomacy declared that neither would be sufficient. To 
remedy this, an auxiliary banquet was prepared in the dining-
room, and a subsidiary board was to be spread sui divo for 
the accommodation of the lower class of yokels on the 
Ullathorne property.
No one who has not had a hand in the preparation of such an 
affair can understand the manifold difficulties which Miss 
Thorne encountered in her project. Had she not been made 
throughout of the very finest whalebone, riveted with the 
best Yorkshire steel, she must have sunk under them. Had not 
Mr Plomacy felt how much was justly expected from a man who 
at one time carried the destinies of Europe in his boot, he 
would have given way; and his mistress, so deserted, must 
have perished among her poles and canvas.
In the first place there was a dreadful line to be drawn. 
Who were to dispose themselves within the ha-ha, and who 
without? To this the unthinking will give an off-hand 
answer, as they will to every ponderous question. Oh, the 
bishop and such like within the ha-ha; and Farmer Greenacre 
and such like without. True, my unthinking friend; but who 
shall define these such-likes? It is in such definitions 
that the whole difficulty of society consists. To seat the 
bishop on an arm-chair on the lawn and place Farmer 
Greenacre at the end of a long table in the paddock is easy 
enough; but where will you put Mrs Lookaloft, whose husband, 
though a tenant on the estate, hunts in a red coat, whose 
daughters go to a fashionable seminary in Barchester, who 
calls her farmhouse Rosebank, and who has a pianoforte in 
her drawing-room? The Misses Lookaloft, as they call 
themselves, won't sit contented among the bumpkins. Mrs 
Lookaloft won't squeeze her fine clothes on a bench and talk 
familiarly about cream and ducklings to good Mrs Greenacre. 
And yet Mrs Lookaloft is no fit companion and never has been 
the associate of the Thornes and the Grantlys. And if Mrs 
Lookaloft be admitted within the sanctum of fashionable 
life, if she be allowed with her three daughters to leap the 
ha-ha, why not the wives and daughters of other families 
also? Mrs Greenacre is at present well contented with the 
paddock, but she might cease to be so if she saw Mrs 
Lookaloft on the lawn. And thus poor Miss Thorne had a hard 
time of it.
And how was she to divide her guests between the marquee and 
the parlour? She had a countess coming, an Honourable John 
and an Honourable George, and a whole bevy of Ladies Amelia, 
Rosina, Margaretta, etc.; she had a leash of baronets with 
their baronnettes; and, as we all know, she had a bishop. If 
she put them on the lawn, no one would go into the parlour; 
if she put them into the parlour, no one would go into the 
tent. She thought of keeping the old people in the house, 
and leaving the lawn to the lovers. She might as well have 
seated herself at once in a hornet's nest. Mr Plomacy knew 
better than this. 'Bless your soul, Ma'am,' said he, 'there 
won't be no old ladies; not one, barring yourself and old Mr 
Clantantram.'
Personally Miss Thorne accepted this distinction in her 
favour as a compliment to her good sense; but nevertheless 
she had no desire to be closeted on the coming occasion with 
Mrs Clantantram. She gave up all idea of any arbitrary 
division of her guests, and determined if possible to put 
the bishop on the lawn and the countess in the house, to 
sprinkle the baronets, and thus divide the attractions. What 
to do with the Lookalofts even Mr Plomacy could not decide. 
They must take their chance. They had been specially told in 
the invitation that all the tenants had been invited; and 
they might probably have the good sense to stay away if they 
objected to mix with the rest of the tenantry.
Then Mr Plomacy declared his apprehension that the 
Honourable Johns and Honourable Georges would come in a sort 
of amphibious costume, half morning half evening, satin neck-
handkerchiefs, frock coats, primrose gloves, and polished 
boots; and that, being so dressed, they would decline riding 
at the quintain, or taking part in any of the athletic games 
which Miss Thorne had prepared with so much fond care. If 
the Lord Johns and Lord Georges didn't ride at the quintain, 
Miss Thorne might be sure that nobody else would.
'But,' said she in dolorous voice, all but overcome by her 
cares, 'it was specially signified that there were to be 
sports.'
'And so there will be, of course,' said Mr Plomacy. 'They'll 
all be sporting with the young ladies in the laurel walks. 
Them's the sports they care most about nowadays. If you gets 
the young men at the quintain, you'll have all the young 
women in the pouts.'
'Can't they look on, as their great-grandmothers did before 
them?' said Miss Thorne.
'It seems to me that the ladies ain't contented with looking 
nowadays. Whatever the men do they'll do. If you'll have 
side-saddles on the nags, and let them go at the quintain 
too, it'll answer capital, no doubt.'
Miss Thorne made no reply. She felt that she had no good 
ground on which to defend her sex of the present generation 
from the sarcasm of Mr Plomacy. She had once declared, in 
one of her warmer moments, 'that nowadays the gentlemen were 
all women, and the ladies all men.' She could not alter the 
debased character of the age. But, such being the case, why 
should she take on herself to cater for the amusement of 
people of such degraded tastes? This question she asked 
herself more than once, and she could only answer herself 
with a sigh. There was her own brother Wilfred, on whose 
shoulders rested all the ancient honours of Ullathorne 
house; it was very doubtful whether even he would consent to 
'go at the quintain,' as Mr Plomacy not injudiciously 
expressed it.
And now the morning arrived. The Ullathorne household was 
early on the move. Cooks were cooking in the kitchen long 
before daylight, and men were dragging out tables and 
hammering red baize on to benches at the earliest dawn. With 
what dread eagerness did Miss Thorne look out at the weather 
as soon as the parting veil of night permitted her to look 
at all! In this respect at any rate there was nothing to 
grieve her. The glass had been rising for the last three 
days, and the morning broke with that dull chill steady grey 
haze which in autumn generally presages a clear and dry day. 
By seven she was dressed and down. Miss Thorne knew nothing 
of the modern luxury of 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 get on a side-saddle and have a tilt 
at it herself. What must a young man be, thought she, who 
could prefer maundering among laurel trees with a wishy-
washy schoolgirl 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 sha'n't be mine '; and so 
she returned to the house.
At a little after eight her brother carne down, and they had 
a sort of scrap breakfast in his study. The tea was made 
without the customary urn, and they dispensed with the usual 
rolls and toast. Eggs also were missing, for every egg in 
the parish had been whipped into custards, baked into pies, 
or boiled into lobster salad. The allowance of fresh butter 
was short, and Mr Thorne was obliged to eat the leg of a 
fowl without having it devilled in the manner he loved.
'I have been looking at the quintain, Wilfred,' said she, 
'and it appears to be quite right.'
'Oh - ah; yes,' said he. 'It seemed to be so yesterday when 
I saw it.' Mr Thorne was beginning to be rather bored by his 
sister's love of sports, and had especially no affection for 
this quintain post.
'I wish you'd just try it after breakfast,' said she. 'You 
could have the saddle put on Mark Antony, and the pole is 
there all handy. You can take the flour-bag off, you know, 
if you think Mark Antony won't be quick enough,' added Miss 
Thorne, seeing that her brother's countenance was not 
indicative of complete accordance with her little 
proposition.
Now Mark Antony was a valuable old hunter, excellently 
suited to Mr Thorne's usual requirements, steady indeed at 
his fences, but extremely sure, very good in deep ground, 
and safe on the roads. But he had never yet been ridden at a 
quintain, and Mr Thorne was not inclined to put him to the 
trial, either with or without the bag of flour. He hummed 
and hawed, and finally declared that he was afraid Mark 
Antony would shy.
'Then try the cob,' said the indefatigable Miss Thorne.
'He's in physic,' said Wilfred.
'There's the Beelzebub colt,' said his sister; 'I know he's 
in the stable, because I saw Peter exercising him just now.'
'My dear Monica, he's so wild, that it's as much as I can do 
to manage him at all. He'd destroy himself and me too, if I 
attempted to ride him at such a rattletrap as that.'
A rattletrap! The quintain that she had put up with so much 
anxious care; the game that she had prepared for the 
amusement of the stalwart yeomen of the country; the sport 
that had been honoured by the affection of so many of their 
ancestors! It cut her to the heart to hear it so denominated 
by her own brother. There were but the two of them left 
together in the world; and it had ever been one of the rules 
by which Miss Thorne had regulated her conduct through life, 
to say nothing that could provoke her brother. She had often 
had to suffer from his indifference to time-honoured British 
customs; but she had always suffered in silence. It was part 
of her creed that the head of the family should never be 
upbraided in his own house; and Miss Thorne had lived up to 
her creed. Now, however, she was greatly tried. The colour 
mounted to her ancient cheek, and the fire blazed in her 
still bright 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 Normans, a vain 
proud countess with a frenchified name, who would only think 
that she graced Ullathorne too highly by entering its 
portals? Was it likely that an honourable John, the son of 
an Earl De Courcy, should ride at a quintain in company with 
Saxon yeomen? And why should she expect her brother to do 
that which her brother's guests would decline to do?
Some dim faint idea of the impracticability of her own views 
flitted across her brain. Perhaps it was necessary that 
races doomed to live on the same soil should give way to 
each other, and adopt each other's pursuits. Perhaps it was 
impossible that after more than five centuries of close 
intercourse, Normans should remain Normans, and Saxons, 
Saxons. Perhaps after all her neighbours were wiser than 
herself. Such ideas did occasionally present themselves to 
Miss Thorne's mind, and make her sad enough. But it never 
occurred to her that her favourite quintain was but a modern 
copy of a Norman knight's amusement, an adaptation of the 
noble tourney to the tastes and habits of the Saxon yeomen. 
Of this she was ignorant, and it would have been cruelty to 
instruct her.
When Mr Thorne saw the tear in her eye, he repented himself 
of his contemptuous expression. By him also it was 
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 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 be spared the quintain; and Miss Thorne determined to 
trust wholly to a youthful knight of hers, an immense 
favourite, who, as she often declared, was a pattern to the 
young men of the age, and an excellent sample of an English 
yeoman.
This was Farmer Greenacre's eldest son; who, to tell the 
truth, had from his earliest years taken the exact measure 
of Miss Thorne's foot. In his boyhood he had never failed to 
obtain from her, apples, pocket money, and forgiveness for 
his numerous trespasses; and now in his early manhood he got 
privileges and immunities which were equally valuable. He 
was allowed a day or two's shooting in September; he 
schooled the squire's horses; got slips of trees out of the 
orchard, and roots of flowers out of the garden; and had the 
fishing of the little river altogether in his own hands. He 
had undertaken to come mounted on a nag of his father's, and 
show the way at the quintain post. Whatever young Greenacre 
did the others would do after him. The juvenile Lookalofts 
might stand aloof, but the rest of the youth of Ullathorne 
would be sure to venture if Harry Greenacre showed the way. 
And so Miss Thorne made up her mind to dispense with the 
noble Johns and Georges, and trust, as her ancestors had 
done before her, to the thews and sinews of native 
Ullathorne growth.
At about nine the lower orders began to congregate in the 
paddock and park, under the surveillance of Mr Plomacy and 
the head gardener and head groom, who were sworn in as his 
deputies, and were to assist him in keeping the peace and 
promoting the sports. Many of the younger inhabitants of the 
neighbourhood, thinking that they could not have too much of 
a good thing, had come at a very early hour, and the road 
between the house and the church had been thronged for some 
time before the gates were thrown open.
And then another difficulty of huge dimensions arose, a 
difficulty which Mr Plomacy had indeed foreseen and for 
which he was in some sort provided. Some of those who wished 
to share Miss Thorne's hospitality were not so particular as 
they should have been as to the preliminary ceremony of an 
invitation. They doubtless conceived that they had been 
overlooked by accident; and instead of taking this in 
dudgeon, as their betters would have done, they good-
naturedly put up with the slight, and showed that they did 
so by presenting themselves at the gate in their Sunday 
best.
Mr Plomacy, however, well knew who were welcome and who were 
not. To some, even though uninvited, he allowed ingress. 
'Don't be too particular, Plomacy,' his mistress had said; 
'especially with the children. If they live anywhere near, 
let them in.'
Acting on this hint, Mr Plomacy did let in many an eager 
urchin, and a few tidily dressed girls with their swains, 
who in no way belonged to the property. But to the denizens 
of the city he was inexorable. Many a Barchester apprentice 
made his appearance there that day, and urged with piteous 
supplication that he had been working all the week in making 
saddles and boots for the use of Ullathorne, in compounding 
doses for the horses, or cutting up carcasses for the 
kitchen. No such claim was allowed. Mr Plomacy knew nothing 
about the city apprentices; he was to admit the tenants and 
labourers on the estate; Miss Thorne wasn't going to take in 
the whole city of Barchester; and so on.
Nevertheless, before the day was half over, all this was 
found to be useless. Almost anybody who chose to come made 
his way into the park, and the care of the guardians was 
transferred to the tables on which the banquet was spread. 
Even here there was many an unauthorised claimant for a 
place, of whom it was impossible to get quit without more 
commotion than the place and food were worth.



Chapter 36

Ullathorne Sports - Act 1

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 could be understood. 
A sense of justice would induce men and women to undergo, in 
behalf of others, those miseries which others had undergone 
in 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 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 specially 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 
civilisation 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 
was 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 courtyard 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 
knew you wished us all to be grand today; 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 Greenacre 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 as T. Lookaloft, 
Esquire.
Mrs Lookaloft's pluck carried her through everything, and 
she stalked 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 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 hisself.'
'Dear me,' said Miss Thorne. 'If he is so ill, I'm 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 he 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 women are entitled to make in their passage 
through the world, the Proudies drove up. It was soon 
apparent that no everyday 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 Brown, 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 or 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 induce her more 
fashionable guests to mix with them in their manly 
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 Harry, 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 thither from the farmyard.
'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 his 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 rider and steed and staff. Young Greenacre was thrown 
some six feet over the horse's head, and poor Miss Thorne 
almost fell off 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 anyone to ride at a 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 a Mr Slope. He had been about to give his sanction to the 
marriage, so certified had he been of the fact; and now he 
learnt that this imputed lover of Eleanor's was at any rate 
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 do 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 37

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 a somewhat less cordial welcome than that 
conceded by his sister. Mr Thorne had heard perhaps more of 
the antecedents of his guest than his sister had done, and 
had not as yet undergone the power of the signora's charms.
But while the mother of the last of the Neros was thus in 
her 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 grandees, and with 
them, alas, went many of the signora's admirers.
'Oh, Mr Thorne,' said the countess, while in 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, my 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 to 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 some time 
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. A man in the wrong knows that he 
must look to his weapons; 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 a 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 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. '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 Thornes 
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 by 
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 Lady De Courcy.
'She has only one leg,' replied Mrs Proudie.
'Only one leg!' said 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 now knew how to behave herself. 
But she does not. She is the most insolent creature I ever 
put my eyes on.'
'Indeed she is,' said Lady De Courcy.
'And her conduct with men is so 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 
require 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 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 she 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 get 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 the 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 its 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 reputations 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 today. 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 the 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 38

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 here 
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, lovable, 
womanly; he felt that he could be pleased to a]low 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 her roquelaure. Miss 
Thorne had asked him whether Mrs Bold was coming with the 
Grantlys; and the two names of Bold and Grantly together had 
nearly made him jump from his seat.
He was in this state of confused uncertainty, hope, and 
doubt, when he saw Mr Slope, with his most polished smile, 
handing Eleanor out of her carriage. He thought of nothing 
more. He never considered whether the carriage belonged to 
her or to Mr Slope, or to anyone else to whom they might 
both be mutually obliged without any concert between 
themselves. This sight in his present state of mind was 
quite enough to upset him and his resolves. It was clear as 
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 came here together. Susan says she is almost 
sure she saw their faces in the same carriage as she got out 
of her own.' 
Mr Arabin had nothing for it but to bear his testimony to 
the correctness of Mrs Grantly's eyesight.
'It is perfectly shameful,' said the archdeacon; 'or I 
should rather say, shameless. She was asked here as my 
guest; and if she be determined to disgrace herself, she 
should have feeling enough not to do so before my immediate 
friends. I wonder how that man got himself invited. I wonder 
whether she had the face to bring him.'
To this Mr Arabin could answer nothing, nor did he wish to 
answer anything. Though he abused Eleanor to himself, he did 
not choose to abuse her to anyone else, nor was he well 
pleased to hear anyone else speak ill of her. Dr Grantly, 
however, was very angry, and did not spare his sister-in-
law. Mr Arabin therefore left him as soon as he could, and 
wandered back into the house.
He had not been there long, when the signora was brought in. 
For some time he kept himself out of temptation, and merely 
hovered round her at a distance; but as soon as Mr Thorne 
had left her, he yielded himself up to the basilisk, and 
allowed himself to be made prey of
It is impossible to say how the knowledge had been acquired, 
but the signora had a sort of instinctive knowledge that Mr 
Arabin was an admirer of Mrs Bold. Men hunt foxes by the aid 
of dogs, and are aware that they do so by the strong organ 
of smell with which the dog is endowed. They do not, 
however, in the least comprehend how such a sense can work 
with such acuteness. The organ by which women instinctively, 
as it were, know and feel how other women are regarded by 
men, and how also men are regarded by other women, is 
equally strong, and equally incomprehensible. A glance, a 
word, a motion, suffices: by some such acute exercise of her 
feminine senses the signora was aware that Mr Arabin loved 
Eleanor Bold; 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 a gentleman he was better 
educated than Mr Thorne. She would never have attempted to 
drive Mr Arabin into ridiculous misery as she did Mr Slope, 
nor would she think it possible to dispose of him in ten 
minutes as she had done with Mr Thorne.
Such were her 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 Eastern idler 
swallows his dose of opium, as the London reprobate swallows 
his dose of gin, so with similar desires and for similar 
reasons did Mr Arabin prepare to swallow the charms of the 
Signora Neroni.
'Why an't you shooting with bows and arrows, Mr Arabin?' 
said she, when they were nearly alone together in the 
drawing-room; 'or talking with young ladies in shady bowers, 
or turning your talents to account in some way? What was a 
bachelor like you asked here for? Don't you mean to earn 
your cold chicken and champagne? Were I you, I should be 
ashamed to be so idle.'
Mr Arabin murmured some sort of answer. Though he wished to 
be charmed, he was hardly yet in a mood to be playful in 
return.
'Why, what ails you, Mr Arabin?' said she, 'here you are in 
your own parish; Miss Thorne tells me that her party is 
given expressly in your honour; and yet you are the only 
dull man at it. Your friend Mr Slope was with me a few 
minutes since, full of life and spirits; why don't you rival 
him?'
It was not difficult for so acute an observer as Madeline 
Neroni to see that she had hit the nail on the head and 
driven the bolt home. Mr Arabin winced visibly before her 
attack, and she knew at once that he was jealous of Mr 
Slope.
'But I look on you and Mr Slope as the very antipodes of 
men,' said she. 'There is nothing in which you are not each 
the reverse of the other, except in belonging to the same 
profession; and even in that you are so unlike as perfectly 
to maintain the rule. He is gregarious, you are given to 
solitude. He is active, you are passive. He works, you 
think. He likes women, you despise them. He is fond of 
position and power, and so are you, but for directly 
different reasons. He loves to be praised, you very 
foolishly abhor it. He will gain his rewards, which will be 
an insipid useful wife, a comfortable income, and a 
reputation for sanctimony. You will also gain yours.'
'Well, and what will they be?' said Mr Arabin, who knew that 
he was being flattered, and yet suffered himself to put up 
with it. 'What will be my rewards?'
'The heart of some woman whom you will be too austere to own 
that you love, and the respect of some few friends which you 
will be too proud to own that you value.'
'Rich rewards,' said he; 'but of little worth if they are to 
be so treated.'
'Oh, you are not to look for such success as awaits Mr 
Slope. He is born to be a successful man. He suggests to 
himself an object, and then starts for it with eager 
intention. Nothing will deter him from his pursuit. He will 
have no scruples, no fears, no hesitation. His desire is to 
be a bishop with a rising family, the wife will come first, 
and in due time the apron. You will see all this, and then -
'
'Well, and what then?'
'Then you will begin to wish that you had done the same.'
Mr Arabin looked placidly out at the lawn, and resting his 
shoulder on the head of the sofa, rubbed his chin with his 
hand. It was a trick he had when he was thinking deeply; and 
what the signora said made him think. Was it not all true? 
Would he not hereafter look back, if not at Mr Slope, at 
some others, perhaps not equally gifted with himself, who 
had risen in the world while he had lagged behind, and then 
wish that he had done the same?
'Is not such the doom of all speculative men of talent?' 
said she. 'Do they not all sit rapt as you now are, cutting 
imaginary silken cords with their fine edges, while those 
not so highly tempered sever the everyday Gordian knots of 
the world's struggle, and win wealth and renown? Steel too 
highly polished, edges too sharp, do not do for this world's 
work, Mr Arabin.'
Who was this woman that thus read the secrets of his heart, 
and re-uttered to him the unwelcome bodings of his own soul? 
He looked full into her face when she had done speaking, and 
said, 'Am I one of those foolish blades, too sharp and too 
fine to do a useful day's work?'
'Why do you let the Slopes of the world out-distance you?' 
said she. 'Is not the blood in your veins as warm as his? 
does not your pulse beat as fast? Has not God made you a 
man, and intended you to do a man's work here, ay, and to 
take a man's wages also?'
Mr Arabin sat ruminating 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 another to have 
their five thousands and ten thousands a year if such wealth 
be bad and not worth having? Why are beautiful things given 
to us, and luxuries and pleasant enjoyments, if they be not 
intended to be used? They must be meant for someone, and 
what is good for a layman 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 were concentrated 
there. 'Why do you say I do not regard it?'
'If you look at me like that, Mr Arabin, I shall alter my 
opinion - or should do so, were I not of course aware that I 
have no beauty of my own worth regarding.'
The gentleman blushed crimson, but the lady did not blush at 
all. A slightly increased colour animated her face, just so 
much so as to give her an air of special interest. She 
expected a compliment from her admirer, but she was rather 
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 I shall beg nothing, Mr Arabin, which you will 
not grant, and I do beg for an answer. Do you not as a rule 
think women below your notice as companions? Let us see. 
There is the widow Bold looking round at you from her chair 
this minute. What would you say to her as a companion for 
life?'
Mr Arabin, rising from his position, leaned over the sofa 
and looked through the drawing-room door to the place where 
Eleanor was seated between Bertie Stanhope and Mr Slope. She 
at once caught his glance, and averted her own. She was not 
pleasantly placed in her present position. Mr Slope was 
doing his best to attract her attention; and she was 
striving to prevent his doing so by talking to Mr Stanhope, 
while her mind was intently fixed on Mr Arabin and Madame 
Neroni. Bertie Stanhope endeavoured to take advantage of her 
favours, but he was thinking more of the manner in which he 
would by-and-by throw himself at her feet, than of amusing 
her at the present moment.
'There,' said the signora. 'She was stretching her beautiful 
neck to look at you, and now you have disturbed her. Well I 
declare, I believe I am wrong about you; I believe that you 
do think Mrs Bold a charming woman. Your looks seem to say 
so; and by her looks I should say that she is jealous of me. 
Come, Mr Arabin, confide in me, and if it is so, I'll do all 
in my power to make up the match.'
It is needless to say that the signora was not very sincere 
in her offer. She was never sincere on such subjects. She 
never expected others to be so, nor did she expect others to 
think her so. Such matters were her playthings, her billiard 
table, her hounds and hunters, her waltzes and polkas, her 
picnics and summer-day excursions. She had little else to 
amuse her, and therefore played at love. making in all its 
forms. She was now playing at it with Mr Arabin, and did not 
at all expect the earnestness and truth of his answer.
'All in your power would be nothing,' said he; 'for Mrs Bold 
is, I imagine, already engaged to another.'
'Then you own the impeachment yourself.'
'You cross-question me rather unfairly,' he replied, 'and I 
do not know why I answer you at all. Mrs Bold is a very 
beautiful woman, and as intelligent as beautiful. It is 
impossible to know her without admiring her.'
'So you think the widow a very beautiful woman?'
'Indeed I do.'
'And one that would grace the parsonage of St Ewold's.'
'One that would well grace any man's house.'
'And you really have the effrontery to tell me this,' said 
she; 'to tell me, who, as you very well know, set up to be a 
beauty myself, and who am at this very moment taking such an 
interest in your affairs, you really have the effrontery to 
tell me that Mrs Bold is the most beautiful woman you know.'
'I did not say so,' said Mr Arabin; 'you are more beautiful -
'
'Ah, come now, that is something like. I thought you could 
not be so unfeeling.'
'You are more beautiful, perhaps more clever.'
'Thank you, thank you, Mr Arabin. I knew that you and I 
should be friends.'
'But -'
'Not a word further. I will not hear a word further. If you 
talk till midnight, you cannot improve what you have said.'
'But Madame Neroni, Mrs Bold -'
'I will not hear a word about Mrs Bold. Dread thoughts of 
strychnine did pass across my brain, but she is welcome to 
the second place.'
'Her place -'
'I won't hear anything about her or her place. I am 
satisfied, and that is enough. But, Mr Arabin, I am dying 
with hunger; beautiful and clever as I am, you know I cannot 
go to my food, and yet you do not bring it to me.'
This at any rate was so true as to make it necessary that Mr 
Arabin should act upon it, and he accordingly went into the 
dining-room and supplied the signora's wants.
'And yourself?' said she.
'Oh,' said he, 'I am not hungry; I never eat at this hour.'
'Come, come, Mr Arabin, don't let love interfere with your 
appetite. It never does with mine. Give me half a glass more 
champagne, and then go to the table. Mrs Bold will do me an 
injury if you stay talking to me any longer.'
Mr Arabin did as he was bid. He took her plate and glass 
from her, and going into the dining-room, helped himself to 
a sandwich from the crowded table and began munching it in a 
corner.
As he was doing so, Miss Thorne, who had hardly sat down for 
moment, came into the room, and seeing him standing, was 
greatly distressed.
'Oh, my dear Mr Arabin,' said she, 'have you never sat down 
yet? I am so distressed. You of all men too.'
Mr Arabin assured her that he had only just come into the 
room.
'That is the very reason why you should lose no more time. 
Come, I'll make room for you. Thank'ee, my dear,' she said, 
seeing that Mrs Bold was making an attempt to move from her 
chair, 'but I would not for worlds see you stir, for all the 
ladies would think it necessary to follow. But, perhaps, if 
Mr Stanhope has done - just for a minute, Mr Stanhope - till 
I can get another chair.'
And so Bertie had to rise to make way for his rival. This he 
did, as he did everything, with an air of good-humoured 
pleasantry which made it impossible for Mr Arabin to refuse 
the proffered seat.
'His bishopric let another take,' said Bertie; the quotation 
being certainly not very appropriate, either for the 
occasion or the person spoken to. 'I have eaten and am 
satisfied; Mr Arabin, pray take my chair. I wish for your 
sake that it really was a bishop's seat.'
Mr Arabin did sit down, and as he did so, Mrs Bold got up as 
though to follow her neighbour.
'Pray, pray don't move,' said Miss Thorne, almost forcing 
Eleanor back into her chair. 'Mr Stanhope is not going to 
leave us. He will stand behind you like a true knight as he 
is. And now I think of it, Mr Arabin, let me introduce you 
to Mr Slope. Mr Slope, Mr Arabin.' And the two gentlemen 
bowed stiffly to each other across the lady whom they both 
intended to marry, while the other gentleman who also 
intended to marry her stood behind, watching them.
The two had never met each other before, and the present was 
certainly not a good opportunity for much cordial 
conversation, even if cordial conversation between them had 
been possible. As it was, the whole four who formed the 
party seemed as though their tongues were tied. Mr Slope, 
who was wide awake to what he hoped was his coming 
opportunity, was not much concerned in the interest of the 
moment. His wish was to see Eleanor move, that he might 
pursue her. Bertie was not exactly in the same frame of 
mind; the evil day was near enough; there was no reason why 
he should precipitate it. He had made up his mind to marry 
Eleanor Bold if he could, and was resolved today to take the 
first preliminary step towards doing so. But there was time 
enough before him. He was not going to make an offer of 
marriage over the table-cloth. Having thus good-naturedly 
made way for Mr Arabin, he was willing also to let him talk 
to the future Mrs Stanhope as long as they remained in their 
present position.
Mr Arabin having bowed to Mr Slope, began eating his food 
without saying a word further. He was full of thought, and 
though he ate he did so unconsciously.
But poor Eleanor was the most to be pitied. The only friend 
on whom she thought she could rely was Bertie Stanhope, and 
he, it seemed, was determined to desert her. Mr Arabin did 
not attempt to address her. She said a few words in reply to 
some remarks from Mr Slope, and then feeling the situation 
too much for her, started from her chair in spite of Miss 
Thorne, and hurried from the room. Mr Slope followed her, 
and young Stanhope lost the occasion.
Madeline Neroni, when she was left alone, could not help 
pondering much on the singular interview she had had with 
this singular man. Not a word that she had spoken to him had 
been intended by her to be received as true, and yet he had 
answered her in the very spirit of truth. He had done so, 
and she had been aware that he had so done. She had wormed 
from him his secret; and he, debarred as it would seem from 
man's usual privilege of lying, had innocently laid bare his 
whole soul to her. He loved Eleanor Bold, but Eleanor was 
not in his eye so beautiful as herself. He would fain have 
Eleanor for his wife, but yet he had acknowledged that she 
was the less gifted of the two. The man had literally been 
unable to falsify his thoughts when questioned, and had been 
compelled to be true malgre lui, even when truth must have 
been so disagreeable to him.
This teacher of men, this Oxford pundit, this double-
distilled quintessence of university perfection, this writer 
of religious treatises, this speaker of ecclesiastical 
speeches, had been like a little child in her hands; she had 
turned him inside out, and read his very heart as she might 
have done that of a young girl. She could not but despise 
him for his facile openness, and yet she liked him for it 
too. It was a novelty to her, a new trait in a man's 
character. She felt also that she could never so completely 
make a fool of him as she did of the Slopes and Thornes. She 
felt that she never could induce Mr Arabin to make 
protestations to her that were not true, or to listen to 
nonsense that was mere nonsense.
It was quite clear that Mr Arabin was heartily in love with 
Mrs Bold, and the signora, with very unwonted good nature, 
began to turn it over in her mind whether she could not do 
him a good turn. Of course Bertie was to have the first 
chance. It was an understood family arrangement that her 
brother was, if possible, to marry the widow Bold. Madeline 
knew too well his necessities and what was due to her sister 
to interfere with so excellent a plan, as long as it might 
be feasible. But she had strong suspicion that it was not 
feasible. She did not think it likely that Mrs Bold would 
accept a man in her brother's position, and she had 
frequently said so to Charlotte. She was inclined to believe 
that Mr Slope had more chance of success; and with her it 
would be a labour of love to rob Mr Slope of his wife.
And so the signora resolved, should Bertie fail, to do a 
good-natured act for once in her life, and give up Mr Arabin 
to the woman whom he loved.



Chapter 39

The Lookalofts and the Greenacres

On the whole, Miss Thorne's provision for the amusement and 
feeding of the outer classes in the esoteric 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 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 twirled 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 its vicinity.
Of course it was reported all through 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 Greenacre, 
whom this information, joined to the recent peril undergone 
by her son, almost overpowered. Mr Greenacre 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 no taste herself 
for the sort of finery which had 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 homestead 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 times.' 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 those 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 entertainment which they 
received from the bishop's 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 there 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 Guffern. 'I didn't zet 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 none of your 
common kitchen wenches. So Betsey, she came 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 goodman, 
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" ': and Mrs Guffern 
laughed loudly as she thought of Mrs Lookaloft'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 as to say "and who dare say no to us?" 
and Gregory was thinking of telling of 'em 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 at 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 
to 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 this place better, 
cause I be more at home like, and don't have to pay for them 
fine clothes for the missus. 
Everyone 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 
with 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. Hollo! 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 kade 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 this 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 his 
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 from kitchen. 'Twas there that 
the inner man dissolved itself, and poured itself out in 
streams of pleasant chat; 'twas there that he was respected 
and yet at his ease; '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 did 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 today, and quarrel with 
him tomorrow. 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 shall know where it comes from. I'm up to you 
Barchester journeymen; I know what stuff you're made o£'
And so Stubbs went off happy, pulling at the forelock of his 
shock head of hair in honour of the steward's clemency, and 
giving another double pull at it in honour of the farmer's 
kindness. And as he went he swore within his grateful heart, 
that if ever Farmer Greenacre wanted a day's work done for 
nothing, he was the lad to do it for him. Which promise it 
was not probable that he would ever be called on to perform.
But Mr Plomacy was not quite happy in his mind, for he 
thought of the unjust steward, and began to reflect whether 
he had not made for himself friends of the mammon of 
unrighteousness. This, however, did not interfere with the 
manner in which he performed his duties at the bottom of the 
long board; nor did Mr Greenacre perform his worse at the 
top on account of the good wishes of Stubbs the plasterer. 
Moreover, the guests did not think it anything amiss when Mr 
Plomacy, rising to say grace, prayed that God would make 
them all truly thankful for the good things which Madam 
Thorne in her great liberality had set before them!
All this time the quality in the tent on the lawn were 
getting on swimmingly; that is, if champagne without 
restriction can enable quality folk to swim. Sir Harkaway 
Gorse proposed the health of Miss Thorne, and likened her to 
a blood race-horse, always in condition and not to be tired 
down by any amount of work. Mr Thorne returned thanks, 
saying he hoped his sister would always be found able to run 
when called upon, and then gave the health and prosperity of 
the De Courcy family. His sister was very much honoured by 
seeing so many of them at her poor board. They were all 
aware that important avocations made the absence of the earl 
necessary.
As his duty to his prince had called him from his family 
hearth, he, Mr Thorne, could not venture to regret that he 
did not see him at Ullathorne; but nevertheless he would 
venture to say - that was to express a wish - an opinion he 
meant to say. And so Mr Thorne became somewhat gravelled, as 
country gentlemen in similar circumstances usually do; but 
he ultimately sat down, declaring that he had much 
satisfaction in drinking the noble earl's health, together 
with that of the countess, and all the family of De Courcy 
castle.
And then the Honourable George returned thanks. We will not 
follow him through the different periods of his somewhat 
irregular eloquence. Those immediately in his neighbourhood 
found it at first rather difficult to get him on his legs, 
but much greater difficulty was soon experienced in inducing 
him to resume his seat. One of two arrangements should 
certainly be made in these days: either let all speech-
making on festive occasions be utterly tabooed and made as 
it were impossible; or else let those who are to exercise 
the privilege be first subjected to a competing examination 
before the civil service examining commissioners. As it is 
now, the Honourable Georges do but little honour to our 
exertions in favour of British education.
In the dining-room the bishop went through the honours of 
the day with much more neatness and propriety. He also drank 
Miss Thorne's health, and did it in a manner becoming the 
bench which he adorned. The party there was perhaps a little 
more dull, a shade less lively than that in the tent. But 
what was lost in mirth, was fully made up in decorum.
And so the banquets passed off at the various tables with 
great eclat and universal delight.



Chapter 40

Ullathorne Sports - Act 2

'That which has made them drunk, has made me bold.' 'Twas 
thus that Mr Slope encouraged himself, as he left the dining-
room in pursuit of Eleanor. He had not indeed seen in that 
room any person really intoxicated; but there had been a 
good deal of wine drunk, and Mr Slope had not hesitated to 
take his share, in order to screw himself up to the 
undertaking which he had in hand. He is not the first man 
who has thought it expedient to call in the assistance of 
Bacchus on such an occasion.
Eleanor was out through the window, and on the grass before 
she perceived that she was followed. Just at that moment the 
guests were nearly all occupied at the tables. Here and 
there were to be seen a constant couple or two, who 
preferred their own sweet discourse to the jingle of 
glasses, or the charms of rhetoric which fell from the 
mouths of the Honourable George and the bishop of 
Barchester; but the grounds were as nearly vacant as Mr 
Slope could wish them to be.
Eleanor saw that she was pursued, and as a deer, when escape 
is no longer possible, will turn to bay and attack the 
hounds, so did she turn upon Mr Slope.
'Pray don't let me take you from the room,' said she, 
speaking with all the stiffness which she knew how to use. 
'I have come out to look for a friend. I must beg of you, Mr 
Slope, to go back.'
But Mr Slope would not be thus entreated. He had observed 
all day that Mrs Bold was not cordial to him, and this had 
to a certain extent oppressed him. But he did not deduce 
from this any assurance that his aspirations were in vain. 
He saw that she was angry with him. Might she not be so 
because he had so long tampered with her feelings - might it 
not arise from his having, as he knew was the case, caused 
her name to be bruited about in conjunction with his own, 
without having given her the opportunity of confessing to 
the world that henceforth their names were to be one and the 
same? Poor lady! He had within him a certain Christian 
conscience-stricken feeling of remorse on this head. It 
might be that he had wronged her by his tardiness. He had, 
however, at the present moment imbibed too much of Mr 
Thorne's champagne to have any inward misgivings. He was 
right in repeating the boast of Lady Macbeth: he was not 
drunk; but he was bold enough for anything. It was a pity 
that in such a state he could not have encountered Mrs 
Proudie.
'You must permit me to attend you,' said he; 'I could not 
think of allowing you to go alone.'
'Indeed you must, Mr Slope,' said Eleanor still very 
stiffly; 'for it is my special wish to be alone.'
The time for letting the great secret escape him had already 
come. Mr Slope saw that it must be now or never, and he was 
determined that it should be now. This was not his first 
attempt at winning a fair lady. He had been on his knees, 
looked unutterable things with his eyes, and whispered 
honeyed words before this. Indeed he was somewhat an adept 
at these things, and had only to adapt to the perhaps 
different taste of Mrs Bold the well-remembered rhapsodies 
which had once so much gratified Olivia Proudie.
'Do not ask me to leave you, Mrs Bold,' said he with an 
impassioned look, impassioned and sanctified as well, with 
that sort of look which is not uncommon with gentlemen of Mr 
Slope's school, and which may perhaps be called the tender-
pious. 'Do not ask me to leave you, till I have spoken a few 
words with which my heart is full; which I have come hither 
purposely to say.'
Eleanor saw how it was now. She knew directly what it was 
she was about to go through, and very miserable the 
knowledge made her. Of course she could refuse Mr Slope, and 
there would be an end of that, one might say. But there 
would not be an end of it as far as Eleanor was concerned. 
The very fact of Mr Slope's making an offer to her would be 
a triumph to the archdeacon, and in a great measure a 
vindication of Mr Arabin's conduct. The widow could not 
bring herself to endure with patience the idea that she had 
been in the wrong. She had defended Mr Slope, she had 
declared herself quite justified in admitting him among her 
acquaintance, had ridiculed the idea of his considering 
himself as more than an acquaintance, and had resented the 
archdeacon's caution in her behalf: now it was about to be 
proved to her in a manner sufficiently disagreeable that the 
archdeacon had been right, and she herself had been entirely 
wrong.
'I don't know what you can have to say to me, Mr Slope, that 
you could not have said when we were sitting at table just 
now '; and she closed her lips, and steadied her eyeballs, 
and looked at him in a manner that ought to have frozen him. 
But gentlemen are not easily frozen when they are full of 
champagne, and it would not at any time have been easy to 
freeze Mr Slope.
'There are things, Mrs Bold, which a man cannot well say 
before a crowd; which perhaps he cannot well say at any 
time; which indeed he may most fervently desire to get 
spoken, and which he may yet find it almost impossible to 
utter. It is such things as these, that I now wish to say to 
you'; and then the tender-pious look was repeated, with a 
little more emphasis even than before.
Eleanor had not found it practicable to stand stock-still 
before the dining-room window, and there receive his offer 
in full view of Miss Thorne's guests. She had therefore in 
self-defence walked on, and thus Mr Slope had gained his 
object of walking with her. He now offered her his arm.
'Thank you, Mr Slope, I am much obliged to you; but for the 
very short time that I shall remain with you I shall prefer 
walking alone.'
'And must it be so short?' said he; 'must it be -'
'Yes,' said Eleanor, interrupting him; 'as short as 
possible, if you please, sir.'
'I had hoped, Mrs Bold - I had hoped -'
'Pray hope nothing, Mr Slope, as far as I am concerned; pray 
do not; I do not know, and need not know, what hope you 
mean. Our acquaintance is very slight, and will probably 
remain so. Pray, pray let that be enough; there is at any 
rate no necessity for us to quarrel.'
Mrs Bold was certainly treating Mr Slope rather cavalierly, 
and he felt it so. She was rejecting him before he had 
offered himself, and informed him at the same time that he 
was taking a great deal too much on himself to be so 
familiar. She did not even make an attempt

From such a sharp and waspish word as 'no'
To pluck the sting.

He was still determined to be very tender and very pious, 
seeing that in spite of all Mrs Bold had said to him, he not 
yet abandoned hope; but he was inclined also to be somewhat 
angry. The widow was bearing herself, as he thought, with 
too high a hand, was speaking of herself in much too 
imperious a tone. She had clearly no idea that an honour was 
being conferred on her. Mr Slope would be tender as long as 
he could, but he began to think, if that failed, it would 
not be amiss if he also mounted himself for a while on his 
high horse. Mr Slope could undoubtedly be very tender, but 
he could be very savage also, and he knew his own abilities.
'That is cruel,' said he, 'and unchristian too. The worst of 
us are all still bidden to hope. What have I done that you 
should pass on me so severe a sentence?' and then he paused 
a moment, during which the widow walked steadily on with 
measured step, saying nothing further.
'Beautiful woman,' at last he burst forth; 'beautiful woman, 
you cannot pretend to be ignorant that I adore you. Yes, 
Eleanor, yes, I love you. I love you with the truest 
affection which man can bear to woman. Next to my hopes of 
heaven are my hopes of possessing you.' (Mr Slope's memory 
here played him false, or he would not have omitted the 
deanery.) 'How sweet to walk to heaven with you by my side, 
with you for my guide, mutual guides. Say, Eleanor, dearest 
Eleanor, shall we walk that sweet path together?'
Eleanor had no intention of ever walking together with Mr 
Slope on any other path than that special one of Miss 
Thorne's which they now occupied; but as she had been unable 
to prevent the expression of Mr Slope's wishes and 
aspirations, she resolved to hear him out to the end, before 
she answered him.
'Ah! Eleanor,' he continued, and it seemed to be his idea 
that as he had once found courage to pronounce her Christian 
name, he could not utter it often enough. 'Ah! Eleanor, will 
it not be sweet, with the Lord's assistance, to travel hand 
in hand through this mortal valley which His mercies will 
make pleasant to us, till hereafter we shall dwell together 
at the foot of His throne?' And then a more tenderly pious 
glance than ever beamed from the lover's eyes. 'Ah I Eleanor 
-'
'My name, Mr Slope, is Mrs Bold,' said Eleanor, who, though 
determined to hear out the tale of his love, was too much 
disgusted by his blasphemy to be able to bear much more of 
it
'Sweetest angel, be not so cold,' said he, and as he said it 
the champagne broke forth, and he contrived to pass his arm 
round her waist. He did this with considerable cleverness, 
for up to this point Eleanor had contrived with tolerable 
success to keep her distance from him. They had got into a 
walk nearly enveloped by shrubs, and Mr Slope therefore no 
doubt considered that as they were now alone it was fitting 
that he should give her some outward demonstration of that 
affection of which he talked so much. It may perhaps be 
presumed that the same stamp of measures had been found to 
succeed with Olivia Proudie. Be this as it may, it was not 
successful with Eleanor Bold.
She sprang from him as she would have jumped from an adder, 
but she did not spring far; not, indeed, beyond arm's 
length; and then, quick as thought, she raised her little 
hand and dealt him a box on the ear with such right good 
will, that it sounded among the trees like a miniature 
thunder-clap.
And now it is to be feared that every well-bred reader of 
these pages will lay down the book with disgust, feeling 
that, after all, the heroine is unworthy of sympathy. She is 
a hoyden, one will say. At any rate she is not a lady, 
another will exclaim. I have suspected her all through, a 
third will declare; she has no idea of the dignity of a 
matron; or of the peculiar propriety which her position 
demands. At one moment she is romping with young Stanhope; 
then she is making eyes at Mr Arabin; anon she comes to 
fisticuffs with a third lover; and all before she is yet a 
widow of two years' standing.
She cannot altogether be defended; and yet it may be averred 
that she is not a hoyden, not given to romping, nor prone to 
boxing. It were to be wished devoutly that she had not 
struck Mr Slope in the face. In doing so she derogated from 
her dignity and committed herself. Had she been educated in 
Belgravia, had she been brought up by any sterner mentor 
than that fond father, had she lived longer under the rule 
of a husband, she might, perhaps, have saved herself from 
this great fault. As it was, the provocation was too much 
for her, the temptation to instant resentment of the insult 
too strong. She was too keen in the feeling of independence, 
a feeling dangerous for a young woman, but one in which her 
position peculiarly tempted her to indulge. And then Mr 
Slope's face, tinted with a deeper dye than usual by the 
wine he had drunk, simpering and puckering itself with 
pseudo piety and tender grimaces, seemed specially to call 
for such punishment. She had, too, a true instinct as to the 
man; he was capable of rebuke in this way and in no other. 
To him the blow from her little hand was as much an insult 
as a blow from a man would have been to another. It went 
direct to his pride. He conceived himself lowered in his 
dignity, and personally outraged. He could almost have 
struck at her again in his rage. Even the pain was a great 
annoyance to him, and the feeling that his clerical 
character had been wholly disregarded, sorely vexed him.
There are such men; men who can endure no taint on their 
personal self-respect, even from a woman - men whose bodies 
are to themselves such sacred temples, that a joke against 
them is desecration, and a rough touch downright sacrilege. 
Mr Slope was such a man; and, therefore, the slap on the 
face that he got from Eleanor was, as far as he was 
concerned, the fittest rebuke which could have been 
administered to him.
But, nevertheless, she should not have raised her hand 
against the man. Ladies' hands, so soft, so sweet, so 
delicious to the touch, so grateful to the eye, so gracious 
in their gentle doings, were not made to belabour men's 
faces. The moment the deed was done Eleanor felt that she 
had sinned against all propriety, and would have given 
little worlds to recall the blow. In her first agony of 
sorrow she all but begged the man's pardon. Her next 
impulse, however, and the one which she obeyed, was to run 
away.
'I never, never will speak another word to you,' she said, 
gasping with emotion and the loss of breath which her 
exertion and violent feelings occasioned her, and so saying 
she put foot to the ground and ran quickly back along the 
path to the house.
But how shall I sing the divine wrath of Mr Slope, or how 
invoke the tragic muse to describe the rage which swelled 
the celestial bosom of the bishop's chaplain? Such an 
undertaking by no means befits the low-heeled buskin of 
modern fiction. The painter put a veil over Agamemnon's face 
when called on to depict the father's grief at the early 
doom of his devoted daughter. The god, when he resolved to 
punish the rebellious winds, abstained from mouthing empty 
threats. We will not attempt to tell with what mighty 
surgings of the inner heart Mr Slope swore to revenge 
himself on the woman who had disgraced him, nor will we 
vainly strive to depict his deep agony of soul.
There he is, however, alone in the garden walk, and we must 
contrive to bring him out of it. He was not willing to come 
forth quite at once. His cheek was stinging with the weight 
of Eleanor's fingers, and he fancied that everyone who 
looked at him would be able to see on his face the traces of 
what he had endured. He stood awhile, becoming redder and 
redder with rage. He stood motionless, undecided, glaring 
with his eyes, thinking of the pains and penalties of Hades, 
and meditating how he might best devote his enemy to the 
infernal gods with all the passion of his accustomed 
eloquence. He longed in his heart to be preaching at her. 
'Twas thus that he was ordinarily avenged of sinning mortal 
men and women. Could he at once have ascended his Sunday 
rostrum and fulminated at her such denunciations as his 
spirit delighted in, his bosom would have been greatly 
eased.
But how preach to Mr Thorne's laurels, or how preach indeed 
at all in such a vanity fair as this now going on at 
Ullathorne? And then he began to feel a righteous disgust at 
the wickedness of the doings around him. He had been justly 
chastised for lending, by his presence, a sanction to such 
worldly lures. The gaiety of society, the mirth of banquets, 
the laughter of the young, and the eating and drinking of 
the elders were, for a while, without excuse in his sight. 
What had he now brought down upon himself by sojourning thus 
in the tents of the heathen? He had consorted with idolaters 
round the altars of Baal; and therefore a sore punishment 
had come upon him. He then thought of the Signora Neroni, 
and his soul within him was full of sorrow. He had an 
inkling - a true inkling - that he was a wicked, sinful man; 
but it led him in no right direction; he could admit no 
charity in his heart. He felt debasement coming on him, and 
he longed to shake it off, to rise up in his stirrup, to 
mount to high places and great power, that he might get up 
into a mighty pulpit and preach to the world a loud sermon 
against Mrs Bold.
There he stood fixed to the gravel for about ten minutes. 
Fortune favoured him so far that no prying eyes came to look 
upon him in his misery. Then a shudder passed over his whole 
frame; he collected himself, and slowly wound his way round 
to the lawn, advancing along the path and not returning in 
the direction which Eleanor had taken. When he reached the 
tent he found the bishop standing there in conversation with 
the master of Lazarus. His lordship had come out to air 
himself after the exertion of his speech.
'This is very pleasant - very pleasant, my lord, is it not?' 
said Mr Slope with his most gracious smile, and pointing to 
the tent; 'very pleasant. It is delightful to see so many 
persons enjoying themselves so thoroughly.'
Mr Slope thought he might force the bishop to introduce him 
to Dr Gwynne. A very great example had declared and 
practised the wisdom of being everything to everybody, and 
Mr Slope was desirous of following it. His maxim was never 
to lose a chance. The bishop, however, at the present moment 
was not very anxious to increase Mr Slope's circle of 
acquaintance among his clerical brethren. He had his own 
reasons for dropping any marked allusion to his domestic 
chaplain, and he therefore made his shoulder rather cold for 
the occasion. 
'Very, very,' said he without turning round, or even 
deigning to look at Mr Slope. 'And therefore, Dr Gwynne, I 
really think that you will find that the hebdomadal board 
will exercise as wide and as general an authority as at the 
present moment. I, for one, Dr Gwynne -'
'Dr Gwynne,' said Mr Slope, raising his hat, and resolving 
not to be outwitted by such an insignificant little goose as 
the bishop of Barchester.
The master of Lazarus also raised his hat and bowed very 
politely to Mr Slope. There is not a more courteous 
gentleman in the queen's dominions than the master of 
Lazarus.
'My lord,' said Mr Slope; 'pray do me the honour of 
introducing me to Dr Gwynne. The opportunity is too much in 
my favour to be lost.'
The bishop had no help for it. 'My chaplain, Dr Gwynne,' 
said he; 'my present chaplain, Mr Slope.' He certainly made 
the introduction as unsatisfactory to the chaplain as 
possible, and by the use of the word present, seemed to 
indicate that Mr Slope might probably not long enjoy the 
honour which he now held. But Mr Slope cared nothing for 
this. He understood the innuendo, and disregarded it. It 
might probably come to pass that he would be in a situation 
to resign his chaplaincy before the bishop was in a 
situation to dismiss him from it. What need the future dean 
of Barchester care for the bishop, or for the bishop's wife? 
Had not Mr Slope, just as he was entering Dr Stanhope's 
carriage, received an all-important note from Tom Towers of 
The Jupiter? had he not that note this moment in his pocket?
So, disregarding the bishop, he began to open out a 
conversation with the master of Lazarus.
But suddenly an interruption came, not altogether unwelcome 
to Mr Slope. One of the bishop's servants came up to his 
master's shoulder with a long, grave face, and whispered 
into the bishop's ear.
'What is it, John?' said the bishop.
'The dean, my lord; he is dead.'
Mr Slope had no further desire to converse with the master 
of Lazarus, and was very soon on his road back to 
Barchester.
Eleanor, as we have said, having declared her intention of 
never holding further communication with Mr Slope, ran 
hurriedly back towards the house. The thought, however, of 
what she had done grieved her greatly, and she could not 
abstain from bursting into tears. 'Twas thus she played the 
second act in that day's melodrama.


Chapter 41

Mrs Bold confides her Sorrow to her friend Miss Stanhope

When Mrs Bold came to the end of the walk and faced the lawn 
she began to bethink herself what she should do. Was she to 
wait there till Mr Slope caught her, or was she to go in 
among the crowd with tears in her eyes and passion in her 
face? She might in truth have stood there long enough 
without any reasonable fear of further immediate persecution 
from Mr Slope; but we are all inclined to magnify the 
bugbears which frighten us. In her present state of dread 
she did not know of what atrocity he might venture to be 
guilty. Had anyone told her a week ago that he would have 
put his arm round her waist at this party of Miss Thorne's, 
she would have been utterly incredulous. Had she been 
informed that he would be seen on the following Sunday 
walking down the High Street in a scarlet coat and top-
boots, she would not have thought such a phenomenon more 
improbable.
But this improbable iniquity he had committed; and now there 
was nothing she could not believe of him. In the first 
place, it was quite manifest that he was tipsy; in the next 
place, it was to be taken as proved that all his religion 
was sheer hypocrisy; and finally the man was utterly 
shameless. She therefore stood watching for the sound of his 
footfall, not without some fear that he might creep out at 
her suddenly from among the bushes.
As she thus stood, she saw Charlotte Stanhope at a little 
distance from her walking quickly across the grass. 
Eleanor's handkerchief was in her hand, and putting it to 
her face so as to conceal her tears, she ran across the lawn 
and joined her friend.
'Oh, Charlotte,' she said, almost too much out of breath to 
speak very plainly; 'I am so glad I have found you.'
'Glad you have found me!' said Charlotte, laughing: 'that's 
a good joke. Why, Bertie and I have been looking for you 
everywhere. He swears that you have gone off with Mr Slope, 
and is now on the point of hanging himself.'
'Oh, Charlotte, don't,' said Mrs Bold.
'Why, my child, what on earth is the matter with you!' said 
Miss Stanhope, perceiving that Eleanor's hand trembled on 
her own arm, and finding also that her companion was still 
half-choked by tears. 'Goodness heaven! something has 
distressed you. What is it? What can I do for you?'
Eleanor answered her only by a sort of spasmodic gurgle in 
her throat. She was a good deal upset, as people say, and 
could not at the moment collect herself.
'Come here, this way, Mrs Bold; come this way, and we shall 
not be seen. What has happened to vex you so? What can I do 
for you? Can Bertie do anything?'
'Oh, no, no, no, no,' said Eleanor. 'There is nothing to be 
done. Only that horrid man -'
'What horrid man?' asked Charlotte.
There are some moments in life in which both men and women 
feel themselves imperatively called on to make a confidence; 
in which not to do so requires a disagreeable resolution and 
also a disagreeable suspicion. There are people of both 
sexes who never make confidences; who are never tempted by 
momentary circumstances to disclose their secrets; but such 
are generally dull, close, unimpassioned spirits, 'gloomy 
gnomes, who live in cold dark mines.' There was nothing of 
the gnome about Eleanor; and she therefore resolved to tell 
Charlotte Stanhope the whole story about Mr Slope.
'That horrid man; that Mr Slope,' said she: 'did you not see 
that he followed me out of the dining-room?'
'Of course I did, and was sorry enough; but I could not help 
it. I knew you would be annoyed. But you and Bertie managed 
it badly between you.'
'It was not his fault nor mine either. You know how I 
disliked the idea of coming in the carriage with that man.'
'I am sure I am very sorry if that has led to it.'
'I don't know what has led to it,' said Eleanor, almost 
crying again. 'But it has not been my fault.'
'But what has he done, my dear?'
'He's an abominable, horrid, hypocritical man, and it would 
serve him right to tell the bishop all about it.'
'Believe me, if you want to do him an injury, you had far 
better tell Mrs Proudie. But what did he do, Mrs Bold?'
'Ugh!' exclaimed Eleanor.
'Well, I must confess he's not very nice,' said Charlotte 
Stanhope.
'Nice!' said Eleanor. 'He is the most fulsome, fawning, 
abominable man I ever saw. What business had he to come to 
me? - I that never gave him the slightest tittle of 
encouragement - I that always hated him, though I did take 
his part when others ran him down.'
'That's just where it is, my dear. He has heard that, and 
therefore fancied that of course you were in love with him.'
This was wormwood to Eleanor. It was in fact the very thing 
which all her friends had been saying for the last month 
past; and which experience now proved to be true. Eleanor 
resolved within herself that she would never again take any 
man's part. The world with all its villainy, and all its ill-
nature, might wag as it liked; she would not again attempt 
to set crooked things straight.
'But what did he do, my dear?' said Charlotte, who was 
really rather interested in the subject.
'He-he-he -'
'Well - come, it can't have been anything so very horrid, 
for the man was not tipsy.'
'Oh, I am sure he was,' said Eleanor. 'I am sure he must 
have been tipsy.'
'Well, I declare I didn't observe it. But what was it, my 
love?'
'Why, I believe I can hardly tell you. He talked such horrid 
stuff that you never heard the like; about religion, and 
heaven, and love. - Oh, dear - he is such a nasty man.'
'I can easily imagine the sort of stuff he would talk. Well -
 and then - ?'
'And then - he took hold of me.'
'Took hold of you?'
'Yes - he somehow got close to me, and took hold of me -'
'By the waist?'
'Yes,' said Eleanor shuddering.
'And then -'
'Then I jumped away from him, and gave him a slap on the 
face; and ran away along the path, till I saw you.'
'Ha, ha, ha!' Charlotte Stanhope laughed heartily at the 
finale to the tragedy. It was delightful to her to think 
that Mr Slope had had his ears boxed. She did not quite 
appreciate the feeling which made her friend so unhappy at 
the result of the interview. To her thinking, the matter had 
ended happily enough as regarded the widow, who indeed was 
entitled to some sort of triumph among her friends. Whereas 
to Mr Slope would be due all those jibes and jeers which 
would naturally follow such an affair. His friends would ask 
him whether his ears tingled whenever he saw a widow; and he 
would be cautioned that beautiful things were made to be 
looked at, and not to be touched.
Such were Charlotte Stanhope's views on such matters; but 
she did not at the present moment clearly explain them to 
Mrs Bold. Her object was to endear herself to her friend; 
and therefore, having had her laugh, she was ready enough to 
offer sympathy. Could Bertie do anything? Should Bertie 
speak to the man, and warn him that in future he must behave 
with more decorum? Bertie, indeed, she declared, would be 
more angry than anyone else when he heard to what insult Mrs 
Bold had been subjected.
'But you won't tell him?' said Mrs Bold with a look of 
horror.
'Not if you don't like it,' said Charlotte; 'but considering 
everything, I would strongly advise it. If you had a 
brother, you know, it would be unnecessary. But it is very 
right that Mr Slope should know that you have somebody by 
you that will, and can protect you.'
'But my father is here.'
'Yes, but it is so disagreeable for clergymen to have to 
quarrel with each other; and circumstanced as your father is 
just at this moment, it would be very inexpedient that there 
should be anything unpleasant between him and Mr Slope. 
Surely you and Bertie are intimate enough for you to permit 
him to take your part.'
Charlotte Stanhope was very anxious that her brother should 
at once on that very day settle matters with his future 
wife. Things had now come to that point between him and his 
father, and between him and his creditors, that he must 
either do so, or leave Barchester; either do that, or go 
back to his unwashed associates, dirty lodgings, and poor 
living at Carrara. Unless he could provide himself with an 
income, he must go to Carrara, or to --. His father the 
prebendary had not said this in so many words, but had he 
done so, he could not have signified it more plainly.
Such being the state of the case, it was very necessary that 
no more time should be lost. Charlotte had seen her 
brother's apathy, when he neglected to follow Mrs Bold out 
of the room, with anger which she could hardly suppress. It 
was grievous to think that Mr Slope should have so distanced 
him. Charlotte felt that she had played her part with 
sufficient skill. She had brought them together and induced 
such a degree of intimacy, that her brother was really 
relieved from all trouble and labour in the matter. And 
moreover, it was quite plain that Mrs Bold was very fond of 
Bertie. And now it was plain enough also that he had nothing 
to fear from his rival Mr Slope. 
There was certainly an awkwardness in subjecting Mrs Bold to 
a second offer on the same day. It would have been well 
perhaps to have put the matter off for a week, could a week 
have been spared. But circumstances are frequently too 
peremptory to be arranged as we would wish to arrange them; 
and such was the case now. This being so, could not this 
affair of Mr Slope's be turned to advantage? Could it not be 
made the excuse for bringing Bertie and Mrs Bold into still 
closer connection; into such close connection that they 
could not fail to throw themselves into each other's arms? 
Such was the game which Miss Stanhope now at a moment's 
notice resolved to play.
And very well she played it. In the first place, it was 
arranged that Mr Slope should not return in the Stanhopes' 
carriage to Barchester. It so happened that Mr Slope was 
already gone, but of that of course they knew nothing. The 
signora should be induced to go first, with only the 
servants and her sister, and Bertie should take Mr Slope's 
place in the second journey. Bertie was to be told in 
confidence of the whole affair, and when the carriage was 
gone off with its first load, Eleanor was to be left under 
Bertie's special protection, so as to insure her from any 
further aggression from Mr Slope. While the carriage was 
getting ready, Bertie was to seek out that gentleman and 
make him understand that he must provide himself with 
another conveyance back to Barchester. Their immediate 
object should be to walk about together in search of Bertie. 
Bertie, in short, was to be the Pegasus on whose wings they 
were to ride out of their present dilemma.
There was a warmth of friendship and cordial kindliness in 
all this, that was very soothing to the widow; but yet, 
though she gave way to it, she was hardly reconciled to 
doing so. It never occurred to her, that now that she had 
killed one dragon, another was about to spring up in her 
path; she had no remote idea that she would have to 
encounter another suitor in her proposed protector, but she 
hardly liked the thought of putting herself so much into the 
hands of young Stanhope. She felt that if she wanted 
protection, she should go to her father. She felt that she 
should ask him to provide a carriage for her back to 
Barchester. Mrs Clantantram she knew would give her a seat. 
She knew that she should not throw herself entirely upon 
friends whose friendship dated as it were but from 
yesterday. But yet she could not say 'no' to one who was so 
sisterly in her kindness, so eager in her good nature, so 
comfortably sympathetic as Charlotte Stanhope. And thus she 
gave way to all the propositions made to her.
They first went into the dining-room, looking for their 
champion, and from thence to the drawing-room. Here they 
found Mr Arabin, still hanging over the signora's sofa; or, 
rather, they found him sitting near her head, as a physician 
might have sat, had the lady been his patient. There was no 
other person in the room. The guests were some in the tent, 
some few still in the dining-room, some at the bows and 
arrows but most of them walking with Miss Thorne through the 
park, and looking at the games that were going on.
All that had passed, and was passing between Mr Arabin and 
the lady, it is unnecessary to give in detail. She was doing 
with him as she did with all others. It was her mission to 
make fools of men, and she was pursuing her mission with Mr 
Arabin. She had almost got him to own his love for Mrs Bold, 
and had subsequently almost induced him to acknowledge a 
passion for herself. He, poor man, was hardly aware what he 
was doing or saying, hardly conscious whether he was in 
heaven or hell. So little had he known of female attractions 
of that peculiar class which the signora owned, that he 
became affected with a kind of temporary delirium, when 
first subjected to its power. He lost his head rather than 
his heart, and toppled about mentally, reeling in his ideas 
as a drunken man does on his legs. She had whispered to him 
words that really meant nothing, but which coming from such 
beautiful lips, and accompanied by such lustrous glances, 
seemed to have a mysterious significance, which he felt 
though he could not understand.
In being thus be-sirened, Mr Arabin behaved himself very 
differently from Mr Slope. The signora had said truly, that 
the two men were the contrasts of each other; that the one 
was all for action, the other all for thought. Mr Slope, 
when this lady laid upon his senses the overpowering breath 
of her charms, immediately attempted to obtain some 
fruition, to achieve some mighty triumph. He began by 
catching at her hand, and progressed by kissing it. He made 
vows of love, and asked for vows in return. He promised 
everlasting devotion, knelt before her, and swore that had 
she been on Mount Ida, Juno would have had no cause to hate 
the offspring of Venus. But Mr Arabin uttered no oaths, kept 
his hand mostly in his trousers pocket, and had no more 
thought of kissing Madame Neroni than of kissing the 
Countess De Courcy.
As soon as Mr Arabin saw Mrs Bold enter the room, he blushed 
and rose from his chair; then he sat down again, and then 
again got up. The signora saw the blush at once, and smiled 
at the poor victim, but Eleanor was too much confused to see 
anything.
'Oh, Madeline,' said Charlotte, 'I want to speak to you 
particularly; we must arrange about the carriage, you know,' 
and she stooped down to whisper to her sister. Mr Arabin 
immediately withdrew to a little distance, and as Charlotte 
had in fact much to explain before she could make the new 
carriage arrangements intelligible, he had nothing to do but 
to talk to Mrs Bold.
'We have had a very pleasant party,' said he, using the tone 
he would have used had he declared that the sun was shining 
very brightly, or the rain falling very fast.
'Very,' said Eleanor, who never in her life had passed a 
more unpleasant day.
'I hope Mr Harding has enjoyed himself.'
'Oh, yes, very much,' said Eleanor, who had not seen her 
father since she parted from him soon after her arrival.
'He returns to Barchester tonight, I suppose.'
'Yes, I believe so; that is, I think he is staying at 
Plumstead.'
'Oh, staying at Plumstead,' said Mr Arabin.
'He came from there this morning. I believe he is going 
back; he didn't exactly say, however.'
'I hope Mrs Grantly is quite well.'
'She seemed to be quite well. She is here; that is, unless 
she has gone away.'
'Oh, yes, to be sure. I was talking to her. Looking very 
well indeed.' Then there was a considerable pause; for 
Charlotte could not at once make Madeline understand why she 
was to be sent home in a hurry without her brother.
'Are you returning to Plumstead, Mrs Bold?' Mr Arabin merely 
asked this by way of making conversation, but he immediately 
perceived that he was approaching dangerous ground.
'No,' said Mrs Bold, very quietly; 'I am going home to 
Barchester.'
'Oh, ah, yes. I had forgotten that you had returned.' And 
then Mr Arabin, finding it impossible to say anything 
further, stood silent till Charlotte had completed her 
plans, and Mrs Bold stood equally silent, intently occupied 
as it appeared in the arrangement of her rings.
And yet these two people were thoroughly in love with each 
other; and though one was a middle-aged clergyman, and the 
other a lady at any rate past the wishy-washy bread-and-
butter period of life, they were as unable to tell their own 
minds to each other as any Damon and Phillis, whose united 
ages would not make up that to which Mr Arabin had already 
attained.
Madeline Neroni consented to her sister's proposal, and then 
the two ladies again went off in quest of Bertie Stanhope.



Chapter 42

Ullathorne Sports - Act 3

And now Miss Thorne's guests were beginning to take their 
departure, and the amusement of those who remained was 
becoming slack. It was getting dark, and ladies in morning 
costumes were thinking that if they were to appear by candle-
light they ought to readjust themselves. Some young 
gentlemen had been heard to talk so loud that prudent mammas 
determined to retire judiciously, and the more discreet of 
the male sex, whose libations had been moderate, felt that 
there was not much more left for them to do.
Morning parties, as a rule, are failures. People never know 
how to get away from them gracefully. A picnic on an island 
or a mountain or in a wood may perhaps be permitted. There 
is no master of the mountain bound by courtesy to bid you 
stay while in his heart he is longing for your departure. 
But in a private house or in private grounds a morning party 
is a bore. One is called on to eat and drink at unnatural 
hours. One is obliged to give up the day which is useful, 
and is then left without resource for the evening which is 
useless. One gets home fagged and desoeuvre, and yet at an 
hour too early for bed. There is no comfortable resource 
left. Cards in these genteel days are among the things 
tabooed, and a rubber of whist is impracticable.
All this began now to be felt. Some young people had come 
with some amount of hope that they might get up a dance in 
the evening, and were unwilling to leave till all such hope 
was at an end. Others, fearful of staying longer than was 
expected, had ordered their carriages early, and were doing 
their best to go, solicitous for their servants and horses. 
The countess and her noble brood were among the first to 
leave, and as regarded the Hon. George, it was certainly 
time that he did so. Her ladyship was in a great fret and 
fume. Those horrid roads would, she was sure, be the death 
of her if unhappily she were caught in them by the dark 
night. The lamps she was assured were good, but no lamp 
could withstand the jolting of the roads of East 
Barsetshire. The De Courcy property lay in the western 
division of the county.
Mrs Proudie could not stay when the countess was gone. So 
the bishop was searched for by the Revs. Messrs Grey and 
Green, and found in one corner of the tent enjoying himself 
thoroughly in a disquisition on the hebdomadal board. He 
obeyed, however, the behests of his lady without finishing 
the sentence in which he was promising to Dr Gwynne that his 
authority at Oxford should remain unimpaired; and the 
episcopal horses turned their noses towards the palatial 
stables. Then the Grantlys went. Before they did so, Mr 
Harding managed to whisper a word into his daughter's ear. 
Of course, he said, he would undeceive the Grantlys as to 
that foolish rumour about Mr Slope.
'No, no, no,' said Eleanor; 'pray do not - pray wait till I 
see you. You will be home in a day or two, and then I will 
explain to you everything.'
'I shall be home tomorrow,' said he.
'I am so glad,' said Eleanor. 'You will come and dine with 
me, and then we shall be so comfortable.'
Mr Harding promised. He did not exactly know what there was 
to be explained, or why Dr Grantly's mind should not be 
disabused of the mistake into which he had fallen; but 
nevertheless he promised. He owed some reparation to his 
daughter, and he thought that he might best make it by 
obedience.
And thus the people were thinning off by degrees, as 
Charlotte and Eleanor walked about in quest of Bertie. Their 
search might have been long, had they not happened to hear 
his voice. He was comfortably ensconced in the ha-ha, with 
his back to the sloping side, smoking a cigar, and eagerly 
engaged in conversation with some youngster from the further 
side of the county, whom he had never met before, who was 
also smoking under Bertie's pupilage, and listening with 
open ears to an account given by his companion of some of 
the pastimes of Eastern clime.
'Bertie, I am seeking you everywhere,' said Charlotte. 'Come 
up here at once.'
Bertie looked up out of the ha-ha, and saw the two ladies 
before him. As there was nothing for him but to obey, he got 
up and threw away his cigar. From the first moment of his 
acquaintance with her he had liked Eleanor Bold. Had he been 
left to his own devices, had she been penniless, and had it 
then been quite out of the question that he should marry 
her, he would most probably have fallen violently in love 
with her. But now he could not help regarding her somewhat 
as he did the marble workshops at Carrara, as he had done 
his easel and palette, as he had done the lawyer's chambers 
in London; in fact, as he had invariably regarded everything 
by which it had been proposed to him to obtain the means of 
living. Eleanor Bold appeared before him, no longer as a 
beautiful woman, but as a new profession called matrimony. 
It was a profession indeed requiring but little labour, and 
one in which an income was insured to him. But nevertheless 
he had been as it were goaded on to it; his sister had 
talked to him of Eleanor, just as she had talked of busts 
and portraits. Bertie did not dislike money, but he hated 
the very thought of earning it. He was now called away from 
his pleasant cigar to earn it, by offering himself as a 
husband to Mrs Bold. The work indeed was made easy enough; 
for in lieu of his having to seek the widow, the widow had 
apparently come to seek him.
He made some sudden absurd excuse to his auditor, and then 
throwing away his cigar, climbed up the wall of the ha-ha 
and joined the ladies on the lawn.
'Come and give Mrs Bold an arm,' said Charlotte, 'while I 
set you on a piece of duty which, as a preux chevalier, you 
must immediately perform. Your personal danger will, I fear, 
be insignificant, as your antagonist is a clergyman.'
Bertie immediately gave his arm to Eleanor, walking between 
her and his sister. He had lived too long abroad to fall 
into the Englishman's habit of offering each an arm to two 
ladies at the same time - a habit, by the bye, which 
foreigners regard as an approach to bigamy, or a sort of 
incipient Mormonism.
The little history of Mr Slope's misconduct was then told to 
Bertie by his sister, Eleanor's ears tingling the while. And 
well they might tingle. If it were necessary to speak of the 
outrage at all, why should it be spoken of to such a person 
as Mr Stanhope, and why in her own hearing? She knew she was 
wrong, and was unhappy and dispirited, and yet she could 
think of no way to extricate herself, no way to set herself 
right. Charlotte spared her as much as she possibly could, 
spoke of the whole thing as though Mr Slope had taken a 
glass of wine too much, said that of course there would be 
nothing more about it, but that steps must be taken to 
exclude Mr Slope from the carriage.
'Mrs Bold need be under no alarm about that,' said Bertie, 
'for Mr Slope has gone this hour past. He told me that 
business made it necessary that he should start at once for 
Barchester.'
'He is not so tipsy, at any rate, but what he knows his 
fault,' said Charlotte. 'Well, my dear, that is one 
difficulty over. Now I'll leave you with your true knight, 
and get Madeline off as quickly as I can. The carriage is 
here, I suppose, Bertie?'
'It has been here for the last hour.'
'That's well. Good-bye, my dear. Of course you'll come in to 
tea. I shall trust to you to bring her, Bertie; even by 
force if necessary.' And so saying, Charlotte ran off across 
the lawn, leaving her brother alone with the widow.
As Miss Stanhope went off, Eleanor bethought herself that, 
as Mr Slope had taken his departure, there no longer existed 
any necessity for separating Mr Stanhope from his sister 
Madeline, who so much needed his aid. It had been arranged 
that he should remain so as to preoccupy Mr Slope's place in 
the carriage, and act as a social policeman to effect the 
exclusion of that disagreeable gentleman. But Mr Slope had 
effected his own exclusion, and there was no possible reason 
now why Bertie should not go with his sister. At least 
Eleanor saw none, and she said as much.
'Oh, let Charlotte have her own way,' said he. 'She has 
arranged it, and there will be no end of confusion, if we 
make another change. Charlotte always arranges everything in 
our house; and rules us like a despot.'
'But the signora?' said Eleanor.
'Oh, the signora can do very well without me. Indeed, she 
will have to do without me,' he added, thinking rather of 
his studies in Carrara, than of his Barchester hymeneals.
'Why, you are not going to leave us?' asked Eleanor.
It has been said that Bertie Stanhope was a man without 
principle. He certainly was so. He had no power of using 
active mental exertion to keep himself from doing evil. Evil 
had no ugliness in his eyes; virtue no beauty. He was void 
of any of those feelings which actuate men to do good. But 
he was perhaps equally void of those which actuate men to do 
evil. He got into debt with utter recklessness, thinking 
nothing as to whether the tradesmen would ever be paid or 
not. But he did not invent active schemes of deceit for the 
sake of extracting the goods of others. If a man gave him 
credit, that was the man's look-out; Bertie Stanhope 
troubled himself nothing further. In borrowing money he did 
the same; he gave people references to 'his governor'; told 
them that the 'old chap' had a good income; and agreed to 
pay sixty per cent. for the accommodation. All this he did 
without a scruple of conscience; but then he never contrived 
active villainy. 
In this affair of his marriage, it had been represented to 
him as a matter of duty that he ought to put himself in 
possession of Mrs Bold's hand and fortune; and at first he 
had so regarded it. About her he had thought but little. It 
was the customary thing for men situated as he was to marry 
for money, and there was no reason why he should not do what 
others around him did. And so he consented. But now he began 
to see the matter in another light. He was setting himself 
down to catch this woman, as a cat sits to catch a mouse. He 
was to catch her, and swallow her up, her and her child, and 
her house and land, in order that he might live on her 
instead of on his father. There was a cold, calculating, 
cautious cunning about this quite at variance with Bertie's 
character. The prudence of the measure was quite as 
antagonistic to his feelings as the iniquity.
And then, should he be successful, what would be the reward? 
Having satisfied his creditors with half of the widow's 
fortune, he would be allowed to sit down quietly at 
Barchester, keeping economical house with the remainder. His 
duty would be to rock the cradle of the late Mr Bold's 
child, and his highest excitement a demure party at 
Plumstead rectory, should it ultimately turn out that the 
archdeacon would be sufficiently reconciled to receive him.
There was very little in the programme to allure such a man 
as Bertie Stanhope. Would not the Carrara workshop, or 
whatever worldly career fortune might have in store for him, 
would not almost anything be better than this? The lady 
herself was undoubtedly all that was desirable; but the most 
desirable lady becomes nauseous when she has to be taken as 
a pill. He was pledged to his sister, however, and let him 
quarrel with whom he would, it behoved him not to quarrel 
with her. If she were lost to him all would be lost that he 
could ever hope to derive henceforward from the paternal 
roof-tree. His mother was apparently indifferent to his weal 
or woe, to his wants or his welfare. His father's brow got 
blacker and blacker from day to day, as the old man looked 
at his hopeless son. And as for Madeline - poor Madeline, 
whom of all of them he liked the best - she had enough to do 
to shift for herself. No; come what might, he must cling to 
his sister and obey her behests, let them be ever so stern; 
or at the very least seem to obey them. Could not some happy 
deceit bring him through in this matter, so that he might 
save appearances with his sister, and yet not betray the 
widow to her ruin? What if he made a confederate of Eleanor? 
'Twas in this spirit that Bertie Stanhope set about his 
wooing.
'But you are not going to leave Barchester?' asked Eleanor.
'I do not know,' he replied; 'I hardly know yet what I am 
going to do. But it is at any rate certain that I must do 
something.'
'You mean about your profession?' said she.
'Yes, about my profession, if you can call it one.'
'And is it not one?' said Eleanor. 'Were I a man, I know 
none I should prefer to it, except painting. And I believe 
the one is as much in your power as the other.'
'Yes, just about equally so,' said Bertie, with a little 
touch of inward satire directed at himself. He knew in his 
heart that he would never make a penny by either.
'I have often wondered, Mr Stanhope, why you do not exert 
yourself more,' said Eleanor, who felt a friendly fondness 
for the man with whom she was walking. 'But I know it is 
very impertinent in me to say so.'
'Impertinent!' said he. 'Not so, but much too kind. It is 
much too kind in you to take any interest in so idle a 
scamp.'
'But you are not a scamp, though you are perhaps idle; and I 
do take an interest in you; a very great interest,' she 
added, in a voice which almost made him resolve to change 
his mind. 'And when I call you idle, I know you are only so 
for the present moment. Why can't you settle steadily to 
work here in Barchester?'
'And make busts of the bishop, dean and chapter? or perhaps, 
if I achieve a great success, obtain a commission to put up 
an elaborate tombstone over a prebendary's widow, a dead 
lady with a Grecian nose, a bandeau, and an intricate lace 
veil; lying of course on a marble sofa, from among the legs 
of which Death will be creeping out and poking at his victim 
with a small toasting-fork.'
Eleanor laughed; but yet she thought that if the surviving 
prebendary paid the bill, the object of the artist as a 
professional man would, in a great measure, be obtained.
'I don't know about the dean and chapter and the 
prebendary's widow,' said Eleanor. 'Of course you must take 
them as they come. But the fact of your having a great 
cathedral in which such ornaments are required, could not 
but be in your favour.'
'No real artist could descend to the ornamentation of a 
cathedral,' said Bertie, who had his ideas of the high 
ecstatic ambition of art, as indeed all artists have, who 
are not in receipt of a good income. 'Buildings should be 
fitted to grace the sculpture, not the sculpture to grace 
the building.' 
'Yes, when the work of art is good enough to merit it. Do 
you, Mr Stanhope, do something sufficiently excellent, and 
we ladies of Barchester will erect for it a fitting 
receptacle. Come, what shall the subject be?'
'I'll put you in your pony-chair, Mrs Bold, as Dannecker put 
Ariadne on her lion. Only you must promise to sit for me.'
'My ponies are too tame, I fear, and my broad-rimmed straw 
hat will not look so well in marble as the lace veil of the 
prebendary's wife.'
'If you will not consent to that, Mrs Bold, I will consent 
to try no other subject in Barchester.'
'You are determined, then, to push your fortune in other 
lands?'
'I am determined,' said Bertie, slowly and significantly, as 
he tried to bring up his mind to a great resolve; 'I am 
determined in this matter to be guided wholly by you.'
'Wholly by me!' said Eleanor, astonished at, and not quite 
liking, his altered manner.
'Wholly by you,' said Bertie, dropping his companion's arm, 
and standing before her on the path. In their walk they had 
come exactly to the spot in which Eleanor had been provoked 
into slapping Mr Slope's face. Could it be possible that 
this place was peculiarly unpropitious to her comfort? could 
it be possible that she should here have to encounter yet 
another amorous swain?
'If you will be guided by me, Mr Stanhope, you will set 
yourself down to steady and persevering work, and you will 
be ruled by your father as to the place in which it will be 
most advisable for you to do so.'
'Nothing could be more prudent, if only it were practicable. 
But now, if you will let me, I will tell you how it is that 
I will be guided by you, and why. Will you let me tell you?'
'I really do not know what you can have to tell.'
'No - you cannot know. It is impossible that you should. But 
we have been very good friends, Mrs Bold, have we not?'
'Yes, I think we have,' said she, observing in his demeanour 
an earnestness very unusual with him.
'You were kind enough to say just now that you took an 
interest in me, and I was perhaps vain enough to believe 
you.'
'There is no vanity in that; I do so as your sister's 
brother - and as my own friend also.'
'Well, I don't deserve that you should feel so kindly 
towards me,' said Bertie; 'but upon my word I am very 
grateful for it,' and he paused awhile, hardly knowing how 
to introduce the subject that he had in hand.
And it was no wonder that he found it difficult. He had to 
make known to his companion the scheme that had been 
prepared to rob her of her wealth; he had to tell her that 
he intended to marry her without loving her, or else that he 
loved her without intending to marry her; and he had also to 
bespeak from her not only his own pardon, but also that of 
his sister, and induce Mrs Bold to protest in her future 
communion with Charlotte that an offer had been duly made to 
her and duly rejected.
Bertie Stanhope was not prone to be very diffident of his 
own conversational powers, but it did seem to him that he 
was about to tax them almost too far. He hardly knew where 
to begin, and he hardly knew where he should end.
By this time Eleanor was again walking on slowly by his 
side, not taking his arm as she had heretofore done, but 
listening very intently for whatever Bertie might have to 
say to her.
'I wish to be guided by you,' said he; 'and, indeed, in this 
matter, there is no one else who can set me right.'
'Oh, that must be nonsense,' said she.
'Well, listen to me now, Mrs Bold; and if you can help it, 
pray don't be angry with me.'
'Angry!' said she.
'Oh, indeed you will have cause to be. You know how very 
much attached to you my sister Charlotte is.'
Eleanor acknowledged that she did.
'Indeed she is; I never knew her to love anyone so warmly on 
so short an acquaintance. You know also how well she loves 
me?'
Eleanor now made no answer, but she felt the blood tingle in 
her cheek as she gathered from what he said the probable 
result of this double-barrelled love on the part of Miss 
Stanhope.
'I am her only brother, Mrs Bold, and it is not to be 
wondered at that she should love me. But you do not yet know 
Charlotte - you do not know how entirely the well-being of 
our family hangs on her. Without her to manage for us, I do 
not know how we should get on from day to day. You cannot 
yet have observed all this.'
Eleanor had indeed observed a good deal of this; she did not 
however now say so, but allowed him to proceed with his 
story.
'You cannot therefore be surprised that Charlotte should be 
most anxious to do the best for us all.'
Eleanor said that she was not at all surprised.
'And she has had a very difficult game to play, Mrs Bold - a 
very difficult game. Poor Madeline's unfortunate marriage 
and terrible accident, my mother's ill-health, my father's 
absence from England, and last, and worst perhaps, my own 
roving, idle spirit have almost been too much for her. You 
cannot wonder if among all her cares one of the foremost is 
to see me settled in the world.'
Eleanor on this occasion expressed no acquiescence. She 
certainly supposed that a formal offer was to be made, and 
could not but think that so singular an exordium was never 
before made by a gentleman in a similar position. Mr Slope 
had annoyed her by the excess of his ardour. It was quite 
clear that no such danger was to be feared from Mr Stanhope. 
Prudential motives alone actuated him. Not only was he about 
to make love because his sister told him, but he also took 
the precaution of explaining all this before he began. 'Twas 
thus, we may presume, that the matter presented itself to 
Mrs Bold.
When he had got so far, Bertie began poking the gravel with 
a little cane which he carried. He still kept moving on, but 
very slowly, and his companion moved slowly by his side, not 
inclined to assist him in the task the performance of which 
appeared to be difficult to him.
'Knowing how fond she is of yourself, Mrs Bold, cannot you 
imagine what scheme should have occurred to her?'
'I can imagine no better scheme, Mr Stanhope, than the one I 
proposed to you just now.'
'No,' said he, somewhat lackadaisically; 'I suppose that 
would be the best; but Charlotte thinks another plan might 
be joined with it. - She wants me to marry you.'
A thousand remembrances flashed across Eleanor's mind all in 
a moment - how Charlotte had talked about and praised her 
brother, how she had continually contrived to throw the two 
of them together, how she had encouraged all manner of 
little intimacies, how she had with singular cordiality 
persisted in treating Eleanor as one of the family. All this 
had been done to secure her comfortable income for the 
benefit of one of the family!
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 'meum,' 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 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 off 
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 naively; '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 s de 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 spoke 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 43

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 day 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, detur digniori's 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. The 
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.'
'I wouldn't thank him,' said Letty the younger.
'Oh, it's the way of the world, my dear. They all do just 
the same. You might just as well be angry with the turkey 
cock for gobbling at you. It's the bird's nature.' And as 
she enunciated to her bairns the upshot of her practical 
experience, she pulled from her pocket the portions of tape 
which showed the length and breadth of the various rooms at 
the hospital house.
And so we will leave her happy in her toils.
The Quiverfuls had hardly left the palace, and Mrs Proudie 
was still holding forth on the matter to her husband, when 
another visitor was announced in the person of Dr Gwynne. 
The master of Lazarus had asked for the bishop, and not for 
Mrs Proudie, and therefore, when he was shown into the 
study, he was surprised rather than rejoiced to find the 
lady there.
But we must go back a little, and it shall be but a little, 
for a difficulty begins to make itself manifest in the 
necessity of disposing of all our friends in the small 
remainder of this one volume. Oh, that Mr Longman would 
allow me a fourth! It should transcend the other three as 
the seventh heaven transcends all the lower stages of 
celestial bliss.
Going home in the carriage that evening from Ullathorne, Dr 
Gwynne had not without difficulty brought round his friend 
the archdeacon to a line of tactics much less bellicose than 
that which his own taste would have preferred. 'It will be 
unseemly in us to show ourselves in a bad humour: and 
moreover we have no power in this matter, and it will 
therefore be bad policy to act as though we had.' 'Twas thus 
the master of Lazarus argued. 'If,' he continued, 'the 
bishop be determined to appoint another to the hospital, 
threats will not prevent him, and threats should not be 
lightly used by an archdeacon to his bishop. If he will 
place a stranger in the hospital, we can only leave him to 
the indignation of others. It is probable that such a step 
may not eventually injure your father-in-law. I will see the 
bishop, if you will allow me - alone.' At this the 
archdeacon winced visibly; 'yes, alone; for so I shall be 
calmer: and then I shall at any rate learn what he does mean 
to do in the matter.'
The archdeacon puffed and blew, put up the carriage window 
and then put it down again, argued the matter up to his own 
gate, and at last gave way. Everybody was against him, his 
own wife, Mr Harding, and Dr Gwynne.
'Pray keep him out of hot water, Dr Gwynne,' Mrs Grantly had 
said to her guest. 'My dearest madam, I'll do my best,' the 
courteous master had replied. 'Twas thus he did it; and 
earned for himself the gratitude of Mrs Grantly.
And now we may return to the bishop's study.
Dr Gwynne had certainly not foreseen the difficulty which 
here presented itself. He - together with all the clerical 
world of England - had heard it rumoured about that Mrs 
Proudie did not confine herself to her wardrobes, still-
rooms, and laundries; but yet it had never occurred to him 
that if he called on a bishop at one o'clock in the day, he 
could by any possibility find him closeted with his wife; or 
that if he did so, the wife would remain longer than 
necessary to make her curtsey. It appeared, however, as 
though in the present case Mrs Proudie had no idea of 
retreating.
The bishop had been very much pleased with Dr Gwynne on the 
preceding day, and of course thought that Dr Gwynne had been 
as much pleased with him. He attributed the visit solely to 
compliment, and thought it an extremely gracious and proper 
thing for the master of Lazarus to drive over from Plumstead 
specially to call at the palace so soon after his arrival in 
the country. The fact that they were not on the same side 
either in politics or doctrines made the compliment the 
greater. The bishop, therefore, was all smiles. And Mrs 
Proudie, who liked people with good handles to their names, 
was also very well disposed to welcome the master of 
Lazarus.
'We had a charming party at Ullathorne, Master, had we not?' 
said she. 'I hope Mrs Grantly got home without fatigue.'
Dr Gwynne said that they had all been a little tired, but 
were none the worse this morning.
'An excellent person, Miss Thorne,' suggested the bishop.
'And an exemplary Christian, I am told,' said Mrs Proudie.
Dr Gwynne declared that he was very glad to hear it. 'I have 
not seen her Sabbath-day schools yet,' continued the lady, 
'but I shall make a point of doing so before long.'
Dr Gwynne merely bowed at this intimation. He had heard 
something of Mrs Proudie and her Sunday schools, both from 
Dr Grantly and Mr Harding.
'By the bye, Master,' continued the lady, 'I wonder whether 
Mrs Grantly would like me to drive over and inspect her 
Sabbath-day school. I hear that it is most excellently 
kept.'
Dr Gwynne really could not say. He had no doubt Mrs Grantly 
would be most happy to see Mrs Proudie any day Mrs Proudie 
would do her the honour of calling: that was, of course, if 
Mrs Grantly should happen to be at home.
A slight cloud darkened the lady's brow. She saw that her 
offer was not taken in good part. This generation of 
unregenerated vipers was still perverse, stiff-necked, and 
hardened in their iniquity. 'The archdeacon, I know,' said 
she, 'sets his face against these institutions.'
At this Dr Gwynne laughed slightly. It was but a smile. Had 
he given his cap for it he could not have helped it.
Mrs Proudie frowned again. "'Suffer little children, and 
forbid them not,"' said she. 'Are we not to remember that, 
Dr Gwynne? "Take heed that ye despise not one of these 
little ones." Are we not to remember that, Dr Gwynne?' And 
at each of these questions she raised at him her menacing 
forefinger.
'Certainly, madam, certainly,' said the master, 'and so does 
the archdeacon, I am sure, on week days as well as on 
Sundays.'
'On week days you can't take heed not to despise them,' said 
Mrs Proudie, 'because then they are out in the fields. On 
week days they belong to their parents, but on Sundays they 
ought to belong to the clergyman.' And the finger was again 
raised.
The master began to understand and to share the intense 
disgust which the archdeacon always expressed when Mrs 
Proudie's name was mentioned. What was he to do with such a 
woman as this? To take his hat and go would have been his 
natural resource; but then he did not wish to be foiled in 
his object.
'My lord,' said he, 'I wanted to ask you a question on 
business, if you could spare me one moment's leisure. I know 
I must apologise for so disturbing you; but in truth I will 
not detain you five minutes.'
'Certainly, Master, certainly,' said the bishop; 'my time is 
quite yours - pray make no apology, pray make no apology.'
'You have a great deal to do just at the present moment, 
bishop.
Do not forget how extremely busy you are at present,' said 
Mrs Proudie, whose spirit was now up; for she was angry with 
her visitor.
'I will not delay his lordship much above a minute,' said 
the master of Lazarus, rising from his chair, and expecting 
that Mrs Proudie would now go, or else that the bishop would 
lead the way into another room.
But neither event seemed likely to occur, and Dr Gwynne 
stood for a moment silent in the middle of the room.
'Perhaps it's about Hiram's Hospital?' suggested Mrs 
Proudie.
Dr Gwynne, lost in astonishment, and not knowing what else 
on earth to do, confessed that his business with the bishop 
was connected with Hiram's Hospital.
'His lordship has finally conferred the appointment on Mr 
Quiverful this morning,' said the lady.
Dr Gwynne made a simple reference to the bishop, and finding 
that the lady's statement was formally confirmed, he took 
his leave. 'That comes of the reform bill,' he said to 
himself as he walked down the bishop's avenue. 'Well, at any 
rate the Greek play bishops were not so bad as that.'
It has been said that Mr Slope, as he started for 
Ullathorne, received a despatch from his friend, Mr Towers, 
which had the effect of putting him in that high good-humour 
which subsequent events somewhat untowardly damped. It ran 
as follows. Its shortness will be its sufficient apology.

'My dear Sir, - I wish you every success. I don't know that 
I can help you, but if I can, I will.

'Yours ever,
'T. T.
	30/9/185-'

There was more in this than in all Sir Nicholas 
Fitzwhiggin's flummery; more than in all the bishop's 
promises, even had they been ever so sincere; more than in 
any archbishop's good word, even had it been possible to 
obtain it. Tom Towers would do for him what he could.
Mr Slope had from his youth upwards been a firm believer in 
the public press. He had dabbled in it himself ever since he 
had taken his degree, and regarded it as the great arranger 
and distributor of all future British terrestrial affairs 
whatever. He had not yet arrived at the age, an age which 
sooner or later comes to most of us, which dissipates the 
golden dreams of youth. He delighted in the idea of wresting 
power from the hands of his country's magnates, and placing 
it in a custody which was at any rate nearer to his own 
reach. Sixty thousand broad-sheets dispersing themselves 
daily among his reading fellow-citizens, formed in his eyes 
a better depot for supremacy than a throne at Windsor, a 
cabinet in Downing Street, or even an assembly at 
Westminster. And on this subject we must not quarrel with Mr 
Slope, for the feeling is too general to be met with 
disrespect.
Tom Towers was as good, if not better than his promise. On 
the following morning The Jupiter, spouting forth public 
opinion with sixty thousand loud clarions, did proclaim to 
the world that Mr Slope was the fitting man for the vacant 
post. It was pleasant for Mr Slope to read the following 
lines in the Barchester news-room, which he did within 
thirty minutes after the morning train from London had 
reached the city.
'It is just now five years since we called the attention of 
our readers to the quiet city of Barchester. From that day 
to this, we have in no way meddled with the affairs of that 
happy ecclesiastical community. Since then, an old bishop 
has died there, and a young bishop has been installed; but 
we believe we did not do more than give some customary 
record of the interesting event. Nor are we now about to 
meddle very deeply in the affairs of the diocese. If any of 
the chapter feel a qualm of conscience on reading thus far, 
let it be quieted. Above all, let the mind of the new bishop 
be at rest. We are now not armed for war, but approach the 
reverend towers of the old cathedral with an olive-branch in 
our hands.
'It will be remembered that at the time alluded to, now five 
years past, we had occasion to remark on the state of a 
charity in Barchester called Hiram's Hospital. We thought 
that it was maladministered, and that the very estimable and 
reverend gentleman who held the office of warden was 
somewhat too highly paid for duties which were somewhat too 
easily performed. This gentleman - and we say it in all 
sincerity and with no touch of sarcasm - had never looked on 
the matter in this light before. We do not wish to take 
praise to ourselves whether praise be due to us or not. But 
the consequence of our remark was, that the warden did look 
into the matter, and finding on so doing that he himself 
could come to no other opinion than that expressed by us, he 
very creditably threw up the appointment. The then bishop as 
creditably declined to fill the vacancy till the affair was 
put on a better footing. Parliament then took it up; and we 
have now the satisfaction of informing our readers that 
Hiram's Hospital will be immediately reopened under new 
auspices. Heretofore, provision was made for the maintenance 
of twelve old men. This will now be extended to the fair 
sex, and twelve elderly women, if any such can be found in 
Barchester, will be added to the establishment. There will 
be a matron; there will, it is hoped, be schools attached 
for the poorest of the children of the poor, and there will 
be a steward. The warden, for there will still be a warden, 
will receive an income more in keeping with the extent of 
the charity than that heretofore paid. The stipend we 
believe will be £450. We may add that the excellent house 
which the former warden inhabited will still be attached to 
the situation.
'Barchester hospital cannot perhaps boast a world-wide 
reputation; but as we adverted to its state of decadence, we 
think it right also to advert to its renaissance. May it go 
on and prosper. Whether the salutary reform which has been 
introduced within its walls has been carried as far as could 
have been desired, may be doubtful. The important question 
of the school appears to be somewhat left to the discretion 
of the new warden. This might have been made the most 
important part of the establishment, and the new warden, 
whom we trust we shall not offend by the freedom of our 
remarks, might have been selected with some view to his 
fitness as schoolmaster. But we will not now look a gift 
horse in the mouth. May the hospital go on and prosper! The 
situation of warden has of course been offered to the 
gentleman who so honourably vacated it five years since; but 
we are given to understand that he has declined it. Whether 
the ladies who have been introduced, be in his estimation 
too much for his powers of control, whether it be that the 
diminished income does not offer to him sufficient 
temptation to resume his old place, or that he has in the 
meantime assumed other clerical duties, we do not know. We 
are, however, informed that he has refused the offer, and 
that the situation has been accepted by Mr Quiverful, the 
vicar of Puddingdale.
'So much we think is due to Hiram redivivus. But while we 
are on the subject of Barchester, we will venture with all 
respectful humility to express our opinion on another 
matter, connected with the ecclesiastical polity of that 
ancient city. Dr Trefoil, the dean, died yesterday. A short 
record of his death, giving his age, and the various pieces 
of preferment which he has at different times held, will be 
found in another column of this paper. The only fault we 
knew in him was his age, and as that is a crime of which we 
all hope to be guilty, we will not bear heavily on it. May 
he rest in peace! But though the great age of an expiring 
dean cannot be made matter of reproach, we are not inclined 
to look on such a fault as at all pardonable in a dean just 
brought to the birth. We do hope that the days of 
sexagenarian appointments are past. If we want deans, we 
must want them for some purpose. That purpose will 
necessarily be better fulfilled by a man of forty than by a 
man of sixty. If we are to pay deans at all, we are to pay 
them for some sort of work. That work, be it what it may, 
will be best performed by a workman in the prime of life. Dr 
Trefoil, we see, was eighty when he died. As we have as yet 
completed no plan for pensioning superannuated clergymen, we 
do not wish to get rid of any existing deans of that age. 
But we prefer having as few such as possible. If a man of 
seventy be now appointed, we beg to point out to Lord -- 
that he will be past all use in a year or two, if indeed he 
be not so at the present moment. His lordship will allow us 
to remind him that all men are not evergreens like himself.
'We hear that Mr Slope's name has been mentioned for this 
preferment. Mr Slope is at present chaplain to the bishop. A 
better man could hardly be selected. He is a man of talent, 
young, active, and conversant with the affairs of the 
cathedral; he is moreover, we conscientiously believe, a 
truly pious clergyman. We know that his services in the city 
of Barchester have been highly appreciated. He is an 
eloquent preacher and a ripe scholar. Such a selection as 
this would go far to raise the confidence of the public in 
the present administration of church patronage, and would 
teach men to believe that from henceforth the establishment 
of our church will not afford easy couches to worn-out 
clerical voluptuaries.'
Standing at a reading-desk in the Barchester news-room, Mr 
Slope digested this article with considerable satisfaction. 
What was therein said as to the hospital was now 
comparatively matter of indifference to him. He was 
certainly glad that he had not succeeded in restoring to the 
place the father of that virago who had so audaciously 
outraged all decency in his person; and was so far 
satisfied. But Mrs Proudie's nominee was appointed, and he 
was so far dissatisfied. His mind, however, was now soaring 
above Mrs Bold or Mrs Proudie. He was sufficiently 
conversant with the tactics of The Jupiter to know that the 
pith of the article would lie in the last paragraph. The 
place of honour was given to him, and it was indeed as 
honourable as even he could have wished. He was very 
grateful to his friend Mr Towers, and with full heart looked 
forward to the day when he might entertain him in princely 
style at his own full-spread board in the deanery dining-
room.
It had been well for Mr Slope that Dr Trefoil had died in 
the autumn. Those caterers for our morning repast, the staff 
of The Jupiter, had been sorely put to it for the last month 
to find a sufficiency of proper pabulum. Just then there was 
no talk of a new American president. No wonderful tragedies 
had occurred on railway trains in Georgia, or elsewhere. 
There was a dearth of broken banks, and a dead dean with the 
necessity for a live one was a godsend. Had Dr Trefoil died 
in June, Mr Towers would probably not have known so much 
about the piety of Mr Slope.
And here we will leave Mr Slope for a while in his triumph; 
explaining, however, that his feelings were not altogether 
of a triumphant nature. His rejection by the widow, or 
rather the method of his rejection, galled him terribly. For 
days to come he positively felt the sting upon his cheek, 
whenever he thought of what had been done to him. He could 
not refrain from calling her by harsh names, speaking to 
himself as he walked through the streets of Barchester. When 
he said his prayers, he could not bring himself to forgive 
her. When he strove to do so, his mind recoiled from the 
attempt, and in lieu of forgiving ran off in a double spirit 
of vindictiveness, dwelling on the extent of the injury he 
had received. And so his prayers dropped senseless from his 
lips.
And then the signora; what would he not have given to be 
able to hate her also? As it was, he worshipped the very 
sofa on which she was ever lying. And thus it was not all 
rose colour with Mr Slope, although his hopes ran high.



Chapter 44

Mrs Bold at Home

Poor Mrs Bold, when she got home from Ullathorne on the 
evening of Miss Thorne's party, was very unhappy, and 
moreover, very tired. Nothing fatigues the body so much as 
weariness of spirit, and Eleanor's spirit was indeed weary.
Dr Stanhope had civilly but not very cordially asked her in 
to tea, and her manner of refusal convinced the worthy 
doctor that he need not repeat the invitation. He had not 
exactly made himself a party to the intrigue which was to 
convert the late Mr Bold's patrimony into an income for his 
hopeful son, but he had been well aware what was going on. 
And he was well aware also, when he perceived that Bertie 
declined accompanying them home in the carriage, that the 
affair had gone off.
Eleanor was very much afraid that Charlotte would have 
darted out upon her, as the prebendary got out at his own 
door, but Bertie had thoughtfully saved her from this, by 
causing the carriage to go round by her own house. This also 
Dr Stanhope understood, and allowed to pass by without 
remark.
When she got home, she found Mary Bold in the drawing-room 
with the child in her lap. She rushed forward, and, throwing 
herself on her knees, kissed the little fellow till she 
almost frightened him.
'Oh, Mary, I am so glad you did not go. It was an odious 
party.'
Now the question of Mary's going had been one greatly mooted 
between them. Mrs Bold, when invited, had been the guest of 
the Grantlys, and Miss Thorne, who had chiefly known Eleanor 
at the hospital or at Plumstead rectory, had forgotten all 
about Mary Bold. Her sister-in-law had implored her to go 
under her wing, and had offered to write to Miss Thorne, or 
to call on her. But Miss Bold had declined. In fact, Mr Bold 
had not been very popular with such people as the Thornes, 
and his sister would not go among them unless she were 
specially asked to do so.
'Well then,' said Mary, cheerfully, 'I have the less to 
regret.'
'You have nothing to regret; but oh! Mary, I have - so much -
 so much '; and then she began kissing her boy, whom her 
caresses had aroused from his slumbers. When she raised her 
head, Mary saw that the tears were running down her cheeks.
'Good heavens, Eleanor, what is the matter? what has 
happened to you? - Eleanor - dearest Eleanor - what is the 
matter?' and Mary got up with the boy still in her arms.
'Give him to me - give him to me,' said the young mother. 
'Give him to me, Mary,' and she almost tore the child out of 
her sister's arms. The poor little fellow murmured somewhat 
at the disturbance, but nevertheless nestled himself close 
into his mother's bosom.
'Here, Mary, take the cloak from me. My own, own darling, 
darling, darling jewel. You are not false to me. Everybody 
else is false; everybody else is cruel. Mamma will care for 
nobody, nobody, nobody, but her own, own, own little man'; 
and she again kissed and pressed the baby, and cried till 
the tears ran down over the child's face.
'Who has been cruel to you, Eleanor?' said Mary. 'I hope I 
have not.'
Now, in this matter, Eleanor had great cause for mental 
uneasiness. She could not certainly accuse her loving sister-
in-law of cruelty; but she had to do that which was more 
galling; she had to accuse herself of imprudence against 
which her sister-in-law had warned her. Miss Bold had never 
encouraged Eleanor's acquaintance with Mr Slope, and she had 
positively discouraged the friendship of the Stanhopes as 
far as her usual gentle mode of speaking had permitted. 
Eleanor had only laughed at her, however, when she said that 
she disapproved of married women who lived apart from their 
husbands, and suggested that Charlotte Stanhope never went 
to church. Now, however, Eleanor must either hold her 
tongue, which was quite impossible, or confess herself to 
have been utterly wrong, which was nearly equally so. So she 
staved off the evil day by more tears, and consoled herself 
by inducing little Johnny to rouse himself sufficiently to 
return her caresses.
'He is a darling - as true as gold. What would mamma do 
without him? Ma}r ma would lie down and die if she had not 
her own Johnny Bold to give her comfort.' This and much more 
she said of the same kind, and for a time made no other 
answer to Mary's inquires.
This kind of consolation from the world's deceit is very 
common.
Mothers obtain it from their children, and men from their 
dogs. Some men even do so from their walking-sticks, which 
is just as rational. How is it that we can take joy to 
ourselves in that we are not deceived by those who have not 
attained the art to deceive us? In a true man, if such can 
be found, or a true woman, much consolation may indeed be 
taken.
In the caresses of her child, however, Eleanor did receive 
consolation; and may ill befall the man who would begrudge 
it to her. The evil day, however, was only postponed. She 
had to tell her disagreeable tale to Mary, and she had also 
to tell it to her father. Must it not, indeed, be told to 
the whole circle of her acquaintance before she could be 
made to stand all right with them? At the present moment 
there was no one to whom she could turn for comfort. She 
hated Mr Slope; that was a matter of course, in that feeling 
she revelled. She hated and despised the Stanhopes; but that 
feeling distressed her greatly. She had, as it were, 
separated herself from her old friends to throw herself into 
the arms of this family; and then how had they intended to 
use her? She could hardly reconcile herself to her own 
father, who had believed ill of her. Mary Bold had turned 
Mentor. That she could have forgiven had the Mentor turned 
out to be in the wrong; but Mentors in the right are not to 
be pardoned. She could not but hate the archdeacon; and now 
she hated him worse than ever, for she must in some sort 
humble herself before him. She hated her sister, for she was 
part and parcel of the archdeacon. And she would have hated 
Mr Arabin if she could. He had pretended to regard her, and 
yet before her face he had hung over that Italian woman as 
though there had been no beauty in the world but hers - no 
other woman worth a moment's attention. And Mr Arabin would 
have to learn all this about Mr Slope! She told herself that 
she hated him, and she knew that she was lying to herself as 
she did so. She had no consolation but her baby, and of that 
she made the most. Mary, though she could not surmise what 
it was that had so violently affected her sister-in-law, saw 
at once that her grief was too great to be kept under 
control, and waited patiently till the child should be in 
his cradle.
'You'll have some tea, Eleanor,' she said.
'Oh, I don't care,' said she; though in fact she must have 
been very hungry, for she had eaten nothing at Ullathorne.
Mary quietly made the tea, and buttered the bread, laid 
aside the cloak, and made things look comfortable.
'He's fast asleep,' said she, 'you're very tired; let me 
take him up to bed.'
But Eleanor would not let her sister touch him. She looked 
wistfully at her baby's eyes, saw that they were lost in the 
deepest slumber, and then made a sort of couch for him on 
the sofa. She was determined that nothing should prevail 
upon her to let him out of her sight that night.
'Come, Nelly,' said Mary, don't be cross with me. I at least 
have done nothing to offend you.'
'I an't cross,' said Eleanor.
'Are you angry then? Surely you can't be angry with me.'
'No, I an't angry; at least not with you.'
'If you are not, drink the tea I have made for you. I am 
sure you must want it.'
Eleanor did drink it, and allowed herself to be persuaded. 
She ate and drank, and as the inner woman was recruited she 
felt a little more charitable towards the world at large. At 
last she found words to begin her story, and before she went 
to bed, she had made a clean breast of it and told 
everything - everything, that is, as to the lovers she had 
rejected: of Mr Arabin she said not a word.
'I know I was wrong,' said she, speaking of the blow she had 
given to Mr Slope; 'but I didn't know what he might do, and 
I had to protect myself.'
'He richly deserved it,' said Mary.
'Deserved it!' said Eleanor, whose mind as regarded Mr Slope 
was almost bloodthirsty. 'Had I stabbed him with a dagger, 
he would have deserved it. But what will they say about it 
at Plumstead?'
'I don't think I should tell them,' said Mary. Eleanor began 
to think that she would not.
There could have been no kinder comforter than Mary Bold. 
There was not the slightest dash of triumph about her when 
she heard of the Stanhope scheme, nor did she allude to her 
former opinion when Eleanor called her late friend Charlotte 
a base, designing woman. She re-echoed all the abuse that 
was heaped on Mr Slope's head, and never hinted that she had 
said as much before. 'I told you so, I told you so!' is the 
croak of a true Job's comforter. But Mary, when she found 
her friend lying in her sorrow and scraping herself with 
potsherds, forbore to argue and to exult. Eleanor 
acknowledged the merit of the forbearance, and at length 
allowed herself to be tranquillised.
On the next day she did not go out of the house. Barchester 
she thought would be crowded with Stanhopes and Slopes; 
perhaps also with Arabins and Grantlys. Indeed there was 
hardly anyone among her friends whom she could have met, 
without some cause of uneasiness.
In the course of the afternoon she heard that the dean was 
dead; and she also heard that Mr Quiverful had been finally 
appointed to the hospital.
In the evening her father came to her, and then the story, 
or as much of it as she could bring herself to tell him, had 
to be repeated. He was not in truth much surprised at Mr 
Slope's effrontery; but he was obliged to act as though he 
had been, to save his daughter's feelings. He was, however, 
anything but skilful in his deceit, and she saw through it.
'I see,' said she, 'that you think it only in the common 
course of things that Mr Slope should have treated me in 
this way.' She had said nothing to him about the embrace, 
nor yet of the way in which it had been met.
'I do not think it at all strange,' said he, 'that anyone 
should admire my Eleanor.'
'It is strange to me,' said she, 'that any man should have 
so much audacity, without ever having received the slightest 
encouragement.'
To this Mr Harding answered nothing. With the archdeacon it 
would have been the text for a rejoinder, which would not 
have disgraced Bildad the Shuhite.
'But you'll tell the archdeacon?' asked Mr Harding.
'Tell him what?' said she sharply.
'Or Susan?' continued Mr Harding. 'You'll tell Susan; you'll 
let them know that they wronged you in supposing that this 
man's addresses would be agreeable to you.'
'They may find that out their own way,' said she; 'I shall 
not ever willingly mention Mr Slope's name to either of 
them.'
'But I may.'
'I have no right to hinder you from doing anything that may 
be necessary to your own comfort, but pray do not do it for 
my sake. Dr Grantly never thought well of me, and never 
will. I don't know now that I am even anxious that he should 
do so.'
And then they went to the affair of the hospital. 'But is it 
true, papa?'
'What, my dear?' said he. 'About the dean? Yes, I fear quite 
true. Indeed I know there is no doubt about it.'
'Poor Miss Trefoil. I am so sorry for her. But I did not 
mean that,' said Eleanor. 'But about the hospital, papa?'
'Yes, my dear. I believe it is true that Mr Quiverful is to 
have it.'
'Oh, what a shame!'
'No, my dear, not at all, not at all a shame: I am sure I 
hope it will suit him.'
'But, papa, you know it is a shame. After all your hopes, 
all your expectations to get back to your old house, to see 
it given away in this way to a perfect stranger!'
'My dear, the bishop had a right to give it to whom he 
pleased.'
'I deny that, papa. He had no such right. It is not as 
though you were a candidate for a new piece of preferment. 
If the bishop has a grain of justice -'
'The bishop offered it to me on his terms, and as I did not 
like the terms, I refused it. After that, I cannot 
complain.'
'Terms! he had no right to make terms.'
'I don't know about that; but it seems he had the power. But 
to tell you the truth, Nelly, I am as well satisfied as it 
is. When the affair became the subject of angry discussion, 
I thoroughly wished to be rid of it altogether.'
'But you did want to go back to the old house, papa. You 
told me so yourself.'
'Yes, my dear, I did. For a short time I did wish it. And I 
was foolish in doing so. I am getting old now; and my chief 
worldly wish is for peace and rest. Had I gone back to the 
hospital, I should have had endless contentions with the 
bishop, contentions with his chaplain, and contentions with 
the archdeacon. I am not up to this now, I am not able to 
meet such troubles; and therefore I am not ill-pleased to 
find myself left to the little church of St Cuthbert's. I 
shall never starve,' added he, laughing, 'as long as you are 
here.'
'But will you come and live with me, papa?' she said 
earnestly, taking him by both his hands. 'If you will do 
that, if you will promise that, I will own that you are 
right.'
'I will dine with you today at any rate.'
'No, but live here altogether. Give up that close, odious 
little room in High Street.'
'My dear, it's a very nice little room; and you are really 
quite uncivil.'
'Oh, papa, don't joke. It's not a nice place for you. You 
say you are growing old, though I am sure you are not.' 
'Am not I, my dear?'
'No, papa, not old - not to say old. But you are quite old 
enough to feel the want of a decent room to sit in. You know 
how lonely Mary and I are here. You know nobody ever sleeps 
in the big front bedroom. It is really unkind of you to 
remain up there alone, when you are so much wanted here.'
'Thank you, Nelly - thank you. But, my dear -'
'If you had been living here, papa, with us, as I really 
think you ought to have done, considering how lonely we are, 
there would have been none of all this dreadful affair about 
Mr Slope.'
Mr Harding, however, did not allow himself to be talked over 
into giving up his own and only little pied-a-terre in the 
High Street. He promised to come and dine with his daughter, 
and stay with her, and visit her, and do everything but 
absolutely live with her. It did not suit the peculiar 
feelings of the man to tell his daughter that though she had 
rejected Mr Slope, and been ready to reject Mr Stanhope, 
some other more favoured suitor would probably soon appear; 
and that on the appearance of such a suitor the big front 
bedroom might perhaps be more frequently in requisition than 
at present. But doubtless such an idea crossed his mind, and 
added its weight to the other reasons which made him decide 
on still keeping the close, odious little room in High 
Street.
The evening passed over quietly and in comfort. Eleanor was 
always happier with her father than with anyone else. He had 
not, perhaps, any natural taste for baby worship, but he was 
always ready to sacrifice himself, and therefore made an 
excellent third in a trio with his daughter and Mary Bold in 
singing the praises of the wonderful child.
They were standing together over their music in the evening, 
the baby having again been put to bed upon the sofa, when 
the servant brought in a very small note in a beautiful pink 
envelope. It quite filled the room with perfume as it lay 
upon the small salver. Mary Bold and Mrs Bold were both at 
the piano, and Mr Harding was sitting close to them, with 
the violoncello between his legs; so that the elegancy of 
the epistle was visible to them all.
'Please, ma'am, Dr Stanhope's coachman says he is to wait 
for an answer,' said the servant.
Eleanor got very red in the face as she took the note in her 
hand. She had never seen the writing before. Charlotte's 
epistles, to which she was well accustomed, were of a very 
different style and kind. 
She generally wrote on large note-paper; she twisted up her 
letters into the shape and sometimes into the size of cocked 
hats; she addressed them in a sprawling manly hand, and not 
unusually added a blot or a smudge, as though such were her 
own peculiar sign-manual. The address of this note was 
written in a beautiful female hand, and the gummed wafer 
bore on it an impress of a gilt coronet. Though Eleanor had 
never seen such a one before, she guessed that it came from 
the signora. Such epistles were very numerously sent out 
from any house in which the signora might happen to be 
dwelling, but they were rarely addressed to ladies. When the 
coachman was told by the lady's maid to take the letter to 
Mrs Bold, he openly expressed his opinion that there was 
some mistake about it. Whereupon the lady's maid boxed the 
coachman's ears. Had Mr Slope seen in how meek a spirit the 
coachman took the rebuke, he might have learnt a useful 
lesson, both in philosophy and religion.
The note was as follows. It may be taken as a faithful 
promise that no further letter whatever shall be transcribed 
at length in these pages.

'My dear Mrs Bold, - may I ask you, as a great favour, to 
call on me tomorrow? You can say what hour will best suit 
you; but quite early, if you can. I need hardly say that if 
I could call upon you I should not take this liberty with 
you.
	'I partly know what occurred the other day, and I promise 
you that you shall meet with no annoyance if you will come 
to me. My brother leaves us for London today; from thence he 
goes to Italy.
'It will probably occur to you that I should not thus 
intrude on you, unless I had that to say to you which may be 
of considerable moment. Pray therefore excuse me, even if 
you do not grant my request, and believe me, 
'Very sincerely yours,
M. VESEY NERONI

'Thursday Evening'

The three of them sat in consultation on this epistle for 
some ten or fifteen minutes, and then decided that Eleanor 
should write a line saying that she would see the signora 
the next morning, at twelve o'clock.



Chapter 45

The Stanhopes at Home

We must now return to the Stanhopes, and see how they 
behaved themselves on their return from Ullathorne.
Charlotte, who came back in the first homeward journey with 
her sister, waited in palpitating expectation till the 
carriage drove up to the door a second time. She did not run 
down or stand at the window, or show in any outward manner 
that she looked for anything wonderful to occur; but, when 
she heard the carriage-wheels, she stood up with erect ears, 
listening for Eleanor's footfall on the pavement or the 
cheery sound of Bertie's voice welcoming her in. Had she 
heard either, she would have felt that all was right; but 
neither sound was there for her to hear. She heard only her 
father's slow step, as he ponderously let himself down from 
the carriage, and slowly walked along the hall, till he got 
into his own private room on the ground floor. 'Send Miss 
Stanhope to me,' he said to the servant.
'There's something wrong now,' said Madeline, who was lying 
on her sofa in the back drawing-room.
'It's all up with Bertie,' replied Charlotte. 'I know, I 
know,' she said to the servant, as he brought up the 
message. 'Tell my father I will be with him immediately.'
'Bertie's wooing has gone astray,' said Madeline; 'I knew it 
would.'
'It has been his own fault then. She was ready enough, I am 
quite sure,' said Charlotte, with that sort of ill-nature 
which is not uncommon when one woman speaks of another.
'What will you say to him now?' By 'him,' the signora meant 
their father.
'That will be as I find him. He was ready to pay two hundred 
pounds for Bertie, to stave off the worst of his creditors, 
if this marriage had gone on. Bertie must now have the money 
instead, and go and take his chance.'
'Where is he now?'
'Heaven knows! smoking in the bottom of Mr Thorne's ha-ha, 
or philandering with some of those Miss Chadwicks. Nothing 
will ever make an impression on him. But he'll be furious if 
I don't go down.'
'No; nothing ever will. But don't be long, Charlotte, for I 
want my tea.'
And so Charlotte went down to her father. There was a very 
black cloud on the old man's brow; blacker than his daughter 
could ever yet remember to have seen there. He was sitting 
in his own arm-chair, not comfortably over the fire, but in 
the middle of the room, waiting till she should come and 
listen to him.
'What has become of your brother?' he said, as soon as the 
door was shut.
'I should rather ask you,' said Charlotte. 'I left you both 
at Ullathorne, when I came away. What have you done with Mrs 
Bold?'
'Mrs Bold! nonsense. The woman has gone home as she ought to 
do. And heartily glad I am that she should not be sacrificed 
to so heartless a reprobate.'
'Oh, papa!'
'A heartless reprobate! Tell me now where he is, and what he 
is going to do. I have allowed myself to be fooled between 
you. Marriage, indeed! Who on earth that has money, or 
credit, or respect in the world to lose, would marry him?'
'It is no use your scolding me, papa. I have done the best I 
could for him and you.'
'And Madeline is nearly as bad,' said the prebendary, who 
was in truth very, very angry.
'Oh, I suppose we are all bad,' replied Charlotte.
The old man emitted a huge leonine sigh. If they were all 
bad, who had made them so? If they were unprincipled, 
selfish, and disreputable, who was to be blamed for the 
education which had had so injurious an effect?
'I know you'll ruin me among you,' said he.
'Why, papa, what nonsense that is. You are living within 
your income this minute, and if there are any new debts, I 
don't know of them. I am sure there ought to be none, for we 
are dull enough here.'
'Are those bills of Madeline's paid?'
'No, they are not. Who was to pay them?'
'Her husband may pay them.'
'Her husband! would you wish me to tell her you say so? Do 
you wish to turn her out of your house?' 
'I wish she would know how to behave herself.'
'Why, what on earth has she done now? Poor Madeline! Today 
is only the second time she has gone out since we came to 
this vile town.'
He then sat silent for a time, thinking in what shape he 
would declare his resolve. 'Well, papa,' said Charlotte, 
'shall I stay here, or may I go upstairs and give mamma her 
tea?'
'You are in your brother's confidence. Tell me what he is 
going to do?'
'Nothing, that I am aware of.'
'Nothing - nothing! nothing but eat and drink, and spend 
every shilling of my money he can lay his hands upon. I have 
made up my mind, Charlotte. He shall eat and drink no more 
in this house.'
'Very well. Then I suppose he must go back to Italy.'
'He may go where he pleases.'
'That's easily said, papa; but what does it mean? You can't 
let him -'
'It means this,' said the doctor, speaking more loudly than 
was his wont, and with wrath flashing from his eyes: 'that 
as sure as God rules in heaven, I will not maintain him any 
longer in idleness.'
'Oh, ruling in heaven!' said Charlotte. 'It is no use 
talking about that. You must rule him here on earth; and the 
question is, how you can do it. You can't turn him out of 
the house penniless, to beg about the street.'
'He may beg where he likes.'
'He must go back to Carrara. That is the cheapest place he 
can live at, and nobody there will give him credit for above 
two or three hundred pauls. But you must let him have the 
means of going.'
'As sure as -'
'Oh, papa, don't swear. You know you must do it. You were 
ready to pay two hundred pounds for him if this marriage 
came off. Half that will start him to Carrara.'
'What? give him a hundred pounds!'
'You know we are all in the dark, papa,' said she, thinking 
it expedient to change the conversation. 'For anything we 
know, he may be at this moment engaged to Mrs Bold.'
'Fiddlestick,' said the father, who had seen the way in 
which Mrs Bold had got into the carriage, while his son 
stood apart without even offering her his hand.
'Well, then, he must go to Carrara,' said Charlotte. 
Just at this moment the lock of the front door was heard, 
and Charlotte's quick ears detected her brother's cat-like 
step in the hall. She said nothing, feeling that for the 
present Bertie had better keep out of her father's way. But 
Dr Stanhope also heard the sound of the lock.
'Who's that?' he demanded. Charlotte made no reply, and he 
asked again, 'Who is that that has just come in? Open the 
door. Who is it?'
'I suppose it is Bertie.'
'Bid him come here,' said the father. But Bertie, who was 
close to the door and heard the call, required no further 
bidding, but walked in with a perfectly unconcerned and 
cheerful air. It was this peculiar insouciance which angered 
Dr Stanhope, even more than his son's extravagance.
'Well, sir?' said the doctor.
'And how did you get home, sir, with your fair companion?' 
said Bertie. 'I suppose she is not upstairs, Charlotte?'
'Bertie,' said Charlotte, 'papa is in no humour for joking. 
He is very angry with you.'
'Angry!' said Bertie, raising his eyebrows, as though he had 
never yet given his parent cause for a single moment's 
uneasiness.
'Sit down, if you please, sir,' said Dr Stanhope very 
sternly, but not now very loudly. 'And I'll trouble you to 
sit down too, Charlotte. Your mother can wait for her tea a 
few minutes.'
Charlotte sat down on the chair nearest to the door, in 
somewhat of a perverse sort of manner; as much as though she 
would say - Well, here I am; you sha'n't say I don't do what 
I am bid; but I'll be whipped if I give way to you. And she 
was determined not to give way. She too was angry with 
Bertie; but she was not the less ready on that account to 
defend him from his father. Bertie also sat down. He drew 
his chair close to the library-table, upon which he put his 
elbow, and then resting his face comfortably on one hand, he 
began drawing little pictures on a sheet of paper with the 
other. Before the scene was over he had completed admirable 
figures of Miss Thorne, Mrs Proudie, and Lady De Courcy, and 
begun a family piece to comprise the whole set of the 
Lookalofts.
'Would it suit you, sir,' said the father, 'to give me some 
idea as to what your present intentions are? - what way of 
living you propose to yourself?'
'I'll do anything you can suggest, sir,' replied Bertie.
'No, I shall suggest nothing further. My time for suggesting 
has gone by. I have only one order to give, and that is, 
that you leave my house.'
'Tonight?' said Bertie; and the simple tone of the question 
left the doctor without any adequately dignified method of 
reply.
'Papa does not quite mean tonight,' said Charlotte, 'at 
least I suppose not.'
'Tomorrow, perhaps,' suggested Bertie.
'Yes, sir, tomorrow,' said the doctor. 'You shall leave this 
tomorrow.'
'Very well, sir. Will the 4.30 P.M. train be soon enough?' 
and Bertie, as he asked, put the finishing touch to Miss 
Thorne's high-heeled boots.
'You may go how and when and where you please, so that you 
leave my house tomorrow. You have disgraced me, sir; you 
have disgraced yourself, and me, and your sisters.'
'I am glad at least, sir, that I have not disgraced my 
mother,' said Bertie.
Charlotte could hardly keep her countenance; but the 
doctor's brow grew still blacker than ever. Bertie was 
executing his chef d'oeuvre in the delineation of Mrs 
Proudie's nose and mouth.
'You are a heartless reprobate, sir; a heartless, thankless, 
good-for-nothing reprobate. I have done with you. You are my 
son - that I cannot help; but you shall have no more part or 
parcel in me as my child, nor I in you as your father.'
'Oh, papa, papa! you must not, shall not say so,' said 
Charlotte.
'I will say so, and do say so,' said the father, rising from 
his chair. 'And now leave the room, sir.'
'Stop, stop,' said Charlotte; 'why don't you speak, Bertie? 
why don't you look up and speak? It is your manner that 
makes papa so angry.'
'He is perfectly indifferent to all decency, to all 
propriety,' said the doctor; and then he shouted out, 'Leave 
the room, sir! Do you hear what I say?'
'Papa, papa, I will not let you part so. I know you will be 
sorry for it.' And then she added, getting up and whispering 
into his ear, 'Is he only to blame? Think of that. We have 
made our own bed, and, such as it is, we must lie on it. It 
is no use for us to quarrel among ourselves,' and as she 
finished her whisper Bertie finished off the countess's 
bustle, which was so well done that it absolutely seemed to 
be swaying to and fro on the paper with its usual lateral 
motion. 'My father is angry at the present time,' said 
Bertie, looking up for a moment from his sketches, 'because 
I am not going to marry Mrs Bold. What can I say on the 
matter? It is true that I am not going to marry her. In the 
first place -'
'That is not true, sir,' said Dr Stanhope; 'but I will not 
argue with you.'
'You were angry just this moment because I would not speak,' 
said Bertie, going on with a young Lookaloft.
'Give over drawing,' said Charlotte, going up to him and 
taking the paper from under his hand. The caricatures, 
however, she preserved, and showed them afterwards to the 
friends of the Thornes, the Proudies, and De Courcys. 
Bertie, deprived of his occupation, threw himself back in 
his chair and waited further orders.
'I think it will certainly be for the best that Bertie 
should leave this at once, perhaps tomorrow,' said 
Charlotte; 'but pray, papa, let us arrange some scheme 
together.'
'If he will leave this tomorrow, I will give him £10, and he 
shall be paid £5 a month by the banker at Carrara as long as 
he stays permanently in that place.'
'Well, sir! it won't be long,' said Bertie; 'for I shall be 
starved to death in about three months.'
'He must have marble to work with,' said Charlotte.
'I have plenty there in the studio to last me three months,' 
said Bertie. 'It will be no use attempting anything large in 
so limited a time; unless I do my own tombstone.'
Terms, however, were ultimately come to, somewhat more 
liberal than those proposed, and the doctor was induced to 
shake hands with his son, and bid him good-night. Dr 
Stanhope would not go up to tea, but had it brought to him 
in his study by his daughter.
But Bertie went upstairs and spent a pleasant evening. He 
finished the Lookalofts, greatly to the delight of his 
sisters, though the manner of portraying their decollete 
dresses was not the most refined. Finding how matters were 
going, he by degrees allowed it to escape from him that he 
had not pressed his suit upon the widow in a very urgent 
way.
'I suppose, in point of fact, you never proposed at all?' 
said Charlotte.
'Oh, she understood that she might have me if she wished,' 
said he.
'And she didn't wish,' said the signora.
'You have thrown me over in the most shameful manner,' said 
Charlotte. 'I suppose you told her all about my little 
plan?'
'Well, it came out somehow; at least the most of it.'
'There's an end of that alliance,' said Charlotte; 'but it 
doesn't matter much. I suppose we shall all be back at Como 
soon.'
'I am sure I hope so,' said the signora; 'I'm sick of the 
sight of black coats. If that Mr Slope comes here any more, 
he'll be the death of me.'
'You've been the ruin of him, I think,' said Charlotte.
'And as for a second black-coated lover of mine, I am going 
to make a present of him to another lady with most singular 
disinterestedness.'
The next day, true to his promise, Bertie packed up and went 
off by the 4.30 P.M. train, with £20 in his pocket, bound 
for the marble quarries of Carrara. And so he disappears 
from our scene.
At twelve o'clock on the day following that on which Bertie 
went, Mrs Bold, true also to her word, knocked at Dr 
Stanhope's door with a timid hand and palpitating heart. She 
was at once shown up to the back drawing-room, the folding 
doors of which were closed, so that in visiting the signora 
Eleanor was not necessarily thrown into any communion with 
those in the front room. As she went up the stairs, she saw 
none of the family, and was so far saved much of the 
annoyance which she had dreaded.
'This is very kind of you, Mrs Bold; very kind, after what 
has happened,' said the lady on the sofa with her sweetest 
smile.
'You wrote in such a strain that I could not but come to 
you.'
'I did, I did; I wanted to force you to see me.'
'Well, signora; I am here.'
'How cold you are to me. But I suppose I must put up with 
that. I know you think you have reason to be displeased with 
us all. Poor Bertie! if you knew all, you would not be angry 
with him.'
'I am not angry with your brother - not in the least. But I 
hope you did not send for me here to talk about him.'
'If you are angry with Charlotte, that is worse; for you 
have no warmer friend in all Barchester. But I did not send 
for you to talk about this - pray bring your chair nearer, 
Mrs Bold, so that I may look at you. It is so unnatural to 
see you keeping so far off from me.'
Eleanor did as she was bid, and brought her chair close to 
the sofa.
'And now, Mrs Bold, I am going to tell you something which 
you may perhaps think indelicate; but yet I know that I am 
right in doing so.'
Hereupon Mrs Bold said nothing, but felt inclined to shake 
in her chair. The signora, she knew, was not very 
particular, and that which to her appeared to be indelicate 
might to Mrs Bold appear to be extremely indecent.
'I believe you know Mr Arabin?'
Mrs Bold would have given the world not to blush, but her 
blood was not at her own command. She did blush up to her 
forehead, and the signora, who had made her sit in a special 
light in order that she might watch her, saw that she did 
so.
'Yes - I am acquainted with him. That is, slightly. He is an 
intimate friend of Dr Grantly, and Dr Grantly is my brother-
in-law.'
'Well; if you know Mr Arabin, I am sure you must like him. I 
know and like him much. Everybody that knows him must like 
him.'
Mrs Bold felt it quite impossible to say anything in reply 
to this. Her blood was rushing about her body she knew not 
how or why. She felt as though she were swinging in her 
chair; and she knew that she was not only red in the face, 
but also almost suffocated with heat. However, she sat still 
and said nothing.
'How stiff you are with me, Mrs Bold,' said the signora; 
'and I the while am doing for you all that one woman can do 
to serve another.'
A kind of thought came over the widow's mind that perhaps 
the signora's friendship was real, and that at any rate it 
could not hurt her; and another kind of thought, a 
glimmering of a thought, came to her also - that Mr Arabin 
was too precious to be lost. She despised the signora; but 
might she not stoop to conquer? It should be but the 
smallest fraction of a stoop!
'I don't want to be stiff,' she said, 'but your questions 
are so very singular.'
'Well, then, I will ask you one more singular still,' said 
Madeline Neroni, raising herself on her elbow and turning 
her own face full upon her companion's. 'Do you love him, 
love him with all your heart and soul, with all the love 
your bosom can feel? For I can tell you that he loves you, 
adores you, worships you, thinks of you and nothing else, is 
now thinking of you as he attempts to write his sermon for 
next Sunday's preaching. What would I not give to be loved 
in such a way by such a man, that is, if I were an object 
fit for any man to love!'
Mrs Bold got up from her seat and stood speechless before 
the woman who was now addressing her in this impassioned 
way. When the signora thus alluded to herself, the widow's 
heart was softened, and she put her own hand, as though 
caressingly, on that of her companion which was resting on 
the table. The signora grasped it and went on speaking.
'What I tell you is God's own truth; and it is for you to 
use it as may be best for your own happiness. But you must 
not betray me. He knows nothing of this. He knows nothing of 
my knowing his inmost heart. He is simple as a child in 
these matters. He told me his secret in a thousand ways 
because he could not dissemble; but he does not dream that 
he has told it. You know it now, and I advise you to use 
it.'
Eleanor returned the pressure of the other's hand with an 
infinitesimal soupÁon of a squeeze.
'And remember,' continued the signora, 'he is not like other 
men. You must not expect him to come to you with vows and 
oaths and pretty presents, to kneel at your feet, and kiss 
your shoe-strings. If you want that, there are plenty to do 
it; but he won't be one of them.' Eleanor's bosom nearly 
burst with a sigh; but Madeline, not heeding her, went on. 
'With him, yea will stand for yea, and nay for nay. Though 
his heart should break for it, the woman who shall reject 
him once, will have rejected him once and for all. Remember 
that. And now, Mrs Bold, I will not keep you, for you are 
fluttered. I partly guess what use you will make of what I 
have said to you. If ever you are a happy wife in that man's 
house, we shall be far away; but I shall expect you to write 
me one line to say that you have forgiven the sins of the 
family.'
Eleanor half whispered that she would, and then, without 
uttering another word, crept out of the room, and down the 
stairs, opened the front door for herself without hearing or 
seeing anyone, and found herself in the close.
It would be difficult to analyse Eleanor's feelings as she 
walked home. She was nearly stupefied by the things that had 
been said to her. She felt sore that her heart should have 
been so searched and riddled by a comparative stranger, by a 
woman whom she had never liked and never could like. She was 
mortified that the man whom she owned to herself that she 
loved should have concealed his love from her and shown it 
to another. There was much to vex her proud spirit. But 
there was, nevertheless, an under-stratum of joy in all this 
which buoyed her up wondrously. She tried if she could 
disbelieve what Madame Neroni had said to her; but she found 
that she could not. It was true; it must be true. She could 
not, would not, did not doubt it.
On one point she fully resolved to follow the advice given 
her. If it should ever please Mr Arabin to put such a 
question to her as that suggested, her 'yea' should be 
'yea'. Would not all her miseries be at an end, if she could 
talk of them to him openly, with her head resting on his 
shoulder?



Chapter 46

Mr Slope's Parting Interview with the Signora

On the following day the signora was in her pride. She was 
dressed in her brightest of morning dresses, and had quite a 
levee round her couch. It was a beautifully bright October 
afternoon; all the gentlemen of the neighbourhood were in 
Barchester, and those who had the entry of Dr Stanhope's 
house were in the signora's back drawing-room. Charlotte and 
Mrs Stanhope were in the front room, and such of the lady's 
squires as could not for the moment get near the centre of 
attraction had to waste their fragrance on the mother and 
sister.
The first who came and the last to leave was Mr Arabin. This 
was the second visit he had paid to Madame Neroni since he 
had met her at Ullathorne. He came he knew not why, to talk 
about he knew not what. But, in truth, the feelings which 
now troubled him were new to him, and he could not analyse 
them. It may seem strange that he should thus come dangling 
about Madame Neroni because he was in love with Mrs Bold; 
but it was nevertheless the fact; and though he could not 
understand why he did so, Madame Neroni understood it well 
enough.
She had been gentle and kind to him, and had encouraged his 
staying. Therefore he stayed on. She pressed his hand when 
he first greeted her; she made him remain near her; and 
whispered to him little nothings. And then her eye, 
brilliant and bright, now mirthful, now melancholy, and 
invincible in either way! What man with warm feelings, blood 
unchilled, and a heart not guarded by a triple steel of 
experience could have withstood those eyes! The lady, it is 
true, intended to do him no mortal injury; she merely chose 
to inhale a slight breath of incense before she handed the 
casket over to another. Whether Mrs Bold would willingly 
have spared even so much is another question.
And then came Mr Slope. All the world now knew that Mr Slope 
was a candidate for the deanery, and that he was generally 
considered to be the favourite. Mr Slope, therefore, walked 
rather largely upon the earth. He gave to himself a portly 
air, such as might become a dean, spoke but little to other 
clergymen, and shunned the bishop as much as possible. How 
the meagre little prebendary, and the burly chancellor, and 
all the minor canons and vicars choral, ay, and all the 
choristers too, cowered and shook and walked about with long 
faces when they read or heard of that article in The 
Jupiter. Now were coming the days when nothing would avail 
to keep the impure spirit from the cathedral pulpit. That 
pulpit would indeed be his own. Precentors, vicars, and 
choristers might hang up their harps on the willows. 
Ichabod! Ichabod! the glory of their house was departing 
from them.
Mr Slope, great as he was with embryo grandeur, still came 
to see the signora. Indeed, he could not keep himself away. 
He dreamed of that soft hand which he had kissed so often, 
and of that imperial brow which his lips had once pressed, 
and he then dreamed also of further favours.
And Mr Thorne was there also. It was the first visit he had 
ever paid to the signora, and he made it not without due 
preparation. Mr Thorne was a gentleman usually precise in 
his dress, and prone to make the most of himself in an 
unpretending way. The grey hairs in his whiskers were 
eliminated perhaps once a month; those on his head were 
softened by a mixture which we will not call a dye; it was 
only a wash. His tailor lived in St James's Street, and his 
bootmaker at the corner of that street and Piccadilly. He 
was particular in the article of gloves, and the getting up 
of his shirts was a matter not lightly thought of in the 
Ullathorne laundry. On the occasion of the present visit he 
had rather overdone his usual efforts, and caused some 
little uneasiness to his sister, who had not hitherto 
received very cordially the proposition for a lengthened 
visit from the signora at Ullathorne.
There were others also there - young men about the city who 
had not much to do, and who were induced by the lady's 
charms to neglect that little; but all gave way to Mr 
Thorne, who was somewhat of a grand signior, as a country 
gentleman always is in a provincial city.
'Oh, Mr Thorne, this is so kind of you!' said the signora. 
'You promised to come; but I really did not expect it. I 
thought you country gentlemen never kept your pledges.'
'Oh, yes, sometimes,' said Mr Thorne, looking rather 
sheepish, and making his salutations a little too much in 
the style of the last century.
'You deceive none but your consti-stit-stit; what do you 
call the people that carry you about in chairs and pelt you 
with eggs and apples when they make you a member of 
Parliament?'
'One another also, sometimes, signora,' said Mr Slope, with 
a deanish sort of smirk on his face. 'Country gentlemen do 
deceive one another sometimes, don't they, Mr Thorne?'
Mr Thorne gave him a look which undeaned him completely for 
the moment; but he soon remembered his high hopes, and 
recovering himself quickly, sustained his probable coming 
dignity by a laugh at Mr Thorne's expense.
'I never deceive a lady, at any rate,' said Mr Thorne; 
'especially when the gratification of my own wishes is so 
strong an inducement to keep me true, as it now is.'
Mr Thorne went on thus awhile with antediluvian grimaces and 
compliments which he had picked up from Sir Charles 
Grandison, and the signora at every grimace and at every bow 
smiled a little smile and bowed a little bow. Mr Thorne, 
however, was kept standing at the foot of the couch, for the 
new dean sat in the seat of honour near the table. Mr Arabin 
the while was standing with his back to the fire, his coat 
tails under his arms, gazing at her with all his eyes - not 
quite in vain, for every now and again a glance came up at 
him, bright as a meteor out of heaven.
'Oh, Mr Thorne, you promised to let me introduce my little 
girl to you. Can you spare a moment? - will you see her 
now?'
Mr Thorne assured her that he could, and would see the young 
lady with the greatest pleasure in life. 'Mr Slope, might I 
trouble you to ring the bell?' said she; and when Mr Slope 
got up she looked at Mr Thorne and pointed to the chair. Mr 
Thorne, however, was much too slow to understand her, and Mr 
Slope would have recovered his seat had not the signora, who 
never chose to be unsuccessful, somewhat summarily ordered 
him out of it.
'Oh, Mr Slope, I must ask you to let Mr Thorne sit here just 
for a moment or two. I am sure you will pardon me. We can 
take a liberty with you this week. Next week, you know, when 
you move into the dean's house, we shall all be afraid of 
you.'
Mr Slope, with an air of much indifference, rose from his 
seat, and, walking into the next room, became greatly 
interested in Mrs Stanhope's worsted work.
And then the child was brought in. She was a little girl, 
about eight years of age, like her mother, only that her 
enormous eyes were black, and her hair quite jet. Her 
complexion, too, was very dark, and bespoke her foreign 
blood. She was dressed in the most outlandish and 
extravagant way in which clothes could be put on a child's 
back. She had great bracelets on her naked little arms, a 
crimson fillet braided with gold round her head, and scarlet 
shoes with high heels. Her dress was all flounces, and stuck 
out from her as though the object were to make it lie off 
horizontally from her little hips. It did not nearly cover 
her knees; but this was atoned for by a loose pair of 
drawers, which seemed made throughout of lace; then she had 
on pink silk stockings. It was thus that the last of the 
Neros was habitually dressed at the hour when visitors were 
wont to call.
'Julia, my love,' said the mother - Julia was ever a 
favourite name with the ladies of that family. 'Julia, my 
love, come here. I was telling you about the beautiful party 
poor mamma went to. This is Mr Thorne; will you give him a 
kiss, dearest?'
Julia put up her face to be kissed, as she did to all her 
mother's visitors; and then Mr Thorne found that he had got 
her, and, which was much more terrific to him, all her 
finery, into his arms. The lace and starch crumpled against 
his waistcoat and trousers, the greasy black curls hung upon 
his cheek, and one of the bracelet clasps scratched his ear. 
He did not at all know how to hold so magnificent a lady, 
nor holding her what to do with her. However, he had on 
other occasions been compelled to fondle little nieces and 
nephews, and now set about the task in the mode he always 
had used.
'Diddle, diddle, diddle, diddle,' said he, putting the child 
on one knee, and working away with it as though he were 
turning a knife-grinder's wheel with his foot.
'Mamma, mamma,' said Julia, crossly, 'I don't want to be 
diddle diddled. Let me go, you naughty old man, you.'
Poor Mr Thorne put the child down quietly on the ground, and 
drew back his chair; Mr Slope, who had returned to the pole 
star that attracted him, laughed aloud; Mr Arabin winced and 
shut his eyes; and the signora pretended not to hear her 
daughter.
'Go to Aunt Charlotte, lovey,' said the mamma, 'and ask her 
if it is not time for you to go out.'
But little Miss Julia, though she had not exactly liked the 
nature of Mr Thorne's attention, was accustomed to be played 
with by gentlemen, and did not relish the idea of being sent 
so soon to her aunt.
'Julia, go when I tell you, my dear.' But Julia still went 
pouting about the room. 'Charlotte, do come and take her,' 
said the signora. 'She must go out; and the days get so 
short now.' And thus ended the much-talked of interview 
between Mr Thorne and the last of the Neros.
Mr Thorne recovered from the child's crossness sooner than 
from Mr Slope's laughter. He could put up with being called 
an old man by an infant, but he did not like to be laughed 
at by the bishop's chaplain, even though that chaplain was 
about to become a dean. He said nothing, but he showed 
plainly enough that he was angry.
The signora was ready enough to avenge him. 'Mr Slope,' said 
she, 'I hear that you are triumphing on all sides.'
'How so?' said he, smiling. He did not dislike being talked 
to about the deanery, though, of course, he strongly denied 
the imputation.
'You carry the day both in love and war.' Mr Slope hereupon 
did not look quite so satisfied as he had done.
'Mr Arabin,' continued the signora, 'don't you think Mr 
Slope is a very lucky man?'
'Not more so than he deserves, I am sure,' said Mr Arabin.
'Only think, Mr Thorne, he is to be our new dean; of course 
we all know that.'
'Indeed, signora,' said Mr Slope, 'we all know nothing about 
it. I can assure you I myself -'
'He is to be the new dean - there is no manner of doubt of 
it, Mr Thorne.'
'Hum!' said Mr Thorne.
'Passing over the heads of old men like my father and 
Archdeacon Grantly -'
'Oh - oh!' said Mr Slope.
'The archdeacon would not accept it,' said Mr Arabin; 
whereupon Mr Slope smiled abominably, and said, as plainly 
as a look could speak, that the grapes were sour.
'Going over all our heads,' continued the signora; 'for, of 
course, I consider myself one of the chapter.'
'If I am ever dean,' said Mr Slope - 'that is, were I ever 
to become so, I should glory in such a canoness.'
'Oh, Mr Slope, stop; I haven't half done. There is another 
canoness for you to glory in. Mr Slope is not only to have 
the deanery, but a wife to put in it.'
Mr Slope again looked disconcerted.
'A wife with a large fortune too. It never rains but it 
pours, does it, Mr Thorne?'
'No, never,' said Mr Thorne, who did not quite relish 
talking about Mr Slope and his affairs.
'When will it be, Mr Slope?'
'When will what be?' said he.
'Oh! we know when the affair of the dean will be: a week 
will settle that. The new hat, I have no doubt, has been 
already ordered. But when will the marriage come off?'
'Do you mean mine or Mr Arabin's?' said he, striving to be 
facetious.
'Well, just then I meant yours, though, perhaps, after all, 
Mr Arabin's may be first. But we know nothing of him. He is 
too close for any of us. Now all is open and above board 
with you; which, by the bye, Mr Arabin, I beg to tell you I 
like much the best. He who runs can read that Mr Slope is a 
favoured lover. Come, Mr Slope, when is the widow to be made 
Mrs Dean?'
To Mr Arabin this badinage was peculiarly painful; and yet 
he could not tear himself away and leave it. He believed, 
still believed with that sort of belief which the fear of a 
thing engenders, that Mrs Bold would probably become the 
wife of Mr Slope. Of Mr Slope's little adventure in the 
garden he knew nothing. For aught he knew, Mr Slope might 
have had an adventure of quite a different character. He 
might have thrown himself at the widow's feet, been 
accepted, and then returned to town a jolly, thriving wooer. 
The signora's jokes were bitter enough to Mr Slope, but they 
were quite as bitter to Mr Arabin. He still stood leaning 
against the fire-place, fumbling with his hands in his 
trousers pockets.
'Come, come, Mr Slope, don't be so bashful,' continued the 
signora. 'We all know that you proposed to the lady the 
other day at Ullathorne. Tell us with what words she 
accepted you. Was it with a simple "yes," or with two "no 
no's," which make an affirmative? or did silence give 
consent? or did she speak out with that spirit which so well 
becomes a widow, and say openly, "By my troth, sir, you 
shall make me Mrs Slope as soon as it is your pleasure to do 
so"?'
Mr Slope had seldom in his life felt himself less at his 
ease. There sat Mr Thorne, laughing silently. There stood 
his old antagonist, Mr Arabin, gazing at him with all his 
eyes. There round the door between the two rooms were 
clustered a little group of people, including Miss Stanhope 
and the Rev. Messrs Gray and Green, all listening to his 
discomfiture. He knew that it depended solely on his own wit 
whether or no he could throw the joke back upon the lady. He 
knew that it stood him to do so if he possibly could; but he 
had not a word. ''Tis conscience that makes cowards of us 
all.' He felt on his cheek the sharp points of Eleanor's 
fingers, and did not know who might have seen the blow, who 
might have told the tale to this pestilent woman who took 
such delight in jeering him. He stood there, therefore, red 
as a carbuncle and mute as a fish; grinning just 
sufficiently to show his teeth; an object of pity.
But the signora had no pity; she knew nothing of mercy. Her 
present object was to put Mr Slope down, and she was 
determined to do it thoroughly, now that she had him in her 
power.
'What, Mr Slope, no answer? Why it can't possibly be that 
the woman has been fool enough to reuse you? She can't 
surely be looking out after a bishop. But I see how it is, 
Mr Slope. Widows are proverbially cautious. You should have 
let her alone till the new hat was on your head; till you 
could show her the key of the deanery.'
'Signora,' said he at last, trying to speak in a tone of 
dignified reproach, 'you really permit yourself to talk on 
solemn subjects in a very improper way.'
'Solemn subjects - what solemn subject? Surely a dean's hat 
is not such a solemn subject.'
'I have no aspirations such as those you impute to me. 
Perhaps you will drop the subject.'
'Oh certainly, Mr Slope; but one word first. Go to her again 
with the prime minister's letter in your pocket. I'll wager 
my shawl to your shovel she does not refuse you then.'
'I must say, signora, that I think you are speaking of the 
lady in a very unjustifiable manner.'
'And one other piece of advice, Mr Slope; I'll only offer 
you one other'; and then she commenced singing:

'It's gude to be merry and wise, Mr Slope;
	It's gude to be honest and true;
It's gude to be off with the old love - Mr Slope,
	Before you are on with the new. -

'Ha, ha, ha!'
And the signora, throwing herself back on her sofa, laughed 
merrily. She little recked how those who heard her would, in 
their own imaginations, fill up the little history of Mr 
Slope's first love. She little cared that some among them 
might attribute to her the honour of his earlier admiration. 
She was tired of Mr Slope and wanted to get rid of him; she 
had ground for anger with him, and she chose to be revenged.
How Mr Slope got out of that room he never himself knew. He 
did succeed ultimately, and probably with some assistance, 
in getting his hat and escaping into the air. At last his 
love for the signora was cured. Whenever he again thought of 
her in his dreams, it was not as of an angel with azure 
wings. He connected her rather with fire and brimstone, and 
though he could still believe her to be a spirit, he 
banished her entirely out of heaven, and found a place for 
her among the infernal gods. When he weighed in the balance, 
as he not seldom did, the two women to whom he had attached 
himself in Barchester, the pre-eminent place in his soul's 
hatred was usually allotted to the signora. 


Chapter 47

The Dean Elect

During the entire next week Barchester was ignorant who was 
to be its new dean on Sunday morning. Mr Slope was decidedly 
the favourite; but he did not show himself in the cathedral, 
and then he sank a point or two in the betting. On Monday, 
he got a scolding from the bishop in the hearing of the 
servants, and down he went till nobody would have him at any 
price; but on Tuesday he received a letter, in an official 
cover, marked private, by which he fully recovered his place 
in the public favour. On Wednesday, he was said to be ill, 
and that did not look well; but on Thursday morning he went 
down to the railway station, with a very jaunty air; and 
when it was ascertained that he had taken a first-class 
ticket for London, there was no longer any room for doubt on 
the matter.
While matters were in this state of ferment at Barchester, 
there was not much mental comfort at Plumstead. Our friend 
the archdeacon had many grounds for inward grief. He was 
much displeased at the result of Dr Gwynne's diplomatic 
mission to the palace, and did not even scruple to say to 
his wife that had he gone himself, he would have managed the 
affair much better. His wife did not agree with him, but 
that did not mend the matter.
Mr Quiverful's appointment to the hospital was, however, a 
fait accompli, and Mr Harding's acquiescence in that 
appointment was not less so. Nothing would induce Mr Harding 
to make a public appeal against the bishop; and the Master 
of Lazarus quite approved of his not doing so.
'I don't know what has come to the Master,' said the 
archdeacon over and over again. 'He used to be ready enough 
to stand up for his order.'
'My dear archdeacon,' Mrs Grantly would say in reply, 'what 
is the use of always fighting? I really think the Master is 
right.' The Master, however, had taken steps of his own, of 
which neither the archdeacon nor his wife knew anything.
Then Mr Slope's successes were henbane to Dr Grantly; and 
Mrs Bold's improprieties were as bad. What would be all the 
world to Archdeacon Grantly if Mr Slope should become Dean 
of Barchester and marry his wife's sister! He talked of it, 
and talked of it till he was nearly ill. Mrs Grantly almost 
wished that the marriage were done and over, so that she 
might hear no more about it.
And there was yet another ground of misery which cut him to 
the quick, nearly as closely as either of the others. That 
paragon of a clergyman, whom he had bestowed upon St 
Ewold's, that college friend of whom he had boasted so 
loudly, that ecclesiastical knight before whose lance Mr 
Slope was to fall and bite the dust, that worthy bulwark of 
the church as it should be, that honoured representative of 
Oxford's best spirit, was - so at least his wife had told 
him half a dozen times - misconducting himself!
Nothing had been seen of Mr Arabin at Plumstead for the last 
week, but a good deal had, unfortunately, been heard of him. 
As soon as Mrs Grantly had found herself alone with the 
archdeacon, on the evening of the Ullathorne party, she had 
expressed herself very forcibly as to Mr Arabin's conduct on 
that occasion. He had, she declared, looked and acted and 
talked very unlike a decent parish clergyman. At first the 
archdeacon had laughed at this, and assured her that she 
need not trouble herself; that Mr Arabin would be found to 
be quite safe. But by degrees he began to find that his 
wife's eyes had been sharper than his own. Other people 
coupled the signora's name with that of Mr Arabin. The 
meagre little prebendary who lived in the close, told him to 
a nicety how often Mr Arabin had visited at Dr Stanhope's, 
and how long he had remained on the occasion of each visit. 
He had asked after Mr Arabin at the cathedral library, and 
an officious little vicar choral had offered to go and see 
whether he could be found at Dr Stanhope's. Rumour, when she 
has contrived to sound the first note on her trumpet, soon 
makes a loud peal audible enough. It was too clear that Mr 
Arabin had succumbed to the Italian woman, and that the 
archdeacon's credit would suffer fearfully if something were 
not done to rescue the brand from the burning. Besides, to 
give the archdeacon his due, he was really attached to Mr 
Arabin, and grieved greatly at his backsliding.
They were sitting, talking over their sorrows, in the 
drawing-room before dinner on the day after Mr Slope's 
departure for London; and on this occasion Mrs Grantly spoke 
out her mind freely. She had opinions of her own about 
parish clergymen, and now thought it right to give vent to 
them.
'If you would have been led by me, archdeacon, you would 
never have put a bachelor into St Ewold's.'
'But, my dear, you don't mean to say that all bachelor 
clergymen misbehave themselves.'
'I don't know that clergymen are so much better than other 
men,' said Mrs Grantly. 'It's all very well with a curate 
whom you have under your own eye, and whom you can get rid 
of if he persists in improprieties.'
'But Mr Arabin was a fellow, and couldn't have had a wife.'
'Then I would have found someone who could.'
'But, my dear, are fellows never to get livings?'
'Yes, to be sure they are, when they get engaged. I never 
would put a young man into a living unless he were married, 
or engaged to be married. Now here is Mr Arabin. The whole 
responsibility lies upon you.'
'There is not at this moment a clergyman in all Oxford more 
respected for morals and conduct than Arabin.'
'Oh, Oxford!' said the lady, with a sneer. 'What men choose 
to do at Oxford, nobody ever hears of. A man may do very 
well at Oxford who would bring disgrace on a parish; and, to 
tell you the truth, it seems to me that Mr Arabin is just 
such a man.'
The archdeacon groaned deeply, but he had no further answer 
to make.
'You really must speak to him, archdeacon. Only think what 
the Thornes will say if they hear that their parish 
clergyman spends his whole time philandering with this 
woman.'
The archdeacon groaned again. He was a courageous man, and 
knew well enough how to rebuke the younger clergymen of the 
diocese, when necessary. But there was that about Mr Arabin 
which made the doctor feel that it would be very difficult 
to rebuke him with good effect.
'You can advise him to find a wife for himself, and he will 
understand well enough what that means,' said Mrs Grantly.
The archdeacon had nothing for it but groaning. There was Mr 
Slope; he was going to be made dean; he was going to take a 
wife; he was about to achieve respectability and wealth; an 
excellent family mansion, and a family carriage; he would 
soon be among the comfortable elite of the ecclesiastical 
world of Barchester; whereas his own protege, the true scion 
of the true church, by whom he had sworn, would be still but 
a poor vicar, and that with a very indifferent character for 
moral conduct! It might be all very well recommending Mr 
Arabin to marry, but how would Mr Arabin when married 
support a wife!
Things were ordering themselves thus in Plumstead drawing-
room when Dr and Mrs Grantly were disturbed in their sweet 
discourse by the quick rattle of a carriage and pair of 
horses on the gravel sweep. The sound was not that of 
visitors, whose private carriages are generally brought up 
to country-house doors with demure propriety, but betokened 
rather the advent of some person or persons who were in a 
hurry to reach the house, and had no intention of 
immediately leaving it. Guests invited to stay a week, and 
who were conscious of arriving after the first dinner bell, 
would probably approach in such a manner. So might arrive an 
attorney with the news of a granduncle's death, or a son 
from college with all the fresh honours of a double first. 
No one would have had himself driven up to the door of a 
country house in such a manner who had the slightest doubt 
of his own right to force an entry.
'Who is it?' said Mrs Grantly, looking at her husband.
'Who on earth can it be?' said the archdeacon to his wife. 
He then quietly got up and stood with the drawing-room door 
open in his hand. 'Why, it's your father!'
It was indeed Mr Harding, and Mr Harding alone. He had come 
by himself in a post-chaise with a couple of horses from 
Barchester, arriving almost after dark, and evidently full 
of news. His visits had usually been made in the quietest 
manner; he had rarely presumed to come without notice, and 
had always been driven up in a modest old green fly, with 
one horse that hardly made itself heard as it crawled up to 
the hall-door.
'Good gracious, Warden, is it you?' said the archdeacon, 
forgetting in his surprise the events of the last few years. 
'But come in; nothing the matter, I hope.'
'We are very glad you are come, papa,' said his daughter. 
'I'll go and get your room ready at once.'
'I an't warden, archdeacon,' said Mr Harding. 'Mr Quiverful 
is warden.'
'Oh, I know, I know,' said the archdeacon, petulantly. 'I 
forgot all about it at the moment. Is anything the matter?'
'Don't go this moment, Susan,' said Mr Harding; 'I have 
something to tell you.'
'The dinner bell will ring in five minutes,' said she.
'Will it?' said Mr Harding. 'Then, perhaps, I had better 
wait.' He was big with news which he had come to tell, but 
which he knew could not be told without much discussion. He 
had hurried away to Plumstead as fast as two horses could 
bring him; and now, finding himself there, he was willing to 
accept the reprieve which dinner would give him.
'If you have anything of moment to tell us,' said the 
archdeacon, 'pray let us hear it at once. Has Eleanor gone 
off?'
'No, she has not,' said Mr Harding, with a look of great 
displeasure.
'Has Slope been made dean?'
'No, he has not; but -'
'But what?' said the archdeacon, who was becoming very 
impatient.
'They have -'
'They have what?' said the archdeacon.
'They have offered it to me,' said Mr Harding, with a 
modesty which almost prevented his speaking.
'Good heavens!' said the archdeacon, and sank back exhausted 
in an easy-chair.
'My dear, dear father,' said Mrs Grantly, and threw her arms 
round her father's neck.
'So I thought I had better come out and consult with you at 
once,' said Mr Harding.
'Consult!' shouted the archdeacon. 'But, my dear Harding, I 
congratulate you with my whole heart - with my whole heart; 
I do indeed. I never heard anything in my life that gave me 
so much pleasure'; and he got hold of both his father-in-
law's hands, and shook them as though he were going to shake 
them off, and walked round and round the room, twirling a 
copy of The Jupiter over his head, to show his extreme 
exultation.
'But -' began Mr Harding.
'But me no buts,' said the archdeacon. 'I never was so happy 
in my life. It was just the proper thing to do. Upon my 
honour, I'll never say another word against Lord -- the 
longest day I have to live.'
'That's Dr Gwynne's doing, you may be sure,' said Mrs 
Grantly, who greatly liked the Master of Lazarus, he being 
an orderly married man with a large family.
'I suppose it is,' said the archdeacon.
'Oh, papa, I am so truly delighted!' said Mrs Grantly, 
getting up and kissing her father.
'But, my dear,' said Mr Harding. - It was all in vain that 
he strove to speak; nobody would listen to him.
'Well, Mr Dean,' said the archdeacon, triumphing; 'the 
deanery gardens will be some consolation for the hospital 
elms. Well, poor Quiverful! I won't begrudge him his good 
fortune any longer.'
'No, indeed,' said Mrs Grantly. 'Poor woman, she has 
fourteen children. I am sure I am very glad they have got 
it.'
'So am I,' said Mr Harding.
'I would give twenty pounds,' said the archdeacon, 'to see 
how Mr Slope will look when he hears it.' The idea of Mr 
Slope's discomfiture formed no small part of the 
archdeacon's pleasure.
At last Mr Harding was allowed to go upstairs and wash his 
hands, having, in fact, said very little of all that he had 
come out to Plumstead on purpose to say. Nor could anything 
more be said till the servants were gone after dinner. The 
joy of Dr Grantly was so uncontrollable that he could not 
refrain from calling his father-in-law Mr Dean before the 
men; and therefore it was soon matter of discussion in the 
lower regions how Mr Harding, instead of his daughter's 
future husband, was to be the new dean, and various were the 
opinions on the matter. The cook and butler, who were 
advanced in years, thought that it was just as it should be; 
but the footman and lady's maid, who were younger, thought 
it was a great shame that Mr Slope should lose his chance.
'He's a mean chap all the same,' said the footman; 'and it 
an't along of him that I says so. But I always did admire 
the missus's sister; and she'd well become the situation.'
While these were the ideas downstairs, a very great 
difference of opinion existed above. As soon as the cloth 
was drawn and the wine on the table, Mr Harding made for 
himself an opportunity of speaking. It was, however, with 
much inward troubling that he said:
'It's very kind of Lord --, very kind, and I feel it deeply, 
most deeply. I am, I must confess, gratified by the offer -'
'I should think so,' said the archdeacon.
'But, all the same, I am afraid that I can't accept it.'
'The decanter almost fell from the archdeacon's hand upon 
the table; and the start he made was so great as to make his 
wife jump up from her chair. Not accept the deanship! If it 
really ended in this, there would be no longer any doubt 
that his father-in-law was demented. The question now was 
whether a clergyman with low rank, and preferment amounting 
to less than £200 a year, should accept high rank, £1200 a 
year, and one of the most desirable positions which his 
profession had to afford!
'What!' said the archdeacon, gasping for breath, and staring 
at his guest as though the violence of his emotion had 
almost thrown him into a fit.
'What!'
'I do not find myself fit for new duties,' urged Mr Harding.
'New duties! what duties?' said the archdeacon, with 
unintended sarcasm.
'Oh, papa,' said Mrs Grantly, 'nothing can be easier than 
what a dean has to do. Surely you are more active than Dr 
Trefoil.'
'He won't have half as much to do as he has at present,' 
said Dr Grantly.
'Did you see what The Jupiter said the other day about young 
men?'
'Yes; and I saw that The Jupiter said all that it could to 
induce the appointment of Mr Slope. Perhaps you would wish 
to see Mr Slope made dean.'
Mr Harding made no reply to this rebuke, though he felt it 
strongly. He had not come over to Plumstead to have further 
contention with his son-in-law about Mr Slope, so he allowed 
it to pass by.
'I know I cannot make you understand my feeling,' he said, 
'for we have been cast in different moulds. I may wish that 
I had your spirit and energy and power of combating; but I 
have not. Every day that is added to my life increases my 
wish for peace and rest.'
'And where on earth can a man have peace and rest if not in 
a deanery?' said the archdeacon.
'People will say that I am too old for it.'
'Good heavens! people! what people? What need you care for 
any people?'
'But I think myself I am too old for any new place.'
'Dear papa,' said Mrs Grantly, 'men ten years older than you 
are appointed to new situations day after day.'
'My dear,' said he, 'it is impossible that I should make you 
understand my feelings, nor do I pretend to any great virtue 
in the matter. The truth is, I want the force of character 
which might enable me to stand against the spirit of the 
times. The call on all sides now is for young men, and I 
have not the nerve to put myself in opposition to the 
demand. Were The Jupiter, when it hears of my appointment, 
to write article after article, setting forth my 
incompetency, I am sure it would cost me my reason. I ought 
to be able to bear with such things, you will say. Well, my 
dear, I own that I ought. But I feel my weakness, and I know 
that I can't. And, to tell you the truth, I know no more 
than a child what the dean has to do.'
'Pshaw!' exclaimed the archdeacon.
'Don't be angry with me, archdeacon: don't let us quarrel 
about it, Susan. If you knew how keenly I feel the necessity 
of having to disoblige you in this matter, you would not be 
angry with me.'
This was a dreadful blow to Dr Grantly. Nothing could 
possibly have suited him better than having Mr Harding in 
the deanery. Though he had never looked down on Mr Harding 
on account of his recent poverty, he did fully recognise the 
satisfaction of having those belonging to him in comfortable 
positions. It would be much more suitable that Mr Harding 
should be dean of Barchester than vicar of St Cuthbert's and 
precentor to boot. And then the great discomfiture of that 
arch enemy of all that was respectable in Barchester, of 
that new low-church clerical parvenu that had fallen amongst 
them, that alone would be worth more, almost, than the 
situation itself. It was frightful to think that such 
unhoped-for good fortune should be marred by the absurd 
crotchets and unwholesome hallucinations by which Mr Harding 
allowed himself to be led astray. To have the cup so near 
his lips and then to lose the drinking of it, was more than 
Dr Grantly could endure.
And yet it appeared as though he would have to endure it. In 
vain he threatened and in vain he coaxed. Mr Harding did not 
indeed speak with perfect decision of refusing the proffered 
glory, but he would not speak with anything like decision of 
accepting it. When pressed again and again, he would again 
and again allege that he was wholly unfitted to new duties. 
It was in vain that the archdeacon tried to insinuate, 
though he could not plainly declare, that there were no new 
duties to perform. It was in vain he hinted that in all 
cases of difficulty he, the archdeacon, was willing and able 
to guide a weak-minded dean. Mr Harding seemed to have a 
foolish idea, not only that there were new duties to do, but 
that no one should accept the place who was not himself 
prepared to do them.
The conference ended in an understanding that Mr Harding 
should at once acknowledge the letter he had received from 
the minister's private secretary, and should beg that he 
might be allowed two days to make up his mind; and that 
during those two days the matter should be considered.
On the following morning the archdeacon was to drive Mr 
Harding back to Barchester.


Chapter 48

Miss Thorne shows her talent at Match-making

On Mr Harding's return to Barchester from Plumstead, which 
was effected by him in due course in company with the 
archdeacon, more tidings of a surprising nature met him. He 
was, during the journey, subjected to such a weight of 
unanswerable argument, all of which went to prove that it 
was his bounden duty not to interfere with the paternal 
government that was so anxious to make him a dean, that when 
he arrived at the chemist's door in High Street, he hardly 
knew which way to turn himself in the matter. But, perplexed 
as he was, he was doomed to further perplexity. He found a 
note there from his daughter begging him most urgently to 
come to her immediately. But we must again go back a little 
in our story.
Miss Thorne had not been slow to hear the rumours respecting 
Mr Arabin, which had so much disturbed the happiness of Mrs 
Grantly. And she, also, was unhappy to think that her parish 
clergyman should be accused of worshipping a strange 
goddess. She, also, was of opinion, that rectors and vicars 
should all be married, and with that good-natured energy 
which was characteristic of her, she put her wits to work to 
find a fitting match for Mr Arabin. Mrs Grantly, in this 
difficulty, could think of no better remedy than a lecture 
from the archdeacon. Miss Thorne thought that a young lady, 
marriageable, and with a dowry, might be of more efficacy. 
In looking through the catalogue of her unmarried friends, 
who might possibly be in want of a husband, and might also 
be fit for such promotion as a country parsonage affords, 
she could think of no one more eligible than Mrs Bold; and, 
consequently, losing no time, she went into Barchester on 
the day of Mr Slope's discomfiture, the same day that her 
brother had had his interesting interview with the last of 
the Neros, and invited Mrs Bold to bring her nurse and baby 
to Ullathorne and make them a protracted visit.
Miss Thorne suggested a month or two, intending to use her 
influence afterwards in prolonging it so as to last out the 
winter, in order that Mr Arabin might have an opportunity of 
becoming fairly intimate with his intended bride. 'We'll 
have Mr Arabin too,' said Miss Thorne to herself; 'and 
before the spring they'll know each other; and in twelve or 
eighteen months' time, if all goes well, Mrs Bold will be 
domiciled at St Ewold's'; and then the kind-hearted lady 
gave herself some not undeserved praise for her match-making 
genius.
Eleanor was taken a little by surprise, but the matter ended 
in her promising to go to Ullathorne for at any rate a week 
or two; and on the day previous to that on which her father 
drove out to Plumstead, she had had herself driven out to 
Ullathorne.
Miss Thorne would not perplex her with her embryo lord on 
that same evening, thinking that she would allow her a few 
hours to make herself at home; but on the following morning 
Mr Arabin arrived. 'And now,' said Miss Thorne to herself, 
'I must contrive to throw them in each other's way.' That 
same day, after dinner, Eleanor, with an assumed air of 
dignity which she could not maintain, with tears that she 
could not suppress, with a flutter which she could not 
conquer, and a joy which she could not hide, told Miss 
Thorne that she was engaged to marry Mr Arabin, and that it 
behoved her to get back home to Barchester as quick as she 
could.
To say simply that Miss Thorne was rejoiced at the success 
of the scheme, would give a very faint idea of her feelings 
on the occasion. My readers may probably have dreamt before 
now that they have had before them some terribly long walk 
to accomplish, some journey of twenty or thirty miles, an 
amount of labour frightful to anticipate, and that 
immediately on starting they have ingeniously found some 
accommodating short-cut which has brought them without 
fatigue to their work's end in five minutes. Miss Thorne's 
waking feelings were somewhat of the same nature. My readers 
may perhaps have had to do with children, and may on some 
occasion have promised to their young charges some great 
gratification intended to come off, perhaps at the end of 
the winter, or at the beginning of summer. The impatient 
juveniles, however, will not wait, and clamorously demand 
their treat before they go to bed. Miss Thorne had a sort of 
feeling that her children were equally unreasonable. She was 
like an inexperienced gunner, who has ill calculated the 
length of the train that he has laid. The gunpowder exploded 
much too soon, and poor Miss Thorne felt that she was blown 
up by the strength of her own petard.
Miss Thorne had had lovers of her own, but they had been 
gentlemen of old-fashioned and deliberate habits. Miss 
Thorne's heart also had not always been hard, though she was 
still a virgin spinster; but it had never yielded in this 
way at the first assault. She had intended to bring together 
a middle-aged studious clergyman, and a discreet matron who 
might possibly be induced to marry again; and in doing so 
she had thrown fire among tinder. Well, it was all as it 
should be, but she did feel perhaps a little put out by the 
precipitancy of her own success; and perhaps a little vexed 
at the readiness of Mrs Bold to be wooed.
She said, however, nothing about it to anyone, and ascribed 
it all to the altered manners of the new age. Their mothers 
and grandmothers were perhaps a little more deliberate; but 
it was admitted on all sides that things were conducted very 
differently now than in former times. For aught Miss Thorne 
knew of the matter, a couple of hours might be quite 
sufficient under the new regime to complete that for which 
she in her ignorance had allotted twelve months.
But we must not pass over the wooing so cavalierly. It has 
been told, with perhaps tedious accuracy, how Eleanor 
disposed of two of her lovers at Ullathorne; and it must 
also be told with equal accuracy, and if possible with less 
tedium, how she encountered Mr Arabin.
It cannot be denied that when Eleanor accepted Miss Thorne's 
invitation, she remembered that Ullathorne was in the parish 
of St Ewold's. Since her interview with the signora she had 
done little else than think about Mr Arabin, and the appeal 
that had been made to her. She could not bring herself to 
believe or try to bring herself to believe, that what she 
had been told was untrue. Think of it how she would, she 
could not but accept it as a fact that Mr Arabin was fond of 
her; and then when she went further, and asked herself the 
question, she could not but accept it as a fact also that 
she was fond of him. If it were destined for her to be the 
partner of his hopes and sorrows, to whom could she look for 
friendship so properly as to Miss Thorne? This invitation 
was like an ordained step towards the fulfilment of her 
destiny, and when she also heard that Mr Arabin was expected 
to be at Ullathorne on the following day, it seemed as 
though all the world were conspiring in her favour. Well, 
did she not deserve it? In that affair of Mr Slope, had not 
all the world conspired against her?
She could not, however, make herself easy and at home. When 
in the evening after dinner Miss Thorne expatiated on the 
excellence of Mr Arabin's qualities, and hinted that any 
little rumour which might be ill-naturedly spread abroad 
concerning him really meant nothing, Mrs Bold found herself 
unable to answer. When Miss, Thorne went a little further 
and declared that she did not know a prettier vicarage-house 
in the county than St Ewold's, Mrs Bold remembering the 
projected bow-window and the projected priestess still held 
her tongue; though her ears tingled with the conviction that 
all the world knew that she was in love with Mr Arabin. 
Well; what would that matter if they could only meet and 
tell each other what each now longed to tell?
And they did meet. Mr Arabin came early in the day, and 
found the two ladies together at work in the drawing-room. 
Miss Thorne, who had she known all the truth would have 
vanished into air at once, had no conception that her 
immediate absence would be a blessing, and remained chatting 
with them till luncheon-time. Mr Arabin could talk about 
nothing but the Signora Neroni's beauty, would discuss no 
people but the Stanhopes. This was very distressing to 
Eleanor, and not very satisfactory to Miss Thorne. But yet 
there was evidence of innocence in his open avowal of 
admiration.
And then they had lunch, and then Mr Arabin went out on 
parish duty, and Eleanor and Miss Thorne were left to take a 
walk together.
'Do you think the Signora Neroni is so lovely as people 
say?' Eleanor asked as they were coming home.
'She is very beautiful certainly, very beautiful,' Miss 
Thorne answered; 'but I do not know that anyone considers 
her lovely. She is a woman all men would like to look at; 
but few I imagine would be glad to take her to their 
hearths, even were she unmarried and not afflicted as she 
is.'
There was some little comfort in this. Eleanor made the most 
of it till she got back to the house. She was then left 
alone in the drawing-room, and just as it was getting dark 
Mr Arabin came in.
It was a beautiful afternoon in the beginning of October, 
and Eleanor was sitting in the window to get the advantage 
of the last daylight for her novel. There was a fire in the 
comfortable room, but the weather was not cold enough to 
make it attractive; and as she could see the sunset from 
where she sat, she was not very attentive to her book.
Mr Arabin when he entered stood awhile with his back to the 
fire in his usual way, merely uttering a few commonplace 
remarks about the beauty of the weather, while he plucked up 
courage for more interesting converse. It cannot probably be 
said that he had resolved then and there to make an offer to 
Eleanor. Men we believe seldom make such resolves. Mr Slope 
and Mr Stanhope had done so, it is true; but gentlemen 
generally propose without any absolutely defined 
determination as to their doing so. Such was now the case 
with Mr Arabin.
'It is a lovely sunset,' said Eleanor, answering him on the 
dreadfully trite subject which he had chosen.
Mr Arabin could not see the sunset from the hearth-rug, so 
he had to go close to her.
'Very lovely,' said he, standing modestly so far away from 
her as to avoid touching the flounces of her dress. Then it 
appeared that he had nothing further to say; so after gazing 
for a moment in silence at the brightness of the setting 
sun, he returned to the fire.
Eleanor found that it was quite impossible for herself to 
commence a conversation. In the first place she could find 
nothing to say; words, which were generally plenty enough 
with her, would not come to her relief. And, moreover, do 
what she would, she could hardly prevent herself from 
crying.
'Do you like Ullathorne?' said Mr Arabin, speaking from the 
safely distant position which he had assumed on the hearth-
rug.
'Yes, indeed, very much!'
'I don't mean Mr and Miss Thorne. I know you like them; but 
the style of the house. There is something about old-
fashioned mansions, built as this is, and old-fashioned 
gardens, that to me is especially delightful.'
'I like everything old-fashioned,' said Eleanor; 'old-
fashioned things are so much the honestest.'
'I don't know about that,' said Mr Arabin, gently laughing. 
'That is an opinion on which very much may be said on either 
side. It is strange how widely the world is divided on a 
subject which so nearly concerns us all, and which is so 
close beneath our eyes. Some think that we are quickly 
progressing towards perfection, while others imagine that 
virtue is disappearing from the earth.'
'And you, Mr Arabin, what do you think?' said Eleanor. She 
felt somewhat surprised at the tone which his conversation 
was taking, and yet she was relieved at his saying something 
which enabled herself to speak without showing her own 
emotion.
'What do I think, Mrs Bold?' and then he rumbled his money 
with his hands in his trousers pockets, and looked and spoke 
very little like a thriving lover. 'It is the bane of my 
life that on important subjects I acquire no fixed opinion. 
I think, and think, and go on thinking; and yet my thoughts 
are running ever in different directions. I hardly know 
whether or no we do lean more confidently than our fathers 
did on those high hopes to which we profess to aspire.'
'I think the world grows more worldly every day,' said 
Eleanor.
'That is because you see more of it than when you were 
younger. But we should hardly judge by what we see - we see 
so very very little.' There was then a pause for a while, 
during which Mr Arabin continued to turn over his shillings 
and half-crowns. 'If we believe in Scripture, we can hardly 
think that mankind in general will now be allowed to 
retrograde.'
Eleanor, whose mind was certainly engaged otherwise than on 
the general state of mankind, made no answer to this. She 
felt thoroughly dissatisfied with herself. She could not 
force her thoughts away from the topic on which the signora 
had spoken to her in so strange a way, and yet she knew that 
she could not converse with Mr Arabin in an unrestrained 
natural tone till she did so. She was most anxious not to 
show to him any special emotion, and yet she felt that if he 
looked at her he would at once see that she was not at ease.
But he did not look at her. Instead of doing so, he left the 
fireplace and began walking up and down the room. Eleanor 
took up her book resolutely; but she could not read, for 
there was a tear in her eye, and do what she would it fell 
on her cheek. When Mr Arabin's back was turned to her she 
wiped it away; but another was soon coursing down her face 
in its place. They would come; not a deluge of tears that 
would have betrayed her at once, but one by one, single 
monitors. Mr Arabin did not observe her closely, and they 
passed unseen.
Mr Arabin, thus pacing up and down the room, took four or 
five turns before he spoke another word, and Eleanor sat 
equally silent with her face bent over her book. She was 
afraid that her tears would get the better of her, and was 
preparing for an escape from the room, when Mr Arabin in his 
walk stood opposite to her. He did not come close up, but 
stood exactly on the spot to which his course brought him, 
and then, with his hands under his coat tails, thus made his 
confession.
'Mrs Bold,' said he, 'I owe you retribution for a great 
offence of which I have been guilty towards you.' Eleanor's 
heart beat so that she could not trust herself to say that 
he had never been guilty of any offence. So Mr Arabin thus 
went on.
I have thought much on it since, and I am now aware that I 
was wholly unwarranted in putting to you a question which I 
once asked you. It was indelicate on my part, and perhaps 
unmanly. No intimacy which may exist between myself and your 
connection, Dr Grantly, could justify it. Nor could the 
acquaintance which existed between ourselves.' This word 
acquaintance struck cold on Eleanor's heart. Was this to be 
her doom after all? 'I therefore think it right to beg your 
pardon in a humble spirit, and I now do so.'
What was Eleanor to say to him? She could not say much, 
because she was crying, and yet she must say something. She 
was most anxious to say that something graciously, kindly, 
and yet not in such a manner as to betray herself. She had 
never felt herself so much at a loss for words.
'Indeed I took no offence, Mr Arabin.'
'Oh, but you did! And had you not done so, you would not 
have been yourself. You were as right to be offended, as I 
was wrong so to offend you. I have not forgiven myself, but 
I hope to hear that you forgive me.'
She was now past speaking calmly, though she still continued 
to hide her tears, and Mr Arabin, after pausing a moment in 
vain for her reply, was walking off towards the door. She 
felt that she could not allow him to go unanswered without 
grievously sinning against all charity; so, rising from her 
seat, she gently touched his arm and said: 'Oh, Mr Arabin, 
do not go till I speak to you! I do forgive you. You know 
that I forgive you.'
He took the hand that had so gently touched his arm, and 
then gazed into her face as if he would peruse there, as 
though written in a book, the whole future destiny of his 
life; and as he did so, there was a sober sad seriousness in 
his own countenance, which Eleanor found herself unable to 
sustain. She could only look down upon the carpet, let her 
tears trickle as they would, and leave her hand within his.
It was but for a minute that they stood so, but the duration 
of that minute was sufficient to make it ever memorable to 
them both. Eleanor was sure now that she was loved. No 
words, be their eloquence what it might, could be more 
impressive than that eager, melancholy gaze.
Why did he look so into her eyes? Why did he not speak to 
her? Could it be that he looked for her to make the first 
sign?
And he, though he knew but little of women, even he knew 
that he was loved. He had only to ask and it would be all 
his own, that inexpressible loveliness, those ever speaking 
but yet now mute eyes, that feminine brightness and eager 
loving spirit which had so attracted him since first he had 
encountered it at St Ewold's. It might, must all be his own 
now. On no other supposition was it possible that she should 
allow her hand to remain thus clasped within his own. He had 
only to ask. Ah! but that was the difficulty. Did a minute 
suffice for all this? Nay, perhaps it might be more than a 
minute.
'Mrs Bold -' at last he said, and then stopped himself.
If he could not speak, how was she to do so? He had called 
her by her name, the same name that any merest stranger 
would have used! She withdrew her hand from his, and moved 
as though to return to her seat. 'Eleanor!' he then said, in 
his softest tone, as though the courage of a lover were as 
yet but half assumed, as though he were still afraid of 
giving offence by the freedom which he took. She looked 
slowly, gently, almost piteously up into his face. There was 
at any rate no anger there to deter him.
'Eleanor!' he again exclaimed; and in a moment he had her 
clasped to his bosom. How this was done, whether the doing 
was with him or her, whether she had flown thither conquered 
by the tenderness of his voice, or he with a violence not 
likely to give offence had drawn her to his breast, neither 
of them knew; nor can I declare. There was now that sympathy 
between them which hardly admitted of individual motion. 
They were one and the same - one flesh - one spirit - one 
life.
'Eleanor, my own Eleanor, my own, my wife!' She ventured to 
look up at him through her tears, and he, bowing his face 
down over hers, pressed his lips upon her brow; his virgin 
lips, which since a beard first grew upon his chin, had 
never yet tasted the luxury of a woman's cheek.
She had been told that her yea must be yea, or her nay, nay; 
but she was called on for neither the one nor the other. She 
told Miss Thorne that she was engaged to Mr Arabin, but no 
such words had passed between them, no promises had been 
asked or given.
'Oh, let me go,' said she; 'let me go now. I am too happy to 
remain - let me go, that I may be alone.' He did not try to 
hinder her; he did not repeat the kiss; he did not press 
another on her lips. He might have done so had he been so 
minded. She was now all his own. He took his arm from round 
her waist, his arm that was trembling with a new delight, 
and let her go. She fled like a roe to her own chamber, and 
then, having turned the bolt, she enjoyed the full luxury of 
her love. She idolised, almost worshipped this man who had 
so meekly begged her pardon. And he was now her own. Oh, how 
she wept and cried and laughed, as the hopes and fears and 
miseries of the last few weeks passed in remembrance through 
her mind.
Mr Slope! That anyone should have dared to think that she 
who had been chosen by him could possibly have mated herself 
with Mr Slope! That they should have dared to tell him, 
also, and subject her bright happiness to such needless 
risk! And then she smiled with joy as she thought of all the 
comforts that she could give him; not that he cared for 
comforts, but that it would be so delicious for her to give.
She got up and rang for her maid that she might tell her 
little boy of his new father; and in her own way she did 
tell him. She desired her maid to leave her, in order that 
she might be alone with her child; and then, while he lay 
sprawling on the bed, she poured forth the praises, all 
unmeaning to him, of the man she had selected to guard his 
infancy.
She could not be happy, however, till she had made Mr Arabin 
take the child to himself, and thus, as it were, adopt him 
as his own. The moment the idea struck her she took the baby 
up in her arms, and, opening her door, ran quickly down to 
the drawing-room. She at once found, by his step still 
pacing on the floor, that he was there; and a glance within 
the room told her that he was alone. She hesitated a moment, 
and then hurried in with her precious charge.
Mr Arabin met her in the middle of the room. 'There,' said 
she, breathless with her haste; 'there, take him - take him 
and love him.'
Mr Arabin took the little fellow from her, and kissing him 
again and again, prayed God to bless him. 'He shall be all 
as my own - all as my own,' said he. Eleanor, as she stooped 
to take back her child, kissed the hand that held him, and 
then rushed back with her treasure to her chamber.
It was thus that Mr Harding's younger daughter was won for 
the second time. At dinner neither she nor Mr Arabin were 
very bright, but their silence occasioned no remark. In the 
drawing-room, as we have before said, she told Miss Thorne 
what had occurred. The next morning she returned to 
Barchester, and Mr Arabin went over with his budget of news 
to the archdeacon. As Dr Grantly was not there, he could 
only satisfy himself by telling Mrs Grantly how that he 
intended himself the honour of becoming her brother-in-law. 
In the ecstasy of her joy at hearing such tidings, Mrs 
Grantly vouchsafed him a warmer welcome than any he had yet 
received from Eleanor.
'Good heavens!' she exclaimed - it was the general 
exclamation of the rectory. 'Poor Eleanor! Dear Eleanor! 
What a monstrous injustice has been done her! - Well, it 
shall all be made up now.' And then she thought of the 
signora. 'What lies people tell,' she said to herself.
But people in this matter had told no lies at all.



Chapter 49

The Belzebub Colt

When Miss Thorne left the dining-room, Eleanor had formed no 
intention of revealing to her what had occurred; but when 
she was seated beside her hostess on the sofa the secret 
dropped from her almost unawares. Eleanor was but a bad 
hypocrite, and she found herself quite unable to continue 
talking about Mr Arabin as though he were a stranger, while 
her heart was full of him. When Miss Thorne, pursuing her 
own scheme with discreet zeal, asked the young widow 
whether, in her opinion, it would not be a good thing for Mr 
Arabin to get married, she had nothing for it but to confess 
the truth. 'I suppose it would,' said Eleanor, rather 
sheepishly. Whereupon Miss Thorne amplified on the idea. 
'Oh, Miss Thorne,' said Eleanor, 'he is going to be married: 
I am engaged to him.'
Now Miss Thorne knew very well that there had been no such 
engagement when she had been walking with Mrs Bold in the 
morning. She had also heard enough to be tolerably sure that 
there had been no preliminaries to such an engagement. She 
was, therefore, as we have before described, taken a little 
by surprise. But, nevertheless, she embraced her guest, and 
cordially congratulated her.
Eleanor had no opportunity of speaking another word to Mr 
Arabin that evening, except such words as all the world 
might hear; and these, as may be supposed, were few enough. 
Miss Thorne did her best to leave them in privacy; but Mr 
Thorne, who knew nothing of what had occurred, and another 
guest, a friend of his, entirely interfered with her good 
intentions. So poor Eleanor had to go to bed without one 
sign of affection. Her state, nevertheless, was not to be 
pitied.
The next morning she was up early. It was probable, she 
thought that by going down a little before the usual hour of 
breakfast, she might find Mr Arabin alone in the dining-
room. Might it not be that he also would calculate that an 
interview would thus be possible? Thus thinking, Eleanor was 
dressed a full hour before the time fixed in the Ullathorne 
household for morning prayers. She did not at once go down. 
She was afraid to seem to be too anxious to meet her lover; 
though, heaven knows, her anxiety was intense enough. She 
therefore sat herself down at her window, and repeatedly 
looking at her watch, nursed her child till she thought she 
might venture forth.
When she found herself at the dining-room door, she stood a 
moment, hesitating to turn the handle; but when she heard Mr 
Thorne's voice inside she hesitated no longer. Her object 
was defeated, and she might now go in as soon as she liked 
without the slightest imputation on her delicacy. Mr Thorne 
and Mr Arabin were standing on the hearth-rug, discussing 
the merits of the Belzebub colt; or rather, Mr Thorne was 
discussing, and Mr Arabin was listening. That interesting 
animal had rubbed the stump of his tail against the wall of 
his stable, and occasioned much uneasiness to the Ullathorne 
master of the horse. Had Eleanor but waited another minute, 
Mr Thorne would have been in the stables.
Mr Thorne, when he saw his lady guest, repressed his 
anxiety. The Belzebub colt must do without him. And so the 
three stood, saying little or nothing to each other, till at 
last the master of the house, finding that he could no 
longer bear his present state of suspense respecting his 
favourite young steed, made an elaborate apology to Mrs 
Bold, and escaped. As he shut the door behind him, Eleanor 
almost wished that he had remained. It was not that she was 
afraid of Mr Arabin, but she hardly yet knew how to address 
him.
He, however, soon relieved her from her embarrassment. He 
came up to her, and taking both her hands in his, he said: 
'So, Eleanor, you and I are to be man and wife. Is it so?'
She looked up into his face, and her lips formed themselves 
into a single syllable. She uttered no sound, but he could 
read the affirmative plainly in her face.
'It is a great trust,' said he; 'a very great trust.'
'It is - it is,' said Eleanor, not exactly taking what he 
had said in the sense that he had meant. 'It is a very, very 
great trust, and I will do my utmost to deserve it.'
'And I also will do my utmost to deserve it,' said Mr 
Arabin, very solemnly. And then, winding his arm round her 
waist, he stood there gazing at the fire, and she with her 
head leaning on his shoulder, stood by him, well satisfied 
with her position. They neither of them spoke, or found any 
want of speaking. All that was needful for them to say had 
been said. The yea, yea, had been spoken by Eleanor in her 
own way - and that way had been perfectly satisfactory to Mr 
Arabin.
And now it remained to them each to enjoy the assurance of 
the other's love. And how great that luxury is! How far it 
surpasses any other pleasure which God has allowed to his 
creatures! And to a woman's heart how doubly delightful!
When the ivy has found its tower, when the delicate creeper 
has found its strong wall, we know how the parasite plants 
grow and prosper. They were not created to stretch forth 
their branches alone, and endure without protection the 
summer's sun and the winter's storm. Alone they but spread 
themselves on the ground, and cower unseen in the dingy 
shade. But when they have found their firm supporters, how 
wonderful is their beauty; how all pervading and victorious! 
What is the turret without its ivy, or the high garden wall 
without the jasmine which gives it its beauty and fragrance? 
The hedge without the honeysuckle is but a hedge.
There is a feeling still half existing, but now half 
conquered by the force of human nature, that a woman should 
be ashamed of her love till the husband's right to her 
compels her to acknowledge it. We would fain preach a 
different doctrine. A woman should glory in her love; but on 
that account let her take the more care that it be such as 
to justify her glory.
Eleanor did glory in hers, and she felt, and had cause to 
feel, that it deserved to be held as glorious. She could 
have stood there for hours with his arm round her, had fate 
and Mr Thorne permitted it. Each moment she crept nearer to 
his bosom, and felt more and more certain that there was her 
home. What now to her was the archdeacon's arrogance, her 
sister's coldness, or her dear father's weakness? What need 
she care for the duplicity of such friends as Charlotte 
Stanhope? She had found the strong shield that should guard 
her from all wrongs, the trusty pilot that should 
henceforward guide her through the shoals and rocks. She 
would give up the heavy burden of her independence, and once 
more assume the position of a woman, and the duties of a 
trusting and loving wife.
And he, too, stood there fully satisfied with his place. 
They were both looking intently on the fire, as though they 
could read there their future fate, till at last Eleanor 
turned her face towards his. 'How sad you are,' she said, 
smiling; and indeed his face was, if not sad, at least 
serious. 'How sad you are, love!'
'Sad,' said he, looking down at her; 'no, certainly not 
sad.' Her sweet loving eyes were turned towards him, and she 
smiled softly as he answered her. The temptation was too 
strong even for the demure propriety of Mr Arabin, and, 
bending over her, he pressed his lips to hers.
Immediately after this, Mr Thorne appeared, and they were 
both delighted to hear that the tail of the Belzebub colt 
was not materially injured.
It had been Mr Harding's intention to hurry over to 
Ullathorne as soon as possible after his return to 
Barchester, in order to secure the support of his daughter 
in his meditated revolt against the archdeacon as touching 
the deanery; but he was spared the additional journey by 
hearing that Mrs Bold had returned unexpectedly home. As 
soon as he had read her note he started off, and found her 
waiting for him in her own house.
How much each of them had to tell the other, and how certain 
each was that the story which he or she had to tell would 
astonish the other!
'My dear, I am so anxious to see you,' said Mr Harding, 
kissing his daughter.
'Oh, papa, I have so much to tell you!' said the daughter, 
returning the embrace.
'My dear, they have offered me the deanery!' said Mr 
Harding, anticipating by the suddenness of the revelation 
the tidings which Eleanor had to give him.
'Oh, papa,' said she, forgetting her own love and happiness 
in her joy at the surprising news; 'oh, papa, can it be 
possible? Dear papa, how thoroughly, thoroughly happy that 
makes me!'
'But, my dear, I think it best to refuse it.'
'Oh, papa!'
'I am sure you will agree with me, Eleanor, when I explain 
it to you. You know, my dear, how old I am. If I live, I -'
'But, papa, I must tell you about myself.'
'Well, my dear.'
'I do so wonder how you'll take it.'
'Take what?'
'If you don't rejoice at it, if it doesn't make you happy, 
if you don't encourage me, I shall break my heart.'
'If that be the case, Nelly, I certainly will encourage 
you.'
'But I fear you won't. I do so fear you won't. And yet you 
can't but think I am the most fortunate woman living on 
God's earth.'
'Are you, dearest? Then I certainly will rejoice with you. 
Come, Nelly, come to me, and tell me what it is.'
'I am going -'
He led her to the sofa, and seating himself beside her, took 
both her hands in his. 'You are going to be married, Nelly. 
Is not that it?'
'Yes,' she said, faintly. 'That is if you will approve'; and 
then she blushed as she remembered the promise which she had 
so lately volunteered to him, and which she had so utterly 
forgotten in making her engagement with Mr Arabin.
Mr Harding thought for a moment who the man could be whom he 
was to be called upon to welcome as his son-in-law. A week 
since he would have had no doubt whom to name. In that case 
he would have been prepared to give his sanction, although 
he would have done so with a heavy heart. Now he knew that 
at any rate it would not be Mr Slope, though he was 
perfectly at a loss to guess who could possibly have filled 
the place. For a moment he thought that the man might be 
Bertie Stanhope, and his very soul sank within him.
'Well, Nelly?'
'Oh, papa, promise to me that, for my sake, you will love 
him.'
'Come, Nelly, come; tell me who it is.'
'But will you love him, papa?'
'Dearest, I must love anyone that you love.' Then she turned 
her face to his, and whispered into his ear the name of Mr 
Arabin.
No man that she could have named could have more surprised 
or more delighted him. Had he looked round the world for a 
son-in-law to his taste, he could have selected no one whom 
he would have preferred to Mr Arabin. He was a clergyman; he 
held a living in the neighbourhood; he was of a set to which 
all Mr Harding's own partialities most closely adhered; he 
was the great friend of Dr Grantly; and he was, moreover, a 
man of whom Mr Harding knew nothing but what he approved. 
Nevertheless, his surprise was so great as to prevent the 
immediate expression of his joy. He had never thought of Mr 
Arabin in connection with his daughter; he had never 
imagined that they had any feeling in common. He had feared 
that his daughter had been made hostile to clergymen of Mr 
Arabin's stamp by her intolerance of the archdeacon's 
pretensions. Had he been put to wish, he might have wished 
for Mr Arabin for a son-in-law; but had he been put to 
guess, the name would never have occurred to him.
'Mr Arabin!' he exclaimed; 'impossible!'
'Oh, papa, for heaven's sake don't say anything against him! 
If you love me, don't say anything against him. Oh, papa, 
it's done, and mustn't be undone - oh, papa!' 
Fickle Eleanor! where was the promise that she would make no 
choice for herself without her father's approval? She had 
chosen, and now demanded his acquiescence. 'Oh, papa, isn't 
he good? isn't he noble? isn't he religious, high-minded, 
everything that a good man possibly can be?' and she clung 
to her father, beseeching him for his consent.
'My Nelly, my child, my own daughter! He is; he is noble and 
good and high-minded; he is all that a woman can love and a 
man admire. He shall be my son, my own son. He shall be as 
close to my heart as you are. My Nelly, my child, my happy, 
happy child!'
We need not pursue the interview any further. By degrees 
they returned to the subject of the new promotion. Eleanor 
tried to prove to him, as the Grantlys had done, that his 
age could be no bar to his being a very excellent dean; but 
those arguments had now even less weight on him than before. 
He said little or nothing, but sat meditative. Every now and 
then he would kiss his daughter, and say 'yes,' or 'no,' or 
'very true,' or 'well, my dear, I can't quite agree with you 
there,' but he could not be got to enter sharply into the 
question of 'to be, or not to be' dean of Barchester. Of her 
and her happiness, of Mr Arabin and his virtues, he would 
talk as much as Eleanor desired; and, to tell the truth, 
that was not a little; but about the deanery he would now 
say nothing further. He had got a new idea into his head - 
Why should not Mr Arabin be the new dean?



Chapter 50

The Archdeacon is Satisfied with the State of Affairs

The archdeacon, in his journey into Barchester, had been 
assured by Mr Harding that all their prognostications about 
Mr Slope and Eleanor were groundless. Mr Harding, however, 
had found it very difficult to shake his son-in-law's faith 
in his own acuteness. The matter had, to Dr Grantly, been so 
plainly corroborated by such patent evidence, borne out by 
such endless circumstances, that he at first refused to take 
as true the positive statement which Mr Harding made to him 
of Eleanor's own disavowal of the impeachment. But at last 
he yielded in a qualified way. He brought himself to admit 
that he would at the present regard his past convictions as 
a mistake; but in doing this he so guarded himself, that if, 
at any future time, Eleanor should come forth to the world 
as Mrs Slope, he might still be able to say: 'There, I told 
you so. Remember what you said and what I said; and remember 
also for coming years, that I was right in this matter - as 
in all others.'
He carried, however, his concession so far as to bring 
himself to undertake to call at Eleanor's house, and he did 
call accordingly, while the father and daughter were yet in 
the middle of their conference. Mr Harding had had so much 
to hear and to say that he had forgotten to advertise 
Eleanor of the honour that awaited her, and she heard her 
brother-in-law's voice in the hall, while she was quite 
unprepared to see him.
'There's the archdeacon,' she said, springing up.
'Yes, my dear. He told me to tell you that he would come and 
see you; but, to tell the truth, I had forgotten all about 
it.'
Eleanor fled away, regardless of all her father's 
entreaties. She could not now, in the first hours of her 
joy, bring herself to bear all the archdeacon's retractions, 
apologies and congratulations. He would have so much to say, 
and would be so tedious in saying it; consequently, the 
archdeacon, when he was shown into the drawing-room, found 
no one there but Mr Harding.
'You must excuse Eleanor,' said Mr Harding.
'Is anything the matter?' asked the doctor, who at once 
anticipated that the whole truth about Mr Slope had at last 
come out.
'Well, something is the matter. I wonder now whether you 
will be much surprised?'
The archdeacon saw by his father-in-law's manner that after 
all he had nothing to tell him about Mr Slope. 'No,' said 
he, 'certainly not - nothing will ever surprise me again.' 
Very many men nowadays, besides the archdeacon, adopt or 
affect to adopt the nil admirari doctrine; but nevertheless, 
to judge from their appearance, they are just as subject to 
sudden emotions as their grandfathers and grandmothers were 
before them.
'What do you think Mr Arabin has done?'
'Mr Arabin! It's nothing about that daughter of Stanhope's, 
I hope?'
'No, not that woman,' said Mr Harding, enjoying his joke in 
his sleeve.
'Not that woman! Is he going to do anything about any woman? 
Why can't you speak out if you have anything to say? There 
is nothing I hate so much as these sort of mysteries.'
'There shall be no mystery with you, archdeacon; though of 
course, it must go no further at present.'
'Well.'
'Except Susan. You must promise me you'll tell no one else.'
'Nonsense!' exclaimed the archdeacon, who was becoming angry 
in his suspense. 'You can't have any secret about Mr 
Arabin.'
'Only this - that he and Eleanor are engaged.'
It was quite clear to see, by the archdeacon's face, that he 
did not believe a word of it. 'Mr Arabin! It's impossible!'
'Eleanor, at any rate, has just now told me so.'
'It's impossible,' repeated the archdeacon.
'Well, I can't say I think it impossible. It certainly took 
me by surprise; but that does not make it impossible.'
'She must be mistaken.'
Mr Harding assured him that there was no mistake; that he 
would find, on returning home, that Mr Arabin had been at 
Plumstead with the express object of making the same 
declaration, that even Miss Thorne knew all about it; and 
that, in fact, the thing was as clearly settled as any such 
arrangement between a lady and a gentleman could well be.
'Good heavens!' said the archdeacon, walking up and down 
Eleanor's drawing-room. 'Good heavens! Good heavens!'
Now, these exclamations certainly betokened faith. Mr 
Harding properly gathered from it that, at last, Dr Grantly 
did believe the fact. The first utterance clearly evinced a 
certain amount of distaste at the information he had 
received; the second, simply indicated surprise; in the tone 
of the third, Mr Harding fancied that he could catch a 
certain gleam of satisfaction.
The archdeacon had truly expressed the workings of his mind. 
He could not but be disgusted to find how utterly astray he 
had been in all his anticipations. Had he only been lucky 
enough to have suggested this marriage himself when he first 
brought Mr Arabin into the country, his character for 
judgment and wisdom would have received an addition which 
would have classed him at any rate next to Solomon. And why 
had he not done so? Might he not have foreseen that Mr 
Arabin would want a wife in his parsonage? He had foreseen 
that Eleanor would want a husband; but should he not also 
have perceived that Mr Arabin was a man much more likely to 
attract her than Mr Slope? The archdeacon found that he had 
been at fault, and of course could not immediately get over 
his discomfiture.
Then his surprise was intense. How sly this pair of young 
turtledoves had been with him. How egregiously they had 
hoaxed him. He had preached to Eleanor against her fancied 
attachment to Mr Slope, at the very time that she was in 
love with his own protege, Mr Arabin; and had absolutely 
taken that same Mr Arabin into his confidence with reference 
to his dread of Mr Slope's alliance. It was very natural 
that the archdeacon should feel surprise.
But there was also great ground for satisfaction. Looking at 
the match by itself, it was the very thing to help the 
doctor out of his difficulties. In the first place, the 
assurance that he should never have Mr Slope for his brother-
in-law, was in itself a great comfort. Then Mr Arabin was, 
of all men, the one with whom it would best suit him to be 
so intimately connected. But the crowning comfort was the 
blow which this marriage would give to Mr Slope. He had now 
certainly lost his wife; rumour was beginning to whisper 
that he might possibly lose his position in the palace; and 
if Mr Harding would only be true, the great danger of all 
would be surmounted. In such case it might be expected that 
Mr Slope would own himself vanquished, and take himself 
altogether away from Barchester. And so the archdeacon would 
again be able to breathe pure air.
'Well, well,' said he. 'Good heavens! good heavens!' and the 
tone of the fifth exclamation made Mr Harding fully aware 
that content was reigning in the archdeacon's bosom. 
And then slowly, gradually, and craftily Mr Harding 
propounded his own new scheme. Why should not Mr Arabin be 
the new dean?
Slowly, gradually, and thoughtfully Dr Grantly fell into his 
father-in-law's views. Much as he liked Mr Arabin, sincere 
as was his admiration for that gentleman's ecclesiastical 
abilities, he would not have sanctioned a measure which 
would rob his father-in-law of his fairly-earned promotion, 
were it at all practicable to induce his father-in-law to 
accept the promotion which he had earned. But the archdeacon 
had, on a former occasion, received proof of the obstinacy 
with which Mr Harding could adhere to his own views in 
opposition to the advice of all his friends. He knew 
tolerably well that nothing would induce the meek, mild man 
before him to take the high place offered to him, if he 
thought it wrong to do so. Knowing this, he also said to 
himself more than once: 'Why should not Mr Arabin be Dean of 
Barchester?' It was at last arranged between them that they 
would together start to London by the earliest train on the 
following morning, making a little down to Oxford on their 
journey. Dr Gwynne's counsels, they imagined, might perhaps 
be of assistance to them.
These matters settled, the archdeacon hurried off, that he 
might return to Plumstead and prepare for his journey. The 
day was extremely fine, and he came into the city in an open 
gig. As he was driving up the High Street he encountered Mr 
Slope at a crossing. Had he not pulled up rather sharply, he 
would have run over him. The two had never spoken to each 
other since they had met on a memorable occasion in the 
bishop's study. They did not speak now; but they looked each 
other full in the face, and Mr Slope's countenance was as 
impudent, as triumphant, as defiant as ever. Had Dr Grantly 
not known to the contrary, he would have imagined that his 
enemy had won the deanship, the wife, and all the rich 
honours, for which he had been striving. As it was, he had 
lost everything that he had in the world, and had just 
received his conge from the bishop.
In leaving the town the archdeacon drove by the well-
remembered entrance of Hiram's Hospital. There, at the gate, 
was a large, untidy, farmer's wagon, laden with untidy-
looking furniture; and there, inspecting the arrival, was 
good Mrs Quiverful - not dressed in her Sunday best - not 
very clean in her apparel - not graceful as to her bonnet 
and shawl; or, indeed, with many feminine charms as to her 
whole appearance. She was busy at domestic work in her new 
house, and had just ventured out, expecting to see no one on 
the arrival of the family chattels. The archdeacon was down 
upon her before she knew where she was.
Her acquaintance with Dr Grantly or his family was very 
slight indeed. The archdeacon, as a matter of course, knew 
every clergyman in the archdeaconry, it may almost be said 
in the diocese, and had some acquaintance, more or less 
intimate, with their wives and families. With Mr Quiverful 
he had been concerned on various matters of business; but of 
Mrs Q. he had seen very little. Now, however, he was in too 
gracious a mood to pass her by unnoticed. The Quiverfuls, 
one and all, had looked for the bitterest hostility from Dr 
Grantly; they knew his anxiety that Mr Harding should return 
to his old home at the hospital, and they did not know that 
a new home had been offered to him at the deanery. Mrs 
Quiverful was therefore not a little surprised and not a 
little rejoiced also, at the tone in which she was 
addressed.
'How do you do, Mrs Quiverful? - how do you do?' said he, 
stretching his left hand out of the gig, as he spoke to her. 
'I am very glad to see you employed in so pleasant and 
useful a manner; very glad indeed.'
Mrs Quiverful thanked him, and shook hands with him, and 
looked into his face suspiciously. She was not sure whether 
the congratulations and kindness were or were not ironical.
'Pray tell Mr Quiverful from me,' he continued, 'that I am 
rejoiced at his appointment. It's a comfortable place, Mrs 
Quiverful, and a comfortable house, and I am very glad to 
see you in it. Good-bye - good-bye.' And he drove on, 
leaving the lady well pleased and astonished at his good-
nature. On the whole things were going well with the 
archdeacon, and he could afford to be charitable to Mrs 
Quiverful. He looked forth from his gig smilingly on all the 
world, and forgave everyone in Barchester their sins, 
excepting only Mrs Proudie and Mr Slope. Had he seen the 
bishop, he would have felt inclined to pat even him kindly 
on the head.
He determined to go home by St Ewold's. This would take him 
some three miles out of his way; but he felt that he could 
not leave Plumstead comfortably without saying one word of 
good-fellowship to Mr Arabin. When he reached the parsonage 
the vicar was still out; but, from what he had heard, he did 
not doubt but that he would meet him on the road between 
their two houses. He was right in this, for about halfway 
home, at a narrow turn, he came upon Mr Arabin, who was on 
horseback.
'Well, well, well, well,' said the archdeacon, loudly, 
joyously, and with supreme good humour; 'well, well, well, 
well; so, after all, we have no further cause to fear Mr 
Slope.'
'I hear from Mrs Grantly that they have offered the deanery 
to Mr Harding,' said the other.
'Mr Slope has lost more than the deanery, I find'; and then 
the archdeacon laughed jocosely. 'Come, come, Arabin, you 
have kept your secret well enough. I know all about it now.'
'I have had no secret, archdeacon,' said the other with a 
quiet smile. 'None at all - not for a day. It was only 
yesterday that I knew my own good fortune, and today I went 
over to Plumstead to ask your approval. From what Mrs 
Grantly has said to me, I am led to hope that I shall have 
it.'
'With all my heart, with all my heart,' said the archdeacon 
cordially, holding his friend fast by the hand. 'It's just 
as I would have it. She is an excellent young woman; she 
will not come to you empty-handed; and I think she will make 
you a good wife. If she does her duty by you as her sister 
does by me, you'll be a happy man; that's all I can say.' 
And as he finished speaking, a tear might have been observed 
in each of the doctor's eyes.
Mr Arabin warmly returned the archdeacon's grasp, but he 
said little. His heart was too full for speaking, and he 
could not express the gratitude which he felt. Dr Grantly 
understood him as well as though he had spoken for an hour.
'And mind, Arabin,' said he, 'no one but myself shall tie 
the knot. We'll get Eleanor out to Plumstead, and it shall 
come off there. I'll make Susan stir herself, and we'll do 
it in style. I must be off to London tomorrow on special 
business. Harding goes with me. But I'll be back before your 
bride has got her wedding-dress ready.' And so they parted.
On his journey home the archdeacon occupied his mind with 
preparations for the marriage festivities. He made a great 
resolve that he would atone to Eleanor for all the injury he 
had done her by the munificence of his future treatment. He 
would show her what was the difference in his eyes between a 
Slope and an Arabin. On one other thing also he decided with 
a firm mind: if the affair of the dean should not be settled 
in Mr Arabin's favour, nothing should prevent him putting a 
new front and bow-window to the dining-room at St Ewold's 
parsonage.
'So we're sold after all, Sue,' said he to his wife, 
accosting her with a kiss as soon as he entered his house. 
He did not call his wife Sue above twice or thrice in a 
year, and these occasions were great high days.
'Eleanor has had more sense than we gave her credit for,' 
said Mrs Grantly.
And there was great content in Plumstead rectory that 
evening; and Mrs Grantly promised her husband that she would 
now open her heart, and take Mr Arabin into it. Hitherto she 
had declined to do so.



Chapter 51

Mr Slope bids Farewell to the Palace and its Inhabitants

We must now take leave of Mr Slope, and of the bishop also, 
and of Mrs Proudie. These leave-takings in novels are as 
disagreeable as they are in real life; not so sad, indeed, 
for they want the reality of sadness; but quite as 
perplexing, and generally less satisfactory. What novelist, 
what Fielding, what Scott, what George Sand, or Sue, or 
Dumas, can impart an interest to the last chapter of his 
fictitious history? Promises of two children and superhuman 
happiness are of no avail, nor assurance of extreme 
respectability carried to an age far exceeding that usually 
allotted to mortals. The sorrows of our heroes and heroines, 
they are your delight, oh public! their sorrows, or their 
sins, or their absurdities; not their virtues, good sense, 
and consequent rewards. When we begin to tint our final 
pages with couleur de rose, as in accordance with fixed rule 
we must do, we altogether extinguish our own powers of 
pleasing. When we become dull we offend your intellect; and 
we must become dull or we should offend your taste. A late 
writer, wishing to sustain his interest to the last page, 
hung his hero at the end of the third volume. The 
consequence was, that no one would read his novel. And who 
can apportion out and dovetail his incidents, dialogues, 
characters, and descriptive morsels, so as to fit them all 
exactly into pages, without either compressing them 
unnaturally, or extending them artificially at the end of 
his labour? Do I not myself know that I am at this moment in 
want of a dozen pages, and that I am sick with cudgelling my 
brains to find them? And then when everything is done, the 
kindest-hearted critic of them all invariably twits us with 
the incompetency and lameness of our conclusion. We have 
either become idle and neglected it, or tedious and over-
laboured it. It is insipid or unnatural, over-strained or 
imbecile. It means nothing, or attempts too much. The last 
scene of all, as all last scenes we fear must be,

Is second childishness, and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

I can only say that if some critic, who thoroughly knows his 
work, and has laboured on it till experience has made him 
perfect, will write the last fifty pages of a novel in the 
way they should be written, I, for one, will in future do my 
best to copy the example. Guided by my own lights only, I 
confess that I despair of success.
For the last week or ten days, Mr Slope had seen nothing of 
Mrs Proudie, and very little of the bishop. He still lived 
in the palace, and still went through his usual routine 
work; but the confidential doings of the diocese had passed 
into other hands. He had seen this clearly, and marked it 
well; but it had not much disturbed him. He had indulged in 
other hopes till the bishop's affairs had become dull to 
him, and he was moreover aware that, as regarded the 
diocese, Mrs Proudie had checkmated him. It has been 
explained, in the beginning of these pages, how three or 
four were contending together as to who, in fact, should be 
bishop of Barchester. Each of these had now admitted to 
himself (or boasted to herself) that Mrs Proudie was 
victorious in the struggle. They had gone through a 
competitive examination of considerable severity, and she 
had come forth the winner, facile princeps. Mr Slope had, 
for a moment, run her hard, but it was only for a moment. It 
had become, as it were, acknowledged that Hiram's Hospital 
should be the testing point between them, and now Mr 
Quiverful was already in the hospital, the proof of Mrs 
Proudie's skill and courage.
All this did not break down Mr Slope's spirit, because he 
had other hopes. But, alas, at last there came to him a note 
from his friend Sir Nicholas, informing him that the 
deanship was disposed of. Let us give Mr Slope his due. He 
did not lie prostrate under this blow, or give himself up to 
vain lamentations; he did not henceforward despair of life, 
and call upon gods above and gods below to carry him off. He 
sat himself down in his chair, counted out what monies he 
had in hand for present purposes, and what others were 
coming in to him, bethought himself as to the best sphere 
for his future exertions, and at once wrote off a letter to 
a rich sugar-refiner's wife in Baker Street, who, as he well 
knew, was much given to the entertainment and encouragement 
of serious young evangelical clergymen. He was again, he 
said, 'upon the world, having found the air of a cathedral 
town, and the very nature of cathedral services, uncongenial 
to his spirit'; and then he sat awhile, making firm resolves 
as to his manner of parting from the bishop, and also as to 
his future conduct.

At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue (black),
Tomorrow to fresh woods and pastures new. 

Having received a formal command to wait upon the bishop, he 
rose and proceeded to obey it. He rang the bell and desired 
the servant to inform his master that if it suited his 
lordship, he, Mr Slope, was ready to wait upon him. The 
servant, who well understood that Mr Slope was no longer in 
the ascendant, brought back a message, saying that 'his 
lordship desired that Mr Slope would attend him immediately 
in his study.' Mr Slope waited about ten minutes more to 
prove his independence, and then he went into the bishop's 
room. There, as he had expected, he found Mrs Proudie, 
together with her husband.
'Hum, ha - Mr Slope, pray take a chair,' said the gentleman 
bishop.
'Pray be seated, Mr Slope,' said the lady bishop.
'Thank ye, thank ye,' said Mr Slope, and walking round to 
the fire, he threw himself into one of the arm-chairs that 
graced the hearth-rug.
'Mr Slope,' said the bishop, 'it has become necessary that I 
should speak to you definitively on a matter that has for 
some time been pressing itself on my attention.'
'May I ask whether the subject is in any way connected with 
myself?' said Mr Slope.
'It is certainly - yes, it certainly is connected with 
yourself, Mr Slope.'
'Then, my lord, if I may be allowed to express a wish, I 
would prefer that no discussion on the subject should take 
place between us in the presence of a third person.'
'Don't alarm yourself, Mr Slope,' said Mrs Proudie, 'no 
discussion is at all necessary. The bishop merely intends to 
express his own wishes.'
'I merely intend, Mr Slope, to express my own wishes - no 
discussion will be at all necessary,' said the bishop, 
reiterating his wife's words.
'That is more, my lord, than we any of us can be sure of,' 
said Mr Slope; 'I cannot, however, force Mrs Proudie to 
leave the room; nor can I refuse to remain here if it be 
your lordship's wish that I should do so.'
'It is his lordship's wish, certainly,' said Mrs Proudie.
'Mr Slope,' began the bishop, in a solemn, serious voice, 
'it grieves me to have to find fault. It grieves me much to 
have to find fault with a clergyman; but especially so with 
a clergyman in your position.'
'Why, what have I done amiss, my lord?' demanded Mr Slope, 
boldly.
'What have you done amiss, Mr Slope?' said Mrs Proudie, 
standing erect before the culprit, and raising that terrible 
forefinger. 'Do you dare to ask the bishop what you have 
done amiss? does not your conscience -'
'Mrs Proudie, pray let it be understood, once for all, that 
I will have no words with you.'
'Ah, sir, but you will have words,' said she; 'you must have 
words. Why have you had so many words with that Signora 
Neroni? Why have you disgraced yourself, you a clergyman 
too, by constantly consorting with such a woman as that - 
with a married woman - with one altogether unfit for a 
clergyman's society?'
'At any rate, I was introduced to her in your drawing-room,' 
retorted Mr Slope.
'And shamefully you behaved there,' said Mrs Proudie, 'most 
shamefully. I was wrong to allow you to remain in the house 
a day after what I then saw. I should have insisted on your 
instant dismissal.'
'I have yet to learn, Mrs Proudie, that you have the power 
to insist either on my going from hence or on my staying 
here.'
'What!' said the lady; 'I am not to have the privilege of 
saying who shall and who shall not frequent my own drawing-
room! I am not to save my servants and dependents from 
having their morals corrupted by improper conduct! I am not 
to save my own daughters from impurity! I will let you see, 
Mr Slope, whether I have the power or whether I have not. 
You will have the goodness to understand that you no longer 
fill any situation about the bishop; and as your room will 
be immediately wanted in the palace for another chaplain, I 
must ask you to provide yourself with apartments as soon as 
may be convenient to you.'
'My lord,' said Mr Slope, appealing to the bishop, and so 
turning his back completely on the lady, 'will you permit me 
to ask that I may have from your own lips any decision that 
you may have come to on this matter?'
'Certainly, Mr Slope, certainly,' said the bishop; 'that is 
but reasonable. Well, my decision is that you had better 
look for some other preferment. For the situation which you 
have lately held I do not think that you are well suited.'
'And what, my lord, has been my fault?'
'That Signora Neroni is one fault,' said Mrs Proudie; 'and a 
very abominable fault she is; very abominable and very 
disgraceful. Fie, Mr Slope, fie! You an evangelical 
clergyman indeed!'
'My lord, I desire to know for what fault I am turned out of 
your lordship's house.'
'You hear what Mrs Proudie says,' said the bishop.
'When I publish the history of this transaction, my lord, as 
I decidedly shall do in my own vindication, I presume you 
will not wish me to state that you have discarded me at your 
wife's bidding - because she has objected to my being 
acquainted with another lady, the daughter of one of the 
prebendaries of the chapter?'
'You may publish what you please, sir,' said Mrs Proudie. 
'But you will not be insane enough to publish any of your 
doings in Barchester. Do you think I have not heard of your 
kneelings at that creature's feet - that is if she has any 
feet - and of your constant slobbering over her hand? I 
advise you to beware, Mr Slope, of what you do and say. 
Clergymen have been unfrocked for less than what you have 
been guilty of.'
'My lord, if this goes on I shall be obliged to indict this 
woman - Mrs Proudie I mean - for defamation of character.'
'I think, Mr Slope, you had better now retire,' said the 
bishop. 'I will enclose to you a cheque for any balance that 
may be due to you; and, under the present circumstances, it 
will of course be better for all parties that you should 
leave the palace at the earliest possible moment. I will 
allow you for your journey back to London, and for your 
maintenance in Barchester for a week from this date.'
'If, however, you wish to remain in this neighbourhood,' 
said Mrs Proudie, 'and will solemnly pledge yourself never 
again to see that woman, and will promise also to be more 
circumspect in your conduct, the bishop will mention your 
name to Mr Quiverful, who now wants a curate at Puddingdale. 
The house is, I imagine, quite sufficient for your 
requirements: and there will moreover be a stipend of fifty 
pounds a year.'
'May God forgive you, madam, for the manner in which you 
have treated me,' said Mr Slope, looking at her with a very 
heavenly look; 'and remember this, madam, that you yourself 
may still have a fall', and he looked at her with a very 
worldly look. 'As to the bishop, I pity him!' And so saying, 
Mr Slope left the room. Thus ended the intimacy of the 
Bishop of Barchester with his first confidential chaplain.
Mrs Proudie was right in this: namely, that Mr Slope was not 
insane enough to publish to the world any of his doings in 
Barchester. He did not trouble his friend Mr Towers with any 
written statement of the iniquity of Mrs Proudie, or the 
imbecility of her husband. He was aware that it would be 
wise in him to drop for the future all allusions to his 
doings in the cathedral city. Soon after the interview just 
recorded, he left Barchester, shaking the dust off his feet 
as he entered the railway carriage; and he gave no longing 
lingering look after the cathedral towers, as the train 
hurried him quickly out of their sight.
It is well known that the family of the Slopes never starve: 
they always fall on their feet like cats, and let them fall 
where they will, they live on the fat of the land. Our Mr 
Slope did so. On his return to town he found that the sugar-
refiner had died, and that his widow was inconsolable: or, 
in other words, in want of consolation. Mr Slope consoled 
her, and soon found himself settled with much comfort in the 
house in Baker Street. He possessed himself, also, before 
long, of a church in the vicinity of the New Road, and 
became known to fame as one of the most eloquent preachers 
and pious clergymen in that part of the metropolis. There 
let us leave him.
Of the bishop and his wife very little further need be said. 
From that time forth nothing material occurred to interrupt 
the even course of their domestic harmony. Very speedily, a 
further vacancy on the bench of bishops gave to Dr Proudie 
the seat in the House of Lords, which he at first so 
anxiously longed for. But by this time he had become a wiser 
man. He did certainly take his seat, and occasionally 
registered a vote in favour of Government views on 
ecclesiastical matters. But he had thoroughly learnt that 
his proper sphere of action lay in close contiguity with Mrs 
Proudie's wardrobe. He never again aspired to disobey, or 
seemed even to wish for autocratic diocesan authority. If 
ever he thought of freedom, he did so, as men think of the 
millennium, as of a good time which may be coming, but which 
nobody expects to come in their day. Mrs Proudie might be 
said still to bloom, and was, at any rate, strong; and the 
bishop had no reason to apprehend that he would be speedily 
visited with the sorrows of a widower's life.
He is still Bishop of Barchester. He has so graced that 
throne, that the Government has been averse to translate 
him, even to higher dignities. There may he remain, under 
safe pupilage, till the newfangled manners of the age have 
discovered him to be superannuated, and bestowed on him a 
pension. As for Mrs Proudie, our prayers for her are that 
she may live for ever. 



Chapter 52

The New Dean takes Possession of the Deanery, and the New 
Warden of the Hospital

Mr Harding and the archdeacon together made their way to 
Oxford, and there, by dint of cunning argument, they induced 
the Master of Lazarus also to ask himself this momentous 
question: 'Why should not Mr Arabin be Dean of Barchester?' 
He of course for a while tried his hand at persuading Mr 
Harding that he was foolish, over-scrupulous, self-willed, 
and weak-minded; but he tried in vain. If Mr Harding would 
not give way to Dr Grantly, it was not likely he would give 
way to Dr Gwynne; more especially now that so admirable a 
scheme as that of inducting Mr Arabin into the deanery had 
been set on foot. When the master found that his eloquence 
was vain, and heard also that Mr Arabin was about to become 
Mr Harding's son-in-law, he confessed that he also would, 
under such circumstances, be glad to see his old friend and 
protege, the fellow of his college, placed in the 
comfortable position that was going a-begging.
'It might be the means, you know, Master, of keeping Mr 
Slope out,' said the archdeacon with grave caution.
'He has no more chance of it,' said the master, 'than our 
college chaplain. I know more about it than that.'
Mrs Grantly had been right in her surmise. It was the Master 
of Lazarus who had been instrumental in representing in high 
places the claims which Mr Harding had upon the Government, 
and he now consented to use his best endeavours towards 
getting the offer transferred to Mr Arabin. The three of 
them went on to London together, and there they remained a 
week, to the great disgust of Mrs Grantly, and most probably 
also of Mrs Gwynne. The minister was out of town in one 
direction, and his private secretary in another. The clerks 
who remained could do nothing in such a matter as this, and 
all was difficulty and confusion. The two doctors seemed to 
have plenty to do; they bustled here and they bustled there, 
and complained at their club in the evenings that they had 
been driven off their legs; but Mr Harding had no 
occupation. Once or twice he suggested that he might perhaps 
return to Barchester. His request, however, was peremptorily 
refused, and he had nothing for it but to while away his 
time in Westminster Abbey.
At length an answer from the great man came. The Master of 
Lazarus had made his proposition through the Bishop of 
Belgravia. Now this bishop, though but newly gifted with his 
diocesan honours, was a man of much weight in the clerico-
political world. He was, if not as pious, at any rate as 
wise as St Paul, and had been with so much effect all things 
to all men, that though he was great among the dons of 
Oxford, he had been selected for the most favourite seat on 
the bench by a Whig Prime Minister. To him Dr Gwynne had 
made known his wishes and his arguments, and the bishop had 
made them known to the Marquis of Kensington Gore. The 
marquis, who was Lord High Steward of the Pantry Board, and 
who by most men was supposed to hold the highest office out 
of the cabinet, trafficked much in affairs of this kind. He 
not only suggested the arrangement to the minister over a 
cup of coffee, standing on a drawing-room rug in Windsor 
Castle, but he also favourably mentioned Mr Arabin's name in 
the ear of a distinguished person.
And so the matter was arranged. The answer of the great man 
came, and Mr Arabin was made Dean of Barchester. The three 
clergymen who had come up to town on this important mission 
dined together with great glee on the day on which the news 
reached them. In a silent, decent, clerical manner, they 
toasted Mr Arabin with full bumpers of claret. The 
satisfaction of all of them was supreme. The Master of 
Lazarus had been successful in his attempt, and success is 
dear to us all. The archdeacon had trampled upon Mr Slope, 
and had lifted to high honours the young clergyman whom he 
had induced to quit the retirement and comfort of the 
university. So at least the archdeacon thought; though, to 
speak sooth, not he, but circumstances, had trampled on Mr 
Slope. But the satisfaction of Mr Harding was, of all, 
perhaps, the most complete. He laid aside his usual 
melancholy manner, and brought forth little quiet jokes from 
the inmost mirth of his heart; he poked his fun at the 
archdeacon about Mr Slope's marriage, and quizzed him for 
his improper love for Mrs Proudie. On the following day they 
all returned to Barchester.
It was arranged that Mr Arabin should know nothing of what 
had been done till he received the minister's letter from 
the hands of his embryo father-in-law. In order that no time 
might be lost, a message had been sent to him by the 
preceding night's post, begging him to be at the deanery at 
the hour that the train from London arrived. There was 
nothing in this which surprised Mr Arabin. It had somehow 
got about through all Barchester that Mr Harding was the new 
dean, and all Barchester was prepared to welcome him with 
pealing bells and full hearts. Mr Slope had certainly had a 
party; there had certainly been those in Barchester who were 
prepared to congratulate him on his promotion with assumed 
sincerity, but even his own party was not broken-hearted by 
his failure. The inhabitants of the city, even the high-
souled ecstatic young ladies of thirty-five, had begun to 
comprehend that their welfare, and the welfare of the place, 
was connected in some mysterious manner with daily chants 
and biweekly anthems. The expenditure of the palace had not 
added much to the popularity of the bishop's side of the 
question; and, on the whole, there was a strong reaction. 
When it became known to all the world that Mr Harding was to 
be the new dean, all the world rejoiced heartily.
Mr Arabin, we have said, was not surprised at the summons 
which called him to the deanery. He had not as yet seen Mr 
Harding since Eleanor had accepted him, nor had he seen him 
since he had learnt his future father-in-law's preferment. 
There was nothing more natural, more necessary, than that 
they should meet each other at the earliest possible moment. 
Mr Arabin was waiting in the deanery parlour when Mr Harding 
and Dr Grantly were driven up from the station.
There was some excitement in the bosoms of them all, as they 
met and shook hands; by far too much to enable either of 
them to begin his story and tell it in a proper equable 
style of narrative. Mr Harding was some minutes quite 
dumbfounded, and Mr Arabin could only talk in short, 
spasmodic sentences about his love and good fortune. He 
slipped in, as best he could, some sort of congratulation 
about the deanship, and then went on with his hopes and 
fears - hopes that he might be received as a son, and fears 
that he hardly deserved such good fortune. Then he went back 
to the dean; it was the most thoroughly satisfactory 
appointment, he said, of which he had ever heard.
'But! but! but -' said Mr Harding; and then failing to get any 
further, he looked imploringly at the archdeacon.
'Thetruthis,Arabin,'saidthedoctor,'that,afterall,you are not 
destined to be son-in-law to a dean. Nor am I either: more's the 
pity.'
Mr Arabin looked at him for explanation. 'Is not Mr Harding to 
be the new dean?' 
'It appears not,' said the archdeacon. Mr Arabin's face fell a 
little, and he looked from one to the other. It was plainly to be 
seen from them both that there was no cause of unhappiness in 
the matter, at least not of unhappiness to them; but there was as 
yet no elucidation of the mystery.
'Think how old I am,' said Mr Harding, imploringly.
'Fiddlestick!' said the archdeacon.
'That's all very well, but it won't make a young man of me,' 
said Mr Harding.
'And who is to be dean?' asked Mr Arabin.
'Yes, that's the question,' said the archdeacon. 'Come, Mr 
Precentor, since you obstinately refuse to be anything else, let 
us know who is to be the man. He has got the nomination in his 
pocket.'
With eyes brim full of tears, Mr Harding pulled out the letter 
and handed it to his future son-in-law. He tried to make a little 
speech, but failed altogether. Having given up the document, 
he turned round to the wall, feigning to blow his nose, and then 
sat himself down on the old dean's dingy horse-hair sofa. And 
here we find it necessary to bring our account of the interview 
to an end.
Nor can we pretend to describe the rapture with which Mr 
Harding was received by his daughter. She wept with grief and 
wept with joy; with grief that her father should, in his old age, 
still be without that rank and worldly position which, according 
to her ideas, he had so well earned; and with joy in that he, her 
darling father, should have bestowed on that other dear one the 
good things of which he himself would not open his hand to 
take possession. And here Mr Harding again showed his 
weakness. In the melee of this exposal of their loves and 
reciprocal affection, he found himself unable to resist the 
entreaties of all parties that the lodgings in the High Street 
should be given up. Eleanor would not live in the deanery, she 
said, unless her father lived there also. Mr Arabin would not be 
dean, unless Mr Harding would be co-dean with him. The 
archdeacon declared that his father-in-law should not have his 
own way in everything, and Mrs Grantly carried him off to 
Plumstead, that he might remain there till Mr and Mrs Arabin 
were in a state to receive him in their own mansion.
Pressed by such arguments as these, what could a weak old 
man do but yield?
But there was yet another task which it behoved Mr Harding to 
do before he could allow himself to be at rest. Little has been 
said in these pages of the state of those remaining old men who 
had lived under his sway at the hospital. But not on this 
account must it be presumed that he had forgotten them, or that 
in their state of anarchy and in their want of due government 
he had omitted to visit them. He visited them constantly, and 
had latterly given them to understand that they would soon be 
required to subscribe their adherence to a new master. There 
were now but five of them, one of them having been but quite 
lately carried to his rest - but five of the full number, which 
had hitherto been twelve, and which was now to be raised to 
twenty-four, including women. Of these old Bunce, who for 
many years had been the favourite of the late warden, was one; 
and Abel Handy, who had been the humble means of driving 
that warden from his home, was another.
Mr Harding now resolved that he himself would introduce the 
new warden to the hospital. He felt that many circumstances 
might conspire to make the men receive Mr Quiverful with 
aversion and disrespect; he felt also that Mr Quiverful might 
himself feel some qualms of conscience if he entered the 
hospital with an idea that he did so in hostility to his 
predecessor. Mr Harding therefore determined to walk in, arm 
in arm with Mr Quiverful, and to ask from these men their 
respectful obedience to their new master.
On returning to Barchester, he found that Mr Quiverful had not 
yet slept in the hospital house, or entered on his new duties. He 
accordingly made known to that gentleman his wishes, and his 
proposition was not rejected.
It was a bright clear morning, though in November, that Mr 
Harding and Mr Quiverful, arm in arm, walked through the 
hospital gate. It was one trait in our old friend's character that 
he did nothing with parade. He omitted, even in the more 
important doings of his life, that sort of parade by which most 
of us deem it necessary to grace our important doings. We have 
housewarmings, christenings, and gala days; we keep, if not 
our own birthdays, those of our children; we are apt to fuss 
ourselves if called upon to change our residences, and have, 
almost all of us, our little state occasions. Mr Harding had no 
state occasions. When he left his old house, he went forth from 
it with the same quiet composure as though he were merely 
taking his daily walk; and now that he re-entered it with 
another warden under his wing, he did so with the same quiet 
step and calm demeanour. He was a little less upright than he 
had been five years, nay, it was now nearly six years ago; he 
walked perhaps a little slower; his footfall was perhaps a 
thought less firm; otherwise one might have said that he was 
merely returning with a friend under his arm.
This friendliness was everything to Mr Quiverful. To him, 
even in his poverty, the thought that he was supplanting a 
brother clergyman so kind and courteous as Mr Harding, had 
been very bitter. Under his circumstances it had been 
impossible for him to refuse the proffered boon; he could not 
reject the bread that was offered to his children, or refuse to 
ease the heavy burden that had so long oppressed that poor 
wife of his; nevertheless, it had been very grievous to him to 
think that in going to the hospital he might encounter the ill-
will of his brethren in the diocese. All this Mr Harding had 
fully comprehended. It was for such feelings as these, for the 
nice comprehension of such motives, that his heart and intellect 
were peculiarly fitted. In most matters of worldly import the 
archdeacon set down his father-in-law as little better than a 
fool. And perhaps he was right. But in some other matters, 
equally important if they be rightly judged, Mr Harding, had he 
been so minded, might with as much propriety have set down 
his son-in-law for a fool. Few men, however, are constituted as 
was Mr Harding. He had that nice appreciation of the feelings 
of others which belongs of right exclusively to women.
Arm in arm they walked into the inner quadrangle of the 
building, and there the five old men met them. Mr Harding 
shook hands with them all, and then Mr Quiverful did the 
same. With Bunce Mr Harding shook hands twice, and Mr 
Quiverful was about to repeat the same ceremony, but the old 
man gave him no encouragement.
'I am very glad to know that at last you have a new warden,' 
said Mr Harding in a very cheery voice.
'We be very old for any change,' said one of them; 'but we do 
suppose it be all for the best.'
'Certainly - certainly it is for the best,' said Mr Harding. 'You 
will again have a clergyman of your own church under the 
same roof with you, and a very excellent clergyman you will 
have. It is a great satisfaction to me to know that so good a 
man is coming to take care of you, and that it is no stranger, 
but a friend of my own, who will allow me from time to time 
to come in and see you.'
'We be very thankful to your reverence,' said another of them.
'I need not tell you, my good friends,' said Mr Quiverful, 'how 
extremely grateful I am to Mr Harding for his kindness to me - 
I must say his uncalled for, unexpected kindness.'
'He be always very kind,' said a third.
'What I can do to fill the void which he left here, I will do. For 
your sake and my own I will do so, and especially for his sake. 
But to you who have known him, I can never be the same 
well-loved friend and father that he has been.'
'No, sir, no,' said old Bunce, who hitherto had held his peace; 
'no one can be that. Not if the new bishop sent a hangel to us 
out of heaven. We doesn't doubt you'll do your best, sir, but 
you'll not be like the old master; not to us old ones.'
'Fie, Bunce, fie! how dare you talk in that way?' said Mr 
Harding; but as he scolded the old man he still held him by his 
arm, and pressed it with warm affection.
There was no getting up any enthusiasm in the matter. How 
could five old men tottering away to their final resting-place be 
enthusiastic on the reception of a stranger? What could Mr 
Quiverful be to them, or they to Mr Quiverful? Had Mr 
Harding indeed come back to them, some last flicker of joyous 
light might have shone forth on their aged cheeks; but it was in 
vain to bid them rejoice because Mr Quiverful was about to 
move his fourteen children from Puddingdale into the hospital 
house. In reality they did no doubt receive advantage, spiritual 
as well as corporal; but this they could neither anticipate nor 
acknowledge.
It was a dull affair enough, this introduction of Mr Quiverful; 
but still it had its effect. The good which Mr Harding intended 
did not fall to the ground. All the Barchester world, including 
the five old bedesmen, treated Mr Quiverful with more respect, 
because Mr Harding had thus walked in arm in arm with him, 
on his first entrance to his duties.
And here in their new abode we will leave Mr and Mrs 
Quiverful and their fourteen children. May they enjoy the good 
things which Providence has at length given to them!



Chapter 53

Conclusion

The end of a novel, like the end of a children's dinner-
party, must be made up of sweetmeats and sugar-plums. There 
is now nothing else to be told but the gala doings of Mr 
Arabin's marriage, nothing more to be described than the 
wedding-dresses, no further dialogue to be recorded than 
that which took place between the archdeacon who married 
them, and Mr Arabin and Eleanor who were married. 'Wilt thou 
have this woman to thy wedded wife,' and 'Wilt thou have 
this man to thy wedded husband, to live together according 
to God's ordinance?' Mr Arabin and Eleanor each answered, 'I 
will.' We have no doubt that they will keep their promises; 
the more especially as the Signora Neroni had left 
Barchester before the ceremony was performed.
Mrs Bold had been somewhat more than two years a widow 
before she was married to her second husband, and little 
Johnny was then able with due assistance to walk on his own 
legs into the drawing-room to receive the salutations of the 
assembled guests. Mr Harding gave away the bride, the 
archdeacon performed the service, and the two Miss Grantlys, 
who were joined in their labours by other young ladies of 
the neighbourhood, performed the duties of bridesmaids with 
equal diligence and grace. Mrs Grantly superintended the 
breakfast and bouquets, and Mary Bold distributed the cards 
and cake. The archdeacon's three sons had also come home for 
the occasion. The eldest was great with learning, being 
regarded by all who knew him as a certain future double 
first. The second, however, bore the palm on this occasion, 
being resplendent in a new uniform. The third was just 
entering the university, and was probably the proudest of 
the three.
But the most remarkable feature in the whole occasion was 
the excessive liberality of the archdeacon. He literally 
made presents to everybody. As Mr Arabin had already moved 
out of the parsonage of St Ewold's, that scheme of 
elongating the dining-room was of course abandoned; but he 
would have refurnished the whole deanery had he been 
allowed. He sent down a magnificent piano by Erard, gave Mr 
Arabin a cob which any dean in the land might have been 
proud to bestride, and made a special present to Eleanor of 
a new pony chair that had gained a prize in the Exhibition. 
Nor did he even stay his hand here; he bought a set of 
cameos for his wife, and a sapphire bracelet for Miss Bold; 
showered pearls and workboxes on his daughters, and to each 
of his sons he presented a cheque for £20. On Mr Harding he 
bestowed a magnificent violoncello with all the new-
fashioned arrangements and expensive additions, which, on 
account of these novelties, that gentleman could never use 
with satisfaction to his audience or pleasure to himself.
Those who knew the archdeacon well, perfectly understood the 
cause of his extravagance. 'Twas thus that he sang his song 
of triumph over Mr Slope. This was his paean, his hymn of 
thanksgiving, his loud oration. He had girded himself with 
his sword, and gone forth to the war; now he was returning 
from the field laden with the spoils of the foe. The cob and 
the cameos, the violoncello and the pianoforte, were all as 
it were trophies reft from the tent of his now conquered 
enemy.
The Arabins after their marriage went abroad for a couple of 
months, according to the custom in such matters now duly 
established, and then commenced their deanery life under 
good auspices. And nothing can be more pleasant than the 
present arrangement of ecclesiastical affairs in Barchester. 
The titular bishop never interfered, and Mrs Proudie not 
often. Her sphere is more extended, more noble, and more 
suited to her ambition than that of a cathedral city. As 
long as she can do what she pleases with the diocese, she is 
willing to leave the dean and chapter to themselves. Mr 
Slope tried his hand at subverting the old-established 
customs of the close, and from his failure she has learnt 
experience. The burly chancellor and the meagre little 
prebendary are not teased by any application respecting 
Sabbath-day schools, the dean is left to his own dominions, 
and the intercourse between Mrs Proudie and Mrs Arabin is 
confined to a yearly dinner given by each to the other. At 
these dinners Dr Grantly will not take a part; but he never 
fails to ask for and receive a full account of all that Mrs 
Proudie either does or says.
His ecclesiastical authority has been greatly shorn since 
the palmy days in which he reigned supreme as mayor of the 
palace to his father, but nevertheless such authority as is 
now left to him he can enjoy without interference. He can 
walk down the High Street of Barchester without feeling that 
those who see him are comparing his claims with those of Mr 
Slope. The intercourse between Plumstead and the deanery is 
of the most constant and familiar description. Since Eleanor 
has been married to a clergyman, and especially to a 
dignitary of the church, Mrs Grantly has found many more 
points of sympathy with her sister; and on a coming 
occasion, which is much looked forward to by all parties, 
she intends to spend a month or two at the deanery. She 
never thought of spending a month in Barchester when little 
Johnny Bold was born!
The two sisters do not quite agree on matters of church 
doctrine, though their differences are of the most amicable 
description. Mr Arabin's church is two degrees higher than 
that of Mrs Grantly. This may seem strange to those who will 
remember that Eleanor was once accused of partiality to Mr 
Slope; but it is no less the fact. She likes her husband's 
silken vest, she likes his adherence to the rubric, she 
specially likes the eloquent philosophy of his sermons, and 
she likes the red letters in her own prayer-book. It must 
not be presumed that she has a taste for candles, or that 
she is at all astray about the real presence; but she has an 
inkling that way. She sent a handsome subscription towards 
certain very heavy ecclesiastical legal expenses which have 
lately been incurred in Bath, her name of course not 
appearing; she assumes a smile of gentle ridicule when the 
Archbishop of Canterbury is named, and she has put up a 
memorial window in the cathedral.
Mrs Grantly, who belongs to the high and dry church, the 
high church as it was some fifty years since, before tracts 
were written and young clergymen took upon themselves the 
highly meritorious duty of cleaning churches, rather laughs 
at her sister. She shrugs her shoulders, and tells Miss 
Thorne that she supposes Eleanor will have an oratory in the 
deanery before she has done. But she is not on that account 
a whit displeased. A few high-church vagaries do not, she 
thinks, sit amiss on the shoulders of a young dean's wife. 
It shows at any rate that her heart is in the subject; and 
it shows moreover that she is removed, wide as the poles 
asunder, from that cesspool of abomination in which it was 
once suspected that she would wallow and grovel. Anathema 
maranatha! Let anything else be held as blessed, so that 
that be well cursed. Welcome kneelings and bowings, welcome 
matins and complines, welcome bell, book, and candle, so 
that Mr Slope's dirty surplices and ceremonial Sabbaths be 
held in due execration!
If it be essentially and absolutely necessary to choose 
between the two, we are inclined to agree with Mrs Grantly 
that the bell, book, and candle are the lesser evil of the 
two. Let it however be understood that no such necessity is 
admitted in these pages.
Dr Arabin (we suppose he must have become a doctor when he 
became a dean) is more moderate and less outspoken on 
doctrinal points than his wife, as indeed in his station it 
behoves him to be. He is a studious, thoughtful, hard-
working man. He lives constantly at the deanery, and 
preaches nearly every Sunday. His time is spent in sifting 
and editing old ecclesiastical literature, and in producing 
the same articles new. At Oxford he is generally regarded as 
the most promising clerical ornament of the age. He and his 
wife live together in perfect mutual confidence. There is 
but one secret in her bosom which he has not shared. He has 
never yet learned how Mr Slope had his ears boxed.
The Stanhopes soon found that Mr Slope's power need no 
longer operate to keep them from the delight of their 
Italian villa. Before Eleanor's marriage they had all 
migrated back to the shores of Como. They had not been 
resettled long before the signora received from Mrs Arabin a 
very pretty though very short epistle, in which she was 
informed of the fate of the writer. This letter was answered 
by another, bright, charming, and witty, as the signora's 
letters always were; and so ended the friendship between 
Eleanor and the Stanhopes.
One word of Mr Harding, and we have done.
He is still Precentor of Barchester, and still pastor of the 
little church of St Cuthbert's. In spite of what he has so 
often said himself, he is not even yet an old man. He does 
such duties as fall to his lot well and conscientiously, and 
is thankful that he has never been tempted to assume others 
for which he might be less fitted.
The Author now leaves him in the hands of his readers; not 
as a hero, not as a man to be admired and talked of, not as 
a man who should be toasted at public dinners and spoken of 
with conventional absurdity as a perfect divine, but as a 
good man without guile, believing humbly in the religion 
which he has striven to teach, and guided by the precepts 
which he has striven to learn.

THE END